A Strong Man Armed.

Southern Cross, Volume 17, Issue 46, 26 February 1910, Page 13

A Strong Man Armed.

a [PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

By JOHN K. PROTHERO

[COPYRIGHT.]

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chapters I and ll.—Kentish Thrale the mining magnate, speaking to Car ter, his London manager, by 'phone from his country house, The .Chase, hears that their engineer has found gold on the property adjoining their Cobra mine. The land belongs to Lord Wigmore, who refuses to sell. Thrale says that he must be made. He decides to woo and win, by fair means or foul, Lord Wigmore's daughter, Lady Heather, whom he loves, and so force the father's hand. He suddenly remembers his engagement to Esther Duchesne, but dismisses the thought impatiently. Meanwhile Lady Heather is talking in the garden "to Clifford Sharpe, a journalist, who waxes very eloquent about Thrale. He tells * of the financier's early struggles in South Africa, and how he sacrificed everything to succour Dick Duchesne, who was , dying in the desert. Lady Heather begins to admire Thrale. He comes along, takes her into the rose garden, and in his own masterful way makes hot love to her. She confesses her love and promises to marry him. At this juncture another woman comes on the scene, and confronts them. In answer to Lady Heather's question, she tells her that she is Esther' Duchesne, the woman Thrale has promised to marry. CHAPTER 111. THE DUEL OF SEX. The sunlit lawn darkened befor Heather's eyes. It seemed to her that at the moment Esther spoke she .realised the bitterness of death. She was conscious of an icy coldness at her heart, but her lips burnt, and her throat was parched and dry. "Is what this woman says true ?" she spoke with difficulty. For a moment Thrale hesitated. The situation called for a nice diplomacy. He was equal to the occasion, and made no doubt he could smooth down the rough edges of the crisis. He would have temporised and avoided the clash of conflict, but Heather's white face and burning eyes showed him the futility of the Hesource. He must be brutal and apply sledge-hammer methods. "I regret to use the word in the presence of a lady, but to put it bluntly—no, it is a lie." "Were you ever engaged to her ? Did you ever promise to marry her?" "Never." He eyed Esther pitilessly. "Miss Duchesne is under a delusion." "A delusion." The astounding assertion paralysed Esther's tongue, froze her into • a horrible inaction. "I repeat it." She felt dazed. Her brain refused to work. What had happened, what could have happened to bring about this monstrous thing ? The sight of Heather's hand upon Thrale's arm, Heather's face with its new look of relief broke the torpor. "And your letters, your ring, the acknowledgment of our engagement you made to your household ?" she raised her hand, a large emerald glittered on her slim white finger. "Do not suppose I wish to enforce your promise," she continued, struggling to keep back the storm of grief, or passion, that convulsed her. "I would not hold you if 1 could against your will. Your freedom is yours for the asking, but that you should deny me, that you should be-: little me before another is unbear-, able ! Are you mad that you persist! in this cruel story ? You, who but a week ago declared that you could not i bear to part with me ? Has the glamour of a fresh face blotted out all sense of honour—oh, I could strike you where you stand. I " she broke off with a quick, sharp cry. "It isn't true," she gasped, "it's — it's too horrible."

Thrale had been in many a tight

Author of "An Eye for an Eye," "The Way of Transgressors,". "In the Name of John Leland," "The Grip of Fate," etc.

corner, but this was the most unpleasant moment of his life.' He showed no sign, of disturbance, but stared at her with calm effrontery. "You're excited," he remarked. "Later you'll regret this unfortunate outbreak. Heather," he turned, appealingly, "I'd better fetch Miss Duchesne a glass of water ; she's evidently not well." He made a step in Esther's direction, but Heather flung herself upon him. "If you go near her you lose me. I don't care if she faints. 1 don't care if she dies —answer my question, did you give her that ring ?" He answered without hesitation. "I did. I was grateful to Miss Duchesne. She has acted as my private secretary the last three years, and helped me considerably. I have a sincere liking, a genuine admiration for my old friend's daughter, and if I could spare her pain 1 would, but I've no choice. I must repeat in the most definite terms that I have never by word or implication suggested she should be my wife. I have no more to add."

He faced her, tall, strong, implacable, his face set like a mask, his eyes cold, their vision turned inwards. Before such blank denial what was there left for her to do ? A wild impulse to shriek aloud his treachery to summon the household to bear witness to her tale, passed and left her weak and trembling. She watched him disappear with her rival in silence, with a dazed sense of suffering. She could not fully realise what had happened. Human nature fights hard against the. admission of.treachery in the beloved. It was not possible that he meant what he said. There was a reason —some reason she had not the wit to fathom. Why, and again why '? She beat herself against the rock of vain interrogation. Kentish at times adopted tortuous paths, resorted to expedients repellent to her franker nature. Was his denial of her capable of such an explanation ? Was he playing a game in which this seeming cruelty was a necessary part ? There had been no acting in his love passage with Lady Heather. Esther did not attempt to deceive herself on the point. Thrale was of an amorous nature —a pair of bright eyes were ever a lure to him. She had had occasion to forgive more than one such lapse during their engagement. It had hurt her, but with a rare sympathy and understanding . she had appraised the episodes at their right value. He always returned repentant and eager for her forgiveness, lavish of his affection.

His temporary aberrations, however, had never tended in the direction of matrimony. Lady Heather was no more unapproachable than others. Thrale was not likely to promise marriage for a kiss. Moreover, he was not so careless of consequence as to risk a scandal by proposing to one woman while he was engaged to another, except for s'ome reason. That he would return to his allegiance she did not doubt. That he would give a feasible explanation of his denial she felt certain ; and that deeply as she was hurt, cruelly as she had been outraged, she would forgive him, she acknowledged.

If only he would come and tell her what it all meant ! She sat among the roses, and gazed with mute despair before her.

Marsh Ray, the millionaire's valet, found her looking verjj white and faint some half-hour later. "Mr Thrale wishes to see you, miss. He would be glad. if you would come to him in the library. He desires you to drink this, miss."

The valet deftly opened a bottle of champagne, and poured out a brimming glass.

"Mr Thrale asked to bring this ?"

"Yes, miss. It was his particular wish that you should drink it." She gulped down the wine. the tears springing into her eyes. He had

sent for her, he was going to explain this monstrous thing. He was going to ask her forgiveness and plead for her love. Once again like a sharp sword the memory of his denial pierced her. She longed with the blind desire of love to hear him explain it all away. She followed Ray to v the library, pausing a moment in the hall to set her hat straight, smooth her luxurious fair hair.

"You've come ? That's right. I'm. going to lock the door so that we can have half an hour's talk uninterrupted." He turned the key, and slipped it in his pocket. "Now," he said, slowly, let us get to business. You want an explanation of what happened in the garden ?" "Why did you deny our engagement ?" she cried, her voice breaking. "I can never, never forget the pain of that moment..."

"I denied our engagement because I had just proposed to Lady Heather Deveril. . . . Oh, spai*e me heroics, Esther. I'll state the case for you. You've been treated infamously, shamefully, I admit it ; I admit everything." He paused, surprised that the heroics against which he had protested did not appear.

"I'm sorry, Esther, 1 had no opportunity of telling you quietly. It would have been easier for us both to have talked the matter over without heat. It's your own fault, you know. What did you want to rush down here without a word of notice? Why not have written, or sent for me? Why couldn't you have wired?" "I want your explanation," she said, slowly, "the rest can wait." He shrugged impatiently. "The long and the short of it is that I don't care for you, in that way, any longer." He paused expectant, dreading an outcry. None came. Pride mastered pain. She stood up straight, and iorced herself to smile. "I gathered that from your remarks in the garden. It is hardly necessarj" to elaborate the point. What I do not understand is the reason for this sudden change of your matrimonial plans, this almost indecent haste to propose to one woman before you had broken with the other ? I left here a week ago. You remember our parting ? Up till then Lady Heather attracted you, like every other pretty woman, neither more nor less. You're "ready to make love of a sort at any moment. I know that. I know, also that you're not the man to risk scandal by proposing to her while you were engaged to me without a vital reason. What is that reason ?"

He shrugged uneasily. "It is not a question one can argue. These things happen, one doesn't know how. Can't you understand its past discussion. I love her. I want her —I don't love you."

He jerked the words at her., irritated at the attitude she had adopted. He would have preferred tears and reproaches to this cool criticism. "What's to prevent me going to ."Lady Heather with your loiters ? I imagine if she knew you lied about me. she'd have no more to do with you."

"You won't do that," he came towards her eagerly. "You couldn't do that."

"Why not ?" Her hands, tightclenched, bit into her palms. If he appealed to her in the name of their past love, their old affection, in the name of their comradeship, the work they had shared, the hopes that they formed together, she must yield. A warm generous nature, she would have responded to his cry, have effaced herself and her claims, and made, smooth the way for him and her rival. But the evil genius of the man prevented him. His doctrine that all men and women have their price, and that price, money, blinded his perception. It seemed obvious that Esther would not release him without unpleasantness unless she had a quid pro quo. "You won't do it," he repeated, because if you do I. shall refuse to help you with money or with work. Be reasonable,, accept things as they" are, and you won't find me ungenerous. I'll give you a cheque for a couple of thousand on the spot, and if you like I'll find you a berth in the city. Come, now, you can't complain of my terms. I know rts a bit rough on you, and all that but I can't help it. I'll make things as easy as I can for you if you'll be sensible." "You propose to buy my silence ?" "That's it. I'll give you two thousand to hold your tongue." "Two thousand hush money." "It's not a nice name, but the des L cription fits. I'm glad you're takingit this way, Esther. I'm sorry you came on the scene so abruptly. As I .said, I should like to have broken

things to you' more quietly. ■ 'Still/j he paused. "I'll write the cheque," he said, and sat down at his desk. The girl's face whitened, her body shook A rush of rage, blind and terrible, swept over her. He had offered her the supreme insult, he had proposed to pay har money to buy her silence. She whose lips he had kissed, in whose eyes he had read the passion of her soul. She had loved him, she had given herself to him. He had commanded her quick brain, her clever fingers, her unfailing comprehension, her unswerving loyalty. She had laid them all at his feet, glad in the possession of her, gifts that he might use them.

And he offered her money ! She came close to where he sat, his head bent over the desk. "Here's the cheque, Esther. Is there anything more to discuss ?"

She took the paper and tore it in fragments, trod it under her feet. If there had been a weapon to her hand she must, she thought, have killed him.

"My love, my thoughts, my hope, rny life, yours, all yours, and you offer me this. Didn't our work together count at all ? Our "dreams, ■our visions, have you forgotten them '? Or did 3-ou never comprehend ? Money —am Iso vile a thing you have to pay me off. Am I so degraded that my silence must be purchased ? 1 will never forgive you. Can I ever forget you have kissed me —me whom you offer money. That I could have loved you —you who had no knowledge of me- Why did you" do it ? Why did you make me care for you ? You loved me ? You loved me and yet you did not know me ?"

Even then he might have saved himself. He might have thrown "his "treachery upon her mercy, and have found forgiveness. He could have ■pleaded through his weakness, have won pardon and found peace, but the man's spirit could not brook defiance. She roused in him the latent antagonism of a strong man to a woman his equal in intellect and character. "I never loved you," he said, between his teeth, "I never loved you." Tlis words carried conviction. - He spoke the,truth ; in that moment was sown the seed of that suspicion against him which after dominated Esther's life. "You didn't love me—that's true. I know it now. I thought you did ; I was a fool, an inexperienced fool But," she bent forward, "why did you pretend to ? wasn't rich. I hadn't any important connections. I " she paused, her eyes wide with a dawning comprehension were fixed upon his face. "It wasn't love," she said, "nor hate. They lie too close together. Look at me," she laid her hand upon his arm. "Look at me," she repeated, and he responded to her ■will. He raised his eyes to hers, and in them she read many things, ambition, cruelty, self-love, but under all, through all—she saw the look of fear. He is afraid of me ! The thought flashed from her brain ; why ? It was many a long day before she knew the answer.

"Now, if you're prepared to be reasonable, we'd better discuss what you're going to do when you leave here. The past's done with, theX future's got to be faced." "I shall face it without your aid." "Y'ou have no money." "I shall earn it." "You have no position." "I can make one." "You've no prospects—no position ; there's no hope for you unless you have my help." "I have self reliance, and a will as strong as yours. I will not touch a penny of your money." Heroics ! What of your father ? How is the poor old man to get along, while you play the fool. You'll have to leave him while you search for the work you never get. What's he to do. He can't be left to his own rescouces for an hour."

Through the open window framed by jasmine and purple clematis came the sound of voices. The guests had left the tennis courts, and were drifting; towards the house. Sharpe and Lady Heather were conversing eagerly. Close behind them came Mrs Fi'olliot, radiant, in a wonderful white gown and pale pink roses ; at her side walked a small and shrivelled figure dressed with an ornate precision, reminiscent of the Regency. He carried his silk hat jauntily and wore a waist to his frock -coat. He manipulated a gold-topped cane with elegance, and suggested a snuff-box every time he used his daintily jDerfumed handkerchief. . Dissolute Dick was in his element. He adored a pretty woman, and delighted in flowery compliments. Pausing beside a rose bush he picked an exquisite La France. "May Ibe permitted ?" and he

handed the blossom to the frivolous Antonia with a wonderful bow, " a floral offering on the shrine of. sentiment, dear lady—a tribute to the spirit of beneficence which makes an altar of your heart." Antonia tittered, and put the rose in her waistband. » "Old idiot !" muttered Thrale.

She did not answer, the taunt. She ►was staring with hopeless eyes after the little figure of the dandy. She bad forgotten him—forgotten his utter dependence, his inability to bear trouble and suffer inconvenience. " I suppose he's responsible for your return," continued Thrale. " I expect he got wind of the festivities, and insisted on coming back to time? You've not much to thank him for, Esther."

Again she made no answer. He was tiresome, and at times a selfish old man. His whim, as Thrale had guessed, had brought her back at so inopportune a moment. She had forforgotten that —as she had forgotten her father's admiration of, and affection of, and affection for, his friend and host.

The widow and the dandy promenaded (a and fro before the window. Floral offerings were no longer under discussion —they were conversing on more intimate affairs.

"A great man," his high-pitched voice came clearly through the window, "a great man, Thrale, madam. Excellent alike for his marvellous qualities of heart and head. A great man and a good man, my dearest friend." And at that and the quaver in the poor old voice, Esther broke down. She must deprive him not only of his home, his comforts, his line clothes, ample pocket money—she must take him from his own familiar friend. "The old man —what can Ido for the poor old man ?" "I think," said Kentish Thrale, "you'll have to take that cheque," and with a laugh he went out of the room. CHAIPTER IV. DISSOLUTE DICK PLAYS A NEW PART. Dissolute Dick was enjoying himself hugely. He was a social soul save at the times when the black cloud of depression veiled his mind. He took a frank delight in the company of pretty women, and showed an intelligent interest in their costumes that gained for him the feminine suffrage. He delighted to hint at past deeds of gallantry, not altogether innocent, and next to a walk with a smart woman in a French gown, enjoyed an hour in the smoke-room where he passed as a devil of a fellow. Antonia found great delight in his quaint flatteries, and fooled him to the top of his bent. "Delightful creature," he murmured, watching the widow's frilled skirts trail along the grass. "My dear lady, have you any idea of your extreme charm ? I assure you I have never—on my word, as a gentleman—l have never met so rare, so exquisite, a combination of intellect and beauty. The spirit of loveliness linds in- you a fitting shrine. We are, my dear lady, the outcome of the forces within us. A pure and radiant being, you illume the dark path of life with roses, my dear lady, roses all the wav."

He paused for approval. His own eloquence filled him with genuine delight. He loved line words and sonorous adjectives, as a child loves bright-coloured stones and shining baubles, and like a child* he used them, scattering rhetorical gems i like a wonderful embroidery on the sober cloth of prosaic fact. It was not often he had so fine an opportunity for metaphorical eloquence. Esther was a dear girl, a good girl, but —he admitted it with sorrow—she had no appreciation of literary style. A purple patch of prose glistening with gorgeous phases left her unmoved. She felt no thrill of delight at the sonorous sound of three syllables. Antonia was of a different clay. She dimpled with appreciation, and encouraged him to higher flights.

"1 have never," he buttonholed Sharpe. "I have never, in the whole course of my experience, met a being of such infinite gentleness ; she is the outcome of mysterious and beneficent spiritual forces—a. creature all too bright and good for human nature's daily food. My dear friend Sharpe, my very dear friend, this is an occasion for the foaming bowl—golden liquor flashing with imprisoned sunshine is the only fit libation for a being so divine, "Eh, what ?" The conceit pleased him. ; he repeated it. "Let us to the tent where sparkles the wine cup. Let us pour out a draught of nectar, let us drink to woman, to beauty, love, and life. My

dear friend. Sharpe, I will take your arm."

Many and copious libations did Dissolute Dick offer to the gods. He was filled with the fire of the golden liquor, and his shrivelled body expanded, his face shone with a bright light. He grew adventurous, pressed Antonia's hand. ■ j

'Antonia discreetly retired, and Dissolute Dick transferred his attentions ' to the pretty parlour maid who poured, out the champagne. His brain responded, quickly to the unaccustomed stimulant. Esther, dear and good girl, had a strange prejudice against, the juice of the grape. A glass of Burgundy at lunch, another at dinner, was his usual allowance ; champagne was under interdict. Pie grew brilliant as the afternoon wore on. Sharpe found himself regarding the old man with a vague astonishment and admiration. He told tales of his youth—it did not seem incredible that afternoon that he had once been young ; painted the spell of the desert, the charm of solitude, the joy of the free spaces of the earth. The men gathered closely, their, faces tense with the masculine love of peril, for peril's sake, such as women do not know. Duchesne the Dandy, perched on a table, held them in thrall. But as Sharpe said afterwards they all forgot it was Duchesne the Dandy —it was another and a stronger man they listened to. A man of magnetism, whose very weakness was endearing. Dissolute Dick of the old days had come back. Dissolute Dick, who never forsook a Pal or refused a challenge, a drinker of wine, a spinner of Homeric yarns, full of Gargantuan laughter. Thrale, coming quietly into the tent, started at the picture. * "I say, Sharpe, the old man's been drinking ? What on earth has he been up to ?"

There was an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. "You should not have let him take so much —it is not good for him." "My most potent, grave, and sober friend, have no fear for me." Duchesne had caught the woi'ds. "I've drunk you under the table in the old days, remember. You were a suiiy brute, and didn't take kindly to your liquor. It put the devil into you ! A grim, dour devil, a black-faced brute. You remember the Kroo boy whose back you flayed because he laughed at you ? You were a spectacle for gods and men that night. We'd been to Barberton. and the chaps had floured your hair and blacked your face. Sassy the Kroo boy laughed himself sick when you rode home. By jove, it was al sight !, You cut his back in ribbons. You'd have killed him if Burgess and I hadn't dragged you off. A surly brute you were in those days ; always something in you I didn't like. It's there now. I can't stand you at times, Thrale." There was an expectant movement in the group round "Duchesne ; men grew eager for Thrale to speak. The picture of that tall, bearded figure, floured head and sooty face, flogging a nigger in the moonlight, touched the nerve ot humour. What would Thrale say ?" But the millionaire's tongue was not whetted for retort. He t®ok a crueller revenge.

"You're off your, head, Duchesne," he said in a contemptuous voice. "Will one of you chaps fetch his daughter '? Nobody else can manage him when he's like this. Mad ? My dear fellows, he's mad as a March hare."

"By .love, that's too bad !" The man next to Sharpe, his friend, and admirer, moved impetuously towards Duchesne.

"Shut up, Barry," Clifford laid, a restraining hand on his arm. "Thrale is perfectly right." "It's low down," growled the other. "Why, what's the old chap going to do ?"' Duchesne had leaped to his feet, his hands up, his body tense, he was making for the millionaire. Thrale sneered and laughed in a jeering fashion that brought an indignant flush to Barry Owen's dark cheek. Duchesne faltered, the cool contempt expressed in the other's attitude —Thrale lounged easily against a table —cut across his rage. He fell back with a laugh, a weak laugh verging on hysteria. "I'd forgotten," he said. His under lip grew pendulous. "I'd forgotten you're my host." "You've taken too much champagne," said Thrale brutally, "and don't know what you're doing."

"Pardon me—l am at least aware of your excellencies. A devoted friend," his voice fell into the cadence of Duchesne the dandy, "an honourable foe. A great man, remarkable alike for his excellent qualities" —he paused—"ay," with a sudden

chuckle, "but it was sport to see you run when . Larry, the red-haired Irishman,' chased you. Fill up, gentlemen, and drink to the glory of champagne." The toast was drunk, but Thrale's glass was left untouched. His manner grew anxious.

"The Lord knows what "he'll say next," he murmured, and wiped the perspiration off his brow. "Has anyone gone to fetch Miss Duchesne. The old man'll get dangerous directly."

"If he could use his hands as well as his tongue he'd be a tough customer to tackle." remarked Owen. "Is that his daughter ? By Jove, she looks ill."

Summoned from her room in the midst of a distracted packing up of all her goods and chattels, Esther felt incapable of further emotional strain. She realised what had happened, and her heart sank as she saw her father, his eyes unnaturally bright, his figure strangely vigorous. If she were lucky she might get him to accompany her without a scene, but later, when his temporary lucidity of mind was over, there would be a "period of. delirium, when the old man would rave of a parching thirst, a pitiless sun, an unnameable terror of desolation. He would rave, and from raving fall to whimpering, begging her to shield,and save him.

She stood inside the tent, and the knowledge of what was to follow turned her sick and faint.

Something- there was in her face eloquent of such' loneliness that it woke in ' Dissolute Dick the instinct of protection. From Esther, that dear and good girl, the guardian of his errant steps, the stern monitor of his irresponsibility he had shrunk. Towards this timid, shrinking girl he felt an impulse of tenderness and affection. "You are not well, my dear child ; what is the matter ?" He put his arm about her, and she nestled to his side. Her tears—Esther's rare tears — fell on his coat sleeve. "I'm tired, Dad. Take me away." He nodded gravely. "We'll go," he said, and with the same tender solicitude he took her hand and led her across the lawn into the house." "There's not much wrong in Duchesne that I can see," ; remarked Owen drily. "My dear boy. he's obviously a bit mad.' No one in their sober senses would have told such a yarn against their host, '\ said Sharpe, jealous of his hero's fame. "Thrale brought it on himself. He shouldn't have sneered at Duchesne. The daughter's a charming girl." "My dear boy. the old man's under great obligations to Thrale. He makes the old man an allowance. He's been a friend in a thousand to Duchesne." Owen looked incredulous. Pie had taken an unreasonable dislike to the financier. Sharpe, whose enthusiasm for his hero amounted to a religion, recounted yet again the story of the ride across the veldt. Meanwhile Dissolute Dick, in his new role of affectionate father was soothing Esther in the sitting-room allotted to her use. ■ The girl had broken down in the all too familiar surroundings. At that desk she had written at Thrale's dictation, listening between whiles to the outpouring of his schemes. The blue bowl on the mantelpiece was his gift, the prints upon the wall his choice : she shrank with actual physical pain from the things about her, and clung to her father in a. paroxysm of grief. "I'm so unhappy, dad," she sobbed. "I've quarrelled with Kentish. • I've broken oil our engagement. Oh ! Dad, dad," she utterly gave way, "we must leave here at once."

In relief at his newly acquired strength and understanding, she forgot how easily his mental equilibrium; could be disturbed. Under ordinary circumstances she would have broken the news of her rupture with Thrale with the utmost care and circumspection. The precipitate revelation was attended by the worst results.

Duchesne became violently agitated, incensed with Thrale, indignant with his daughter, fearful that the quarrel would result unpleasantly for himself. The garment of parental affection fell "from his shoulders, he became once more a feeble-minded garrulous old man, shaken by excess of furv.

Esther realised her mistake the moment she had made it, and strove to explain away her tale. But the mischief was d»ne ; his excitation ' grew uncontrollable, he screamed out curses, shook his fist at imaginary foes, dashed himself against the furniture, until, the violence of the paroxysm over, he fell to weeping piteously he was an old, old man, forlorn and wretched. From whimpering he pass-

ed again to' a paroxysm of fury, until utterly exhausted he was induced } to lav down and get some sleep. He . fell off like a child: Esther watching him, felt an utter and complete despair. What could she do with a charge like this upon her hands ? How could she leave Thrale's house, scorn his help, with her poor father to live and care for ? To and fro she paced the room, till her brain throbbed, and her eyes ached with misery. Marsh Ray, the valet, brought her some dinner, and with a quiet kindliness persuaded her to eat. She forced a few moulhfuls down her throat but the food choked .her. "You're tired out," said the valet, "you're thoroughly overdone. Try to have a few hours' rest, Miss, and I'll stay with Mr Duchesne. Are you going down to-night. You know there's a big ball on ?" "Not to-night." "Mr Thrale will be vexed, miss." She made no 1 answer, avoiding the valet's curious eyes. "I shall be grateful if you will stay with my father, Ray. I won't keep you longer than an hour." It was useless to try and think out plans for the future, with a racking headache, and after a feeble attempt to complete her packing, she gave it up and threw herself on the bed. Left alone with Duchesne, the valet cautiously switched on the electric light, turned the. key in the lock and proceeded with care and deliberation to go through the contents of Esther's desk. Usually a careful and precise young person-, she had on this occasion neglected to remove the key. Thrale's letters to her, together with certain of his business correspondence and her own private papers, were open to the interested gaze of the inimitable Raj*. He went through the papers with interest and appreciation. The love letters of the financier, however, did not appeal to him. Ray was of a poetic turn of mind, and conducted his affairs of the heart with more ardour than the Millionaire expressed. He made a discreet selection of the lettes, none the less, tied the same together with certain business documents, folded them neatly, slipped them in an envelope, and placed them' m his pocket. "A very profitable night's work," he said, smiling genially at his reflection in the glass. "I have earned my supper." The clock was striking midnight. He decided that it was time that Esther returned to take charge, leaving Duchesne in a deep sleep, the valet went softly to the door of Esther's room and knocked. She was some lime struggling back from the land of dreams to the aching sense of reality. When at last she roused herself and went back to the -sittingroom she found her father gone ! She stood dazed, staring at the empty couch. From the ballroom downstairs came the refrain of a popular waltz, with a murmur of voices, laughter, and the -isread of dancing feet. The scene rose before her tired eyes. The ballroom festooned with roses, fragrant with sweet-scent-ed lilies and flame-red carnations, the women in their flashing jewels and shimmering gowns.

What was that? The music stopped abruptly, with a sudden crash, the dancers paused. A stir ran through the air. Esther ran forward, her ears strained, her senses painfully on the alert, waiting for what she dreaded, feared, yet halfexpected. And then it came —a high-pitched quavering voice that seemed to fill the house, drew the listener swiftly down the stairs towards the ballroom.

The evening had been a brilliant one. Tady Blagdon, hostess for the occasion, had determined to make the affair a distinguished success. The county was well represented. A detachment of the smart set had journeyed down from town ; the women were pretty ; the wines above reproach. Heather, her eyes brilliant, was glowing with delight. The afternoon's contretemps had been explained away by Thrale, with more eloquence than logic, but with sufficient ardour to quench all doubt. If she were suspicious of his gallantry in the past, she was confident of his fidelity in the future, and supremely content in the present.

"You are happy, my darling ?" Thrale's eyes studied the bright face eagerly. It was one of the most vivid moments in her life.

"Perfectly," she answered, and at the instant the music stopped, and a sudden hush fell on the room.

The figure of a. man. coatless, with shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and sleeves turned up, held the eyes of all the dancers. Dissolute Dick had

the stage, and men and women

caught their breath and watched him with a hushed expectancy. He made his way to the middle of the room, and they insensibly grouped themselves round him. There was that in his face—white, . tense, with a strange look in his eyes that compelled silence.

It was a younger and more virile Dick than they knew. Lines of strength stiffened the flaccid cheeks, the pendulous mouth, the head was thrown back straight, and the muscles of his arms stood out. "Water !" The cry was drawn from the uttermost extremity. "For the love of God—give—me—water." He gazed round, wildly, but his vision went past the crowded room. He thought be saw the desert, with the pitiless sun above his head, the shifting sand of the Karoo beneath his feet.

"Give up my mine." his voice thrilled, "give up the chance of a lifetime, leave wife and child without a penny—for a drink ? You're mad, Thrale. I'll —I'll die first —my throat—God, but it's a lime-kiln ! Water, water !" His hands tore at his shirt collar, his breaths laboured in great gasps. "A drop—to moisten my lips ! Half, you bloodsucker—l'll give you halt my mine. Help !" His voice rang out in agony. "I'll kill yoti ! Dog, devil ! I'll drink your blood." He fought as with an imaginary foe, then fell half-crouching on the floor. "God, give me water,"

he sobbed, "Give me water." A stir ran through the room, thewomen shivered ; one young girl began to cry and begged he should be stopped. Thrale* stepped forward eagerly, but Lady Heather gripped his arm and held him back. "Let him go on," she said, in a harsh whisper, "you shall let hini go on." She stood and watched the quivering figure with a cold curiosity. She felt no pity for the old man, only a fierce determination to hear him to the end. The scene he was enacting held for her a strange and terrible significance. It was the story of the ride across the desert told in a new way. "Not my mine, Thrale, not that — God, give me a drink—devil, carse you, curse you, curse you !" His voice rose to a shriek, he staggered to his feet. "Take it," he cried, "I'll sign it away, I'll sign anything, everything—Water, water." He paused, trembling in every limb, then, with a sudden hideous smile, fell into the more mincing attitude of Dick the Pandy. "A great man, Kentish Thrale, my dear lady, remarkable alike for his qualities of head and heart. My dear friend, my very dear friend " His bqdy stiffened. "Water !" he cried in a terrible voice, "he stole my min© for a drink of water—curse you, curse you, Kentish Thrale !" CTo be continued).