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Adrien Leroy

by Charles Garvice · English · Gutenberg #16682 · 397,432 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Adrien Leroy

Author: Charles Garvice


        
Release date: September 11, 2005 [eBook #16682]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16682

Credits: Produced by Julie Barkley and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADRIEN LEROY ***




Produced by Julie Barkley and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









                            ADRIEN LEROY



                           CHARLES GARVICE


                               LONDON

      GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.



                              CHAPTER I


It was a cold night in early spring, and the West End streets were
nearly deserted. The great shutters of the shops were being drawn down
with a dull rumble, and every moment the pavements grew more dreary
looking as the glories of the plate-glass windows were hidden.

Tired workers with haggard faces were making their way homeward; to them
the day was at an end. But to the occupants of the whirring taxis and
smart motors, as they sped westward, the round of their day was but
half-way through; for them, the great ones of the earth, the
all-important hour of dinner was at hand.

At the entrance of one of the most luxurious clubs in Pall Mall two men,
in immaculate evening dress, stood carelessly surveying the hurrying
throngs of people.

"Seven," said one, as the hour struck from the nearest church. "I
thought Standon said seven."

"Yes, and like a woman, meant half-past," returned the other, hiding a
yawn.

"Stan's too young to value his dinner properly, but Leroy ought to have
been punctual. Oh, here _is_ Stan!" as a slight, well-dressed man sprang
hastily from a smart motor and came towards them.

"Hello!" said the new-comer, shaking hands, "you two fellows first? I
hope I'm not late, Shelton."

"Of course you're late," growled Shelton, with characteristic pessimism.
"You always are, and Leroy is worse. Come along, we may as well wait
inside as in this beastly draught."

In the great dining-hall the snowy-covered tables were being taken
rapidly by members about to dine; silent-footed waiters were hurrying to
and fro, carrying out their various duties, while intermittently the
sound of opening champagne bottles mingled with the buzz of conversation
and the ripple of laughter.

The three men, Mortimer Shelton, Lord Standon and Frank Parselle, seated
themselves at a table in a comfortable recess and took stock of the
room, responding to numerous nods and smiles of recognition, while
grumbling at the unpunctuality of their friend.

"Ten past seven!" groaned Shelton, looking at his watch. "I might have
known that Leroy would be late. Shall we wait?"

"Oh, yes!" said Parselle; "Adrien might not like it, you know. It is a
bore, though! The soup will be as thick as mud!"

"By Jove! I'd forgotten," interrupted Standon suddenly. "I met Leroy
yesterday, and he asked me to tell you he might be late, as he was off
to Barminster Castle last night. We were not to wait. He gave me a note,
and--if I haven't left it in my other coat--" He fumbled in his pocket.
"No; here it is." He produced the note with an air of triumph, and
Shelton, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, ordered dinner to be
served before he opened it. As he did so and ran his eye over the
contents, he frowned.

"Just listen to this," he said irritably.


"'MY DEAR MORTIMER,

A letter from Jasper takes me down to the Castle. I will return in time
to join your little party and, with your leave, bring Jasper along too;
but don't wait on any account.

"'Yours,

"'ADRIEN LEROY.'"


"Jasper--always Jasper!" commented Standon. "I'd like to know by what
means Jasper Vermont has obtained such influence over Leroy."

"Ah, that's the mystery!" said Parselle, frowning.

"It's as plain as a pikestaff," growled Mortimer Shelton. "Leroy saved
Vermont's life years ago--at Oxford, I think. That's enough for Adrien.
If a cat or dog, or even a one-eyed monkey, placed itself under his
protection, Adrien Leroy would stick to it through thick and thin. You
know his little way; and this Vermont is no fool. He intends to make
full use of his friend."

"And yet Leroy is not easily taken in," remarked Parselle thoughtfully.

"Every man has his weak point," retorted Shelton with a shrug, "and
Jasper is Leroy's one vulnerable spot. He will believe nothing against
him."

"He's a lucky chap, Vermont," said Standon pensively. "No one really
knows what he is or where he springs from; yet he always seems to have
plenty of money, and apparently the whole of Leroy's passes through his
hands."

"Something near a million," put in Parselle enviously, "and with the run
of a castle like a palace. No, Vermont's no fool!"

Mortimer Shelton nodded.

"The Castle's all right," he said curtly. "You can trust the Leroys to
have the best of everything. They treat money like dirt, and bow before
nothing but Royalty and women. Yet, with it all, there's no stauncher
friend than a Leroy."

"As Vermont knows only too well," muttered Standon dryly. "By the way, I
saw Ada Lester in the Park this morning. Jove! Such furs!"

"In that quarter Adrien certainly treats his money like dust," said
Parselle, with a short laugh. "I can't think what he sees in her; to me
she seems an insatiate animal--and about as difficult to satisfy. It's a
jolly good job for Leroy that, thanks to his father's generosity, his
income runs into five figures--nothing else would stand the strain."

"Do you know, some one told me at the Casket the other night that Leroy
had made the theatre over to Ada entirely, and settled a thousand a year
on her into the bargain," said Standon, leaning forward.

"I daresay," Mortimer commented dryly. "He's fool enough for anything.
The place runs him into eight thousand a year as it is--not including
Ada Lester, the lady manager--so he might just as well hand it over to
her altogether. I wish to goodness the wretched building would burn
down! 'Pon my word, I shall set it alight myself one fine night----"

"Hush! Here he is," said Lord Standon; adding quickly, "with Vermont, of
course."

The others looked round towards the new-comers. One was a dark-haired
man of about forty years of age. His face was pale, with an almost
unhealthy pallor, from which his small dark eyes glittered restlessly;
his thin lips, tightly closed, were set in an almost straight line.
Clean-shaven, sleek of hair, he wore an expression of cautious slyness
that implied a mental attitude ever on guard against some sudden
exposure of his real feelings. Such was Jasper Vermont.

His companion was of a different calibre. Still apparently in the early
thirties, tall, and with clear-cut aristocratic features, he was
decidedly good to look upon. His face, fair as that of a woman, was
perhaps slightly marred by the expression of weakness which lurked round
the finely-moulded lips; but for all that it was stamped with the latent
nobility which characterised his race.

The Hon. Adrien Leroy, only son of Baron Barminster, was one of the most
noted figures in fashionable society. His father, who since the death of
Lady Barminster had lived almost as a recluse, spent the days in the old
Castle, and had practically abdicated in favour of his son. So that the
colossal income accruing from the coal mines of Wales, the rentals of
the Leroy estates in the Southern Counties, and the ground rents of a
considerable acreage in one of the most fashionable parts of London, all
passed through the hands of Adrien, who, in his turn, spent it like
water, leaving Jasper Vermont--his one-time college friend and now his
confidential steward--to watch over his affairs.

Leroy, with a genial smile of greeting for all, but a grave, almost
weary expression in his blue eyes, parried the numerous questions and
invitations that beset him on all sides, and, taking Vermont's arm, drew
him towards the table where his three friends awaited him.

"I'm sorry we're late," he said in a pleasant voice, which was clear and
unaffected, in strong contrast to the chatter which buzzed round him at
their entry. "Blame Jasper, who, if he is as hungry as I am, is punished
already."

His good-humoured laugh as he seated himself drew echoes from his
friends; Leroy's popularity was never more apparent than in a gathering
of this sort, composed exclusively of his own sex.

"So, have just come up from Barminster," said Shelton presently, "How is
the Castle looking?"

Adrien, busily satisfying a vigorous appetite, merely nodded and smiled
in reply; but Jasper Vermont answered for him.

"Beautiful!" he said, with a smile which showed his white, even teeth.
"Beautiful! It's a charming view; but we saw little of it this visit.
Ah, Shelton, you are really an epicure! We don't get clear turtle like
this at the Pallodeon--eh, Adrien?"

"No," replied the young man, looking up. "We ought to have Shelton on
the committee. No wonder they love you here, Shelton! And so the colt
has lost the steeplechase? I saw the news as I came along."

"And you have lost, how much--two thousand?" queried Parselle.

"Five," said Vermont, not quickly, but just before Adrien could speak.

"Is it five?" asked Leroy indifferently. "I thought I'd backed 'Venus'
for more."

"I backed her myself for a couple of hundred," put in Lord Standon
ruefully. "She's a beautiful creature, though, and I'd like to buy her."

"You can have her, my dear Stan, for a mere song," said Leroy cordially.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," interposed Jasper with suavity. "She's
sold."

Adrien looked up in surprise.

"Sold! To whom?" he asked.

"To the knacker," was the calm reply. "Don't you remember, Adrien, that
she threw Fording and broke her leg over the last hurdle?"

Leroy's race resumed its usual air of bored indifference.

"Ah, yes, so you told me. My dear Stan, I'm awfully sorry! I had
completely forgotten." He looked round the table. "Any of you seen the
papers?" he inquired. "Last night was the first of the new comedy at the
Casket--how did it go?"

Frank Parselle laughed. "I was there," he admitted. "Ada played finely,
but they hissed once or twice."

"Lost on my horse and on my new play. That is bad luck!" exclaimed
Adrien, looking, however, very little disturbed by the news. "It must be
withdrawn."

"Certainly," agreed Vermont amiably. "Certainly."

"By Jove! what did you tell me the mounting cost?" asked Parselle,
addressing Vermont, but glancing significantly at the others.

"Three thousand pounds," answered Vermont glibly, while Adrien ate his
fish with the most consummate indifference.

"Three thousand for four nights, that's about it. The public ought to be
grateful to you," said Shelton with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, as
he nodded across at Leroy.

Adrien laughed.

"Or I to them," he said cheerfully. "It's no light thing to sit through
a bad play. But how is that, Jasper? You said it would run."

"I?" protested Vermont, with a pleasant smile. "No, Adrien, not so
certainly as that. I said I thought the play well written, and that in
my opinion it ought to run well--a very different thing. Eh, Shelton?"

"Ah!" replied Shelton, who had been watching him keenly. "So you were
out in your reckoning for once. It is to be hoped you didn't make the
same mistake with the colt. I think you were also favourably inclined to
that, weren't you?"

"Yes," admitted Vermont, leaning back with an admirable air of content.
"I laid my usual little bet, and lost--of course."

"You should have hedged," said Shelton, who knew as a positive fact that
Vermont had done so.

"I have no judgement," Vermont responded deprecatingly. "I am a man of
no ideas, and I admit it. Now Adrien is all acuteness; without him I
should soon go astray. I am supposed to look after his interests; but,
by Jove! it is he who supplies the brains and I the hands. I am the
machine--a mere machine, and he turns the handle!" He laughed gently at
his own joke, and held up his glass for replenishment.

"A pretty division of labour," commented Shelton, with a faint sneer.
"Now _we_ give _you_ the credit for all the tact and business capacity."

"Ah, what a mistake!" replied Vermont, spreading out his fat hands with
a gesture of amusement. "Well, since you give me credit, I will assume
the virtue, though I have it not."

He changed the subject adroitly to one of general interest; and as the
wine came and disappeared with greater rapidity, the talk ran on with
more wit and laughter, Vermont always handling the ball of conversation
deftly, and giving it an additional fillip when it seemed to slacken.
Adrien Leroy spoke little; though when he did make a remark, the rest
listened with an evident desire to hear his opinion.

At length Vermont rose, with a lazy look round.

"Well, I must be off," he said smoothly. "Good-night, Adrien. I shall be
with you to-morrow at twelve."

Having bade the rest of the company a hasty adieu, he turned once more
to his host.

"Good-night, Shelton," he said smilingly. "Thanks for the excellent
dinner. Rome would not have perished had you lived with the last of
Cæsars."

"And Adrien Leroy would not go to the dogs so quickly, if you did not
show him the way," murmured Shelton inaudibly, as Vermont departed, with
the bland smile still hovering round his thin lips.




                              CHAPTER II


Outside the club door, Vermont's motor was drawn up at the side waiting
for him. He looked at his watch, and was surprised at the lateness of
the hour. Stepping hastily into the vehicle, he held up two fingers to
the chauffeur, who apparently needed no other instructions; for the car
glided off, and Vermont, as he passed the club, looked up at the windows
with an ugly smile.

As Lord Standon had said, few knew his origin or his business; but, in
reality, his antecedents were of a very ordinary nature. He was the son
of a solicitor who had lived with but one object in his sordid life,
namely, the desire to make his son a man of position with the power to
mix as an equal among that portion of society which only came to Malcolm
Vermont when it wanted its scandals glossed over, or to obtain money.
Ill-natured people were apt to hint that he had amassed his wealth by
means of usury and the taking up of shady cases. At any rate, he made
sufficient to bring up his son in luxury and send him to Oxford, where
Jasper had first come in contact with Adrien Leroy. At the death of his
father, Vermont found himself possessed of an income of a thousand a
year, which enabled him to become a member of Adrien's set,
notwithstanding that the amount was a much smaller one than he had been
led to expect, and, in his opinion, savoured almost of aristocratic
poverty.

The car had rolled silently into a side street off St. James's, where
the chauffeur pulled up sharply at the door of one of the old-fashioned,
though now newly-painted houses. Vermont sprang out and rang the bell
twice.

"Has Miss Lester returned yet?" he asked of the smart maid who opened
the door.

"Yes, sir," she answered, and promptly led the way up a newly-carpeted
staircase, redolent of Parma violet scent and glistening with white
enamelled woodwork and plaster casts. The walls were adorned with
pictures in the worst possible taste and the most glaring colours. As
Vermont reached the first floor, a strong, savoury odour filled the air.

He smiled sarcastically, and sniffed as if the perfume were familiar to
him.

"Miss Lester at supper?" he asked the white-capped maid, as she threw
open the door on the first floor, and stood aside to let the visitor
precede her.

"Yes, sir; supper's been served," was the demure answer.

Vermont passed into the room, which was furnished with the same lack of
taste as the staircase. Two women were seated at the table, apparently
just finishing their supper.

At first glance they might have been mistaken for mother and daughter,
as the elder woman was clad in a sombre black velvet dress, and had a
pale, thin face, crowned with heavy masses of grey hair. On closer
inspection, however, one perceived that Julia Lester was far from
old--indeed, not more than about forty-five, and with a peculiarly
gentle, almost child-like expression, which at first took one almost by
surprise.

On the other hand, her sister, though only about ten years younger,
would easily have passed as twenty-five, especially when behind the
footlights, which was her usual environment.

"Oh, it's you, Jasper, is it?" she remarked carelessly, pausing in the
act of lighting a cigarette. "Didn't hear you come in. You're so quiet
on your pins."

Like the house she inhabited, Miss Lester combined in her person
prodigality of colours with a fine disregard of taste. Beautiful she
undoubtedly was, with the black-browed, dark-eyed beauty of a Cleopatra,
for there was some Italian blood in her veins. It was given out
occasionally by the Press that she had been a theatre-dresser, an
organ-grinder, and fifty other things; but nevertheless, illiterate,
common and ill-bred, she had yet achieved fame--or rather, perhaps,
notoriety---by her dancing and sheer animal good looks.

As a matter of fact she owed her success primarily to Jasper Vermont,
who, as a young man and during a quarrel with his father, had lodged in
the same house with the handsome sisters, Julia, and Ada Lester, the
latter then being only about fifteen years of age. He had fallen
violently in love with Julia, then in the height of her beauty, and had
cruelly deceived her. To appease the indignation of the younger sister
he had got her an introduction to the manager of the Rockingham Theatre,
who was about to put on a new Egyptian ballet, and from that time
onwards it had been plain sailing for Ada. Later on came a meeting with
Leroy, planned by Jasper's connivance; and Adrien, attracted by the
woman's ripe beauty, had been blind, so far, to the deficiencies of her
mind and character.

To-night she looked a veritable daughter of the South. Her dress was of
scarlet, touched with black, and she was wearing diamonds--gifts from
her many admirers--of such intrinsic value as to render many a countess
jealous.

"Yes, it is I," said Vermont. "Onions and cigarettes! I thought Leroy
objected to both."

Ada laughed.

"It's the smell he don't like," she said lightly. "He's so particular.
But he's not coming to-night; leastways, he said he wasn't."

"Ah!" said Vermont smiling, as he seated himself at the table and took
up a small bottle which proved to be empty, "Is there anything left to
drink?"

"Have some fizz," said Ada hospitably. "Ring the bell, Ju, and give me
another chop. Well, Jasper, what's the news?"

"Just the question I was about to ask," he replied, as the maid-servant
brought in a bottle of champagne and glasses on a silver tray. "How did
the comedy go?"

"Rotten!" pronounced Ada shortly. "I told Adrien it wouldn't go, though
I did my best--didn't I, Ju? The frocks were really first-class--blue
satin and silver, with loads of pearls, and my turquoise armlets. All
right, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Vermont, adding, with a sneer, "Perhaps the stupid public
got tired of looking at the blue satin."

"Then they could have looked at me instead," retorted Ada tartly. "But
I've no patience with Adrien. Why can't he get 'em something lively? A
musical comedy now--I could make that go, if you like! Plenty of songs
and no talky-talky business. Besides, I _can_ dance."

"But can't act," murmured Jasper, with his sarcastic smile.

"Can't I!" cried Ada furiously. "That's all you know about it. Why
didn't you come last night?"

"Business," he answered carelessly, sipping his wine; adding, as he saw
her about to question him, "With which I won't trouble you, my fair
Ada."

"Oh won't you!" was that lady's retort. "You're mighty polite, I must
say. I suppose you were down at that old Castle again, and Adrien too!
What were you doing there?"

"Minding our own business," he replied smilingly, as he lit a cigarette.

"Close as a fox, you are," she declared, with a short, disagreeable
laugh. "Where's Adrien? Down there still?"

"No; at the Thessalian. I left him there with Mortimer Shelton."

"I hate that man," said Miss Lester viciously.

"So do I," agreed Vermont, "but I don't say so. Anyhow, Adrien's safe
there for another hour, and I came on to give you a word of warning."

He turned to her companion, who had been quietly finishing her supper as
if unconscious of anyone's presence.

"Julia, you look tired; you'd better get off to bed."

She rose and hesitated for a moment, looking from him to Ada; then
quietly left the room. Vermont gazed after her, much as he would have
watched a useless piece of furniture in course of removal; then he leant
back in his chair, and, before resuming, regarded fixedly Ada's flushed,
handsome face.

"Well?" she queried, impatiently striking the table with her fork.

Jasper leant forward and spoke with calm, unpleasant deliberation.

"Ada," said he, "there was once a person who killed the goose that laid
him golden eggs; there was another who beat his horse till it pitched
him into the ditch; but neither of these attained such a height of folly
as Miss Lester bids fair to reach, if she persists in worrying her prize
donkey into kicking her to the ground and leaving her in the mud."

"Oh, don't be an idiot, Jasper!" she exclaimed irritably. "Speak out
plain, can't you?"

"I certainly can, and will, my dear lady. To put it plainly, then, you
are going the quickest way to make Adrien tired of you. After all, if
you happen to possess a goose with the propensity to lay golden eggs,
surely it is wise to humour him. And if the said goose happens to
dislike the smell of onions, why fill the house with that particular
perfume, sufficient to suffocate an elephant? Again, is it not the
height of folly to stick plaster statues on the staircase which he
ascends daily, when you know this particular goose detests imitation
art? In short, my dear Ada, if you persist in thrusting vulgarity down
his throat, you will find yourself very soon out of the graces of our
friend, Adrien Leroy."

Ada, who had been beating a loud tattoo with the fork which she still
held in her hand, sprang to her feet and struck the table with a force
which set the glasses jingling.

"Jasper!" she almost shouted. "You'll drive me mad! Why don't you speak
out and say what you mean? What's the matter with Adrien? What does he
want? Aren't there a hundred men who'd be glad enough to furnish a house
for me as I like? And can't I even eat what I choose without Adrien
Leroy's delicate nose being turned up in disapproval?"

"You can go to the deuce, if you like, my dear," declared Jasper with a
calm smile. "I merely warn you that you are on the way to finding
yourself in the street, if I may be allowed to speak out. Have another
cigarette, and spray some patchouli about the room. There are more geese
than one, as you say; and, after all, it is hard if you can't indulge in
onions in your own room at one o'clock in the morning."

Goaded almost to desperation by the sneering sarcasm of Vermont's words,
the woman threw down her fork, thereby smashing a champagne glass, and
thrust her angry, flushed countenance close to his.

"What's your game?" she hissed. "Are you playing with me and Adrien? Are
you setting him against me? I know your artful tricks; but don't you
play 'em on me, Jasper! What are you doing up at the Castle so often?
Making yourself pleasant to old Lord Barminster's niece there, I'll be
bound. P'raps she ain't fond of scent or a pork chop or two, and she can
have real statues if she likes. You don't remind him of that, do you?
Oh, no, of course not! But you mind your skin, Jasper, for you can't
play fast and loose with me. Shuffle him on to that Constance girl, and
I'll make you pay for it. I know something you wouldn't like my lord to
hear about; so, if you don't want me to open my mouth and split on your
little games, don't you play me any of your tricks, that's all, or I'll
go straight to Adrien and tell him all!"

She stopped, out of breath, and Jasper Vermont, springing to his feet,
glared down at her in impotent fury. But she only laughed at his angry
face.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't like Adrien to know how you fooled poor Julia,
though it is over twenty years ago. I haven't forgotten, if you have,
how you took her over to Paris while I was away on my first tour, and
went through some form of marriage with her. You wouldn't like him to
know how you told her what you'd done, when there was no longer need to
keep it dark from your father, and of the attack of brain fever it
brought on, poor dear! You were a nice brute to her, you were, Jasper
Vermont; and it's a lucky thing for you and her too that when she
recovered her memory had gone, and she forgot you as well as the child."

Jasper stirred uneasily.

"I didn't think she would have cared so much," he said. "Besides, she's
all right now; she only forgets those few years."

"Lucky thing for you," repeated Ada dryly.

"What have you done with the child?" he asked suddenly.

His companion's face lighted up with malicious triumph.

"I've put her where you can't find her, anyhow," she said. "You shan't
break her heart, as you did her mother's."

"Oh, nonsense, Ada!" said Vermont contemptuously. "Don't begin to
rant--you're not on the stage now. I kept all my promises to you, at any
rate. I got you on at the Rockingham and I introduced you to Leroy; and
if you had only played your cards properly you would have hooked him by
this time. As it is, he'll marry his cousin, if you're not careful."

"If he does, it'll be your fault," she snarled. "And I'll tell Adrien
all, and how you're fooling him in other ways as well."

Jasper sprang across the room, his face working with anger. There was
something so deadly in the light of his dark eyes, such murderous hate
in every line of his face, that the woman shrank back and uttered a cry
of fear, instinctively glancing at a knife which lay on the table close
to Jasper's other hand.

How far Vermont's anger might have carried him she did not know, for, to
her intense relief, the door opened and Adrien Leroy himself entered the
room. He gazed in surprise at the two occupants, and in an instant
Jasper had regained his self-control. He did not release Ada's wrist,
but, smoothing his scowl into a sleek smile, he said with a careless
laugh:

"No, Ada, your arm is as slim as ever. The bracelet will just fit you."
He relaxed his grip as he spoke and turned to Leroy. "Ada has bet me
that the new bracelet you bought her is too small, Adrien," he explained
glibly. "She thought she was getting stout."

Adrien nodded indifferently; while Ada, with a little cry of relief, ran
towards him.

"Adrien, how good of you to come!" she exclaimed. "I did not expect you
so soon."

Leroy did not seem to notice her, but looked round the room with evident
displeasure. The table, with its remains of supper; the stained cloth;
above all, the undesirable odour of food and stale tobacco; all seemed
to fill him with disgust. Gently, but firmly, he put Ada from him.

"Jasper," he said, turning to Vermont, "you know why I came. Give Miss
Lester the deeds of the Casket Theatre. I am tired and am going home."

With a courteous good-night to Ada, who, without attempting to thank him
for his gift, stood scowling and sullen, he passed out of the room;
while Vermont leaned back against the table with folded arms and his
inevitable, but significant, smile on his face.




                              CHAPTER III


The night was bitterly cold; but, disdaining a taxi for so short a
distance, Leroy buttoned up his coat and strode swiftly along towards
his chambers in Jermyn Court, W. As he turned the corner of the square,
he stumbled sharply over the slight figure of a girl, crouched near one
of the doorsteps, and, with his habitual courtesy, he stopped to see if
any harm had been done.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked gently, placing his hand on her shoulder.

At his touch the girl started up with a cry of distress; and, as the
shawl fell back from her head, Leroy was almost startled by the vivid
freshness of her beauty.

"Oh," she exclaimed in terrified accents, "I wasn't doing any harm! I
will move on--I--I was only resting." Then, as she saw the kindly face
looking into hers, she subsided into silence.

She was quite young, not more than about sixteen, and so slenderly
formed as to appear almost a child. Her features were clear-cut as a
cameo and she had a slightly foreign air. Her eyes were brown, but as
the light of the gas-lamp fell full on her upturned face, they showed so
dark and velvety as almost to appear black, while masses of dark hair
clustered in heavy waves round her forehead.

Unconsciously Leroy raised his hat as he repeated his question. She
shook her head at him as he bent over her, but made no reply.

"How is it you are out on such a night as this?" he asked. "Have you no
home? Where do you live?"

"Cracknell Court, Soho," she replied, in tones singularly free from any
trace of Cockney accent.

"With your parents?" queried Leroy, feeling for some money.

"No," said the girl, her red lips quivering for a moment. "Haven't got
any--only Johann and Martha--and _they_ don't care."

"Who is Johann?" said Leroy, with an encouraging smile.

"I don't know," she answered listlessly. "He's Johann Wilfer, that's
all."

"Why have you run away, then?"

"Johann came home drunk and beat me--so I ran out."

She pushed back her ragged shawl and held up her arm, on which bruises
showed up cruelly distinct. Leroy uttered an exclamation of anger.

"You poor child!" he said almost tenderly. "What can I do for you? If I
give you money----"

"Johann will take it and make me beg for more," she interrupted; and
Leroy withdrew his hand from his pocket, fearing this to be but too
true.

"Will you go home, if I take you?" he began.

The girl shook her head, and dragged the old shawl closer round her
shivering body.

"Not till morning," she said decidedly. "I shall be all right then."

"But you'll freeze to death here!"

She laughed harshly.

"I wish I was dead," she said, with an earnestness that made Leroy's
heart ache, as he thought of her extreme youth and saw the bitter
despair in the great dark eyes.

He drew himself up sharply as if he had decided on his course of action.

"I cannot leave you here," he said quietly, "and money is of no use to
you to-night. Will you come with me?" He held out his hand as he spoke,
and, without a word, the girl rose wearily and laid her own cold one in
his. They proceeded thus, in silence, for the length of the square; but
Leroy soon saw that, whether, from cold or from hunger, the girl's steps
were growing feebler and more uncertain. Without further ado, he picked
her up in his arms, wrapping her shawl more warmly round her.

"We are nearly there," he said reassuringly, "and you are as light as a
feather."

She lay back, perfectly content, her head pressed against his broad
shoulder, her dark eyes closed trustfully.

Adrien Leroy hurried on, for the wind cut with the force of a knife; but
his face was very thoughtful as he approached his chambers.

"What else can I do?" he asked himself. "She is such an innocent child.
Can I take her to my rooms without injury to her poor shred of
reputation? Yet no houses are open at this hour, and I cannot hand her
over to that drunken brute. There's no help for it!"

It evidently never occurred to him to turn back and deliver her into the
charge of Miss Lester. Indeed, he thought that would have been greater
cruelty than to have left her in the streets.

Having reached the block of buildings in which were his own rooms,
Adrien walked up the stairs and opened a door on the first floor. In the
hall a light was burning, held by a statuette of white marble; and
Leroy, after gently setting the girl down on her feet, led her into his
study.

The room in which she found herself was not lofty, but the ceiling was
exquisitely painted, while from the four corners hung electric lights
'neath delicate shades. The furniture was rich in colour, solid as
befitted a man's room, while on the walls were a few rare engravings. A
couple of gun-cases in one corner and a veritable stock of fishing
implements in another showed that Leroy was not unaccustomed to sport;
it was one of his man Norgate's complaints that he was not allowed to
pack them away, but must leave them there, close at hand, just as Leroy
might want them.

It was not these, however, that held the girl's attention so fixedly,
but the cut Venetian glass on the inlaid cabinets and the gold ornaments
on the carved Florentine mantel.

"Home at last," he said with a smile; and, opening another door on the
left, he led her unresistingly into a second room.

But here the girl seemed as if struck dumb with astonishment. She was
evidently overwhelmed by the magnificence and luxury on which her eyes
rested, and Leroy smiled in amusement at her unspoken admiration.

"Come and warm yourself," he said kindly, drawing one of the divans
nearer to the fire.

Lightly she trod over the rose carpet, and dropped with a sigh into the
chair.

"Give me your hands. Don't hold them near the fire yet," he said, and
began to gently chafe the poor blue fingers, for he knew the danger of
too sudden heat. "That is better--they will soon get warm. And now we
will have something to eat."

He crossed over to the bell; and in a few moments the door opened
noiselessly.

"Let us have some supper, Norgate," said Leroy; and the dignified
man-servant disappeared as silently as he had entered, while his master
returned to the fire-place, and stood looking down at the girl he had
rescued.

As yet she had not spoken; but her eyes had been wandering over the many
splendours of the room. Suddenly she lifted them to the handsome face
above her, and said in a low, awe-struck whisper:

"Is this the king's palace? And are you a prince?"

Adrien Leroy smiled.

"By no means," he said. "Ah! here comes something you require, I know,"
he added, as the door opened, and Norgate entered, bearing a large
silver tray.

Having set the chairs to table, and placed the wine and glasses at hand,
the man announced respectfully that supper was served. His master
dismissed him, guessing that the girl would be less embarrassed if alone
with him; and Norgate retired with a face as expressionless as if the
entertaining of "street waifs"--as he mentally termed the young
visitor--were of nightly occurrence.

Adrien placed a plate of cold chicken on a low table beside her.

"You are warm there," he said, as he poured her out a glass of wine.

The girl looked up into his face with a mute, questioning glance; then,
taking courage from the kindly eyes, she picked up her knife and fork
with long, thin, but well-shaped hands.

Leroy turned to the table, and by dint of helping himself from various
dishes, under a pretence of making a hearty meal, he gave her
confidence; and presently he saw that she had commenced to eat. Adrien
rose from time to time, and waited on her with a delicacy and tenderness
with which few of his friends would have credited him; till, with a sigh
of content, she laid down the knife and fork.

"Are you better now?" he asked as he took her plate.

She looked up at him in speechless adoration, and her eyes filled with
tears.

"How good you are to me," she said. "I never dreamt there could be such
a beautiful place as this. Do you often bring people in out of the
cold?"

His face became grave.

"No," he said evasively--"not as often as I should, I'm afraid. And now,
suppose you tell me your name."

"Jessica," she replied simply.

"And have you no relatives--no friends to help you?" he continued.

She shook her head sadly.

"Only Martha and Johann," was the hopeless reply.

"You poor child! And what does friend Johann do for a living?"

Again she shook her head.

"I don't know. He gets drunk."

"An overfilled profession that," said Leroy, with a sigh. "And now, what
are we to do with you, little Jessica?"

She looked up with frightened eyes.

"Oh," she cried breathlessly, "are you going to turn me out into the
cold again? Must I go? Oh, I knew it was too good to last!"

In her terror she had started up; but Leroy put her back gently into the
chair.

"No, little one, we won't turn you out to-night," he promised.
"To-morrow, we will see what can be done to make your road softer in
future."

She did not understand half his words; but as with an almost womanly
tenderness he placed a silken cushion beneath her head, she nestled
down, smiling into his eyes with the gratitude of a child that neither
questions nor doubts. To her he appeared like a being from another
world--a world or which she had scarcely dared to dream, and her eyes
were eloquent.

Adrien Leroy stood for a little while watching her, till her gentle
breathing showed him she had fallen asleep.

"A beautiful child," he said under his breath. "She will be a still more
beautiful woman." He sighed. "Poor little thing! Rich and poor, young
and old, how soon the world's poison reaches us!" Then, throwing a
tiger-skin over the slender body, he turned out the lights and left the
room. Summoning Norgate, he gave instructions that his nocturnal visitor
should not be disturbed in the morning by the housekeeper, but should be
allowed to sleep on. Then he made his way to his own room, not long
before the dawn broke.

He had befriended this young human thing as he would have rescued a
wounded bird, and with as little thought for the consequences; yet the
day was to come when he should look back on this action as one inspired,
in very truth, by his guardian angel.




                              CHAPTER IV


The sun had risen cold and bright when Adrien Leroy awoke, and his first
question was for the child, Jessica. But here a surprise awaited him,
for the bird had flown. Norgate and the housekeeper had found the room
tenantless. For some inexplicable reasons of her own she must have
stolen noiselessly out while the other occupants of the flat were still
sleeping.

Adrien made no comment, but proceeded to undergo the labours of the
toilet. A cold bath is an excellent tonic; and when Leroy entered the
dining-room his calm face bore no traces of his comparatively sleepless
night. He sat down to breakfast, waited on by the attentive Norgate, and
turned over the heap of letters which lay beside his plate. During his
leisured meal he opened them. They were principally invitations, though
a few of them were bills--big sums, many of them, for horses,
dinner-parties, supper-parties, jewellery, flowers--all the
hundred-and-one trifles which were as necessary to a man in his position
as light and air.

With a gesture of weariness, he pushed the pile from him, and throwing
them carelessly into the drawer of a buhl cabinet, left them until such
time as Jasper Vermont could attend to them.

"Where do I dine to-night?" he asked presently.

"At the Marquis of Heathcotes', sir--at eight," replied Norgate, who
knew his master's engagements better than did the young man himself.

Leroy nodded absently.

"Order the new motor for four o'clock. I want to see how it goes."

"Yes, sir." The confidential servant coughed and looked slightly
embarrassed. "I may mention, sir, that Perrier has sent in his account
for the costumes made for the Fancy Dress Carnival at Prince's."

"Refer him to Mr. Vermont," was the calm reply. "I have sir, several
times, but he wants to see you personally. It's a matter of
discount----"

"Send him to Mr. Vermont. I know nothing of his bill or his discount.
Surely you know that, Norgate," Leroy interrupted impatiently.

The discreet Norgate retreated silently; and ten minutes later Leroy
started for his morning canter in the Row. Here, meeting and chatting
with his numerous friends, the morning passed quickly enough; and when
Leroy returned to his chambers again, Norgate was putting the finishing
touches to the table already set for lunch.

"Covers for four?" said his master, as he entered the room. "Who is
coming?"

"Mr. Shelton, Lord Standon, and Mr. Paxhorn, sir."

"Ah, yes, to be sure," replied the host, who had completely forgotten
the invitation. "I thought it was for to-morrow."

The loud hoot of a motor outside told him that his visitors were
arriving; and in another moment the door was flung open, and Mortimer
Shelton, followed by Lord Standon, entered the room.

"Well, Leroy, old man," exclaimed the former cheerily, as they shook
hands, "you look as fresh as if you had awoke with the dawn!"

"Nothing new in that," said Lord Standon, laughing. "Nothing upsets
Leroy."

"Except a bad dinner," murmured Algernon Paxhorn, the fourth member of
the party, who had just entered the room. He was the latest literary
lion, and a fast friend--in more senses than one--of Adrien and the
members of his set.

With jest and laughter they took their places at the table.

"Well, how's the steeplechase going?" asked Leroy, turning to Shelton.
"What do you think of my 'King Cole'? Does he stand a chance?"

"A chance!" echoed all three.

"The odds are four to one on him, and few takers," announced Shelton.

Lord Standon set down his glass.

"Ah, that was yesterday," he said. "I was there later, and the odds were
being lifted. You can lay what you like on him, my dear fellow, and you
will have no difficulty in finding takers."

"Oh!" commented Adrien, almost listlessly. "Something better in the
field, I suppose? I thought the roan was not to be touched."

"And I, also," said Mortimer Shelton; "I can't understand it! The only
new entry was a weedy chestnut, listed by a Yorkshireman in the
afternoon. 'Holdfast' they call him."

"He'll require more hustling than holding," returned Paxhorn
sarcastically.

Lord Standon finished his wine.

"I'll back the roan while there's a penny to borrow," he said with
sublime confidence. "There's nothing can touch him."

"That's what Jasper said," remarked Leroy, "and he ought to know."

"Oh, yes, he's a good judge of a horse," grudgingly admitted Shelton,
who frankly hated him; "and of men too--when it pays him."

Leroy's face darkened slightly. Vermont was his friend, and he resented
a word spoken against him far more than he would have done one against
himself.

"You misjudge him, Shelton," he said briefly.

"Possibly," retorted the other, unabashed. "What you find so fascinating
in him I can't imagine. Still, my dear fellow, setting Vermont aside,
there can be no two opinions respecting your chef. Sarteri is a
possession I positively envy you. There is not another chef in England
that understands entrees as he does."

"None," echoed Lord Standon. "Leroy will be famous for one thing, at
least, if it's only for his cook."

The meal came to an end, and the table was cleared by the silent
Norgate. Cards were produced, and the four were soon deep in the
intricacies of bridge. They played high and recklessly; and after little
more than an hour, Shelton and Leroy had lost over five hundred pounds.

"A close run, eh, Shelton?" laughed Leroy as he took the notes from an
open drawer. "Had they played the knave we should have won. Time for
another round?"

"Not I," replied his friend, with a regretful shake of his head. "I'm
due at Lady Martingdale's."

"Picture galleries again?" laughed Standon, who knew that lady's
weaknesses.

"Yes," Shelton confessed, "and with Miss Martingdale too."

The others laughed significantly.

"Say no more, Mortimer," begged Lord Standon, with mock grief. "Your
days are numbered. Already I see myself enacting the part of chief
mourner--I should say, best man--if you will allow me."

Shelton rose, laughing good-humouredly.

"Thanks, I'll remember--when it comes to that!"

"You're incorrigible, Stan," said Leroy, as his guests were taking their
leave. "You'd better settle down yourself first, and leave Shelton
alone."

When they had all gone, the host stood looking at the empty chairs. They
seemed, as it were, typical of the weary, empty hours of his life, and
for the first time a wholesome distaste of it all swept over him. Day
in, day out, an everlasting whirl--wherein he and his companions turned
night into day and spent their lives in a hollow round of gaiety, in
which scandal, cards, women and wine were chief features. And, at the
end! What would be the end?

Then he shook himself from his unaccustomed reverie; Adrien Leroy, the
popular idol of fashionable society, was not given long to
introspection.

"What next?" he asked himself.

It was Norgate who answered the unspoken query, by announcing that the
motor was at the door.

As Adrien descended the stairs, Jasper Vermont entered the hall below
him.

"Ah, just in time!" he said with his amicable smile. "You're off to the
Park, I suppose?"

"I don't know yet," returned Adrien evasively. "What do you think of the
motor?"

"Worthy even of Adrien Leroy," replied Jasper, with the faintest
suspicion of a sneer, which, however, passed unperceived by his friend.
"By the way," he continued, as they walked to the door together, "I have
just left Ada in tears, poor girl; repentance followed closely on
repletion. She vows solemnly to refrain from onions and patchouli for
the future, and begs for the return of your favour."

Leroy smiled gravely at his companion's flippant tones.

"You make an eloquent advocate; but there's little need for pity in her
case; her tastes are natural to her class. I was to blame for not
realising it before; but she'll be well set up for the future," he said,
and forthwith dismissed the subject from his mind. "But Jasper, what of
this chestnut entered the steeplechase?"

Vermont's dark, restless eyes dropped for a moment; then he said
lightly:

"Do you mean that Yorkshire screw? Oh, he is all right! Can't run the
course, I should say, let alone the last rise. Nothing can touch the
roan. If I weren't a beggar, I'd cover 'King Cole's' back with guineas."

"Do it for me," said Leroy carelessly, as he settled into the waiting
Daimler, which was his latest purchase.

"What, another thousand?" asked Jasper almost eagerly.

"Two, if you like," said his friend, as the chauffeur started the car,
and with a smile to Vermont he took his departure.

Vermont stood looking after him, his gaze almost still in its fixity;
then he turned and passed up the stairs. In the dining-room he found
Norgate, clearing away the cards and glasses, in no very amiable humour.

"Has there been a luncheon party?" queried Mr. Vermont.

"Yes, sir," answered Norgate aggrievedly; "Mr. Shelton, Lord Standon and
Mr. Paxhorn."

"And bridge?" murmured Mr. Vermont inquiringly.

"Yes, sir; and from what I heard, I believe Mr. Leroy lost."

"Ah," commented the other softly, "I fear Mr. Leroy always does lose,
doesn't he?"

"He's made me lose my time to-day with his fads and fancies," grumbled
Norgate, removing the folding card-table; "what with bringing in street
wenches at one o'clock in the morning; and they mustn't be disturbed, if
you please."

Jasper Vermont was instantly on the alert. He was not above encouraging
a servant to gossip, and, although Norgate was not given to err in this
direction as a rule, upon the present occasion his grievance got the
better of him, and Vermont was soon in possession of such slight facts
as could be gleaned.




                              CHAPTER V


Johann Wilfer, Jessica's adopted father, was German by birth, and the
son of an innkeeper in one of the tiny villages on the banks of the
Rhine. In his youth he had studied as an art-student at Munich; but,
finally, by his idle and dissolute behaviour, so angered the authorities
that he had been compelled to return home. Tiring of the rural life
there, he finally obtained from his parents sufficient money to come to
London to try his fortune.

Here he soon obtained some work from the smaller art dealers, which
enabled him to live in comparative comfort, and had it not been for his
unreliability and his love of drink he might have seen to be a good
artist.

Wilfer was a handsome young fellow in those days, and while on one of
his wandering tours in Kent he met and won the heart of a simple little
country girl, named Lucy Goodwin. Lucy believed her lover to be
everything that was good, and, trusted him even to the extent of her
betrayal; so that, under some pretence, young Wilfer was able to entice
the girl to Canterbury, where, a few weeks later, he deserted her.

She was the only daughter of a widower, a clerk in the employ of a
country bank, who, broken-hearted at his daughter's ruin, threw up his
situation, changed his name to that of George Harker, and fled to London
with his beloved child. Here he found it extremely difficult to obtain
work. His savings soon evaporated, and alas! further trouble was in
store for him; for one afternoon a smooth-faced gentleman appeared at
their quiet lodgings. This was none other than Jasper Vermont, who in a
long private interview with the unhappy Harker informed him that he had
heard of Lucy's escapade, and threatened to proclaim her shame, if Mr.
Harker failed to comply with a proposition he was about to make to him.
The business which he suggested was one entirely abhorrent to the
ex-bank clerk; but with money running short, and the thought of his
daughter's misery should her secret be revealed, what could the father
do but submit?

The result of this interview was that, a month or two later, a new
moneylending firm sprang up in a narrow street in the city, under the
title of Harker's Ltd., and none of the numerous clients who patronised
it ever recognised that the manager, Mr. Harker, was speaking the
literal truth when he repeatedly asserted his own impotence in the
business. Every one believed the story to be a fictitious one, invented
to assist him in his extortions.

Time passed on, and Lucy's pretty face and modest ways, perhaps her very
sadness, which clung to her in never-ending remorse, caught the heart of
a simple-minded man, one John Ashford. He was a flourishing grocer in a
village on the banks of the Thames, and was then staying in London on a
visit. After a hard struggle with herself the poor girl returned his
love, and ventured to become his wife.

Wilfer, from inquiries made by Mr. Harker, was supposed to be dead.
None, she thought, knew her secret except her father, for Lucy believed
that Vermont had employed Mr. Harker out of friendship and sympathy, and
did not know until long after her marriage that she, and therefore her
husband, were in his power. So she ventured to grasp the happiness held
out to her, thus strengthening the chain which bound her father and
herself in slavery to Jasper Vermont's will. For if they feared
disclosure before, how much more did they dread it now, when Lucy was
married to a man who prided himself upon his good name and untarnished
respectability!

Johann Wilfer, however, was not dead, nor had he left London. He had
become a member of a gang of ingenious rascals, who lived by imitating
the less known gems of the old masters, and palming them off on the
credulous public and wealthy collectors as genuine. The impostures were
very cleverly manipulated, and quite a little system was instituted to
bring them to perfection. Mr. Wilfer's part of the undertaking was
"toning"; that is, bringing to the imitations the necessary mistiness
and discoloration supposed to be produced by age.

He did very well at this business; so well, indeed, that he took a house
in Cracknell Court, Soho, and if he could have restrained himself from
the drinking of beer and spirits he would have been in comfortable
circumstances.

This perpetual intoxication eventually made its mark upon Mr. Wilfer's
countenance, and contorted his face into a caricature--with its mottled
skin and bleary eyes--of the good looks which had won Lucy Goodwin's
heart in former times. His language had also degenerated as well as his
looks. All trace of German accent had been carefully obliterated, in
order that no suspicion should be aroused when selling a faked picture.
He played the part of a Cockney so frequently and so well that that
particular accent seemed, as it were, to be his mother-tongue.

As the years went by even the gang became tired of his habitual
intoxication, and only occasionally gave him employment, so that he
turned his attention to scenery painting for the stage. In this way,
when engaged at the Rockingham Theatre, he met Martha Feltham, Ada
Lester's dresser, and by means of boasting of his wealth finally
persuaded her to marry him. It was in this manner that Jessica had first
come under his sway.

When Ada found that her sister would never recover from the mental shock
inflicted by Jasper Vermont when he told her that their marriage was
illegal, she had made arrangements to get the child out of the house.
Naturally the little girl was an eyesore and an encumbrance to her;
especially as Julia--blissfully ignorant that she herself was the
mother--was always worrying her sister as to the reason of Jessica's
presence. Accordingly, when Ada, by reason of her improved position and
higher salary, moved away from the Bloomsbury lodgings into a house of
her own, she gave the child over to the care of her dresser, Martha, now
Mrs. Wilfer, and had always paid regularly for her board and keep.

Mr. Wilfer did not object to this addition to his income, though he
still worked occasionally for the picture gang; and it was on one of
their jobs that he came within reach of Jasper Vermont.

One day he had been sent to play the usual proceedings to Mr. George
Harker, presuming, naturally enough, that being a moneylender he was
rich, and hearing that he had a liking for "old masters."

Johann Wilfer saw Mr. Harker, and notwithstanding the changes which time
brings to us all, and the entire transformation of name and
surroundings, recognised him as the father of the girl whom he had once
so cruelly deceived.

The old man never having heard the name of Lucy's betrayer--for she had
purposely kept it from him--knew nothing of his visitor, and eventually
purchased the picture, after consulting with Jasper, who discovered the
imposition at a glance, but saw in the impostor a possible new tool.

He instructed Harker to obtain a written guarantee of the genuineness of
the picture, and Wilfer, being half intoxicated at the time, for once
forgot his usual caution, and gave the required pledge. With that in his
possession, Jasper Vermont had Wilfer in his power, and only left him
undisturbed because he saw no present opportunity of using him.

But when he wanted him he knew that he had only to exert the authority
which the warrant gave him, and Johann Wilfer would be his obedient
servant, as many better men were already.

The picture he intended--through Mr. Harker--to compel one of the firm's
wealthy clients to take as part of a loan, a well-known trick of the
worst class of moneylenders.

Quite unconscious of the sword that hung over him, Mr. Wilfer, after a
bout of hard drinking, went home, and it was in his drunken frenzy that
he had struck Jessica. She, bruised and frightened, fled into the
streets, where Adrien Leroy found her.

Left to himself--for his wife was away for a day or two--Mr. Wilfer fell
into a deep slumber, in which he remained for the rest of the evening.

Early for him, on the following morning he was roused by a loud knocking
at his front door. Now thoroughly sobered, he hurriedly dressed,
stumbled down the rickety staircase, and opened the door, to himself
confronted by Miss Ada Lester. Her face was flushed, and the angry light
Jasper Vermont had called up by his sneers at her vulgarity the previous
evening still shone in her dark eyes.

"Where is the gal?" she asked abruptly.

"The gal!" he repeated, staring at her in stolid amazement.

"Yes--Jessica!" retorted Miss Lester, her jewels flashing in a chance
ray of sunlight which had found its way through the dingy court. "Where
is she?"

"She is not at home," said Mr. Wilfer. "She and Martha 'ave gone out for
the day to Greenwich. If you'd wrote a-sayin' you was goin' to call I'd
have made 'em stay till you came."

Miss Lester looked at him keenly.

"If you don't believe me," said Wilfer, "go upstairs and look at her
room."

Ada ran past him up the stairs, and quickly returned.

"It's locked," she said.

"Of course; she's quite the lady--keeps the keys 'erself," sneered
Johann. "Look 'ere, 'ere's her hat and coat; there's one of 'er boots,
so she must be comin' back afore long."

Miss Lester appeared convinced. She breathed more freely, as if a weight
had been taken off her mind.

"Here," she said, putting some gold coins in his hand, "is something to
make up for my troubling you. But I was real anxious to know if
everything was right with the gal."

Wilfer--debauched and demoralised by drink--was disposed to look at the
worst side of things; and from this point of view thought she meant the
reverse of what she said.

"Would you be very much cut up," he said slyly, "if she wasn't able to
trouble you any more or answer awkward questions, miss?"

She turned on him with a fierceness that made him recoil.

"If anything happens to that gal," she shouted, "I'll turn the police on
you. For, mind my words--I mean them--I shouldn't have cared yesterday
very much if I had learnt she was dead, but now I want her. Do you hear?
I want her, and you take care she's alive and ready when I come for
her."

Then, without vouchsafing any further information, she flounced away,
leaving Mr. Wilfer staring blankly after her, and wishing for once that
he had stayed his hand, instead of driving the girl into the miseries
and dangers of the streets.

Little did Wilfer or Miss Lester imagine that Jessica had found safety
and refuge in Adrien Leroy's chambers.




                              CHAPTER VI


Love is the universal epidemic, effectual in all climes and conditions;
there is no inoculation that will secure exemption from its influence;
only given a warm human heart, and there is the natural susceptibility.

So it is from high to low. The little blind god takes no count of
difference in fortune or rank in life. Dynasties fall, thrones totter to
the ground, crowns tumble to dust on kingly heads; but love rules and
lives on, immortal, triumphant, unconquerable.

Jessica had never heard of Romeo and Juliet, of Faust and Marguerite, or
King Cophetua and the beggar maid. All she knew was that she loved, was
conscious only that for a kind word from the lips of the man who had
befriended her, for a glance from those dark eyes; she would gladly have
given up all the other glories the world could have put before her.

Poor Jessica, how sweet and yet how bitter had been the awakening in
that gilded cabinet. How sweet to find herself there in reality, and not
only in a dream; how bitter to know that she had no right there and that
she must go!

That splendid golden room, with, all the wonderful undreamt-of things,
was not for her. She looked down at her wet, dirt-stained dress, at her
worn, ragged shoes, at her cold, red hands, and shuddered. She had no
right there. Should she take advantage of his goodness to remain and
sully the beauty of his palace--for to her it seemed little less--by her
unworthy presence? No, woman-child as she was, she shrank from the
thought; then caught up her hat and arose, resolute.

"He will think me ungrateful," she murmured with half-closed eyes. "He
will think--no matter, he will forget me before half an hour. I will go
back to Johann and chance the beating. This is no place for one like
me."

With a little graceful gesture she bent over the mantel and pressed her
lips to the spot where Adrien had rested his arm; then with noiseless
steps she stole from the room.

The sun was breaking through the morning mist, but she shivered as its
warm rays touched her, and with a weary sigh turned towards Soho.

It was all over, the little patch of fairy-light in the dreary darkness
of her existence, and as she reminded herself of this fact she shuddered
again.

Looking back, she remembered but little beyond the days she had passed
with Johann and his shrewish wife. This strange adventure had been the
first ray of sunshine in her poor existence. No wonder that she was
unhappy at parting with it.

Suddenly as she passed into Oxford Street she stopped, struck with an
idea that sent her blood flowing into her pale cheek, flushing it into
living beauty. Her large eyes grew thoughtful and full of a strange
light.

"Why should I go back to Johann?" she murmured. "Can't I follow him--the
kind gentleman? Can't I be his servant?"

The answer came quick enough from her inner consciousness. No, she must
go back. Of what service could she be to such a man as Adrien? There was
nothing for it but to return to Cracknell Court. So, wearily, but still
with that grace which Southern blood bestows, even though it runs in the
veins of a gipsy, or such a street waif as Jessica, she walked on and
reached Johann Wilfer's house.

Jessica knew that the man was not her father, but she knew little more
than that. She had never asked him or Martha for any information about
her parentage--indeed, had scarcely wished for any; it was enough for
her than Johann gave her sufficient bread to keep life within her.

That gentleman was, at the moment of her arrival, absent, engaged on
business concerning the sale of the faked picture to Mr. Harker, and
Martha was still away; so Jessica, pausing at the door of the
living-room to ascertain that it was empty, softly ascended the stairs
leading to the garret which served as her special apartment.

It was as small and as squalid as all the other rooms in that crowded
court; but it was different from them in one respect--it was clean.

A miserable chair bedstead of the cheapest kind, covered with a
threadbare quilt; a chair with the back broken off; a washstand on three
legs, and a triangular piece of silvered glass, the remains of a cheap
mirror, composed the furniture.

This peculiarly-shaped piece of common glass reflected the girl's
beautiful face in all manner of distorted forms. The quilt just kept her
from perishing with the cold. But yet the mirror, the bed, and the room
itself were precious to her, for they were her own. Beyond its sacred
threshold Johann or Martha never passed. She had a key to it; and to
enter now she unlocked the door.

After the luxury of Adrien's rooms the mean quality of her own apartment
struck the girl more forcibly than usual, and sinking upon the bed, she
covered her face with her hands and gave way to a flood of tears. But
the weakness did not last long; and after a moment of two, with a sudden
gesture, almost Italian in its intensity, she flung back her head and
rose from her crouching position.

"I will not think of the beautiful place. I will not think of him, she
told herself passionately.

"But oh! will he be sorry that I ran away, or will he laugh, and ask
that proud servant to see that I haven't stolen anything?"

She shook her head mournfully at her own distorted reflection in the
cracked mirror, then she sighed and went downstairs.

Johann had returned, wonderful to relate, still fairly sober; but this
was probably due to the necessity of maintaining at least the appearance
of sobriety in his transaction on behalf of the gang concerning the sale
of the picture.

He was counting the coins on the table, some of them gold--for Jessica's
quick eyes caught the shimmer of it--and he looked up half fiercely,
half contemptuously as the girl entered.

"Well, where have been? You're like a cat or a policeman--never to
be found when you're wanted. There was a fine lady came to see you this
morning--a real swell, my girl." He laughed coarsely. "But of course,
you were out of the way. Where had you got to?"

"Anywhere, nowhere," replied Jessica, who did not fear him when he was
sober, though she hated him always.

"Ah, that's the style! The swell lady ought to have heard you talk like
that. She'd say I was bringing you up well. Come here and let's have a
look at you."

Jessica did not move, but stared at him steadily.

"What! You won't come?" he said with a grin. "Well, there's something
for your obstinacy, you little mule!"

He flung a half-crown across to her, and Jessica took it up, then looked
him questioningly in the face.

"You're thinking I'm mighty generous, eh? So I am, my girl--foolishly
generous." He laughed mockingly, "Well, what do you say if all the lot's
for you, eh?"

"All for me!" repeated the girl, stopping short in her task of making
the mantelshelf neat; "all for me!"

"Yes, when you get it, little cat! All for you, indeed! No! it's for me;
and I've a good mind to take the half-crown back. A fool and his money's
soon parted; but he's more idiotic to part with other people's. I'm
going out. I shall want some grub when I get back--'arf a pound of
steak, an' a pot of porter, an' don't forget the gin. Mind you remember
now, or I'll break every bone in your body." With which forcible
admonition the man shuffled out.

After a few hours he returned, not blindly drunk, but spiteful,
ill-tempered, and stupidly brutal.


About the same time on that day Adrien Leroy was making his way in the
new car through the crowded thoroughfare of Oxford Street.

"Soho? Yus, sir. Crack'ell Court, fust turnin' on the left. I'll show
yer, sir," piped the ragged urchin, whose heartfelt interest Leroy had
purchased, along with his query, by means of a shilling.

Cracknell Court was small, evil-smelling, and teeming with children.
Bidding the chauffeur wait at the entrance to the court, Adrien, to whom
dust, noises, and evil smells were things of absolute pain, entered one
of the dens and asked for Mr. Wilfer.

"There he is," said another urchin; and Leroy turned to face that
individual, who was leaning against an open door.

"Am I speaking to Mr. Johann Wilfer?" he asked courteously.

"You are," returned Wilfer, taking the begrimed pipe from his mouth, and
staring with bloodshot eyes at the handsome, high-bred face before him.

"Can you tell me if a young girl named Jessica returned to you safely
this morning?" Leroy enquired.

"My niece, Jess, d'ye mean?" replied Wilfer, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Ain't seen 'er fer months; run away last June, after 'elping 'erself to
some of my cash, an' ain't been back since. 'Sides, what's it got to do
with you, Guv'nor, I'd like to know? You mind yer own bus'ness."

He leered drunkenly at Leroy, who turned away with a look of disgust. He
knew how useless it was to expect truth from such a quarter.

As the gentleman stepped out into the dirty court and returned to his
car Johann Wilfer blinked his eyes in relief; then with an oath he
stumbled up the rickety stairs into the living-room, and confronted
Jessica, who was standing near the window.

"So that's yer little game, is it?" he said with a sneer; "you're goin'
in for swells right away, are yer, my gal? Got your name as pat as a
poll-parrot. Knows all my private business, I dessay; I'll break every
bone in yer body!"

He stumbled towards her where she stood--her face still transfigured
with joy at the sound of her benefactor's voice--and made a sudden grab
at her hair. But, alert and lithe as a leopardess, she bounded over the
table, and slipped past him down the staircase, from the top of which he
launched forth a long volley of curses.

Quivering and shaking, both with fear of Wilfer's violence and her sense
of injury at his denial of her presence to Leroy, Jessica ran, as fast
as her frail body would permit her, through the intricate smaller
streets and passages which abound in the Soho district. Having gone far
enough, in her opinion, to be fairly safe from any danger of Wilfer's
pursuit, she stopped to consider whether she should endeavour to find
Leroy.

"After all," she thought, "perhaps it is best as it is.  He would give
me money, or perhaps a few kind words, and only make me long for him
more. Let him go, believing Johann's falsehoods."

As she walked wearily along dim remembrances of earlier days thronged
her brain; of two women--one whom she knew she had called Auntie--and
who had treated her kindly enough, before Johann had got her into his
power. Mingled with these thoughts came those of the man who had
befriended her and even sought her out this day. When she remembered how
he had rescued her from cold, hunger, and the dangers of the streets her
eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Yet, though knowing how quickly he
would aid her were she but to return to the beautiful room from which
she had fled that very morning, she could not bring herself to seek his
charity or ask his pity. She realised well enough that one such as she
could never hope to win a look of love from him; but like the moth that
hovers round the flame which brings it danger she nevertheless
determined to see him again.

With this object in view she slowly wended her way to Jermyn Court,
wherein was the room in which she had supped and slept so delightfully.
Afterwards she thought she would try to gain some work that would at
least secure food and lodging, however poor, where she could be safe
from the cruelty of Wilfer; surely in all London there was something she
could do.

When darkness came, worn out by watching and waiting in vain for Adrien,
she again found herself without a home and without shelter; so,
crouching on a doorstep, as she had done the previous evening, overcome
with fatigue, she fell asleep.

In the course of the night a dark-robed woman, passing on the usual
round of duty assigned to her, stopped and looked at her. She was one of
the band of Good Samaritan Sisters of Mercy established in some of our
London suburbs, who seek out the helpless and downtrodden in the race of
life--with healing in their hands and pity in their hearts--striving to
raise them up from their hopeless position to something better. She
stopped, bent down, and, drawing her veil aside, looked closely at the
motionless face. Then she sighed and turned her head away.

"So beautiful! So young! Can it be possible? Sister, sister!"

Jessica awoke at the gentle touch, and sprang to her feet.

"Johann! Don't strike me," she exclaimed, with her eyes half closed.
"I----"

"My poor girl, no one shall beat you. Will you come with me?"

"With you?" repeated Jessica, now fully awake, but still eyeing the
Sister with some suspicion. "Where? Not far?"

"No, not far. But why do you say that? Is there any one you particularly
wish to be near?"

"No," replied Jessica, adding to herself, as the sister of Mercy took
her hand, "but she shall not take me far away from him."

"A roof of thatch is better than that of heaven," is an old Spanish
proverb, and means, doubtless, that the poorest accommodation is better
than none, or that which the streets provide. Jessica, clinging to the
Sister of Mercy's succouring hand, was gently led from the silence of
the streets to the still greater silence of an attic in a quiet byway.

Here, seated by the remains of a small fire in a narrow grate, she
watched with awkward interest, that was much like indifference, the
efforts of her rescuer to revive the dying embers. Soup was warmed for
her, but for a time she refused to take it.

"I am not hungry," she said. "Only tired--so tired! Why did you wake me,
lady?"

"I awoke you because you were unhappy, and it was dangerous for one so
young as you to lie asleep in the streets," replied the meek-eyed woman.
"But you must not call me 'lady'; I am not a lady. Call me 'Sister.'"

"But you are not my sister," said Jessica petulantly. "I haven't any
sister or brother, or father or mother."

"Poor thing!" said the woman, who by this time had made up a bed, plain
enough it is true, but luxurious after the cold doorsteps, and she now
helped Jessica to undress. "Poor thing, you are quite cold; and what are
all these bruises? Ah! why will men be so cruel, when Heaven is so
kind?"

"I don't know," said Jessica, who took the question as directed to
herself. "I don't know anything. Besides, all men ain't cruel. _He_
wasn't; he was kind--oh, so kind!"

"He--whom?" said the Sister. Then, as the girl did not reply, she looked
hard at her and sighed again.

"Now you will sleep," she said, "Will you kiss me?"

With the impulsiveness of girlhood Jessica threw her arms round the
linen-banded neck and kissed the Sister's pale face."

"Good-night," she said.

The Sister smoothed the coarse pillow, covered her up, and went softly
from the room.

When Jessica awoke the woman was again beside her with a cup of tea, and
some bread-and-butter. But the girl refused to eat.

"I am not hungry. I am not tired now, either, and I will go."

The Sister put her hand on the girl's arm. "Not yet," she said. "Where
have you to go?"

"Nowhere," Jessica answered listlessly.

"Then stay with me," said the woman kindly. "See"--she brought a basket
to the bedside--"here's some work. I will teach you to do this, and we
will live together. Will you not stay?"

Jessica looked at the work, and silently nodded acquiescence. But
nevertheless she sighed. To a nature such as hers freedom was life
itself, and she was bartering it away for mere food. Besides, how could
she now follow the one who had been so kind to her?

But she stayed, and patiently worked all day, striving earnestly to
catch the knack of the needle, and emulating the tireless industry of
the Sister, who worked thus during daylight that she might pursue her
mission of mercy and succour at night. Thus passed some days, and then
Jessica's blood grew restless; the narrow room seemed to her stifling
and unendurable, and she pined for the open air, as a caged blackbird
longs for its native woods.

The longing grew so irresistible that at last she succumbed to it; and
one day, finding herself alone, she threw down the piece of work on
which she was employed, and rising, snatched up her weather-stained hat.

"I can't stay," she sobbed; "I can't breathe here! I must go, or I shall
die. I'll leave before she comes back. Oh! I wish she had not been so
kind to me. I feel a worthless, miserable, ungrateful creature!"

Then she stole down the stairs, very much as she had slipped away from
Adrien's residence, and gained the streets anew.




                              CHAPTER VII


It was the night of the great ball at Lady Merivale's town house. A Blue
Hungarian Band was playing dreamily the waltz of the season, to the
accompaniment of light laughter and gaily tripping feet. The scent of
roses filled the air. Masses of their great pink blooms lurked in every
small nook and corner; while in the centre of the room, half-hidden by
them, a fountain sent its silver spray into the heated air.

If wealth and luxury alone could bring happiness, then surely Eveline
Merivale should have been the most envied woman in the world. A renowned
beauty, a leader of fashion, with every wish and ambition
gratified--save the one which, at present, the chief object of her
life--to enslave and retain, as her exclusive property, Adrien Leroy.

Her husband, the Earl of Merivale, she regarded as a necessary
encumbrance, inevitable to the possession of the famous Merivale
diamonds. His hobby was farming, and he detested Society; though quite
content that his wife should be made queen so long as he was left in
peace with his shorthorns.

Certainly Eveline Merivale was not in love with her husband; but, on the
other hand, neither was she in love with Adrien Leroy. It simply added a
zest to her otherwise monotonous round of amusements to imagine that she
was; and it pleased her vanity to correspond in cypher, through the
medium of the Morning Post, though every member of her set might have
read the flippant messages if put in an open letter. There was a spice
of intrigue, too, in the way in which she planned meetings at their
mutual friends' houses, or beneath the trees of Brierly Park, or at
Richmond.

Not for worlds would her ladyship have risked a scandal. She prized her
position, and loved her diamonds far better than she was ever likely to
love any human being under the sun. Still, it was the fashion to have
one special favourite; and it was a great thing to have conquered the
handsome and popular Adrien Leroy. It was little wonder, therefore,
that, when midnight had struck and still Leroy was absent from her side,
Eveline Merivale beneath the calm conventional smile, was secretly
anxious and inclined to be angry.

She was looking her best to-night; and although she had already been
surfeited with compliments from duke to subaltern, she yet longed to
hear one other voice praise her appearance. There was, indeed, every
reason why Lady Merivale should be lauded as the greatest beauty of her
time, for she carried all before her by the sheer force of her
personality. Dazzlingly fair, with hair of a bronze Titian hue, which
clustered in great waves about her forehead; her eyes of a deep,
lustrous blue, shading almost to violet. To-night she would have borne
off the palm of beauty from any Court in the world, for her dress was a
creation of Paquin, and enhanced to perfection her delicate colouring,
which needed no artificial aids.

Diamonds glistened round her perfect throat, upon her head rested a
magnificent tiara of the same stones, her hands flashed as if touched
with living fire. She might have stood as a figure of Undine--as
beautiful and as soulless.

All around her the little band of courtiers thronged ever-changing, and
passing on to the ball-room as others eagerly took their place.
Half-past twelve struck, and she grew more impatient; the blue eyes
sparkled frostily, the red lips became more tightly set.

"Lady Merivale looks riled," Mortimer Shelton said to his partner as
they passed her. "You can see that by the sweetness of the smile with
which she has just favoured Hadley. She wishes him anywhere--I know.
Funny thing about you ladies! the madder you are with one poor
dev--fellow, the sweeter and deadlier you are to the rest of us."

His partner laughed; she was a bright little brunette, flushed with the
dance, and thoroughly happy.

"Why should we wear our hearts upon our sleeves for cynics such as you
to peck at?" she replied. "The art of dissembling is one of our few
privileges. But do you think the Countess is angry? She is so
beautiful."

"Marvellous!" exclaimed the cynic, raising his eyebrows. "Dear Lady
Chetwold, is it possible that I hear one beautiful woman praise
another's looks?"

The little lady flushed.

"It would be a greater marvel still if you men gave us credit for just a
_little_ generosity. But, tell me Mr. Shelton, where is Adrien Leroy?"

"My dear lady," said Shelton, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes, "if I
knew that Lady Merivale would be down on me like the proverbial load of
bricks. He was to have been here; but his movements are as uncertain as
her ladyship's smiles. See, she has fairly extinguished poor
Hadley--drowned in sweetness!"

"You are a horror," laughed his companion as the waltz came to an end.
"I shall be quite afraid of you in the future--I'd no idea you were so
cynical."

"I could never be cynical with _you_," he said gallantly. "By the way,
have you seen Prince Pfowsky to-night?"

"Yes," said Lady Chetwold, "I am engaged to him for the next dance--if
he remembers it. He is always so forgetful."

"'Put not your trust in princes,'" quoted Shelton. "But if his Highness
should be so ungrateful, perhaps you will allow me the pleasure----"

"Certainly not," she retorted brightly; "Cæsar or nothing!"

"And here he comes," laughed Mortimer; adding softly, as the Prince came
up to claim his partner, "and here is some one even more
interesting--look."

Lady Chetwold followed the direction of his gaze and saw Adrien Leroy
advancing up the rose-decked room. As usual, his appearance created
something like a stir, for he was popular with men and women alike, and
no smart gathering seemed quite complete without him. But the young man
appeared totally unconscious of the interest he was evoking as he bent
over his hostess's hand with a murmured greeting, then turned to make
his bow to the Prince, who, as firm an admirer as the rest of Society,
had paused to exchange a word before the dance commenced.

Adrien sank on to the velvet lounge beside the Countess.

"Don't scold me, belle amie," he said in his soft tones; "lay the blame
on Mr. Paxhorn. I dined with him at the club. You know what Paxhorn
is--there was simply no getting away. But, now, have you saved me a
dance?"

"You do not deserve one," she said, all the irritation melting beneath
the magic of his smile and the music of his voice.

"It's a mercy," he retorted lightly, "that one does not get all one's
deserts in this world!"

"I saved you the next," she said, giving him her programme. "You see, I
am as foolishly forgiving as ever."

"You are gracious and sweet!" he murmured in her ear. "How could you
ever be otherwise?"

The soft phrase passed unreproved.

"You have been down to Barminster again?" she inquired.

"Yes," he replied, as he settled himself more comfortably.

"You have been very attentive to your father lately," she said a little
suspiciously; "I thought filial affection was not the Leroys' strong
point."

"Nor is it," he said with a laugh; "but it is business, my dear Eveline,
odious business, into which Jasper inveigles me."

"I thought Mr. Vermont was the new machine that was to save you
trouble?"

"Yes, that's what I thought," was the languid reply. "But one has to
turn the handle, even of machines. There are signatures, and leases, and
Heaven knows what besides."

"How is Lord Barminster?" she inquired.

"Splendid."

"Lady Constance also well?"--with the slightest tinge of restraint in
her voice.

"Yes," he answered indifferently; adding, "but you haven't asked after
'King Cole.'"

"Ah, no, but you would have told me at first if anything had been wrong
with him."

Leroy smiled. He knew that to be true.

"He will win, you think?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes!" was the careless reply. "Vermont says there is nothing to
touch him."

The countess raised her eyebrows.

"You trust this Vermont with a great deal, Adrien. Your horses, your
wine, and your legal business. He must be a wonderful man."

"Yes," he answered confidently. "Jasper's a treasure. Nothing comes
amiss to him. I should be in my grave if I had to face half the worries
he wrestles with daily. Come," he added, as the first bars of the new
waltz floated from the gallery; and with a sigh of enjoyment she rose
for the promised dance.

"No one's step suits me like yours," she breathed, when they paused for
rest. "Adrien, shall I back 'King Cole' for another two hundred?"

The two sentences were, perhaps, rather incongruous, but curiously
characteristic of her ladyship; for, in addition to a natural love of
intrigue, she had a partiality for betting on the turf and speculation
on 'Change--both, of course, sub rosa.

"Oh, yes," he said, as they started again. "Jasper has put two thousand
more of mine on to-day. There he is," he broke off, as the sleek,
carefully dressed figure of Mr. Vermont entered the ball-room.

"Talk of angels," murmured Lady Merivale, but with a glance implying
that she meant a being very far removed from that celestial grade.

Jasper Vermont did not excel at dancing; yet, strange to say, he was
invariably invited to every big function of the season. Indeed, the
hostesses of Mayfair would almost as soon have omitted the name of
Adrien Leroy himself as that of his friend.

It was difficult to explain this other than on account of his engaging
amiability. Probably Vermont would have transformed the famous advice of
Uriah Heep to "Always be obliging." Certainly, no pleasanter company
could be found, whether for man or woman; whatever the hour, however
mixed the company, Jasper Vermont had always a smile, a jest, or a new
and piquant scandal. In the smoking-room he would rival Mortimer Shelton
in apparently good-natured cynicism. In a duchess's boudoir he would
enliven the afternoon tea hour with the neatest of epigrams and the
spiciest slander of her Grace's dearest friend. Nothing came amiss to
him; as Adrien Leroy had once said, he was "a walking encyclopædia."

Yet with all Mr. Vermont's charm of manner, he could resent, smiling
still, an impertinence or a snub, and deal back a tongue thrust that
would effectually put his opponent hors de combat. Truly of him might be
quoted, "I smile, and murder while I smile."

To-night he was apparently enjoying the gay scene before him. His sharp
black eyes were like little snakes, darting here, there, and everywhere,
while he wagged his smooth head to the time of the music, as if in keen
enjoyment.

Mortimer Shelton noticed him; "gloating over his future victims," he
commented, almost audibly, as he and his partner passed close to where
he was standing. Vermont, however, apparently did not hear him, but
continued to smile, amiably as the dancers whirled by.

It was nearly daybreak when the carriages drew up outside the great
house to take the guests to their respective homes; and, having
successfully steered a young marchioness into her electric brougham,
Leroy found himself standing close to Vermont, not far from where his
own motor awaited him.

"They call this pleasure, Jasper," he said, almost scornfully, watching
the struggling, aristocratic crowd with a half-contemptuous smile on his
lips. "Why, it's hard work. They fight and push for the sake of a few
hours spent in a crowded, poisoned room; and there's no prophet to rise
up and proclaim it madness."

"No," laughed Vermont cynically; "prophets nowadays have no liking for
being stoned; and, after all, life would be unendurable, were it not for
its pleasures. Let me remind you that it is nearly four o'clock, and you
are due at Lord Standon's rooms."

With a sigh Leroy turned and jumped into the motor, followed by his
faithful squire; and the powerful car hooted its way through the
twilight of the dawn.

They reached Lord Standon's chambers, to find the finish of a theatre
party. The room was filled with beautiful women, mostly stars of the
musical comedy stage, including Ada Lester, who was evidently on her
best behaviour.

Here, amidst light and laughter, the goddess of pleasure was being feted
by her youthful worshippers, and none appeared a more eager votary than
Adrien Leroy. Yet, as he stood, champagne glass in hand, propounding the
toast of the evening--or rather morning, for the dawn was breaking in
the sky--there was none to tell him of the impending cloud of treachery
that hung over his head. None who dare warn him to beware of the
friendship of--Mr. Jasper Vermont.




                              CHAPTER VIII


High up in the woods of Buckinghamshire stood Barminster Castle, so old
that one-half of its pile dated back to Norman times; while the whole,
with the wings and parts added by the successive generations of Leroys,
might have passed for a royal palace by reason of its splendour and
magnificence.

Needless to say, the Leroys were proud of their ancestral home, for
there had been Leroys since William the Conqueror had calmly annexed the
land on which it now stood, and had given it to his faithful baron,
Philip Le Roi. But they valued still more the love and respect of their
people, who in hamlet and village surrounded the castle as naturally as
did the woods.

Yet the present Lord Barminster had done little to keep the flame of
loyalty alight in the hearts of his tenants. He was an old man, nearing
seventy, tall, white-headed and haughty--every feature clear-cut, as if
carved from marble. Few people had ever seen the stern lines of that
face relax in light-hearted laughter since the death of his young wife,
which had occurred a few years after the birth of Adrien. None, outside
his immediate family circle, had ever known the curtness of his speech
to be softened unless in sarcasm; and his habitual expression was one of
haughty tolerance.

His friends feared him, even as they respected him, for if he had the
faults of his race, he also possessed its great virtue--justice. No man,
prince or peasant, friend or foe, ever appealed to Lord Barminster for
that in vain.

Now, in the clear brightness of the spring morning he paced to and fro
on the south terrace.

Behind him glittered the long French windows of the morning-room, one of
which stood open, revealing the luxury of the room beyond; the table
with its silver and delicate china service, and the purple hangings of
the walls.

Presently he stopped in his stroll and turned his stern eyes towards the
landscape stretching beneath him. Through the confusion of the dark
woods there lay a long line of turf, cut here and there by formidable
hedges, and divided by a streak of glittering silver, which was in
reality a dangerous stream--indeed, higher up it became a
torrent--forming the final obstacle of the Barminster steeple-course.
All the Leroys had been fond of horses. The Barminster stables had sent
many a satin-coated colt to carry off the gold cup; and this race-course
had been carefully kept and preserved by the family for many
generations.

While he stood gazing on it a light footstep sounded behind him, and a
slender hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned slowly, and with a kind
of kingly courtesy kissed the long white fingers.

"You are early as usual, Constance," he said approvingly.

Lady Constance Tremaine smiled as she turned with him and walked along
the mosaic pavement of the terrace. She was little more than a girl,
with a slim, graceful figure, and clad in a simple white morning gown,
which served to enhance her youthful beauty. Her face was a pure oval,
with clear-cut features and an exquisitely curved, sensitive mouth,
while her grey-blue eyes gazed from beneath their thick lashes with a
calm serenity that bred faith and confidence in those who looked upon
them. Crowned with a wealth of pale golden hair, together with her
delicate complexion, she looked as if she had stepped from one of the
old Florentine pictures of the saints.

As the two so typical of youth and age stood side by side in the clear
morning light, the resemblance between them was marked. Indeed, they
were related, for the Tremaines were a distant branch of the Leroy
family, and the same proud blood ran in their veins. Lady Constance had
been brought up in the Barminster household, and Adrien had grown to
regard her in the light of a loved and trusted sister; but, as yet,
nothing more.

"Won't you come in to breakfast?" she said, as they reached the end of
the terrace. "Aunt Penelope is not coming down; her nerves are bad this
morning."

Miss Penelope Leroy, Lord Barminster's only sister, was not strictly
speaking Constance's aunt, merely a distant cousin; but as a child
Constance had been accustomed to call her so, and the habit had grown up
with her.

Lord Barminster smiled grimly.

"I advised her to let the cucumber alone last night," was his only
comment as he turned towards the breakfast room.

Constance smiled too, for she knew that when Miss Penelope complained of
her nerves, it was in reality nothing but a case of indigestion.

"How bright the course looks this morning!" she said, with a charitable
wish to change the subject, for Lord Barminster was apt at times to wax
caustic over his sister's small weaknesses.

"Yes," he said grimly; "like all things dangerous, it is pleasant to the
eye. I hate that strip of green--it is the grave of many a Leroys' best
hope. The turf has always been a fatal snare to our race. But, come," he
broke off, "let us go in. Thank goodness, Adrien arrives to-day."

"To-day?" repeated Lady Constance, a delicate flush rising to her sweet
face. "I thought he was not going to arrive until the morning of the
race."

"The race is to-morrow, but he comes to-day," answered Lord Barminster.
"I had a note from him last night saying he would be here by lunch time,
and was bringing a few friends down with him."

"And Mr. Vermont, too?" inquired Lady Constance almost timidly.

The old man's face darkened and his thin lips set in a hard line.

"Yes," he said fiercely, "I suppose so. Adrien is as much in love with
him as a young fellow with his first sweetheart. I know that he's a
scoundrel and a rogue--but there, what would you? Times have changed
since my day; we have replaced horses by motors, to spoil our roads and
ruin our lands, and gentleman friends by base-born, scheming
adventurers."

"Oh, but, uncle," Lady Constance timidly remonstrated, "surely Mr.
Vermont is a gentleman?"

"Yes, by Act of Parliament!" snapped the old man, in whose aristocratic
eyes a lawyer was but little removed from the criminal whose case he
defended.

"Certainly it is strange that Adrien should be so attached to him," the
girl said musingly; she, herself, had little liking for the gentleman in
question, though her sense of justice had made her speak a good word for
him. "But he is a clever steward, at least."

"A rogue's only virtue," said Lord Barminster dryly.

"Amusing, too," she suggested.

"We've no longer need of a court jester," returned her companion, with
sarcasm. "But never mind, Adrien will find out his mistake for himself
one day. Certainly, I am not going to attempt to strip the mask off his
friend's face. Give him rope enough, and he will hang himself.
Meanwhile, give me some more coffee, and leave the fellow's name alone;
I hate even the thought of him."

Lady Constance refilled his cup and brought it to the end of the table,
for she loved to wait on the old man. As she did so, his sharp eyes
caught the glitter of a piece of needlework across the back of her
chair, and with a curt gesture towards it, he said:

"What is that?"

She blushed, almost deeply, then took it up, and opened it out for him
to see. It was a silk riding jacket, in the scarlet and white racing
colours of the Leroys, and their coat of arms, worked in silver, upon
the breast.

"For the Grand National," said Lady Constance, as she refolded the
jacket.

"You worked it yourself?" questioned the old man abruptly.

"Yes," she replied, blushing again. Then, as he was silent for some
minutes, she said almost timidly: "You do not mind, uncle, do you?"

He started. "Mind! Good Heavens, child, why should I? You know the wish
of my heart only too well. What better favour could he wear than yours?
As far as I am concerned, you were plighted in your cradles. Leroy and
Tremaine are no unequal match. No--no--my dear, make his jacket, and win
his heart--if you can!"


Some few hours later, panting and throbbing, the Daimler motor drew up
in the Castle courtyard--Adrien and his friends had arrived for the
great steeplechase.

Attracted by the sound of the barking dogs, who apparently disliked the
unaccustomed monster--Lord Barminster himself invariably using
horses--Lady Constance stepped from her room on to the balcony which
looked down upon the courtyard beneath. The gentlemen's hats flew off in
greeting, and, as Adrien looked up, an unusual thrill ran through him as
he noted the simple beauty of the girl above him.

"We thought we'd left the sun behind us, Constance, but evidently 'she'
is still overhead," he said, smiling.

She looked down with mock reproof, playfully shaking at him a flower
which she held in her hand.

"I thought compliments were out of date, Adrien. Have you enjoyed your
drive?"

"Not half so much as the welcome," was the courteous reply, as he caught
the rose which she had let fall.

She laughed, and blushed a little, then turned to the other members of
the party, who had now alighted from the car.

"Ah, Lord Standon, I did not know you were coming." Then, as that young
man's face lengthened, she added quickly: "Unexpected pleasures are
always welcome. I am glad to see you, Mr. Paxhorn."

After a word of greeting to Mortimer Shelton, she drew back into her
room; while the men, laughing and chatting, passed into the great hall,
where they found Lord Barminster awaiting them. His stern face softened
into a welcome, as, with outstretched hand, he came forward to greet his
guests.

"Ah, Shelton!" he said, "so you keep my boy company, and you, Paxhorn
and Standon. Gentlemen, you are welcome--though there's no need to
remind you of that, I know. Adrien," turning to his son, "you have a
fine day, did you drive or ride?"

"We motored down, sir," answered the young man, in his soft, melodious
voice.

His father frowned slightly. He heartily detested all modern
innovations, and would never hold that motors--or, indeed, any increased
facilities for travelling--were improvements. "They breed discontent,
sir," he would declaim vigorously. "In my young days people were content
to stay in the place in which they had been born, and do their duty.
Now, forsooth, they must see this country and that, and visit a dozen
places in the year, where their grandparents visited one. Anything for
an excuse to fritter away their hard-earned savings!"

On this occasion, however, he made no comment, but turned to Mortimer
Shelton.

"You'll find the roads here better suited for horses than for oil-cans,"
he said grimly. "We are primitive, as you know."

Shelton laughed; but he knew his host's ideas on this subject, and was
apt to respect them.

"So much the better, sir," he said in a cheerful tone; "I am a bit tired
of the smell of petrol myself. Give me Nature without a corset."

"You'll certainly get that here," Lord Barminster replied, favouring his
young guest with an approving glance.

Shortly afterwards, they made their way to the morning-room. Here,
luncheon had been laid, and Lord Barminster, Miss Penelope, with Lady
Constance, were awaiting them. The little party sat down to table, each
one secretly only too ready for the meal; for the ride through the
fresh, country air had been a fairly long one.

"I was really hungry, Constance," Adrien said, with his low, careless
laugh. "There must be magic in the air of Barminster."

"Yet still you come here so seldom," returned his cousin gently.

"Business and the cares of State," quoted Adrien, with a smile. "But I
might retaliate. Why do we not see you up in town? Society misses one of
its brightest stars."

Lady Constance toyed idly with the grapes on her plate; then she looked
up.

"Society has many brighter lights than I, Adrien," she said quietly.
"But now, tell me about the race--auntie is terribly anxious over it;
are you not, dear?"

"Yes, my love," returned Miss Penelope, who, in reality, hardly knew one
horse from another.

"Oh, Adrien always wins," put in Lord Standon. "That's a foregone
conclusion. Have you seen the 'King' lately, Lady Constance?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, "He is exercised in the paddock every morning,
and is in fine form."

Adrien smiled.

"Poor 'King Cole'; he'll be worth his weight in gold if he wins
to-morrow! What about the other horses, Stan; are they down?"

"Yes," replied Lord Standon; "my man saw some of them at the station;
but no sign of the Yorkshire chestnut."

"So much the better," said Adrien; "perhaps his owner has thought
discretion the better part of valour and withdrawn him."

The conversation then flowed into other channels; Paxhorn provoking
roars of merriment by his stories and epigrams. Presently the ladies
withdrew; Lady Constance to prepare for a ride with Adrien, which he had
just suggested, and Miss Penelope to rest her "nerves."

While waiting for his cousin to rejoin him Adrien crossed over to the
window, which commanded a view of the Castle entrance, and stood gazing
idly down. Outside stood a smart motor, and from it was alighting the
trim figure of Jasper Vermont.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I had forgotten Jasper."

He tapped at the window, and waved his hand in affectionate greeting to
his friend, who looked up with his most amiable smile, as he brushed
aside the servants who had hurried out to meet him.

There are people who are served well from sheer force of personality,
and who, though neither generous nor unselfish themselves, yet contrive
to abstract the very essence of these qualities from those around them;
and of these Jasper Vermont was one. His tips were few, though he was
lavish in smiles and honeyed words; yet not one of the retinue of
servants at Barminster Castle but would fly to attend to his wants, as
they would those of Adrien or Lord Barminster himself.

A few minutes later he strolled into the room where the rest of the
guests were seated. As he did so Lord Barminster involuntarily drew
himself up with a slight frown. He had hoped that the "adventurer," as
he invariably termed him, would remain in town and not thrust his
unwelcome presence upon the guests at the Castle. But, in another
minute, his natural courtesy reasserted itself; and, though it was
patent to the least observant that the new arrival was not as welcome as
he might have been, he answered Jasper's amiable inquiry as to his
health politely enough.

"Thank you, Mr. Vermont," he said grimly, "I am quite well. But you, I
fear, are an invalid."

His sharp eyes glanced towards the closed motor, which was gliding round
the bend of the drive.

"No, sir, I am quite well, I assure you," Jasper replied, meekly, as if
unconscious of any irony.

"But I have learned enough wisdom to feel convinced that all journeys,
including that of life itself, should be taken as comfortably as
possible. I prefer, therefore, to have the dust and smell outside the
car instead of in. Am I not right?"

"Perfectly," returned his opponent, with a sarcastic smile; "you should
surely know your own constitution best. It was an unfortunate error on
my part."

At this moment, Adrien, who had been listening to the point-and-thrust
conversation, exceedingly ill at ease, intervened, and under some
pretext drew his father out with him into the corridor.

"I do detest that fellow so," said the old man apologetically, as though
ashamed at having displayed his feelings.

"It's a pity, sir," returned Adrien, respectfully; for his father was
the only person who dared say a word in disfavour of his friend. "He
takes any amount of pains to save me trouble."

"Well, it pays him," retorted Lord Barminster dryly; then with a wave of
the hand as if to dismiss an unpleasant subject, he added, "You're off
to the stables, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," replied Adrien, "I want to have a look at 'King Cole.'" With
a friendly nod, he ran lightly down the wide oak staircase and
disappeared in the direction of the stables.

For a few moments Lord Barminster stood gazing after him, his stern face
relaxed, his keen eyes softened. Adrien was more to him than all his
possessions, which were vast enough to have provided for a dozen sons.
Therefore, he denied him nothing, however extravagant or reckless in
price, and refrained from any comment on his line of conduct.




                              CHAPTER IX


Adrien's appearance in the stable-yard was the signal for much
excitement among the hands there; and presently the head groom made his
appearance, struggling into his coat, while coughing with embarrassed
respect.

"Good morning, Markham," said his master with a nod; "where's the
'King'?"

"In the south stable, sir," replied the man, as he fumbled in his pocket
for the keys. "You would like to see him, sir?"

Adrien nodded, and made his way to the stable, accompanied by the groom.

"No one else is allowed to enter the stable but yourself, Markham?" he
asked, as the man unlocked the door.

"No one, sir. I'm always here when he's being littered or fed. Not a
soul touches him without I'm at his side. He's in fine condition, sir; I
never saw him in better."

Adrien passed his hand over the satiny coat of the race-horse. The
dainty creature pricked up his finely-pointed ears, and turned to his
master with a whinny of delight.

"He looks well enough," he admitted. "Has he had his gallop this
morning?"

"Yes, sir; but would you like to see him across the paddock?"

"Yes," said Adrien. "By the way, who rides him to-morrow?"

"Peacock, sir."

"Ah, the new jockey."

"Yes, sir; Mr. Vermont's lad," returned the groom.

"A good seat?" asked Adrien.

"Capital, never saw a better, sir, and weighs next to nothing. I'll send
for him." He whistled, and half a dozen stable helpers rushing forward,
he despatched them to find the jockey. While waiting, the groom had the
precious "King" brought into the yard and saddled; and in a few moments
the man arrived. Markham had called him a lad; but in reality he was
almost middle-aged, with the stunted stature of a child. Adrien looked
him over critically.

"So you ride the 'King' to-morrow?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied the dwarf humbly.

"Let me see you take him round the paddock," said Adrien. The man threw
off his coat, showing himself to be in shabby riding costume; then,
vaulting into the saddle, he took the racer to the meadow at the back of
the stable-yard. Adrien watched the bird-like flight of the superb
animal, and nodded approvingly when he presently returned to the
starting-point.

"You'll do," he said, as the jockey dismounted; "ride like that
to-morrow, and we shall win. There is something for you, but no
drinking, mind."

He held out a ten-pound note as he spoke. The man stared at it for a
moment, then crouching almost like a dog, took it gingerly by the edge.

"Don't be afraid, man; one would think you expected a blow," said
Adrien, with a smile.

Touching his forelock, the man took the note, and Adrien turned away. As
he walked out of the stable-yard he happened to glance back at Markham,
who was re-covering the "King," and he saw that the jockey was still
gazing after him, with a tense, almost longing expression in his small,
deep-set eyes.

"Poor devil!" said Leroy to himself as he went up the drive, "I must get
Jasper to do something for him, especially if he wins--I only hope he
doesn't get drunk!"

In the courtyard Lady Constance's horse and his own were waiting for him
and in a few moments the girl herself appeared, accompanied by the
ever-smiling Jasper Vermont.

Blessed by nature with a good figure, Art, as represented by French
modistes and Redfern, had put the finishing touches, with the result
that Lady Constance Tremaine, whether in evening dress or the blue cloth
riding-habit of the field, was a joy to the eye. As she stood now,
waiting Adrien's approach, he could not help mentally contrasting her
natural, spiritual type of beauty with the made-up and coarsened charms
of Ada Lester, and he wondered how he could have been so blind as not to
notice it before.

He was not the only one who admired her. Jasper Vermont had elected
himself as the girl's chief slave, and whenever he was at Barminster
Castle invariably managed to carry out her lightest whims--indeed, would
even endeavour to forestall them. Now it was he who attended to her
saddle, and helped her into it before Adrien had fully realised what he
was about to do; and for once Leroy experienced just the least feeling
of resentment towards his devoted friend.

For a while the two rode almost in silence; but after the first canter
Adrien reined up his horse close to that of his companion. Lady
Constance purposely brought the conversation round to his estates, for,
with all his dissipation and languor, Leroy was no indifferent landlord,
and Lord Barminster invariably referred all complaints--such few as
there were--to his son.

"I'm sorry you would not renew the lease for Farmer Darrell,"  she said
gently; "he is almost heart-broken at having to leave Briar Farm."

Adrien pulled up his horse sharply.

"Farmer Darrell to leave Briar Farm!" he said quickly. "What do you
mean, Constance?"

She looked at him steadily, as she replied:

"I rode over there yesterday, and found them all in great trouble. They
told me Mr. Vermont, acting under your orders, had refused to grant them
new leases. I promised to speak to Uncle Phillip; but you know how angry
he gets whenever any one mentions Mr. Vermont's name, so I thought I
would ask you myself." She blushed crimson, as if at her own boldness.
"Of course, you mustn't do it just on my account, but--"

"Mustn't I?" interrupted her cousin, looking keenly, almost
affectionately at the slim, girlish figure, and pretty piquant face. "I
should certainty grant whatever you asked me if it lay in my power. As a
matter of fact, however, I think Jasper said that, as they were unable
to make Briar Farm pay, would I lower the rent; and as that would be
creating a precedent for all the other tenants--I refused."

Lady Constance nodded her head. "Quite right," she agreed; "but I happen
to know that the farm does pay splendidly, and--"

"In any case, Constance," interrupted Adrien, almost tenderly, "it is
quite sufficient, if you wish it so. But I think--I am sure--Jasper must
have made a mistake."

Lady Constance did not reply, but wisely changed the subject; she was
too clever to pursue her advantage, and she had gained her point--sown
the least little doubt of Mr. Jasper Vermont's rectitude in Adrien's
mind.

Meanwhile, Mr. Vermont had also betaken himself to the stables; but he
did not ask to see "King Cole"--contenting himself with beaming
admiringly on Mr. Markham, while the head groom held forth on all the
precautions he was taking with regard to the precious animal's safety.

"An' if he's got at, Mr. Vermont, sir, I'll eat my head," was his
parting speech.

In reply to which Mr. Vermont murmured inaudibly, as he walked away:
"It's a lucky job, my good fellow, that I shan't make you keep your
word!"

At the end of the plantation, beyond the stable buildings, there was a
little cottage attached to the straw-yard. Having reached this, Jasper
listened attentively; then, without any warning knock, he lifted the
latch, and entered.

To all appearances the room was empty, save for some pieces of poor
furniture. But the visitor, blinking at the sudden transition from light
to darkness, walked over to a rough couch, where lay the misshapen
jockey Peacock, either asleep or deep in thought. Jasper shook him
angrily by the shoulder, and a sullen scowl darkened the little
monkey-like face as he recognised his visitor.

"Well?" he said gruffly, without attempting to change his position.

"Short, and not polite!" retorted Jasper, shaking him again. "Didn't I
tell you I'd come here to-day, you imp of darkness?"

"You did, guv'nor," the man replied sullenly.

"Well, here I am. You're not drunk, are you? Here--let's look at you."
With a cruel smile, the soft, amiable Mr. Vermont seized the ear of the
dwarfed jockey and dragged him to the light. "No, not drunk--for a
wonder. Well, you know what to do to-morrow?"

The man nodded sulkily.

"Tighten and choke off at the last hurdle. Mind you do it neatly, too.
You _can_ do it, I know; and it won't be the first little affair you've
sold, eh? You sold one too many, though, when you crossed my path, and
you know what will happen if you fail me."

"All right," the jockey muttered hoarsely.

"I hope it will be all right," said his persecutor, shaking him gently
to and fro by the ear. "If not, you'll find yourself in the care of a
paternal Government--I tell you--picking oakum."

The man gave a sudden jerk and released himself from the cruel grasp;
then he looked up almost piteously.

"Must we do it, guv'nor?" he said hoarsely. "I've seen 'im----"

"Him! whom, you idiot?"

"Him--Mr. Leroy--as we're to sell."

"You're to sell, you mean, you gallows-bird," returned Jasper.

The man eyed him viciously.

"Yus," he growled, "you think you're going to git off scot-free, don't
yer? What if I don't do it? He giv' me a tenner, he did. 'E's a real
gent. What if I don't do it?" he repeated.

Mr. Vermont's eyes narrowed till he looked like a snake about to strike.
Raising the riding-whip which he had in his hand, he seized the wretched
creature once more, and brought the whip down again and again on his
almost skeleton body.

"Play me false, you hound, and I'll kill you," he almost hissed; and,
half beside himself with pain and rage, the jockey gasped brokenly:

"Stop! stop! I'll do it."


It was just five o'clock when Lady Constance and Leroy returned from
their ride. During the course of it Adrien had realised something of his
cousin's beauty of character, as well as of face. Until that day he had
only regarded her as a younger sister, pretty, perhaps, in a quiet,
retiring way, but nothing more. Now, as he lifted her down from the
saddle, he could have bent and reverently kissed the little foot that
lodged so lightly in the stirrup.

Woman-like, she was quick to notice the change in him, and her heart
beat high with hope.

"He will love me yet," she whispered to herself triumphantly, as, with
outward calmness, she bade him au revoir till they should meet at
dinner.

Adrien went straight to his own rooms. An unusual restlessness was upon
him, and his pulses throbbed wildly, but as yet he did not understand
what these things meant. He, who had played the lover so lightly all his
life, did not realise that it was now his turn to feel Cupid's dart, and
that he was becoming as deeply enamoured of his pretty cousin as any raw
boy straight from college.

As he paced up and down his luxurious study, thoughtfully smoking a
cigar, his past life rose before him, with all its idleness and wasted
years. He knew that with most women he had only to throw down the glove
for it to be snatched up eagerly; women had loved him, petted and spoilt
him ever since he could remember. But here was one who thought of him as
nothing but a means to save her people--or, rather, his people---from
distress. It said much for Lady Constance's powers of reserve that she
had impressed him thus, and had she known it, nothing could have helped
her cause more.

Throwing himself into a chair, the young man reviewed again the
incidents of their ride. How beautiful she had looked; how pointedly and
yet gently she had reproved him for his long absences from his estates
and the people who loved him. Well, it should come to an end now, and
there and then he formed a resolve to return to town directly after the
race, and go through his affairs with Jasper. His friend would help him
to lead a worthier and more useful life, he thought--if any one could do
so.

When he went down to dinner that night few would have noticed any
difference in his calm face and demeanour; none, indeed, save Lady
Constance herself, who, with the subtlety which seems inbred in even the
best of her sex, devoted her attention almost exclusively to Mr. Jasper
Vermont. It was he who was allowed to sit next her at dinner; it was to
him she turned when the race, with which all present were concerned, was
the subject under discussion.

Adrien noted all this, and his heart grew heavy within him. But he did
not grudge Jasper her favour--as yet; he blamed himself too deeply for
the neglect of his past opportunities.

Jasper skilfully turned the conversation to Lady Merivale's ball, which
he described in detail to Lady Constance; adding many little realistic
touches concerning the fair hostess and Adrien, till he had convinced
her--as he thought--that there was a great deal more between them than
was really the case. For Vermont, as had been said before, was "no
fool"; and he realised only too well in what direction events were
tending with Lady Constance and her cousin.

But she showed no signs either of understanding or misunderstanding his
allusions to Adrien, and began to discuss a ball which Miss Penelope was
trying to arrange.

"Mr. Shelton, I am counting on you to help us," she said, turning to the
gentleman on her other side. "Auntie has been besieging uncle for the
last two months; and has, I think, carried the citadel."

"What is the motive of the attack?" inquired Mortimer Shelton.

"Aunt Penelope wants a fancy dress dance in the ball-room in the east
wing," she returned gaily, adding, as she looked across at her cousin,
who was listening attentively: "Adrien, if you would add your word, we
should get it. Won't you do so?"

"A fancy dress ball here?" he replied. "But if my father has refused
you, it is scarcely likely that I shall have any more influence." He
turned to his aunt. "Why not have Barminster House, Aunt Penelope?" This
was the town house, supposed to be given up almost exclusively to the
young man's use, though he generally inhabited his own chambers in
Jermyn Street. "I will hand it over to you from cellar to attic, and
will bind myself to be your faithful slave from early morn to dewy eve."

His aunt laughed.

"No, thank you, Adrien, I know your idea of slavery," she said. "You
would hand it over to Mr. Vermont, and he does quite enough of your work
already." Vermont was a favourite with Miss Penelope, owing chiefly to
his frequent gifts of marron glaces--a great weakness of hers.
"Besides," she continued, "Barminster House is too modern. I want to
revive a ball, just as it happened two or three centuries ago. It must
be Barminster Castle or nothing."

Adrien smiled across at her.

"Your word is law, my dear aunt; but if I were you, and it comes off at
all, I'd leave the arranging of it to Jasper."

Mr. Vermont beamed. Nothing seemed to please him so much as the idea of
work, especially when it involved the spending of money other than his
own.

"I am at your service, dear lady," he said amiably.

Miss Penelope rose, and gave the signal for the ladies to retire.

"I shall take you at your word, Mr. Vermont," she said graciously, as
she passed out.

After the ladies had gone, the wine circulated freely, and in the merry
badinage that followed it must be admitted that Jasper Vermont was the
life and soul of the party. He had the newest scandal at his
finger-tips, the latest theatrical news; and all was related in a witty
manner that kept his listeners in a perpetual roar of laughter.

Adrien, though compelled by politeness to take his share in the
conversation, was yet glad when they adjourned to the silver
drawing-room. This was one of the smallest of the half-dozen
drawing-rooms in Barminster Castle, and was decorated entirely in blue
and silver. The furniture was upholstered in pale blue stain and silver
embroideries. Curtains, hangings, and even carpet, were all of the same
colour, while the mirrors and ornaments were entirely of silver.

To-night, Lady Constance's dress matched the room, for it was of palest
azure silk, veiled with chiffon, on which were Etruscan silver ornaments
and silver-thread embroidery. It was a colour which suited her
shell-like complexion; and she looked her best in it.

She was at the piano when the men entered; and Leroy, who was
passionately fond of music, and a musician of no mean order himself,
came straight over to her. At his request, Constance sang song after
song; while Vermont sat a little apart, listening, and occasionally
glancing thoughtfully at the beautiful profile of the singer. Then his
cold, malignant eyes would wander with an almost sinister expression
over the rapt face of his friend and benefactor, as he leaned over the
piano. But at any movement of the other guests his countenance would
assume its usual amiability of expression, as though a mask were
re-adjusted, while his fat, white hand softly beat time to the music.

At last Lady Constance declared she was tired, and turned to Adrien,
begging him to sing instead. He hesitated for a moment; then, as if
throwing off the unusual moodiness that oppressed him, he seated himself
at the piano; and, after a few moments of restless improvisation, he
sang song after song from Schumann's "Dichter-liebe," with an intensity
of passion in the clear tenor notes that thrilled the soul of every
listener.

In the silence which fell on the little company when the last chords
died away, Jasper Vermont, half-hidden by the curtain, opened the
window, and slipped out on the terrace. The moon shone full on his white
face, distorted with an unaccountable fury, as he muttered through his
clenched teeth: "Curse the fellow! How I hate him!"




                              CHAPTER X


The morning of the race dawned clear and bright, and the Leroy course
shone like a strip of emerald velvet in the crisp, sparkling air.

Since sunrise, throngs of people, men, women, and children, had been
streaming in from the outlying districts, some many miles away; while at
the side of the course stretched a long line of vehicles of all kinds,
which had already disbursed their load.

In twos and threes the late horses arrived swaddled in cloths, and
surrounded by the usual crowd of bow-legged grooms and diminutive
jockeys; while the air reeked with the smell of the stable and the oaths
and slang of the men.

Later still came the bookmakers with their brisk, business-like method
of entering the bets, big or small; the "swell's" thousand or the
countryman's shilling were all one to them. And lastly, amid all the din
and turmoil of the most crowded meeting Barminster had ever witnessed,
came the army of the Castle servants to put the finishing touches to the
boxes in the grand stand, over which floated the Leroy colours.

Towards noon, the hour at which the first race was to be run, the crowd
grew denser, the excitement keener.

"Two to one on 'King Cole'--three to one 'Miracour'--and five to one
'Bay Star'--six to one, bar three"--all these cries rose in a loud,
turbulent roar. It was known to all that the "swells"--as they termed
the Castle people--had backed their champion "King Cole" for sums which,
as Jasper Vermont had rightly said the preceding night, would almost
equal his weight in gold; and such was their faith in him that no other
horse had been entered from that same county.

Twelve o'clock struck, and no signs as yet of the Leroy party; that is
to say, with the exception of one man, namely, Mr. Jasper Vermont.

"Your swells are always late," said a thick-lipped turfite, biting his
stubby pencil prior to booking a favourable bet. "They gives any money
for style, an' plays it high on us. It ain't their way to be to time for
anything, not they--only us poor chaps."

The surrounding crowd echoed his shout of "two to one on 'King Cole,'"
despite his diatribes against the swells; when suddenly attention was
caught by a dark chestnut, thin in the flank, and badly groomed, which
was led into the paddock by a dirty, close-shaven countryman, who looked
as nonchalant and self-satisfied as if he held the bridle of "King Cole"
himself.

Presently, while the crowd pushed around the sacred enclosure, Jasper
Vermont walked swiftly up to the Yorkshireman, and whispered behind a
sheltering cough:

"That will do. Take him off. The plant's safe without him."

Three minutes later, a laugh of derision arose as the announcement was
made that the chestnut was "scratched." But further discussion died
down, as the Leroy carriages arrived---only just in time, for the
saddling bell had already rang.

The course was now looking its best. Long lines of glittering motors and
smart carriages had joined their humbler brethren of traps and
omnibuses. The seats and stands were filled with gaily-dressed people;
women in their furs, velvets and exquisite hats, giving the impression
from a distance of a huge living flower garden.

On the appearance of Adrien Leroy, the excitement reached its height,
for he was known to everybody by name and sight, and was, moreover, the
owner of the favourite.

The carriage containing Lord Barminster had been drawn up as near the
course as possible, and as far from the crowd as space would permit; for
his lordship invariably refused to mix with any concourse of people,
even when they consisted of his own order.

Adrien, having seen that he was comfortable, escorted the ladies down to
their seats on the grand stand; then he betook himself to the paddock,
where "King Cole" had just been saddled.

At the sound of the loved voice the beautiful animal turned his head,
with a whinny of delight. Then, as the two people he disliked with every
fibre of his being approached him--Jasper Vermont and Peacock, the
jockey--he laid his ears back with every appearance of alarm and
distrust. It seemed as if his animal instincts were keener than those of
his master.

Leroy stroked the soft nose of the race-horse, while Jasper passed his
hand admiringly over the satiny neck.

"Beautiful as a daisy," he exclaimed, and as Mr. Vermont would hardly
have recognised that humble flower if he had seen it, this was rather
qualified praise.

"Too long in the leg," murmured a man whom Jasper had previously
introduced as a sporting friend of his.

Adrien turned round and surveyed the speaker calmly for a moment.

"Too leggy, you think, do you? I'll lay two to one upon them."

"Done," said the man sharply. "Hundreds or thousands?"

"Thousands," said Adrien quietly.

Jasper touched him on the arm and whispered, in gentle remonstrance:

"Steady, old chap, there's pots of money on him as it is. Don't you
think it would be as well--"

"Make it thousands," interrupted Adrien, almost haughtily, as he turned
on his heel.

The man booked the bet, bowed to Vermont, as to an utter stranger, and
the two gentlemen passed to the weighing-seat. Peacock had already gone
to don his riding-clothes, and without waiting to see him again, Adrien
and his companion returned to the grand stand. Here Leroy stopped to
speak to Lady Merivale, who, with her sister, the Marchioness of Caine,
had motored down from London to witness the race.

The marchioness was a lady with a passion for bridge, and an intense
admiration for Adrien Leroy.

"You are quite sure your horse, that pretty creature with the long neck,
is going to win?" she inquired, as he stood by her chair.

Her sister, Lady Merivale, looked up mockingly.

"Of course he's going to win, Alicia. Did not Lady Constance Tremaine
say so? Surely _she_ ought to know!"

Leroy did not appear to notice the jealous sarcasm of this speech.

"I hope he will win," he said gravely. "Nothing is certain in this
world, and race-horses are said to be as fickle as your sex, dear lady."
This was a mild thrust at Lady Merivale; but she only smiled sweetly in
response. "Still, I think you may safely bet on the 'King'; he's in fine
form." Then he turned to his cousin. "Here is your beau cavalier,
Constance," he said, almost jealously, as Jasper Vermont came leisurely
up the steps of the grand stand; then, with a swift glance at the girl
which was not lost upon Lady Merivale, he went down once more to his
father.

"The bell is about to ring now," he said. "Are you sure you can see?"

"Quite sure," replied Lord Barminster curtly. "How is the horse?"

"In splendid form, sir," Adrien answered cheerfully. "I should think it
is a safe thing. If you are quite all right, I'll get back to the others
now, before the crush begins."

His father nodded, and the young man made his way back to the stand.
Here he found the Castle guests already seated. Harsh cries from the
betting-ring still ascended at intervals, though the majority of the
vast crowd had settled down to watch the race. With a thrill of
pleasure, Adrien saw that Lady Constance had kept a seat vacant for him
beside herself; and with a light word to Lady Merivale as he passed, he
took his place, and unstrapping the heavy field-glasses, arranged them
to Lady Constance's liking.

"Can you see all right?" he asked.

"Beautifully," she replied, as she tried them. "What excitement they are
all in," she added, as she surveyed the seething crowd.

Adrien smiled, pleased because she was pleased; for himself, except that
he wished his horse to win in order that it should gain fresh laurels,
he had no interest in the affair. Certainly he never gave a thought to
the fearful amount of money involved.

Then, amid a murmur of excitement, the starting-gate went up, and the
horses were off. For a while "Miracour" led; "Bluebell" running close
beside him; the "King" striding along in cool, quiet canter that covered
the miles at greater speed than the little mare could hope to maintain.

"There goes the 'King'!" exclaimed Lady Caine, almost rising from her
seat in her excitement. "Oh, I do hope he will win don't you, Mr.
Vermont?"

Jasper smiled.

"I do, indeed," he said, while his little steely eyes rested upon the
shrivelled figure of Peacock, the jockey, with a keen, cold scrutiny.

Meanwhile the horses pounded away over the course, still in the same
order. "Miracour" leading, "Bluebell" falling behind, and the "King"
creeping up easily to the second place.

The first fence placed nearly half the horses out of the running; the
next threw out two more, though the "King" cleared it in his stride, so
close in the wake of his rival that a speck of white foam flecked the
haunches of the leader.

Adrien nodded approvingly.

"That fellow knows how to ride," he said. "If he keeps the 'King' like
that, the race is ours."

"Oh yes," agreed Vermont, smiling grimly; "he understands him,
evidently. It is to be hoped he keeps him cool till the spurt comes."

"Which will be after the last jump," put in Lord Standon, as he shifted
his field-glasses.

"Exactly," purred Jasper.

Hedge after hedge was cleared, and still "Miracour" was leading; but it
was evident that the high blood of the "King" was burning to get away,
and that his jockey was playing a waiting game.

It was at the stream that the strain began to tell. "Bluebell," the
Irish mare, had struggled on gamely; but at the last she refused to
leap, she stopped short, and her jockey was pitched forward into the
water.

A laugh arose even in the midst of the excitement; but it was
speedily drowned in the cries of "The 'King' wins. No! No!
'Miracour!'--'Vicket'--beats. No! No! the 'King'--the 'King's' got
away!"

They were right, for Peacock had thought it wisest to put the spurt on
already, and the "King," with every fibre stretched to its utmost, had
darted ahead. "Miracour" caught up again, and side by side they raced
over the level flat, cheered and shouted at by the frantic crowd.

A roar like that of the sea broke forth as the two animals neared the
last obstacle, a great hedge filled with thorn, and like a miniature
mountain. Neck and neck they seemed to be, when suddenly the "King"
darted forward, and, amid terrific shouts of astonishment, took the leap
too short, fell sideways, and pitched his jockey into the short scrub, a
dozen feet away.

"Miracour" rose for the leap, and clearing it, cantered in the winner by
sixty lengths.

For a moment there was tense silence, broken by a roar of surprise, rage
and disappointment, as the crowd broke away and swarmed over the course
to the spot where the jockey still lay. A murmur of horror had also gone
throughout the length of the grand stand; but whether of disappointment,
or at the fall of the rider, it was hard to say.

All eyes were turned on Adrien. His face was rather pale, but quite
calm, and closing up his field-glasses he said:

"'Miracour' ran finely. I can't understand the 'King' falling at the
last jump. Jasper, let us go down and see if the fellow is hurt."

Making their excuses to the ladies they hurried down the steps, and
strode swiftly over the course, the crowd making way for them in hushed
silence, for they recognised Leroy as the owner of the defeated
favourite.

Reaching the spot from which the crowd was being kept back, they found
two men bending over the little heap of scarlet silk and leather.
Shelton, who had been one of the stewards, looked up as Adrien
approached, and shook his head.

Adrien bent down beside him, and gazed at the thin, shrivelled face of
the jockey.

"Have you sent for a doctor, Shelton?" he asked.

"Yes," replied his friend in a hushed voice. "But I think he will be too
late, his spine----"

At the sound of Adrien's voice, the heavy eyelids raised themselves; the
bloodstained lips parted as if about to speak.

"What is it?" said Shelton, bending closer.

"Where--where is he?" gasped the man in disjointed words. "I
want--to--see him."

"Whom?" asked Mortimer Shelton gently. "Whom do you want to see, my poor
fellow?"

Mr. Vermont pushed his way forward, his face alight with eager sympathy.

"Perhaps I can be of use," he said, "I know him; perhaps he wants to
tell me----"

The jockey raised his head. It seemed as if the soft, smooth voice gave
him strength to speak. He glared at Jasper, then his glance fell on the
pitying face of Leroy. With a sudden light in his eyes, he stretched out
his hand.

"Him--him, the swell--I tell him the race--was--sold! He--Mr.
Vermont----"

His breath came fast in great sobs; he glared from Adrien to Jasper,
then back to Leroy, as if seeking to convey some warning, but in vain;
with the last words, he fell back.

A gentleman pushed his way forward.

"Allow me, I am Doctor Blake," he said, and he knelt down beside the
still form.

"He is dead," he declared solemnly, as he placed his hand on the body.

The crowd fell back still further, with murmurs of horror. There was a
silence, broken at last by Jasper Vermont.

"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed in tones in which, had it not been for the
absurdity of the idea, one might have fancied there was almost a spark
of satisfaction. "How very, very sad. I wouldn't have had this happen
for _anything!_"




                              CHAPTER XI


It was night and the race-course lay deserted and silent beneath the
pallid moon. The noisy crowd had tramped and driven its way back to
London. But there was one whom the noise and bustle of a race meet would
never rouse again--Peacock the jockey, who lay dead in the stable house.

His death had cast a depression over the entire Castle, and though both
Adrien and his father--to say nothing of Jasper--had striven their
utmost to keep the minds of the guests away from the unhappy event, it
was yet an almost gloomy party that gathered after dinner in the silver
drawing-room.

Nearly all had lost heavily through the fall of poor "King Cole." They
had had such entire faith in their champion, that his loss of the race
had come like a thunder-bolt; and most of all to Adrien himself. The
actual monetary loss did not seem to trouble him; indeed, it was
probable that he himself was unaware of the immensity of the sum
involved. Only Jasper knew, Jasper who wore his usual calm, serene
smile, and certainly worked hard to banish all regrets concerning such a
trifle as a dead steeplechaser, as well as any lingering memories of his
dying words.

"One thing is certain," said Lord Standon to Lady Constance, who had
been sighing over the defeat. "Adrien will not allow any one to ride the
'King' again but himself. I heard him say so."

"He has lost heavily, I'm afraid," the girl said in a low voice.

"Immensely," replied Lord Standon, who himself had, lost more than he
could afford--indeed, there was little doubt that this race would almost
prove his ruin; but, nevertheless, his inordinate good humour and
optimistic nature triumphed above every other consideration. Certainly,
no word of blame or self-pity would he allow to pass his lips. "Yes, he
has lost more heavily than any of us, as Mr. Vermont knows; I'll be
bound," he broke off, as that gentleman approached.

Jasper Vermont smiled, as he did at every question or assertion made to
him.

"I'm afraid he has plunged deeply this time," was his smooth reply.
"Unfortunately, he only has himself to blame, though I deplore the fact
that I was not with him at the time."

Both Lady Constance and Lord Standon looked up, startled by his tone as
much as by his words; and Jasper continued glibly:

"He gave the jockey a ten-pound note last night, and, of course, the man
got drunk. Consequences--an unsteady hand this morning, a hasty push at
the last rise, and a clear loss of the race, not to mention the colossal
sum in bets. All his own fault! If he will be so recklessly generous,
what is to be done? But, as I said before, I blame myself for not
watching him more closely."

"No one blames you, Mr. Vermont," said Lord Standon coldly, for even he,
the least suspicious of men, seemed to detect the false sorrow in the
speaker's voice.

Lady Constance looked at him gratefully; and Lord Standon was encouraged
thereby to proceed:

"Adrien is generous to a fault; and if in this case it has had
disastrous results, it is usually a fault which few imitate."

Jasper raised his eyebrows; then, with a low bow to Lady Constance, and
a gentle, deprecatory shrug of his shoulders, walked away.

The girl waited till he was out of earshot, then turned impulsively to
Lord Standon.

"I hate that man," she said in a low voice; "and sometimes I believe he
hates Adrien too."

"So do I," returned Lord Standon, looking with intense admiration into
her lovely, troubled face.

"Do you?" she murmured. "Oh, if you would only try to open my cousin's
eyes to his friend's falseness--I know he's false, but Adrien is so
blind."

It seemed as if he were blind in more than one direction; for at that
minute Leroy himself crossed the room, with an aspect that, in any other
man, would have been termed glum. The sight of the girl with whom he was
so rapidly falling in love, sitting in rapt conversation with Lord
Standon--even though that young man was his friend--had roused a strong
feeling of resentment within his heart. He restrained himself, however,
though it was in a rather cold, forced voice that he asked Lady
Constance if she would sing. She rose demurely enough; for his very
coldness and jealousy, slight as it was--careless as she knew it to
be--proved to her that the love she so ardently desired was awakening at
last.

The evening passed quietly. Adrien himself refused to sing, though he
stayed close by his cousin's side, and turned over the pages of her
music with such a devoted air that at last the ladies of the party began
to whisper knowingly amongst themselves.

Luckily for Adrien's peace of mind--for he loathed and dreaded scenes of
any description--Lady Merivale had not returned with the party to the
Castle, much as Miss Penelope had wished it. Eveline Merivale was only
too cognisant of what was passing between Lady Constance and her cousin;
and though she knew that Adrien and herself had merely played at love,
and greatly against his will, at that, still she was just as unwilling
to see him the devoted slave of another woman, who was younger, if not
more beautiful, than herself.

After the ladies had retired for; the night, Adrien gave himself up to
unaccustomed reverie. The tenor of his life had been changed. The inane
senseless round of dissipation had begun to tire him; the homage and
flattery cloyed on his palate. And now, with his newborn love for
Constance filling his heart and mind, had come the overwhelming failure
of his beloved horse, and the death of his jockey; the last causing him
more pain than the light-hearted companions around him would have
believed possible. Neither had the half-defined charge made against
Jasper escaped his notice, though he had disdained to make any mention
of it.

Shelton noticed his absent manner, as they smoked their last cigar
before going to bed.

"Counting up the losses, Adrien?" he asked casually.

Adrien started at the question, and smiled.

"Not I," he said, "I leave that to Jasper--I call him my walking
account-book. I'm sorry you fellows were let in though; I can't
understand it; although"--with a rueful laugh--"I suppose it was my
fault with that tenner. Yet, I must say, I noticed the man as he
galloped past, and saw no, signs of anything wrong."

"Nor I," put in Vermont. "I was in the weighting-room, and saw him
scaled. He was all right then. He always was white and seedy-looking. I
saw nothing wrong."

"Nor I," echoed the others.

Adrien lit another cigar, and the light fell full on his grave face.

"The losses are heavy all round; yet, speaking for myself," he said, "I
would have rather dropped treble the amount than that poor fellow should
have lost his life by a horse of mine."

"His own fault. It was absolutely a case of suicide," declared Lord
Standon angrily. "He put the 'King' to that last hurdle half a minute
too soon. The horse was not to blame; he would have taken the hedge, and
another on top of that, but for that unlucky spurt. 'Pon my soul," he
concluded hotly, "if I didn't know how well he'd been cared for, I
should have said it was done on purpose!"

Unlucky youth! he little knew the harm he had done his empty pockets by
this rash speech. Jasper Vermont's eyes narrowed, as was their wont when
anything occurred to annoy him, and he registered a mental note against
the unfortunate peer's name.

Adrien frowned, as he rose with the rest.

"That is impossible," he said, almost sternly; "Jasper saw to that too
well. But, in future, no one shall ride the 'King' but myself; he's just
up to my weight," he concluded. "Jasper, enter him for the Cup. We will
give him a chance to retrieve this day's failure."

Jasper had risen with him, and amid a volley of good-nights, the two men
passed into the corridor. As Adrien was about to ascend the stairs to
his own apartment, he turned to Vermont, and said quietly:

"Jasper, I should like that poor fellow to have a Christian burial in
the private chapel; and if there are relations, find them out----" He
broke off abruptly. "There, you know better than I what to do, and how
to do it. Oh! just one word more; of course, I shall see that no notice
is taken of his delirious ravings. Good-night, old man."

Jasper thanked him and returned his "good-night" with sympathetic
cordiality; then turned softly to his own apartment. Having reached it,
he gave himself up to a spasm of silent laughter.

"Christian burial!" he chuckled. "Oh, yes, he shall have Christian
burial in the family vaults. Lucky job for me the hound died, or the
game would have been all up. As it is, that fool--that popinjay, almost
guessed. Well, deny everything and demand proof, that's my line. After
all, it's the very risks and chances that make the game so fascinating."

He sat down and drew out a little note-book--only a very ordinary penny
note-book; for it was wonderful how mean this man could be when he had
to expend his own money. Save clothes, which necessarily had to be of
good material, though quiet in colour, he never failed to buy the
cheapest article obtainable; unless, of course, when, on the principle
of "throwing a sprat to catch a herring," he stood to make a profit.

In this little book there lay the records of fortunes. A fortune spent
by Leroy--a fortune gained by Jasper Vermont. He smiled to himself, as
he closed one eye, and counted up the gains he had netted through this
day's work.

"Eight--ten, with Yorkshire Twining's last little touch--ten thousands
pounds. Ah, if those fools knew how the 'intruder' was stripping them of
golden plumes, how mad they would be! Ten thousand pounds! But Twining
was too risky," he muttered, frowning at the recollection, "My grand
knight might have smelled a rat. Just like his noble lordship; two to
one, because some stranger doubts the strength of the animal's legs."

He chuckled again as he thought how carefully he had stage-managed the
day's comedy. Of the tragedy into which it had been turned by the death
of his poor tool and accomplice, Peacock, he gave no thought, his whole
mind was bound up in his jealous hatred of Leroy. Just why he hated him
so he, himself, could hardly have explained; but with men of Jasper
Vermont's calibre, the mere fact that one possesses so much--wealth,
position, and popularity--while the other must perforce live by his
wits, is quite sufficient to arouse all the evil passions of which he is
capable.

"A mighty regal way he has with him," he muttered again, as he put away
his book. "Ten thousand pounds! Go on, Jasper, my boy--persevere! The
game starts well, the winning cards are yours. Gentlemen, make your
game, the ball is rolling."

With this invitation to mankind in general, and his titled and wealthy
acquaintances in particular, Mr. Jasper Vermont made his preparations
for the night. He kept no valet; men of his type seldom care to have
another in such close relations as must necessarily happen when one man
holds the keys of another. It has been said by some cynic, that "the man
who takes off your coat sees what is passing in the heart beneath it,"
and with this statement Mr. Vermont probably agreed.

"I am a simple-minded, rough-and-ready creature," he often assured his
friends; "a man to worry my tie, and force me to buy a new coat, because
he desires my old one, would drive me mad."

So he undressed himself slowly, reckoning up his gains, smiling at his
mask of a face in the large mirror, and hatching his little plots every
knot he untied, every button he released. At last he got into bed, and
slept as easily and serenely as any simple-minded farmer.




                              CHAPTER XII


But that night Adrien Leroy could not sleep. Dismissing his valet, he
threw himself into a chair, and began to review the events of the day,
which had affected him more deeply than he would confess to. Then the
mere sight of Lady Constance with Lord Standon had convinced him that
any hope of ever winning her for his wife was at an end. For so many
years had he himself been wooed and sought after, without response, that
he was as ignorant of the rules of the game of love as any child. Love!
he had sneered at it, jested at its power all his life; but now he was
beginning to suffer from its pangs himself. He rose hastily, and
throwing open the window of his dressing room, stepped out on the
balcony.

It was an exquisite night, and the stars shone like diamonds. Yet their
very distance and detachment from all things earthly only served to
deepen Adrien's melancholy. Before him stretched, in seemingly endless
vista, the woods and lands of his heritage. As far as eye could reach,
the earth and all within it and upon it belonged to him; and yet he
sighed for the love and devotion of one frail girl, which, had he but
known, were already his.

As he walked to and fro, he was again assailed by a wholesome distaste
of his present empty, aimless existence, and a great longing came over
him to break away from it and start afresh. Yes! he was very tired of it
all. The men and women with whom he had up to this spent his time were
becoming abhorrent to him. The thought of the soft lips and glances that
had hitherto beguiled him, and lulled him into a state bordering upon
stupor, now filled him with shame. Love, that marvellous panacea, had
driven out the false, the impure visions of his heart, as surely and as
thoroughly as ever Hercules cleansed the Augean stables.

The blood of his race stirred with him; he would have liked to have
snatched Constance, and borne her away on his trusty steed, as his
forefathers would have done. But instead he must stand aside, and see
her married to another. Nay, he himself would be asked to attend the
wedding, perhaps even give her away to the man who was surely no more
worthy of her than Adrien himself.

Jasper Vermont had indeed done his work well. No sooner had he seen the
light of love shining in his friend's face, than he had set to work;
and, like the grim spider of evil he resembled, had filled Adrien's mind
with the suggestion that Constance loved--in fact, was secretly engaged
to, Lord Standon.

His reasons for this were twofold. If Adrien married Constance, Ada
Lester would--whether with or without cause--hold him responsible, and
was more than capable of carrying out her threat to unmask him to his
patron. Moreover, Jasper looked upon Lady Constance with an appreciative
and covetous eye, and felt that if he could ever ingratiate himself with
her sufficiently for her to promise to become his wife, the summit of
his ambition would be reached.

Adrien was easily deceived; for, with all his faults, he was not
conceited. He did not guess that Constance's very openly expressed
pleasure in the company of Lord Standon was to prevent the discovery of
her real and passionate longing for that of her cousin.

Henceforth, he told himself, he must do his best to hide the pain that
was gnawing at his heart. Henceforward, the pleasure of life would be as
Dead Sea fruit to him. His hand fell on the balustrade in his
unconscious despair; and at that moment, another window farther down the
long balcony opened, and the figure of Lord Barminster stepped out into
the moonlight.

Adrien was in no humour to meet even his father; he was too weary in
spirit to confront the old man's satire with his usual calm; so he
shrank back into the shadow of the buttress against which he leaned. But
Lord Barminster's eyes were quick to perceive him; and, striding
forward, he laid his hand on his son's shoulder.

"Well, Adrien," he commenced, "what is wrong? Can't you sleep, or are
you given to spending the small hours in star-gazing?"

"I might retort in kind, sir," returned Adrien, pulling his scattered
thoughts together, and smiling faintly.

"Ah! I am old," said his father. "Age has its penalties as well as its
privileges; and the freedom to speak plainly is one of the latter. Come,
my boy, what is wrong? At your age I was happy enough; but you seem to
have taken the troubles of the world on your shoulders. Are you ill?"

"No, sir, I am well enough," returned Adrien quietly.

"Then are you worrying over your debts through that unlucky horse?
Because, although, as you know, I do not interfere with your money
matters as a rule, you are quite at liberty to draw on my bank if you
care to do so."

His son turned to him affectionately.

"No, no, sir," he said gratefully. "I don't suppose they are as bad as
all that. Jasper will see to them."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when he regretted them. His
father's face darkened; his eyes grew fierce.

"Jasper! always Jasper," he snarled, even as Mortimer Shelton had done.
"It's a pity he didn't break his neck this morning, instead of his
miserable tool."

Adrien uttered a protesting exclamation; he would have sacrificed
anything sooner than have given his father this opportunity to revile
his friend.

"You must be blind, sir," continued Lord Barminster, now working himself
up into a rage. "Did not you see and hear enough from that jockey this
morning to make you realise what that precious friend of yours had done?
I tell you, Adrien, that Jasper Vermont bribed that miserable man to
rope your horse. For him, you have allowed your friends, my guests, to
be swindled out of their money."

It was the first time in Adrien's recollection that the proud old man
had ever even hinted that Barminster Castle was not entirely his son's
yet; that the guests were those of his father's choice as well of his
own.

Adrien's eyes blazed.

"Father," he said in a low voice, but as hard as steel, "I know you have
always hated Mr. Vermont, but this goes farther than hate. Forgive me if
I ask you, but surely you have some proofs? Otherwise you would not have
accused him of such villainy. Give them to me, and I promise you to
punish him as severely as you yourself could wish."

"Proofs!" his father repeated sternly with knitted brows. "What proofs
would such a clever scoundrel leave about? This morning's work should be
sufficient proof even to satisfy you."

Adrien drew himself up to his full height, and confronted his father
with a resolute air.

"It is no use, sir," he said. "I cannot take a drunken jockey's
ramblings as proof of such an awful thing as that. Jasper is my friend,
and besides, it is more to his interest to help me than to hate me."

Lord Barminster sighed deeply. The experience of age had taught him the
impossibility of convincing youth against its will.

"Well, my boy," he said, "have your own way, but mark my words, you will
live to repent your folly! I have no more proof, and to me no more is
needed. Men on their death-beds do not lie, and I am as firmly convinced
that Jasper Vermont forced that man to sell the race, as though I had
the confession on paper. Still, I will say no more; you are young, and
'Youth knows All.' Find out for yourself the man's character, I shall
not warn you again. You are placing your faith in a thankless cur; don't
grumble when he turns round and bites the hand that has helped him. As
for me, I will wait. Believe me, I would far rather know myself to be
wrong than deal you any further unhappiness, so let us drop the subject
for a time. I did not mean to bring up the man's name. I want to speak
to you of far more important things."

His voice grew more grave, indeed almost solemn.

"Adrien, I am an old man, nearing the grave, and, as is only natural, my
thoughts turn to the future of our race. You are the last of our line,
it is to you I look to carry it on. You are no longer a boy, with a
youth's follies and tastes; it is time you took up your
responsibilities."

Adrien made as if to speak; but his father checked him, with a gesture
of his hand.

"Stay, hear me out," he said. "When I was your age, your mother was at
my side, I had given the House of Leroy its son and heir. I was married,
and had left the lighter loves of the world for a more lasting and
responsible one. You know I have never interfered much with your life;
but though I am no longer of the gay world, I yet hear something of its
doings. You 'live the pace,' they tell me, and are the idol of the smart
set. Barminster Castle, Adrien, looks for something higher than that in
its lord and master. I repeat, sir, at your age I was married."

"And loved," said Adrien softly.

"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Lord Barminster, his face lighting up at the
thought of the woman whom he had lost, and mourned so long. "Your mother
was that which ranks above rubies, a good and virtuous woman, worthy of
any man's love."

Adrien turned his pale face away, as if to avoid scrutiny, then he said
gently:

"I admit your right to speak like this, sir, and if it rested with me I
would obey you at once."

"It does rest with you, Adrien," returned his father quickly. "Surely
you are blind, not to see that Constance Tremaine loves you with her
whole heart."

Adrien started up, his face alight and quivering with excitement.

"Impossible, sir!" he exclaimed. "Would to heaven it were true; for I
know no other woman to whom I would so gladly devote my life."

The grim old face softened and relaxed. He had not expected such an
overwhelming victory.

"Why do you say it is impossible?" he asked.

Adrien did not answer for a moment, then he slip hoarsely:

"She is already engaged to Lord Standon."

An exclamation of astonishment burst from the old man's lips. He put out
his hand in involuntary sympathy, and the two so strangely alike, yet so
wide apart in years, clasped hands. Then, as if ashamed of the momentary
emotion, the old man turned away, saying quietly:

"This is, of course, a surprise to me. Its truth yet remains to be
proved, but I should feel inclined to doubt it myself." With which he
went back to his own apartments.

Left alone once more, Adrien walked restlessly to and fro.

"If Constance really cared for me," he said to himself, "nothing else in
the world would matter. Lucky Standon! I dare not think of the future,
it what Jasper said was true."

At last he, too, returned to his room; but it was almost morning before
he fell into a troubled slumber.




                              CHAPTER XIII


The morning following the disastrous steeple-chase, Mr. Jasper Vermont
ordered his car, and then sat down to write to Adrien. He told him that
he regretted having to leave the Castle so suddenly, but urgent business
required his presence in London, and that he would return to Barminster
as soon as possible.

On the appearance of the motor, he took his departure, travelling direct
to Jermyn Court, where he stayed to lunch, waited on by the attentive
Norgate as though he had been Adrien himself. Then, having filled his
cigar-case with his friend's choicest Cabanas, he strolled through the
fashionable parts of the Park.

The loungers and idle men of fashion who usually frequented it at that
time of the day knew him well, and nodded with forced smiles of
friendship--it was clearly to their interest to be on good, if possible,
cordial terms with a man who always had the entree to the innermost
circles, and who had won the confidence of a popular favourite like
Adrien Leroy.

Those who had not been personally introduced to Jasper, had still heard
reports of his position, and looked after him with that half-envious air
which says so plainly:

"There goes the kind of prosperous, wealthy man I myself should like to
be."

Mr. Vermont strolled along, his face wreathed in a perpetual smirk of
recognition, his hat off half a dozen times a minute, acknowledging the
smiling glances accorded to him.

When he had nearly come to Hyde Park Gate, he was confronted by one of
the loungers--an old acquaintance of his--whose woe-begone countenance
seemed expressive of acute mental distress.

Jasper Vermont recognised him in spite of his altered
appearance--usually a very gay one--and stopped him.

"What, Beau!" he exclaimed with seemingly effusive warmth; "you here;
whatever have you been doing--committing murder? Or have you married in
haste, to repent of it at leisure?"

"Neither, my dear boy," answered the well-groomed young man--a captain
in the "Household" Guards--one of the fastest and most generally liked
fellows in town. "Neither, Vermont; but I have just come from the City."

"City of the Tombs!" drawled Jasper facetiously.

Captain Beaumont laughed, but rather mournfully.

"Yes," he said, "all my hopes are buried in that beastly place.' Really,
the County Council ought to put a notice over the west side of Temple
Bar monument instead of that heraldic beast: 'Abandon hope, all ye who
enter here,'"

Mr. Vermont laughed, in his usual quiet way.

"How's that? The City is good enough in its way. What have they been
doing to you; won't they lend you any more money?"

"Worse even than that," said the young spend-thrift; "they actually want
me to repay all that I owe them already, on short notice, with the usual
threats if I fail to comply within their time."

"Oh!" remarked Mr. Vermont simply; but his "oh" was full of meaning and
apparent sympathy for the misfortunes of his friend.

"Yes, that hard-hearted old skinflint, Harker--what a mean brute he is!
I should like to bury him, and would attend his funeral gladly to be
certain I had seen the last of him. He holds a pretty little tot-up in
the way of bills of mine; and I expected, naturally enough, when I call
on the firm, that they would renew them at the usual Shylock rates, and
I could try elsewhere for something to go on with."

"Yes," said Mr. Vermont, "of course, that's the way you have done for
years."

Captain Beaumont nodded.

"Yes, that's so; but Harker only shook that long head of his, and
refused me; and nothing I could say would change the old skinflint's
mind either. You know that cock-and-bull story he always tells, about
his not being the principal, but only the servant? Well, he says his
principal has instructed him to call in my bills, and it is impossible
for him to renew them; and that the usual steps will be taken if I am
not able to meet them."

Jasper laughed, with gentle sarcasm.

"Of course, that's always the moneylender's excuse. I'm afraid he will
sell you up, Beau."

Captain Beaumont whistled.

"My dear Vermont, it will be an awful shock for the guv'nor. He can only
give us younger sons a small allowance, and he certainly won't be able
to settle this matter; it would be altogether beyond him."

"What is the amount?" inquired Jasper. He was as well aware as was the
young captain himself, of Lord Dunford's financial difficulties.

"Well, not much," replied Captain Beaumont. "Only seven thousand; but
it's no good my going to the guv'nor for a penny piece, and how to clear
it up is more than I can tell. But why do you ask?" he added, though
with but faint eagerness. "Do you think you could find any one able to
help me out of this beastly hole?"

"Well, I might," said Jasper, eyeing his cigar meditatively, as if
seeking from its fumes some inspiration as to a method of aiding his
friend.

"I only know one way to prevent Harker taking extreme measures," went on
the troubled debtor; "that is, if I could get some one to back new
bills. Now if, say, Adrien Leroy were to back some bills for me, Harker
certainly would not refuse; but I am hardly in a position to ask Leroy."

"But I am," said Vermont, smiling with the consciousness of power; "and I
will do it for you, for old friendship's sake."

"You will!" exclaimed the captain gratefully. "Jasper, you're a brick! I
feel sure, somehow, he will do it for you. _I_ should stand no chance.
You are a good fellow to come to my rescue in this fashion."

"Ah," said Mr. Vermont, with a smile; "but can we be sure that Harker
will accept Leroy's name of the bills?"

"Why, of course, Harker or anybody--who wouldn't?" asked the Guardsman,
as the cloud dispelled from his face at hope coming so quickly from this
unexpected quarter. "Why, it's as good as the Bank of England. Harker
take it?---he'll snap at it. Only try him and see his greedy eyes
glisten. What could Harker get by selling me up?--absolutely nothing.
Besides, it would do him harm by letting others know how harshly he
served me. Oh, no, Harker will not sell me up if he can find such an
easy, safe way out of the difficulty."

"True," said Jasper pleasantly. "Well, I'll interview Leroy and see if I
can persuade him to assist you, as a friend of mine; I believe I can do
it for you. Going to Lady Merivale's to-night? Yes? Then we shall meet
again; till then, au revoir."

So, with a shake of his fat, smooth hand, the benevolent, unselfish Mr.
Vermont took his departure, still smiling serenely, on the business
which had brought him that day to London.

Nobody knew Jasper's private address. He was always to be found with
Adrien Leroy, and all letters were addressed to his club; or to Jermyn
Court; but of the locality of that place which Mr. Vermont would
sanctify by the name of "home," every one was ignorant. Whenever
questioned on this subject--he never obtruded the matter on anybody--it
was his custom to answer lightly:

"Home! what does such a waif, such a jetsam and flotsam of the world's
flowing tide, want with a home? Really, my dear boy"--or madam, if the
speaker happened to be of the gentler sex--"if ever you have occasion to
see me, I am sure to be at one of these three places: Leroy's chambers,
my club--the Pallodeon, or Barminster Castle."

And accordingly, to one of these places his fashionable acquaintances
directed their inquiries for him. Mr. Vermont, however, really possessed
a home, small, it is true, but one quite suitable to his needs, and
absolutely secluded from the possible knowledge of his friends in the
gay world.

After leaving Captain Beaumont, he had himself driven to the City.
Alighting in front of a large jeweller's shop, apparently with the
intention of purchasing something, he dismissed his car; then when it
had disappeared, walked quickly along the crowded thoroughfare for some
distance. At last, looking round furtively--for he was ever cautious--he
dived into one of the small entrances in Lawrence Lane, and mounting two
flights of stairs, entered the front room. This was the home, or rather,
perhaps, refuge from the conventions of society, that Mr. Vermont
possessed. Here he could find shelter at any time of the night, for he
possessed a private key; and by his orders the bed was kept constantly
aired and ready by the housekeeper; who had her own rooms on the floor
above. It was no unusual thing for her to leave the rooms tenantless
late in the evening, and find them occupied when she rose in the
morning, Jasper having arrived during the dead of night, silently as was
his invariable custom.

The second morning after his sudden return to town, Mr. Vermont was in
his sitting-room, which was very plainly furnished indeed, partaking of
a breakfast so simple that his fashionable friends would scarcely have
believed the evidence of their own eyes. When he had finished, and the
table had been cleared, he went over to the roll-top desk which stood in
an angle by the window, and opened it, disclosing piles of letters,
sheets, of closely written foolscap and slips of memorandum forms. On
the corner of the desk stood a telephone, which communicated with
Harker's private room, downstairs in the offices; they were dignified by
the name of Harker's "Bank," and were, of course, those of the
moneylending business which was carried on by Vermont in that name.
Taking up the receiver now, he asked Harker to come up to him as soon as
possible.

Within the next few minutes, George Harker was standing before the
master he both hated and feared. He was very tall, with a thin, lined
face, from which all light and hope seemed to have fled. His whole being
appeared wrapped up in attendance on Jasper Vermont. He watched him
eagerly now, not speaking until he was spoken to, but simply waiting
patiently, doggedly, till his master was ready to attend to him.

Vermont drew the heap of various papers towards him--with keen eyes and
quick brain grasped the multitude of facts they set forth, checked the
long column of figures, struck the balances; and, with a nod of
satisfaction, looked up at the man before him.

"All right, Harker, as far as I can see--and, as you know, that's all
the way and a little beyond. But we must do better than that. Where's
the private account?"

"Here, sir," said Harker, in a dry, rasping voice, somewhat like the
creaking of an old, rusty-hinged door.

"Where?--oh, yes, I see. Oh, Paxhorn has come to us, has he? Writing
poetry is not a paying game, eh? Or is it the fine, grand company that
runs away with the golden counters? Well, all fish--or idiots--that come
to our net are welcomed, no matter what wind drives them. Thirty per
cent. from Paxhorn. No more?"

"I could not get any more, sir," said Harker earnestly; "I tried--tried
hard--indeed I did, I assure you. I would not give in until he
threatened to go to another office."

"Hem! well, I suppose it's the truth; though, of course, all
moneylenders are rogues--and you're only a moneylender, you know." He
looked up for a moment to laugh at the logical joke. "Who backs his
paper? Lord Standon. Oh, my lord is pretty deep in our books already,
isn't he? Where are his statistics?"

"Here, sir," said Harker, taking one of the papers from the heap.

Jasper Vermont glanced at it, and laid it down again with an evil smile
on his face.

"Oh, he's good for more than that, Harker; but be cautious. We'll lend
him another ten thousand; but put on five per cent. Lords must pay, to
set the fashion to commoner folk. By the way, Captain Beaumont----"

"Whose bills you instructed me to call in, sir."

"Yes; well, I met him yesterday and promised to intercede for him you."
He laughed harshly. "What fun it is, poor idiot! He shook my hand with
profuse expressions of gratitude. Mr. Leroy will back the renewal and
you can let it run. Beaumont's the second son, Lord Dunford is on his
last legs, and the heir won't live another year, we can come down like
kites when the gallant captain has the title and estates. Till then
we'll wait; but stick out for another two-and-a-half per cent. Make the
calves bleed, Harker; it will do them and me good."

About that small matter of the young artist, Wilson, sir?"

"Eh! Wilson? Oh, yes. You got instructions to proceed in the usual way
to sell him up."

"Yes, sir, that was your order. He called yesterday, and pleaded for
another week. His wife is dying, and they are starving. He begs hard for
another week----"

Stuff, another week! the dog means another year. He should have thought
of the time for repaying when he was borrowing. Another week--not
another day. Start proceedings at once. Mind, I say it. Didn't I hear
him call me a 'parasite from the pavement' one night at a ball? Screens
have ears, Mr. Wilson, and parasites have memories. Sell him up--do you
hear, Harker?"

"I do sir; it shall be done," replied his servant meekly.

"And now for Leroy's account." With a gleam of fiendish delight in his
eyes, he scrutinized the figures and statements. "Ah! you are getting
them in fast."

"All Mr. Leroy's bills we are getting in--buying up wherever they are
met with, sir, according to your instructions."

"Right, get him into your hands--you know how. Be prepared for--you
know!"

Mr. Harker inclined his head.

"Now for the women. Ah, those dear butterfly creatures will come to the
nasty sticky papers that were meant to catch bluebottles only; well,
then, they must take the consequences. What! Lady Merivale--the fair
Eveline. Does she want to borrow money?"

"She dabbles in the Stock Exchange. I know her business man; he owes us
money, sir, and we know some of his secrets. She has been losing lately,
and has deposited her diamonds, sir--"

"Her diamonds? The famous Merivale diamonds? Where are they?"

"Here, sir." Mr. Harker produced from his long pocket a shallow morocco
case which he tendered mechanically to his employer.

Jasper Vermont opened the case, and gazed on its contents with twinkling
eyes; then, shutting it with a laugh, he leaned back in his chair,
rubbing his smooth fat hands over his chin.

"What will her ladyship do for them, and when were those left? I saw her
last night and--by Heaven! she wore--"

"Paste imitations, sir. I had them made up for her. Did you think the
counterfeit good?"

"Capital. Oh, isn't it rich! that old idiot must have eyed her proudly,
gloating over his famous diamonds on his wife's fair bosom, little
guessing they were Mr. Harker's tawdry glass mockeries. Capital, Harker,
but take care, take care. Remember the duchess who brought her jewels to
pledge, and discovered that they were paste already, and that the duke
had done the transmutation before her. Beware!"

"I am careful, sir, I am careful, very; I do not think--I trust--there
have been no losses, not even small ones. I do my best to secure your
interests."

"Well, I believe you. You keep up the appearances, I hope? Never forget
to tell people that you are only a subordinate, that you are acting for
others and strictly on the instructions given to you by them. The more
you assert it the more they'll think it a falsehood. Keep it up, Harker,
and then, well, you know I keep my promises. By the way, how is the
little Lucy?"

As he spoke the name, half scornfully, half indifferently, a visible
change came over his tool and puppet. His face became paler, if that
were possible, his head seemed to drop, his whole figure was expressive
of deepest dejection, fear, supplication.

"Well, sir, quite well, and deeply grateful for your kindness," he said,
wetting his dry lips.

"Ah! and so she should be, young hussey. A fine thing for her. Married
and respectable. If that soft-hearted, simple little husband of hers
knew all I know! Strange that I should have dropped on to her and that
first lover of hers down in that quiet place. Strange, wasn't it? Now I
daresay they thought they were as safe as at the bottom of the sea.
Didn't think that Mr. Jasper Vermont, a friend of the family, could be
staying at the same hotel. He ought to have married her, of course.
Better that he didn't, eh? Yet that weak, amiable grocer, innocent and
unsuspecting, lets her have it all her own way, and believes her just a
little purer and whiter than the angels. Clever little thing, Lucy.
Makes him think she loves him, I daresay."

"My poor child loves her husband better than her own life, sir,"
breathed the father. "She is so happy, they love each other so, and she
is my own flesh and blood. Forget that accursed night and the devil that
led her astray. Forget that she is anything but the wife of an honest
man. Have mercy on her, sir."

"Well, Harker, I will; I am all mercy. Do your duty by me and I won't go
down to tell the story of that night to Lucy's good, trusting husband.
But don't ask me to forget, my good fellow, for that's folly. I never
forget!"

"Thank you, sir, thank you," Harker said, wiping the perspiration from
his brow. "I will do my duty and work day and night in your interests,
if you will only spare my child and keep others from knowing of that one
false step."

Mr. Jasper Vermont leaned back in his chair, and regarded his servant's
agitation with quiet amusement for a few minutes; then he gathered all
the papers together, put them away in his desk, and dismissed Mr. Harker
with a nod, saying:

"You can go now. Don't forget the Leroy paper, renew Beaumont, but sell
up that artist scamp to the last stick and stone. Parasites can bite as
well as cling, Mr. Wilson."




                              CHAPTER XIV


The afternoon following the race the Castle guests returned to town,
Lord Standon amongst them, and as that light-hearted gentleman departed
without making any formal proposal for the hand of his young ward, Lord
Barminster was greatly puzzled.

All that day he had watched Lady Constance with an unceasing vigilance,
of which, fortunately, she was unaware; but he could detect no traces of
affection in her intercourse with Lord Standon, nor could he find any
reason for his son's despair. Like a wise man, however, he made no
reference whatever to the conversation of the preceding night, for which
Adrien was exceedingly grateful, as he felt ashamed of having exposed
his real feelings, even to his father.

Instead, therefore, Lord Barminster endeavoured to find out the true
state of the case from his sister Penelope.

That lady, disturbed from her afternoon slumber, was inclined to be
testy. As far as she was concerned, she was very much against the idea
of Constance marrying any one, for the girl's presence saved her a great
deal of trouble in many ways; the consultations with the housekeeper,
the choosing of books, the writing of invitations, these and a hundred
other trifles which in the event of Constance's marriage would be
shifted back on to her own shoulders.

Naturally, therefore, she considered the suitor who would be less likely
to inconvenience her; and he, of course, was Adrien. For if he married
Constance, there would be, at least, some time during the year in which
she would be at Barminster, and leave Miss Penelope free to resume the
novel reading of which she was so inordinately fond. She scoffed,
therefore, at any likelihood of Lord Standon's suit, and flatly refused
to believe a word of it.

Meanwhile, Adrien was in a state of restless excitement, for which he
himself could scarcely account, and accordingly he determined to return
to London next day.

That night they were a family party of four, and Lady Constance noticed
that her guardian's manner was considerably more cheerful than was its
wont, and that during dinner he glanced with even more affection than
usual at the handsome face of his only son. Afterwards, when the old man
had returned to his own apartments, Adrien found his cousin in the
silver drawing-room, with Miss Penelope. The latter had taken up her
latest novel, and was devouring it with rapt attention.

Lady Constance, with a smile, beckoned to her cousin and made room for
him beside her on the Chesterfield. He sank down with a sigh of content.

"You leave us to-morrow then?" she began, in a tone of calm inquiry.

He was filled with an insane longing to seize her in his arms, and cover
her face with kisses; but he restrained himself, though he bent nearer
to her as he said in a low voice:

"Yes, I am going back to try and put my affairs in better order. My
father has been pulling me up--quite rightly, of course. I ought to have
seen to these things before. I am afraid I have not been a good son to
him."

"You do not see him very often, do you?" said Lady Constance, who knew
to a day how often Adrien had visited the Castle during the last twelve
months, during which she herself had sighed for his absence.

"No," he admitted. "I always seem to have so many engagements; but now I
am going to try a new mode of life--thanks to your words."

"My words?" echoed Lady Constance, in genuine surprise. "I thought you
said uncle had been speaking to you."

"Yes," he agreed. "But it was what you said to me during our ride that
decided me really--about the tenants, and all that."

"You must not listen to all my complaints," she said, smilingly. "I am
proud of the Barminster estates, naturally; and I cannot bear that they
should be inferior to those of our neighbour----"

"Who is that?" he inquired quickly.

"Why, Lord Standon, of course," was the calm reply.

He started at the sound of the name of one he deemed his rival. The
jealous blood rushed to his face and his heart beat fast.

"Naturally," he said, in tones as quiet as he could make them, "you
would compare all estates with his--_now!_"

With womanly intuition she saw his meaning, but did not choose to dispel
his suspicions just then. Not that she was a coquette or flirt, for she
loved this man with all the strength of her being; but, on the other
hand, she knew, or thought she knew, his disposition only too well, and
she feared to yield to her natural inclinations, which were to allow him
to see that he had only to speak, and she was ready and willing to
listen. Instead, therefore, she merely said lightly:

"Yes, he makes a good landlord, for all he declares to the contrary.
Then, too, he has a capable agent."

"Like Jasper," put in her companion, trying to keep his eyes away from
her pretty, vivacious face.

Lady Constance was silent. However much she might dislike and distrust
Vermont, she never expressed her opinion of him to Adrien. She therefore
turned the subject quickly by inquiring after the next race.

"'The Brigades'--in two months' time," he replied.

"The 'King' will run, I suppose?" she asked.

"Yes, and I shall ride him," said Adrien quietly. "After an accident
such as has occurred, none shall ride him save myself; then if anything
should happen----"

"Ah! no! no!" cried Lady Constance, her face paling, and her blue eyes
full of alarm; "you mustn't!--you shan't!" She stopped short. "I mean,"
she went on, speaking more quietly, "you must think what it would be--to
your father--and auntie----"

"And you," he said eagerly, catching at her hands. "Would you care,
too?"

She gently drew her fingers from his grasp.

"Of course I should," she replied, in her usual quiet tones. "Am I not a
sort of cousin?"

"Constance," he broke in passionately, "I have no right to speak to you,
I know; but tell me just this, if--if----"

Alas! for Adrien. Alas! for poor Lady Constance. The book in Miss
Penelope's hand had slid quickly from her grasp, as she sat dozing near
the fire-place. At this, the most critical moment, it came with a sudden
crash to the floor, and Miss Penelope opened her eyes, and sat up
briskly.

Nothing more could be said under the circumstances, and Adrien was
perforce obliged to spend the evening as best he might, turning over the
pages of his cousin's music, and watching her with longing, ardent eyes;
while Miss Penelope sat near by, tactlessly wide awake.

Presently she glanced up.

"Adrien, did you ask your father about the ball?" she asked.

Her nephew looked abashed. Truth to tell, he had completely forgotten
it.

"No," he admitted candidly, "I did not. But forgive me, this time; I
will ask him to-night."

A little later the ladies rose to retire.

"Good-night, my dear boy," said Miss Penelope, gathering up her precious
book and chocolates. "You go to town to-morrow? Oh, then, I shall not
see you again. Good-bye; and don't forget about the ball."

Adrien held the door open for her, and she passed out; then he closed it
again.

"Good-night, Constance," he said, gazing longingly into his cousin's
face.

"Good-night," she said, giving him her hand. "Good-night, and a pleasant
journey."

"Will you not wish me a speedy return?"

"That might be an ill wish," she answered lightly--"if you did not care
to come."

"You know I do," he whispered, and he raised her fingers to his lips.

With a vivid blush, Lady Constance withdrew her hand from his grasp, and
left the room. Going straight up to her own apartment, she flung herself
on her knees. The kiss he had impressed on her fingers seemed to burn
them; the sound of his voice rang in her ears; yet, with a strength of
mind extraordinary in a girl so young, she put away the sweetness of his
half-formed declaration, hoping that his journey to town meant the
cutting free of all entanglements, and the settling of his affairs.

Early the following morning, the sound of a motor, and the barking of
dogs, brought Lady Constance to her window; below her was Adrien,
followed by a servant with the travelling case, which was placed beside
the chauffeur.

Adrien had already entered the car, and was about to have it set in
motion, when a sudden idea seemed to strike him, and he glanced up at
Lady Constance's window. Seeing this, she opened the casement and stood
framed by the surrounding greenery.

Adrien waved his hand to her; then, hastily scribbling something in a
note-book, he tore the page out, and evidently despatched it by one of
the waiting servants.

She watched every movement, with eyes shining with eagerness, and could
have cried bitterly at the thought of his absence. She knew, too, that
she was playing a dangerous game, when she allowed him to return to
town, his passion still undeclared; yet she felt that this was the only
means of holding his affections; for she was a firm believer in the
adage--"Absence makes the heart grow fonder." She sighed deeply,
however, as with a parting wave of his hand, and bareheaded, Adrien was
rapidly driven away.

A few minutes later the servant brought her the hastily written note. It
was only a scrap of paper, and unfolding it, she read the two lines:


"My father grants us the ball. We will make it an eventful
one.--ADRIEN."


Her face glowed. "We will, indeed," she murmured. "It is a high stake I
play for; but it is worth the struggle. Heaven grant me his whole heart!
I ask nothing else."

Carefully locking the scrap of paper away, she descended into the
morning-room, where Lord Barminster was already seated at the
breakfast-table. His grim face softened at the entry of the girl he had
always looked upon as a daughter, and loved even more intensely--if that
were possible--now that he meant to win her for his son's bride.

"So Adrien has left us again?" he began, as she poured out his coffee.

She flushed slightly at his significant tones.

"Yes," she replied. "Uncle, thank you so much for letting us have the
ball----"

"Nonsense, my dear" he returned. "Adrien told me you wanted it, and that
was sufficient. Why didn't you ask me yourself? Have I been such a cruel
guardian?"

"No, no," she cried, and coming round to him impulsively, she pressed
her lips to his forehead. "You've been the dearest uncle in the world.
Indeed, no father could have been better."

He smiled at her earnestness.

"I've done my best, my dear, though I admit I'd like you for my very own
daughter-in-law."

Lady Constance blushed scarlet. This was carrying the war into the
enemy's camp with a vengeance.

"'Nobody axed me, sir, she said,'" she sang gaily.

"Ah, but whose fault is that?" asked Lord Barminster, pleased that she
had not refused to discuss the question.

"Please, Uncle Philip," she said, with a sudden quiver in her voice,
"I'd rather not talk about it--if you don't mind."

"Quite right, my dear," replied Lord Barminster, patting her hand
reassuringly.

For a few minutes there was silence. His lordship drank his coffee,
while his companion stared dreamily through the window at the
magnificent view of park and woods. The old man was the first to speak.

"We shall miss Lord Standon," he said, with a meaning glance at her.

Lady Constance looked up with a start; then, as she realised the
significance of this simple statement, she smiled. She knew she could
trust her uncle not to betray her woman's secret; and, though she had no
scruple in using Lord Standon as a means to spur on Adrien, she would
not allow the old man to be worried unnecessarily by doubts of her
fidelity to his beloved son.

"Yes," she answered, quietly. "But he only came down for the race; and I
daresay he was anxious to rejoin his fiancee."

It was her uncle's turn to start, and his intense surprise told Lady
Constance only too well that her speculations were correct. Adrien had
believed her in love with Lord Standon, and his father had undertaken to
find out the truth. She was not afraid of Adrien's being undeceived now;
for, even if Lord Barminster wrote--which was very unlikely--the spur
would have done its work.

"I did not know he was engaged," the old man exclaimed.

"No, the news has not been made public; but he told me in confidence,"
Lady Constance returned calmly, as she rose from the breakfast-table.
Then, having seen her companion installed with his newspaper, she passed
out to the terrace.

To the astonishment of every one in Barminster Castle, some few hours
later, Mr. Vermont reappeared.

In his turn he seemed quite as surprised when he learned that Leroy had
already returned to London.

"Gone," he echoed, "just a few hours ago? Dear! dear! I must have missed
him by telling my chauffeur to take the road across the moor."

He entered the Castle while he was speaking, and the servants hastened
to learn his commands; for, next to the sun, there is nothing better
than the moon--next to the Hon. Adrien came his friend and agent, Mr.
Jasper Vermont. But Jasper waved them amiably aside, as he entered the
dining-room.

"You would like some luncheon, sir?" inquired the butler, coming forward
respectfully.

Jasper nodded.

"Just a snack, Judson. Don't put yourselves out for me, I'm off again
directly."

While the estimable Judson went off to get this snack--which resolved
itself into an exquisitely-laid lunch--Mr. Vermont dropped into a chair,
and surveyed the scene through the open window. Strange to say, his
thoughts seemed to run similarly to those of Lady Constance, earlier in
the day; for he exclaimed under his breath:

"It's a large stake, worth playing for. Awkward my missing him." He
smoothed out a pile of deeds and documents and replaced them in his
leather bag. "He would have signed these without a word here; at his
chambers, he'll amuse himself by reading them, confound it!"

A rustle of silken skirts attracted his attention; the scowl vanished,
and he readjusted his smiling mask as the door opened and Lady Constance
entered the room.

She had been informed of his sudden arrival; and, though heartily
disliking him, she was yet bound to play the part of hostess while her
aunt was resting.

Mr. Vermont bowed low over her extended hand, as over that of an
empress.

"I hope your ladyship is well?" he asked.

"Quite, thank you, Mr. Vermont," she said with cold indifference. "I
suppose you have come down to see Adrien? He started for London before
breakfast this very morning."

"So I have just heard," he returned sweetly.

"I am not greatly surprised, as Lady Merivale was asking after him last
night. I expect she summoned him."

The girl's face paled ever so slightly, though she strove to give no
sign that his shaft had hit home. Adrien had received a letter that
morning, as she knew, one having been brought up to her by mistake.

"Very likely," she said imperturbably. "I daresay he had to attend to
some business too."

"Adrien is very changeable," Vermont said reflectively, "one can never
count on his movements; following him is like wild duck shooting, down
the river on Monday, and up the Fens on Tuesday. I'm sorry I missed him,
though, for I have several papers which he must see."

Lady Constance tried to appear sympathetic.

"It is a pity you weren't earlier," she said with a smile. "Still, I
daresay you know where to find him."

"Oh, yes," returned Mr. Vermont, glancing at her from the corner of his
eye, as he aimed his second shaft. "He will be either with Miss
Lester or her ladyship; he fluctuates between these two points of
happiness as a rule."

Lady Constance did not appear perturbed in any way by this news.

"Lady Merivale is a charming woman," she said briefly. "But who is Miss
Lester?"

"She is also a charming woman," was the smooth reply; "but with the
difference that she is unattached--save to the theatre."

"Oh! an actress!" exclaimed his companion with patrician contempt. "That
reminds me," she continued. "What is your last success at the Casket?"

"_My_ success," echoed Mr. Vermont, with an air of pained astonishment.

"Yes, are you not the manager of that building?" she asked simply.

He bowed and smiled.

"No, Lady Constance," he said. "I fear the world gives me too much
credit. I have nothing to do with this whim of Adrien's save to pay out
the salaries for the company. The management is his--or rather, perhaps,
I should say, Miss Lester's; and I am not answerable for its failure or
its successes. I believe, too, he is about to give the whole place to
Miss Lester."

Lady Constance started almost unconsciously, and Jasper knew that his
words had hit home at last.

"I am sure you do your best to help him," she said, after a moment's
pause.

"You are most kind," he returned with a bow and an ironic smile. "I
trust you will let me prove my friendship both to Adrien and yourself."




                              CHAPTER XV


It was the night on which Adrien had returned to town. Jessica, ignorant
that he had ever left it, had found her way to his chambers, and waited
there patiently and hungrily in the hope of once more seeing him. As the
clock struck eight she decided that it was useless to remain any longer,
and accordingly retraced her steps through the crowded thoroughfares.

Anything would be better than waiting like this, she thought
despairingly.

After the silence of the deserted street, the crowds, pushing and
jostling her, brought her almost a feeling of satisfaction. Even if she
were alone, at least she could not be solitary while the world rushed
past her, in its eager search for pleasure.

At one point near Charing Cross a few curious loafers had collected on
either side of the brilliantly-lit facade of a theatre, over which, in
coloured lights, was the name, "The Casket."

As Jessica stood watching listlessly, indeed almost unconsciously, a
handsome motor rolled up before the imposing entrance. The little group
surged back before the white-gloved commissionaire, who hurried forward,
but the door of the car had already been thrown open by the chauffeur,
and a gentleman and lady stepped out.

At the sight of one of them, Jessica's indifference became changed to a
feverish eagerness. The colour left her face, her eyes dilated, her lips
parted. She swayed back, half fearful, half desirous that he should see
her; for it was he, the man for whom she had waited so long, the man she
had enshrined within her heart.

Adrien, all his doubts as to the possibility of winning Constance's love
returning to him in full force once he had left her presence, had come
down to the theatre with two objects. One to distract his thoughts from
his hopes and fears, the other to arrange with Jasper for the entire
transfer of the theatre to Ada. He meant this to be the last night as
far as the Casket and Ada Lester were concerned.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he hardly saw the group of humble
spectators, and did not appear to hear their murmurs of recognition, but
turned and held out his hand to assist the lady who accompanied him.

Jessica's eyes flashed fiercely as they wandered from his face to that
of the woman beside him.

"She is beautiful," she murmured beneath her breath. "She is beautiful,
and with him!"

All the love which had been aroused in her passionate heart surged up,
and, for the minute, almost turned to jealous hate. "Beautiful, and with
him." It was agony to her to see him as he bent down to catch some light
words of his companion, whose perfumed satin cloak swept by the
crouching girl, as the pair passed into the theatre.

Full well she knew that she herself could never hope to hear his voice,
or feel the pressure of his hand; yet it was with the bitterness of
death that she saw him pass her by in the company of this beautiful
woman. Mingled also with her jealousy was another feeling, that of
partial recognition. For the moment--she could not remember where--but
at some time in the past, she fancied she had seen that dark,
highly-coloured face, and heard the harsh vulgar voice.

As Leroy turned from the motor, she heard him say to the chauffeur:

"Be here at eleven."

"At eleven," she thought, "then I will be here too, and see him once
more."

She hung on the outskirts of the group and listened with greedy ears for
any chance word that might arise about her idol.

"A reg'lar beauty, I should just think so," said a man, addressing
another who had passed a remark on the lady in question. "She's the
biggest star on the stage, you bet! Ada Lester knows her value, and
ain't likely to forget it neither."

The other man ventured a remark concerning the lady's escort.

"Him? That's Leroy--son of Lord Barminster--the richest of 'em all. She
belongs to him, she does; so does the whole theatre. Costs him a pretty
penny, you bet. But lor' bless yer, he don't mind! Can't spend his money
fast enough. My brother's one of the shifters; and the things he cud
tell yer about 'er, and 'er temper, 'ud make yer 'air stand on end."

Jessica moved away, while members of the group aired their knowledge of
the rapidly entering, smartly-dressed audience.

"That's Mr. Leroy's friend, Mr. Vermont," commenced the first speaker
again. "I've 'eard tell 'e does all the work and pays out all the other
one's money; but he ain't no class himself--he's not a real tip-top
swell like them others." He pointed to a little group of
white-waistcoated, immaculately-dressed men, now standing on the steps
of the vestibule. "Lord! this 'ere Casket'll be crammed with all the
swells to-night--'cos it's the fashion."

"So Ada Lester is the fashion now, eh?" commented his companion, who had
probably known her in her poorer days, and therefore was inclined to be
interested in her.

"Not 'arf, she ain't," agreed the man, with the Londoner's pride in
laying down the law on the subject. "She's got a house like a duchess,
and can eat off gold or silver if she chooses; an' all for her face, for
she can't act for nuts. I've seen 'er so I know!" With which lordly
criticism, he closed the subject.

As for Jessica, sick at heart with jealousy, she turned up one of the
side streets to commence her long wait for Adrien Leroy; while the group
dispersed, laughing and chattering.

The Casket was filled now to its utmost capacity. It was the first night
of a new piece. The unfortunate comedy which Ada had so strongly
condemned had been withdrawn, and a so-called musical farce--consisting
of very bad music, and still worse comedy--hastily put on in its stead.
As usual, no expense had been spared in the mounting, and Adrien's money
had been poured out like water on extraordinary costumes, gorgeous,
highly-coloured scenery, and a hundred embellishments for this new piece
of elaborate and senseless burlesque, Prince Bon-Bon. But with all its
deficiencies as regarded culture, the piece appeared to be a success.

Ada Lester could dance, if she could not act; and she could shout a
vulgar patter song, if she could not sing; therefore after a tumultuous
first act, during which she had been "Hongkored"--as she expressed
it--to her heart's content, she was standing in the wings, with a
cigarette between her painted lips, radiant with content and gratified
vanity.

"Well, Shelton," said Leroy, as his friend approached him, where he
leaned against a stack of scenery. "What do you think of the show this
time?"

"As beautiful as it is senseless," was that gentleman's sarcastic reply.
"Heaven alone knows what it cost you," he added.

"I certainly don't know myself," admitted Adrien, knocking the ash from
his cigarette. "Ask Paxhorn--he wrote the lyrics, and had the
management; or better still Vermont, whom I'm going to see myself
presently. But this will be a success, Mortimer, and I shall make a
fortune."

"Yes," said Shelton quietly, "for Paxhorn and Vermont. Well, it's no
business of mine, of course."

He turned to Ada, who had been tapping her foot angrily during this
little conversation. "Well, Miss Lester," he said, "haven't you a word
for me to-night?"

She glared at him viciously, for Mortimer was not a favourite of hers.

"Yes," she snapped. "I hate the sight of you!"

Both men laughed as though amused.

"That was a fair hit," said Shelton, with mock grief in his voice.
"Don't kill me right out, Miss Lester. Let me open a bottle of champagne
for you."

"I don't want it," said the popular dancer, her eyes flashing angrily.
Then, turning her back on him, she said to Adrien, "Ain't you going to
the front to see me dance?"

"I can see you from here," was his answer. "You look charming, my dear
Ada; doesn't she, Mortimer?"

"Yes, and as good as she is beautiful," declared that gentleman, making
her a low bow.

With a furious glance at him, and a furtive look at Adrien, she passed
them, and, accompanied by a burst of music from the orchestra and a
storm of clapping from the audience, she commenced her dance.

Shelton watched her with a sneer.

"Hark! how they applaud," he said, glancing up at the crowded and
delighted house. "They seem to admire her, anyway. Long live Miss Ada,
Queen of dancers. Adrien, why do you put up with that painted vixen?"

Leroy smiled at his sudden change of tone.

"Don't let her hear you," he said. "And don't worry yourself about me,
old fellow."

"You're afraid of her," continued his friend. "Oh, yes, you may think it
an impertinence if you like, but I know you are. You'd face a cannon's
mouth sooner than that woman's angry abuse. You dread a scene as a
musician does a false note. For me, I'm sick of the whole world."

"Why do you remain in it, then?" asked Adrien, laughing.

"For the same reason as yourself," replied the cynic. "Neither of us
know what the next will be like."

Adrien laughed, but before he could explain to his friend his plan with
regard to Ada, a crowd of pretty dancers in silver gauze surrounded him,
begging for real bon-bons, instead of the painted property sweets given
out to them.

"Do you girls think I am made of bon-bons, like the piece?" he said,
waving them back. "Why, you'll make yourselves ill."

"Oh, Mr. Leroy," pouted one, "we've danced so hard, too!"

"Go to Mr. Vermont, then," was the indolent reply; "he'll give you what
you want," and with a rush they swept back on to the stage.

"Always Jasper," murmured Shelton sadly, as his friend, with a genial
wave of the hand, picked his way past cardboard castles and paper trees,
till he disappeared through the door that would lead him to his
stage-box.

At eleven o'clock the play was over; the superbly-dressed women, with
their escorts, were descending the wide staircase, laughing and
discussing the piece, which seemed likely to become the success of the
season. Outside, the pavement was filled with the gay, excited crowds.
Whistles resounded for taxis hovering in the immediate 

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