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The Admirable Tinker

by Edgar Jepson · English · Gutenberg #19010 · 344,004 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Admirable Tinker

Author: Edgar Jepson


        
Release date: August 8, 2006 [eBook #19010]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19010

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE TINKER ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: "Here's my father, or the police!"]






THE ADMIRABLE TINKER

CHILD OF THE WORLD



BY EDGAR JEPSON




Illustrated by

Margaret Eckerson





NEW YORK

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

MCMIV




Copyright, 1904, by

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.


Published, March, 1904

Third Impression



COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I.  SIR TANCRED'S QUEST
   II.  THE FINDING OF TINKER
  III.  TINKER ACCEPTS HIS NAME
   IV.  THE TRAINING OF TINKER
    V.  TINKER'S BIRTHDAY BLOODHOUND
   VI.  THE RESCUE OF ELIZABETH KERNABY
  VII.  THE STOLEN FLYING-MACHINE
 VIII.  THE BARON AND THE MONEY-LENDER
   IX.  TINKER INTERVENES
    X.  TINKER'S FOUNDLING
   XI.  TINKER FROM THE MACHINE
  XII.  TINKER BORROWS A MOTOR-CAR
 XIII.  TINKER MEETS HIS OLD NURSE
  XIV.  TINKER TAKES SEPTIMUS RAINER IN HAND
   XV.  TINKER ASSERTS THE RIGHTS OF THE EMPLOYER
  XVI.  TINKER DISOWNS HIS GRANDMOTHER
 XVII.  TINKER AND THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"Here's my father, or the police!" . . . Frontispiece

He surveyed himself with an excited curiosity.

"I can't hold him!"

He poured comforting assurances of safety into her ears.

"She was quite out of control for a good five minutes."

"To-night reflect on your misdeeds.  To-morrow
  we will treat of your ransom."

The pursuit was lively, but short.

It was his first essay as coiffeur.

As a battering-ram against the first and second buttons
  of his waistcoat.

"Hold it back!" screamed Tinker.

Over these agreeable occupations they talked.

And she paused to let the splendour of the gift sink in.

It's time these lubbers walked the plank.




THE ADMIRABLE TINKER


CHAPTER ONE

SIR TANCRED'S QUEST

"It is," said Lord Crosland, "deucedly odd."

"What?" said Sir Tancred Beauleigh.

"That after seeing nothing of one another for nearly three years, we
should arrive at this caravanserai from different stations at the same
time, to find that our letters engaging this set of rooms came by the
same post."

"It comes of having been born on the same day," said Sir Tancred.
"Besides, I always told you that the only possible place to live in in
town was the top left-hand corner of the Hotel Cecil, with this view up
the river, and a nice open breezy space in front of you."

Lord Crosland, who was walking up and down the room as he talked,
stopped to gaze out of the window at Westminster, and Sir Tancred
lighted another cigarette.

"What I like about it is, it's retired--out of the world," said Lord
Crosland.

"It was just that recommended it to me."

A waiter came in, and cleared away the breakfast.  Lord Crosland
admired the view; Sir Tancred lay back in his easy chair, gazing with
vacant, sombre eyes into the clear blue vault of the summer sky.

"I can't see why we shouldn't share these rooms for the season," said
Lord Crosland, when the waiter had gone with his tray.  "We shall get
on all right; we always did at Vane's."

"Well," said Sir Tancred slowly, "I have a child, a boy, somewhere--I
don't know where.  I've got to find him.  I'm going to find him before
I do anything else."

"The deuce you have!  Well, I'll be shot!  To think that you're
married!"

"I was married when I said good-bye to you nearly three years ago,"
said Sir Tancred.  "I was married to Pamela Vane."

"You were married to Miss Vane!" cried Lord Crosland.  "But how--how on
earth did you manage it?  It was impossible!"

"I committed that legal misdemeanour known as false entry," said Sir
Tancred coolly.  "I added the necessary years to our ages."

"Oh, yes, that, of course," said Lord Crosland.  "You wouldn't let an
informality of that kind stand in your way.  But Miss Vane?  How did
you persuade her?  I should have thought it impossible--absolutely
impossible."

"It ran as near impossibility as anything I can think of," said Sir
Tancred slowly and half dreamily.  "But when you are in love with one
another, impossibilities fade--and I was masterful."

"You were that," said Lord Crosland with conviction.

"Poor Pamela!  She was wretched at having to keep it from her father;
and I was sorry enough.  But it had to be done; when you are eighteen,
and in love with one another, twenty-one seems ages away, don't you
know?"

"Of course."

"And once done, I don't believe--honestly, I don't believe that she
regretted it," said Sir Tancred; and his sombre eyes were shining.
"Heavens, how happy we were!--for four months.  But as you'll learn, if
ever you have it, happiness is a deucedly expensive thing.  I paid a
price for it--I _did_ pay a price."  And he shivered.  "At the end of
four months it came out, and it was all up."

"Then that was why Vane gave up coaching, sold Stanley House, and went
abroad," said Lord Crosland quickly.  "We could none of us make it out."

"That was why.  When it came out, my stepmother came on the scene.
She's about as remarkable a creature as you'll chance on between now
and the blue moon.  She has one idea in her head, the glory of the
Beauleighs.  I believe she's as mad as a hatter about it.  She was one
of the Stryke & Wigrams, the bankers, a Miss Wigram; and I think, don't
you know, that rising out of that wealthy and respectable firm, she
felt bound to be the bluest-blooded possible.  That's what I fancy.  At
any rate she's more of a Beauleigh than any Beauleigh since the flood."

"I know," said Lord Crosland, and he nodded gravely with the
immeasurable sapience of a boy of twenty-one.

"I must say, too," Sir Tancred went on thoughtfully, "that she's been
the most important Beauleigh for generations.  She brought thirty
thousand a year to the restoration of our dilapidated fortunes; and she
did restore them.  You know what a County is: well, little by little
she got a grip on the County, and now she just runs it.  I tell you,
the County has taken to spending every bit of the year it can in town
or abroad; when it gets within thirty miles of her, it daren't call its
life its own."

"By Jove!" said Lord Crosland earnestly.  "She must be a holy terror."

"They call it force of character when she's within thirty miles of
them," said Sir Tancred drily; and then he went on with more emphasis:
"But the banker streak comes out in her; she thinks too much of money.
She doesn't understand that money's a thing you spend on things that
amuse you; she's always making shows with it--dull shows.  So it was
part of her scheme for the glory of Beauleigh, that if billions
couldn't be got, I was to marry millions.  You can imagine her fury
when she learned that I was married to Pamela."

"I can that," said Lord Crosland.

"She got me back to Beauleigh, on some rotten pretence of legal
business about mortgages; and made a descent on Mr. Vane.  You know
that he was as decent a soul as ever lived, and as sensitive.  I'm
afraid that there was a lot of Stryke & Wigram in that interview--you
know, talk about having entrapped me into marriage with his
daughter--the last man in the world to dream of it.  Fortunately, as I
gathered from her talk later, she made him angry enough to turn her out
of the house without seeing Pamela.  She had to content herself with
writing to her--it must have been a letter."

"Why on earth didn't you interfere?  I wouldn't have stood it!" said
Lord Crosland.

"I was at Beauleigh.  I was pretty soon suspicious that our secret had
been discovered.  When three days passed without my getting a letter
from Pamela, I was sure of it.  And then Fortune played into my
stepmother's hands: I had a bad fall with a young horse, and injured my
spine.  For two months it was touch and go whether I was a cripple for
life; and I was another four months on my back."

"By Jove!" said Lord Crosland with profound sympathy.

"Ah, but it was when I began to mend that my troubles began.  There
were no letters for me--not a letter.  Just think of it!  I knew that
Pamela must be wanting me; and there I lay a helpless log.  I was sure
that she had written; and, knowing my stepmother, I was sure that I
should never see the letters.  I sent for her, and asked for them.  She
coolly told me that she and her brother, my other guardian, Sir Everard
Wigram, Bumpkin Wigram he's generally called, had decided that I was to
be saved, if possible, from the results of my folly at any cost.  They
would have taken steps to have the marriage nullified, if it hadn't
been for the risk of my being prosecuted for false entry.  Then she
talked of my ingratitude after all her efforts to raise the Beauleighs
to their former glory.  I couldn't stand any more that day; and the
nurse came in and fetched her out.  That interview didn't do me any
good."

"It hardly sounds the thing for an injured spine," said Lord Crosland.

"A few days later we had another; and she had the cheek to tell me that
one day I should be grateful to her for having saved me from the
clutches of a designing girl--rank idiocy, you see, for she was only
keeping us apart for the time being.  But it set me talking about the
firm of Stryke & Wigram; and for once I got her really angry.  It did
me good.  Yet, you know, she really believed it; she believed that she
was acting for the best."

"Of course," said Lord Crosland thoughtfully, "she didn't know Miss
Vane, I mean Lady Beauleigh, your wife.  It would have made all the
difference."

"I've made that excuse for her often enough," said Sir Tancred.  "But
it doesn't carry very far.  Just look at the cold-bloodedness of it:
there was I, a helpless cripple, in a good deal of pain most of the
time, mad for a word of my wife; and that damned woman kept back her
letters.  Talk about the cruelty of the Chinese--an ordinary woman can
give them points, and do it cheerfully!"

"They are terrors," said Lord Crosland with conviction.

"Well, there I lay; and I had to grin and bear it.  But, well, I don't
want to talk about it.  The only relief was that once a week my
stepmother seemed to feel bound to come and tell me that it was all for
my good; and I could talk to her about the manners and customs of the
banking classes.  Then, after five and a half months of it, when I was
looking forward to getting free and to my wife, she came and told me
that Pamela was dead.  I refused to believe it; and she gave me a
letter from Vane's solicitor informing her of the fact."

"Poor beggar!" said Lord Crosland.

Sir Tancred was silent; he was staring at nothing with sombre eyes.

Lord Crosland looked at him compassionately; presently he said, "It
explains your face--the change in it.  I was wondering at it.  I
couldn't understand it."

"What change?  What's the matter with my face?" said Sir Tancred
indifferently.

"Well, you used to be a cheerful-looking beggar, don't you know.  Now
you look like what do you call him--who fell from Heaven--Lucifer, son
of the Morning.  I read about him at Vane's, mugging up poetry for that
exam."

"You'll hardly believe it," said Sir Tancred very seriously, "but I
took to reading books myself at Beauleigh, when I got all
right--reading books and mooning about.  I had no energy.  I went and
saw Vane's solicitor of course; but he could tell me nothing, or
wouldn't tell me.  Said his client had called on him, and told him to
inform my stepmother of Pamela's death, and had not told him where she
died, or where he was now living.  I fancied he was keeping something
back; but I had no energy, and I didn't drag it out of him.  I went to
Stanley House; it was to be let.  No one could tell me where the Vanes
had gone.  I stayed at Beauleigh--mooning about.  I wouldn't go to
Oxford; and I wouldn't travel.  I mooned about.  Six months ago I came
across Vicary at a meet--you remember Vicary at Vane's?--he told me
that Vane had died in Jersey.  I went to Jersey, and found Vane's
grave.  Next to it was my wife's."

Again Sir Tancred fell silent in a gloomy musing.

"Well?" said Lord Crosland gently.

"The oddest thing happened.  It doesn't sound exactly credible; and you
won't understand it.  I don't.  But as I stood by the grave, I suddenly
felt that there was something for me to do, something very important
that had to be done.  It was odd, very odd.  I went back to my hotel
quite harassed, puzzling and racking my brains.  Then an idea struck
me; and I had a hunt through the registers.  I found that two days
before she died a boy was born, Hildebrand Anne Beauleigh--the old
Beauleigh names.  She knew that I should like him to be called by them.
From the registers I learnt where they had been living.  I rushed off
to the house, and found it empty and to let--always these shut-up
houses.  I made inquiries and inquiries, from the house agents and the
tradespeople.  I could learn nothing.  They had lived very quietly.
But there was a child; people had seen him wheeled about in a
perambulator.  He had disappeared.  I suspected my stepmother at once;
and I hurried back to Beauleigh.  It had bucked me up, don't you know,
to think that I had a child.  I had it out with my stepmother; and what
do you think she told me?"

"Can't guess; but I'm laying odds that it doesn't surprise me," said
Lord Crosland.

"She said that the fact of my having a son and heir would stand in the
way of my making the marriage she hoped.  That the boy was in the hands
of a respectable couple, where I need never hope to find him; that he
would be brought up in the station of life suitable to his mother's
having been the daughter of a Tutor.  My word, I did talk about the
firm of Stryke & Wigram!"

"I should think you must have," said Lord Crosland.

"I lost no time, but put the matter in the hands of a crack Private
Inquiry Agency.  When they learned what I was doing, I'm hanged if my
stepmother and uncle Bumpkin didn't stop my allowance."  He laughed
ruefully.  "However, I kept the inquiries going by selling my two
horses, my jewellery, my guns, and my clothes.  That's why I'm in these
rags.  But no good came of it; the private detective discovered
nothing, and charged me nearly three hundred for discovering it.  But
the crowning point of my stepmother's madness came yesterday.  We had
the proper business interview on my coming of age; and she and uncle
Bumpkin handed me over six hundred a year, and six thousand ready
money.  Then she made me an offer.  She would give me ten thousand a
year to enable me to keep up the glory of the Beauleighs, and marry the
millions to increase it, if I would give up searching for the boy, and
consent to his being brought up in his respectable position.  I didn't
talk about swindling him out of his rights; for I've come to the
conclusion that it's no good talking of Justice to a woman.  They don't
understand what you're driving at--those of the banking classes anyhow.
I told her she could stick to Beauleigh Court, since it would only be a
white elephant to me with my six hundred a year, and go on ruling the
County.  But I was going to clear out, and I couldn't help saying that
I hoped her path and mine would never cross again."

"It was deuced little to say," said Lord Crosland.

"Oh, what was the good?  She couldn't have understood.  She's mad, mad
as a hatter about the glory of the Beauleighs.  But it did one good
thing; it made her cast me off for good and all.  She'd toiled for the
family: and this was her reward.  I might go to the Workhouse my own
way.  Now you see, she won't interfere to stop my finding the boy.  And
I'm going to find him if I have to spend ten years on it, and every
penny I have.  And when I have found him, I'm going to look after him
myself, and keep him with me.  I don't suppose I shall find it much in
my line.  I'm not fond of children; and I'm not an affectionate person.
That sort of thing is rather dried up in me.  But it was little enough
I could do for my wife while she was alive, and now I should like to do
the only thing I can."

"I see," said Lord Crosland.

"Well, you can understand that, though I've agreed to share these rooms
with you for the next few days, I can't make it a permanent
arrangement.  I may have to be off anywhere at a moment's notice.  On
the other hand, by offering a thumping big reward, as I can do at last,
I shall probably find him at once; and you wouldn't care for rooms with
a small child about."

"Oh, I don't know.  I rather like kids," said Lord Crosland.  "They're
amusing little beggars often enough."

"Ah, but this one is so small; only two and a half," said Sir Tancred.
"And now I'll write the advertisement."




CHAPTER TWO

THE FINDING OF TINKER

Sir Tancred went to the writing-table, sat down, and began to write.
He wrote slowly, pausing to think, and made many erasures.

"I think the advertisement will make my stepmother squirm.  It'll make
the County talk," he said thoughtfully.

"It seems to me you can't help giving the show away," said Lord
Crosland.

There came a knock at the door, and a waiter came in: "Please, Sir
Tancred, there's a lady, leastways a person, wanting to see you."

"To see me?" said Sir Tancred with some surprise.  "Who can it be?
Show her up?"

He went on with his writing, and presently the waiter ushered in a
tall, gaunt woman, with a rugged, hard-featured face, dressed in the
rustiest black, and carrying a brown-paper parcel.

Sir Tancred turned round in his chair, and she said very nervously,
"Good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning," said Sir Tancred; then he sprang up and cried,
"Why--why--it's Selina Goodyear!"

"Yes, sir, it's me.  I was afraid you wouldn't remember me after all
this time.  And--and--it's a liberty I'm taking, coming to see you like
this," she went on with a voluble, nervous eagerness, twisting her
hands.  "But not getting any answer to my letters, I went down to
Beauleigh Court yesterday on the chance of getting a word with you; for
I knew you'd be bound to be there, seeing as it was your coming of age.
But I didn't get a chance, and came back to London by the last train,
not knowing as you was in it, till I came out of Victoria, and saw you
getting into a cab and heard you tell the cabman to drive here.  And I
made up my mind to come and see you here, though I know it's a liberty
I'm taking.  But I can't help it,"--and her voice suddenly grew
fierce,--"it's about the boy."

"The boy!  My boy!" cried Sir Tancred.

"Yes, sir.  You see I was his nurse from the first.  Poor Miss
Pamela--I mean Lady Beauleigh, sir--gave him to me to take care of
before she died--leastways, she didn't give him to me, she was too
weak, poor dear; but she told me to take care of him, as I wrote to
you, sir."

"As you wrote?  Yes; go on."

"And I did take care of him till Mr. Vane died.  And oh, he was such a
dear baby!  Then, when the young lawyer came with Mrs. Bostock and told
me as how you had arranged for her to have charge of him, and I had to
give him over to her, it nearly broke my heart.  But it isn't about
myself I came to talk, but about him.  I know it's troubling you,
sir--and a gentleman has his pleasures, and they take up his time.
But, after all, he's your own son, sir, and if you'd only come and see
him for yourself, you wouldn't let him be treated like he is----"

"You know where he is!" Sir Tancred almost shouted.

"Why, of course, sir.  I told you in my letters.  He's living with them
Bostocks, out Catford way."

"You must take me to him at once!" cried Sir Tancred; and he rushed
into his bedroom, and came out with a hat and stick.

"Look here, old chap," said Lord Crosland.  "I'm going to clear out for
a few days.  You'd like the kid to yourself at first.  Then I'll come
back and share the rooms if you like."

"Oh, no; it'll be all right," said Sir Tancred, and he hurried Selina
from the room to the lift, from the lift to a cab.

They were no sooner settled in it, and the driver was getting quickly
through the traffic under the stimulus of a promise of treble his fare,
than Sir Tancred turned to Selina, and said quickly: "What do you mean
by saying that I would not let the child be treated as he is?  How's he
treated?"

"I mean that he's starved and beaten, that's what I mean, sir," said
Selina.  "Just what I said in my letters."

"But I was told he was in the hands of respectable people."

"Respectable!" exclaimed Selina: "but I told you in my letters all
about them, sir."

"When did you write to me?" said Sir Tancred.

"First when Miss Pamela died; and then when Mr. Vane died,"--Sir
Tancred saw how his stepmother had obtained the information which
enabled her to get possession of the child,--"and three times since
October."

"Since October!" cried Sir Tancred; he had never dreamed that the
suppression of his letters had continued after his recovery.

"I only found the boy in October," said Selina.

"Look here," said Sir Tancred, "you'd better tell me the whole story
from the beginning.  I didn't get your letters."

"You didn't get them?" said Selina, and her face cleared.  "I thought
you couldn't have, sir.  I knew you wasn't the one to take no notice of
them.  Well, it was like this, sir.  When Mrs. Bostock took the boy
away, I began to worry and worry about him; I kind of pined for him.
Then I thought if I could see him sometimes, I should feel better; and
I never liked the looks of Mrs. Bostock.  She looked like a drinker;
though all the time she was in Jersey with the lawyer she kept sober
enough.  I had got another place in St. Hellers, but I couldn't stand
worrying about him, and wondering if he was well treated.  And I didn't
like the way she wouldn't tell me where she lived.  I had my savings,
too; so I gave up my place, and came to London to look for her.  I knew
she lived in South London from something she let drop; and I took a
room in Lambeth and looked for her in neighbourhoods which would be
likely for her to live in.  But it's a large place, sir, and I was
months and months doing it, moving from neighbourhood to neighbourhood.
I used to trapse and trapse about all day, and at night I used to go
into Publics, the saloon bars as well as the common bars, for I didn't
know which class she really belonged to.  I went into hundreds of
Publics, but I never set eyes on her.  Then, last October, when I'd
nearly come to the end of my savings, I saw her going into a Public at
New Cross.  I couldn't believe it; it seemed too good to be true.  I
thought I must have made a mistake; I daren't go in, for fear she
should know me; and I thought she never would come out.  When she did
come out, and I saw it was really 'er, I nearly fainted right away; but
I follered 'er, and she went from Public to Public with two shops in
between, and it was nearly ten o'clock when she took the tram, and past
eleven when she got to her cottage at Catford, for she stopped at two
more Publics.  But I walked about all night, for I wasn't going to take
no chances; and next morning I found, sure enough, that the child was
there.  But he was that changed, and he didn't know me."  Her harsh
voice sank to the mournfullest tone; and she paused.

Sir Tancred said nothing, he could say nothing; he was amazed and
profoundly touched by the persistence of this passionate, single-eyed
devotion in this hard-featured, harsh-voiced, rugged creature.

"Well, sir," Selina went on, "I moved to Eltham, and took a room.  I
soon found out what sort the Bostocks were.  Every Saturday they drew
two pounds for the keep of the child; and they were hardly ever sober
till Thursday.  And they starved the child, sir; and sometimes they
beat him.  Now and then, when they were drunk, I've got food, good food
to him.  But not often, for he was their livelihood, and however drunk
they was, they kept an eye on him; mostly he's locked up in a bedroom.
I wrote to you, sir, three times, and waited and waited for answers
till I was sick at heart; and things was getting worse and worse.  I
couldn't have stood it any longer; I was just going to steal him and
carry him off somewhere where I could look after him without no one
interfering.  But I thought I'd see you, and tell you about it first.
And now, sir, if you'd let me have charge of him"--her eyes fairly
blazed with eagerness--"I'd look after him properly--I would, indeed.
And I shouldn't want no two pounds a week--why, five shillings, five
shillings would be ample, sir.  I'm a capable woman, and I can get as
much charring as ever I can do."

"Of course, you shall have charge of him," said Sir Tancred.  "You seem
to be the only person in the world who has any right to have charge of
him."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Selina in a husky voice; and she dabbed at
her eyes.

"It's not for you to thank me; it's for me to thank you," said Sir
Tancred.

"Oh, no, sir!" said Selina quickly.  "I know what gentlemen are.  I've
been in service in good houses.  They have their sport and their
pleasures; and they can't attend to things like this."

"I've been looking for him for six months--ever since I knew that I had
a child," said Sir Tancred in a very bitter voice.

"Have you now, sir?" said Selina.  "Ah, if I'd only known, and come to
you!"

Her story had tided them over the greater part of their journey; and
for the rest of it they were silent, Sir Tancred immersed in a bitter
reverie, Selina sitting with a hand on each knee, bent forward, with
shining eyes, breathing quickly.

Towards the end of their journey she had to direct the cabman; and past
the last long row or little red-brick villas, in a waste from which the
agriculturalist had retired in favour of the jerry-builder, they came
to the goal, three dirty, tumble-down cottages.  The cab stopped at the
third cottage; Selina sat back in the seat and pulled down her veil, in
case Mrs. Bostock should recognise her; Sir Tancred got down and
knocked at the door.  A long-drawn snore was the only answer.  He
hammered on the door with his cane till he heard the grating of a chair
on a brick floor; the door opened, and a blowsy, red-faced woman peered
at him with blinking eyes.

"You have a little boy here in your charge.  I've come for him," said
Sir Tancred.

The woman only blinked at him stupidly.

"I've come for the little boy," said Sir Tancred loudly.

A look of drunken cunning stole into the woman's muddled face.  She
said thickly, "There ain't no lil boy 'ere," and tried to shut the door.

Sir Tancred thrust it open with a vigour which sent her staggering into
a chair, and stepped into the squalid, reeking room.  Hunched up in a
chair, opposite the woman, sat a snoring man.

"Come!" said Sir Tancred.  "I want no nonsense!  Where's the child?"

A dull, muddled rage gathered in the woman's eyes; she made an effort
to rise on quite irresponsive legs.  "Halbut!" she howled.  "Halbut,
wake up!  Here's a thief an' a burglar trying to steal the brat!"

The man grunted, and jerked out of his sleep with the mystic word,
"Washishish?"

"It'sh burglarsh, Halbut!" cried the woman, who seemed suddenly to see
two or more Sir Tancreds.  "They're shtealing bratsh!  Bash 'em!"

Halbut jerked onto his feet, and stood lurching:

"Englishmansh oush ish ish cashle," he said, with a ferocity which
petered out in an idiotic grin.

"Thash it!  Bash 'em!" cried the woman.

Halbut advanced in a circular movement on Sir Tancred, with his fists
up; "Englishmansh oush ish ish cashle," he said firmly.

Sir Tancred lunged smartly at his chest with his cane; and he tumbled
down with his face to the wall.

"Englishmansh oush ish ish cashle," he said drowsily to the wainscot,
and was still.

Sir Tancred took the woman gingerly by the shoulder, and gave her a
shake.  "Where's the child?" he said.

Apparently he had shaken the fumes up and the intelligence down, for
her only answer was a burst of sibilant incoherence.

With an exclamation of impatient disgust he loosed her, and went into
the back room.  It was empty.  He went up the rickety stairs, and, as
he had expected, found the door of the bedroom locked.  He kicked it
open and went into the frowsy room.  The child was not in it.  He came
downstairs and opened the back door.  As he did so, he heard a
scuttling rustle.  The garden was empty, but the rustle he had heard
set him exploring the dirty, rag-covered hedge with keen eyes.  He saw
nothing, and walked down the garden, stooping and peering into the
bottom of the hedge.  Half-way down it his eyes fell on two little
black feet, just sticking out; and above them two frightened eyes
stared through the twigs.

Sir Tancred put his hands in among them gently, and drew out a tiny
child; his peaked little face was black, his thin little arms and legs
were black, he was clothed in filthy rags; and his yellowish hair was a
tangled mat.  The child struggled like a very feeble little wild beast,
clawing and scratching, but silent with a terrible silence which showed
how he had learned to dread drawing attention to himself.

"Quiet! quiet!  I'm not going to hurt you," said Sir Tancred in a
gentle voice, a little husky with a piercing emotion which had invaded
him; and something in its tones really did quiet the child, for he
struggled no more, though his breath came in a quick, faint, terrified
panting.

Sir Tancred took him through the house, and felt a quivering throb run
through him at the sight of the brutes who had fallen back into their
drunken slumbers.  He brought him out to the cab, and said hoarsely to
Selina, "Is this the child?"

"That's him, sir!  That's him!" said Selina, holding out her hands for
him; and the tears of joy trickled down her rugged cheeks.

Sir Tancred gave him to her, bade the cab-man drive to the Hotel Cecil,
and got into the cab.

Selina had untied the brown-paper parcel, and was putting a little coat
on the child.  "I took the liberty of getting it to bring him away, in
case you should let me have charge of him," she said.

The child still panted, but most of the terror had faded from his eyes;
he had recognised his friend.  Sir Tancred looked at him hungrily; his
soul, so long starved, was feasting on the sight of that atom of
humanity, so grimy, so shocking to the eye, but his own child.

"They call you Hildebrand Anne, do they?" he said with a broken, joyful
laugh.  "Tinker's the name for you!"




CHAPTER THREE

TINKER ACCEPTS HIS NAME

The child sat very still on Selina's lap, shrinking back as far as
possible from Sir Tancred.  Selina kept talking to him, and his father
spoke to him several times, but he uttered never a sound.  Once when
Sir Tancred moved suddenly, he threw up his little thin arm to guard
his face; and Sir Tancred swore.

They agreed that he would be happier if they took no notice of him for
a while, and sat quiet.  He seemed relieved, for he sank into an easier
position on Selina's lap, and presently they saw him stroke his coat
with a caressing gesture, as though its softness pleased him.  After a
long while, he sat up, looked at the horse, said in a quaint, thin
whisper, "Gee-gee--mine like gee-gee"; and then looked swiftly round
with frightened eyes, fearful lest he had drawn attention to his
existence.

Suddenly he began to blink, then, lulled by the motion of the cab, he
fell asleep.  They sat quiet, and had reached a more civilised part of
London, when Sir Tancred said, "Do you think I could hold him without
waking him?"

Selina nodded, and lifted him into his arms, and so they came to the
Hotel Cecil.

When the cab stopped, the child awoke frightened, and at once began to
struggle.  Sir Tancred handed him over to Selina, who soothed him, and
carried him to the lift.  As soon as they were in his rooms, Sir
Tancred rang for a waiter, and when he came, bade him bring up bread
and hot milk at once.  The child heard the words and said plaintively,
"Mine hungly!  Mine hungly!"

"All right, my lamb," said Selina.  "You shall have dinner very soon."

When the waiter brought the bread and milk, Selina prepared it, and sat
down at the table with the child on her knee.  In a flash his grimy
little hands were in the basin, and he was thrusting the bread and milk
into his mouth with both of them.  Selina pushed the bowl out of his
reach, and fed him with a spoon, very slowly, nor did she give him
much.  Sir Tancred watched his ravenous eating with a constricted
heart.  When she had given him as much as she thought good for him,
Selina put the bowl out of sight.  The look of supreme content on his
little face was even more pathetic in its extravagance than his
ravenous hunger.  He curled himself up on Selina's lap, surveyed the
room for a while with drowsy eyes, and fell asleep.

Sir Tancred opened the note from Lord Crosland, which he had left
unheeded on the table; it ran:

"DEAR BEAULEIGH:

"I have moved myself and my belongings to 411 and 412, till you have
got things arranged.  I'm off to Lord's for the day, but shall dine at
the Cecil.  Let us dine together.

"Yours sincerely,

"CROSLAND."


Sir Tancred felt relieved, and grateful for Lord Crosland's
thoughtfulness.

"We shall be able to have these rooms to ourselves," he said to Selina.

"Yes, sir," said Selina.  "And he'll want some clothes.  When he's had
a little sleep, and I've given him a bath, I'd better go out and get
some."

"No: I'll go now myself," said Sir Tancred.  "Then, when he's had his
bath, they'll be ready for him."

He hurried down into a cab, and drove to Swan & Edgar's.  There he
bought the finest little vests and petticoat and frocks and socks and
coats they could find him.  On his way back with his purchases he
remembered shoes, stopped the cab at the boot-maker's, and bought a
dozen pairs.  When he came back to his rooms, followed by two waiters
loaded with parcels, he heard a splashing in the bathroom, and when
they had set down their loads and were gone, Selina came to him and
said, "I should like you to come and look at him, sir."

She had been crying.

Sir Tancred went into the bathroom, and found Hildebrand Anne splashing
in the bath: "Hallo, Tinker," he said cheerfully, and turned sick at
the sight of the wales and bruises about the thin little body.

"Look at that, sir," said Selina fiercely; and she touched the worst of
them.

The child winced at her touch, gentle as it was, and said in his
quaint, thin voice, "Halbut did do that.  Mine not like Halbut.  No:
mine not like Halbut."  And he shook his little head vigorously.

Sir Tancred groaned, and wished with all his heart that he had taken
advantage of his brief meeting with Halbut to give him a sound
thrashing.  Then he thought with a vindictive satisfaction how bitterly
the brute would feel the loss of liquors consequent upon the loss of
his income.  He went out, rang for a waiter, and bade him send for a
doctor.

When the doctor came he examined the bruises, and felt all the tiny
bones carefully.  He declared that none of them were broken and that,
in spite of having been starved, the child was sound and healthy.  The
moment the doctor's grip on him loosed, Tinker wriggled off his knee
and fled to Selina, who carried him away along with a selection from
the parcels to dress him.

"A bad case," said the doctor.  "But I've seen worse, much worse.  I
hope you'll put the matter into the hands of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children, and have the parents
prosecuted--picked him up in the gutter I suppose."

"I haven't made up my mind about prosecuting them," said Sir Tancred.

"Oh, have them prosecuted!  Have them prosecuted!  It stops others,"
said the doctor.  "And besides, they might get the cat: it's the only
thing brutes of this kind understand."  Then he added thoughtfully,
"There's one uncommon thing about this child--quite uncommon."

"What's that?"

"His vitality--he ought to be in bed, half-dying, with those bruises,
and starved as he is.  But you saw how he struggled to get away from
me.  Well, I'll write you a prescription for as strong a tonic as I
dare give a child."

He wrote the prescription, promised to be round every morning, and took
his fee.  As he went away he said, "Someone ought to get six month's
hard labour for maltreating him."

After a while Selina brought in Tinker, dressed in his new clothes,
with his mat of hair cut close to his head.  He was still grimy--many
baths were yet needed before he would be clean; but Sir Tancred saw
that, once clean, and his peaked face filled out a little, he would be
a very pretty baby.  His features were fine, his eyes of a deep blue,
his head was small and well-shaped, and the close-cut hair clustered
about it in little curls.

He clung to Selina's gown, and Sir Tancred bade her sit down, and see
what he would do.  It was a long time before he stirred from her side,
and then only a little way, moving with a curious, stealthy gait,
casting fearful glances at Sir Tancred.  He was attracted by the bright
stuffs which covered the furniture, and went from piece to piece,
stroking it.  Then he saw himself in the unnecessarily mirrored door of
the sideboard, and surveyed his image with an almost excited curiosity,
and, it almost seemed, approbation.

[Illustration: He surveyed himself with an excited curiosity.]

An idea struck Sir Tancred; he went out, took a cab, came back with an
armful of toys, and set them in the middle of the room.  The child
stared and stared at them with great eyes.  After a long while, in his
stealthy, timid way, he made a few steps towards them, and scuttled
back to Selina.  He sallied out again, came nearer to them, and fled
back.  In the fourth attempt he carried off a little horse, and escaped
with it behind the sofa.  There he played with it, or rather sat
hugging it, stroking it, or fingering it, in a dead silence.  Sir
Tancred watched his every movement, his every expression, missing
nothing; his eyes could not have enough of him.

Twice again Selina fed him, and twice he was again ravenous.  At
half-past six she put him to bed.

Sir Tancred dressed for dinner, made arrangements for the feeding of
Selina, and went into the smoking-room.  There Lord Crosland found him,
and they dined together.  After dinner Lord Crosland pressed him to go
to a theatre or a music-hall; but Sir Tancred would not: the
discoveries of the day had left him no heart for amusement.  He saw
Lord Crosland set out in search of diversion; came back to his room,
and sent Selina to her supper, while he watched over the child.  He sat
by the window, looking up the river, and smoking, in an unhappy
reverie.  Now and again he went and looked long at his sleeping boy.

When Selina came up from her supper he heard for the first time the
story of his wife's death, and received her last message, which had
been so long delivering.  It was no little comfort to him in this
revival of sorrow to hear that she had learned of the accident which
prevented him from coming to her, and, sure of their ultimate meeting,
had come to bear patiently their separation.  And the knowledge that
she must die without seeing him again had come to her in the merciful
and indifferent weariness so often the forerunner of death.

When he had heard, and heard again, all that Selina could tell him, he
gave her a cheque for five hundred pounds, putting aside her
protestations that she had never looked for it, and would rather not
have it, with the declaration that he had actually written out the
advertisement offering that reward for information about his missing
child, when she had brought it.

Long after she had gone to bed, he sat thinking over her story,
immersed in unhappy memories and unavailing regrets, and his bitterness
against his stepmother and uncle grew and grew in him at the ill
treatment his child had endured through their interference and neglect,
to a strength to which his own wrongs had never brought it.

The suppression and ignoring of Selina's last letters was inexplicable
to him; he could only suppose that his stepmother had burnt them on
reading only the signature; or had believed them to be the
misrepresentations of a person trying to supplant Mrs. Bostock.  He
thought for a while of writing to his stepmother out of the fulness of
his heart; and then he told himself that it was no use.  At last he
went heavily to bed.  Three times in the night he awoke, and went and
listened at the door of the boy's bedroom; there was no sound; he was
sleeping peacefully.

After his morning bath Tinker looked a shade less grimy, and even the
few meals he had enjoyed since his rescue had filled out his face a
little.  About eleven it was decided that a walk in the Embankment
gardens would be good for him, and Selina carried him out.  But it was
very soon plain that it was anything but good for him.  Every passer-by
thrilled him with a fresh terror; in three minutes he clung to Selina
panting and gasping with fright, his little fingers gripping her with a
convulsive clutch, his eyes starting out of his head, but all in a
terrible silence.  It was appalling to see such an extremity of emotion
not dare to find a vocal expression.  Quickly they perceived that there
was no reassuring or soothing him; Sir Tancred blindfolded him with his
handkerchief, took him from Selina, and carried him quickly back to the
hotel.  He sat on Selina's lap, recovering very slowly, for nearly an
hour.  Then he got to his toys.

That afternoon Sir Tancred made a search, and discovered a staircase
leading up to the roof.  It was somewhat besprent with blacks; but
there the child could take an airing, unterrified, in a solitude _à
trois_, and in a very fresh air, when a south or west wind blew.

By the afternoon of the next day he had grown used to Sir Tancred, and,
when he was tired of his silent play with his toys, would sit on his
knee in perfect content.  The skin of his face was almost white; now
only his knees were really grimy.

On the evening of the fourth day, as he was having his supper, eating
it with much less of the ravenous fervour of a wolf in winter-time, Sir
Tancred distinctly saw him smile; it was very faint, but it was an
undoubted smile.

Three mornings later Sir Tancred was lying awake, when his door was
pushed wider open, and Tinker stole in:

"Hallo, Tinker!  Come here!  You'll catch cold!  What are you looking
for?" said Sir Tancred.

"Gee-gee," said Tinker.

"Come here, and get warm."

After a little thought Tinker accepted the invitation, and Sir Tancred
lifted him into bed.  He huddled up to Sir Tancred, and presently found
that his unshaven chin was rough, and stroked it with some wonder.

"You _are_ a funny little Tinker," said Sir Tancred fondly.

"Mine Tinker.  Mine Tinker!" said the child with a faint crow.




CHAPTER FOUR

THE TRAINING OF TINKER

Sir Tancred had a very sound theory that the air of London is as
healthy an air as can be breathed in England; but for all that Tinker
enjoyed the best quality of that air, on the roof of the Hotel Cecil,
varied by the ozone of Brighton and the air of many parts of the
country, it was many a long day before he showed a real tendency
towards sturdiness, and outgrew the effects of his privations.  He was
long, too, outgrowing his terror of strangers.

Meanwhile Sir Tancred was trying to slake his intolerable thirst for
distraction, distraction from his memories and regrets, in that section
of London Society which, let us hope, cannot see itself for its own
brilliancy, or hear itself for its own noise, that curious collection
of Princes and millionaires, aristocrats and tradesmen, great ladies
and upper Bohemians, about which the only fitting thing is its title,
found for it by some inspired journalist, of the Smart Set.  There,
where life forever bubbles a cheap and exceedingly dry champagne of a
very doubtful exhilaration, he did now and again find a poor respite
from regret till time blunted the edge of his sorrows.  And when his
sorrow was no longer acute, he had formed a reckless and extravagant
habit of life from which, even when the reason for it had passed, he
never sought to free himself: indeed, it never occurred to him to try.

But he never let his effort to drown his sorrow in the whirlpool of
this strenuous life of pleasure interfere with his care of his little
son; in truth, Tinker's society was his chief relaxation from the
laborious and exacting round.   Wherever he might be, in London, Paris,
Vienna, Monte Carlo, or a country-house, Tinker was at hand, in his
hotel, or lodged in the neighbourhood under the care of the faithful
Selina.

A singularly early riser for one who sojourns in the Polite, or, to be
exact, the Impolite World,--even in London he breakfasted at ten,--Sir
Tancred was able to devote two or three hours every morning to the
child before the serious and exacting pleasures of the day, and, before
three years had passed, he had grown a veritable connoisseur in wooden
bricks, tin soldiers, and composite animals.  However late he returned
at night, he never failed to look at Tinker in his cot in the room
adjoining his bedroom, to assure himself that he was warm enough, or,
if need were, lift him more comfortably on to his pillow.  He watched
him in his childish complaints with more care than the careful nurses
he paid to watch him, or even than the fond and faithful Selina.  And
yet he did not spoil him.

Till Tinker was six years old they were playmates.  Then, little by
little, Sir Tancred found himself drifting into the position of general
instructor, and after a while began to give serious thought to the
matter.  It was not, perhaps, a sound education that he gave the child.
The classical side of it and the commercial were alike neglected; the
historical was forgotten.  The spelling was weak, and the handwriting
was very bad.  But, riding, fencing, and boxing were very carefully
cultivated, with the result that Tinker, though he lacked the lumps of
muscle which disfigured that eminent ancient, might very well have vied
in strength and agility with the child Hercules.

In the matter of languages, by dint of spending some of each year in
the different European capitals, he learned to speak better French than
he did English, for his father enjoyed far better society on the
Continent than he did in London.  In the same way, by sojourning in the
land, he learned to make himself understood in German; and two months
at Rome gave him a fair Italian.  It must be admitted that he was as
bad at spelling in all three of those languages as he was in his own.
Again, his geography was hardly of the ornamental kind; he was entirely
and happily ignorant of the whereabouts of Leeds and Crim Tartary; it
is doubtful whether the Balearic Isles, which most boys of the Western
World could point you out on a map, were even a name to him.  But by
the time he was ten he could so deal with continental or English
Bradshaw that in five or six minutes he could tell you the quickest or
the most comfortable way of reaching any town in which a
self-respecting person would care to find himself, and his knowledge of
steamer-routes and the Great American railways was no less sound.

Besides these accomplishments he was acquiring a wide knowledge of the
world.  By his eleventh birthday, though inexperienced in Lestrygons
and Lotos-eaters, he had seen the cities of more men than that way-worn
wanderer Ulysses at the end of his voyages, and he had no mean
understanding of their disposition.  Besides, as the years went on, Sir
Tancred's debts increased.  To live the really strenuous London life,
you need a great deal of money; and though Fortune, so cruel to him in
love, was kind at Bridge, her kindness was not continuous; and
sometimes the ungracious importunities of his creditors drove him into
retirement in the country.  During these times of exile Tinker was, for
the most part, his only companion, save for brief visits from Lord
Crosland; and since Sir Tancred made a point of talking to him as his
equal in age and experience, he gained from these times of close
intimacy a yet wider knowledge of the world.  These retirements never
lasted long, not long enough indeed for Tinker, who was always happy
enough in the country.  Sir Tancred after a while grew impatient for
the distractions of which he had acquired so deep-rooted a habit.
Moreover, in the country, out of a well-filled country house or
shooting-box, he might at any time fall into the old, sorrowful
brooding on his lost happiness.

The most uncommon part of Tinker's education was the careful
cultivation of his faculty of observation.  Sir Tancred himself had a
natural gift of understanding his fellow-creatures, which, along with
his finer brain, little by little placed him in the noble but
unenviable position of being the first person to whom his friends flew
to be extricated from their scrapes.  He had found that his gift stood
him in such good stead in his varying fortunes that he spared no pains
to equip Tinker with the faculty even more finely developed.

In forming Tinker's manners he was at once aided and hindered by many
women.  The faithful Selina, with all the best-hearted intentions in
the world of spoiling the child, was foiled, partly by Sir Tancred's
watchfulness, and partly by the uncertainty of her own temper.  She was
liable to the sudden, gusty rages of her class; and one of these rages
undid the harm of many days' indulgence.  When, however, Tinker was
nine, she resigned with many misgivings, tears, and upbraidings of
conscience, her charge of him, to marry a middle-aged Parisian
hairdresser of Scotch nationality and the name of Angus McNeill.  Sir
Tancred had far more trouble with the women who fell in love with him;
and many women fell in love with him or thought themselves in love with
him, for his handsome, melancholy face, his reputation for
recklessness, and above all for his cold insensibility to their charm.
In ten years of the strenuous, smart life, his name was never coupled
with that of any woman.  All and each of these made a pet of Tinker,
since they found it the surest way to abate his father's coldness.  On
the other hand the great ladies of the Faubourg de St. Germain petted
him because his seraph's face and delightful manners charmed them;
while any nice woman petted him because she could not help it.

Fortunately Tinker did not like being petted; his sentiments, indeed,
on the matter of being kissed by the effusive verged on the ungallant.
He liked to be a nice woman's familiar friend; his attitude toward her
could be almost avuncular; but if a woman would pet him, he endured it
with the exquisite patience with which his father forever taught him to
treat the sex.  In weaker hands than those of his father, he would
doubtless have become a precocious and irritating monkey, always and
painfully in evidence.  But Sir Tancred and his creditors saw to it
that his life in the world was broken by spells of healthy, boyish
life, and he remained modest enough and simple-hearted.

As to his nerves, though they were always high-strung, the effects of
his cruel treatment as a baby wore little by little and slowly away,
until there was left only a faint dread, or rather dislike, of being
alone in the dark, and a tendency to awake once in a month or so,
crying out from a bad dream.




CHAPTER FIVE

TINKER'S BIRTHDAY BLOODHOUND

Hildebrand Anne came out of the long glass doors of the morning room of
the Refuge, as Sir Tancred had happily named the cottage at
Farndon-Pryze, which he had bought soon after Jeddah won the Derby at a
hundred to one, and whither he retired when he was at loggerheads with
Fortune, or Hildebrand Anne began to look fagged by London life.  His
father was reading a newspaper at the end of the lawn, and he walked
across to him.

Sir Tancred looked up from his paper, and said with a sigh:

"I'm afraid there's no birthday present for you, Tinker."

"That's all right, sir," said Tinker cheerfully.

Father and son made an admirable pair, a pair of an extraordinary
distinction.  Reckless pride and sorrow had impressed on Sir Tancred's
dark, sombre face much of the look of Lucifer, Son of the Morning;
Tinker was very fair with close-cropped golden curls clustering round
his small head, features as finely cut as those of his father, sunny
blue eyes, lips curved like Cupid's bow, and the air of a seraph.  The
name had clung to him from its perfect inappropriateness.  A tinker is
but a gritty sight, and Hildebrand Anne had grown up, to the eye, an
angel child, of a cleanliness uncanny in a small boy.

"Even if there were anything to buy in Farndon-Pryze, our fortunes are
at a low ebb," said Sir Tancred with faint sorrow.

Tinker heaved a sympathetic sigh, and said again, "Oh, that's all
right, sir."

"And the papers offer no suggestions for a new campaign," and Sir
Tancred, looking with some contempt at the score of grey, pink, yellow,
and green sheets which littered the grass around his long cane chair,
fanned himself with his panama; for, though the month was May, the
morning was hot.

"We shall have lots of money soon," said Tinker cheerily.

"Well, I hope so.  It is no use my reading these wretched rags, unless
they put me in the way of a coup."

"We always do," said Tinker with conviction; and he strolled away,
pondering idly the question of riches.

From the end of the garden of the Refuge, Tinker scanned the country
round with dissatisfied eyes.  None of the low hills was hollowed by a
pirates', or brigands', or even a smugglers' cave with its buried
hoard, no ruin tottered above a secret treasure-chamber.  For himself
he did not mind; it was all one to him whether he hunted his prey in
the Champs Elysées or the long, straggling street of Farndon-Pryze.
There were men in both places; and, though the methods of enraging them
were different, they grew crimson to much the same fieriness.  He
found, indeed, an angry Frenchman more entertaining than an angry
Englishman, but he was no epicure in sensations: only, he liked them
exciting.  But he would fain have discovered treasure for the sake of
his father who, as he well knew, did not find in Farndon-Pryze the
entertainment which satisfied his simpler, boyish heart.

As he scanned the unsatisfactory landscape, he heard the sound of
hoofs, and looking round, saw James Alloway, a young farmer of the
neighbourhood, riding along the highway.  His face brightened; the
coast was clear; it was the very morning to play toreador.  In a breath
he was through the hedge, and on the way to the village.  He approached
it after the manner of a red Indian, only pausing to cut a switch from
a hedge.  He had a score to settle with Josiah Wilby, a boy whose
talebearing had procured him his last, well-earned whacking.  Fortune
favoured him: he spied his prey playing in careless security with two
other boys on the village green; crept between two cottages; and was
out on him or ever he was aware of the coming of an avenger.  At the
sight of Tinker, Josiah bolted for home; but he had not gone twenty
yards before the stinging switch was curling round him.  He ran the
harder, howling and roaring; and Tinker accompanied him to the door of
his father's cottage.  As the roaring Josiah rushed in, the infuriated
Mrs. Wilby rushed out, and Tinker withdrew.  From a convenient
distance, he raised his hat, and protested his regret at having had to
instruct her son in the first principles of honour.  Mrs. Wilby took
his politeness as an insult, and with a rustic disregard of his pretty
manners called him a limb, and threatened him with merciless punishment
on the return of her husband.  Tinker shrugged his shoulders, spread
out his hands, gestures he had acquired in France, and hurried off on
his main errand.

He came swiftly to a small field in which there browsed a large and
solitary ram, by name Billy, Tinker's playfellow in the game of
bull-fighting.  With a somewhat unfair casting of the star part, Tinker
always played the matador, Billy played the bull.

Drawing a stout wooden sword, the handiwork of Sir Tancred, who never
dreamed of the purpose it served, from its hiding-place in the hedge,
Tinker slipped over the gate.  Billy greeted his playfellow with an
ill-conditioned grunt expressive of no joy at all.  Tinker saluted,
walked up to within ten yards, and waved his hat at him.  Billy watched
him with a wicked eye, affected to graze, and of a sudden charged with
all his speed.  Tinker sprang aside as the ram's head went down to
butt, and as he hurtled past, prodded him with the sword behind the
shoulder.

Billy pulled himself up as soon as he could check his momentum, and
turned and stood blinking.  Twice he rapped the ground hard with his
forefoot.  Tinker again drew to within ten yards of him; again Billy
charged; and again he was prodded behind the shoulder.  It was a
beautiful game, and Tinker's lightness of foot, quickness of eye, and
coolness of head did every credit to the education he had received from
his father.

It was, indeed, a fine game, but as dangerous as it was fine; if Billy
had once downed the boy, he would never have left him till he had
ground the life out of him.  This Tinker did not know, so that he did
not draw all the excitement out of the game he would have done.  It had
grown more and more dangerous, also; for, by dint of playing it, Billy,
who had started as a fat, clumsy, and sulky beast, had grown thin,
nimble, and vicious.  Alloway, indeed, often declared that he did not
know what ailed the ram; his food never seemed to be doing him any
good, and neither man, woman, nor child dare cross the field in which
he browsed.

The game lasted some twenty minutes; and Tinker's skill, sureness, and
lightness of movement was the prettiest sight.  Sometimes, with a
snorting bleat, Billy would turn sharply at the end of his charge, and
charge again; then the concentration on the matter in hand, which his
father had so carefully cultivated in Tinker, proved a most fortunate
possession: he was never caught off his guard.  But he was beginning to
think that he had had enough of it, and Billy was sure that he had,
when there came a roar from the road, and there sat Alloway on his
horse.  Or rather, he was no longer sitting on his horse, he was
throwing himself off it.

Without one word of thanks to his playfellow for the pleasant game he
had enjoyed with him, Tinker bolted for the further hedge, Billy after
him, and Alloway after both.  Tinker knew the ground, ran for a post
and rails which filled a gap, and skipped over them a few yards ahead
of his energetic playfellow, who stood gazing after him with a rueful
vindictiveness.  Alloway came rushing up, and took no heed of the
disappointed ram, who butted his right leg against the rails with great
promptitude and violence.  Alloway emulated his violence not only in
his language, but by cutting him as hard as he could with the whip he
carried, and rushed on after Tinker.  Tinker could run at an admirable
pace for a boy of eleven, and he was used to keeping it up longer than
the rustic wind would last.  But Alloway was brisker than a farm hand,
or a keeper, and at the end of a couple of fields he began to gain.
Tinker was soon aware of the painful fact, and knew that retribution
was on him.  But, though he could not escape, he could postpone; and
his quick mind leaped to the fact that the more done Alloway was, the
less vigorously would he ply his whip; besides, there was a chance that
he might suddenly collapse.

At the entrance to the village there was a bare fifty yards between
them.  As he came up to the smithy, Blazer, the blacksmith's dog, the
terror of the village, began to bark; and Tinker's saving idea came to
him.  He ran into the yard, and walked quietly up to Blazer, who barked
and strained at his chain with every advertisement of savage fury.
Tinker knew a good deal about dogs; he came quietly up to him, and
tried to pat his head.  Blazer caught at the hand, and Tinker left it
passive in his teeth.  Blazer's teeth bruised the skin, but did not
pierce: and suddenly he realised that he did not know what to do with
it.

With a sheepish air he let it go, and resumed his barking.  Tinker
stepped right up to his kennel, and the barking Blazer danced about him
in an agony of indecision.  Alloway rushed into the yard, and crying,
"I've got you, you young devil!  Have I?" made for Tinker.

Blazer saw a happy way out of his awkward uncertainty, and bit
Alloway's leg.

Alloway jumped back with a roar; and, lashing at Blazer, hopped about.

The blacksmith ran out of the smithy, and took in the situation at a
glance.

"Take away your dog, Green!  Take him away!" shouted Alloway.  "I'm
going to warm the young gentleman's jacket!  He's been worriting my
ram!"

Alloway was a good customer; but Tinker was a familiar friend, and the
astute blacksmith scratched his head at great length before he said
slowly, "If zo be as you've 'it Blaazer, you'll 'av ter tak 'im away
yoursel'.  I dussn't go near 'im; no, not wuz it ever so."

"I'm going to larrup the young limb!" cried Alloway obstinately.

"You'll 'ave to wait, then, till Blaazer gits quiet.  I dussn't meddle
with 'im; an' I'm shoeing Mr. 'Utton's graay maare."  And with a
natural, untrained diplomacy the blacksmith retired quickly into the
smithy.

For a minute or two Alloway cursed and Blazer barked.  Then Tinker sat
quietly down on the threshold of the kennel, and fanned himself with
his hat.  The empurpled Alloway grew purpler at the sight of a coolness
he did not share.

"You young rip!" he roared, dancing lightly in his exasperation, "I'll
larrup you if I stay here till to-morrow morning!"

"If you're speaking to me, Mr. Alloway, you needn't speak so loud.  I'm
not deaf," said Tinker with gentle severity.

Mr. Alloway in his violent, rustic way, uttered a good many remarks
quite unfit for boyish ears.

Tinker paid no heed to him, but chirrupped to Blazer, who came to him
in a wondering sulkiness, and with many protesting growls suffered
himself to be patted.  Alloway put his hands in his pockets, and stood
stolidly with his legs wide apart, a picture of florid manliness and
grim, but whiskered determination.  Some small boys, heavy with their
midday meal, came to the gate of the yard, and in an idle repletion
exhausted themselves in conjectures as to the true inwardness of
Tinker's relation with Blazer, and Alloway's absorption in it.  Twice
the blacksmith came to the smithy door, and a large, slow grin spread
painfully over his bovine face.

Tinker continued to pet Blazer till the surprised and mollified dog sat
down between his feet, and put his head on his knee.  Then Tinker began
to apply that power of concentration in which he had been trained by
his father to the discovery of a method of final escape.  Presently
Alloway went to the gate, and, climbing onto it, sat waiting for his
triumph in a stubborn doggedness.

After a while Tinker said gently, "That's a good horse you ride, Mr.
Alloway."

The farmer said nothing.

"He's young, isn't he?" said Tinker.

An acute and scornful expression of "You don't get round me!" filled
all of the farmer's face that was not covered with whiskers.

"Did you think to tie him up before you ran after me?" said Tinker
earnestly.

Alloway sprang from the gate as though a very sharp nail had of a
sudden sprouted up immediately beneath him, slapped his thigh, and
stood shaking his whip at Tinker with expressive, but starting eyes.

"I dare say he's out of the county by now," said Tinker thoughtfully.

"You young blackguard!" said Alloway, and stepped towards the kennel.
Blazer shot out to the length of his chain; and Alloway, in his fury,
cut him savagely with his whip.  Blazer roared rather than barked; the
noise stimulated Tinker's wits; and he saw his way.

Alloway recovered himself sufficiently to say with choking emphasis,
"Horse, or no horse, you don't get me to leave here!" and went back to
the gate.

Tinker let him climb on it, and then he said gently, "Have you ever
played at being a runaway slave hunted by bloodhounds, Mr. Alloway?"

Alloway scowled at him most malignantly.

"I should think it would be quite an exciting game.  It doesn't really
matter that Blazer's only a bull terrier; we can call him a bloodhound,
you know," Tinker went on, looking at the dog a little regretfully.

Alloway, coddling his fury, scarcely heard him.

"I'll be the slave-owner," said Tinker, fumbling with the chain.

It came out of the staple; and Alloway roared, "What are you doing, you
young rascal?"

"Oh, it's all right," said Tinker.  "Don't be frightened; I'll keep him
on leash till you get a good lead."

Alloway jumped down from the gate, on the other side of it, his anger
changed to uncertainty spiced with discomfort.

Blazer felt the chain loosen, and darted forward, jerking Tinker after
him.

"I can't hold him!" yelled Tinker.

[Illustration: "I can't hold him!"]

Alloway turned, dropped his whip, and bolted up through the village.

Blazer dashed at the gate, clawing it; Tinker got a better grip on the
chain, opened the gate, snatched up the whip as Blazer jerked him
through; and they set off down the road after Alloway.  The farmer ran
better than ever, faster than he had run after Tinker, faster,
probably, than he had ever run before in his life.

Blazer, though Tinker dragged for all he was worth, made a very fair
pace after him.  But by the time they were a hundred yards beyond the
village, the throttling drag began to tell; Blazer slowed down; and
Alloway, still going hard, disappeared round the corner.

Blazer and Tinker fell into a walk, and then stopped.

Sir Tancred Beauleigh, on his quiet way to the village post-office, was
surprised at being nearly knocked down by one of the most respectable
young farmers of the neighbourhood, who was running with the speed and
face of a man pursued by all the tigers of Bengal.  A hundred yards
further on he heard yells and screams, and shouts of laughter; and
coming round a corner, he saw a small boy rolling in recurring
paroxysms of joy on the grass by the roadside, watched by a puzzled
bull-terrier.  He had no difficulty in connecting them with the flying
farmer.

He came up to the absorbed pair unnoticed, and standing over them, said
quietly, "What's the joke, Tinker?"

Tinker sprang to his feet, and wiping away the joyful tears, said, "I
have been playing at hunting runaway slaves."

"Ah, Alloway was the slave?" said Sir Tancred.

"Yes, sir," said Tinker.

Sir Tancred dropped the subject; he knew by experience that the truth
might be painful hearing, and that he would probably hear it from
Tinker's flying partner in the game quite soon enough.

"What are you doing with that dog?" he said.

"I borrowed him," said Tinker.

Sir Tancred looked Blazer carefully over.  "He's a very good dog," he
said.  "How would you like him for a birthday present?"

Tinker's eyes shone as a long vista of scrapes, out of which Blazer's
teeth might help him, opened before his mind.

"Ever so much!" he said quickly.

"Come on, then, we'll go and try to buy him."  And they set out for the
village.

Mr. Green stood in the door of the smithy, and grinned enormously at
the sight of the returning Tinker.  Sir Tancred said, "Good-morning,
Green; do you care to sell this dog?  I'll give you three pounds for
him."

Mr. Green said, "Three pound," and stared helplessly at the cottages
opposite, confused by the need to assimilate, on the spur of the
moment, a new idea.

"Three pounds?" said Tinker quickly.  "Why, he only cost fifteen
shillings a year ago!"

"An orfer is an orfer!" said Mr. Green quickly, his wits spurred at the
sudden prospect of a lowering of the price.  "And I takes it."

As he led away Blazer, with a new proprietary pride Tinker said firmly
to Sir Tancred, "I shall go on considering him a bloodhound, sir."




CHAPTER SIX

THE RESCUE OF ELIZABETH KERNABY

Sir Tancred paused now and again in his leisurely breakfast to scowl
across the dining room at Mr. Biggleswade, who, with his sour-looking
wife and woebegone little girl, was breakfasting at an opposite table.
The Royal Victoria Hotel was second-rate.  The cooking was poor, the
wine was bad, and Solesgate itself was dull.  But these misfortunes Sir
Tancred would have endured cheerfully because the place suited
Hildebrand Anne, who had but lately recovered from an attack of scarlet
fever at Farndon-Pryze, but he could not endure Mr. Biggleswade.  It
was not so much that he had reckoned up Mr. Biggleswade as a large,
fat, greasy rogue, nor was it that no snub once and for all stopped Mr.
Biggleswade from thrusting himself upon him with a snobbish
obsequiousness; it was Mr. Biggleswade's noisy and haphazard methods of
disposing of his food, which left small portions of each course
nestling in his straggling beard, and filled the air with the sound of
the feeding of pigs.

This Sir Tancred found unendurable, and the more unendurable that Mr.
Biggleswade had made up his mind that he enjoyed his meals more in the
presence of a baronet, and always waited for his coming.

Sir Tancred was eating his breakfast mournfully, therefore, reflecting
on the unkindness of Fortune, who had afflicted Tinker with his fever
at so inconvenient a time.  For he had not been able to raise the money
to take him to make his convalescence at one of the more expensive
watering places, whither resort millionaires and the smart, whose
fondness for games of chance and skill would have kept him in careless
luxury.  He had been driven to bring him to Solesgate, a town of six
bathing-machines; and there the rest of his ready money dwindled to a
few shillings.  A sudden cessation of the sound of the feeding of pigs
caught him from his mournful reflections.  He looked up quickly, to see
Mr. Biggleswade staring at his newspaper with a most striking
expression of triumphant greed.

On the instant Sir Tancred filled with the liveliest interest; emotion,
especially curious emotion, in his fellow creatures always aroused his
interest, and not infrequently brought him profit, and Mr.
Biggleswade's emotion seemed to him curiously violent to be excited by
the perusal of a newspaper.  He made half a movement to show it to his
wife, caught Sir Tancred's eye, and setting it down, went on hastily
with his breakfast.  He had not been so quick but that Sir Tancred had
seen that the paper was _The Daily Telegraph_, and the exciting
paragraph on the first page.

Sir Tancred brightened to the rest of his breakfast; he had little
doubt that he was on the track of some roguery or other, and he
promised himself a hunt through the paper till he found it.  When the
Biggleswades, having finished their breakfast, went down to the beach,
he lighted a cigar, took his folding-chair and his pile of newspapers,
and settled down sixty yards away from them.  As he had expected, their
first act was to discuss the newspaper with great animation, handing it
backwards and forwards to one another.  And he took _The Daily
Telegraph_ from his pile, and set about seeking the source of their
excitement.  He passed over the first advertisement in the agony
column, the offer of a reward for the recovery of the stolen child of
Kernaby, the Marmalade Millionaire, merely noting that it had been
raised to 4000 pounds, and came to the conclusion that the second
advertisement was genuine, while the third, which set forth at great
length the woes of a young woman parted from a young man, seemed to him
to read like thieves communicating.  He had begun to eliminate the
superfluous words, when Tinker, with Blazer, his bull-terrier, came
suddenly up to him from behind, and bade him good-morning.

Tinker had breakfasted some three hours earlier, probably in the hotel
kitchen, for, as was his invariable custom, he was on the best of terms
with the servants; and for all that he had spent the intervening hours
on the uncovered slimy rocks, was in his usual state of spotless
cleanliness.  He is the one living boy to whom dirt does not cling.

"How have you been amusing yourself?" said his father, his stern face
lighting up with a delightful smile.

"I'm still teaching Blazer to be a bloodhound.  He's slow--very slow."

Blazer cocked an apologetic ear and sniffed.

"It must be tiring work."

"Yes," said Tinker sadly, and his eyes wandered slowly along the shore.

Sir Tancred flipped the ash off his cigar.

"Those Biggleswades are beasts!" Tinker broke out suddenly when his
eyes fell on them.  "They treat that little girl of theirs shamefully!
When I went to bed last night she was crying again.  She always is.  I
don't believe she's their little girl at all.  I believe they've stolen
her."

"The deuce!" cried Sir Tancred, and catching up his _Daily Telegraph_,
he read again the Marmalade Millionaire's advertisement.  It ran:

4000 POUND REWARD.  4000 POUND REWARD.  4000 POUND REWARD.

The above sum will be paid to any person giving information leading to
the recovery of Elizabeth E. Kernaby, aged seven years.  She strayed or
was stolen in Kensington Gardens between the hours of 10 and 11 a. m.,
on the 19th ultimo.  She is fair with blue eyes, and long flaxen hair,
speaks with a lisp, and answers to the name of Bessie.  Any person
bringing information to Messrs. Datchett & Hobb's, 127, Lincoln's Inn
Fields, or to Mr. Joseph W. Kernaby, 11a, Cadogan Square, will receive:

4000 POUND REWARD.  4000 POUND REWARD.  4000 POUND REWARD.


He laid the paper on his knee, and began to consider the facts of the
kidnapping, as he remembered them from the newspaper reports.  Her
nurse had taken her to Kensington Gardens, where she had foregathered
with the little daughters of Sir William Uglow.  The children's play
had little by little drawn them away from their gossipping nurses,
right out of their sight; and when their nurses went to look for them
they found only the little Uglows; Elizabeth Kernaby had gone.  The
children said that a tall gentleman had come to them and, telling her
that her mamma had sent him for her, had taken her away in a cab.  The
nurse had thought it strange, but suspected nothing wrong till she
reached home and found that Elizabeth had not returned.  She did not
return; and since that day, in spite of all the efforts of Scotland
Yard and the private-detective agencies, nothing had been seen or heard
of her.  The reward offered for her recovery had risen from 1000 pounds
to 4000 pounds.

It had been a crime of a masterly simplicity, and Sir Tancred had been
sure that the child would not be forthcoming till the reward satisfied
the cupidity of the child-stealers.  He had reason to believe that the
present reward did satisfy the cupidity of the child-stealers; and
after a thoughtful glance at the Biggleswades, he turned to Tinker.
Tinker could be of help to him.

He turned to him and said:

"Do you remember my telling you of a little girl, Elizabeth Kernaby,
who was stolen a week or two ago?"

"Elizabeth Kernaby, aged seven, blue eyes, long flaxen hair, speaks
with a lisp, and answers to the name of Bessie," said Tinker glibly, in
the manner of one reciting a lesson.

"Quite right," said Sir Tancred approvingly; "you'll be another
Sherlock Holmes some day.  Well, I have reason to believe that the
little girl with the Biggleswades is Elizabeth Kernaby."

Tinker's face brightened.  "Her eyes are blue, but her hair is black,
and it's not very long."

"Hair can be dyed."

"Yes; and it doesn't match her face."

"It doesn't, doesn't it?  Well, I want to know if she lisps, and if she
answers to the name of Bessie.  You will find out?"

"Yes, I'll find out.  But Mrs. Biggleswade never lets her speak to
anyone.  I must think it out."

With that Tinker sat down; set his elbows on his knees, his chin on his
hands; and plunged into deep thought.  His father sat equally
thoughtful; and their similar employment brought out extraordinarily
their strong likeness, for all that Tinker was a fair, angel child, and
his father's face as dark and proud and stern as Lucifer's.

For a long while neither said a word, nor moved.  Sir Tancred was
trying to see how to work the affair on seven shillings, and debating
whether to call in the help of the police.  Instinct assured him that
he had no time to lose, no time to walk to Beachley and pawn his watch,
that he must not lose sight of them, and in delicate matters he relied
chiefly on instinct.  Mr. Biggleswade would not have looked so
triumphant, had not the 4000 pound reward satisfied him; it seemed
likely that he would leave for town that very day.  On the other hand,
Sir Tancred was averse to going to the police; he knew what the
provincial police were.  What was excellent evidence to him would seem
no evidence at all to them; and they would move too late, or, if they
moved in time, would muddle the whole business, and let the
Biggleswades know they were suspected.  Besides, it hurt his self-love
to seek aid from anyone.  No, the proper game was to rob the robbers,
and he had seven shillings to play it with.

Suddenly Tinker stirred.  "I'm going to try now," he said.

Sir Tancred looked at the Biggleswades.  Mr. Biggleswade lay sprawled
on his back, a handkerchief spread over his face; and mellowed by the
distance, the music of a long-drawn snore murmured over the sands.
Mrs. Biggleswade was nodding over a book.

Tinker rose, bade Blazer stay where he was; and walked off towards the
hotel.  Sir Tancred twisted round his chair, tore a hole in his _Daily
Telegraph_, and watched him.  Tinker fetched a circuit to within a
hundred yards of the backs of the Biggleswades, threw his straw hat on
the sand, dropped on to his stomach, and began to squirm along towards
them, taking advantage of every ridge and hollow.  It was a long
business, but at last he lay in a hollow thirty yards away.  He raised
his head cautiously, and in a low, clear voice said, "Bessie."

The little girl sprang to her feet, and stared about her wildly.
Tinker dropped his head and lay still.  Mrs. Biggleswade, roused from
her napping, caught the child by the arm, and shaking her, said
savagely, "Sit down, you little brat!  Keep quiet!"

The child sank down, and began to cry.

Tinker lay still for a while, and then began, to squirm away.  When he
reached his hat, he rose to his feet, knocked the sand off his clothes,
and walked slowly back to his father.

"She answers to the name of Bessie, sir," he said quietly.

"Good!" said Sir Tancred, and he rose.

They walked down to the railway station; and on the way Sir Tancred
informed Tinker that he was to take Elizabeth Kernaby up to London, to
11a Cadogan Square, and, at a cost of six out of his seven shillings,
bought two half third-class tickets.  On their way back he learned, no
less to his surprise than his joy, that Tinker was the possessor of
eighteenpence.  To make assurance surer, therefore, he bought a basket
of strawberries, and when the Biggleswades returned to the hotel for
lunch, they found the Beauleighs in the porch, eating them.

"Would you like some strawberries, little girl?" said Tinker as they
passed, and he held out the basket to the child.

"Yeth, pleath," she said, and stepped forward to take one.

"No, no, Keziah," broke in Mrs. Biggleswade.  "You know they don't
agree with you!"  And she caught her away, and hurried her into the
hotel.

"Children like sweet things; but they sometimes don't agree with them,"
said Mr. Biggleswade sapiently, his loose and flabby bulk swelling yet
bigger at the thought that he was speaking to a member of the
aristocracy.

"That is very true," said Sir Tancred pleasantly.

Surprised by this affability, but swift to seize on a conversational
opening with a baronet, Mr. Biggleswade stayed talking with him in the
porch; he talked to him all lunch-time: and he talked to him on the
sands after lunch.  His unbridled appetite for the society of the
aristocracy proved his undoing.  For at a few minutes to three Sir
Tancred proposed a stroll along the shore.  They went slowly, Mr.
Biggleswade rising to the great social occasion for which he had so
long hankered, and proving himself, in his talk, a thorough man of the
world.

As they passed round the promontory at the end of the little bay, and
Sir Tancred took out his handkerchief, Tinker was awaiting the signal,
impatient, but cool; and as they passed out of sight, he began to steal
up behind the drowsy Mrs. Biggleswade and presently, touching the child
on the shoulder, beckoned her to come with him.

She looked timidly at Mrs. Biggleswade whose eyes were closed, and
rose.  Tinker drew her quietly away.  They had not gone twenty yards
when a jerking nod awoke Mrs. Biggleswade, and she missed the child.
She scrambled up, turned and saw her, and cried, "Come here, you
naughty girl.  Come here at once!"

"Are you Bessie Kernaby?" said Tinker to the child.

"Yeth, yeth," she said, turning to go to her tyrant.

Tinker gripped her arm, and cried, "Pstt!  Pstt!  Hold her, Blazer!
Hold her!" and waved him at Mrs. Biggleswade.

Blazer darted forward, growling with a fine show of teeth.

Mrs. Biggleswade, like a wise woman, stood stock-still, and sent a
shrill scream ringing down the shore, and another, and another, and
another.

Tinker caught Elizabeth's hand and cried, "Come on!  Come on!  We've
only just time to catch the train!"  And the two children set off
running to the station.

On the edge of the sands Tinker stopped for a moment, whistled shrilly,
brought Blazer racing after them, and ran on again.  He could hear the
far-away rattle of the express.

Mr. Biggleswade was too deeply engrossed in his talk with Sir Tancred
to notice the first half-dozen screams from his wife; and they came
faintly round the promontory.  Then he heard them, said, "By Jove!
that's Maria!" and started to run back.  Sir Tancred ran by his side.
When they came round the promontory they saw Mrs. Biggleswade waving
frantically towards the station, and half-way to it two little figures
running.  Mr. Biggleswade showed himself a man of action.  He swung
round, and, with the swiftness of an accomplished boxer, dealt Sir
Tancred an unexpected blow on the side of the head which knocked him
over half-stunned, and almost in the same moment started to run after
the children.  He was half a mile from them, and they were less than a
quarter of a mile from the station, but naturally he ran much faster.

As the children reached the platform the express steamed in.  Tinker
hurried his prize into an empty third-class carriage, in the forepart
of the train, and pushed the ticketless Blazer under the seat.  Then he
put his head out of the window, and saw to his disgust Mr. Biggleswade,
his coat-tails flying, two hundred yards from the station, yelling
lustily, but making a very good pace indeed for his flabby bulk.  The
doors were shutting, and Tinker watched the guard breathlessly.  When
he whistled, Mr. Biggleswade had yet fifty yards to go.  At the sound
he yelled louder than ever, and made a tremendous spurt.  The train was
well on the move when he rushed into the station; but he dashed at a
compartment in the last carriage, wrenched the door open, scrambled on
to the footboard, and tumbled in, amidst the shouts of the indignant
porters.

Tinker drew in his head with a blank face.  It had been no part of his
father's plan that Mr. Biggleswade should travel by the same train to
London, and his heart sank a little.  But remembering Blazer, his
spirits rose, and he turned to the little girl with a cheerful face.
She was panting, crying, and wringing her hands in a paroxysm of
nervous excitement.  He sat down beside her, thumped her on the back--a
way he had with tearful females--wiped away her tears with his
handkerchief, and poured comforting assurances of safety into her ears.

[Illustration: He poured comforting assurances of safety into her ears.]

When at last he had soothed her he began to question her, and drew from
her the story of her captivity.  She had driven miles and miles with
the gentleman who had fetched her from Kensington Gardens, to a little
house in a long street.  There she had found the Biggleswades.  Mrs.
Biggleswade had taken away her nice clothes, and dressed her in these
common things.  Then she had cut off her hair.

"I was wondering about your hair," interrupted Tinker.

For answer the little girl lifted up her black locks, hat and all;
displayed a fuzzy little fair poll underneath them, and let them drop
on it again.

"I see," said Tinker, and he went on with his questioning.

She had stayed with the Biggleswades, shut up in a room upstairs, she
did not know how many days; and then they had come down to Solesgate.
All the while Mrs. Biggleswade had been very unkind to her, and slapped
her whenever she cried for her mother.

The remembrance of her misfortunes set her crying again, and again,
with quiet patience, he consoled her.  Presently she was babbling
cheerfully of her home, her mother, and her dolls, and asking many
questions.  He made the replies politeness demanded, but he lent an
abstracted ear to her talk, for he was considering different plans for
escaping Mr. Biggleswade, most of them useless by reason of the
slowness of Elizabeth.  He could only make up his mind that they must
dash for a cab as quickly as they could, and trust to Blazer for
protection.

It seemed to him a very long journey; and even when he had made his
plan, he found it no little task to take his part in the conversation.
As the train ran into London, he told her that Mr. Biggleswade was in
the train, and they must bolt for the cab.  At once she was all panic
and tears, and he had much ado to brace her for effort before the train
slowed down at the terminus.  Before it had stopped he was out of the
carriage, helping her down.  They ran towards the barrier; but the
platform was long, and Elizabeth was slow.  While they were yet thirty
yards from it, Mr. Biggleswade was on them.  With a savage blow he sent
Tinker flying, caught up the screaming Elizabeth, and dashed on, crying
loudly, "The nearest hospital!  The nearest hospital!  My little girl!
My little girl!"

Everyone made way for him; but Tinker picked himself up, bolted after
him, hissing on Blazer, took a flying leap on to his back, and locked
his arms round his neck in a strangling grip, as the prompt and nimble
Blazer buried his teeth in his calf.  Mr. Biggleswade dropped Elizabeth
and tore viciously at Tinker's hands.  The passengers and porters came
crowding round, and the moment the throng was thick enough, Tinker
dropped to his feet and gripped Elizabeth by the arm, shouting,
"Police!  Police!"

Mr. Biggleswade struggled to choke Blazer off his leg.  A police
inspector pushed through the crowd, and cried, "What's all this?"

"The young rascal has enticed away my little girl, and brought her up
to London!" cried Mr. Biggleswade, who had divested himself of Blazer,
and was holding him off by the collar; and with the other hand he
grabbed at Elizabeth.

"It's a lie!" cried Tinker, as the inspector grasped his shoulder.
"This is Elizabeth Kernaby!  He stole her!"  And on the words he jerked
off her hat and wig.

At the sight of the fuzzy little bare poll light slowly dawned on the
inspector; but even more quickly Mr. Biggleswade had seen that the game
was up, flung Blazer away from him, and bolted through the barrier.
The Inspector rushed after him; but Blazer, who apparently had not had
enough of Mr. Biggleswade's calf, outstripped him, and pinned the
fugitive on the very step of a hansom.

When Tinker and Elizabeth, escorted by an excited and applauding crowd,
came out of the station they found Mr. Biggleswade, the inspector, two
constables, and Blazer in a tangled, battling group.  Tinker saw his
chance of escaping any further aid from the police, thrust Elizabeth
into a hansom, gave the cabman the address, whistled Blazer out of the
fight, jumped in after her, and drove off amid the cheers of the crowd.
By the time the dishevelled police had Mr. Biggleswade secured, and
could turn their attention to them, the children were half a mile away.

Tinker's hands had been torn by the savage rascal, and on the way to
Cadogan Square he was busy staunching their bleeding.  By tearing his
handkerchief in two he managed with Elizabeth's aid to bandage both;
but he was vexed that they must make such an unpleasant appearance
before her relatives.  When they reached Cadogan Square he paid the
cabman, and rang the bell; but when the door opened, Elizabeth assumed
the leadership.  She caught Tinker's hand, dragged him past the
astonished footman, hurried him up the stairs, and burst with him into
a drawing room, where half a score of mournful people were discussing
over their tea the further measures for her recovery.

"I've come back, mamma!  And this is Hildebrand Anne Beauleigh, but his
real name is Tinker!" cried Elizabeth.

In a breath Mrs. Kernaby had her in her arms; there were screams and
pantings, and a bandying to and fro of smelling salts.  Everyone was
hugging Elizabeth, or shaking hands with Mr. Kernaby, or slapping one
another on the back and assuring one another that they had always said
so.  Tinker watched their exuberance with some distaste, which
redoubled when Elizabeth's tangled and incoherent tale drew upon him
the embraces of half a dozen animated and highly scented ladies of the
kind who haunt the houses of unprotected millionaires.  When at last
quiet was restored, he told his story, omitting as many of his own
doings as were not absolutely necessary to make it clear, in a fear
lest they should provoke another outburst of embraces.

When he had clearly grasped the fact that Tinker was the son of Sir
Tancred Beauleigh, all the warm-heartedness of his native Drumtochty
bubbled up in Mr. Joseph Kernaby; he shook him warmly by the hand, and
cried:

"Mah mannie; eh, but you're a braw sonsie laddie; an' aiblins ye need
it, nor yoursel' nor any o' your noble an' deesteengueeshed family
shall ne'er ask the twice a wee bit bite or soop unner this humble
roof."

Tinker, not having the Gaelic, was somewhat taken aback by the cryptic
utterance; but an anxious-looking younger son of an embarrassed peer,
who for a considerable consideration was bear-leading the millionaire
through the social labyrinth, hurriedly interpreted it to him as a
standing invitation to dinner.  He thanked Mr. Kernaby, and begged that
a telegram might at once be sent to his father, informing him of his
success and safety.

"They tallygrams they yanners the saxpences, mah mannie," said the
millionaire with a falling face.  "A poostcaird is a verra----"

But the anxious-looking younger son cut him short, said that it should
be sent at once, and bade the footman charged with its despatch bring
also a doctor to dress Tinker's wounded hands.

Meanwhile Sir Tancred, as soon as he learnt that Mr. Biggleswade had
caught the express, had hurried hot-foot in a devouring anxiety to
Beachley, where dwelt a pawnbroker, raised money, and caught there a
train to town.  When he reached Cadogan Square he found Tinker making
an excellent tea after his exhausting labours, and giving an account of
the Biggleswades to a detective from Scotland Yard.  When he had heard
Sir Tancred's story, too, the detective said that Mr. Biggleswade would
get five years; and the event proved him right.

There was no getting away from the grateful Kernabys, but after the
cooking of the Royal Victoria hotel Sir Tancred was more than ready for
a good dinner.  He found in his host and hostess a strong disposition
to adopt Tinker forthwith; and before the end of dinner he found them
no less inclined to adopt him, too.  But it could not be.

After dinner, disregarding the faint expostulations of the
anxious-looking younger son, the millionaire rose to his feet and
pronounced a glowing, fervid, but, save for the couplet,

  "The rank is but the guinea stamp
  The maan's the maan for a' that"

unintelligible eulogy on the family of Beauleigh.

As he drove away with Tinker to the Hotel Cecil, Sir Tancred crinkled
the millionaire's cheque in his waistcoat pocket, and said, "Four
thousand pounds is a good day's work--two thousand for you--and two
thousand for me.  We'll move to Brighton.  But I spent some of the most
horrible hours of my life wondering if that beast had got into the same
compartment with you.  None of the fools at the station could tell me."

"I was afraid you'd be anxious, sir," said Tinker, patting his arm.
"But I think that Blazer and I could have dealt with him."

Then he gave Blazer--who, distended by the fat of the land, was snoring
heavily through happy dreams of the human calf, at the bottom of the
cab--a gentle kick, and said with sad severity, "I shall never make a
real bloodhound of Blazer.  Bloodhounds leap at a man's throat; they
don't collar him by the leg."




CHAPTER SEVEN

THE STOLEN FLYING-MACHINE

"You vas a vonder-child!" said Herr Schlugst.  "You know dat machine as
good as me!"  And his goggle eyes stared out of his round, good-natured
face at Hildebrand Anne in a wondering admiration.

"Yes; I think I have got the hang of her," said Hildebrand Anne with
some pride, looking up at the great cigar-shaped balloon which hung
motionless in the still air.

"Vat for do dey call thee Tinkar?  You vas not look like a tinkar; and
you vas not haf--do not haf de tinkar brain."

"Well, I've been called Tinker ever since I can remember; and one
name's as good as another," said Hildebrand Anne indifferently.  "But
you'll let me cross over to Paris with you to-morrow, won't you?"

"I vill not!  I vill not!  Dere is de danger!  De great danger!  We
must vant de calm dat ees dead!  I take no von vith me but mine own
self!  And I vas not vould go, not for nodings; but I vas vant de
tousand pounds.  Dere is my leetle girl to be lived and educate."

"But I do so want to be one of the first to cross the Channel in a
flying-machine," said Tinker plaintively.

"Ach, to be vurst! to be vurst!  Dat is you English top and toe!  Do I
vas hunt de orchid to be vurst discoverer?  Not mooch.  I hunt him for
money.  Do I cross de Channel in my machine to be vurst?  Nein, nein.
I cross him for de tousand pounds.  And you I vould not take, no, not
for de oder tousand pound.  Bah!  You vas not at all von vonder-child;
you vas von foolish!  Good-night, mine young friend, good-night."  And
Herr Schlugst went into the galvanised iron hut where for the time
being he lived, watching over his precious machine.

The Tinker came out of the palisade which surrounded it, and walked
down the cliff into Brighton quite disconsolate; he could not see how
to get his way.  He came into the Paragon Hotel and dressed for dinner
as sulky as a naturally cheerful soul could be.  He showed no readiness
to talk, and his father presently condoled with him on his lowness of
spirits.  Tinker said briefly that he had had a disappointment.

"Ah, they are terrible things, disappointments, when one is eleven
years old," said Sir Tancred.  "Later in life they lose their edge."

On his words there came into the dining room a rotund, middle-aged
Jewish gentleman, coated with dust and wearing a harassed air.

"Look," said Sir Tancred, "that's Blumenruth, the Jungle millionaire."

The financier gazed gloomily round the room, looking for a table.  At
the sight of Sir Tancred, an idea seemed to strike him, his face
brightened a little, and he came to them.

"How do you do, Sir Tancred Beauleigh?" he said, shaking hands warmly.
"May I dine at your table?  I want a word with you, a word which may be
profitable to both of us."

"By all means," said Sir Tancred in the manner he always adopted
towards profitable financiers of Hamburg extraction, a manner extremely
condescending, without being offensive.

The financier sat down; smudged the dust across his face with a
coloured silk handkerchief; and breathed heavily.  Then he looked at
Tinker as though he would like him sent away.

"Anything you may say before him will go no further," said Sir Tancred,
quick to mark the meaning of the look.  "Let me introduce you.  Mr.
Blumenruth, my son Hildebrand."

The financier bowed, but he still looked unhappy at Tinker's presence.
A waiter brought him some soup, and he began upon it hurriedly.  Sir
Tancred went on with his dinner in a tranquil indifference.  The
financier finished his soup: looked again at Tinker, and burst out:
"Well, it can't make any difference!  I want your help, Sir Tancred,
and you're the one man in England who can help me; you're used to these
things."  And he smudged the dust on his face a little more.

Sir Tancred murmured politely, "Only too pleased."

"I must be in Paris either to-night or to-morrow morning for an hour's
talk with Meyer before the Bourse opens.  And I must leave England
without anyone knowing I've left it.  It may make a difference to me
of--of a hundred thousand pounds."

"Pardon me," said Sir Tancred suavely.  "I like my clients to be open
with me.  It will make a difference of ruin.  The Cohens have you in a
hole."

The millionaire gasped, "My goodness! how did you know?  It means
ruin--or--or I make a hundred thousand."

"I see," said Sir Tancred.  "Well?"

"I left London quietly in a motor-car.  Before I'd gone twenty miles, a
racing Panhard, stuffed with private detectives--men I've sometimes
employed myself"--he almost sobbed at the thought--"passed me; and
another came up, and dropped back to a mile behind.  They're here in
Brighton.  I'd given it up; I was going to dine here, sleep the night,
and go back to London to fight it out--not that it's of any use unless
I can see Meyer--when I saw you.  I'll give--I'll give five thousand
pounds to anyone who can get me across to Paris secretly.  It's
here--in my pocket."  And he tapped his breast.

Sir Tancred thought earnestly for fully five minutes; then he said, "It
can't be done."

"Don't say so! now don't," said the financier, "The money's here!
Here!" and he again slapped his breast pocket.

"It's no use," said Sir Tancred.  "I might smuggle you out of the
hotel; but there isn't any sort of vessel, steamer, steam yacht, or
launch to take you across."

"Let's go to Dover in my car!"

"What's the use?  The detectives would follow in theirs."

The financier groaned, and some large tears ran down his face.  He bent
his head to hide them; and for all that he was not pleasant to look
upon, Tinker felt sorry for him.

"Cheer up, man," said Sir Tancred.  "You can always begin again!"

But the financier would not be heartened.  He made a wretched dinner;
after it he followed Sir Tancred into the billiard room, and steadily
drinking brandies and sodas, watched him play pool.  At eleven he went
to bed.  Tinker had gone to bed long before, but his door was just
open, and he saw the financier go into his room.  Five minutes later he
stole across the corridor, and, without knocking, opened the door and
went in.  The financier was sitting at a table, gazing through a mist
of tears at a nice, new nickel-plated revolver.  He had no real
intention of blowing his brains out, but with the childlike, emotional
spirit of his race, he had persuaded himself that he had, and was
luxuriating in his woe.

"What do you want?" he moaned.

"I've come to show you a way of getting to Paris," said Tinker, closing
the door softly.

"Mein Gott!" cried the millionaire, relapsing into his vernacular in
his excitement.  "How?  How?"

"By Herr Schlugst's flying-machine."

"A flying-machine!  Is the boy mad?"

"No, I'm not.  I've been with Herr Schlugst on three trial trips; and
the last two he let me work it most of the time.  It's as easy as
winking, once you know how to do it, and he says I understand it as
well as he does.  It's all ready for the journey.  We've only got to
get into it without waking him; and he sleeps like a log."

"Mein Gott!  Mein Gott!  What a plan!  I'm to fly in the air with a
little boy!  Oh, good gracious me!  Good gracious me!  What am I to
do?"  And he stamped up and down, wringing his hands.

"It's that or the revolver," said Tinker sweetly.

The financier clutched at his hair and raved: fear and avarice,
conflicting, tore at his vitals.  He owed his millions to no genuine
force of character, but to luck, industry, and dishonesty.  In this
great crisis of his life he was helpless.  Tinker, trained from
babyhood by his wise father to study his fellow creatures, understood
something of this, and began to goad him to the effort.

"It's a lot of money to lose," said he thoughtfully.

"The sweat of my brow!  The sweat of my brow!" groaned the financier,
who had really made it by the nimbleness of his tongue.

"And it seems a pity to blow your brains out, which hurts a good deal,
before you've tried every chance," said Tinker.

The financier groaned.

"At any rate, if we did come a cropper, you'd be no worse off."

"Ah!" cried the financier, stopping short.  "Why shouldn't I wake Herr
Schlugst, and get him to take me?"

"Because he won't," said Tinker quietly.  "He told me that nothing
would induce him to try a flight in the night.  He's all right in the
daytime, but the darkness funks him.  Foreigners are like that; they'll
go to a certain point all right, but there they stop.  That's what I've
noticed.  I notice these things, you know."  He spoke indulgently.

It never occurred to the financier to doubt him; he was already a
little under the influence of the cooler head.  He walked up and down a
little longer; and Tinker said no more.  He had been taught to leave
people to themselves when he saw them beginning to come to his way of
thinking.

At last, with a horrible grimace which showed the depth of his agony,
the financier cried, "I'll come!  I'll come!  I'll trust my life--oh,
my precious life--to you.  After all, you rescued the Kernaby child;
and you had to fight to do it!  I'll risk it!  Oh, my money!  My money!"

"Very good," said Tinker.  "I'll come for you at half-past twelve.  Put
on your warmest great-coat.  It'll be cold."  And he slipped gently out
of the room.

Five minutes later the distracted financier rang his bell, and ordered
a bottle of 1820 liqueur brandy.  It was the best thing he could have
done: a private detective, who was sitting on guard in a room lower
down the corridor to see that he did not go downstairs again, believed
him to have thrown up the sponge, and to be drowning his sorrow, and
allowed himself to become immersed in the current number of the _Family
Herald_.

As was his practice, Sir Tancred, on his way to bed, looked in on
Tinker, and found him sleeping the profound sleep of youth and
innocence.  But no sooner did he hear his father in bed and still, than
he rose from that profound sleep of youth and innocence, dressed, even
to his great-coat.  He took a letter from his pocket, and put it
prominently on the dressing-table.  It ran:

DEAR FATHER:

I have taken Bloomenroot to Parris in Herr Shlugst flyingmacheen.
Bring him to meet me at the Ifell Tower.

Your affectionate son
  TINKER.


Then, with his boots in his hand, he stole across to the financier's
room.  Thanks to the brandy, the financier looked very much wound up.
Tinker bade him write on a sheet of notepaper, "Don't call me till
eleven," pinned it on the outside of his bedroom door, locked it, and
took the key.  He left the sitting-room door unlocked.  Then he opened
the window, and, followed by his protégé, who was already shivering
with dread, he stepped out on to the balcony with the air of the leader
of an army.  The balcony ran round the hotel, as a way of escape during
a fire; it was broad, and since the night was starry, but fairly dark,
they were little likely to be seen from below by the detectives
watching the hotel doors.  They walked round to the back, came through
a window into a bathroom, through the bathroom on to the servants'
staircase, and went right down into the basement.

"I get up early in the morning before the servants, and I had to find a
way out," said Tinker in an explanatory whisper.

He led the way through the kitchen into a long passage, set with the
doors of cellars on either side.  At the end of the passage was a short
ladder with rounded iron rungs, by which barrels were lowered, and
Tinker, mounting three rungs, pushed back a bolt, raised the heavy trap
a little, and peered about from under it.

"The street's clear," he said.  "Come on!"

He slipped out on to the pavement, helped the clumsy financier through
the trap, caught his hand, and ran him across the street into a narrow
lane.

"There!" he said cheerfully.  "That's the most difficult part of the
business!  You're out of the hotel, and not a soul knows it!"

The financier's spirits brightened.  Tinker had shown him his mettle,
and he began to have confidence.  Besides, he had drunk a good deal of
the bottle of brandy.  They hurried through the town by byways, and up
on to the cliffs.  As they neared the palisade, and saw the great bulk
of the balloon looming through the starlight, the panting financier's
spirits sank: his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together.

"Oh, buck up!  Buck up!" said Tinker impatiently.  "You're all right!
You're all right!"

It was a matter of a few seconds for him to climb the door of the
palisades, drop lightly on the other side, and open it.  He steered the
financier gingerly round the planes, past the propelling and steering
fans, and got him into the car.  He set him well forward in the bows of
it, and began to let the rope unwind from the windlass which moored the
flying-machine.  All the while he heard the steady snores of Herr
Schlugst, sleeping in his iron hut.

The flying-machine rose slowly with very little creaking for all the
greatness of the planes; the last of the rope ran out, and the lights
of the town sank like stones in water beneath them.

"Right away!" cried Tinker joyfully, and the financier gasped.

When the lights of the town were a mere blur beneath them, Tinker
switched on the electric lamps, and the millionaire saw him sitting on
a wicker seat in the stern of the boat-shaped car, surrounded by
levers, instruments, and dials.  Tinker bade him grip the steel rails
on either side of the car, and get ready for a swoop.  Then he set the
motor going, and steered round the flying-machine on to her course.
She rose and rose, moving steadily forward at the same time, far above
the sound of the waves of the Channel.

Now Herr Schlugst did not rely so much on his propeller for speed as on
his skilful adaptation of the principle on which the bird swoops.  When
the aneroid told Tinker that the car had reached the height of 3000
feet, he opened a valve, and let the gas escape slowly from the
balloon.  The instant she began to sink he switched to a slight
downward angle the great planes, some seventy feet long, which were
fixed parallel to the car.  The machine began to glide downwards on
them, gathering momentum from the weight of the car, at a quickly
increasing speed, until she was tearing through the air at the rate of
forty miles an hour, and sinking a hundred feet in the mile.  The
financier sat hunched up, gasping and shivering as the air whizzed past
his ears and shrilled among the ropes.  Tinker, with an air of cheerful
excitement, kept the machine on her course, and watched the aneroid:
his face of a seraph was peculiarly appropriate to these high
altitudes, though the millionaire was too busy with his fears to
observe the fact.

In half an hour the machine had rushed down to five hundred feet above
the sea: Tinker switched the planes to the same angle upwards: and the
momentum drove her up the incline of the air with little diminished
speed.  Then he turned a tap and let the stored gas, compressed in an
aluminum cylinder, flow into the balloon, and restored the whole
machine to its former buoyancy.  Moving more and more slowly the higher
it rose, the flying-machine once more gained the height of 3000 feet,
and once more swooped down from it.  At the beginning of the upward
sweep, Tinker said, "Another swoop like that will bring us to Paris."

The financier, who had spent the time qualifying for a place among the
invertebrates, only groaned.  Tinker was disgusted; but he said, "Cheer
up!  You're the first man who has ever crossed the Channel in a
flying-machine.  You'll be in the History books!"

The car rose and rose: Tinker had just resolved to swoop from 3500 feet
this time, when of a sudden she rose out of the windless area into a
stiff breeze, icily chill.  They learnt what had happened by the
balloon bumping down on their heads with apparent intent to smother
them, and in a breath the car was spinning round, and jerking furiously
to and fro.  The millionaire screamed and bumped about the car, and
bumped and screamed.  Tinker set his teeth, jammed the flying-machine
into the teeth of the wind, switched down the planes, and tried to
drive her down.  It was no use; she was whirled along like a piece of
thistledown.  Then he opened the valve and let her sink.  In three
minutes she had fallen below the wind, and was shooting swiftly on the
downward swoop.  The financier was staring at him with a frenzied eye.
Tinker closed the valve, and said with a joyous brightness, "She was
quite out of control for a good five minutes!"

[Illustration: "She was quite out of control for a good five minutes!"]

The financier frankly gave it up; with a rending gasp he fell back in a
dead faint.

Tinker shrugged his shoulders, regulated the pace of the machine by
letting gas flow from the cylinder into the balloon till it was of the
proper buoyancy, then roped the senseless financier to the bottom of
the car, and came back to the helm.

The wind they had risen into had been blowing towards the east, so they
had not lost ground during their tossing, but they had been driven
south of their course, and he did not know exactly how to get back to
it.  On the dark earth beneath he could see towns as blurs of light on
all sides of him, but no one of them was big enough to be Paris.  He
let the machine swoop on down to five hundred feet, and up again.  On
the upward course, from fifteen hundred feet he saw a great blur of
light on the northern horizon: it was Paris, and he was swooping past
it.  He steered the machine round without taking the way off her, and
swooped down towards the city.  At the end of the swoop he was already
over the suburbs, and he switched off the electric lamps.  He took the
way off the machine by switching up the planes; and then, using only
the propeller, circled round, seeking for the Eiffel Tower.  Presently
he saw it looming through the first dim grey light of the dawn, steered
over it, let fall a grapnel, and hooked it into the railings which ran
round it; took a turn of the rope round the windlass, and wound the
machine down to within twenty feet of the top.  Then he went to the
financier, unroped him, and kicked him in the ribs ungently.

As he kicked, saying, "Get up! Get up!" an astonished voice below
cried, "Qui vive?"

Looking over the side of the car Tinker saw dimly the figure of a
gendarme, and said briskly, "Santos-Dumont!"

"Vive Santos-Dumont!" cried the gendarme with enthusiasm.

Tinker went back to the financier, and kicked him again.

"Where am I?  Where am I?" he murmured faintly.

"On the top of the Eiffel Tower," said Tinker.

"What?  Saved!  Saved!" cried the financier, for all the world as
though he had been in a melodrama; and he sat up.

"I should like the five thousand pounds, please," said Tinker, brought
back by the touch of earth from his aerial dreams to cold reality.

"Five thousand pounds!" cried the financier, every faculty alert at the
mention of money.  "No, no!  How am I to get five thousand pounds?
Five hundred now!  Five hundred pounds is an enormous sum--an enormous
sum for a little boy, or even fifty!  Yes, yes; fifty!"

"That's really very tiresome," said Tinker very gently.  "I never
thought you'd be so foolish as to leave all that money in empty rooms
in an hotel.  Well, well, we must fly straight back and get it.  I hope
we shall have as good luck as we had coming over."  And he turned to
the levers.

"Here! here! here!" screamed the financier; tore a button off his coat
in his haste to get at his breast pocket; whipped out his notecase, and
with trembling fingers took five notes from the bundle which stuffed
it, and thrust them into Tinker's hand.

Tinker counted them, made sure that each was for a thousand pounds, and
put them in his pocket.  Then he looked down at the gendarme, and said
in French:

"I want to drop my assistant.  Will you conduct him to the bottom of
the tower?"

"Mais oui!  Avec plaisir, Monsieur le Comte!" cried the gendarme,
striking himself hard on the chest to show his eager enthusiasm.

"Merci bien," said Tinker, lowering the rope ladder.

The gendarme held it steady, and the financier descended gingerly.
When he was off it, and the gendarme had loosed it, Tinker said "Au
revoir! and mind you wire to my father at once, and let the grapnel
rope slip out of the windlass."  Lightened of the financier, the
machine shot up into the air.

Tinker's task was done: he had only to restore the machine to Herr
Schlugst; but he had a long while to wait.  He realised suddenly that
he was hungry and very, very sleepy.  By letting some gas escape, he
reduced the machine to a controllable buoyancy, and set about warming
the coffee which the thoughtful Herr Schlugst had ready made.  Then
with brown bread, butter, and German sausage, he made an excellent
breakfast.  It was light by the time he had finished; and he set about
looking for a sleeping-place, for he could not keep awake long.  A wood
on a hill some miles away seemed to him the spot he sought.  He swooped
gently for it, and was soon anchored to a tree-top and sleeping
peacefully.  It was past noon when a shouting awoke him.  He looked
down to find the wood full of people, four or five bold photographic
spirits in the tree to which he was anchored, but nowhere near his
grapnel, which was among the smaller branches.  The roads leading to
the wood were choked with bicycles, motor-cars, and pedestrians; and a
station near was disgorging a crowd of people from an excursion train.
It was time to be going.

He cut the grapnel rope, and started leisurely for Paris.  He reached
it in about an hour, and circled about it, observing it from above.
Then he came to the Eiffel Tower, and practised steering round it, to
the great joy of an excited and applauding crowd which thronged its top
and stages.  It was a great moment.  He steered away over Paris, made a
meal of the coffee, brown bread, and sausage left, and came back.

He was growing tired of waiting, and was meditating crossing over the
top of the tower and pouring a little water from the ballast tank on
the sympathetic crowd, when he saw his father and Herr Schlugst forcing
their way through it.  At once he rose above the tower and let down the
grapnel.  A dozen hands seized it, and drew down the machine.  Tinker
let the stored gas flow into the balloon to allow for Herr Schlugst's
extra weight; and lowered the rope-ladder.  The bursting Teuton came
clambering up it, forcing down the car and planes by his weight on to
the heads of the crowd, which was forced to hold them up with a
thousand hands.

"Ach, you young tevil my machine to sdeal!" he cried, tumbling into the
car.

"You shouldn't have refused to take me with you," said Tinker,
preparing to slip over the other side on to anyone's head.

"What haf you broke?  What haf you broke?" cried Herr Schlugst, looking
round at the instruments with a practised eye, and seeing them unharmed.

"Nothing.  What should I break anything for?" said Tinker scornfully.

"No; dere is nodings broke, schoundrel.  But vere--vere is mine von
tousand pound?  I ask you!  Vare is mine von tousand pound!  You haf
ruined me!  Ruined me!"

"Oh, that's all right!" said Tinker.  "I had a passenger who paid his
fare.  Here are two thousand pounds."  And he gave him two of the notes.

Herr Schlugst opened his mouth and stared at the notes, "Doo tousand
pound!  Doo tousand pound!" he muttered thickly.  "You vas von
vonder-child!  Von vonder-child!"

Tinker bade him good-bye, and slipped out of the car, leaving him to
fly to some smooth place in the environs, where he could dismantle his
machine.  Sir Tancred was too thankful for Tinker's safety to be very
angry with him: and they descended the tower surrounded by gendarmes,
who were put to it to preserve Tinker from the embraces of excited
persons of either sex.  One fat Frenchman, indeed, kissed him on both
cheeks, crying, "Vive le rosbif! vive le rosbif!" before he could ward
him off.

At the bottom of the tower Mr. Blumenruth, radiant and triumphant,
burst through the throng, flung himself upon them, and dragged them to
a smart victoria which awaited them.  He told them joyously that he had
cleared eighty-seven thousand pounds, and protested that they should be
his guests at his hotel as long as they stayed in Paris.  On the way to
it Sir Tancred got down to buy some cigars, and he was barely in the
shop when the financier said in a jerky way to Tinker, "I saw a very
neat little motor-car, which I should like to make you a present of.
But I say--I don't want you to tell anyone--how--how ill I was up
there.  My spirit was all right, of course; but that rarefied
air--acting on business worries--produced a state of nervous
prostration.  I--I wasn't quite myself, in fact."

Tinker looked at him with intelligent interest, and, closing one of his
sunny blue eyes, said thoughtfully, "Nervous prostration?  Is the motor
a Panhard?"

"Yes," said Mr. Blumenruth.

"If you hadn't been so--so--upset, I've no doubt you'd have sailed the
machine yourself," said Tinker warmly.




CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BARON AND THE MONEY-LENDER

Sir Tancred would only stay four days in Paris with the grateful
Blumenruth, because he wished Hildebrand Anne to have the sea air, for
it seemed to him that he had not yet got back his full strength after
the scarlet fever.  They returned, therefore, to Brighton, and when the
weather grew hotter, removed to the more bracing East Coast.  Tinker
was for sharing the three thousand pounds he had made out of his trip
in the flying-machine equally with his father; but Sir Tancred would
not hear of it.  Chiefly to please him, however, he borrowed a thousand
of it at five per cent., and invested the rest in Tinker's name.  With
this thousand-pound note and three notes of fifty pounds, he paid off
the loan of a thousand pounds which he had borrowed from Mr. Robert
Lambert, a money-lender, five years before, with the balance of the
interest up to date, and found himself once more unencumbered save for
a few small debts, and with plenty of money for his immediate needs.

During August and September they stayed at different country houses;
and Fortune being in a kindly mood, the money remained untouched.  In
the middle of October they came to London to their usual rooms in the
Hotel Cecil; and Sir Tancred was one morning at breakfast disagreeably
surprised to receive from Mr. Robert Lambert a demand for the immediate
payment of 1450 pounds.  At first he thought it was a mistake, then he
remembered that he had paid Mr. Lambert in notes; and that Mr. Lambert
had promised to get at once from his bank the promissory note on which
the money had been borrowed, and send it to him.  The promissory note
had not come, and the matter had passed from Sir Tancred's mind.  Now,
he perceived that, if Mr. Lambert chose to deny that payment, he was in
no little of a plight.

After breakfast, therefore, he took a hansom, and drove to Mr.
Lambert's office.  The worthy money-lender received him at once, and
with no less delay began to deny with every appearance of honest
indignation that he had been paid the debt.  Sir Tancred grew
exceedingly disagreeable; he set forth with perfect frankness his
opinion of Mr. Lambert's character, declared that he would rather go to
that uncomfortable abode of contemptuous debtors, Holloway, than be
swindled in so barefaced a fashion; and exclaiming, "You may go to your
native Jericho, before I pay you a farthing, you thieving rascal!" went
out of the office, and banged the door behind him.

The worthy money-lender smiled an uncomfortable and malignant smile at
the banged door, and at once gave instructions to his manager to take
proceedings.  Sir Tancred explained the transaction to Tinker; warned
him against laxness in matters of business; prepared for immediate
flight; and they caught the midnight mail from Euston.  By the time an
indefatigable bailiff had ascertained next day that they had left
London, they were eating their dinner, in a secure peace, at Ardrochan
Lodge in Ardrochan forest, which Sir Tancred had borrowed for the while
from his friend Lord Crosland.

Hildebrand Anne was used to long periods unenlivened by companions of
his own age; and he began forthwith to make the best of the forest.
Some days he stalked the red deer with his father; some days were
devoted to his education, fencing, boxing, and gymnastics; and on the
others he explored the forest on a shaggy pony.  It was of a
comfortable size, forty square miles or thereabouts, stretches of wild
heath, broken by strips of wood, craggy hills, and swamps, full of
streams, and abounding in many kinds of animals.  It was an admirable
place for Indians, outlaws, brigands, and robber barons, and Tinker
practised all these professions in turn, with the liveliest
satisfaction.

At first it was something of a tax on his imagination to be a whole
band of these engaging persons himself; with one companion it would
have been easy enough, but his imagination presently compassed the
task.  And when he found his way to the Deil's Den, a low stone tower
on a hill some six miles from Ardrochan, his favourite occupation was
that of robber baron.  It would have been more proper to put the tower
to its old use of a lair of a Highland cateran; but, to his shame,
Tinker funked the dialect with which such a person must necessarily be
cursed.

The Deil's Den had earned its name in earlier centuries from the bloody
deeds of its first owners.  No gillie would go within a mile of it,
even in bright sunshine.  Tinker's carelessness of its ghosts, a
headless woman and a redheaded man with his throat cut, had won him the
deepest respect of the village, or rather hamlet, of Ardrochan.  Twice
he had constrained himself to wait in the tower till dusk, in the hope
that his fearful, but inquiring, spirit would be gratified by the sight
of one or other of these psychic curiosities.

It was a two-storied building, and its stone seemed likely to last as
long as the hills from which it had been quarried.  In some thought
that it might be used as a watch-tower by his keepers, Lord Crosland
had repaired its inside, and fitted it with a stout door and two
ladders, one running to the second story and another to the roof.  From
here the keen eyes of Hildebrand Anne, Baron of Ardrochan, scanned
often the countryside, looking for travelling merchants or wandering
knights; while his gallant steed Black Rudolph, whose coat was drab and
dingy, waited saddled and bridled below, and Blazer the bloodhound
sniffed about the burn hard by.  Blazer had a weakness for rats quite
uncommon in bloodhounds.

Tinker cherished but a faint hope that Fortune would ever send him a
prisoner, even a braw, shock-headed lad, or sonsie, savage lassie of
the country.  But he did not do justice to that goddess's love of
mischief.  It was she who inspired into Mr. Robert Lambert the desire
to shine in the Great World; and it was she who gave him the idea of
taking for the season Lord Hardacre's house and forest of Tullispaith,
in lieu of the cash which he would never get.  Thither he invited
certain spirited young clients, who had practically only the choice of
being Mr. Lambert's guests at Tullispaith or King Edward's at Holloway.
Thither he came, a week beforehand, to make ready for them.

At once he set about becoming an accomplished deer-stalker.  For three
days he rode, or tramped, about the forest of Tullispaith, in search of
red deer which, in quite foolish estimate of their peril, insisted
always on putting a hill between themselves and his rifle.  On the
fourth day he rested, for though his spirit was willing, his legs were
weak.  This inactivity irked him, for he knew the tireless energy of
the English sportsman; and at noon Fortune inspired him with the most
disastrous idea of all, the idea of taking a stroll by himself.  He
took his rifle and a packet of sandwiches, and set out.  Now to the
unpractised eye any one brae, or glen, or burn of bonnie Scotland is
exactly like any other brae, or glen, or burn of that picturesque land.
He had not gone two miles before he had lost his way.

He did not mind, for he was sure that he knew his direction.  He was
wrong; he may have been like his Oriental ancestors in some of his
qualities, but he lacked their ingrained sense of orientation; and he
was walking steadily away from the house of Tullispaith.  He rested
often and he looked often at his watch.  He passed over the border of
Tullispaith into the forest of Ardrochan, and wandered wearily on and
on.  The autumn sun was moving down the western sky at a disquieting
speed, when at last he caught sight of the Dell's Den, and with a new
energy hurried towards it.

At about the same time Hildebrand Anne, the robber baron of Ardrochan,
caught sight of him, mounted Black Rudolph, and rode down to meet him,
ready to drag or lure him to his stronghold.  The angel face of Tinker
had never looked more angelic to human being than it looked to the
weary money-lender.  He had never seen him before; therefore, he had no
reason to suppose that that face was not the index to an angelic
nature.  Unfortunately, Tinker knew by sight most of his father's
friends and enemies, and at the first glance he recognised the squat
figure, the thick, square nose, and muddy complexion of Mr. Robert
Lambert.

"My lad," said the money-lender, failing to perceive that he was
addressing one of the worst kind of man in all romance, "I've lost my
way.  I want to get to the house of Tullispaith.  Which is the road?"

"There is no road; and it's eight miles away," said Tinker, knitting
his brow into the gloomy and forbidding frown of a robber baron.

"Eight miles!  What am I to do?  Where is the nearest place I can get a
conveyance?"

"It would be a twenty-mile drive if you got a cart, and there's no cart
nearer than Ardrochan, and that's six miles away."

"Well, then, a horse, or a pony, and a guide?"

"You could get a pony at Hamish Beg's; and one of his sons could guide
you."

"Where does he live?  How can I get there?"

"Three miles the other side of that tower."

"Will you show me the way?  I'll give you--I'll give you half-a-crown."

"Hildebrand Anne of Ardrochan is not the hired varlet of every
wandering chapster," said Tinker with a splendid air.

"I'm not a wandering chapster," said the money-lender.  "I'm a
gentleman of London.  I'll give you five shillings--half a sovereign--a
pound!"

"The offer of money to one in whose veins flows the proudest blood of
the North is an insult!" said Tinker in a terrible voice.

"No offence!  No offence!" said Mr. Lambert, cursing what he believed
to be the penniless Highland pride under his breath.

Suddenly Tinker saw his way.  "From the top of yon tower I can show you
the path to Hamish Beg's.  Follow me," he said, turned his pony, and
led the way up the hill with a sinister air.

With a groan, the money-lender, quite unobservant of the sinister air,
breasted the ascent.  He set down his rifle by the door of the tower,
and followed Tinker up the ladders.

"You see those two pine trees between those two far hills?" said Tinker.

Mr. Lambert drew round his field-glasses, and after long fumbling,
focussed them on the pines.  "Well?" he said.

There was no answer; he turned to his angel guide, and found himself
alone on the tower.  He ran to the top of the ladder and looked down.
At the bottom stood Tinker regarding him with an excellent sardonic
smile: "Ha! ha!" he cried in a gruff, triumphant voice,
"Trapped--trapped!"  And he turned on his heel.

The money-lender heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock.  He
ran to the parapet, and saw Tinker mounting his pony with an easy grace
and the air of one who has performed a meritorious action.

"Hi!  Hullo!  What are you up to?" cried Mr. Lambert.

"Foul extortioner!  Your crimes have found you out!  You have consigned
many a poor soul to the dungeon, it is your turn now," said Tinker with
admirable grandiloquence.  Then, dropping to his ordinary voice, he
added plaintively: "Of course it's not really a dungeon; it ought to be
underground--with rats.  But we must make the best of it."

"Look here, my lad," said Mr. Lambert thickly.  "I don't want any of
your silly games!  I shall be late enough home as it is.  You unlock
that door, and show me the way to this Beg's at once!  D'ye hear?"

Tinker laughed a good scornful laugh.  "Lambert of London," he said,
returning to the romantic vein, "to-night reflect on your misdeeds.
To-morrow we will treat of your ransom.  Hans Breithelm and Jorgan
Schwartz, ye answer for this caitiff's safe keeping with your heads!  I
charge ye watch him well.  To horse, my brave men.  We ride to
Ardrochan!"  And he turned his pony.

[Illustration: "To-night reflect on your misdeeds.  To-morrow we will
treat of your ransom."]

The money-lender broke into threats and abuse; then, as the pony drew
further away, he passed to entreaties.  Tinker never turned his head;
he rode on, brimming with joyous triumph; he had a real prisoner.

Mr. Lambert shouted after him till he was hoarse, he shouted after him
till his voice was a wheezy croak.  Tinker passed out of sight without
a glance back, and, for a while, that iron-hearted, inexorable man of
many loans, sobbed like a child with mingled rage and fear.  Then he
scrambled down the ladder, and tried the door.  There was no chance of
his bursting it open; that was a feat far beyond his strength; and
though he might have worked the rusted bars out of the window, he could
never have forced his rotundity through it.  Then he bethought himself
of passers-by, and hurried to the top of the tower.  There was no one
in sight.  He shouted and shouted till he lost his voice again; the
echoes died away among the empty hills.  He leaned upon the parapet
waiting, with the faintest hope that the diabolical boy would tire of
his joke, return, and set him free.  Again and again he asked himself
who was this boy who had recognised him in this Scotch desert.

The dusk gathered till he could not see a hundred yards from the tower.
Then he came down, struck a match, and examined the bottom room; it was
being borne in upon him that he was destined to spend the night in it.
It was some twelve feet square, and the stone floor was clean.  In one
corner was a pile of heather; but there was no way of stopping up the
window, and the night was setting in chill.

He went back to the top of the tower; it was dark now.  He shouted
again.  The conviction of the hopelessness of his plight was taking a
strong hold upon him, and he was growing hungry.  He stamped wearily
round the top of the tower to warm his chilling body, pondering a
hundred futile plans of escape, breaking off to consign to perdition
the deceptive angel child, and meditating many different revenges.  At
the end of an hour he went down the ladder, and flung himself on the
pile of heather in a paroxysm of despair.

Till nearly ten o'clock he went now and again to the top of the tower,
and shouted.  He was beginning to grow very hungry.  At ten o'clock he
buried himself in the heather, and slept for an hour.  He awoke cold
and stiff, and his sensitive stomach, used to the tenderest indulgence,
was clamouring angrily.  He was learning what the cold and hunger,
which, by a skilful manipulation of the laws of his adopted country, he
had been able to mete out to many foolish innocents with no grudging
hand, really were.  He went to the top of the tower, and shouted
fruitlessly; he warmed himself by stamping up and down; then he came
and slept again.  This was his round all the night through: snatches of
uneasy sleep, cold and hungry awakenings, shoutings, and stampings
round the top of the tower.

Meanwhile Tinker had ridden joyously home, and shown himself in such
cheerful spirits during dinner that Sir Tancred had observed him with
no little suspicion, wondering if it could really be that he had found
opportunities of mischief even in a deer-forest.  After dinner Tinker
went into the kitchen, where he found Hamish Beg supping.  He talked to
him for a while, on matters of sport; then he said, "I say, you told me
about the headless woman and the red-headed man with his throat cut, at
the Deil's Den, but you never told me about the man in brown who shouts
and waves from the top of the tower, and when you come to it, it's
empty."

Hamish, the cook, and the two maids burst into a torrent of
exclamations in their strange language.  "Yes," said Tinker, "a man in
brown who shouts and waves from the top of the tower, and when you come
to it, no one's there."

He kept his story to this, and presently came back to his father,
assured that the more loudly Mr. Lambert yelled, and the more wildly he
waved, the further would any inhabitant of Ardrochan fly from the
Deil's Den.  He went to bed in a gloating joy, which kept him awake a
while; and it was during those wakeful moments that a memory of "Monte
Cristo" suggested that he should gain a practical advantage from what
had so far been merely an act of abstract justice.

It was past eleven when Tinker came riding over the hills at the head
of his merry, but imaginary men.  Horribly hungry, but warmed by the
sun to a quite passable malignity, the money-lender watched his coming
from the top of the tower, pondering how to catch him and thrash him
within an inch of his life.  He did not know that far more active men
than he had cherished vainly that arrogant ambition, but Tinker's
cheerful and confident air afforded little encouragement to his purpose.

"Halt!" cried the robber baron, reining up his pony.  "Hans and Jorgan,
is your captive safe?  Good.  Bring him forth."  He turned to his
invisible band.  "To your quarters, varlets!  I would confer alone with
the usurious"--he rolled the satisfying word finely off his
tongue--"rogue."

Hand on hip he sat, and watched his merry figments dismount and lead
away their horses.

He turned, and frowned splendidly on the prisoner.  "What think ye of
our hospitality, Lambert of London?" he said.

Mr. Lambert scowled; his emotion was too deep for words.

Suddenly Tinker dropped the robber baron, and became his frank and
engaging self: "I'm sorry to be so late," he said with a charming air
of apology, "but I had to send a message to Tullispaith to say that you
would not be back till Saturday, or perhaps Monday."

"What!" screamed Mr. Lambert.  "What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn't want them to hunt for you.  I'm going to keep you here
till you do what I want," said Tinker with a seraphic smile.

"You young rascal!  You mean to try and keep me here!" screamed Mr.
Lambert, jumping about in a light, but ungainly fashion.  "Oh, I'll
teach you!  I'll make you repent this till your dying day!  You think
you can keep me here!  You shall see.  The first shepherd, the first
keeper who passes will let me out.  And I won't rest"--and he swore an
oath quite unfit for boyish ears--"till I've hunted you down!"

"No one will come within a mile of the Deil's Den," said the unruffled
Tinker.  "It's haunted by a headless woman and a redheaded man with his
throat cut.  But perhaps you've seen them.  Besides, I've told them
that there's a man in brown who shouts and waves, and then disappears
when anyone comes to the tower.  Why, if they see you, they'll run for
their lives."  He spoke with a convicting quietness.

Mr. Lambert doubled up over the parapet in a gasping anguish.

"You're not going to leave here till you give me a letter for your
clerk, telling him to hand over Sir Tancred Beauleigh's promissory
note," said Tinker.

Mr. Lambert rejected the suggestion in extravagant language.

"You bandy words with me!" cried the Baron Hildebrand Anne of
Ardrochan.  "Lambert of London, beware!  Think, rash rogue, on your
grinders!  Hans and Jorgan, prepare the red-hot pincers!  You have a
quarter of an hour to reflect, Lambert."

He flung himself off his pony, tethered it, strode down to the spring
which trickled out of the hillside some forty yards away, and came back
bearing a big jug full of water.

Mr. Lambert watched him in a bursting fury, at whiles scanning the
empty hills with a raging eye.  Suddenly light dawned on him: "Are you
the boy who stole the flying-machine?" he cried.

"You mind your own business!" said Tinker tartly; it was his cherished
belief that he had borrowed the flying-machine.

Mr. Lambert understood at last with whom he had to deal; and the
knowledge was not cheering.  His angry stomach clamoured at him to come
to terms, but his greed was still too strong for it.

"The time is up, Lambert of London!" said Tinker presently, very
sternly.  "Will you ransom your base carcase?"

The money-lender turned his back on him with a lofty dignity.

"Ha! ha!  Hunger shall tame that proud spirit!" said the Baron of
Ardrochan.

Suddenly the money-lender heard the door opened, and he dashed for the
ladder.  He scrambled down it in time to hear the key turn again, but
the jug of water stood inside.  He took it up and drank a deep draught.
He had not known that he was so thirsty, never dreamed that water could
be so appetising.  He heard Tinker summon his men, and when he came
back to the top of the tower, he was riding away.  He watched him go
with a sinking heart, and, since he was so empty, it had a good depth
to sink to.  Twice he opened his mouth to call him back, but greed
prevailed.

The day wore wearily through.  His spoilt stomach was now raving at him
in a savage frenzy.  Now and again he shouted, but less often as the
afternoon drew on, for he knew surely that it was hopeless.

As the dusk fell, he found himself remembering Tinker's words about the
headless woman and the redheaded man, and began to curse his folly in
not having come to terms.  At times his hunger was a veritable anguish.
This night was a thousand times worse than the night before.  His
hunger gave him little rest, and he awoke from his brief sleep in fits
of abject terror, fancying that the redheaded man was staring in
through the window; he saw his gashed throat quite plainly.  He grew
colder and colder, for he was too faint with hunger to stamp about the
top of the tower.  Later he must have grown delirious, for he saw the
headless woman climbing up the ladder to the second story.  It must
have been delirium, for the figure he saw wore an ordinary nightrail,
whereas the lady of the legend wore a russet gown.  Some years later,
as it seemed to him, the dawn came.  It grew warmer; and he huddled
into the pile of heather and slept.

He was awakened by a shout of "Lambert of London, awake!" and tottering
to the window, groaning, he beheld a cold grouse, a three-pound chunk
of venison, two loaves, and a small bottle of whiskey neatly set out on
a napkin.  His mouth opened and shut, and opened and shut.

"The letter, rogue!  Are you going to give me the letter?" shouted the
Baron Hildebrand Anne fiercely.

Mr. Lambert tore himself from the window, and flung himself down on the
heather, sobbing.  "Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!" he moaned,
"Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!--and costs!"  Suddenly his wits
cleared . . .  What a fool he'd been! . . .  Why shouldn't he give the
boy the letter, and wire countermanding his instructions? . . .  Oh, he
had been a fool!

He hurried to the window, and cried, "Yes, yes, I'll give it you!  Give
me the paper.  I've got a fountain pen!"

"You'd better have a drink of whiskey first; your hand will be too
shaky to write your usual handwriting," said the thoughtful Tinker,
handing him the bottle along with the note-paper.

Mr. Lambert took a drink, and indeed it steadied his hand.  Sure that
he could make it useless, he wrote a careful and complete letter, lying
at full length on the floor, his only possible writing table.

He scrambled up, and thrust it through the window, crying, "Here you
are!  Let me out!"

Tinker spelled the letter carefully through, and put it into another
letter he had already prepared to send to Sir Tancred's solicitors.
Then he handed the money-lender a thick venison sandwich, cut while he
had been writing.

The tears ran down Mr. Lambert's face as his furious jaws bit into it.

"Don't wolf it!" said Tinker sternly.  "Starving men should feed
slowly."

Mr. Lambert had no restraint; he did wolf it.  Then he asked for more.

"In a quarter of an hour," said Tinker, and he gave him nothing sooner
for all his clamorous entreaties.

After a second sandwich the money-lender was another man, and Tinker,
seeing that he was not ill, said, "I must be going; I have a long ride
to post this letter"; and he began to hand in the rest of the food
through the window.

"Be careful not to eat it all up at once," he said.  "It's got to last
you till to-morrow."

"What's this!  What's this!" cried Mr. Lambert.  "You promised to
release me when you got the letter!"

"When I get the promissory note, or when my father's solicitor gets it.
I've told him to wire."

The money-lender snarled like a dog; his brilliant idea had proved of
no good.  He stormed and stormed; Tinker was cheerful, but indifferent.
He thrust a rug he had brought with him through the window, summoned
his phantom band, and rode away.

Mr. Lambert spent a gloomy, but, thanks to the soothing of his stomach,
a not uncomfortable day.  He was very sad that he had lost the chance
of swindling Sir Tancred Beauleigh out of 1450 pounds; and his sadness
and an occasional twinge of rheumatism filled him with thoughts of
revenge.  Slowly he formed a plan of disabling Tinker by an unexpected
kick when he opened the door, thrashing him within an inch of his life,
riding off on his pony, and leaving him helpless, to starve or not,
according as he might be found.  This plan was a real comfort to him.
He passed an unhaunted night; and next morning Tinker brought him more
food.  For some hours he played at robber baron, and now and again held
conversations about the money-lender with his band.  None of them
contained compliments.  Mr. Lambert watched him with a sulky malignity,
and matured his plan.

The next morning he awoke late, but very cheerful at the prospect of
freedom and revenge.  He came to the window rubbing his hands joyfully,
and saw a little parcel hanging from the bars.  He opened it, and found
the key of the door, a little compass, and a letter.  Swearing at his
vanished chance of revenge, he opened it; it ran:

Fly at once.  Steer N. E. for Tulyspathe.  Hamish believes you are
uncanny, and has molded a silver bullet out of a half crown to lay your
resless spirrit with.  His rifel is oldfashuned, but he will not miss
and waist the half crown he is so thriffty.

A SEKRET WORNER.


Mr. Lambert steered N.E. at once; he went not like the wind, but as
much like the wind as his soft, short legs would carry him.  He scanned
every bush and gully with fearful eyes; he gave every thicket a wide
berth, and every time he saw Hamish, and he saw him behind a thousand
bushes and boulders, he shouted: "I'm Mr. Lambert from London, I'm not
a spirit!"

It was, indeed, a wasted and dirty money-lender who reached Tullispaith
late in the day.  He had but one thought in his mind, to fly
immediately after dinner from this expansive and terrifying country.
He wired to his guests not to come; he discharged his servants; and as
he crossed the border next day, he bade farewell to the stern and wild
Caledonia in a most impressive malediction.

When Sir Tancred Beauleigh received his lawyer's letter containing the
promissory note, he was not a little bewildered; Tinker was quick to
enlighten him; and he heard that angel child's explanation of his
application of mediaeval German methods to a modern monetary difficulty
with a grateful astonishment.




CHAPTER NINE

TINKER INTERVENES

Sir Tancred lingered on at Ardrochan Lodge, for he saw that in that
strong air Tinker was losing the last of the delicacy which had been
the effect of his attack of scarlet fever.  And when Lord Crosland and
two other men joined him there, he was very well contented.  The others
shared his content; Tinker, more and more the Baron Hildebrand of
Ardrochan, was quite happy, and there they stayed till the Scotch
winter came down on them in all its fell severity.

Then they moved southwards to Melton Mowbray, and hunted till the frost
put an end to that sport.  On the third night of the frost, as they
were cutting for partners for a fresh rubber of bridge, Lord Crosland
said: "I tell you what, Beauleigh, the sooner we get out of this
weather the better.  Let's be off to Monte Carlo, make up a pool, and
try that system of yours."

"It's a very good idea," said Sir Tancred.  "The only question is
whether the English winter isn't good for Tinker.  It's hardening, you
know."

"Always Tinker," said Lord Crosland with a smile.  "I tell you what,
Nature ought to have made you a woman: what a splendid mother you'd
have made!"

"I think she'd have found she'd made a pretty bad mistake," said Sir
Tancred.

"Besides," said Lord Crosland, "the Admirable is as hard as a tenpenny
nail as it is.  I've never seen the little beggar tired yet; and I've
seen him at the end of some hardish days."

"Well, we'll see," said Sir Tancred.  "We're partners."  And the game
went on.

Next morning he asked Tinker if he would like to go to the south of
France, or stay and be hardened.  Tinker thought a while, made up his
mind that his father would like to go to the South of France, and said,
"I think I'm hard enough, sir,--to go on with.  Besides,

  "When the wind is in the East
  It's neither fit for man nor beast.

In fact it shrivels me up.  I should like some sunshine."

"Then we will go," said Sir Tancred.

Accordingly, the middle of the next week found them lodged at the Hôtel
des Princes, Monte Carlo, enjoying the nourishing sunshine of the
Riviera.  At least Tinker was enjoying it; the demands of a system
required his father and Lord Crosland to spend most of their day in the
darker, though hardly cooler air of the Temple of Fortune.  But the
system went well, and they did not repine.

The first time he dined in the restaurant of the hotel, Sir Tancred was
disagreeably surprised to see sitting at a neighbouring table his
loathed uncle, Sir Everard Wigram.  They had met now and again during
the past nine years; but as such a meeting had always resulted in some
severe wound to the Baronet's dignity, he shunned his nephew like the
pest, and abused him from a distance.  At the same table sat a
charming, peach-complexioned English girl.  After a careful scrutiny of
her, Sir Tancred decided that she must be his cousin Claire, Sir
Everard's eldest child, and admitted with a very grudging reluctance
that even the rule that thorns do not produce grapes is proved by
exceptions.  The third person at their table was a handsome young man,
with glossy black hair, a high-coloured, florid face, and a roving
black eye.  Sir Tancred's gaze rested on him with a malicious
satisfaction; he knew all about Mr. Arthur Courtnay.

Presently Lord Crosland's eye fell on that table.  "Hullo!" he said
sharply.  "How on earth comes that bounder Courtnay to be dining with
the Wigrams?"

"Like to like," said Sir Tancred with a surprising, cheerful animation.

A few mornings later Sir Tancred, Tinker, and Lord Crosland were
sitting in the gardens of the Temple of Fortune, and on a bench hard by
sat Claire and Courtnay.  He was bending over her, talking volubly, in
a loverlike attitude, exceedingly offensive in so public a place.  To
Sir Tancred's shrewd eyes he seemed to be deliberately advertising
their intimacy.  She was gazing dreamily before her with happy eyes,
over the sea.  Lord Crosland grew more and more fidgety; and at last he
said hotly, "You ought to interfere!"

"Not I!" said Sir Tancred.  "I'm not going to interfere.  I have enough
to do to keep Tinker out of mischief without acting as dry-nurse to the
children of Uncle Bumpkin."

"But hang it all, the man's a regular bad hat!" said Lord Crosland.
"He was advised to resign from the Bridge Club, and I happen to know
that he is actually wanted in London about a cheque."

"And in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, Vienna, and Buda-Pesth.  Men who
speak French as well as he does always are," said Sir Tancred.  "Which
reminds me, Tinker, your accent is getting too good.  The honest
English tongue was never made to speak French like a Frenchman.  Let up
on it a little."

"Yes, sir," said Hildebrand Anne.

"But you ought to do something, don't you know?" said Lord Crosland.
"The child's very pretty, and nice, and sweet, and all that.  It would
be no end of a shame if she came to grief with that bounder Courtnay."

"I won't stir a finger," said Sir Tancred firmly, "for two reasons.
One, Bumpkin Wigram helped my stepmother spoil my early life; two, if
this bounder Courtnay has got round Bumpkin words would be wasted.
Bumpkin is as dense and as obstinate as any clodhopper who ever chawed
bacon."

"But she's a pretty child and worth saving," said Lord Crosland.  "What
do you think, Tinker?"

"I should think she was rather inexperienced," said Hildebrand Anne,
with admirable judgment.

"Solomon, va!" said Lord Crosland, clutching the boy's ribs, and
drawing from him a sudden yell.

"Well, come along; we have a hard day's work before us," said Sir
Tancred; and the two of them rose and strolled off towards the Temple
of Fortune.

They left Tinker sitting still and thoughtful, the prey of a case of
conscience.  He knew the story of his father's marriage, his separation
from his wife by the action of Lady Beauleigh and Sir Everard.  He had
been trained to detest them, and to believe any revenge on them a mere
act of justice.  But his dead mother was but a shadowy figure to him,
and this girl was very charming, and sweet, and kind, for he had had a
long talk with her one evening, and she had shared a box of chocolates
with him.  Did those chocolates constitute the tie of bread and salt
between them which his father had taught him was so binding?  He wished
to help the girl, therefore he made up his mind that they did.  With a
sigh of satisfaction he rose, sauntered up to the absorbed lovers, and
began to parade up and down before them.  His nearness put something of
a check on the eloquence of Mr. Arthur Courtnay, and every time
Tinker's shadow fell on them he looked up and frowned.

At last he said, "Go away, my lad, and play somewhere else."

"I don't want any cheek from a hairdresser's assistant," said Tinker
with blithe readiness.

There is nothing so wounding as the truth, and Courtnay knew that he
was weak about the hair; he never could bring himself to keep it
properly cropped; it was so glossy.  His florid face became quickly
florider, and he cried, "You impudent young dog!"

"Do not speak to me until you've been introduced.  You're always
forcing your acquaintance upon someone, Roland Macassar," said Tinker.

It was again the wounding truth; and Courtnay sprang up and dashed for
him.  Tinker bolted round a group of shrubs, Courtnay after him.
Finding him unpleasantly quick on his feet Tinker bolted into the
shrubs.  Courtnay plunged after him right into a well-grown specimen of
the flowering cactus.  It brought him up short.  He began to swear, and
though he could have sworn with equal fluency and infelicity in French,
German, or Italian, in the depth of his genuine emotion he returned to
the tongue of his boyhood, and swore in English.  When he came out of
the shrubs, adorned on one side of his face and both hands with neat
little beads of blood, he found that Claire had risen from her seat,
and was looking shocked, surprised, and worst of all, disgusted.  He
did not mend matters much by mixing his apologies with threats of
vengeance on Tinker; but his temper, once out of control, was not
easily curbed.  He made a most unfortunate impression on her; the beads
of blood scarcely excited her pity at all.

Meanwhile Tinker had taken advantage of his pursuer's meeting with the
cactus to leave the terrace swiftly.  He went back to the Hôtel des
Princes, and took out Blazer for a walk, and as he walked, his
seraph-like face glowed with the pleasantest complacency.  Blazer did
not like Monte Carlo at all; for him there was no sport and little
exercise in it; Tinker liked it very much.  He had made many friends in
it, and enjoyed many amusements, the chief a pleasant, perpetual war
against the heavy, liveried guardians of the gambling rooms.  It was
his opinion that people came to Monte Carlo to gamble; it was the
opinion of the Société des Bains de Mer de Monte Carlo that children
ought not to be admitted to the tables.  They asserted their opinion;
and Tinker asserted his, with the result that his bolt into the Salles
de Jeu and his difficult extrication from them by the brawny, but
liveried officials was fast becoming one of the events of the day.
Sometimes Tinker would make his bolt from the outermost portal;
sometimes, with the decorous air of one going to church, he would join
the throng filing into the concert room, and bolt from the midst of it.
The process of expulsion was always conducted with the greatest
courtesy on either side; for his bolt had become an agreeable variety
in the monotonous lives of the guardians; they never knew when or in
what fashion it would come next.

Now he had another occupation, the shadowing of Mr. Arthur Courtnay.
That florid Adonis never grew used to hearing a gentle voice singing
softly:

  "Get your hair cut!  Get your hair cut!"

or,

  "Oh, Tatcho!  Oh, Tatcho!
  Rejoice, ye bald and weary men!
  You'll soon be regular hairy men!
  Sing!  Rejoice!  Let your voices go!
  Sprinkle some on your cranium!
  What, ho!  Tatcho!"


The poetry was vulgar; but long ago his insight into the heart of man
had taught Tinker to attack the vulgar with the only weapon effective
against them, vulgarity.

Sooner or later, whether he was walking, or sitting with Claire, those
vulgar strains would be wafted to Mr. Arthur Courtnay's ears, and they
injured his cause.  They kept alive in the girl's mind an uneasy doubt
whether her father was right in asserting Arthur Courtnay to be one of
the nicest fellows he had ever met, a veritable gentleman of the old
school, an opinion founded on the fact that Courtnay was the only man
who had ever given two hours' close attention to his views on
Protection.

But, for all this lurking doubt, Courtnay's influence over her was
growing stronger and stronger.  He was forever appealing to her pity by
telling her of the hard and lonely life he had lived since his father,
a poor gentleman of good family, had died in exile at Boulogne.
Really, his father, a stout but impecunious horse-dealer of the name of
Budgett, certainly in exile at Boulogne owing to a standing difference
with the bankruptcy laws of his country, was alive still.  But Arthur
was very fond of himself, and once in the mood of self-pity, he could
invent pathetic anecdote after pathetic anecdote of his privations
which would have touched the heart of a hardened grandmother, much more
of a susceptible girl.  She fell into the way of calling him "King
Arthur" to herself.

He devoted himself to winning her with an unrelaxing energy, for she
had forty thousand pounds of her own.

But he cared very little for her, and sometimes he found his
love-making hard work.  She was not the type of girl whom he admired;
her delicacy irritated him; he preferred what the poet has called "an
armful of girl," buxom and hearty.  Often, therefore, when she had gone
to bed, he would refresh himself by a vigorous flirtation with Madame
Séraphine de Belle-Île, a brisk and vivacious young widow, who affected
always gowns of a peculiarly vivid and searching scarlet.  And this
self-indulgence proved in the end the ruin of his fine scheme of
establishing himself in life on a sound monetary basis.

Tinker was about to get into bed one evening, and found himself slow
about it.  His conscience was worrying him about some duty left undone,
and he could not remember what the duty was.  Of a sudden his terrible
omission flashed into his mind: in his patient application to the task
of shadowing and annoying Mr. Arthur Courtnay he had forgotten his
daily bolt into the gambling rooms.  Reluctant, but firm, he slipped on
his pumps and went downstairs.  Four minutes later the feverish
gamblers in the Salles de Jeu were gratified by the sight of a
seraph-like child in blue silk pyjamas who flew gaily round the tables
pursued by two stout and joyfully excited Southern Europeans in livery.
The pursuit was lively, but short, for Tinker ran into the arms of a
wily croupier who had slipped from his seat, and unexpectedly joined
the chase.  He was handed over to his pursuers and conducted from the
rooms, amidst the plaudits of the gamblers.  He bade good-night to his
liveried friends on the threshold of the Casino, congratulating them on
their increasing efficiency in "Le Sport," and warm, but happy with the
sense of one more duty done, he strolled into the gardens to cool.

[Illustration: The pursuit was lively, but short.]

He was noiseless in his pumps, and coming quietly round a clump of
shrubs, he caught Mr. Arthur Courtnay in the act of trying to kiss
Madame de Belle-Île with a fervour only justified by the most romantic
attachment.

"Oh!" said Tinker reproachfully; and even more reproachfully he began
to sing:

"Coupez vos cheveux!  Coupez vos cheveux!"


With an execration which was by no means muttered, Mr. Arthur Courtnay
sprang up.  Tinker darted away, and Courtnay followed.  They pelted
through the gardens, Courtnay gaining; but as he passed a couple of
gendarmes standing in front of the Casino, Tinker yelled: "Gare le
voyou!  Gare le voyou!"  Instinctively the gendarmes flung themselves
before Courtnay, and his impetus brought the three of them to the
ground with some violence.

With one fleeting glance behind, Tinker scudded on to the hotel, and
once safely in his room abandoned himself without restraint to
convulsions of inextinguishable delight.  When he recovered his
habitual calm, he saw that Fortune had given him a weapon with which he
might save his cousin.

Mr. Arthur Courtnay and the gendarmes picked themselves up; he made his
explanations, and wisely compensated them for the bruises they had
received in his fall.  Then giving no more thought to Madame de
Belle-Île, who sat awaiting him eagerly, he returned gloomily to his
hotel, reflecting on the carelessness which had delivered him into the
hands of an indefatigable imp of mischief.  The upshot of his
reflection was a resolve to press his wooing to an immediate
conclusion.  The next day and the day after, therefore, he redoubled
his lamentations that the smallness of his means prevented him from
going, as his natural honesty dictated, straight to Claire's father,
and asking for her hand, and protested that he dare not risk the loss
of her, which would work irreparable havoc in his life.  It was only
another step to suggest that, once they were married, her father's
strong liking for him would soon bring about their forgiveness.  He
pressed and pressed these points, pausing at times to declare the
vastness of his affection for her, until at last, against her better
judgment, and in spite of a lurking distrust of him, of which she could
not rid herself, she yielded to his persistence and the overwhelming
influence of his stronger personality, and consented to elope with him.

Two days later, as Tinker, Sir Tancred, and Lord Crosland were at
déjeuner, Claire and Courtnay passed them on their way to the gardens.

"I shouldn't wonder if those two ran away together," said Lord
Crosland; and his cheerful face fell gloomy.

"They have the air," said Sir Tancred coolly.

"Look here, you ought to interfere, don't you know?  You ought,
really," said Lord Crosland, who had fallen under the fascination of
Claire's fresh charm.

"Why don't _you_?" said Sir Tancred.

"Well," said Lord Crosland uncomfortably, "I did go to Sir Everard, and
tell him to keep an eye on Courtnay; and he as good as told me to go
to--Jericho."

"Just like Bumpkin," said Sir Tancred contemptuously.  "I'll bet you a
fiver they bolt to-night--by the train _des décavés_."

"I don't want to bet about it," said Lord Crosland very gloomily.

Their talk made Tinker thoughtful.  It would have been easy enough to
settle the matter by revealing Courtnay's injudicious display of
affection towards Madame de Belle-Île, but that was not Tinker's way.
He had a passion for keeping things in his own hands, and a pretty eye
for dramatic possibilities.  Besides, he had taken a great dislike to
Courtnay, and was eager to make his discomfiture signal.

At half-past four in the afternoon he knocked at the door of Madame de
Belle-Île's suite of rooms, and her maid conducted so prominent a
figure in Monte Carlo society straight to her mistress.

Madame de Belle-Île, having just changed from a bright scarlet costume
into a brighter, was taking her afternoon tea before returning to the
tables.

"Bonjour, Monsieur le Vaurien," she said with a bright smile.  "Have
you at last succeeded in gambling?"

"No; it would be no pleasure to me to gamble unless your bright eyes
were shining on the table," said Tinker with a happy recollection of a
compliment he had overheard.

"Farceur!  Va!" said the lady with a pleased smile.

"I came to ask if you would like to sup with Mr. Courtnay to-night?"
said the unscrupulous Tinker.

"Ah, le bel Artur!" cried the lady.  "But with pleasure.  Where?"

"Oh, in the restaurant of the hotel," said Tinker.

The lady's face fell a little; she would have preferred to sup in a
less public place, one more suited to protestations of devotion.

"At about eleven?" she said.

"At half past," said Tinker.  "And I think he'd like a note from you
accepting--it--it would please him, I'm sure.  He--he--could take it
out, and look at it, you know."  It was a little clumsy; but, though he
had thought it out carefully, it was the best that he could do.

"You think so?  What a lot we know about these things!" said Madame de
Belle-Île with a pleased laugh; and she went forthwith to the
écritoire, and in ten minutes composed the tenderest of billets-doux.
Tinker received it from her with a very lively satisfaction, and after
a few bonbons, and a desultory chat with her, escorted her down to the
Casino.

The rest of the day seemed very long to his impatience, while to
Claire, harassed by vague doubt and real dread, it seemed exceedingly
short.  When the hour for action came, she braced herself, by an
effort, to play her part; but it was with a sinking heart that she
stole, thickly veiled, and bearing a small hand-bag, out of the hotel
and down to the station.  She was far too troubled to notice that she
was followed by two guardian angels in the shape of a small boy and a
brindled bull-terrier.

Courtnay met her on the top of the steps which lead down to the
station; and when she found him in a most inharmonious mood of triumph,
she began, even so early, to repent of her rashness.  Then went down to
the station as the train _des décavés_, the train of the stony-broke,
steamed in; and they settled themselves in an empty first-class
compartment.  Her heart seemed to sink to her shoes as she felt the
train move.  Then the door opened, and, hauling the panting Blazer by
the scruff of his neck, Tinker tumbled into the carriage.

Claire gave a great gasp of relief: the sight of him gave her a faint
hope of escape; his presence was a respite.  Tinker lifted Blazer on to
the seat between him and Courtnay, crying cheerfully, "I thought I'd
just missed you!  I've got a note for you from Madame de Belle-Île, and
I knew she'd never forgive me if I didn't give it to you!"

Courtnay's florid face had already lost a little colour at the mere
intrusion of his inveterate persecutor that alone presaged disaster; at
his words his eyes displayed a lively, but uncomfortable tendency to
start out of his head.  "I don't know what you mean!" he stuttered.  "I
don't know Madame de Belle-Île!"

"You don't know Madame de Belle-Île!" cried Tinker in well-affected
amazement and surprise.  "Why, only three nights ago I saw you trying
to kiss her in the gardens!"

"It's a lie!" roared Courtnay.

"The Beauleighs don't lie," said Tinker curtly.

For the moment, breathless with rage, Courtnay could find no words, and
Claire, very pale, stared from one to the other with startled,
searching eyes.

"At any rate, here's her letter," said Tinker stiffly, holding it out
over Blazer's back.

Claire stooped swiftly forward and took the letter.  "I am the person
to read that letter," she said with a spirit Courtnay had never dreamed
of in her.  "It is my right!"

She tore it open, and had just time to read "Mon Artur adoré," when
Courtnay, with a growl of rage, snatched it from her, and tore it into
pieces, crying, "I will not have you victimised by this mischievous
young dog!  It's an absurd imposition!  I claim your trust!"

But the doubt of him which had lurked always in the bottom of Claire's
heart had sprung to sudden strength; she looked at him with eyes that
were veritably chilling in their coldness, and, turning to Tinker, she
said, "Is it true?"

"It is--on my honour," said Tinker.

There was a quivering movement in Claire's throat as she choked down a
sob: she rose, and walked down the carriage to the seat opposite
Tinker, farthest from Courtnay.  Slowly collecting his wits, Courtnay
grew eloquent and ran through the whole gamut of the emotions proper to
the occasion: honourable indignation, and passion so deep as to be
ready to forgive even this heart-breaking distrust.  She listened to
him in silence with an unchanging face, her lips set thin, her sombre
eyes gazing straight before her.

Suddenly despair seized Courtnay, and he gave the rein to the fury
which he had been repressing with such difficulty.  "At any rate, I'll
be even with you, you young dog!" he cried savagely.  "I'm going to
throw you out of the train!"

"Oh, no; you're not!" said Tinker pleasantly.  "By the time you've
thrown Blazer out there won't be enough of you left to throw me out."

Courtnay jumped up with a demonstrative hostility; Tinker hissed; with
an angry snarl Blazer drew in his tongue and put out his teeth, and
Courtnay sat down.  For a while he was silent, seeking for an object to
vent his rage on; they could hear him grinding his teeth.  Then he
burst out at Claire, taunting, jeering, and abusing.

"That's enough!" cried Tinker angrily.  "Pstt!  Pstt!  At him, Blazer!
At him!"

For a few seconds Courtnay tried fighting, but his upbringing in France
had not fitted him to cope with a heavy bull-terrier.  When the train
ran into the station at Nice, he was out on the footboard, on the
further side, yelling lustily.

"Come on quick, before there's a fuss!" cried Tinker, catching up
Claire's handbag, and opening the door.  They jumped down, Tinker
whistled Blazer, and the three of them bustled along the platform.

"I've no ticket!" gasped Claire, who every moment expected Courtnay to
be upon them.

"I thought of that!  I've got one for you!" said Tinker; and before
Courtnay had quite realised that the train had stopped, they were out
of the station.

Tinker hurried his charge along the line of fiacres, and stopped at a
victoria and pair.

"Holà, cocher!" he said.  "From the Couronne d'Or?  Wired for to drive
a lady and a boy to Monte Carlo?"

"Oui, monsieur!" cried the driver, gaily cracking his whip.

They scrambled in; and the horses stepped out.  Tinker knelt on the
seat, looking back over the hood.  They were almost out of sight of the
station when he fancied that he saw a hatless figure run out of it into
the road.  It might have been only fancy; they were so far off he could
not trust his sight.  Three minutes later he dropped down on the seat
with a sigh of relief.  "That's all right!" he said.

"Oh," said Claire, "how can I ever thank you?  You've saved me--oh,
what haven't you saved me from!"

"A bad hat--a regular bad hat," said Tinker gravely.

"You wonderful boy!" she cried, threw her arms around his neck and
kissed him.

Tinker wriggled uncomfortably.  He often wished that there were not
quite so many women in the world who insisted on embracing him.

"Well, you're a kind of cousin, you see," he said by way of defence.

After a while Claire cooled from her excitement to the cold
understanding of her folly.  Then she grew, very naturally, bitterly
unhappy, and to his horror Tinker heard the sound of a stifled sob.

"I think, if you'll excuse me," he said hurriedly, "I'll go to sleep."
And, happily for his comfort, his pretence at slumber was soon a
reality.  It was no less a comfort to Claire: she had her cry out, and
felt the better for it.

When the carriage drew up before the Hôtel des Princes, they found an
excited group about the doorway.  Sir Everard Wigram was the centre of
it, raging and lamenting.  He had missed his daughter, and with his
usual good sense was taking all the world into his confidence.  Lord
Crosland and Sir Tancred stood on one side; and it is to be feared that
Sir Tancred was enjoying exceedingly the distress of his enemy.

"Leave the bag to me!  I'll give it to you to-morrow," whispered Tinker
as the horses stopped.  "Say we've been for a drive.  I shan't split!"

As Claire stepped out of the carriage, her father rushed up to her,
crying, "What does this mean?  Where have you been?  What have you been
doing?"

"Oh," said Claire coolly, raising her voice that all the curious group
might hear, "I've been for a drive with Cousin Hildebrand.  I couldn't
find you to tell you I was going."  And taking out her purse, she
stepped forward to pay the coachman.

Tinker, keeping the bag as low as he could, slipped through the group.
Lord Crosland hurried after him, and caught him by the shoulder.
"Where have you really been?" he said.  "What happened?  Where's
Courtnay?"

"I've been for a drive with my cousin," said Tinker, looking up at him
with eyes of a limpid frankness.

"Ah, let's see what you've got in that bag."

"Can't.  It's locked," said Tinker shortly.

"Well, never mind.  I owe you fifty pound," said Lord Crosland joyfully.

Tinker stopped short and his face grew very bright.  "Do you?" he said.
"I think I should like it in gold--a fiver at a time."




CHAPTER TEN

TINKER'S FOUNDLING

On the following afternoon Tinker met Madame de Belle-Île hurrying out
of the hotel in a scarlet travelling costume.

At the sight of him she stopped short and cried, "Have you heard the
sad news?"

"No; what sad news?" said Tinker.

"About poor Monsieur Courtnay!  He has had an accident; he is laid up
at Nice, ill among strangers!  I go; I fly to nurse him!"

"Nurse that brute!" said Tinker quickly.  "That--that is a waste of
kindness."

Madame de Belle-Île's face fell, and then flushed with anger.  "You are
a horrid and detestable boy!" she cried angrily.

"Oh, no!  I'm not!  It's quite true," said Tinker quietly, and he
looked at her seriously.  He wanted to warn her; then he saw that he
could not do so without revealing Claire's secret.  "I wish I could
tell you about him," he went on.  "But I can't.  He really is a sweep!"

"You are an impertinent little wretch!" she said, and left him.

"Au revoir," said Tinker gently.

But she only tossed her head, and hurried on.  Yet Tinker's honest
expression of opinion had impressed her: she had a belief in the
instinct of children generally and, like most people who came into
contact with him, she had a strong belief in the instinct of Tinker.
She tried to forget his words; but they kept recurring to her, and in
spite of herself, unconsciously, they put her on her guard.

Tinker watched her out of sight, then he had half a thought of telling
Claire that she had gone to Courtnay, doubtless at his summons.  But he
saw quickly that there was no need, and dismissed the thought from his
mind.  Also, he kept out of his cousin's way for some days; he had a
feeling that,--however grateful she might be to him, the sight of him,
reminding her of how badly Courtnay had behaved, would be unpleasant to
her.

However, he watched her from a distance, and saw that she was pale and
listless.  Then he saw with great pleasure that Lord Crosland contrived
to be with her a good deal, that he even neglected the system for her.
But for all this pleasure, he was not quite easy in his mind; the
knowledge that he had done his grand-uncle Bumpkin the service of
saving him from such a son-in-law as Courtnay was a discomfort to him:
he felt that this was a matter which must be set right, and he kept his
eyes open for a chance.  He looked, too, for the return of Courtnay and
Madame de Belle-Île; but the days passed and they did not return.

One morning he found himself in an unhappy mood.  It seemed to him that
his wits had come to a standstill; for three days no new mischief had
come the way of his idle hands, and his regular, dally, mischievous
practices had grown so regular as almost to have acquired the
tastelessness of duties.  The peculiar brightness and gaiety of Monte
Carlo life had begun to pall upon him.  Loneliness was eating into his
soul; for of all the French boys who paraded the gardens of the Temple
of Fortune, he could make nothing.  Their costumes, which were of
velvet and satin and lace, revolted him; their lack of spirit, their
distaste for violent movement, their joy in parading their revolting
costumes filled him with wondering contempt.  As for the little French
girls, he was at any time uninterested in girls; and these
spindle-shanked precocities walked on two-inch heels, and tried to
fascinate him with the graces of mature coquettes.  His careful
politeness was hard put to it to conceal his distaste for their
conversation.  Possibly he was hankering after a healthier life; but at
any rate he, who was generally so full of energy, had mooned listlessly
about the gardens all the morning, with a far-away look in his eyes,
and the air of a strayed seraph.

During his mooning about he had passed several times a little girl who
looked English.  She sat on a seat in the far corner--a strange, shy,
timid child, watching with a half-frightened wonder the
strikingly-dressed women and children who strolled up and down,
chattering shrilly.  He gave her but indifferent glances as he passed;
but, thanks to his father's careful training of his natural gift of
observation, the indifferent glance of that child of the world took in
more of a fellow-creature than most men's careful scrutiny.  He saw
that she was frail and big-eyed, that her frock was ill-fitting and
shabby, her hat shabbier, her shoes ready-made, that she wore no
gloves, and that her mass of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts
at tidiness to her own brushing.  He summed her up as that archetype of
patience, the gambler's neglected child.

Just before he went to his déjeuner, he saw that she was sitting there
still.  He took that meal with his father and Lord Crosland; and
instead of hurrying off, directly he had eaten his dessert, to some
pressing and generally mischievous business, he sat listening to their
talk over their coffee and cigars, and only left them at the doors of
the Casino.  He strolled along the terrace, moody and disconsolate,
able to think of nothing to amuse him, and, as he came to the end of
the gardens, he saw a group of French children gathered in front of the
seat on which the little girl was sitting, and, coming nearer, he heard
jeering cries of "Sale Anglaise!  Sale Anglaise!"

In a flash Tinker's face shone with a very ecstasy of pure delight, and
he swooped down on the group.  The child was clutching the arm of the
seat, and staring at her tormentors with parted lips and terrified
eyes.  For their part, they were enjoying themselves to the full.  They
had found a game which afforded them the maximum of pleasure, with the
minimum of effort; and just as Tinker swooped down, a cropped and
bullet-headed boy in blue velvet threw a handful of gravel into her
face.  She threw up her hands and burst into tears; the children's
laughter rose to a shrill yell; and with extreme swiftness Tinker
caught the bullet-headed boy a ringing box on the right ear and another
on the left.  The boy squealed, turned, clawing and kicking, on Tinker,
and, in ten seconds of crowded life, had learned the true significance
of those cryptic terms an upper-cut on the potato-trap, a hook on the
jaw, a rattler on the conk, and a buster on the mark.  He lay down on
the path to digest the lesson, and his little friends fled, squealing,
away.

The little girl slipped off the seat and said "Thank you," between two
sobs.

Tinker's face was one bright, seraphic smile as he took off his hat,
and, with an admirable bow, said, "May I take you to your people?"

The bullet-headed boy rose to his feet and staggered away.

"Uncle's still in that big house," said the little girl, striving
bravely to check her sobs.

"That's a nuisance," said Tinker thoughtfully; "for we can't get at
him."

"I think he's forgotten all about me.  He often does," said the little
girl, without any resentment; and she dusted the gravel off her frock.

"I might bolt in and remind him."

"They won't let us in--only grown-ups," said the little girl.  "Uncle
tried to get them to let me in; but they wouldn't."

"They're used to letting me in," said Tinker--"and hauling me out
again," he added.  "It brightens them up.  You tell me what he's like."

Being a girl, the child was able to describe her uncle accurately: but
when she had done, Tinker shook his head:

"He must be just like a dozen other Englishmen in there," he said.
"And they wouldn't give me time to ask each one if he were your uncle."

The little girl sighed, and said, "It doesn't matter, thank you," and,
sitting down again on the seat, resumed her patient waiting, drooping
forward with eyes rather dim.

Tinker studied her face, and his keen eye told him what was wrong.

"Have you had déjeuner?" he said sharply.

"No-o-o," said the little girl reluctantly.

"Then you've had nothing since your coffee this morning?"

"No, but it doesn't matter.  Uncle is rather forgetful," said the
little girl, but her lips moved at the thought of food as a hungry
child's will.

"This won't do at all!  Come along with me.  It's rather late, but
we'll find something."

Her face brightened for a moment; but she shook her head, and said,
"No, I mustn't go away from here.  Uncle might come back, and he would
be so angry if he had to look for me."

Tinker shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel, and was gone.  She
looked after him sadly.  She would have liked him to stay a little
longer; it was so nice to talk to an English boy after ten days in this
strange land; and he seemed such a nice boy.  But she only drooped a
little more, and stared out over the bright sea with misty eyes,
composing herself to endure her hunger.

Tinker went swiftly to the restaurant of the Hôtel des Princes, where
the waiters greeted him with affectionate grins, and, addressing
himself to the manager, set forth his new friend's plight, and his
wishes.  The manager fell in with them on the instant, only too pleased
to have the chance of obliging his most popular customer; and, in five
minutes, Tinker left the restaurant followed by a waiter bearing a tray
of dainties, all carefully chosen to tempt the appetite of a child.
They took their way to the gardens, and the little girl brightened up
at the sight of the returning Tinker.  But when the waiter set the tray
on the seat, she flushed painfully, and though she could not draw her
hungry eyes away from the food, she stammered, "T-t-thank you very
m-m-much.  B-b-but I haven't any money."

Tinker gave the waiter a couple of francs, and bade him come for the
tray in half an hour.  Then he said cheerfully, "That's all right.  The
food's paid for; and whether you eat it or not makes no difference.  In
fact, you may as well."

The child looked from his face to the food and back again, wavering;
then said, with a little gasp, "Oh, I am so hungry."

Tinker took this for a consent, put some aspic of pâté de foie gras on
her plate, and watched her satisfy her hunger with great pleasure,
which was not lessened by the fact that, for all her hunger, she ate
with a delicate niceness.  He had feared from her neglected air that
her manners had also been neglected.  After the aspic, he carved the
breast of the chicken for her, helped her to salad, and mixed the ice
water with the _sirop_ to exactly the strength he liked himself; after
the chicken, he helped her to meringues, and after the meringues
lighted the kirsch of the _poires au kirsch_, which he had chosen
because it always pleased him to see the kirsch burn, and ate one of
the pears himself, while she ate the others.  When she had finished her
little sigh of content warmed his heart.

He put the tray behind the seat, and settled down beside her for a
talk.  Now that she was no longer hungry, she was no longer woebegone,
and her laugh, though faint, was so pretty that he found himself making
every effort to set her laughing.  They talked about themselves with
the simple egoism of children; and he learned that her name was Elsie
Brand; that she was ten years old--nearly two years younger than
himself--that her mother had died many years ago, and that she had
lived with her father in his Devonshire parsonage by the sea till last
year, when he, too, had died.  Then her Uncle Richard had taken her
away to live with him in London.  Her story of her life in London
lodgings set Tinker wondering about that Uncle Richard, and piecing
together the details Elsie let fall about his late rising, his late
going to bed, his morning headache and distaste for breakfast, he came
to the conclusion that he was a bad hat who lived by his somewhat
inferior wits.

At the end of her story he tried to persuade her to come to the sea
with him and seek amusement there.  But he failed; she would not leave
the seat.  He gathered, indeed, from her fear of vexing her uncle that
that bad hat was in the habit of slapping her if she angered him, and,
for a breath, he was filled with a fierce indignation which surprised
him; she looked so frail.  But he did not ask her if it were so, for
his delicacy forewarned him that the question would provoke a struggle
between her loyalty and her truthfulness.  He entertained her,
therefore, with his reminiscences, and enjoyed to the full the
admiration and wonder which filled her face as he talked.  Absorbed in
one another, they paid no heed to the passing of the hours; and the
sudden fall of twilight surprised them.

They began to speculate whether Uncle Richard had had enough of his
gambling, and would come and fetch her.  But, even now, Elsie was not
impatient, so inured had she been to neglect.  She only looked anxious
again.  Tinker, on the other hand, was impatient, very impatient, with
Uncle Richard, whom he was disposed to regard as a gentleman in great
need of a kicking.  Moreover, the chill hour after sunset, so dangerous
on that littoral, was upon them, and he considered with disquiet the
thin stuff of the child's frock.

Presently he said abruptly, "I've promised my father to wear an
overcoat during the fever hour.  I must be off and get it, and a wrap
for you.  You won't be frightened, if I leave you alone?"

"No," Elsie said bravely, but her tone belied the word.

"Well, walk up and down quickly, so that you don't get a chill.  If you
keep near the seat, your uncle can't miss you if he comes."

"Very well," said Elsie, rising obediently.  "Only--only--if you could
get back soon."

"I will," said Tinker, and he bolted for the hotel.

Elsie walked up and down, trying to feel brave, but the odd shapes
which the bushes assumed in the dim light daunted her not a little, and
she strove to drive away the fancy that she saw people lurking among
them.  Tinker was gone a bare seven minutes; but to the timid child it
seemed a very long while, and she welcomed his return with a gasp of
relief.

He wore a smart, close-fitting brown racing overcoat, which reached to
his ankles; and for her he brought his fur-lined ulster.

"Here I am," he said cheerfully.  "Get into this," and he held out the
ulster.

She put her arms into the sleeves, and he drew it around her and
buttoned it up.

"You are a kind boy," she said, with a little break in her voice.  A
sudden strong but inexplicable impulse moved Tinker; he bent forward
and kissed her on the lips.

While you might count a score the children stood quite still, staring
at one another with eyes luminous in the starlight.  Elsie's face was
one pink flush, and Tinker was scarlet.

"That--that was a very funny kiss," she said in a curious voice.

"Oh, what's a kiss?" said Tinker, with forced bravado, consumed with
boyish shame for the lapse.

"I--I--liked it," said Elsie.  "No one has kissed me since father
died."  And her breath seemed to catch.

"Girls like kissing," said Tinker in a tone of a dispassionate
observer.  Then he seemed to thrust the matter away from him with some
eagerness: and, slipping her arm through his, he said, "Come on, let's
walk up and down."

They walked up and down, chattering away, till eight o'clock.  Then he
said, "My father will be expecting me; he dines at eight.  Won't you
come too?"

"No, no, thank you.  I must wait for Uncle Richard; I must really."
But her arm tightened round his involuntarily.

Tinker thought a while.  The gardens were brighter now.  The stars were
shining with their full radiance, and the lamps were alight, so that
even their retired corner was faintly bright.

"Well, you go on walking up and down.  You won't feel so lonely as
sitting still, and I'll be back as soon as I can;" he said, and off he
went.

He found his father and Lord Crosland beginning their soup, and,
sitting down, he told them of Elsie's plight.  They were duly
sympathetic; and his father at once gave him leave to take some dinner
to her, and dine with her.  Thereupon, after a brief but serious
conference with the manager, Tinker departed, again followed by a
waiter with a tray.  Elsie had not looked for his return for a long
while; and she was indeed pleased to be so soon freed from the struggle
against her timidity.

They ate their dinner with great cheerfulness and good appetite, and
for an hour after it they chattered away happily.  Then Elsie grew
drowsy, very drowsy, indeed, and presently, nestled against Tinker, she
fell asleep.  Fortunately, the southern night was warm, and, in the
fur-lined ulster, she could take no harm.  He sat holding her to him,
listening to her breathing, looking out over the sea, and revolving
many memories and more schemes, till, at last, the lights began to
dance before his eyes, and he, too, fell asleep.

He knew no more until he was awakened by someone shaking his arm, and
found his father and Lord Crosland standing over them.

The lamps of the Casino and the gardens were out; only the dim
starlight lighted the scene.  The two children sat up and stared about
them--Elsie sleepily, Tinker wide awake.

"We've found you at last.  Hasn't your little friend's uncle come for
her?" said Sir Tancred.

"No one has come," said Tinker.

Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland looked at one another.

"Desertion," murmured Lord Crosland softly.

"Well, come along," said Sir Tancred cheerfully.  "We must put her up
for to-night."

The children slipped off the seat; Tinker put Elsie's arm through his,
and, holding her up when she stumbled over the long ulster, followed
his father and Lord Crosland.

There were some empty bedrooms in their corridor, and Elsie was settled
for the night in one of them.

Tinker awoke next morning, very cheerful at the thought of having a
companion to join in his amusements.  He made haste to knock at Elsie's
door, and bid her come out for a swim before their coffee.  She was
soon dressed and found him waiting for her.  She flushed a little as
she greeted him, and he greeted her with a seraph's smile.

"I thought you'd like a bathe before our coffee," he said.

"It would be nice," said Elsie wistfully.  "But my hair--it is such a
trouble, even without being wetted by sea-water."

Tinker looked at the fine silky mass of it, and said with sympathetic
seriousness, "I saw it was beyond you; but we'll manage."

He caught her hand, they ran down the stairs, out of the hotel, and
most of the way to the beach.  Then he took her to a lady's
bathing-tent, and instructed the attendant to provide Elsie with the
prettiest costume she had; changed himself, and in five minutes they
were in the sea.  To his joy, he found that she could swim nearly as
well as he.  But he was very careful of her, and the moment she looked
cold he took her ashore.

They came back to the hotel very hungry; and Tinker led the way through
the passages at the back of the hall, down into the hotel kitchen,
where he was welcomed with affectionate joy by the kitchen staff.  The
end of a long table had been laid with the finest napery and plate of
the hotel; they sat down at it, and were forthwith served with an
exquisitely cooked dish of fresh mullet, wonderful hot cakes, and
steaming cups of fragrant _café au lait_.  As he breakfasted, Tinker
conversed with the chattering staff with a cheerful kindliness and a
thorough knowledge of all their private concerns, keeping Elsie
informed of the matters under discussion by such phrases as "It's
Adolphe's wife; she beats him;" or, "Lucie has consulted a
fortune-teller, who says she is going to marry a millionaire;" or,
"Jean's eldest daughter has just made her first communion; they say she
looked like a pretty little angel."  But he did not tell her of the
chaffing congratulations heaped on him on the prospect of his settling
down with his beautiful blonde demoiselle.  He accepted them with a
smile of angelic indulgence.

When they had done they went upstairs; and, on the way, Tinker said, "I
must have a shot at that hair of yours; it--it really gets on my
nerves."

"It's no use," said Elsie with her ready flush.  "I brush it as well as
I can; but I can't do it very well, there's such a lot of it."

"Well, I'll do what I can," said Tinker, and he measured with
thoughtful eye the silken mass, tangled and matted by the sea-water.

He led the way into his room, and set her in a chair, took off his
coat, turned up his sleeves, took his hair brushes, and began upon it.
It was his first essay as coiffeur, but his natural and trained
deftness stood him in good stead.  He kept a watchful eye on her face
in the glass, and whenever it puckered, brushed more gently; but, at
times, in his absorption in his task, he so far forgot himself as to
hiss like a groom cleaning a horse.  In the middle of it Sir Tancred
came in, and it was significant that he saw Tinker's occupation without
a smile, made no joke upon it, but seemed to take it as the most
natural thing in the world that his son should be discharging a
function of the lady's maid.  He greeted the children gravely, sat
down, and watched the brushing with a respectful attention.  Now and
again he asked Elsie a question, which seemed too idle to be
impertinent, but her answers told him all he wished to know; and
presently he felt, with Tinker, that her uncle was a gentleman in great
need of kicking.

[Illustration: It was his first essay as coiffeur.]

At last Tinker had finished; Elsie rose with a luxurious sigh, and he
looked at his work with fond pride.  It was very beautiful, fine hair;
and its sheen of changing light well repaid him for his trouble.  Sir
Tancred proposed that they should stroll down to the Casino, and find
her uncle.  Lord Crosland joined them in the hall and went with them.
When they came to the Casino, they found a little crowd already
gathered about its doors, waiting for them to open.

But Richard Brand was not in it, and at once Elsie's face grew anxious.
As soon as the doors opened, Sir Tancred went in to ask if her uncle
has made any inquiries about Elsie, or left word where she might find
him.  In ten minutes he came out again and said, "No; he has made no
inquiries.  Suppose you stroll with Elsie along towards the Condamine,
Crosland; that is the way he would come.  Tinker and I will wait here."

Lord Crosland looked at his face, said, "Come along, missie," and
strolled off with the anxious child.

When they were out of hearing, Sir Tancred said, "I'm afraid the child
is in a bad mess.  This disgusting uncle of hers lost every penny at
roulette last night; and the authorities, with their usual kindness,
took his ticket to London, and put him in the train with twenty-five
francs in his pocket."

"What a cad!" said Tinker shortly.

"Well, she is on our hands, and we must look after her till we can make
arrangements--deposit her in a home or something."

Tinker said nothing for a while; he seemed plunged in profound thought.
He kicked a little stone ten yards away; then raised his eyes to his
father's face and said, in the firm voice of one whose mind is made up,
"I should like to adopt her."

"Adopt her?" said Sir Tancred with some surprise.

"Yes; I should like to, very much."

"Well, thanks to your industry in the matter of flying-machines and
stolen children, you have a nice little income, so we needn't consider
the question of expense.  You can afford it.  But in what capacity
would you adopt her--as father, uncle, guardian, or what?  The
formalities must be observed."

"I think as a brother," said Tinker.

Sir Tancred thought a while, then he said, "You will find it a great
responsibility."

"Yes; but I don't mind.  I--I like her, don't you know!"

Sir Tancred's stern face relaxed into one of his rare and charming
smiles.  "Very good," he said.  "You shall adopt her."

"Thank you, sir," said Tinker, and his smile matched his father's.
"And may I have some money to dress her?  Her clothes are dreadful."

"They are," said Sir Tancred; and, taking out his notecase, he gave him
a thousand-franc note.

"Thank you," said Tinker, beaming.  "I'll break it to her about her
uncle."

He hurried off towards the Condamine, and overtaking Elsie and Lord
Crosland, told her that it was all right, that they had arranged to
take care of her for a few days, and carried her away to fetch Blazer,
for his morning walk.  It is to be feared that he gave her the
impression that her uncle had been a party to the arrangement, but by a
flood of talk he diverted successfully her mind from the matter.  From
an unworthy jealousy Blazer was at first disposed to sniff at Elsie,
but when he found that she joined heartily in the few poor amusements
the place afforded an honest dog, he became more gracious.  The
children made their déjeuner with Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland, and
after it, having restored the reluctant Blazer to his lodging in the
basement of the hotel, they took the train to Nice.

Tinker hired the largest commissionaire at the station and bought a
small trunk, which he gave him to carry.  Then he went straight to
Madame Aline's and, having insisted on seeing Madame herself, explained
that the bright and elaborate fashions affected by the little French
girls would not suit Elsie.

Madame agreed with him, but said, "Simplicity is so expensive."

Tinker waved away the consideration, and showed Madame the
thousand-franc note.  At once she fell a victim to his irresistible
charm, and set about meeting his taste with the liveliest energy, with
the result that in less than an hour Elsie was provided with an evening
frock of an exquisite shade of heliotrope, an afternoon frock of no
less exquisite shade of blue, and a hat, stockings, and gloves to
match.  They were packed in the trunk, and with them two pairs of
shoes, which Madame sent for from a no less expensive bootmaker, and
various other garments.

When they came out of her shop, Tinker considered for a while the hole
he had made in the thousand-franc note, and said, "The time has come to
be economical."

He examined the shops with a keen eye till he came to one which seemed
more of the popular kind, and there he bought a frock of serge and
three of dark-blue linen, stouter shoes, slippers, and two hats.  Here
he waited while Elsie changed, and when she came out, looking another
creature, he said with a sigh of relief, "I knew you'd look all right
if you had a chance."

They had ices at a café, and caught a train back to Monte Carlo.  Elsie
seemed dazed with her sudden wealth, while Tinker was full of a quiet,
restful satisfaction.  But it was in the evening that the great triumph
came.  When she came out of her room in her evening frock, Tinker
regarded her for a moment with a satisfaction that was almost solemn,
then he turned her round and said, "We match."

"Do you really think so?" said Elsie in an awed voice, with humid eyes.

"There's no doubt about it," said Tinker, with calm, dispassionate, and
judicial impartiality.

When they came into the restaurant there was a faint murmur of
delighted surprise from the tables they passed; and one stout, but
sentimental baroness cried, "Violà des séraphin!"

And truly, if you can conceive of a seraph in an Eton suit, a low-cut
white waistcoat, and a white tie, there was something in what she said.

At the sight of them Sir Tancred smiled, and Lord Crosland said, "I
congratulate you on your taste, young people."

"It was Tinker's," said Elsie; and she looked at him with a world of
thankfulness and devotion in her eyes.

After dinner Tinker was uncomfortable.  He felt bound to break to Elsie
her uncle's desertion, and he was afraid of tears.  With a vague notion
of emphasising the difference between her uncle's _régime_ and his own,
he led the way to the corner of the gardens where they had first met
and, standing before the seat on which she had waited so long and
hungrily, he said, "I say, don't you think we could do without your
uncle?"

"Do without uncle?" said Elsie surprised.

"Yes; suppose, instead of living with your uncle and his looking after
you, you lived with us, and I looked after you?  Suppose you were to be
my adopted sister?"

"For good and all?" said Elsie in a hushed voice.

"Yes."

For answer she threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and cried,
"Oh, I do love you so."

By a splendid effort Tinker repressed a wriggle.

"We'll consider it settled, then," he said.

Elsie loosed him.  With a little deprecating cough, and a delicate
tentativeness, he said, "About kissing, of course, now that you're my
sister you have a right to kiss me sometimes; and--and--of course it's
all right.  But don't you think yo

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