← catalogue

If Sinners Entice Thee

by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #41002 · 438,535 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of If Sinners Entice Thee
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: If Sinners Entice Thee

Author: William Le Queux

Illustrator: Harold Piffard


        
Release date: October 9, 2012 [eBook #41002]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41002

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE ***

If Sinners Entice Thee, by William Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________















________________________________________________________________________
IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

ZERTHO.

"No, Zertho.  You forget that Liane is my daughter, the daughter of
Brooker of the Guards, once an officer, and still, I hope, a gentleman."

"Gentleman!" sneered the other with a curl of his lip.

Erle Brooker shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.

"Yet many women would be eager enough to become Princess d'Auzac if they
had the chance," observed the tall, dark-bearded, handsome man, speaking
English with a slight accent as he leaned easily against the edge of the
table, and glanced around the shabby, cheaply-furnished little
dining-room.  Sallow-faced, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, he was aged
about forty--with full lips and long tapering hands, white as a woman's.

"Both of us know the world, my dear fellow," answered Captain Erle
Brooker at last, standing astride before the fireplace in which a gaudy
Japanese umbrella had been placed to hide its ugliness.  "Surely the
five years we spent together were sufficient to show us that there are
women--and women?"

"Of course, as I expected," the other cried cynically.  "Now that you're
back again in England, buried in this sleepy country village, you are
becoming sentimental.  I suppose it is respectable to be so; but it's
hardly like you."

"You've prospered.  I've fallen upon evil days."

"And you could have had similar luck if only you would have continued to
run with me that snug little place in Nice, instead of showing the white
feather," he said.

"It was entirely against my grain to fleece those beardless boys.  I'll
play fair, or not at all."

"Sentiment again!  It's your curse, Brooker."

"The speculation no doubt proved a veritable gold mine, as of course it
must.  But I had a second reason in dissolving our partnership."

"Liane urged you?"

"Yes."

"And you took her advice, the advice of a mere girl!" he laughed
contemptuously.

"Luck is always with her," the Captain answered.  "She sat beside me and
prompted me on the occasion of my last big coup at roulette."

"A sort of sorceress, eh?"

Brooker smiled coldly, but again made no reply.  "Well," continued his
companion.  "Do you intend to accept my proposal?"

"Certainly not," replied the luckless gamester.  "I'll never sacrifice
my daughter's happiness."

"Rubbish!"

"I have already decided."

Zertho was silent; his features became fierce and authoritative.  His
was an arrestive face, indicating rare, possibly prodigious, mental and
also bodily activity, an activity that, unless curbed and restrained by
carefully cultivated habits, might become distorted, and thus become
injurious to himself as well as to others.  Two rows of strong white
teeth redeemed a large mouth from the commonplace, but those teeth were
seldom seen--never, indeed, unless their owner laughed, and if smiles
were rare, laughter still more rarely disturbed the steady composure of
that saturnine countenance.  Yet there was an individuality about the
man which produced interest, though not always an agreeable interest,
much less liking.  He made an impression; he produced an effect upon the
imagination that was not easily forgotten.  Again, regarding the Captain
keenly, he asked:

"Don't you think I'm straight?"

"As straight as you ever were, Zertho," the other answered ambiguously,
with a light laugh.  "But if you want a wife, surely you can fancy some
other girl besides Liane.  I'm afraid we know a little too much of each
other to trust one another very far."

There was another long silence.  The golden sunset streamed in at the
open window, which revealed an old-fashioned garden filled with fragrant
roses, and a tiny lawn bounded by a hedgerow beyond.  Through the garden
ran a paved path to the white dusty road.  The afternoon had been hot
and drowsy.  Upon the warm wind was borne in the sound of children at
play in the village street of Stratfield Mortimer, while somewhere in
the vicinity the shoe-smith's hammer fell upon his anvil with musical
clang.  The house stood at the east end of the long straggling village,
towards Reading, a small, old-fashioned cottage, picturesque in its ivy
mantle, with deep mullions, diamond panes, and oaken doors.  A year ago
an old maiden lady, who had resided there for a quarter of a century,
had died, and the village had been thrown into a state of commotion, as
villages are wont to be, by the arrival of new comers--Captain Erle
Brooker, his daughter Liane, and Nellie Bridson, her companion.  The
latter was daughter of Jack Bridson, a brother officer of Brooker's.
Left an orphan at nine years of age she had been brought up by the
Captain, and throughout her whole life had been Liane's inseparable
friend.  Soon, however, the village gossips found food for talk.  The
furniture they brought with them bore the distinct impress of having
been purchased secondhand, the maid-of-all-work was a buxom Frenchwoman
who bought stuff, for soups and salads, and the two girls habitually
spoke French when together, in preference to English.  Hence they were
at once dubbed "fine, finnikin' foreigners," and regarded with suspicion
by all the country folk from Beech Hill away to Silchester.

The thin-faced vicar made a formal call, as vicars will, but, as might
be expected, received but a cold welcome from the ex-cavalry officer,
and this fact spreading rapidly throughout the district, no one else
ever crossed their threshold.  This social ostracism annoyed Brooker,
not for his own sake, but for that of the girls.  The reason he had
decided to live in the country in preference to London, was, first
because it was cheaper, and secondly, because he had a vague idea that
both girls would enter a pleasant and inexpensive circle where the
dissipations would be mainly in the form of tea and tennis.  In this,
however, he and they had been sorely disappointed.

Zertho had spoken the truth.  Stratfield Mortimer was indeed deadly dull
after Ostend or the Riviera.  He was getting already tired of posing as
a half-pay officer, and speaking to nobody except the postmistress or
the garrulous father of the local inn-keeper.  Yet the one thing needful
was money, and since he had renounced gambling, he had had scarcely
sufficient to live from hand to mouth.  Yet, although he had hardly a
sou in his pocket, his imperturbable good humour never deserted him.
His career had, indeed, been full of strange vicissitudes; of feast and
fast, of long nights and heavy play, of huge stakes won and lost with
smile or curse, of fair game and sharping, of fleecing youngsters and
bluffing his elders in nearly every health-resort in Europe.  Easy-going
to a fault, he bore his fifty years merrily, with scarcely a grey hair
in his head, and although his ruddy, well-shaven face bore no sign of
anxiety it was a trifle blotchy, caused by high living and long nights
of play, while twenty years of an existence on his wits, had so
sharpened his intelligence that in his steel-grey eyes was a keen
penetrating look that had long become habitual.  As careless and
indolent now as he had ever been, he nevertheless dressed just as
carefully, walked as lightly, and held his head just as high as in the
days of his prosperity when a smart cavalry officer, younger son of a
well-known peer, he could draw a cheque for thirty thousand.  When he
reflected upon his present position, hampered by the two girls dependent
upon him, he merely laughed a strange cynical laugh, the same that he
had laughed across the roulette-table when he had flung down and lost
his last louis.

"What's your game, burying yourself in this abominable hole?" inquired
his whilom partner, presently.  "I called at the National Sporting Club
as soon as I got to London, expecting to see something of you, but the
hall-porter told me that you lived down in this Sleepy-Hollow, and never
came to town.  So I resolved to run down and look you up."

"Can't afford to live in London," the Captain answered, rolling a
cigarette carefully between his fingers, before lighting it.

"Hard up! yet you refuse my offer!" observed Zertho, laughing.  "You're
an enigma, Brooker.  Money would put you on your legs again, my dear
fellow."

"I don't doubt it," the other replied.  "But I have reasons."

Zertho d'Auzac knit his dark brows, glancing at the Captain with a look
of quick suspicion.

"You have expectations for Liane--eh?"

No reply escaped Brooker's lips.  He was thinking deeply.

"Any other man wouldn't make you such an offer," the other continued, in
a tone of contempt.

Instantly there was an angry glint in the Captain's eyes.

"I tell you, Zertho, I'll never let my daughter marry you.  You, of all
men, shall not have her--no, by Heaven! not for a hundred thousand
pounds."

The other's face darkened in anger.  But he turned away, giving vent to
a short, harsh laugh, and with feigned good humour advanced towards the
window, and whistling softly, took out his cigarette-case, a plain
silver one, whereon his coronet and monogram were engraved.

At that moment two graceful, bright-faced girls entered the gate from
the road, sauntering leisurely up the path towards the house.  Dressed
alike in dark well-made skirts, cool-looking blouses of cream crepon and
straw sailor hats with black bands, they walked together, the sound of
their laughter ringing through the room.  The taller of the pair was
Liane Brooker, slim, with infinite grace, a face undeniably beautiful, a
pair of clear grey eyes the depths of which seemed unfathomable, nose
and mouth that denoted buoyancy of spirits and sincerity of heart, hair
dressed neatly in the latest mode, and that easy swing about her
carriage peculiar alone to Frenchwomen.  Her warmth of Southern blood
and large expressive eyes she inherited from her mother, who came from
St Tropez in the Var, and her strange cosmopolitan education had already
made her a thorough woman of the world.  Her character was altogether a
curiously complex one.  Though fresh, bright and happy, she, the
daughter of an adventurer, had seen a good deal of the seamy side of
life, where the women were declasse, and the men rogues and outsiders;
yet, in fairness to her father, it must be admitted that, even in his
most reckless moments, he had always exerted towards both girls keen
solicitude.  Her beauty was peerless.  Hundreds of men had said so among
themselves.  Such a face as hers would have made a fortune on the stage;
therefore it was little wonder that she should be desired as wife by
Prince Zertho d'Auzac, the man who under the plain cognomen of Zertho
d'Auzac was once a fellow blackleg with her father, and now a wealthy
personage by reason of his inheritance of the great family estates in
Luxembourg.  Well he knew what a sensation her beauty would create in
Berlin or St Petersburg, and with the object of obtaining her he had
travelled to England.  Pure and good, full of high thoughts and refined
feeling, Liane Brooker existed amid strangely incongruous surroundings.
She had been reared in the worst atmosphere of vice and temptation to be
found in the whole of Europe, yet had passed through unscathed and
uncorrupted.

Her companion was fair, with bright pink-and-white complexion, rosy,
delicate cheeks, and merry blue eyes.  Nelly was scarcely as handsome
perhaps as Liane, yet hers was an almost perfect type of English beauty.
Her hands were not quite so small or refined as her friend's, and in
contrast with the latter's carriage hers was not quite so graceful, nor
was her figure so supple; yet the mass of fluffy blond curls that peeped
beneath her hat, straying across her brow, gave softness to her
features, and her delicate pointed chin added a decided piquancy to a
face that was uncommonly pretty and winning.

Both girls, catching sight at the same moment of Zertho's heavy
watch-chain at the window, muttered together in an undertone.  That day
the Prince had arrived unexpectedly to lunch, sat down to their meagre
dish of cold mutton, as he had often done in the old days when funds had
been low, and having indicated his desire to talk business alone with
the Captain, they had gone out together to post a letter at the little
grocery store at the opposite end of the village.

When they discovered him still there, both pulled wry faces.  He had
never been a favourite of either.  Liane had always instinctively
disliked this man, who was the scapegrace of a noble family.  His
cynical look and sly manner had caused her to distrust him, and it had
been mainly on this account that her father had dissolved his
partnership in the private gaming-house they had carried on during the
previous winter in Nice, an institution remembered with regret by many a
young man who had gone to the Riviera for health and pleasure, only to
return ruined.  Zertho was not entirely unconscious of Liane's antipathy
towards him; he well knew that without her father's aid his cause must
be foredoomed to failure.  But he never on any single occasion acted in
undue haste.  It was his proud boast that if ever he set his heart upon
doing a thing he could quietly possess his soul in patience, for years
if necessary, till the right moment arrived when he could execute his
plans with success.  Judging from the light, pleasant greeting he gave
both girls as they entered, it was the tactics of craft and cunning he
now intended to follow.

He chaffed Liane upon becoming a village belle, whereupon she, quick at
repartee, tossed her handsome head, her heart beating fast, almost
tumultuously, as she answered:

"Better that than the old life, M'sieur."

"Oh, so you, too, have settled and become puritanical!" he laughed.
"You English, you are always utterly incomprehensible.  Have you yet
joined the Anti-Gambling League?"

"We are very happy here," she replied, heedless of his taunt.  "I have
no desire to return to the Continent, to that old life of feast one day
and fast the next."

"Nor I," chimed in Nellie, full of fun and vivacity.  "This place is
sometimes horribly dull, it's true; but we always get our dinner, which
we didn't on many occasions when we were abroad.  Look at our house!
Surely this place, with its little English garden, is better than those
dingy rooms on the third floor in the Rue Dalpozzo in Nice.  Besides,
the Captain never swears now."

"Very soon he'll become a teacher in the local Sunday School, I
suppose," sneered Zertho.

"I cannot understand your reason for coming here to jeer at our
poverty," Liane exclaimed angrily, drawing herself up quickly.  "At
least my father lives honestly."

"I sincerely beg your pardon, and your father's also, mademoiselle,"
answered the Prince, bowing stiffly in foreign manner.  "If my remarks
have annoyed you I'm sure I will at once withdraw them with a thousand
apologies.  I had no intention, I assure you, of causing one instant's
pain.  I was merely joking.  It all seems so droll."

"I know you well enough, Zertho, not to be annoyed at anything you may
say," the Captain interrupted, good-humouredly as always.  "However,
speak what you have to say to me alone, not before the girls."

"The ladies will, I know, forgive me if I promise not to again offend,"
the Prince said.  His eager eyes scanned Liane with such intense anxiety
that they seemed to burn in their sockets, yet mingled with this fiery
admiration, there was a strange covered menace in their expression.
Taking out his watch a second later he added, "But I'm late, I see.  Ten
minutes only to catch my train back to London, and I don't know the way.
Who'll guide me to the station?  You, Liane?"

"No," answered her father.  "Nelly shall go.  I want Liane to deliver a
message for me."

Prince d'Auzac bit his lip.  But next instant he laughed gaily and
saying: "Then come along Nelly," shook hands with Liane and her father,
bade them "Au revoir" with a well-feigned bonhomie, and lounged out of
the room.

Meanwhile, Nelly wheeled out her cycle, and announcing her intention of
piloting their visitor to the station, and afterwards riding over to
Burghfield village to make some purchase, mounted her machine and rode
slowly on besides the Prince, chatting merrily.

As soon as they had left, Liane inquired of her father what she should
do; but he told her briefly that it had been merely an excuse to prevent
her going to the station, as he knew she disliked Zertho's society.

"Yes, father," she answered with a slight sigh, "I think him simply
hateful.  I'm convinced that he's neither your friend, nor mine."

Then glancing at the clock, she passed out of the house humming to
herself as she walked slowly down the garden path, into the white dusty
high road.

For a long time Brooker stood twirling his moustache, gazing aimlessly
out into the crimson blaze of the dying day.

"I can't think why Zertho should have taken this trouble to look me up
again," he murmured to himself.  "I had hoped that he had cut me
entirely, and believed that terrible incident was forgotten.  The excuse
about Liane is all very well.  But I know him.  He means mischief--he
means mischief."

And his face grew ashen pale as his eyes were lost in deep and serious
contemplation.

A sudden thought had flashed across his mind.  It held him petrified,
for he half-feared that he had guessed the bitter, ghastly truth.

CHAPTER TWO.

A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK.

Sir John Stratfield, of Stratfield Court, lay dying on that afternoon.
For years he had been a confirmed invalid, and in the morning the two
renowned doctors who had been telegraphed for from London had declared
his recovery impossible.  The Court, a fine old pile with grey time-worn
walls half-hidden by ivy, stood in its spacious park about a mile from
Stratfield Mortimer, on the hill between that village and Burghfield.

As the rays of crimson sunset slanted in through the one unshaded window
there was a profound stillness in the sick-room.  At the bedside stood
four solemn-faced men, patiently watching for the end.  The spark of
life flickered on, and now and then the dying man uttered words low and
indistinct.  Two of the men were doctors, the third Richard Harrison, of
the firm of Harrison and James, solicitors, of Bedford Row, and the
fourth George Stratfield, the Baronet's younger son.

The haggard man had spoken once or twice, giving certain instructions to
his solicitor, but at last there was a long silence, unbroken save by
the rustling of the stiff grey gown of the nurse, who entered for an
instant, then left again in silence.

The eccentric old man, whose reputation throughout Berkshire was that of
a tyrannical landlord, a bigoted magistrate and a miserly father, at
last opened his dull filmy eyes.  The white bony fingers lying on the
coverlet twitched uneasily, as, glancing at his son, he beckoned him
forward.

Obediently the young man approached.

"Promise me one thing, George," the dying man exclaimed with an effort,
in a voice so low as to be almost indistinguishable.  "Promise me that
you will never marry that woman."

"Why, father?  Why are you so bitterly prejudiced against Liane?"

"I have my reasons," was the answer.

"But I love her," the young man urged.  "I can marry no one else."

"Then go abroad, forget her, and remain a bachelor.  Erle Brooker's
daughter shall never become a Stratfield," was the harsh reply, uttered
with considerable difficulty.

George, a tall well-built young fellow, with fair hair, a fair moustache
and blue eyes, was a typical specimen of the English gentleman, still in
his well-worn riding breeches and tweed coat, for that morning before
the arrival of the doctors he had, in order to get a prescription made
up, ridden hard into Reading.  He made no reply to his father's words,
he did not wish to offend the Baronet, yet he could not give a pledge
which he intended to break.

"Will you not promise?"  Sir John again demanded, a strange look
overspreading his haggard ashen features.

Again a deep silence fell.

"No," answered his son at last.  "I cannot promise to give up Liane, for
I love her."

"Love!  Bah.  I tell you that woman shall never be your wife.  If John
were here, instead of with his regiment in India, he would fully endorse
every word I say.  Brooker's girl shall never enter our family."

"What do you know against her?" the son asked dismayed.  "Why, you have
never set your eyes upon either father or daughter!  Some confounded
eavesdropper must have been telling you of our clandestine meetings, and
this has annoyed you."

"I am aware of more than you imagine," the dying man answered.  "Will
you, or will you not, promise to obey my wish?"

There was a look of firm determination in the old man's countenance; a
look which the son did not fail to notice.

"No, father," he answered.  "Once for all, I decline."

"Then if such be your decision you must take the consequences.  You are
an unworthy son."

"In the matter of my marriage I shall follow my own inclinations
entirely," the young man said calmly.

"Very well," the Baronet answered, and making a sign to his solicitor,
Harrison, commanded his son to leave the room.

At first George demurred; but in accordance with the suggestion of the
doctors that the wishes of their patient should be respected at that
crisis-time, he went out, and passing downstairs to the library threw
himself back in one of the roomy leather chairs.

Yes, he loved Liane.  With her vivacious half-English, half-French
mannerisms, her sweet musical accent, her dark beauty and grey trusting
eyes, she was unlike any other woman he had ever beheld.  They had met
by chance on Mortimer Common a few months before.  One morning, while
riding towards Ufton, he had found her at the roadside endeavouring to
re-adjust her cycle, which had met with a slight accident.  His
proffered services were gratefully accepted, and from that moment their
friendship had ripened into passionate and devoted love.  Almost daily
they took long walks and rides together, but so secret had been their
meetings that until half-an-hour ago he had no idea that his father was
aware of the truth.  He had purposely kept the matter from Sir John
because of his severe illness, yet someone, whom he knew not, must have
watched him and gone to the Baronet with some foul libellous story.

As he lay back in the chair, his gaitered legs crossed, his sun-browned
hands clasped behind his head, gazing up to the old panelled ceiling, he
reflected that in a few hours the Court would no longer be his home.
His elder brother, Major Stratfield, who for the past five years had
been in India with his regiment, the East Surrey, had been telegraphed
for, and in a few weeks would arrive and become Sir John Stratfield,
while he, dogged by the misfortune attendant on being a younger son,
would go forth from the old place with an income the extent of which he
could not know until after the will had been read.

George's life had certainly not been a happy one.  Since his mother's
death a few months after his birth, his father had become a hard man,
irritable and misanthropic.  He kept no company, begrudged every penny
his son cost him at college, and appeared to take a delight in obtaining
the ill-will of all his neighbours.  He knew that scarcely a person in
the parish would regret his decease, and used frequently to comment with
self-satisfaction upon the unenviable reputation he had gained.  This
was merely eccentricity, people said; but for George it was decidedly
unpleasant, for while he was welcomed in every house, his father was
never invited.  Sometimes this fact impressed itself forcibly on the old
man's mind, but on such occasions he would only laugh contemptuously,
saying:

"Ah, the Stratfields of Stratfield can afford to treat with contempt
these mushroom merchants without breeding, and without pedigree."

At whatever George had achieved the baronet had never shown the
slightest sign of satisfaction.  His career at Balliol had been
brilliant, he had eaten his dinners at Lincoln's Inn and been duly
called to the Bar, but all to no purpose, for almost as soon as he had
been "called," his father, strangely enough, refused to grant him any
further allowance unless he gave up his chambers and returned to live at
Stratfield.  This he had been forced to do, although much against his
inclination, for he preferred his friends of the Common Room to the
society of his eccentric parent.  However, it had after all turned out
for the best, he reflected, because a month after he had come back he
had met the grey-eyed girl whose beauty held him entranced, and whom he
intended to ask to become his wife.  From the very first it had been
arranged between them that they should keep their acquaintance secret,
only Nelly Bridson being aware of it, and it was she who met George with
notes from Liane when, on rare occasions, the latter was unable to keep
her appointments.  He had found both girls extremely pleasant
companions, and through the sunny months the bright, halcyon days had
passed happily.

In obedience to Liane's wish he had refrained from calling upon Captain
Brooker.  Truth to tell, the refined, ingenuous girl, with her French
chic and charming manner, was ashamed of their shabby home, of her
father's frayed but well-cut clothes, of the distinct evidences of their
poverty, and feared lest her lover should discover the secret of her
father's rather ignominious past.  She had told him that the Captain was
a half-pay officer, and that her mother had been French; but she had
been careful never to refer to the polyglot society in which they had
moved on the Continent, nor to the fact that she was daughter of a man
well-known in all the gaming establishments in Europe.  All that was of
the past, she had assured herself.  If George knew the truth, then
certainly he would forsake her.  And she loved him no less than he
adored her.  Hence her lover had been puzzled not a little by her
steadfast refusal to tell him anything definite regarding her earlier
life, and the equal reticence of her foster sister.  Of course, he could
not fail to recognise behind this veil of mystery some family secret,
yet in his buoyant frame of mind, happy in his new-found love, it
troubled him but little.  Liane, his enchantress, loved him; that was
sufficient.

For more than half-an-hour he sat in the old brown library in the same
position, plunged deep in gloomy reflection.  The sunset streamed in
through the big windows of stained glass whereon were the arms of the
Stratfields with the motto, "Non vi, sed voluntate," which his ancestors
had borne through six centuries.  The ancient room, lined from floor to
ceiling with the books of past generations, seemed in that calm silent
hour aglow with many colours.

The suddenness with which the storm-cloud had broken away, and the sun's
last rays again shone forth, aroused him.  He glanced at his watch.  It
was already seven o'clock, and Liane was awaiting him beneath the
railway bridge in Cross Lane, fully a mile away.

He made a movement to rise, but next moment, reflecting that he could
not leave the house while his father lay dying, sank back into his chair
again.  Liane knew of his father's illness, and would undoubtedly wait,
as she had often waited before.

Yet why was he sitting there inactive and patient?  The bitter truth
recurred to him.  He had refused to give his pledge, and had therefore
been banished from his father's presence.  And this because he loved
her!

He rose, and gazed out down the long shady avenue of chestnuts, that led
across the broad Park towards the village.  Yes, he loved Liane, and
come what might he would marry her.  Soon his father would pass away;
then he would be free to act as he chose.  After all, he was pleased
that he had not given a false pledge to a dying man.  At least he had
been frank.

His brother John had never been his friend, therefore he knew that soon
he must leave Stratfield.  One thing he regretted to part from was the
library, that fine old room in which he now stood, where he had spent so
many long and studious days, and where he had sought refuge almost daily
from his father's ill-temper.  With hands deep in his pockets, he gazed
slowly around the old place with its cosy armchairs and big
writing-table, then sighed heavily.

He was thinking of his father's angry declaration, "Erle Brooker's
daughter shall never become a Stratfield."  What did he mean?  Were
those words uttered because of some absurd prejudice, or was he actually
aware of something which both Liane and Nelly had carefully striven to
conceal?  Again he glanced at his watch.  The hour was fleeting.  Soon
his well-beloved would weary of waiting and return home.

He pressed the electric button, and at once his summons was answered by
a neat maid.

"Tell Morton to saddle the bay mare and hold her ready.  I may want to
ride," he said.

"Yes, sir," the girl answered, surprised at his unusual brusqueness.

The door closed, and again he was alone.

"At least I'll try and overtake her," he murmured.  "I must see her
to-night at all hazards," and as the sunlight faded he paced the room
from door to window, his chin resting upon his breast.

Soon the door again slowly opened, and the old solicitor entering,
closed it after him.

"It is my painful duty to tell you, Mr George, that your father has
passed quietly away," he said, with that professionally solemn air that
lawyers can assume when occasion demands.

The young man standing with his back turned, gazing out upon the Park,
made no response.

"Before he drew his last breath I asked him three times whether he would
see you again, but he firmly declined.  You caused him the most intense
displeasure by your refusal to grant his request," the solicitor
continued.

"Am I not my own master, Harrison?" the young man snapped, turning to
him sharply.

"Certainly," the other answered, raising his grey eyebrows.  "I admit
that I have no right whatever to interfere with your private affairs,
but I certainly cannot regard your attitude and your father's subsequent
action without considerable regret."

"What do you mean?"

"Apart from my professional connection with the Stratfield estate I have
been, you will remember, a friend of your father's through many years,
therefore it pains me to think that in Sir John's dying moments you
should have done this."

George Stratfield glanced quickly at the white-haired lawyer.  Then he
said,--

"I suppose my father has treated me badly at his death, as he did
throughout his life."

"Yes."

"Well, let me know the worst," the young man exclaimed, sighing; "Heaven
knows, I don't expect very much."

"When the will is formally read you will know everything," the other
answered drily.

"A moment ago you said you were a friend of my father's.  Surely if you
are you will not keep me in suspense regarding my future."

"Suspense is entirely unnecessary," answered the lawyer, his sphinx-like
face relaxing into a cold smile.

"Why?"

"Well, unfortunately, you need not expect anything."

"Not anything?" gasped the young man, blankly.  "Then am I penniless?"

The solicitor nodded, and opening a paper he had held behind him on
entering, said,--

"When you had left the room half-an-hour ago Sir John expressed a desire
to make an addition to his will, and entirely against my inclination
made me write what you see here.  He signed it while still in his right
mind, the two doctors witnessing it.  It is scarcely a professional
proceeding to show it to you at this early stage, nevertheless, perhaps,
as you are the son of my old friend, and it so closely concerns your
future welfare, you may as well know the truth at once.  Read for
yourself."

George took the paper in his trembling fingers and read the six long
lines of writing, the ink of which was scarcely yet dry.  Three times he
read them ere he could understand their exact purport.  The cold formal
words crushed all joy from his heart, for he knew, alas! that the woman
he loved could never be his.

It was the death-warrant to all his hopes and aspirations.  He could not
now ask Liane to be his wife.

With set teeth he sighed, flung down the will upon the table with an
angry gesture, and casting himself again into his armchair, sat staring
straight before him without uttering a word.

In addition to being cruel and unjust the codicil was certainly of a
most extraordinary character.  By it there was bequeathed to "my son
George Basil Stratfield" the sum of one hundred thousand pounds on one
condition only, namely, that within two years he married Mariette,
daughter of a certain Madame Lepage, whose address was given as 89, Rue
Toullier, Paris.  If, however, it was discovered that Mariette was
already married, or if she refused to accept the twenty thousand pounds
that were to be offered her on condition that she consented to marry his
son, then one-half the amount, namely, 50,000 pounds, was to be paid by
the executors to George, and the remaining 50,000 pounds, together with
the 20,000 pounds, was to revert to his elder brother.

"It certainly is a most extraordinary disposition," old Mr Harrison
reflected aloud, taking up the will again, and re-reading the words he
had written at his dead client's dictation.

"How does my father think I can marry a woman I've never seen?" cried
the son.  "Why, the thing's absolutely absurd.  He must have been insane
when he ordered you to write such a preposterous proposal."

"No, he was entirely in his right mind," answered the elder man, calmly.
"I must confess myself quite as surprised as you are; nevertheless, it
is certain that unless you offer marriage to this mysterious young
person you will obtain nothing."

"It is my father's vengeance," the son cried, in a tone full of
bitterness and disappointment.  "I desire to marry Liane, the woman I
adore, and in order to prevent me he seeks to bind me to some unknown
Frenchwoman."

"Well, in any case, effort must be made to find her," Harrison observed.
"You surely will not let fifty thousand pounds slip through your
fingers.  There is a chance that she is already married, or that she
will refuse the twenty thousand pounds which I shall be compelled to
offer her."

"But I will only marry Liane," George cried, impetuously.

"My dear young man, yours is a mere foolish fancy.  You cannot, nay you
must not, render yourself a pauper merely because of this girl, who
happens to have attracted you just for the moment.  In a year's time you
will regard the matter from a common-sense point of view.  Your proper
course is to give up all thought of the young lady, and unite with me in
the search for this mysterious Mariette Lepage."

"I decline to abandon Liane," George answered with promptness.  "If I am
a pauper, well, I must bear it.  My ruin is, I suppose, the last of my
father's eccentricities.  I'm the scapegoat of the family."

"It is, nevertheless, my duty to advise you," the elder man went on,
standing before the empty fireplace with his arms folded.  "In any case
I shall be compelled to find this woman.  Have you never heard your late
father speak of any family of the name of Lepage?"

"Never.  He has not been out of England for twenty years, therefore I
suppose it's someone he knew long ago.  What could have been his
object?"

"As far as I could glean it was twofold.  First, he believed that the
fact of having left this sum just beyond your reach would cause you
intense chagrin; and, secondly, that if you did not marry this unknown
woman, you will still be unable to marry the girl against whom he held
such a strange deep-rooted objection."

"Why did he object to her, Harrison?  Tell me confidentially what you
know," urged the young man earnestly.

"I only know what he told me a few days ago," the solicitor replied.
"He said he had ascertained that you had taken many clandestine walks
and rides with Liane Brooker, and he declared that such a woman was no
fitting wife for you."

"Did he give any further reason?" the other demanded.

"None.  He merely said that if you declined to abandon all thought of
her you should not have a penny."

"And he has kept his word," observed George, gloomily.

"Unfortunately it appears so."

"He was unjust--cruelly unjust!"  George protested.  "I strove hard at
the Bar, and had already obtained a few briefs when he recalled me here
to be his companion.  He would not allow me to follow my profession, yet
he has now cast me adrift without resources."

"You certainly have my entire sympathy," the old lawyer declared,
kindly.  "But don't take the matter too much to heart.  The woman may be
already married.  In this case you will receive fifty thousand."

George's face relaxed into a faint smile.

"I have no desire to hear of or see the woman at all," he answered.
"Act as you think fit, but remember that I shall never offer her
marriage--never."

"She may be a pretty girl," suggested the elder man.

"And she may be some blear-eyed old hag," snapped the dead man's son.
"It is evident from the wording of the clause that my father has heard
nothing of either mother or daughter for some years."

"That's all the more in your favour; because if she is thirty or so, the
chances are that she is married.  At all costs we must discover her."

"The whole thing is a confounded mystery," George observed.  "Who these
people are is an enigma."

"Entirely so," the solicitor acquiesced.  "There is something
exceedingly mysterious about the affair.  The combined circumstances are
bewildering in the extreme.  First, the lady you admire bears a French
name, next your father hates her because of some fact of which he is
aware regarding her family, and thirdly, in order to prevent you
marrying her, he endeavours by an ingenious and apparently
carefully-planned device, to induce you to wed a woman whose existence
is unknown to us all.  He was not a man who acted without strong
motives, therefore I cannot help suspecting that behind all this lies
some deep mystery."

"Mystery!  Of what character?"

"I have no idea.  We must first find Mariette Lepage."

"My future wife," laughed George bitterly, rising wearily from his
chair.

"Yes, the woman who is to receive twenty thousand pounds for marrying
you," repeated the solicitor smiling.

"No, Harrison," declined the young man as he moved slowly across the
room with head slightly bent.  "I'll never marry her, however
fascinating she may be.  Liane is pure and good; I shall marry only
her."

And opening the door impatiently he snatched up his cap, strode along
the hall, and out to where his man held the bay mare in readiness.

"Ah, well!"  Harrison muttered aloud when he was alone.  "We shall see,
young man.  We shall see.  I thought myself as shrewd as most men, but
if I'm not mistaken there's a mystery, strange and inexplicable,
somewhere; a mystery which seems likely to lead to some amazing
developments.  It's hard upon poor George, very hard; but if my client
was so foolish as to desire the family skeleton to be dragged from its
chest his kith and kin must of necessity bear the consequences."

With a word to Morton, most exemplary of servants, George sprang into
the saddle, and a moment later was galloping down the long straight
avenue.  The brilliant afterglow had now faded, dusk had fallen, and he
feared that Liane, having kept the appointment, would have left
disappointed and returned home.  Therefore he spurred the mare onward,
and was soon riding hard towards the unfrequented by-road known as Cross
Lane.

With a heavy heart he told himself that he must say good-bye to love,
good-bye to hope, good-bye to ambition, good-bye to all of life except
the dull monotonous routine of empty days, and a restless empty heart.

"I can't tell her I'm a pauper," he murmured aloud, after galloping a
long way in dogged silence.  "She'll know, alas! soon enough.  Then,
when the truth is out, she'll perhaps discard me; while I suppose I
shall go to the bad as so many fellows have done before me.  Of what use
am I without the means to marry?  To love her now is only to befool her.
Henceforth I'm sailing under false colours.  Yet I love her better than
life; better than anything on earth.  I'm indeed a beggar on horseback!"

And he laughed a hollow bitter laugh as he rode along beneath the oaks
where the leafy unfrequented lane dipped suddenly to pass below the
railway, the quiet lonely spot where, unobserved, he so often met his
well-beloved.  So engrossed had he been in his own sad thoughts that the
stumbling of the mare alone brought him back to a consciousness of
things around.  The light had paled suddenly out of the evening
atmosphere; the gloom was complete.  Eagerly he looked ahead, half
expecting to catch a glimpse of her well-known neat figure, but in
disappointment he saw her not.  It was too late he knew.  She had
evidently waited in vain, and afterwards returned to the village when
the dusk had deepened.

Still he rode forward, the mare's hoofs sounding loudly as they
clattered beneath the archway, until suddenly, as he emerged on the
other side, a sight met his gaze which caused him to pull up quickly
with a loud cry of dismay.

In the centre of the road, hidden from view until that instant, by
reason of the sudden bend, a girl was lying flat with arms outstretched,
her face in the thick white dust, while beside her was her cycle, left
where it had fallen.

Instantly he swung himself from the saddle, dashed towards her, and
lifted her up.  Her straw hat had fallen off, her fair hair was
dishevelled, and her dark skirt covered with dust.  But there was yet
another thing which held him transfixed with horror.  In the dim
fast-fading light he noticed that her blouse bore at the neck a small
stain of bright crimson.

It was Nelly Bridson.  She was rigid in death.  The pallor of her
refined, delicate face was rendered the more ghastly by the blood that
had oozed from the corners of her arched mouth.  Her small gloved hands
were tightly clenched, her features haggard, convulsed and drawn by a
last paroxysm of excruciating agony.

In her soft white neck was an ugly bullet wound.  She had been shot by
an unknown hand.

CHAPTER THREE.

"WE MUST NOT MARRY!"

George Stratfield stood aghast and horrified.  It was nearly dark, but
there still remained sufficient light to reveal the terrible truth that
Nelly Bridson, his gay, vivacious friend, had been foully murdered.
Tenderly he lifted her, and placed his hand upon her heart.  But there
was no movement.  It had ceased its beating.

Her face, with its hard drawn features so unlike hers, was absolutely
hideous in death.  Her hair was whitened by the dust, while her blue
eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into space with a look of
inexpressible horror.

For some moments, still kneeling beside her inanimate form, George
hesitated.  Suddenly his eager eyes caught sight of some round flat
object lying in the dust within his reach.  He stretched forth his hand
and picked it up, finding to his surprise that it was an
exquisitely-painted old miniature of a beautiful woman, set round with
fine brilliants.  He held it close to his eyes, examining it minutely
until convinced of a fact most amazing.  This miniature was the very
valuable portrait by Cosway of Lady Anne Stratfield, a noted beauty of
her time, which for many years had been missing from the collection at
Stratfield Court.  It corresponded exactly in every particular with the
description his father had so often given him of the missing portrait,
the disappearance of which had always been a mystery.

He remained speechless, dumbfounded at the discovery.  At length a
thought flashed across his mind, that by prompt action the assassin
might perhaps be discovered.  He could not bear the appalled agonised
gaze of those glazed, stony eyes which seemed fixed despairingly upon
him, therefore he closed them and prepared to move the body to the
roadside.  Suddenly he recollected that such action would be unwise.
The police should view the victim where she had fallen.  Therefore in
breathless haste he sprang again into the saddle, and tore down into
Stratfield Mortimer, a distance of a mile and a half, as hard as the
mare could gallop.

Quickly he summoned the village constable and the doctor.  The former,
before leaving for the scene scribbled a telegram to Reading requesting
the assistance of detectives; then both returned with him to the spot.
When they reached it they found the body still undisturbed, and a
cursory examination made by the doctor by aid of the constable's lantern
quickly corroborated George's belief that the unfortunate girl had been
shot through the throat.

Nearly an hour the three men waited impatiently for the arrival of the
detectives, speaking in hushed tones, examining the recovered miniature
and discussing the tragedy, until at last the lights of a trap were seen
in the distance, and very soon two plain-clothes officers joined them,
inspected the body and the tiny portrait, and made a close examination
of the road in every direction.  In the dust they found the mark of her
tyre, and followed it back beneath the railway arch and up upon the road
towards Burghfield.  With the rays of their lanterns upon the dust they
all followed the track, winding sometimes but distinct, for about three
hundred yards, when suddenly, instead of proceeding along the lane, it
turned into a gateway leading into a field.

This fact puzzled them; but soon, on examining the rank grass growing
between the gate and the road, they found it had been recently trodden
down.  There were other marks too, in the thick dust close by, but,
strangely enough, these were not footprints.  It seemed as if some
object about a foot wide had been dragged along from the gate into the
lane.  Long and earnestly the detectives searched over the spot while
the others stood aside, but they found nothing to serve as a clue.  It
was, however, evident that the unfortunate girl had approached, on her
return from Burghfield, and dismounting, had wheeled her cycle up to the
gate and placed it there while she rested.  Here she had undoubtedly
been joined by someone--as the grass and weeds bore distinct traces of
having been trodden upon by two different persons--and then, having
remounted, she rode down beneath the railway bridge, and while ascending
towards Stratfield Mortimer, had been foully shot.

The position in which both the body and the cycle were found pointed to
the conclusion that she was riding her machine when fired at, but
dismounting instantly she had staggered a few uneven steps, and then
sank dying.

From the gateway the mark of the cycle could be traced with ease away
towards Burghfield; indeed, a few yards from where the unknown person
had apparently met her there were marks of her quick footsteps where she
had dismounted.  For fully a quarter of an hour the detectives searched
both inside and outside the gate trying to distinguish accurately the
footprints of the stranger whom she had met, and in this they were
actively assisted by the village constable and George, all being careful
not to tread upon the weeds and dust themselves.  But to distinguish
traces of footprints at night is exceedingly difficult; therefore they
searched long and earnestly without any success, until at last something
half-hidden in some long rank weeds caught George's eye.

"Why, what's this?" he cried, excitedly, as putting out his hand he drew
forth a purely feminine object--an ordinary black hairpin.

The detectives, eager for anything which might lead to the discovery of
the identity of the assassin, took it, examining it closely beneath the
light of one of their bull's-eyes.  It was a pin of a common kind, and
what at first seemed like a clue was quickly discarded, for on taking it
back to where the body was lying and taking one of the pins that held
the unfortunate girl's wealth of fair hair, it was at once seen in
comparison to be of the same thickness and make, although of a slightly
different length.

Half a dozen pins were taken one by one from her hair and compared, but
strangely enough all were about half an inch shorter than the one
discovered by George.

"Anything in this, do you think?" one of the detectives asked the other,
evidently his superior.

"No," the man answered promptly.  "Women often use hairpins of different
lengths.  If you buy a box they are often of assorted sizes.  No, that
pin evidently fell from her hair when she put up her hands to tidy it,
after dismounting."

So the vague theory that the person who joined her was a woman was
dismissed.  George had said nothing of his appointment with Liane at
that spot, deeming it wiser to keep his secret, yet he was sorely
puzzled by the fact that Nelly should have been there at the same hour
that Liane had arranged to meet him.  Perhaps his well-beloved had sent
her with a message, as she had on previous occasions.  If not, why had
she returned from Burghfield by that lonely lane instead of riding
direct along the high road, which was in so much better condition for
cycling?  He had only known her to ride along Cross Lane once before.
Indeed, both she and Liane had always denounced that road with its
flints and ruts as extremely injurious to cycles.

The assassin had got clean away without leaving the slightest trace.
Even his footsteps were indistinguishable where all others were plainly
marked, for during the day the dust had been blowing in clouds,
carpeting the unfrequented lane to the depth of nearly half an inch, so
that every imprint had been faithfully retained.

The detectives, after spending nearly two hours in futile search, were
compelled at length to acknowledge themselves baffled, and preparations
were made to acquaint Captain Brooker with the sad news, and to remove
the body of Nelly Bridson to his house.  At first it was suggested that
George should go and break the sad tidings to the Captain, but he at
once declined.  He had never yet met Captain Brooker, and shrank from
the unpleasantness of such a first interview with the man whose daughter
he intended marrying.  The duty therefore devolved upon the police, and
the village constable was despatched with strict injunctions from George
not to tell Miss Liane, but request to see the Captain himself alone.
He knew what a blow it must prove to his well-beloved to thus lose under
such terrible circumstances the fair-faced girl who had been her most
intimate companion and confidante through so many years; therefore he
endeavoured to spare her any unnecessary pain.  Her father would, no
doubt, break to her the sad truth best of all.

George thought it useless to seek her that night, therefore when the
constable had left he took a long farewell glance at the white upturned
face, and mounting, turned the mare's head towards the Court.  Onward he
rode in the darkness across the open country to Broomfield Hatch, then
turning to the right into the Grazely Road, cantered down the hill
towards the lodge gates of Stratfield Court.

"It's a strange affair," he muttered aloud.  "Strange indeed, that Nelly
should have ridden along that bad road if not with the intention of
meeting someone by appointment.  Yet she would scarcely make an
appointment at that spot, knowing that I had arranged to meet Liane
there.  No, poor girl, I can't help feeling convinced that she was
awaiting me to tell me of Liane's inability to be there.  Again, how
came she possessed of the missing miniature?  What motive could anyone
possibly have in murdering her?  Ah! what motive, I wonder?"

Deep in thought, he allowed his mare to jog onward beneath the beeches
which at that point nearly met overhead, rendering the road almost pitch
dark.  Once he thought he detected a slight movement in the impenetrable
gloom, and pulling up, strained his eyes into the high bushes at the
roadside.  For a few moments he sat perfectly still in the saddle
listening intently.  Then, hearing nothing, he started forth again
muttering:

"I could have sworn I saw something white fluttering over there; but
bah!  I'm unnerved, I suppose, to-night, and after all it was mere
fancy."

Once he turned to glance back; then resolutely set his face along the
dark avenue of chestnuts, homeward.

Little sleep came to his eyes that night.  He was thinking of his own
future, of Liane's love, and of her sad bereavement.  Times without
number he tried to formulate some theory to account for the miniature
being in Nelly's possession, and the foul assassination of the bright,
happy girl, whose merry laughter had so often charmed him.  Yet it was a
mystery, absolute and complete.

The great house was quiet, for its irascible master was dead, and its
son, held in esteem by all the servants from butler to stable lad, was
ruined.  The very clocks seemed to tick with unaccustomed solemnity, and
the bell in the turret over the stables chimed slowly and ominously as
each long hour passed towards the dawn.  At last, however, still in his
clothes, George slept, and it was not until the morning sun was
streaming full into his room that he awoke.  Then, finding that the two
doctors had returned to London, he went to the library and wrote a brief
note to Liane, asking her to meet him at the lodge gates at eleven
o'clock.  Sir John was now no more, therefore in the Park they might
walk together unobserved.  At first he hesitated to invite her there so
quickly, but on reflection he saw that he must see her at once and
endeavour to console her, and that the leafy glades of his dead father's
domain were preferable to the highways, where they would probably be
noticed by the village gossips.

At nine he sent the note down to the village by one of the stable lads,
who brought back two hastily scribbled lines, and at the hour appointed
she came slowly along the dusty road, looking cool and fresh beneath her
white sunshade.

Their greeting was formal while within sight of the windows of the
lodge, but presently, when they had entered the Park by the winding path
which led through a thick copse, he halted, took her in his arms and
imprinted upon her soft cheek a long passionate kiss.  Her own full lips
met his in a fierce affectionate caress, but their hearts were too full
for words.  They stood together in silence, locked in each other's arms.

Then he noticed for the first time that her eyes were swollen, and that
she wore a white tulle veil to conceal their redness.  She had no doubt
spent the night in tears.  The tiny gloved hand trembled in his grasp,
and her lips quivered.

At last he spoke softly, first lifting her hand reverently to his lips.

"Both of us have experienced bereavement since last we met, two days
ago, Liane.  You have my sincerest sympathy, my darling."

"Is Sir John dead?" she inquired in a low husky voice.

He nodded.

"Then our losses are both hard to bear," she said, sighing.  "Poor
Nelly!  I--I cannot bear to think of it.  I cannot yet realise the
terrible truth."

"Nor I, dearest," he answered, echoing her sigh.  "But we must
nevertheless face the facts if we desire to discover the assassin."

"They told me that it was you who first discovered her," she said
falteringly, her eyes overflowing with tears.  "Tell me how it all
happened."

"There is very little to tell," he responded.  "I found her lying on the
road dead, and went at once for the doctor and the police."

"But what were you doing in Cross Lane?" she inquired.

"I went out to meet you as we had arranged."

"But surely you knew that I could not meet you," she exclaimed, looking
at him quickly.

"How could I?"

"I sent you a letter telling you that my father had an unexpected
visitor, and that we must therefore postpone our meeting until this
evening."

"A letter!" he cried, puzzled.  "I have only this moment left the Court,
and no letter has yet arrived."

"But I gave it to Nelly to post before half-past twelve yesterday
morning, therefore you should have received it at five.  She must have
forgotten to post it."

"Evidently," he said.  "But have you yet ascertained why she went down
Cross Lane?  To the police the fact of her having ridden down there in
preference to the high road is an enigma."

"No.  According to the inquiries already made it has been ascertained
that she went to Talmey's at Burghfield, purchased some silk, and had
returned nearly to Stratfield Mortimer when she suddenly turned, went
back about half a mile, and then entered Cross Lane.  She was seen to
turn by two labourers coming home from their work on Sim's Farm."

"She was alone, I suppose?"

"Entirely," Liane answered.  "Like myself, she had no horror of tramps.
I've ridden along these roads at all hours of the day and night, and
have never been once molested."

"The tragedy was no doubt enacted in broad daylight, for the sun had not
quite set when, according to the doctor, she must have been shot while
riding.  Have you any idea that she had incurred the animosity of
anybody?"

"No; as you well know, she was of a most amicable disposition.  As far
as I am aware, she had not a single enemy in the world."

"A secret lover perhaps," George suggested.

"No, not that I am aware of.  She had no secrets from me.  Since we came
to England she has never spoken of any man with admiration."

"Then abroad she had an admirer?  Where?"

"In Nice.  Charles Holroyde, a rich young Englishman, who was staying
last winter at the Grand Hotel, admired her very much."

"And you were also living in Nice at the time?"

"Yes."

"Do you know his address in England?" he inquired.

"No.  Nelly may have done, but I did not.  I met him with her on the
Promenade several times, and he seemed very pleasant and amusing.  The
diamond brooch she wore he gave her as a present last carnival."

"Now that I recollect," George exclaimed, "she was not wearing that
brooch when I discovered her."

"No," answered his well-beloved.  "Strangely enough, that has been
stolen, although no attempt was made to take the watch and bunch of
charms she wore in her blouse."

"Are the police aware of that?"

"Yes," Liane answered.  "I told one of the detectives this morning, and
gave him a minute description of the brooch.  At the back are engraved
Nelly's initials, together with his, therefore it is likely it may be
traced."

"If so, it will be easy to find the murderer," George observed, as they
strolled slowly along together beneath the welcome shade, for the
morning was perfect, with bright warm sun and a cloudless sky into which
the larks were everywhere soaring, filling the air with their shrill,
joyous songs.  "Have you any idea whether poor Nelly has corresponded
with this man Holroyde since leaving Nice?" he inquired, after a pause.

"I think not."

"Why?"

"Well, they had a slight quarrel--I have never exactly known the cause--
they parted, and although he wrote several times, she did not answer."

George scented suspicion in this circumstance.  The fact that this
brooch, one of considerable value, should alone have been stolen was, to
say the least, curious; but discarded lovers sometimes avenge
themselves, and this might perchance be a case of murder through
jealousy.  As he strolled on beside the handsome girl, with her pale,
veiled face, he reflected deeply, trying in vain to form some theory as
to the motive of the crime.

"Did the police tell you that beside her I discovered an old miniature
of Lady Anne which has been missing from the Court for twenty years or
more?" he asked.

"Yes, they showed it to my father and myself.  We have, however, never
seen it before.  How it came into her possession we are utterly at a
loss to imagine," she answered.  "It is a heavy blow to lose her," she
continued, in a low, intense voice.  "We have always been as sisters,
and now the fate that has overtaken her is enshrouded in a mystery which
seems inexplicable.  Father is dreadfully upset.  I fear he will never
be as happy as before."

"But you have me, Liane," her lover said, suddenly halting and drawing
her towards him.  "I love you, my darling.  I told you nearly two months
ago that I loved you.  I don't know that I can add anything to what I
said then."

She was silent, looking straight before her.

His breath came more quickly.  The colour rose to his cheeks.  At this
decisive moment the words died in his throat, as they must for every
honest lover who would fain ask the momentous question of her whom he
loves.  He remembered that he now had no right to ask her to be his
wife.

"Do you know," he said at last, again grasping her hand impetuously,
"that I think you the sweetest, most charming woman in the world?  I
want you to be my wife, and help me to make my life all it should be,
only--only I dare not ask you."

Liane did not withdraw her fingers.  She remained perfectly still
without meeting his glance.  Yet, strangely enough, she shuddered.

"I have not the power to say all I feel.  My words sound so harsh and
cold; but, Liane, Liane, I love you!  God made not the heart of man to
be silent, but has promised him eternity with the intention that he
should not be alone.  There is for me but one woman upon earth.  It is
you."

He looked imploringly into her face.

"Yes, George, I feel that you love me," she said, with a sweet smile
behind her veil.  "It is very nice to be loved."

He covered her hand with eager kisses; but she withdrew it softly, her
lips compressed.

"My darling!"  His arm was about her waist, and he kissed her lips.  He
spoke in strong suppressed agitation; his voice trembled.  He
recollected he was penniless.

She freed herself from his embrace.  "No, no," she murmured.  "We may
love, but we must not marry.  There are so many other girls who would
make you far happier than I should."

He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good
and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal
of what a woman ought to be.

Slowly she shook her head.  "That shows you know so little of me,
George."

"I know only what you have told me, dearest," he answered.

Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve
and exercised more self-control.  Was he not without means?  Yet he had
asked her to marry him!  Could he tell her in the same breath that he
was penniless?  No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside.

Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes,
her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving.

He could resist his own passion--he could keep back what he felt--no
longer.

"I love you!" cried he.

She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if
she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart,
and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor
the will to withstand.

He wished to marry her!  Was it possible?  And she loved him.  With that
thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to
those protecting arms.  He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled
close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob.

"My darling--my darling--my own darling!" he cried, triumph in his
voice, and passionate joy in his eyes.  "You love me--you love me!"

But again she drew herself away from him, then turned aside, held her
breath, and shuddered.  The lace ruffles on her bosom slowly rose and
fell.  The movement was as though she were shrinking from him with
repulsion.  But it was only momentary, and he did not notice it.  Next
instant she again turned, lifting her clear grey eyes to his with their
frank innocent gaze.

"Yes," she said, almost in a whisper, "I love you."

CHAPTER FOUR.

HAIRPINS.

The tragedy caused the greatest excitement in the neighbourhood.
Journalistic artists, those industrious gentlemen who produce such
terribly distorted portraits, came from London and sketched the spot in
Cross Lane and the exterior of Captain Brooker's house.  One had the
audacity to call and request him to lend them a photograph of the
murdered girl.  This he declined, with a few remarks more forcible than
polite, for he had been greatly annoyed by the continual stream of
interviewers, who continually rang his bell.  Hundreds of persons walked
or drove over from Reading to view the spot where Nelly had been found,
and in addition to the local detectives, Inspector Swayne, a well-known
officer from Scotland Yard, had been sent down to direct the inquiries.

At the inquest, held at the King's Head, two days later, it was expected
by everybody that some interesting facts would be brought to light.
Erle Brooker had never troubled to earn the good will of his neighbours,
therefore they were now spitefully eager for any scandal that might be
elicited, and long before the hour for which the jury had been summoned,
congregated around the village inn.  It was known that on the day
following the tragedy the Captain had paid a mysterious visit to London,
and the object of this trip had been a subject of much discussion
everywhere.  The murder of his adopted daughter had been a terrible blow
to him, and when seen on his way to the station it was noticed that his
face, usually smiling and good-humoured, wore a heavy, preoccupied look.

As he walked with Liane from his cottage to the inn, the crowd, gaping
and hushed, opened a way for them to pass in; then, when they had
entered, there was an outburst of sympathy and sneers, many of the
latter reaching the ears of George Stratfield when, a few moments later,
he followed them.

After a long wait, the Coroner at length took his seat, the jury were
duly sworn, and the witnesses, ordered out of the crowded room, were
ushered into a small ante-room, the table of which had recently been
polished with stale beer.  Here Liane introduced her lover to her
father, and the men exchanged greetings.  George, however, did not fail
to notice the rustiness of the Captain's shabby frock-coat, nor the fact
that his black trousers were shiny at the knees; yet as they grasped
hands, the ring of genuine bonhomie about his voice favourably impressed
him.  By his tone and manner George instinctively knew that Erle
Brooker, the man against whom his dead father entertained such an
intense dislike, was a gentleman.

"Our meeting is in very tragic circumstances, Mr Stratfield," the
Captain observed huskily, his grave face unusually pale.  "They told me
that you had discovered poor Nelly, but I had not the pleasure of your
acquaintance, although I had, of course, heard of you often from the
villagers."

Liane and George looked at one another significantly.

"I must regret your sad bereavement, and both you and Liane have my
sincerest sympathy," the young man answered.

The Captain glanced quickly at the Baronet's son with a strange, puzzled
expression.  He had spoken of his daughter familiarly by her Christian
name, and evidently knew her well.  He had not before suspected this.

At that moment, however, the door opened, and a constable putting his
head inside called his name.  In obedience to the policeman's request he
rose and followed him into the room wherein the court of inquiry had
assembled.  Having advanced to the table and been sworn, the Coroner
addressing him, said,--

"Your name is Captain Erle Brooker, late of the Guards, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And you identify the body of the deceased.  Who was she?"

"Helen Mary Bridson, daughter of a brother officer, Captain Bridson.
She was left an orphan eleven years ago, and I brought her up."

"Did her father die in London?"

"No, on the Continent."

"Had she no relatives on her mother's side?"

The Captain slowly stroked his moustache, then answered.

"I knew of none."

"Were you acquainted with her mother?"

"No, I was not," he replied after a moment's reflection.

"And you have no suggestion to make, I suppose, regarding any person who
might have entertained ill-will towards the unfortunate girl?" inquired
the grey-haired Coroner.

"None whatever."

"When did you last see her alive?"

"On Monday evening, when she accompanied a visitor to the station to see
him off on his return to London.  She rode her cycle, and announced her
intention of going on to Burghfield to make a purchase.  She was found
later on," he added, hoarsely.

"Who was this visitor?  What was his name?"

"He was a friend, but I decline to give his name publicly," the Captain
replied firmly.  "I will, however, write it for your information, if you
desire," and taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote the name of Prince
Zertho d'Auzac and handed it to the Coroner.

The eager onlookers were disappointed.  They had expected some
sensational developments, but it seemed as though the crime was too
enshrouded in mystery to prove of any very real interest.  They did not,
however, fail to notice that when the Coroner read what the Captain had
written, an expression of astonishment crossed his face.

"Are you certain that the--this gentleman--left by the train he went to
catch?" he asked.

"Quite," answered Brooker.  "Not only have the police made inquiry at my
instigation, but I have also accompanied a detective to London, where we
found my visitor.  Inspector Swayne, as a result of his investigations,
was entirely satisfied."

"Had the unfortunate young lady any admirer?"

"I think not."

"Then you can tell us absolutely nothing further?" observed the Coroner,
toying with his quill.

"Unfortunately I cannot."

The Captain, after signing his depositions, was directed to one of a row
of empty chairs near the Coroner's table, and his daughter was called.

Liane, pale and nervous, neatly dressed in black, entered quietly,
removed her right glove, and took the oath.  Having given her name, the
Coroner asked,--

"When did you last see the deceased, Miss Brooker?"

"When she set out to go to the railway station," she answered, in a low
faltering voice.

"Have you any idea why she should have gone to Cross Lane?  It was
entirely out of her way home from Burghfield to Stratfield Mortimer, was
it not?"

"I cannot tell," Liane replied.  "We went along that road on our cycles
only on one occasion, and found it so rough that we agreed never to
attempt it again."

"I presume, Miss Brooker, that the deceased was your most intimate
friend?" observed the Coroner.  "She would therefore be likely to tell
you if she had a lover.  Were you aware of the existence of any such
person?"

"No," she replied, flushing slightly and glancing slowly around the hot,
crowded room.

"You had a visitor whose name your father has just given me upon this
paper," observed the Coroner.  "Was that visitor known to the deceased?"

The eyes of the father and daughter met for a single instant as she
glanced around upon the long lines of expectant countenances.

"Oh, yes," she replied.  "The gentleman who came unexpectedly to see us
has been known to us all for fully five or six years."

"And has always been very friendly towards the unfortunate girl?"

"Always."

"The only thing taken from the young lady appears to have been a diamond
brooch.  Do you know anything of it?"

"Of what?" gasped Liane nervously, her face paling almost imperceptibly
behind her black veil.

"Of the brooch, of course."

"I only know that she prized it very much, as it was a present from a
gentleman she had met while on the Riviera eighteen months ago."

"He was not her lover?" inquired the grave-faced man, without looking up
from the sheet of blue foolscap whereon he was writing her statement.

"Not exactly.  I have no knowledge of her possessing any admirer."

The Coroner at last paused and put down his quill.  "And this miniature,
which was discovered beside the body, have you ever before seen it in
the possession of the deceased?" he asked, holding it up to her gaze.

"No," she answered.  "Never."

The jury not desiring to ask any questions, Liane was then allowed to
retire to a chair next her father, and the doctor was called.

"Will you kindly tell us the result of the _post mortem_, Dr Lewis?" the
Coroner requested, when the medical man had been sworn.

At once the doctor explained in technical language the injuries he had
discovered, and described the exact position in which he had found the
body when he reached the spot.

"And what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?" asked the Coroner
in dry, business-like tones.

"She was shot at close quarters while ascending the incline leading from
the railway arch towards Stratfield Mortimer.  The weapon used was an
Army revolver.  I produce the bullet I have extracted," he answered,
taking it from his vest-pocket and handing it across the table.  "The
deceased's assailant stood on her left-hand side, and must have shot her
as she rode along.  She evidently mounted her cycle at the commencement
of the incline, and having run down swiftly and passed beneath the arch,
was again descending when the shot was fired."

"Was death instantaneous?" inquired the foreman of the jury.

"Scarcely," answered the doctor.  "Such a wound must, however, cause
death.  Immediate attention could not have saved her."

A thrill of horror ran through the crowded court.  Nearly everyone
present had seen Nelly Bridson, with her smiling happy face, riding
about the village and roads in the vicinity, and the knowledge that she
had met with an end so terrible yet mysterious, appalled them.

Some further questions were put to the doctor, after which George
Stratfield entered.  As he raised the greasy copy of Holy Writ to his
lips, his eyes fell upon Liane.  She was sitting, pale and rigid, with a
strange haggard expression upon her beautiful countenance such as he had
never before beheld.  He gazed upon her in alarm and surprise.

The Coroner's questions, however, compelled him to turn towards the
jury, and in reply he explained how, on that fateful evening after his
father's death, he was riding along Cross Lane, and was horrified by
discovering the body of Nelly Bridson.  In detail he described every
incident, how he had lifted her up, and finding her quite dead, had
ridden on into the village to obtain assistance.

Liane listened to his story open-mouthed.  Her hands were closed
tightly, and once or twice, when questions were put to him by Coroner or
jury, she held her breath until he had answered.  She was as one
paralysed by some unknown fear.  Their gaze met more than once, and on
each occasion he fancied he detected, even through her veil, that her
eyes were dark and haggard, like one consumed by some terrible dread.

"You have, I believe, some knowledge of this miniature," the Coroner
observed, again taking the small oval bejewelled portrait in his hand.

"Yes," he answered.  "It is undoubtedly the one which has been missing
from my late father's collection for more than twenty years.  It was
supposed to have been stolen, but by whom could never be ascertained.
My father had several times offered handsome rewards for its recovery,
as it is a family portrait."

"You have no idea, I suppose, by what means it could have come into the
unfortunate girl's possession?"

"None whatever.  The unexpected discovery amazed me."

"You have not told us what caused you to ride along Cross Lane on that
evening," the foreman of the jury observed presently.

Again Liane held her breath.

"I had an appointment," he answered, not without considerable
hesitation, "and was proceeding to keep it."

"Did you know Miss Bridson?"

"We had met on several occasions."

The detective from Scotland Yard bent across the table and uttered some
words, after which the Coroner, addressing George, said,--

"Inspector Swayne desires to ascertain whether it was with the deceased
you had an appointment?"

"No," he replied promptly.

Again the Coroner and the inspector exchanged some hurried words.

"Who was the person you intended to meet?" the Coroner asked, looking
inquiringly at the witness.

"A lady."

"Am I right in presuming that it was Miss Brooker?"

George paused for an instant, bit his lip in displeasure at being thus
compelled to publicly acknowledge his clandestine meetings with Liane,
and then nodded in the affirmative.

"Then you were about to meet Miss Brooker, but instead, found Miss
Bridson lying in the roadway dead?" the Coroner observed.

"I did."

"Are you aware that Miss Brooker wrote to you expressing her inability
to keep the appointment?" the Coroner asked.

"She has told me so," he answered.  "The letter was given, I believe, to
the unfortunate young lady to post, but I have not received it."

"There appears to be some mystery about that letter," the Coroner said,
turning to the jury.  "I have it here.  It was discovered in fragments
yesterday by the police, thrown into a ditch at the roadside not far
from where the body was found;" and taking from among his papers a sheet
of foolscap whereon the pieces of Liane's letter had been pasted
together, he handed it to the jury for their inspection.

At that instant a sudden thought occurred to George.  This last fact
pointed alone to one conclusion, namely, that Nelly being given the
letter by Liane, and knowing its contents, kept the appointment herself,
desiring to speak to him alone upon some subject the nature of which he
could not, of course, guess.  This would not only account for her
presence at the spot where he found her, but also for her dismounting
and resting at the gateway where they had discovered the curious marks
in the dust, and for the fragments of the letter being recovered near.

A similar theory appeared to suggest itself to the minds of the jury,
for a moment later the foreman asked--

"Would the deceased have any definite object in seeking an interview
with you?"

"None whatever," he promptly replied, puzzled nevertheless that the
remains of Liane's note should have been recovered in Cross Lane.

"You assisted the police to search the road for any traces of the
assassin, I believe, Mr Stratfield," continued the Coroner.  "Did you
discover anything?"

George raised his eyes and met the curious gaze of the woman he loved.
At that moment her veil failed to hide the strange look of dread and
apprehension in her face, so intense it was.  Her lips, slightly parted,
quivered, the pallor of her cheeks was deathlike, and her whole attitude
was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible truth.

"During my search I discovered a lady's hairpin lying in the grass at
the roadside," George replied, after a silence, brief but complete.  He
was not thinking of the question, but was sorely puzzled at the
extraordinary change in the woman who had promised to become his wife.
The transformation was amazing.

"That pin is here," the Coroner explained to the jury, passing it across
for their inspection.  "I will call Henry Fawcett, hairdresser, of
Reading, who will give evidence regarding it."

The man referred to was called in, and in reply to a formal question,
took the hairpin in his hand, saying,--

"I have, at the instigation of the police, minutely compared this pin
with those worn by the young lady at the time of her death, and also
those found upon her dressing-table.  I find that although apparently
the same make it is nevertheless entirely different.  Some of them found
upon her dressing-table were of similar length and size, but while the
pins she used were of the ordinary kind, such as may be purchased at any
draper's, this one is of very superior quality.  By the shape of its
points, together with its curve, I can distinguish that this is the pin
manufactured solely by Clark and Lister, of Birmingham, and sold by
first-class hairdressers."

"Your theory is that this pin was never worn by the deceased?" the
Coroner said, thoughtfully stroking his grey beard.

"I feel confident it never was, for the pin is quite new, and they are
sold in large boxes," was the reply.

"In that case it seems probable that another woman was with her
immediately before her death," observed the foreman to his brother
jurors.

George looked again at Liane.  Her eyes were still staring into space,
her lips were trembling, her face was ashen pale.  She started at the
ominous words which fell upon her ear, then feigned to busy herself in
re-buttoning the black glove she had removed before taking the oath.

"It, of course, remains for the police to prosecute further inquiries
and to discover the owner of that hairpin," the Coroner said.  "Most of
us are aware that ladies frequently use various kinds of pins in
dressing their hair, but in this case not a single one of the peculiar
sort found on the spot was discovered in the deceased's possession; and
this fact in itself certainly lends colour to a suggestion that
immediately prior to the tragedy Miss Bridson was not alone."

George having concluded his evidence, had taken a seat beside his
well-beloved.  Only once she glanced at him, then evaded his gaze, for
in her grey eyes was an expression as though she were still haunted by
some unknown yet terrible dread.  His statement regarding the hairpin
had unnerved her.  Did she, he wondered, wear similar pins in her own
dark, deftly-coiled tresses?

Instantly, however, he laughed the wild, absurd idea to scorn.  That she
feared lest some startling truth should be elucidated was apparent; but
the suspicion that a pin from her own hair had fallen unheeded upon the
grass he dismissed as utterly preposterous.  Was she not his
enchantress?  Surely he had no right to suspect her of all women, for he
loved her with all his soul.  Yet neither police, jury, nor he himself
had inquired where she had been at the hour the tragedy was enacted.
The thought held him appalled.

While these and similar reflections passed through his mind some words
of the Coroner suddenly arrested his attention.  The court was at once
hushed in expectation, every word being listened to with eager
attention.

"In the dress-pocket of the deceased has been found this letter, of a
somewhat extraordinary character.  As it is written in French it may be
best if I read an English translation," he said, spreading out the
missive before him.  "It is on superior note-paper of English make,
bears traces of having been written by an educated person, and was sent
to the post office, Stratfield Mortimer, where the police have
ascertained that the deceased called for it about ten days ago.  No
address is given, and the envelope is missing, but the communication is
to the following effect:--`Dear Nelly,--The cord is now drawn so tight
that it must snap ere long.  England is safer than the south, no doubt,
but it will not be so much longer.  Therefore I remain here, but
fortunately not "en convalescence."  Do not tell Liane anything, but
remember that the matter must be kept a profound secret, or one or other
of us must pay the penalty.  That would mean the end.  For myself, I do
not care, but for you it is, of course, entirely different.  We are
widely separated, yet our interests are entirely identical.  Remember
me, and be always on your guard against any surprise.  Au revoir.'  It
will be noticed, gentlemen, by those of you who know French," the
Coroner added, "that the words `en convalescence' occur here in a rather
curious sense.  It is, in fact, nothing less than thieves' argot,
meaning under police surveillance; and it is strange that it should be
written by one who otherwise writes well and grammatically.  The name of
the dead girl's mysterious correspondent is a rather uncommon one--
Mariette Lepage."

"Mariette Lepage!"  George cried aloud in a tone of dismay, causing not
a little consternation among those assembled.

The strange-sounding foreign name was only too deeply impressed upon his
memory.  The writer of that curious letter, with its well-guarded
expression in the argot of the Paris slums, was the unknown woman to
whom, under his father's will, he was compelled to offer marriage.

CHAPTER FIVE.

CAPTAIN BROOKER'S OBJECTION.

As everyone expected, the Coroner's jury, after hearing Zertho's
evidence at the adjourned inquest, returned the usual verdict of "Wilful
murder against some person or persons unknown."  It was the only
conclusion possible in such a case, the mystery being left for the
police to solve.  Later that afternoon Inspector Swayne was closeted
with George and Mr Harrison at Stratfield Court, and after an hour's
consultation regarding the curious letter found in Nelly's pocket, the
detective left for London.

While that conversation was taking place Liane and her father, having
returned from the inquest, were sitting together in the little
dining-room.  Brooker had cast off his shiny frock-coat with a sigh of
genuine relief, assumed his old well-cut tweed jacket, easy and
reminiscent of the past, while his daughter, having removed her gloves
and veil, sat in the armchair by the fireplace still in her large black
hat that gave a picturesque setting to her face.  The windows were open,
the blinds down, and the room, cool in the half-light, was filled with
the sweet perfume of the wealth of old-world flowers outside.

"Our ill-luck seems to follow us, even now, my dear," he observed,
thrusting his hands deep into his empty pockets and lazily stretching
out his legs.  "That inquisitive old chap, the Coroner, was within an
ace of raking up all the past.  I was afraid they intended to adjourn
again."

"Why afraid?" asked Liane in surprise.  "You surely do not fear
anything?"

"Well, no, not exactly," her father answered, with a quick glance at
her.  "But some facts might have been then elicited which are best kept
secret."

Liane looked at the Captain, long and steadily, with eyes full of
sadness, then said, earnestly,--

"What caused you to suspect Zertho, father?"

"Suspect him.  I never suspected him!"

"Do not deny the truth," she answered, in a tone of mild reproach.  "I
know that before you went to London you sent him a message which, had he
been guilty, would have allowed him time to escape."

"But he was entirely unaware of the tragedy," her father answered,
rolling a cigarette with infinite care.  "Zertho could have had no
object in murdering Nelly.  Besides, it had already been proved by the
station-master that he had left by the train he saw him enter."

"Then why did you take the trouble to go to London?" she inquired.

"My motive was a secret one," he replied.

"One that even I must not know?" she inquired, in genuine surprise.

"Yes, even you must not know, Liane," he answered.  "Women are apt to
grow confidential towards their lovers, and if the secret were once out,
then my plans would be thwarted."

"You suspect someone?" she asked, in a low, harsh voice.

"Well," he answered, regarding his unlit cigarette intently, "I will not
say that I actually suspect someone, but I have a theory, strange though
it may be, which I believe will turn out to be the correct one."

Liane started.  Father and daughter again exchanged quick glances.  She
fancied she saw suspicion in his eyes.

"May I not assist you?" she asked.  "You know that in the past I've many
times brought you luck at the tables."

"No," he said, shaking his head.  "In this I must act entirely alone.
George Stratfield no doubt occupies all your thoughts."  She thought she
detected a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

The girl blushed deeply, but did not answer.  Her father, inveterate
smoker that he was, lit his cigarette and sat silent and self-absorbed
for a long time.  He was thinking of the bright happy girl who, cold and
dead in her tiny room upstairs, was the victim of a foul, terrible, and
mysterious crime.

"How long have you known this man?" the Captain inquired at last.

"Three months."

"And has he proposed to you?"

"He has," she faltered, blushing more deeply.

He drew a long breath, rose slowly, and pulling aside the white blind,
looked out as if in search of something.  In truth, he was hesitating
whether he should speak to her at once, or wait for some other
opportunity.  Turning to her at last, however, he said briefly, in a
low, pained tone,--

"You must break off the engagement, Liane.  You cannot marry him."

"Cannot!" she gasped, her face turning pale.  "Why?"

"Listen," he continued huskily, coming closer to her, laying his big
hand upon her shoulder, and looking down upon her tenderly.  "Through
all these years of prosperity and adversity you alone have been the one
bright joy of my life.  Your existence has kept me from going to the bad
altogether; your influence has prevented me from sinking lower in
degradation than I have already sunk.  For me the facile pleasures of a
stray man have ceased, because, for your sake, Liane, I gave up the old
life and returned here to settle and become respectable.  I admit that
our life in England is a trifle tame after what we've been used to, but
it will not, perhaps, be always so.  At present my luck's against me and
we must wait in patience; therefore do not accept the first man's offer
of marriage.  Life's merely a game of _rouge-et-noir_.  Sometimes you
may win by waiting.  Reflect well upon all the chances before you stake
the maximum."

"But George loves me, dad, and his family are wealthy," she protested,
meeting her father's earnest gaze with her large grey eyes, in which
stood unshed tears.

"I don't doubt it, my girl," he answered huskily.  "I was young once.
I, too, thought I loved a woman--your mother.  I foolishly believed that
she loved me better than anyone on earth.  Ah!  You wring from me my
confession, because--because it should serve you as a lesson."  And he
paused with bent head, while Liane held his strong but trembling hand.
"It is a wretched story," he went on in a low, harsh voice, "yet you
should know it, you who would bind yourself to this man irrevocably.  At
the time this woman came into my life I was on leave down in the South
of France, with wealth, happiness and bright prospects.  I loved her and
made her my wife.  Then I went with my regiment to India, but already my
future was blasted, for within a year of my marriage the glamour fell
from my eyes and I knew that I had been duped.  A fault committed by her
threw such opprobrium upon me that I was compelled to throw up my
commission, leave her and go back to England.  I could not return to my
friends in London, because she would discover and annoy me; therefore I
have drifted hither and thither, falling lower and lower in the social
scale, until, ruined and without means, I became a common blackleg and
swindler.  But it belongs to the past.  It is dead, gone--gone for ever.
Those years have gone and my youth has gone.  I've lived like other men
since then.  Heaven knows it has not been a life to boast of, Liane.
There have been days and years in it when I dared not trust myself to
remember what had been--days of madness and folly, and months of useless
apathy.  Ah!" he sighed, "I was straight enough before my marriage, but
my life was wrecked solely by that woman."

His daughter listened intently, and when he had finished she echoed his
deep sigh.  Her father had never before told her the tragic story.  She
had always believed that her mother died of fever in India a year after
marriage.

"Then my mother is not dead?" she observed reflectively.

"I do not know.  To me she has been dead these eighteen years," he
answered, with a stern look upon his hard-set features.  A lump rose in
his throat, and in his eye there was a suspicion of a tear.

"Was she like me?"  Liane asked softly, still holding her father's hand
and looking up at him.

"Yes, darling," he replied.  "Sometimes when you look at me I shrink
from you because your eyes are so like hers.  She was just your age when
I married her."

There was a long and painful silence.  The hearts of father and daughter
were too full for words.  They were indeed an incongruous pair.  He was
a reckless gamester, a cunning adventurer, whose career had more than
once brought him within an ace of arrest, while she, although
prematurely versed in the evil ways of a polyglot world, where the laws
of rectitude and morality were lax, was nevertheless pure, honest and
good.

"But, dear old dad, why may I not marry George?" she asked when, after
thinking deeply over the truth regarding her parentage, her mind
reverted to thoughts of the man she loved.

"I cannot sufficiently explain the reason now," he answered vaguely.
"Some day, when I am aware of all the facts, you shall know."

"But I can love no other man," she exclaimed decisively, with eyes
downcast.

"You know my wish, Liane," her father answered rather coldly.  "I feel
sure you will endeavour to respect it."

"I cannot, father!  I really cannot!" she cried starting up.  "Besides,
you give me no reason why I should not marry."

"I am unable to explain facts of which I am as yet unaware," he said,
withdrawing his hand.

"We love each other, therefore I cannot see why you should object."

"I do not doubt that there is affection between you, but my objection is
well based, I assure you, as some day you will be convinced."

"Have you any antipathy against George personally?"

"None whatever; I rather like him," he said.  "I only tell you in plain,
straightforward terms that your marriage with him is impossible,
therefore the sooner you part the better;" and opening the door, he
slowly left the room.

Deep in thought, Liane stood leaning against the table, in the same
position as Zertho had stood when he had asked the captain for her hand.
Evidently her father entertained some deep-rooted prejudice against the
Stratfields; nevertheless, after calm reflection, she felt confident
that sooner or later she could over-rule his objection, and persuade him
to adopt her view, as she had done on previous occasions without number.

On the following afternoon a double funeral attracted hundreds of
persons to the churchyard of Stratfield Mortimer, where Nelly Bridson
was laid to rest in a plain grave, beneath a drooping willow, and the
body of Sir John Stratfield, fourteenth baronet, was placed in the
family vault, among his ancestors.  When the interments were over,
George met Liane and managed to whisper a few words to her.  It was an
appointment, and in accordance with his request, she went at sundown
along the chestnut avenue to the Court, and was at once shown to the
library, where her lover awaited her.

Her mourning became her well.  His quick eyes detected that her black
dress, though not new, bore the unmistakable cut of the fashionable
dressmaker.  Her figure, perfect in symmetry, was shown to advantage by
her short, French corset, and the narrow band of black satin that begirt
her slim waist.

"I have to offer my apologies to you, dearest," he said, when the
servant had closed the door.  "At the inquest I was bound to openly
confess that we had met clandestinely."

"What apology is needed?" she asked, smiling.  "We love each other, and
care nothing for what the world may think."

"That is true," he answered, deep in thought.  "But I--I have an
announcement to make to you, which I fear must cause you pain."

"An announcement!  What?"

"I must leave you."

She stood before him, looked quickly into his face, and turned pale.

"Leave me!" she gasped.

"Yes.  I find, alas, I am compelled to go."

"And only the day before yesterday you asked me to become your wife!"
she cried, reproachfully.  "What have I done that you should treat me
thus?"

"Nothing.  You have done nothing, Liane, only to fascinate me and hold
me irrevocably to you," he answered, looking earnestly into her clear,
beautiful eyes.  He paused.  His soul was too full for utterance.  Then
at length he said, "I have asked you here this evening to tell you
everything, for when I leave here, I fear it will be never to return."

"Why?" she asked, looking him full in the face, with a puzzled
expression.

"Because I am not wealthy, as is generally believed," he replied,
colouring deeply as he met her searching gaze.  "It is useless to
deceive you, therefore I must tell you the hideous truth.  My father has
thought fit to leave his whole fortune to my brother, and allow me to go
penniless.  I am therefore unable to marry."

Liane's lips had grown white with fear and astonishment.  "And that is
the reason you now intend to forsake me!" she gasped.

He bowed his head.

She passed her hand over her eyes.  Her soul was in a tumult.  She, too,
fondly wished to believe that he actually loved her, to trust the
evidence of what she saw.  His words were a trifle ambiguous, and that
was sufficient to fill her with uncertainty.  Jealous of that delicacy
which is the parent of love, and its best preserver, she checked the
overflowings of her heart, and while her face streamed with tears,
placed her hand protestingly upon his arm.

"Forgive me!" he cried with increased earnestness.  "I know I have
wronged you.  Forgive me, in justice to your own virtues, Liane.  In
what has passed between us I feel I ought to have only expressed thanks
for your goodness to me; but if my words or manner have obeyed the more
fervid impulse of my soul, and declared aloud what should have been kept
secret, blame my nature, not my presumption.  I am ruined, and I dare
not look steadily on any aim higher than your esteem."

"Ah! do not speak to me so coldly," the girl burst forth passionately.
"I cannot bear it.  You said you loved me," and she sobbed bitterly.

"I have loved you, dear one, ever since we first met," he answered
quickly.  "I love you now, even better than my life.  But alas! a
mysterious fate seems to govern both of us, and we are compelled to
part."

"To part!" she wailed.  "Why?"

"Ere long my brother will come to take possession of this place, for it
is no longer my home," he answered, in a low, pained tone.  "I shall go
away to London and try to eke out a living at the Bar.  For a young man
without means the legal profession is but a poor one at best," he
sighed; "therefore marriage being out of the question, I am compelled to
tell you the plain honest truth, and release you."

"Release me!" she echoed wildly.  "I do not desire release.  I love you,
George."

"But you do not love me sufficiently to wait through the long, dark days
that are at hand?" he cried, surprised at her passionate declaration!
"Remember, I am penniless, without hope, without prospects, without
anything save my great affection for you!"

The slanting rays of the sunset streaming through the stained glass fell
upon her, gilded her hair, and illumined her anxious face with a halo of
light.  She looked lovely, with her dark eyelashes trembling, her soft
eyes full of love, and the colour of clear sunrise mounting on her
cheeks and brow.

"Wealthy or poor," she answered, in a low, sweet tone, "it matters not,
because I love you, George."

"And although we must part; although I must go to London and exchange
this free, open, happy life with you daily beside me for the dusty
dinginess of chambers wherein the sun never penetrates, yet you will
still remain mine?" he cried half doubtingly.  "Do you really mean it,
Liane?"

"I do," she answered, in a voice trembling with emotion, and with a look
all tenderness and benignity.  "It is no fault of yours that you are
poor, therefore be of stout heart, and when you return to London
remember that one woman alone thinks ever of you, because--because she
loves you."

With the large tears in her beautiful eyes--tears which seemed to him to
rise partly from her desire to love him with the power of his love--she
put her pure, bright lips, half-smiling, half-prone to reply to tears,
against his brow, lined with doubt and eager longing.

"Dearest darling, love of my life," he whispered through her clouds of
soft, silky hair.  "I know I, an Englishman, with my blunt manners, must
grate upon you sometimes, with your delicate, high-strung feelings.  We
are as different as the day is from the night.  But, Liane, if truth and
honesty, and a will so to use my life as to become one of the real
workers and helpers in the world--a wish to be manly and upright, strong
of heart, and clean of conscience before God and man--if these can atone
for lack of culture and refinement, then I hope you will not find me
wanting.  When I am absent there will be plenty besides me to love you,
but I will not believe that any can love you better than I do, or few as
truly."

She hesitated for a single instant as he spoke.  She lifted her face
from her hands and looked up at him.  He was not much taller than she;
it was not far.  But as she looked another face came between them--a
pale, refined face: a face with more poetry, more romance, more passion.

Its sight was to her as a spectre of the past.  It held her dumb in
terror and dismay.

George saw her hesitation, and the strange horrified look in her eyes.
Puzzled, he uttered not a word, but watched her breathlessly.

Liane opened her pale lips, but they closed and tightened upon each
other; from beneath her narrowed brows her eyes sent short flashes out
upon his, and her breath came and went long and deep, without sound.

"Why are you silent?" he whispered at last.

Her lips relaxed, her form drooped, she lifted her face to reply, but
her mouth twitched; she could not speak.

"If you truly love me and are prepared to wait, I will do my best," he
declared passionately, surprised at her change of manner, but little
dreaming of its cause.

Suddenly, however, as quickly as the heavy, preoccupied expression had
settled upon her countenance it was succeeded by a smile.  She was a
strange, unique, incomparable girl, for the next second she laughed at
him in sweetest manner with a come and go of glances, saying in a tone
of low, deep tenderness,--

"Yes, George, you are the only man I love.  If it is necessary that you
should go to follow your profession, then go, and take with you the
blessing of the woman who has promised to become your wife."

An instant later George held her slight graceful form in fond embrace,
while she hid her forehead and wet eyelashes on his shoulder,
murmuring,--

"I shall be yours always."

His burning kisses fell upon her hair, but neither of them spoke for a
while.  The sunlight faded, and the old brown room with its shelves of
dusty tomes became dark and gloomy.  Each felt the other's heart beat;
and the unlucky son of the Stratfields drank that ecstasy of silent,
delicious bliss which comes to great hearts only once in a life.

Later that night, after he had walked with her to her father's door, she
went to her room and sat alone for a long time in silence.  A noise
aroused her.  It was her father retiring to rest.  She listened
intently, until, hearing his door closed, she paced her room with
fevered steps.  Her face was ashen pale, and from time to time low,
strange words escaped her, as, lifting her hands, she pushed back her
hair, which seemed to press too heavily upon her hot brow.

"I love him!" she gasped in a low, strained whisper.  "Yet, if he only
knew--if he only knew!"

And she shuddered.

Thrice she moved slowly backwards and forwards across her room.
Suddenly pulling aside the dimity curtains, she gazed out into the
brilliant night.  The moon was shining full upon her windows, revealing
the trees and stretch of undulating meadows beyond.

For an instant she hesitated.  Her clenched hands trembled; she held her
breath, listening.  Reassured, she crossed noiselessly to her little
dressing-table, opened one of the drawers, and took therefrom a small
jewel-case.  Only a few cheap trinkets were revealed when she unlocked
it, but from it she drew forth a small oblong box of white cardboard.
Then cautiously she crept from her room downstairs, and out into the
small orchard behind the house.  Crossing it, still in the deep shadow
of the apple trees, she searched for some moments until she found a
spade, and making her way to a bed that had been newly dug, she deftly
removed several shovelfuls of earth, panting the while.

Taking the small box hastily from her pocket, she glanced round to
assure herself she was unobserved, then bent, and placing it carefully
in the hole she had made, an instant later proceeded to fill it in and
rearrange the surface, so that no trace should remain of it having been
removed.

Then replacing the spade where she had found it, she crept noiselessly
back to her room, locked the door and stood rigid, her hand pressed upon
her wildly-beating heart.

CHAPTER SIX.

OUTSIDERS.

Many weeks went by.  To Liane the days were long, weary and monotonous,
for George had left, and the Court had passed into the possession of
Major Stratfield, a proud, pompous, red-faced man, who often rode
through the village, but spoke to nobody.  Since her lover had gone she
had remained dull and apathetic, taking scarcely any interest in
anything, and never riding her cycle because of the tragic memories its
sight always aroused within her.  Her life was, indeed, grey and
colourless, for she noticed that of late even her father's manner had
changed strangely towards her, and instead of being uniformly courteous
and solicitous regarding her welfare, he now seemed to treat her with
studied indifference, and she even thought she detected within him a
kind of repulsion, as if her presence annoyed and distressed him.

He had never been the same towards her since that memorable evening when
he had forbidden her to accept George's offer.  Yet her mind was full of
thoughts of her absent lover, and she sent him by post boxes of flowers
from the garden, that their sweet perfume should remind him of her.

Another fact also caused her most intense anxiety and apprehension.  The
secret which she believed locked securely within her own bosom was
undoubtedly in possession of some unknown person, for having gone into
the garden one morning, a week after that night when she had buried the
small box from her jewel-case, she fancied that the ground had been
freshly disturbed, and that someone had searched the spot.

If so, her actions had been watched.

Thus she lived from day to day, filled by a constant dread that gripped
her heart and paralysed her senses.  She knew that the most expert
officers from Scotland Yard were actively endeavouring to discover the
identity of Nelly's assassin, and was convinced that sooner or later the
terrible truth must be elicited.

Twice each week George wrote to her, and she read and re-read his
letters many times, sending him in return all the gossip of the
old-world village that he loved so well.  Thanks to the generosity of
the Major, who had decided to give him a small property bringing in some
two hundred a year, he was not so badly off as he had anticipated;
nevertheless, were it not for that he must have been in serious straits,
for, according to his letters, work at the Bar was absolutely
unobtainable, and for a whole month he had been without a single brief.
Old Mr Harrison sometimes gave him one, but beyond that he could pick up
scarcely anything.

One evening in late autumn, when the air was damp and chilly, the
orchard covered with leaves and the walnuts were rattling down upon the
out-house roof with every gust of wind that blew across the hills, the
Captain received a telegram, and briefly observed that it was necessary
he should go to London on the morrow.  He threw the piece of pink paper
into the fire without saying who was the sender, and next morning rose
an hour earlier and caught the train to Paddington, whence he drove in a
hansom to an address in Cork Street, Piccadilly.

A man-servant admitted him, and he was at once ushered upstairs to a
small, well-furnished drawing-room, which, however, still retained the
odour of overnight cigars.  He had scarcely time to fling himself into a
chair when a door on the opposite side of the room opened, and Zertho
entered, well-dressed, gay and smiling, with a carnation in the lappel
of his coat.

"Well, Brooker, old chap," he cried, extending his white hand heartily,
"I'm back again, you see."

"Yes," answered the other, smiling and grasping the proffered hand.
"The dignity of Prince appears to suit you, judging from your healthful
look."

"It does, Brooker; it does," he answered laughing.  "One takes more
interest in life when one has a plentiful supply of the needful than
when one has to depend upon Fortune for a dinner."

"I wonder that no one has yet spotted you," Brooker observed, leaning
back in the silken armchair, stretching out his feet upon the hearthrug,
regarding the Prince with a critical look from head to toe, and lighting
the cigar the other had offered him.

"If they did, it might certainly be a bit awkward," Zertho acquiesced.
"But many people are ready to forgive the little peccadilloes of anybody
with a title."

"Ah! that's so.  It's money, money always," the luckless gamester
observed with a sigh.

"Well, hang it, you can't grumble.  You've won and lost a bit in your
time," his friend said, casting himself upon a couch near, stroking his
dark beard, and blowing a cloud of smoke from his full lips.  "If you're
such an idiot as not to play any more, well you, of course, have to
suffer."

"Play, be hanged!" cried Brooker, impetuously.  "My luck's gone.  The
last time I played trente-et-quarante, I lost a couple of ponies."

"But the system is--"

"Oh, the system is all rot.  The Johnnie who invented it ought to have
gone and played it himself.  He'd have been a candidate for the nearest
workhouse within three days."

"Well, we brought it off all right more than once," Zertho observed,
with a slight accent.

"Mere flukes, all of them."

"You won at one coup thirty-six thousand francs, I remember.  Surely
that wasn't bad?"

"Ah! that was because Liane was sitting beside me.  It's wonderful what
luck that girl has."

"Then why not take her back again this season?" his companion suggested.

"She wouldn't go," he answered, after a slight pause.

"Wouldn't go!" cried the Prince, raising his dark, well-defined brows.
"You are her father.  Surely she obeys you?"

"Of late she's very wilful; different entirely from the child as you
knew her.  Since poor Nelly's death she seems to have been seized with a
sudden desire to go to church on Sunday, and is getting altogether a
bluestocking," the Captain said.

"Poor Nelly!" sighed the Prince.  "I have never ceased to think of that
sad evening when she grasped my hand through the carriage-window as the
train was moving, and with a merry mischievous laugh waved me farewell.
She was bright and happy then, as she always was; yet an hour later she
was shot dead by some villainous hand.  I wonder whether the mystery
will ever be explained," he added, reflectively.

The Captain made no reply, but smoked on steadily, his head thrown back,
gazing fixedly at the opposite wall.

"The police have done their best," he answered at length.  "At present,
however, they have no clue."

"And I don't believe they ever will have," answered Zertho, slowly.

"What makes you think that?"  Brooker inquired, turning and looking at
him.

"Well, I've read all that the papers say about the affair," he answered,
"and to me the mystery seems at present one that may never be solved."

"Unless the crime is brought home to the assassin by some unexpected
means."

"Of course, of course," he answered.  "You're a confounded fool to
remain down in that wretched, dismal hole, Brooker.  How you can stand
it after what you've been used to I really can't think."

"My dear fellow, I've grown quite bucolic," he assured his companion,
laughing a trifle bitterly.  "The few pounds I've still got suffice to
keep up the half-pay wheeze, and although I'm in a chronic state of
hard-up, yet I manage to rub along somehow and just pay the butcher and
baker.  Hang it!  Why, I'm so infernally respectable that a chap came
round last week with a yellow paper on which he wanted me to declare my
income.  Fancy me paying an income-tax!"

The Prince laughed at his friend's grim humour.  In the old days at
Monte Carlo, Erle Brooker had been full of fun.  He was the life and
soul of the Hotel de Paris.  No reverse ever struck him seriously, for
he would laugh when "broke" just as heartily as when, with pockets bulky
with greasy banknotes, he would descend the steps from the Casino, and
crack a bottle of "fizz" at the cafe opposite.

"If I were you I'd declare my income at eight hundred a year, pay up,
and look big," Zertho laughed.  "It would inspire confidence, and you
could get a bit of credit here and there.  Then when that's exhausted,
clear out."

"The old game, eh?  No, I'm straight now," the other answered, his face
suddenly growing grave.

"Honesty is starvation.  That used to be our motto, didn't it?  Yet here
you are with only just enough to keep a roof over your head, living in a
dreary out-of-the-way hole, and posing as the model father.  The thing's
too absurd."

"I don't see it.  Surely I can please myself?"

"Of course.  But is it just to Liane?"

"What do you mean?"

"It is essential for a young girl of her temperament to have life and
gaiety," he said, exhibiting his palms with a quick, expressive
movement.  "By vegetating in Stratfield Mortimer, amid surroundings
which must necessarily possess exceedingly painful memories, she will
soon become prematurely old.  It's nothing short of an infernal shame
that she should be allowed to remain there."

Brooker did not reply.  He had on more than one occasion lately
reflected that a change of surroundings would do her good, for he had
noticed with no little alarm how highly strung had been her nerves of
late, and how pale and wan were her cheeks.  Zertho spoke the truth.

"I don't deny that what you say is correct," he replied thoughtfully.
"But what's the use of talking of gaiety?  How can any one have life
without either money or friends?"

"Easily enough.  Both you and Liane know the Riviera well enough to find
plenty of amusement there."

"No, she wouldn't go.  She hates it."

"Bah!" cried the prince, impatiently.  "If, as you say, she's turned a
bit religious, she of course regards the old life as altogether
dreadful.  But you can easily overcome those prejudices--or I will."

"How?"

"In December I'm going to Nice for the season," Zertho explained.  "We
shall have plenty of fun there, so at my expense you'll come."

"I think not," was the brief reply.

"My dear fellow, why not," he cried.  "Surely you can have no qualms
about accepting my hospitality.  You will remember that when I was laid
up with typhoid in Ostend I lived for months on your generosity.  And
heaven knows, you had then but little to spare!  It is my intention now
to recompense you."

"And to endeavour to win Liane's love," added the Captain, curtly.

Zertho's brows narrowed slightly.  He paused, gazing at the fine diamond
glittering upon his white finger.

"Well, yes," he answered at last.  "I don't see why there should be
anything underhand between us."

"I gave you my answer when you came down to Stratfield Mortimer," the
other responded in a harsh, dry tone, rising slowly.  "I still adhere to
my decision."

"Why?" protested his whilom partner, looking up at him intently, and
sticking his hands into his pockets in lazy, indolent attitude.

"Because I'm confident she will never marry you."

"Has she a lover?"

His companion gave an affirmative nod.  Zertho frowned and bit his lip.

"Who is he?" he asked.  "Some uncouth countryman or other, I'll be
bound."

"The son of Sir John Stratfield."

The prince sprang to his feet, and faced his visitor with a look of
amazement.

"Sir John's son!  Never!" he gasped.

"Yes.  Strange how such unexpected events occur, isn't it?"  Brooker
observed, slowly, with emphasis.

"But, my dear fellow, you can't allow it.  You must not!" he cried
wildly.

"I've already told her that marriage is entirely out of the question.
Yet she will not heed me," her father observed, twirling the moustaches
which he kept as well trained now as in the days when he rode at the
head of his troop on Hounslow Heath, and was the pet of certain London
drawing-rooms.

"Then take her abroad, so that they cannot meet.  Come to Nice in
December."

"I am to bring her, so that you may endeavour to take George
Stratfield's place in her heart--eh?" observed the Captain shrewdly.

"Marriage with George Stratfield is agreed between us both to be
impossible, whereas marriage with me is not improbable," was the reply.

Erle Brooker shrugged his shoulders as he again puffed vigorously at his
cigar.  He now saw plainly Zertho's object in asking him to call.

"Well," continued his friend, "even I, with all my faults, am preferable
to any Stratfield as Liane's husband, am I not?"

"I don't see why we need discuss it further," said Brooker quietly.
"Liane will never become Princess d'Auzac."

"Will you allow me to pay my attentions to her?"

"If you are together I cannot prevent it, Zertho.  But, candidly
speaking, you are not the man I would choose as husband for my
daughter."

"I know I'm not, old fellow," the other said, shrugging his shoulders
slightly.  "And you're not exactly the man that, in ordinary
circumstances, I'd choose as my father-in-law.  But I have money, and if
the man's a bit decent-looking, and sound of wind and limb, it's about
all a woman wants nowadays."

"Ah!  I don't think you yet understand Liane.  She's not eager for money
and position, like most girls."

"Well, let me have a fair innings, Brooker, and she'll consent to become
Princess d'Auzac, I feel convinced.  You fancy I only admire her; but I
swear it's a bit more than mere admiration.  For Heaven's sake take her
out of that dismal hole where you are living, and make her break it all
off with Stratfield's son.  She must do that at once.  Take her to the
seaside--to Paris--anywhere, for a month or two until we can all meet in
the South."

Brooker, leaning against the mantelshelf, slowly flicked the ash from
his cigar, meditated deeply for a few moments, then asked--

"Why do you wish to take me back to the old spot?"

"Because only there can you pick up a living.  The police have nothing
against either of us, so what have we to fear?"

"Recognition by one or other of our dupes.  Play wasn't all straight,
you'll remember."

"Bah!" cried Zertho with impatience.  "What's the use of meeting trouble
half-way?  You never used to have a thought for the morrow in the old
days.  But, there, you're respectable now," he added, with a slight
sneer.

"If I go South I shall not play," Brooker said, decisively.  "I've given
it up."

"Because you've had a long run of ill-luck--eh?" the other laughed.
"Surely this is the first time you've adopted such a course.  I might
have been in the same unenviable plight as yourself by now if my
respected parent had not taken it into his head to drop out of this sick
hurry of life just at a moment when my funds were exhausted.  One day I
was an adventurer with a light heart and much lighter pocket, and on the
next wealthy beyond my wildest expectations.  Such is one's fortune.
Even your bad luck may have changed during these months."

"I think not," Brooker answered gravely.

"Well, you shall have a thousand on loan to venture again," his old
partner said good-naturedly.

"I appreciate your kindness, Zertho," he answered, in a low tone,
smiling sadly, "but my days are over.  I've lost, and gone under."

The prince glanced at him for an instant.  There was a strange glint in
his dark eyes.

"As you wish," he answered, then walking to a small rosewood escritoire
which stood in the window, he sat down and scribbled a cheque, payable
to his friend for five hundred pounds.  Brooker, still smoking, watched
him in silence, unaware of his intention.  Slowly the prince blotted it,
folded it, and placing it in an envelope, returned to where his visitor
was standing.

"I asked you to take Liane from all the painful memories of Stratfield
Mortimer.  Do so for her sake, and accept this as some slight
contribution towards the expense.  Only don't let her know that it comes
from me."

Brooker took the envelope mechanically, regarding his friend steadily,
with fixed gaze.  At first there was indecision in his countenance, but
next instant his face went white with fierce anger and resentment.  His
hand closed convulsively upon the envelope, crushing it into a shapeless
mass, and with a fierce imprecation he cast it from him upon the floor.

"No, I'll never touch your money!" he cried, with a gesture, as if
shrinking from its contact.  "You fear lest Liane should know that you
are attempting to buy her just as you would some chattel or other which,
for the moment, takes your fancy.  But she shall know; and she shall
never be your wife."

"Very well," answered Zertho, with a contemptuous smile, facing the
Captain quickly.  "Act as you please, but I tell you plainly, once and
for all, that Liane will many me."

"She shall not."

"She shall!" declared the other, determinedly, looking into his face
intently, his black eyes flashing.  "And you will use that cheque for
her benefit, and in the manner I direct, without telling her anything.
You will also bring her to Nice, and stand aside that I may win her,
and--"

"I'll do nothing of the sort.  I'd rather see her dead."

Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited.  Upon his dark
sallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil look
which his companion had only seen once before.

"Listen, Brooker," he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing close
to him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that none
might hear them save himself.

"Good God!  Zertho!" cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips,
and glaring at him.  "Surely you don't intend to give me away?" he
gasped, in a hoarse, terrified whisper.

"I do," was the firm reply.  "My silence is only in exchange for your
assistance.  Now you thoroughly understand."

"Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret!  My God!" he
groaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in an
attitude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face with
trembling hands.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE MISSING MARIETTE.

In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless.  Alone in his
dingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house in
Clifford's Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen from
its once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily into
the fire.  In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; a
strange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder,
whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortune
for her sake.

She had been nearly three months abroad, and although she had written
weekly there was an increasing coldness about her letters which sorely
puzzled him.  Twice only had they met since he left the Court--on the
two evenings she and her father had spent in London on their way to the
Continent.  He often looked back upon those hours, remembering every
tender word she had uttered, and recalling the unmistakable light of
love that lit up her face when he was nigh.  Yet since she had been _en
sejour_ on the Riviera her letters were no longer long and gossipy, but
brief, hurriedly-written scribbles which bore evidence that she wrote
more for the fulfilment of her promise than from a desire to tell of her
daily doings, as lovers will.

A dozen times he had read and re-read the letter, then lifting his eyes
from it his gaze wandered around the shabby room with its ragged leather
chairs, its carpet so faded that the original pattern had been lost, its
two well-filled bookcases which had stood there and been used by various
tenants for close upon a century, its panelled walls painted a dull
drab, and its deep-set windows grimy with the soot of London.  The two
rooms which comprised this bachelor abode were decidedly depressing even
on the brightest day, for the view from the windows was upon a small
paved court, beyond which stood the small ancient Hall, the same in
which Sir Matthew Hale and the seventeen judges sat after the Great Fire
in 1666, to adjudicate on the claims of landlords and tenants of burned
houses, so as to prevent lawsuits.  An ocean of chimneys belched around,
while inside the furniture had seen its best days fully twenty years
before, and the tablecloth of faded green was full of brown holes burnt
by some previous resident who had evidently been a careless cigarette
smoker.

George drew his hand wearily across his brow, sighed, replaced the
letter slowly in its envelope, examined the post-mark, then placed it in
his pocket.

"No," he said aloud, "I won't believe it.  She said she loved me, and
she loves me still."

And he poked the fire vigorously until it blazed and threw a welcome
light over the gloomy, dismal room.

Suddenly a loud rapping sounded on the outer door, and rising
unwillingly, expecting it to be one of his many friends of the
"briefless brigade," he went and opened it, confronting to his surprise
his father's solicitor, Harrison.

"Well, George," exclaimed his visitor, thrusting his wet umbrella into
the stand in the tiny cupboard-like space which served as hall, and
walking on uninvited into the apartment which served as office and
sitting-room.  "Alone I see.  I'm glad, for I want ten minutes' chat
with you."

"At your service, Harrison," Stratfield answered, in expectation of a
five-guinea brief.  "What is it?  Something for opinion?"

"Yes," answered the elder man, taking a chair.  "It is for opinion, but
it concerns yourself."

George flung himself into the armchair from which he had just risen,
placed his feet upon the fender and his hands at the back of his head,
as was his habit when desiring to listen attentively.

"Well," he said, sighing, "about that absurd provision of the old man's
will, I suppose?  I'm comfortable enough, so what's the use of worrying
over it?"

"But it is necessary.  You see, I'm bound to try and find this woman,"
the other answered, taking from his pocket some blue foolscap whereon
were some memoranda.  "Besides, the first stage of the inquiry is
complete."

"And what have you discovered?" he asked eagerly.  "I placed the matter
in the hands of Rutter, the private inquiry agent, whose report I have
here," answered the solicitor.  "It states that no such person as Madame
Lepage is living at 89 Rue Toullier, Paris, but the concierge remembers
that an elderly lady, believed to be a widow, once occupied with her
daughter a flat on the fourth floor.  The man, however forgets their
name, as they only resided there a few months.  During that time the
daughter, whom he describes as young and of prepossessing appearance,
mysteriously disappeared, and although a search was instituted, she was
never found.  There was no suspicion of suicide or foul play, but the
police at the time inclined to the belief that, possessing a voice above
the average, she had, like so many other girls who tire of the monotony
of home life, forsaken it and obtained an engagement at some obscure
cafe-concert under an assumed name.  Rutter, following up this theory,
then visited all the impressarios he could find in an endeavour to
discover an artist whose real name was Lepage.  But from the first this
search was foredoomed to failure, for girls who desire to exchange home
life for the stage seldom give their impressarios their correct names,
hence no such person as Mariette Lepage could be traced."

"Then, after all, we are as far off discovering who this mysterious
woman is as we ever were," George observed, glancing at his visitor with
a half-amused smile.

"Well, not exactly," the solicitor answered.  "Undoubtedly the girl who
disappeared from the house in the Rue Toullier was the woman for whom we
are searching."

"The letter found on Nelly Bridson is sufficient proof that she's still
alive," said the younger man.

"Exactly; and from its tone it would appear that she is in the lower
strata of society," Harrison remarked.

"Whoever she is I shall, I suppose, be required to offer her marriage,
even if she's a hideous old hag!  My father was certainly determined
that I should be sufficiently punished for my refusal to comply with his
desire," George observed, smiling bitterly.

"Why regret the past?"  Harrison asked slowly, referring again to the
blue foolscap by the fitful light of the fire.  "The inquiry has, up to
the present, resulted in the elucidation of only one definite fact;
nevertheless, Rutter is certainly on the right scent, and as he is now
extensively advertising in the principal papers throughout France, I
hope to be able ere long to report something more satisfactory."

"It will be no satisfaction whatever to me if she is found," observed
the young man, grimly.

"But it is imperative that the matter should be cleared up," the
solicitor protested.  "When we have discovered her you will, of course,
be at liberty to offer her marriage, or not, just as you please."

"It is a most remarkable phase of the affair that the only person
acquainted with this mysterious woman was poor Nelly," the young
barrister exclaimed at last.  "You will remember that in the letter,
with its slang of the slums, Liane's name was mentioned.  Well, I have
written asking her whether she is acquainted with any woman of the same
name with which the curious letter is signed, but she has replied saying
that neither herself nor her father ever knew any such person, and they
had been quite at a loss to know how Nelly should have become acquainted
with her.  Here is her reply; read for yourself," and from his pocket he
took several letters, and selecting one, handed it to the keen-faced,
grey-haired man, at the same time striking a vesta and lighting the lamp
standing upon the table.

"You don't seem to mind other people reading your love-letters," the old
solicitor said, laughing and turning towards the light.  "When I was
young I kept them tied up with pink tape in a box carefully locked."

George smiled.  "The pink tape was owing to the legal instinct, I
suppose," he said.  Then he added, with a slight touch of sorrow, "There
are not many secrets in Liane's letters."

The shrewd old man detected disappointment in his voice, and after
glancing at the letter, looked up at him again, saying, "The course of
true love is not running smooth, eh?  This lady is in Nice, I see."

"Yes, Harrison," he answered gravely, leaning against the table with
head slightly bent.  "We are parted, and I fear that, after all, I have
acted foolishly."

"You will, no doubt, remember my advice on the day of your father's
death."

"I do," George answered, huskily.  "At that time I fondly believed she
loved me, and was prepared to sacrifice everything in order that she
should be mine.  But now--"

"Well?"

"Her letters have grown colder, and I have a distinct and painful belief
that she loves me no longer, that she has, amid the mad whirl of gaiety
on the Riviera, met some man who has the means to provide her with the
pleasures to which she has been accustomed, and upon whom she looks with
favour.  Her letters now are little more than the formal correspondence
of a friend.  She has grown tired of waiting."

"And are you surprised?"  Harrison asked.

"I ought not to be, I suppose," he said gloomily.  "I can never hope to
marry her."

"Why despair?" the old solicitor exclaimed kindly.  "You have youth,
talent, and many influential friends, therefore there is no reason why
your success at the Bar should not be as great as other men's."

"Or as small as most men's," he laughed bitterly.  "No, Harrison,
without good spirits it is impossible for one to do one's best.  Those I
don't possess just now."

"Well, if, because you are parted a few months, the lady pleases to
forsake you, as you suspect, then all I can say is that you are very
fortunate in becoming aware of the truth ere it is too late," the elder
man argued.

"But I love her," he blurted forth.  "I can't help it."

"Then, under the circumstances, I would, if I were you, stick to my
profession and try and forget all that's past.  Bitter memories shorten
life and do nobody any good."

"Ah!  I only wish I could get rid of all thought of the past," he
sighed, gazing fixedly into the fire.  "You are my friend and adviser,
Harrison, or I should not have spoken thus to you."

The old man, with his blue foolscap still in his thin, bony hand,
paused, regarded his client's son with a look of sympathy for a few
moments, and sighed.

"Your case," he said at last, "is only one of many thousands.  All of
us, in whatever station, have our little romances in life.  We have at
some time or another adored a woman who, after the first few months, has
cast us aside for a newer and perhaps richer lover.  There are few among
us who cannot remember a sweet face of long ago, a voice that thrilled
us, a soft, caressing hand that was smooth as satin to our lips.  We
sigh when we recollect those long-past days, and wonder where she is,
who she married, and whether, in her little debauches of melancholy, she
ever recollects the man who once vowed he would love her his whole life
through.  Years have gone since then, yet her memory clings to us as
vividly as if she were still a reality in our lives.  We still love her
and revere her, even though she cast us aside, even though we are not
certain whether she still exists.  The reason of all this is because
when we are young we are more impressionable than when we are older,
with wider and more mature experience of the world.  The woman we at
twenty thought adorable we should pass by unnoticed if we were forty.
Thus it is that almost all men cherish in their hearts a secret
affection for some woman who has long ago gone out of their lives,
passed on, and forgotten them."

George smiled bitterly at the old man's philosophy.  "Are you, then, one
of those with a romance within you?" he asked, his face suddenly
becoming grave again.

"Yes," the old lawyer answered, his features hard and cold.  "I,
dry-as-dust, matter-of-fact man that I am, I also have my romance.
Years ago, how many I do not care to count, I loved a woman just as
madly as you love Liane Brooker.  She was of good family, wealthy, and
so handsome that a well-known artist painted her portrait, which was
hung at one of the Galleries as one of a collection of types of English
beauty.  That she loved me I could not doubt, and the first six months
of our acquaintance in the quaint old cathedral town where we lived was
a dream of sunny, never-ending days.  At evening, when the office at
which I was articled was closed, she met me, and we walked together in
the sunset by the river.  I see her now, as if it were but yesterday, in
her simple white dress and large hat trimmed with roses.  The years that
have passed have not dimmed my memory."

And the old man, pausing, sat with his steely eyes gazing into the fire,
a hardness in the corners of his mouth as if the recollection of the
past was painful.

"Months went by," he continued in a harsh voice, quite unlike the tone
habitual to him.  "She knew that I was poor, yet against the wishes of
her parents, purse-proud county people, she had announced her intention
of waiting a year or two, and then marrying me.  At length there came a
day when I found it necessary to exchange the quiet respectability of
Durham for the bustle of a London office, and left.  Ours was a sad
farewell, one night beneath the moon.  She took my ring from my finger,
kissed it and replaced it, while I kissed her hair, and we exchanged
vows of undying love.  Then we parted.  Well, you may guess the rest.
Within three months she was a wife, but I was not her husband.  From the
moment when we said farewell on that memorable night I never saw her nor
heard from her again.  Times without number I wrote, but my letters
remained unanswered, until I saw in the papers the announcement of her
marriage with some man who I ascertained later had amassed a fortune at
the Cape and had taken her out there with him.  Though I have grown old,
I have never ceased to remember her, because she was the one woman I
adored, the woman who comes once into the life of every man to lighten
it, but who, alas! too often forsakes him for reasons incomprehensible
and leaves him solitary and forgotten, with only a deep-cherished memory
as consolation.  So it is with you, George," he added.  "It may be, as
you fear, that Liane Brooker has grown weary, yet remember the old adage
that a woman's mind and winter wind change oft, and reflect that if
after her solemn vow to you she breaks her pledge, she is unworthy."

"I know," he answered.  "Nevertheless she is my well-beloved."

"So to me was the woman of whom I have just spoken," he answered.
"Nevertheless, that did not prevent me marrying ten years later and
living in perfect happiness with my wife till her death six years ago.
No, the thought of the past is the privilege of all men.  I admit that
it is doubly hard in your case that, having sacrificed your fortune for
sake of her, you should now find yourself being slowly replaced in her
heart by some other man.  Nevertheless, I repeat I am not surprised."

"But you sympathise with me, although I speak so foolishly," he said,
half apologetically.

"It is no foolish talk," Harrison replied.  "There is surely no
foolishness in discussing a matter that so closely concerns a man's
future," he said.  "Of course you have my most sincere sympathy, and if
at any time I can offer advice or render assistance, then command me."

"You are extremely good," the young man replied.  "The mystery
surrounding Liane, the tragic death of Nelly Bridson, the discovery of
the missing miniature, and the unfortunate girl's acquaintance with this
unknown woman whom my father designated as my wife, form an enigma of
which, try how I will, I am unable to obtain any elucidation.  Through
all these months not a single important fact has come to light."

"True.  It's an extraordinary affair altogether," Harrison acquiesced,
replacing the inquiry agent's report in his breast-pocket.  "But I still
hope we may discover Mariette Lepage, and through her we shall certainly
be able to learn something.  Until then, we must remain patient."

The pained, thoughtful expression that had rested upon his face, while
he had been telling George the romance of his life, had been succeeded
by that keen business-like air he always wore.  He was again the plain,
matter-of-fact lawyer, with his clean-shaven aquiline face, his cold
steel-blue eyes and thin lips that gave those who did not know him an
impression of almost ascetic austerity.

George Stratfield made no answer, but when a few minutes later his
visitor had gone, after placing his hand sympathetically upon his
shoulder and bidding him bear up against misfortune, he cast himself
again into his chair and sat immovable, heedless of everything save the
one woman who was his idol.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS.

Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and
pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for
the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival.  While England
is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through
the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright
sunshine, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue
which only the Mediterranean can assume.  Little wonder it is that the
gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its
climate, and so many and unique are its attractions.

Superbly situated on the broad beautiful Bay of Anges, with the
promontories of Ferrat and Antibes jutting out in the far distance on
either side, and sheltered by the lower terraces of the Maritime Alps,
it presents a handsome appearance, with the heights of Cimiez and other
fertile olive-clad hills forming a fitting background.  Close to the
sea, in the centre of the town, is the pretty Jardin Public, with its
cascade and cavern of hanging stalactites, and behind is the fine Place
Massena, wherein stands the handsome white Casino Municipal, while along
the coast to the right stretches the world-famed Promenade des Anglais,
a magnificent esplanade bordered by palatial hotels and villas, all
uniformly white, the roadway planted with palms, oranges, cypresses and
aloes, and laid out with beds of sweet-smelling flowers.

Although February, the oranges are ripe, and roses and carnations are
already in full blossom; the Jardin Public is a blaze of brilliant
colour, and as one turns from the Promenade into the clean white streets
the fragrance of violets hawked in huge bunches at four sous by the
flower-girls greets the nostrils at every corner.  Nice is indeed a town
of flowers.  The garden of each villa is full of them--almost every
person in the street wears a buttonhole or carries violets, the
florists' shops diffuse the odour of mimosa and roses far and near, and
even the confectioners sell dainty little round boxes of violets and
roses crystallised in sugar.  In those spring days Nice is verily in
Carnival mood.  Her hotels are full, her shops display the daintiest
fabrics possible, and as to hats and sunshades--for both of which the
town is famous--it is doubtful whether such daring feats of millinery,
as fetching as they are audacious, can be found in any city or any clime
the world over.  Certainly nowhere else is there a brighter or more
animated scene than that witnessed on the cemented footway of the
Promenade des Anglais on a February morning.  Furs have long ago been
discarded, and silk blouses and sunshades testify to the warmth of the
brilliant sun, while the male portion of the visitors are attired in
straw hats and suits of summer tweed.  Truly cosmopolitan and polyglot
is that chattering throng.  One rubs shoulders with barons, counts and
highnesses of every nationality, and hears every European language
uttered by gay laughing lips; the sibilant French of the dainty
Parisienne, the musical Italian, the guttural German, the rapid English
and the slow Russian, all combine to make a veritable Babel of tongues,
while by the costumes alone, many of them marvellous creations of the
famous men-dressmakers, the race of their wearers may usually be
determined.  Fashionable Europe is making happy holiday amid premature
summer.

Amid this chattering crowd of pleasure-seekers Liane was strolling
beside Prince Zertho one morning a fortnight after old Mr Harrison had
visited George in his dingy London chambers.  Gowned in pearl grey, the
fitting of which bore the impress of the Parisian costumier, and with a
large hat to match, she walked on, chatting, laughing, and ever and anon
bowing to those she knew; while the Prince, in black jacket suit and
soft felt hat of silver-grey, lounged leisurely along beside her,
smoking a cigarette, and listening amusedly to her light, vivacious
gossip.  Her appearance was entirely different to the trim,
neatly-dressed girl who, in cotton blouse and shabby skirt, had cycled
over the level Berkshire roads.  With her pure and perfect French, her
slim waist girdled narrow, her _chevelure_ as carefully arranged as if
by a maid of the first order, one might have easily mistaken her for a
true Parisienne.  Her beautiful face, combined with her delightful
_chic_, caused many to turn and glance after her as she passed, a fact
not unnoticed by her companion.

Her cheeks, no longer wan as they had been at Stratfield Mortimer, were
again flushed with health; her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she became
conscious of the profound admiration she everywhere evoked, and in her
footstep was the lightness of one in whose heart there lurked no shadow.

The day was perfect.  Both sea and sky were of a deep, intense blue, the
long line of sun-blanched villas and hotels were gay with visitors, the
trees wore their freshest green, and the sweet scent of violets pervaded
everything.  As they walked, Zertho was reflecting how striking was her
beauty, even among that crowd of Europe's prettiest and wealthiest
women.

Through November and December she and her father had remained in Paris,
and early in the new year had travelled down to Nice, taking up their
quarters at a small select "pension" in one of the large white villas
which, standing in its own pretty garden planted with oranges, palms and
roses, faced the Mediterranean at the end of the Promenade towards the
Magnan, while close by them Zertho occupied the handsome Villa Chevrier,
a great white house with palms in front, which also faced the sea at the
corner of the Rue Croix de Magnan.

In Nice a wealthy man can, if he desires, easily obtain a large
cosmopolitan circle of friends, therefore, the villa of Prince Zertho
d'Auzac quickly became a social centre, for his entertainments being
upon a scale almost unequalled, he found no lack of acceptances to his
invitations.  Everyone in Nice soon knew him by sight; the well-informed
_Petit Nicois_ mentioned him almost daily in its "Echoes de Partout,"
the _Swiss and Nice Times_ devoted whole columns to descriptions of his
fetes and lists of his guests, among which figured many well-known
names, and the _Phare du Littoral_ was loud in its praises of his
dinners, his driving parties, and the dances at his house.  Well-groomed
and usually attired in a dark suit, he walked in the Avenue de la Gare,
drove tandem with Liane at his side along the Promenade, rode his
unmatched bay on the Corniche Road, or strolled about the Casino, and
was everywhere recognised, for he was indeed the man of the hour.

He smiled, however, when he recollected how, two years before, he had
occupied an apartment "au troisieme" in the narrow noisy Rue de France,
while Liane, Nellie and the Captain had lived equally precariously in
the Rue Dalpozzo, close by.  Often dependent on his wits for a meal he
had more than once, he remembered, strolled out upon that same Promenade
where he now walked with Liane, in search of some inexperienced youth
from whom he might obtain a few louis at cards, and thus stave off
starvation for the next few days.  Their run of ill-luck had almost
knocked them both under until one night after the Captain had won a
considerable sum at Monte Carlo, a sudden suggestion occurred to them,
and together they started a private gaming-house in the Boulevard
Gambetta, in Nice, a place which, although remaining open only a few
months, gained a decidedly unenviable repute.  Nevertheless, both men
found their venture a most profitable one, and it is more than likely
that their avarice would have led them into the arms of the police had
not Brooker, at Liane's instigation, suddenly dissolved the partnership,
taken his money, and returned to England.

Liane knew Nice well.  Some of the most weary anxious and monotonous
days of her life had been spent in a well-remembered frowsy room high up
in that narrow back street which smelt eternally of garlic, where they
had lived for nine months almost penniless.  In those days when the
Fates were unkind neither she nor Nelly ever ventured upon the Promenade
in the day-time, because their dresses were too dowdy, and they feared
lest they should encounter some of the people with whom they had become
acquainted when living at the big hotels at Monte Carlo, Mentone, or
Cannes, as they did when their father prospered.  Yet she had now come
back to the town she once abhorred.  Her father had sufficient to keep
them both respectably and in comfort, and Zertho was almost, if not
quite, a millionaire.  Fortune they had so often courted had smiled at
last upon them all.

They were almost constantly at the Villa Chevrier.  Each morning the
Prince would call with his tandem and take her for a drive, returning in
time for half an hour's walk on the Promenade before _dejeuner_, then a
lazy afternoon, a dinner with guests, a visit to the Opera, to the
Casino, or perhaps to a ball.  So passed the warm, brilliant days
delightfully.

People soon began to inquire who was the handsome, sweet-faced English
girl with whom the Prince was seen so often, but Liane, entirely
ignorant of Zertho's mysterious influence over her father, or of his
motive, merely regarded him with the cordiality of an old friend.
Zertho, even in the old days, had always treated her with studied
courtesy, had often bought her sweetmeats and flowers, and was fond of
teasing her good-humouredly and promising to find her a wealthy husband.
It was he who had made both girls unexpected presents of bicycles after
their return to England, and never once, even when almost penniless, had
he forgotten to send them some trifle on their birthdays.  Although he
had been her friend she nevertheless had regarded him with some slight,
ill-defined mistrust.  Why, she had never been able to determine.

Though moving in the gay world of fashion and frivolity, of gambling and
kindred vices, she was not of it.  Her knowledge of man's sins and
woman's frailty was wider than that of most girls of her age, yet she
had remained sweet, simple, and ingenuous.  Often, when at home in her
room overlooking the sea, she would stand out upon the balcony and gaze
away at the horizon distant in the broad expanse of blue, thinking
deeply of George and wondering how he fared.  Still she reflected that,
after all, life was far more pleasant there than in the lethargic
Berkshire village.  Yet amid that constant whirl of gaiety she never
forgot those days that were past.  Even on that bright morning as at
Zertho's side she passed along, her sweet face fresh beneath her cream
sunshade, she remembered the time when neither Nelly nor herself dare
walk there--those days of dire misfortune when only twenty sous lay
between them and starvation.

Strolling on through the well-dressed throng they presently met the
Captain, spruce in a suit of dark grey with soft hat and brown boots,
walking slowly, in conversation with a portly Frenchman who had been the
Prince's guest on the previous evening.  Saluting, Zertho and his fair
companion passed on and continuing their walk strolled leisurely back to
the Villa Chevrier.

"Why are you so thoughtful?" her companion asked presently in French,
having noticed her wonderful grey eyes fixed upon the calm sunlit sea.

"It is woman's privilege to think," she replied, laughing as she turned
to him with her clear eyes expressive of the soul that lay behind.  "I
was reflecting upon the difference between our life two years ago and
what it is to-day."

"Yes, slightly better, isn't it?  Well, it is luck--always luck," he
answered.  "Your father is going over to Monte Carlo to-morrow, and I
hope that Fortune may be kind also to him.  He has waited long enough
for a change of luck."

Liane regarded him steadily for an instant, then said reproachfully,--

"It is you who have persuaded him.  Why have you done this, when you
know full well that half an hour at roulette will bring back upon him
the mania for play, the fatal recklessness that must be his ruin and
mine?  This is surely not the action of a friend."

"Ah! forgive me," he exclaimed, quickly.  "I had no idea that my
suggestion to drive you both over there to-morrow would displease you.

"I'll make an excuse to him, and we will not go," he added,
deferentially.

She was not a little surprised that he should thus alter his plans in
conformity to her wish, nevertheless his decision satisfied her.  She
knew that her father had but little money, and certainly he had none to
risk.  Little did she dream that the cost of her rich, perfectly-fitting
dresses, which had been so admired of late upon the Promenade and in the
Casino, had been defrayed by her whilom friend, and that every sou her
father was spending came also from his pocket.  She was in ignorance of
the strange, inviolable secret which existed between the two men; that
secret, the price of which was her own self.

Too much of life had she seen to be dazzled by the gay, brilliant set of
which she had found herself a centre, nevertheless, time after time she
reflected, when alone, that she was neglecting George sadly; she had an
instinctive fear that her letters to him were devoid of any warmth of
affection, yet somehow she could not prevent it.  Being thrown so much
into Zertho's society he frequently asked her advice, and she thus
unconsciously became interested in the success of his fetes.

She and her father spent the day at the Villa, as usual, and after
dinner drove down to the Place Massena to witness one of the great
annual events of Nice, the arrival of King Carnival Long before they
drove down, the town was already agog, for Carnival is in the blood of
the Southerners.  The illuminations were unanimously voted worthy of
Nice.  From their stands on the balcony of the Casino they could see
that from end to end the broad Avenue de la Gare was ablaze with red and
white lights, festoons of small lamps being connected at intervals with
large red stars of hanging lamps.  The Place Massena was lighted up with
gas-jets in white, blue, and green globes, forming arabesques; the
Casino was encircled with lines of gas-jets, and the facade of the
immense tribune opposite a brilliant blaze of colour.

Liane stood up and surveyed the scene.  The immense square was thronged,
the crowd being kept back by infantry.  After some waiting the sounds of
noisy music, the blasts of many horns, and the dancing lights of
hundreds of torches at last heralded the approach of the Monarch of
Mirth.  Mounted gendarmes opened the way; then came the trumpeters of
the 6th Chasseurs, followed by the heralds of Nice in costumes
embroidered with the arms of the town.  The colours of the Carnival were
red and rose, and the shops around were gay with dominoes of those hues.

Madame Carnival was the first gigantic figure to appear amid the glare
of the great braziers of crimson fire.  Seated on what might be termed a
gilt throne, and wearing a white frilled cap, a silk shawl, and clean
apron, she looked altogether very smart, gracefully wielding a fan, and
occasionally winking her enormous eyes.  In front of the car was her
six-months-old baby, held by two giant hands, while in the rear, in a
big basket, was the remainder of her family, a turbulent crowd of
youngsters in fancy garb.  Following another regiment of musicians and
torch-bearers came the lord and master, King Carnival, represented as a
peasant in his best white hat with tricolour rosette, astride a
turkey-cock, which ever and anon moved its head and spread its tail.

Among the other cars which followed was one representing a cafe-concert;
a chimpanzee which moved its head and swallowed smaller monkeys; a car
of animated fans; and "a charmer and her fools" represented by a beauty
who sat upon a throne, and by pulling a string set dancing her crowd of
foppish admirers.  The _groupes a pied_, too, were amusing and numerous,
one entitled "Dragging the Devil by the Tail," representing Satan with a
tail of enormous length, at which all who were hard up were pulling
vigorously.  There were polkas of Hammers, Bakers, Felt hats, and
walking alarum clocks, as well as a varying and amusing panorama of
single maskers.  Among these latter were represented a wine-dealer, who
had closed his shop in order "to baptise his wines;" Cupid bandaging a
lover's eyes; Love stopping a fair cyclist and asking whether he had
been forgotten; "Hurrah!" who had shouted so much that his mouth had
become an enormous size, and a drunkard stopping at a fountain believing
the drinking-cup to be a telephone transmitter!

Fully two hours the procession occupied in passing and re-passing, and
of the gay party who had met the Prince at his invitation, Liane was
perhaps the most vivacious.  With a sable cape about her shoulders she
sat next him, with her father on her left, laughing and criticising the
groups, the spirit of Carnival having already entered her Southern
blood, as it had that of the merry, light-hearted Nicois themselves.

At last she drove home with her father and the Prince, while the monarch
of cap and bells was placed in the handsome pavilion erected for him,
there to preside over the corsos, vegliones, and the battles of flowers
and confetti which for twelve days, until his immolation on Mardi-Gras,
would render Nice a town gone mad with frolic.

The Promenade was bright as day beneath the full moon, the feathery
palms waved lazily in the breeze, and the dark waves broke with musical
monotony upon the pebbly beach.  They had alighted at the gate of the
pension where the Captain had taken up his quarters, when the Prince
suggested to Liane that they should go for a stroll, as it was still
early.  To this she assented, and the Captain went indoors and sat
alone, silent and wondering, while they crossed the deserted esplanade
together and walked in the moonlight by the shore.

"So you have enjoyed yourself to-night, _ma petite_?"  Zertho said,
after they had been chatting some time.

"Immensely," she answered.  "Carnival is not fresh to me, but it is
always amusing.  Every Nicois enjoys it so thoroughly.  I love these
gay, happy, contented people who are still Italian although French.
They are so different from the English."

"You hated them once, I remember," he observed, with a smile, pausing to
light a cigarette.

"Ah! that was in the evil days.  One's enjoyment is always gauged by
one's pocket."

"Then according to that theory I ought to have a larger measure of this
world's pleasures than the majority of people--eh?"

"You have."

"Ah, no, Liane," he sighed, becoming suddenly grave.  "True, I have
wealth, a house in Brussels, an estate in Luxembourg, a yacht in yonder
port, and a villa here upon this promenade, yet there is one thing I
lack to render my happiness complete."

"What's that?" she asked, rather surprised at the unusual tone of
sadness in his voice.  Her smiling lips suddenly quivered with a
momentary dread--a dread of something she could not quite define.

He had paused at one of the seats at the end of the plage, and with a
alight courteous wave of the hand invited her to sit.  Slowly she did as
she was bid, and awaited his reply.

"I have not yet found any woman to sufficiently care for me," he
answered at last, in a quiet impressive tone.

"You will surely have no difficulty," she said with a strange ring in
her voice.  She had not suspected that he possessed a grain of
sentiment, for long ago she had noticed that he was entirely
unimpressionable where the charms of women were concerned.

His manner suddenly changed.  He sank into the seat beside her,
saying,--

"There is something, Liane, I want to say to you I've said it so often
to myself that I feel as if you must know it."  She sat quite still.  He
had grasped her small hand in his, and she let him keep it, questioning
his face with a bewildered gaze.  "You must know--you must have
guessed--"

She turned pale, but outwardly quelled the panic that sent the blood to
her heart.  "I must tell you the truth now--I love you."

With a sudden movement she freed her hand and drew away from him.

"Me!" she gasped.  Whatever potential complicity had lurked in her
heart, his words brought her only immeasurable dismay.

He bent towards her again.  "Yes, you!"

She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and put up her hand with
imploring gesture.  He looked at her with almost frenzied admiration, as
if it were only with fierce resolve that he restrained himself from
seizing her in his arms and closing her mouth with burning kisses.  His
whole frame quivered in the fury of repressed excitement, insomuch that
she shrank from him with involuntary terror.

"Can't you tell me what it is that makes me repugnant to you?" he asked
quickly.

"You are not repugnant at all," she faltered hoarsely.  "You are not
repugnant, only--I am indifferent."

"You mean that you don't care about me one way or the other."

She shut her lips tight.  Hers was not a nature so passionate as that of
most Southerns, but a loving one; feeling with her was not a single
simple emotion, but a complicated one of many impulses--of
self-diffidences, of deep, strange aspirations that she herself could
scarcely understand--a woman's pride, the delight of companionship and
sympathy and of the guidance of a stronger will; a longing for better
things.  All these things were there.  But beside them were thoughts of
the man she had vowed she loved, the man who was ruined and who could
not for years hope to make her his wife.  She looked at the glittering
moonlit sea, with the light steadily burning in the far distance at
Antibes, but no answer escaped her lips.  The silence of night was
complete save for the rhythmic swish of the waves at their feet.

At last, after a long pause, her words came again, shudderingly, "Oh,
what have you done?"

"By Heaven!" he said, with a vague smile, "I don't know.  I hope no
harm."

"Oh, don't laugh!" she cried, laughing hysterically herself.  "Unless
you want me to think you the greatest wretch in the world."

"I?" he responded.  "What do you mean?"

"You know you are fooling me," she answered reproachfully.  "You cannot
put your hand on your heart and swear that you actually love me."

A quick look of displeasure crossed his face, but his back was towards
the moon and she did not notice it.

"Yes--yes, I can--I will," he answered.  "You must have known it, Liane.
I've been abrupt, I know, and I've startled you, but if you love me you
must attribute that to my loving you so long before I have spoken."

Her troubled breast heaved and fell beneath her rich fur.  She gazed at
him with parted lips.

"It is a question from me to you," he went on, "the question of my
life."

"No, don't think so," she protested, "please, don't ask it."

"Then don't answer it, Liane.  Wait--let me wait.  Ask yourself--"

"I know my own mind already," she said slowly, with earnestness; then
perceiving, as suddenly as she had all the rest, how considered her
assertion might appear, she went on, still with the quietness of
clear-seeing and truth-telling: "things come clear in an instant.  This
does, that I could not have thought of.  I am already betrothed to
another; that is why I cannot accept."

"You can't expect me to be satisfied with that," he answered.  "I, who
know myself, and who see you as you do not see yourself.  It is I who
ask: who want to take a great gift.  I am not offering myself," he went
on rapidly.  "I am beseeching yourself--of you."

"I have not myself to give," she said calmly.

"You mean you love someone else," he said, with a hardness about the
corners of his mouth.

"Yes," and the long eyelashes swept downward as she answered.

But Zertho paid no attention to her reply.  "During the years I have
known you, Liane," he went on, "the thought of you has been as a
safeguard against my total disbelief in the possibility of woman's
fidelity.  I knew then that I revered you with my better self all the
while--that, young as you were, I believed in you.  I believe in you
now.  Be my wife, and from this instant I will devote all the love in
me--and I have more than you think--to you alone."

"Prince Zertho," she said, in honest distress, "I beg you won't go on!
I respect your devotion and your kindness, and I don't want to inflict
any hurt upon you; but oh! indeed, you must not ask this."

"Very well," he said sadly, rising to his feet.  "Let it all be.  I will
not despair.  You know now that I love you, and ere long I shall ask you
again as I have asked.  Defer your answer until then."

"Let us go back," she urged, shivering as she rose.  "The wind has grown
cold;" and in silence they together retraced their steps along the
deserted Promenade.

An hour later, when Liane had gone to her room, the Captain, at Zertho's
request, walked along to the Villa Chevrier, and found his friend
awaiting him in the handsome salon.

When the servant closed the door the Prince was the first to speak.

"To-night I have asked Liane to become my wife," he said harshly,
standing with his hands in his pockets.

"Well?"

"She refuses."

"As I expected," answered her father coldly.

"As you wish, you mean," retorted Zertho.

"I have already explained my views," the other answered, in a deep
strained voice.

"From her attitude it is evident that you have not spoken to her, as we
arranged," said the other angrily.

"I have said nothing."

"Well, you know me sufficiently well, Brooker, to be aware that when I
set my heart upon doing a thing I will accomplish it at all cost," the
Prince, exclaimed.  "I'm no longer an outsider, remember, I cannot
really understand your disinclination to allow Liane to become Princess
d'Auzac.  Surely you must see that it would be distinctly to your own
advantage.  She would take care that you'd never be hard up for a few
hundreds, you know."

"She does not love you, Zertho."

"Love be hanged!" cried the other, fiercely impatient.  "In a week I
shall repeat my proposal to her: if she does not accept, well--"

"Well?" echoed Brooker, paler than before, the hand holding the cigar
trembling, for he was feigning a coolness which he was unable to
preserve.

For a moment the Prince paused then crossing to the escritoire, which
stood in the window, took therefrom a folded newspaper, old and
tattered, together with several other papers folded together lengthwise.
Recrossing to where Brooker stood, he held them up to his gaze, with a
sinister smile upon his lips, and a look full of menace.

"No! no!" cried the Captain, glaring at the innocent-looking papers, and
drawing back with a gesture of repulsion.

"Very well," Zertho answered, with nonchalance.  "Strange though it may
appear, your only chance of safety is in becoming my father-in-law.  It
will be easy enough for you to persuade Liane to become my wife, and I
am ready and eager to remain your friend.  But if your prejudices are so
very intense and indiscreet, well--you know the rest."

The two men who had been fellow-adventurers faced each other.  In the
countenance of one was confidence, in the other abject fear.

"I never expected this of you, Zertho," the Captain said reproachfully,
regarding him with eyes in which flashed the fire of anger.  "You
apparently heed nothing of my feelings as her father.  You know my past;
you know that Liane brings into my life its only ray of brightness."

"We are no longer partners," the other answered harshly, with a
strangely determined expression upon his dark countenance.  "You are
playing against me now, therefore I am your opponent.  You've thought
fit to deal the cards, it's true," he added, with a short derisive
laugh; "but I think you'll have to admit that I hold all the trumps."

CHAPTER NINE.

THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS.

One thought alone possessed Liane.  Zertho loved her.

Next morning when the maid brought her coffee, she rose, and opening the
sun-shutters, stood at the window gazing upon the broad expanse of
bright blue sea.  The words the Prince had uttered all came back to her.
She recollected how he had pressed her hand, and declared that she was
his ideal of what a woman should be; how, not satisfied with her
refusal, he had promised to repeat his question.  Should she accept?
No, she distrusted him as much as she had ever done.

While thus plunged in deep reflection, her clear eyes fixed upon the
distant horizon where ships were passing, endeavouring to convince
herself that marriage with Zertho was impossible because she could never
love him, a light tap was heard upon the door, and the girl re-entered,
bearing a letter.

By its blue English stamp, she knew instinctively it was from George.

Slowly she tore open the envelope and read its contents.  Then, with a
sudden movement, she cast herself upon her bed, burying her face in the
lace-edged pillow, and bursting into a torrent of passionate tears.  She
hated Zertho, and still loved George.

Meanwhile, her father had risen, and gone out for an early turn along
the Promenade.  He let himself out at the rear into the Rue de France,
in order not to pass the Villa Chevrier, and after strolling for some
time about the town, he reached the sea again walking alone, his face
set towards the high castle hill, which he presently ascended by the
winding flight of stone steps, and standing at last on the summit, in
the beautiful garden laid out on the side of the long-ruined chateau,
paused to rest.  The sun was strong, the sky cloudless, and in every
direction the view was superb.  As he stood leaning over the stone
parapet, the Cape of Antibes, the Iles de Lerins, the mouth of the broad
stony Var, and the town of Nice were at his feet, while behind stretched
the green valley of the Paillon, with the white monasteries of Cimiez
and St Pons, the distant chateau of St Andre, the peaks of Mont Chauve,
and the Aspremont, with the blue distant Alps forming a picturesque
background.  He removed his hat, and allowed the fresh breeze that came
up from the sea to fan his heated temples.

He was alone, save for a solitary sentinel standing with fixed bayonet
some distance away, at the entrance to a large platform, where several
guns were mounted behind baskets filled with stones, and as he leaned,
his eyes fixed blankly upon the sea, some low words escaped him.

"Yes," he murmured in desperation, "this is indeed the last drop that
has filled my cup of affliction.  Poor Liane!  How can I tell her?  How
can I go to her and confess the ghastly truth?  If I do; if I tell her
of the terrible secret which I had believed was mine alone, she--the
child whom I have loved and cherished all these years, will turn from me
with loathing."

His hands were clenched, his brow furrowed, and upon his usually merry
countenance was a settled look of unutterable despair.

"No, it is impossible--absolutely impossible," he went on, sighing
deeply, after a few moments.  "To tell her the truth would only be to
increase her unhappiness and cause her to hate me, therefore I cannot--I
dare not!  No; Zertho is inexorable.  I must sacrifice Liane in order to
save myself."

Again he was silent, pondering deeply, and striving to form some plan by
which to save his daughter from being forced into this undesirable
union.  But he could conceive none.  Even if he defied this man who was
endeavouring to secure Liane, and boldly met the terrible consequences
of the exposure of his secret, he saw that such a course must reflect
upon her, for she would then be alone in the world--friendless, forsaken
and penniless; while if he fled, he must be found sooner or later, for
within twenty-four hours the police of Europe would be actively
searching for him.  Then, calmly and without fear, he thought of
suicide, his one desire being to save Liane from disgrace.  Leaning over
the parapet, he gazed far down upon the brown, rocky crags, beaten time
after time by the great rolling waves as they broke and threw up columns
of white spray.  He was contemplating how best to end his life.  He
could leave her a letter confessing all the truth, and thus save her
from becoming the wife of this titled adventurer.  Yet again a
difficulty presented itself.  To act thus would be cowardly; besides
which Liane would also be left without money, and without a protector.
For a long time he carefully reviewed all the facts, at length arriving
at the same conclusion as before, that his suicide would only bring
increased disaster upon the child he idolised.

"No," he exclaimed aloud, between his set teeth.  "There is but one
way--one way alone.  She must become Princess.  I must obey Zertho, and
compel her to marry him.  All these long weeks have I striven against
it, knowing that once united to such an unprincipled brute, her days
must be full of wretchedness and despair.  Nay, I am prepared to
sacrifice everything for her sake; nevertheless, if I boldly face my
enemies, or take my life to escape them, the result would be the same.
Liane would be left friendless.  To me through all these dark days she
has been the one joy of my aimless, weary life; hers has been the one
bright face that has cheered me times without number when I should have
otherwise knocked under.  I have striven my best to keep her
uncontaminated by the reckless world in which I've been compelled to
move, and none can ever charge me with neglect of her.  Yet this is the
end.  She must be torn from me, and be given to this unscrupulous
blackmailer whom the possession of wealth has converted from my friend
into my enemy."

Erle Brooker, by profession an adventurer, but at heart generous and
tender as a woman, had come to Nice solely on Liane's account, because
he had been convinced by Zertho's argument that she was moping sadly at
Stratfield Mortimer.  Although he had accepted the invitation he had
never for one moment intended that Liane should become Princess d'Auzac
until his whilom partner had pronounced it imperative.  Then, hour by
hour, day by day, he had sought means whereby Zertho might be dissuaded
from pressing his claim, until now he was compelled to acknowledge his
hope an utterly forlorn one.

"Alas!" he sighed, leaning his fevered weary head on both his hands.
"All happiness and gaiety must be crushed from her heart; her young life
must be wrecked because of my sin.  I, her father, must persuade, nay
insist upon her taking a step that she must regret her whole life
through, and use towards that end arguments which I would rather my
tongue were torn out than I should utter.  Ah, Liane," he cried,
brokenly, in a voice of despair, "if you could but realise all that I
have suffered these past weeks.  But you must not; you, at least, shall
never know the cause of this deadly fear which holds me paralysed
beneath the relentless thrall of the one man who knows the truth.  No,
you must marry him, and thereby secure his silence.  Your consent to
become Princess d'Auzac can alone save me."

Again he was silent, deep in contemplation of the terrible truth, when
suddenly behind him sounded a peal of merry laughter, and turning
quickly, he saw he had been joined upon the platform by Liane and two
bright English girls who were living at the same pension with them.
They had ascended the long flights of steps, and were entirely out of
breath.

"Why, dear old dad!" cried Liane, in surprise, "whoever would have
thought of finding you up here at this hour?"

The Captain laughed uneasily, and made some evasive reply regarding the
clearness of the morning and the extent of the view.

"Oh, isn't it magnificent!" cried the other girls in chorus, as they
gazed around.  Liane, who had been there on many previous occasions, had
brought them up, promising them a fine panorama, and they certainly were
not disappointed.

Together they wandered about the pretty gardens, watched the artillery
at drill working the guns, peered down the old castle well and clambered
about the ancient walls which had been torn down nearly two hundred
years ago by the Duke of Brunswick; then, after one of the girls had
narrowly escaped losing her hat in the high wind, they descended again
to the Rue des Ponchettes, where the Captain, excusing himself that he
wanted to make a purchase in the town, left them.

The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the
hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince
d'Auzac's trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps
along the Boulevard du Midi.  They had passed the Jardin Public, where
the band was playing Strauss's _Fesche Geister_, and had just entered
the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them
raising his hat.  The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped
along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane's
companions remarked--

"Isn't the Prince a handsome fellow?  I wonder he does not marry."

Liane felt her cheeks colouring.

"Oh!  I suppose he will very soon," observed her sister.  They were both
tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from
London.  This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh
to them.

"You know the Prince well, don't you?" inquired the first girl who had
spoken, turning to Liane.

"Yes," she answered.  "We knew him long before he became rich."

"And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect?  It does most men."

"No, I can scarcely say that," answered Liane.  "At heart he is so
thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don't think he will ever
become purse-proud."

"I've heard he's a millionaire," observed the other girl.  "Is that
true?"

"I believe so.  His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer
even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe."

"And whoever marries him will be Princess d'Auzac," the girl remarked,
contemplatively.  "Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with
an ancient title like that One could then cut a decent figure in
society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy."

Liane winced.  She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was
thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd
of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject.

That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took
their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining
lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown
back upon a great cushion of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in
a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at
last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly
repugnant.  He feared that his words must choke him, and for
half-an-hour glanced surreptitiously at her, hesitating to approach the
subject.  The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded
him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to
remain firm, he uttered her name.

She looked up from her French novel in surprise.  The tone in which he
spoke was entirely unusual.  It was harsh and strained.

"Liane," he said, bending and looking straight into her large, clear
eyes, "I have wanted to speak seriously to you during these past few
weeks, but have always hesitated."

"Why, father?"

"Because--well, I knew you were happy, and did not wish to cause you
pain," he answered.

"Pain?  What do you mean?" she inquired quickly.

"You have been very happy here in Nice, haven't you?  I mean that Zertho
has made life very pleasant for us both," he stammered.

"Certainly.  Thanks to him, we've been extremely gay the whole time.  So
different to our last experience of the Riviera," and she laughed
lightly at the recollection of those well-remembered evil days.

"You appear to find Zertho a very congenial companion," he observed.

She started.  Surely her father could not know what had taken place
between them during that walk by the moonlit sea on the previous night?

"Of course," she answered hesitatingly.  "He was always a good friend to
poor Nelly and myself, and he is very amusing."

"But I have noticed of late that your face betrays your happiness when
you walk with him.  A woman always shows in her cheeks a distinct
consciousness of her success."

Her face flushed slightly as she answered,--

"I was not aware that I appeared any happier when in his society than on
any other occasion."

"It is upon that very point that I desire to speak to you," he went on
in a low serious tone.  "You will remember that before we left
Stratfield Mortimer, I gave you a few words of kindly advice regarding
an impossible lover with whom you had foolishly become infatuated."

"Yes," she said, "I well remember."

"Then it is upon the subject of your marriage that I want again to say a
few words to you."

"Marriage!" she laughed.  "Why, I shall not marry for years yet, dear
old dad.  Besides, if I left you, whatever would you do?"

"Ah, yes, my girl," he answered hoarsely, as a shadow of pain flitted
for an instant across his darkened brow.  "You must not lose the chance
of youth."

She closed her book, placed it aside slowly, and regarded him with
surprise.

"Haven't you always urged me to wait?" she asked half-reproachfully,
toying with the two little gipsy rings upon her slim finger.  "I
understood that you were entirely against my marriage."

"So I was when you did not possess the chance of making a wealthy and
satisfactory alliance," he replied.

His daughter looked at him inquiringly, but hazarded no remark.  She saw
by the expression of his face how terribly in earnest he was.

"You, of course, know to whom I refer," he added, speaking in a low,
intense tone, as he bent towards her, gazing still seriously into the
sweet, open countenance.

"To Zertho," she observed mechanically.

"Yes.  If you reflect, as I have already reflected times without number
during these past few weeks, Liane, you must recognise that your
position as the daughter of an almost penniless adventurer, is by no
means an enviable one.  If anything happened to me you would be left
without a friend, and without a penny.  Such thoughts are, I admit, not
exactly pleasant ones, nevertheless the truth must be faced, at this,
the most important crisis of your life.  Again, I have nothing to give
you, and can hope for nothing.  In the days bygone I managed to pick up
sufficient to provide us with the comforts and luxuries of life, but
now, alas! luck and friends have alike deserted me, and I am left
ruined.  I--"

"But you are not friendless, dear old dad," Liane cried suddenly, the
light of affection glowing in her beautiful eyes as, with a sudden
movement, she sprang across to him, and kneeling beside his chair as she
often did, put both her soft, clinging arms about his neck.  "I am your
friend, as I have always been.  I do not want to marry and leave you,"
and she burst into tears.

His voice became choked by a sob he vainly strove to keep back.  He felt
his resolution giving way, and bit his lip.

"If--if you would remain my friend, Liane, you will marry," he managed
to ejaculate at last, although the words seemed to stifle him, and he
hated himself for having uttered them.

"No, dad--I will never allow you to live alone."

"But you must, dearest," he answered with emphasis, fondly pushing back
her dark hair from her brow.  "Think what a chance you now have of
securing position, wealth and everything which contributes to life's
happiness.  Zertho loves you."

"I know," she answered, with a touch of ineffable sadness in her voice
and raising her tear-stained face to his.  "But I am happy as I am, with
you."

"True.  Yet in a few months the money we have will become exhausted, and
whence we shall obtain more I know not," he said with a look of despair.
"You have a chance to become a princess--the wife of a man even
wealthier than his sovereign--therefore you should seriously reflect,
Liane, ere you refuse."

"How did you know that Zertho loves me?" she suddenly inquired, turning
her frank face upward to his.

"Because he has told me," he answered, in a voice low almost as a
whisper.  "He asked my permission to speak to you and offer you
marriage."

As he looked at her the thought flashed across his mind that he, her
father, who loved her so dearly, was deceiving her.  What would she say
if she knew the truth?

"Yes," she exclaimed with a sigh, "he says that he loves me, and has
asked me to become his wife.  But I have refused."

"Why?"

"Because I do not, I cannot love him, dad.  Surely you would never wish
me to marry a man for whom I have no affection, and in whom I have no
trust."  Her father held his breath and evaded her gaze.  Her argument
was unassailable.  The words stabbed his tortured conscience.

"But would not the fact of your becoming Princess d'Auzac place you in a
position of independence such as thousands of women would envy?" he
hazarded, again stroking her silky hair with tenderness.  "You know
Zertho well.  He's a good fellow and would make you an excellent
husband, no doubt."

"I can never marry him," she answered, decisively.

"You will refuse his offer?" he observed, hoarsely.  Her firmness was
causing him some anxiety.

"I have already refused," she replied.

Slowly he grasped her hand, and after a brief pause looked her steadily
in the face, saying--

"Liane, you must become his wife."

"I love but one man, dad, and cannot love another," she sobbed
passionately, her arms still about his neck.

"Forget him."

She remained silent a few moments; then, at last looking up with calm,
inquiring gaze, asked--

"Why are you so earnestly persuading me to marry this man who is neither
your true friend nor mine, dad?  What object can you have in urging me
to do what can only bring me grief and dire unhappiness?"

He made no reply.  His face, she noticed, had grown hard and cold; he
was entirely unlike himself.

"I love George," she went on.  "I will only marry him."

"Surely you will not ruin all your future, and mine, for his sake," he
blurted forth at last.

"Your future!" she gasped, drawing away from him and regarding him with
sudden surprise as the truth dawned upon her.  "I see it all now!  With
me as Princess d'Auzac, the wife of a wealthy man, you would never
want."

His teeth were set.  He held her small, soft hand so tightly that it
hurt her.  He tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter sound.  He
was persuading his daughter to wreck her young life in order to secure
his own safety.  The thought was revolting, yet he was forced to act
thus: to stand calmly by and witness her self-sacrifice, or bear the
consequences of exposure.

He bowed his head in agony of mind.  A lump rose in his throat, so that
his words were again stifled.

"My marriage would, I know, relieve you of a serious responsibility,"
she went on, calmly, without any trace of reproach.  "I am not unmindful
of the fact that if I married Zertho I should gain wealth and position;
yet I do not love him.  I--I hate him."

"He has been kind to us, and I believe he is extremely fond of you," he
said, wincing beneath the lie that fear alone forced to his lips.  "Is
it not but natural that I should seek for you an improved social
position and such wealth as will place you beyond all anxiety in future?
Heaven knows that the past has been full enough of care and poverty."

"Ah!  I know that, poor dad," Liane answered caressingly, in a tone of
sympathy, her arms again about his neck.  "In the days gone by, because
you played fairly, and was never an unscrupulous sharper like Zertho,
luck forsook you.  They laughed at you because you cared so much for me:
because you held Nelly and I aloof from the dregs of society into which
you had fallen.  You were courageous always, and never when the days
were darkest did you relinquish hope, or did your love for me wane.
Yet," and she paused, "yet if you still cared for me as once you did, I
cannot but feel that you would hesitate ere you urged me to a hateful
alliance with a man I can never love."

"I am but endeavouring to secure your future happiness, Liane," he
answered, his voice sounding deep and hollow.

A silence fell, deep and impressive, broken only by the low, monotonous
roar of the waves beating upon the shore outside, and the musical jingle
of the bells on a pair of carriage-horses that were passing.  Liane
started as she recognised the sound.  They were Zertho's.  Erle Brooker
would have rather died by his own hand ere he had persuaded her to marry
this man; yet for the hundredth time he proved to himself that by
suicide he would merely leave her unprotected, while she would most
probably afterwards learn from Zertho the terrible secret which he was
determined should, at all hazards, remain locked within his own troubled
heart.

"To persuade me to marry the Prince is but to urge me to a doom worse
than death," she exclaimed passionately at last.  "No, dad, I am sure
you would never wish me to do this when I am so contented to live as I
am with you.  If we are penniless--well, I shall never complain.  It
will not be the first time that I have wanted a meal, and gone early to
bed because I've been hungry.  I promise I'll not complain, only do not
endeavour to force me to marry Zertho.  Let me remain with you."

"Alas! you cannot, my child!" he answered in a hard, dry, agonised tone,
his hand trembling nervously.

"Why?"

"You must forget young Stratfield, and become Princess d'Auzac," he said
firmly, intense anxiety betrayed upon his haggard countenance.

"Never!"

"But you must," he cried brokenly, with emphasis.  "It is imperative--
for my sake, Liane--you must marry him, for my sake."

CHAPTER TEN.

MASK AND DOMINO.

The world-famous Battle of Flowers had been fought in brilliant,
cloudless weather along the Promenade des Anglais, and Liane riding
alone in a victoria covered with violets and stocks set off with rose
bows and ribbons, had been awarded a prize-banner, while Zertho, his
coach adorned by Marechal Niel roses and white lilac, entertained a
party, and was a conspicuous figure in the picturesque procession.  The
crowd was enormous, the number of decorated carriages greater than ever
before known, and as the contending parties, made up of people in
carriages decorated with flowers and coloured ribbons, passed slowly
along on either side of the broad drive, they kept up a brisk fire of
small bouquets.  As they went by, the occupants of the tribunes poured
broadsides into the carriages, and the battle raged everywhere hot and
furious.  Liane, sitting alone embowered in violets, flushed with the
excitement of throwing handfuls of flowers at all and sundry, found
herself more than once in the very thick of the fray and was pelted
until her hair escaped from its pins and she felt herself horribly
untidy.

Brooker had excused himself from forming one of Zertho's party and had
gone for a long walk into the country; but that night he reluctantly
accompanied them to the great Veglione at the Opera, where all were in
grotesque costume, both Zertho and himself wearing hideous masks with
enormous red noses, while Liane was attired in the beautiful costume of
an odalisque, which, at Zertho's desire, had been specially made for her
in Paris.  Folly reigned supreme in that whirlwind of light and colour,
and although dancing was almost impossible in consequence of the crowded
state of the beautifully decorated theatre, yet the fun was always fast
and furious, and the first saffron streak had already showed over the
grey misty sea before they entered their carriage to drive homeward.

Variety had now become Liane's very life, excitement the source and
sustenance of her existence.  Within the few days which had elapsed
since the evening when her father had urged her to marry Zertho a
complete change had come upon her.  No longer was she dull, dreamy, and
apathetic, but eager to embrace any opportunity whereby her thoughts
might be turned from the one subject which preyed upon her mind.  She
entered thoroughly into the Carnival fun and frolic, and Zertho,
believing that her gaiety arose from contentment, felt flattered,
congratulating himself that after all she was not so averse to his
companionship as he had once believed.  Knowing nothing of love or
sentiment he had no suspicion that her bright amused smile masked a
weary bitterness, or that, after dancing half the night radiant and
happy, and charming the hearts of men with her light coquetry, she would
return to the silence of her own room before the wave-beaten shore, and
there lie weeping for hours, murmuring the name of the man she loved.
So skilfully did she conceal the poignant sorrow wearing out her heart
that none but her father detected it, and he, sighing within himself,
made no remark.

Through the warm sunny reign of King Carnival Zertho and his handsome
companion were prominent figures everywhere, although the Captain, who
had grown as dull and dispirited as his daughter had become gay and
reckless, seldom accompanied them.  Since that night when beside the sea
Zertho had told her of his love, he had not again mentioned the subject,
although they were often alone together.  Sometimes he would accuse her
of furious flirtation, but always with a good-humoured amused air,
without any sign of jealousy in his manner.  Truth to tell, he felt
satisfaction that she should be the most universally admired girl in
Nice.  He remembered that her success was due to him, for had he not
paid for the costly costumes and milliner's marvels which suited her
beauty so well?

The bright cloudless days passed, full of frivolity.  The King of
Folly's reign was short, therefore the excitement while it lasted was
kept up at fever-heat, the grand climax of the many festivities being
reached by the Corso Carnavalesque and Battle of Confetti which took
place on Sunday, ten days after the gigantic effigy of the Monarch of
Mirth had been enthroned on the Place Massena in his Moorish pavilion of
rose and gold.

All the paper confetti conflicts, pretty and vigorous as they had been,
were but preliminary scrimmages to the genuine battle fought with
pellets of grey chalk, veritable bullets.  So hard are these that it is
unsafe to venture out without a wire mask, therefore Zertho and Liane,
in assuming their costumes that afternoon, did not neglect the
precaution.  Zertho wore the white dress of a pierrot; with large velvet
buttons of pale rose; while Liane, in a domino of pale rose satin
trimmed with red--the colours of that season--wore a clown's hat of
rose.  Both carried, strapped across their shoulders, capacious bags
containing confetti, and a small tin scoop with which to throw their
missiles.  The mask of fine wire, like those used in fencing schools,
having been assumed, they both entered the victoria and were driven down
to the Jardin Public through which the Carnival procession, headed by
the King himself, pipe in mouth, astride the turkey-cock, was at that
moment wending its way.

The gun from the old Chateau had a few minutes before boomed forth the
signal for the opening of hostilities, and the thousands of revellers on
foot and in carriages, all wearing masks and dominoes, were carrying on
a fierce and relentless combat.  Alighting, Liane and her companion
plunged into the rollicking riot, pelting the onlookers who were
unmasked or who wore no dominoes, covering dark coats and dresses with
great white dust-spots, and compelling the unfortunate ones to cry for
quarter.  On this, the maddest day of Folly's reign, Nice, from two
o'clock until five, presented the appearance of a town run mad with fun.
Every balcony, decorated with red and rose, was filled with spectators
laughing at the antics of the armoured, quaintly-dressed throng; the
timorous, taking refuge behind closed windows, peered curiously out upon
the wild conflict, while some, more brave than others, ventured out into
the thick of the fray with no further protection than the black velvet
half-mask.  Woe betide these, however, when detected.  Wire masks were
the only safeguard from the showers of bullets which everywhere were
projected from the small tin scoops.

Joining in the Corso were many carriages decked out to correspond with
their occupants' costumes, many in the carnival colours, one in pure
white, another in a mauve, and a third, belonging presumably to a
political enthusiast, in the Russian colours, orange and black.
Everywhere were scenes of wild and reckless gaiety.  In the side
streets, in the open squares, in the cafes, on every side confetti was
thrown.  The garcons de cafe, compelled to stand amid the continuous
cross-fire that swept across the streets, had all assumed masks, and the
roads and pavements soon became an inch deep in confetti trodden to
dust.

All along the line of the procession and in the thick of the fight bags
of ammunition were offered by men, women or boys, who stood beside
stalls or, mingling with the crowd, cried "_Bonbon; Bonbon_!"  As Zertho
and Liane walked together, pelting vigorously at a carriage containing
three of their friends, an urchin came up to them crying, "_Bonbon_!"
whereupon Liane, with a mischievous laugh, threw a handful of confetti
straight at the crier, much to the urchin's discouragement.

"Come, let us follow the procession," Zertho suggested, and across the
Place Massena they accompanied the corso, and down the gay streets until
they entered the Place de la Prefecture, where the fun was at its
height.  The scene here presented was exceedingly picturesque.  The
band, which was really a band, and not merely a medley of ear-splitting,
discordant noise which too frequently mars the Carnival, was the centre
of attraction around which the maskers danced with wild abandon, joining
hands and screaming with laughter.  Liane, infected by the mad gaiety
and as reckless as the rest, her domino whitened by the showers of
confetti rained every moment upon it, plunged into the crowd of dancers
and, hand-in-hand with Zertho, whirled round, laughing gleefully.  The
dancers made a human kaleidoscope of colour, framed by the
amphitheatre-like tribunes, which were likewise filled with maskers, and
made a setting as bright, and but one degree less animated, than the
rollicking, ever-moving foreground.

From minute to minute the animation increased.  Every street was aglow
with colour, and the melee was general.  Those seated in the tribunes
made furious attacks upon those on foot, the latter retaliating with
shower upon shower of pellets, until the battle became fierce in every
quarter.  Four occupants of a victoria, attired alike in pale blue
dominoes, opened a vigorous fire upon Liane and Zertho as they passed,
and received in return many scoopfuls of well-aimed confetti.  But the
pair were decidedly getting the worst of it, when suddenly a lithe
little man in clown's dress of cheap lustrine joined Liane in the
defence, and next instant received a handful of confetti full in his
face.  For an instant he felt in his pouch, but found his ammunition had
given out.  Then espying a stall a few yards away he rushed across with
sudden impulse, flung down a couple of francs, caught up four large
paper bags each containing several pounds of confetti, and flung them
one after another at Liane's assailants.  They were aimed with a sure
hand, and as each struck the head or shoulders of one or other of the
unfortunate occupants, the thin paper broke, completely smothering them
with its contents.  Yells of uproarious laughter arose at their
discomfiture, and the coachman hastened his horses' speed.

Then turning to Liane, the man, evidently an honest, happy-hearted
Nicois from his Italian accent, bowed gracefully, and with a smile
said,--"Mademoiselle, I believe we have taught them a lesson."  Before
she could thank him he was lost in the turbulent, laughing crowd.

And as Zertho passed gaily along at Liane's side, he sang softly to
himself the refrain of "L'Amoureuse,"--the slightly risky parody,
popular at that moment,--

  "Voila l'amoureuse,
      A la demarch' voluptueuse,
      Qui se pavan' soir et matin,
      Avec des airs de p'tit trottin;
  Voila l'amoureuse,
      A la demarch' vo

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41002