Desolate splendour

THE porter at White’s sorted mechanically the morning’s letters, pigeon-holing those for which members would be calling, piling the others to be re-addressed. Things were contrary, and one interruption after another kept him the morning through at restless, scrappy work. The lunch rush came and went. At four he took some hours off duty, returning to his lodge at seven o’clock. The pile of letters caught his eye. ‘Blast them letters!’ he thought. ‘I forgot all about ’em!’ But the half-hour had struck before he had an opportunity to start his task of forwarding. The envelopes were barely spread out upon the desk when a member paused at his office opening.

“Any letters for me, Rogers?”

The porter looked up with a surprised smile of greeting.

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Plethern! We didn’t expect you back yet, sir. This has just arrived. I suppose it’s for you, sir. I was going to forward it. Hope nothing’s wrong, sir, to bring you home early?”

“No, thanks,” replied Charles, taking the letter. “Nothing that concerns me at any rate. Tell them to send this junk round to old Tatham’s in Curzon Street. I wired him from Southampton.”

Pointing toward a pile of bags he passed on into the club.

On the yacht’s arrival at Teneriffe a telegram had been found awaiting her owner to the effect that the Transvaal claimants had thrown up their case and that the title was no longer threatened. Carruthers had consulted his companions. Would they prefer to go home or to convert a business-voyage into a voyage of pleasure? Thinking to suit their host’s convenience, they had suggested immediate return to England. The train from Southampton had brought Charles Plethern and his luggage to Waterloo. Thence he had driven straight to White’s.

To a servant in the inner hall he gave order for a drink. In the smoking-room, glass in hand, he considered a little ruefully his curtailed adventure. ‘Back to a London season again!’ he thought wearily. ‘Well, the little girl will enjoy it. That’s something. I owe her a good time.’

The envelope beside him on the table caught his eye. It had the straggling superscription of a begging letter. He tore it open and, with indifference, glanced at its contents. Then he sat up and read carefully from start to finish the apparently meaningless enclosure. ‘James Plethern, Esquire ... five thousand pounds ... the Rockarvon Estate in Gloucestershire ... James Plethern ... Christopher’ ... blank for signature and witnessing ... ‘Morvane, June 6th, 1903....’ He stared confounded at this extraordinary document; then picked up the torn envelope and read the address. ‘C. Plethern, Esq.’ Presumably it was for him.... Back to the unsigned paper once again. ‘Five thousand pounds!’ Five thousand pounds for the Rockarvon acres! It was ludicrous. And James? What had James to do with land in Gloucestershire? Or Christopher? Why was the document, prepared for signature but blank and worthless, sent in an envelope to White’s? Then the address and date struck his attention. ‘Morvane, July 6th, 1903.’ Why Morvane? Over a writing-table in the corner hung a calendar. His eyes fell on the staring scarlet of a five. He crossed the room. It was the fifth to-day! The document was dated for to-morrow, dated at Morvane and for to-morrow!

He was completely at a loss. Either the paper was a joke, in which case its humour totally escaped him; or it had meaning, in which case the man Rockarvon must have taken leave of his senses, for none but a lunatic would sell that land for so absurd a figure. But James? What in the name of thunder was James’ concern with Rockarvon valley or with its owner?

For a few moments he stood, seeking a clue to the meaning of the mystery. That there was matter of real gravity behind it did not occur to him, but the Rockarvon lands were very near his heart, for all that he had abandoned hope of owning them, and he was disinclined to brush neglectfully aside any event that had concern with them. What if for some reason unexplained actual transfer of the valley was intended? Five thousand pounds might be a dummy figure; the whole document might be a symbol of a larger, more rational transaction. Else were it nonsense; a piece of silly fooling; perhaps a hoax. Whichever or whatever it might prove to be it was not effectual, nor could be made effectual until the sixth of June. The address implied that the affair, if such existed, was to be concluded actually at Morvane. “I think I’d like to be there too,” thought Charles, and rang for a timetable.

He was too late for the last train on the local branch. There was an express from Paddington at eight-fifteen that stopped at Sawley, but without connection to the country station near his home. Quickly he wrote a telegram to Wilkinson:

He took the telegram himself to the porter’s office.

“Send this at once, Rogers. It is very urgent. I want a hansom for Paddington, and my dressing-case and kit-bag on it, in ten minutes’ time. I shan’t be sleeping at Tatham’s after all. Let him know, will you? I’ll send word about the rest of the luggage.”

In the smoking-room he dined rapidly off sandwiches and whisky, saw that the document lay safely in his pocketbook, climbed into his cab and caught his train.

§ 2

The limousine that was to have carried Lord Rockarvon to the most flavorous seduction of his career sped through the darkness in alarmed retreat.

No sooner had Viola vanished into the gloom of the evening, than the earl had bidden his chauffeur turn and drive furiously to Sawley station. He was sick of the motor-car, sick of this wilderness of Gloucestershire; longed for London and for a bright train to take him swiftly thither. But most of all he longed to be free of Plethern plotting. He was bothered and uneasy at the continual complications of an adventure he now regretted to have undertaken. He did not imagine that the girl would really hunt him to London; in his present mood (so ardently did he hope that he had seen the last of her) he considered the advantage of taking an earlier train to Paris. Once in Paris, he could forget the Pletherns and their craziness. It would be well to obliterate all trace of this ridiculous conspiracy by which, if his opponents were left nicely fooled, he was at least five thousand pounds the richer. He would destroy the documents in his portfolio. The dressing-case was at the negro’s side:

“Light the lantern, Hannibal; open that bag and give me my portfolio.”

The car rushed through the darkness. The negro found the leather case and gave it to his master. The papers lay neatly folded in their place. Rockarvon twisted them in a long, crumpled scroll.

“A match, Hannibal!”

The papers flickered, flared and slowly were consumed. Rockarvon lay back in his dark corner with a feeling of content. He had no qualms about the other copy. James, when he heard the scheme had failed, would quickly make an end of evidence that hinted at a plot. Perhaps it was destroyed already. A man as terrified as he had been would likely read the draft and tear it up. Perhaps again it had been sent to Mrs. Plethern. What matter if it had? The paper proved nothing. He could deny all knowledge of it. Also he knew too much for them to flout him easily.

The motor reached the Sawley railway station at ten minutes after nine. A London train had left five minutes to the hour. There was another due to pass through Sawley from the west at ten-fifteen. The earl was driven to the town in search of dinner. Then, at a little after ten, he was again deposited at the station. He dismissed the chauffeur with a handsome tip, sent the negro to the booking-office, and settled himself as comfortably as possible on a seat in the draughty booking-hall. At ten-fifteen he told his servant to inquire of an official if the train were late. The black returned to say he could not make the man at the ticket-gate understand. The earl struggled peevishly to his feet and, leaning on the negro’s arm, crawled toward the platform barrier. He heard the grinding of a car’s brakes in the station-yard and saw a tall man with a round face and a bowler hat hurry across the booking-hall. To a ticket-inspector Rockarvon put his query. The man glanced at the wall-clock. Twenty minutes past.

“She’ll be another ten minutes, sir,” he said. “Running about quarter of an hour late. Number one, sir. Stay here, and you’ll see her come in, just through that gate.”

The earl returned to his seat. He felt cold and cross. The so-called dinner had been uneatable. Why had he come to this ghastly wilderness? Even the trains that got one out again were not to time. Steps at his side. Raising his eyes, he saw Charles Plethern at his elbow.

“Good evening, my lord! I wondered if I should catch a glimpse of you.”

Rockarvon acknowledged the greeting with calm, though inwardly he raged that yet another of this cursed family had come to plague him.

“Ah, Mr. Plethern? How are you? This is your station?”

“And yours, I think,” said Charles pleasantly, “if you would honour us by living at home.”

“I am not encouraged by what I have seen,” snapped Rockarvon. “I come on a visit, lose my way and have to wait eternally for a train to take me to town again.”

“To town again? How uncomfortable to travel thus late! You must accept my hospitality. A car is waiting. We shall be at Morvane in twenty minutes.”

The earl shook his head.

“You are very kind, but I am anxious to get back.”

“To-morrow,” said Charles smoothly, “is more convenient. I really must insist. We will do all we can to make you comfortable.”

“I tell you I am going back to London,” snarled the other.

Charles shook his head thoughtfully.

“Not to-night,” he said. “Not to-night. I cannot allow you to take away so false a notion of civilized Gloucestershire.”

A rush of steam and a train roared into the station. Rockarvon moved.

“That is my train,” he said, struggling to rise. A hand on his shoulder held him in his seat. “Let me go, damn you! That is my train, I say! Let me go! Here—Hannibal! Hannibal!”

“Don’t make a disturbance, Rockarvon,” commanded Charles in a voice of authority. “You are coming to Morvane with me and had best make up your mind to it. I’m a magistrate in these parts, you know, and the police-inspector is a friend of mine. I should not like to charge a fellow landowner with conspiracy, but——”

With whistles and with loud banging of doors the London train prepared to leave. She was behind her schedule and in a hurry to be gone. The negro, who had been waiting patiently at the corner of the booking-office, saw some one (in tragic fact a harmless Sawley doctor) on the arm of an official hasten through the barrier. He assumed the limping figure to be his master’s, for Rockarvon’s cries had been drowned by the noise and bustle of the station. He ran for the train, swinging himself into a third-class carriage as it began to move.

The earl, after a few moments’ writhing in the hand that held him down, seemed to accept the inevitable.

“If there is a law in this filthy country,” he said, “you will be sorry for this!”

Charles ignored the speaker and his fury.

“Get him up, Wilkinson. He can’t walk alone. I’ll go and see about the bags.”

At the door of the booking-hall a railway official looked curiously at the feeble figure in Wilkinson’s strong grip. He recognized the gentleman who had made inquiry about the London train. Suddenly the stranger called to him:

“I’m being kidnapped! Fetch the police!”

The official looked at Wilkinson, whom he knew well. The agent preserved a stony gravity. The next moment Charles Plethern hurried into sight.

“Good evening, Mr. Vane,” he said cheerily. “Would you give Mr. Wilkinson a hand? This poor gentleman is not well.”

Rockarvon spluttered viciously. Wilkinson’s grip tightened. Behind the victim’s back Charles, tapping his head, gave a meaning glance at the perplexed official. He was prominent and respected at Sawley, a man of means and influence. Vane seized the earl by his other arm and helped to push him, wriggling feebly, into the car.

For a while no one spoke. The motor slid along dark country roads. Wilkinson, masterfully silent, sat alert at the captive’s right. He had so complete a confidence in his employer that, at Charles’ bidding, he would have thrown Rockarvon from the window without questioning. As he understood his instructions for the time being, this grotesque ruin of a man was to be delivered safely at Morvane. Wherefore he watched and held his tongue.

And Charles himself? He was concerned to think how, when the time for explanation came, he would manipulate his prisoner. The capture had been made on impulse. Because he had been busy in the train with the enigma that was hurrying him to Morvane and because, in consequence, Rockarvon and Rockarvon valley were greatly in his mind, the sight of the earl in the Sawley booking-hall had astonished him less than, normally, it would have done. Somehow it had seemed proper enough to find the man thus on the threshold of his investigation. Instinctively he had bluffed so as to secure a clue—perhaps a valuable clue—to the mystery that baffled him. Now, however, the high-handedness of the proceeding began to cause qualms and he could only trust to circumstance to help him.

The earl himself, of a cunning rather than of a blusterous nature, had abandoned all idea of physical revolt. Of the reason for Charles Plethern’s outrage he had no inkling, nor did he trouble to obtain one. Matters would declare themselves at Morvane. He consoled himself with the thought that, at the unimaginable worst, he could only be suspected, and to be suspected rather diverted than dismayed him. Nevertheless, he resented deeply the treatment he had suffered and from offended dignity was very angry. His anger took the form of stealthy spite and he huddled malevolent in his corner, waiting for revenge.

Against the night sky Morvane was a frowning bulk. No light shone, no sound disturbed the utter stillness. Leaving his agent with Rockarvon in the car, Charles climbed the steps to the main house-door. It was barely eleven o’clock, and he felt surprised that his household should so early have retired. He tried his key, but there were bolts shot within and he was forced to ring. He rang again. A distant footstep and the light flashed on, gleaming behind the fanlight, blazing from the bracket that projected over the outside steps. Bolts ground noisily and a chain rattled. The door opened, and the master of Morvane faced an untidy young woman in a print dress, capless, with straggling hair, holding in one hand a tattered book.

“What the devil——?” he exclaimed. Then: “Who are you?”

Poor Ellen, doomed as the junior of the under-housemaids to stay at home while her superiors junketed at the fair, lost her head at this awful confrontation with an employer to whom she had never even spoken.

“Please,” she stammered, “I’m—I’m—Ellen....”

“Where’s Hopton?” sharply.

“Please, sir, he’s out.”

“Where’s Mrs. Mullins? Where——”

“Please, sir, they’re all out—’cept me.”

“All out! What in the world——?”

“They’ve gone to the fair, sir.”

“The fair? Who said they might go to the fair? Did Miss Marvell tell them to go?”

“I don’t know, sir.... I thought cook said Mrs. Plethern told them to go. I’m sorry, sir.... I.... I’m.... I....”

The ludicrous sight of a dishevelled Ellen on the point of tears rallied Charles Plethern’s kindliness and humour.

“All right, all right,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not your fault. Now listen, Ellen. Can you find some wine and some whisky and some soda-water and some cake and some fruit? Can you, having found them, bring them to the library? Can you, finally, get two bedrooms ready for the gentlemen waiting in the car. It’s bad luck, all the work falling on you; but Cinderellas will be Cinderellas, won’t they?”

Ellen giggled nervously.

“Thank you, sir. I think so, sir. I’ll try, sir.”

“Then get on to it.”

Returning to the car Charles offered his arm to the impatient earl.

“Upon my word, Rockarvon,” he said genially, “you seem to have the laugh on me on this question of local civilization! There’s not a servant in the place to matter! Come in, all the same, and we’ll find you a drink and a long chair.”

Wilkinson followed mutely to the hall-door. There he paused.

“Shall I leave you now, Mr. Plethern? And do you want the car any more?”

“I want you both, Wilkinson. Tell the car to wait where it is. You come in.”

An awkward five minutes in the library preceded Ellen and such refreshment as she had contrived to find. Charles heard her chink unsteadily along the corridor and went to meet her. Taking the tray, he said in a lowered voice:

“Is Miss Marvell in bed?”

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen her since after lunch, sir.”

“When will the others be in?”

“Cook said she’d be back by eleven, sir. And Mr. Hopton and Mrs. Mullins was driving back with Mr. Masters, sir. They shouldn’t be long, sir.”

“Well, I want to see Hopton or Mullins here the very moment they come in. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now run along and see about the rooms. Don’t forget that I want to see the others immediately.”

“No, sir.”

Drinks in the library and cake and nectarines, but only Wilkinson with peace of mind to savour them. Charles coughed and shuffled as he prepared to justify his violent hospitality. Rockarvon, eyeing him between narrowed lids, glowered in a chair. Searching for words, Charles walked the length of his long room. The window on the garden was curtained. He lifted the curtain nervously and saw that lights were blazing in the campanile. Even from the bulb-like dome a light-ray lay along the darkness. The irregular windows of the other stories showed bright chinks, where blinds or curtains let light filter past. Charles had not seen before so many lights gleam in his mother’s tower. Twitching his mind back to the problem facing him, he let the curtain fall, walked to the fireplace and faced the earl.

“Rockarvon, you will understand my determination for your company, when you see this curious document which has come into my hands.”

The earl knew what the paper was, the moment it lay between his fingers. Characteristically he left unexplored the reasons for its present whereabouts; concerned himself only with outward calm and rapid plans of action. He pretended to read the document with care. Then shook his head and, coldly smiling, handed it to his host again.

“A silly joke, I suppose,” he said carelessly.

“I’m afraid in that case I don’t see the point of it.”

“Has it a point?” asked the earl languidly.

“You should perhaps be able to inform me.”

“I? Why, I never saw the thing until this moment!”

Maybe the literal truth of this considerable falsehood gave to Rockarvon’s voice a genuine note. Charles was abashed. The man spoke convincingly and his eyes were steady.

“Then ...” he said uncertainly, “what can it mean...?”

The earl shrugged his shoulders.

“Is this the sole reason for your—invitation?” he asked sarcastically.

“But——,” began Charles, gazing with puzzled eyes at words he knew by heart already. “But it’s so senseless! Five thousand pounds——! The land is yours; no one could sell it but you, could he?”

“Really, Mr. Plethern,” yawned Rockarvon, “do you not think it is a little peremptory to force a man to miss his train, to bring him late at night to a house he had no desire to visit, just to help you at a guessing game?”

Charles stood in great embarrassment, twisting the document between his fingers, frowning at the floor. He was not satisfied, but he could see no way of questioning Rockarvon further. He began to reproach himself for hurrying thus to Morvane; he should have gone to his brother in London, should have confronted him with the mystery. Then had been avoided this unpleasant impasse, in which impulsive curiosity had landed him. He was about to begin a halting apology, when there came a knock at the door. It was Hopton; he wore a black coat over the light tweed trousers donned for the fair; an ashamed look, as of a bishop caught kissing in a shrubbery, lurked behind his well-trained dignity.

“You wanted me, sir?”

Charles felt a new confidence and courage. It is a great thing, in moments of abashment, to find outside scope for self-assertion.

“Yes, Hopton, I wanted you particularly. These gentlemen will excuse us a moment....”

Followed by the butler he crossed the corridor to a small room opposite. Closing the door he began his reprimand.

“In the first place, why do I come home and find the house in charge of a young girl?”

“Well, Mr. Plethern, we had no idea——”

“That’s not the point. You are paid to look after my house, and to leave a child like that alone, while the rest of you go jaunting, is an odd way of doing your duty.”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry. Both Mrs. Mullins and myself thought it unusual, sir, but Mrs. Plethern was so anxious—and Miss Marvell said there would be no dinner——”

“No dinner? What do you mean?”

“Miss Marvell sent word she would be dining with Mrs. Plethern in the tower, sir.”

“Oh, I see. Then you said Mrs. Plethern was anxious you should go. Explain that, please.”

“Well, sir, it was Mrs. Plethern who suggested to Mrs. Mullins that the staff should have the opportunity of going to Church Meldon. It is a special feast—some kind of anniversary, sir—and a much larger affair than any other festivity hereabouts, sir, for many years. Then, when Miss Marvell confirmed it——I’m very sorry it should have happened, Mr. Plethern, and you coming home and all, but I can assure you the staff meant no harm, sir, no harm or disrespect——”

“I think I begin to understand, Hopton,” said Charles thoughtfully. “Is Miss Marvell still over at the tower?”

“I don’t know, sir. I came straight up, as soon as I come in from Church Meldon.”

“Send me Miss Marvell’s maid—to this room. Is she back yet?”

“I think they are all back now, sir.”

“Very well. Tell her to hurry.”

To servants’ quarters aflurry with chatter and nervousness Hopton made stately descent. Mrs. Mullins, who had so far forgotten her dignity as to be gossiping in the servants’ hall, rose at his approach, a fluttered splendour of black silk and lace.

“Well, Mr. Hopton? Is it really Mr. Plethern?”

“Indeed and it is, Mrs. Mullins, and in something of a taking, and he must see Miss Marvell’s young lady immediately.”

“Letty Holt! Letty Holt!” The housekeeper’s voice shrilled over the room. A quiet, mouse-haired little person came obediently toward her.

“Letty—you are to go to Mr. Plethern at once.”

“In the little room opposite the library, my girl,” added the butler pompously.

Letty looked scared.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Mullins? What have I done?”

Mrs. Mullins disliked direct communication between her employer and the female servants under her charge. She vented something of her spleen on the girl before her.

“That, maybe, you know better than anyone, miss. Mr. Plethern hasn’t thought well to inform me what he has to say to you. I can only hope it is thoroughly respectable.”

Poor Letty crept upstairs and knocked timidly at the door of her ordeal. Charles was sitting on the table, leg swinging, cigarette in mouth. He looked up quickly as the girl entered the room.

“Come in, Letty. Where is your mistress?”

“I—I don’t rightly know, sir. I think she’s in bed.”

“You have been to this fair, or whatever it was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time did you go?”

“I left here about half-past eight, sir.”

“So late as that? Were you all late, then?”

“No, sir. I was waiting for Miss Marvell to come in and dress for dinner.”

“Waiting for her? Didn’t she come then?”

“No, sir. She told me after tea that she was going riding and would be back at half-past seven to get ready for dinner in the tower, sir. I waited for her until half-past eight and then, as she didn’t come, I thought she had gone over without changing.”

“Did she say anything about your helping her when she went to bed?”

“Yes, sir. She asked if I was going with the others, and I said I’d like to, and she told me not to trouble about coming to her this evening, sir.”

Charles considered the girl’s replies for a few moments. Then he slipped from the table.

“Go upstairs quietly and see if she’s in her room. Don’t wake her. I want to know if she’s there.”

The girl bowed her head and hurried away. Charles followed from the room. He was about to turn the handle of the library door, when a footfall along the corridor made him pause. Slowly, through the archway from the main landing, Viola came draggingly. Her head drooped, her habit was damp-stained and covered with burrs, grass and bed-straw. She did not see him, but trailed drearily toward him along the wide carpet of the corridor under the hard glare of the electric light. He took two quick steps.

“Viola! My dearest child, what’s the matter?”

She raised her head sharply. He saw her great, tired eyes flame to astounded happiness.

“Charles!” she cried. “Oh, Charles, you’ve come back——”

The next instant she had fainted in his arms.

He carried her to the library, calling for brandy to Wilkinson, who had sat without a word or movement during his employer’s absence, watching Rockarvon with the dull gaze of a bull-dog in charge of a treed poacher. As the girl was brought in and laid upon a sofa, the earl showed signs of animation. Hitherto he had been content to enjoy the victory over Charles Plethern that circumstance had given him, leaving to some happier occasion the wreaking of a positive revenge. Now, however, he had an idea. He might yet turn the tables on this pestilent family. He waited, motionless, the restoring of Viola.

Gradually she came to her senses. Seeing her guardian bending over her, she smiled contentedly and lay back with closed eyes. She groped for his hand and nestled her own fingers clenched over thumb, into the shelter of his palm. A long sigh rippled down her body.

The silence was broken by a yawn of boredom from Rockarvon’s chair.

“Charming!” he drawled. “But I have as little taste for family reunions as for guessing games. If the motor is still at the door, I should be grateful for Mr.—er—for this ‘gentleman’s’ arm.”

Charles whipped round on him. The mode of diffidence had long passed. He was full of uneasiness with events at Morvane, and no one was to move, whatever the consequence of their detention, until his doubts were stilled.

“Stay where you are!” he commanded roughly. “I’ll give you a bed when I’ve done with you, but you’re not leaving either this house or this room at present.”

He turned to find Viola propped on her elbow, gazing wildly at the earl.

“What is he doing here?” she whispered. “Send him away! Send him away, Charles!”

He soothed her tenderly.

“There, there. You’re quite safe, darling; quite safe now. Lie back again. No one shall touch you, child.”

She gave him a slow and deliberate look that there was no mistaking. Charles felt a sudden rush of fear and self-contempt. What had been happening in his heedless absence? What misadventure had befallen this ward of his that he was pledged to cherish, that could look at him as women look only when——

Rockarvon interrupted his wondering bitterness.

“Mr. Plethern,” he said suavely, “you have treated me very strangely this evening, but I can make allowance for excitement and bear no malice. Indeed, I will repay good for evil and tell you something that will, perhaps explain that curious unsigned paper we discussed a while ago. The unhappy indisposition of your charming ward has had the fortunate result that it has suggested an explanation to me.”

Charles faced the earl again, standing between Viola and the other’s chair. He disliked the sudden amiability of his prisoner; almost he disbelieved Rockarvon’s words before they had been spoken.

“Well?”

The earl waved an apologetic hand.

“It is not easy in Miss Marvell’s presence. Perhaps she would be more comfortable in her room——”

The girl’s voice, low but clear, answered him.

“Go on, Lord Rockarvon. I am quite able to listen. It is better that I should listen.”

“You will absolve me, Mr. Plethern!” asked Rockarvon, with a grimace that was half leer, half deprecating smile.

“Go on,” said Charles grimly.

With a shrug of resignation the earl threw back his head, put the points of his fingers together and gazing at the ceiling, began to speak purringly in a voice smooth and soft as velvet.

“Not the least unusual incident of this most unusual day was an interview between Miss Marvell and myself. We met on a country road. I was in a motor-car, she was on horseback. My chauffeur stopped to inquire the way; she recognized me, and, without any preliminary conversation, made a very extraordinary proposal.”

No one spoke or moved. Charles heard his ward catch her breath sharply, as she crouched on the sofa at his back. Wilkinson, smoking his pipe, gazed steadily at Rockarvon’s chin, which, in his strange attitude, was the one portion visible of his face.

“The proposal,” went on the earl in the same insinuating tone, “I need not detail. It would hardly interest Mr.—er—Mr.—this gentleman. You will understand me, Mr. Plethern, when I say it was the proposal made by me to you some months ago—with the omission of all conventional rubbish about marriage-lines—a more modern proposal, in short, than I took upon myself to make——”

Charles took a step forward.

“You infernal scoundrel!” he cried. But a faint voice from behind him checked the explosion of his wrath.

“Charles! Be patient! Let him finish!”

The earl waved the fingers of one hand, but continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Yes, let me finish, Mr. Plethern. Miss Marvell knows I am telling the strict truth.”

“The truth! You skunk, you haven’t an ounce of truth in your rotten, painted carcass!”

“Charles—please!” She was off the sofa and at his side. “Charles! Listen, I beg of you! All that he has said so far is true——”

He caught her by the wrist and stared at her speechless. The smooth, cruel voice of the tormentor cut across his fury like a whip.

“Abuse does not move me, Mr. Plethern, but it is ungrateful. I am trying to help you——”

Charles was still glaring at Viola.

“What is true?” he demanded hoarsely.

She released herself and, moving to the door, stood against it, her hands spread out from her sides and pressed palm inward against the polished wood-work. Her pale, drawn face seemed hardly large enough to hold the dusky caverns of her eyes.

“It is true, Charles,” she said steadily, “that I offered myself to Lord Rockarvon in exchange for his valley yonder.”

Then she bowed her head and seemed almost to await a blow. But still he fumbled after logic.

“But the valley? What good is the valley to you?”

For all her humiliation and her misery, she hugged his obtuseness to her heart. How like him not to understand! How, even in this extremity, she loved him for this angry density! She uttered not a word. The earl spoke quickly:

“I suggest, Mr. Plethern, that your mysterious paper gives a hint of the value of my land to her. Young ladies have their debts and difficulties, you know, like the rest. But they have an advantage over us men ... inherent resources more negotiable than ours.”

He chuckled nastily. Something snapped inside the iron control of Wilkinson, and it was only just in time that Charles caught his agent’s upraised arm.

“Don’t strike him, Wilkinson. This is my house, remember.” He spoke with a new quietness, and seemed to be pondering peaceably all that the earl had said. Then he began to talk, pacing the room, his voice ruminative and judicial.

“Your suggestion is that Miss Marvell proposed to sell the land to my brother James? That she prepared this paper in advance? The price seems low for so large an estate. Also, why should the paper be sent to me? Why is it labelled Morvane and dated for to-morrow? Still, those are details and may be thought of later. Let us examine more closely this interview between yourself and Miss Marvell. Whereabouts did it take place?”

The earl had a pang of alarm. He saw danger ahead.

“Miss Marvell will tell you more clearly than I can. She knows the neighbourhood. Also, I am very tired. Perhaps now you will allow me to go to bed.”

“One moment, Rockarvon. I am sorry to be importunate, but this is a serious matter. At what time did you meet Miss Marvell?”

“About eight o’clock, I should think,” said the earl shortly.

Charles looked at Viola.

“Do you agree, Viola, that it was eight o’clock?”

She nodded.

“You were in a motor-car, you said? Where were you going?”

“I decline to be cross-examined,” snapped Rockarvon. “This is not a court of law.”

“He told me he was going to Wellborough,” said Viola quietly.

“Was the road, then, near Wellborough?”

“No; it was only three miles from here. Out beyond the Macdonalds.”

“At eight o’clock,” observed Charles reflectively, “the car was beyond the Macdonalds on its way to Wellborough. At ten-fifteen Lord Rockarvon was at Sawley station for the London train. How long did your conference take, Viola?”

She shook her head wearily.

“I don’t know. Not long. A quarter of an hour, perhaps.”

“Let us say that at eight-fifteen the car started for Wellborough. It must be twelve miles to Wellborough from the Macdonalds, and a bad road as far as Sawley. Half an hour would be good going at night. Suppose that at a quarter to nine the car reached Wellborough——”

“No one ever said it reached Wellborough!” interrupted Rockarvon angrily. “I didn’t go. I went no farther than Sawley.”

“Why!” inquired Charles gently.

“I refuse to answer another question. I insist on being shown my room.”

With a further abrupt change of manner, Charles walked to the fireplace and jerked the bell.

“You must forgive me,” he said courteously. “I have been intolerably persistent, and I can see you are tired out. The man shall see that the room is ready and then come and help you upstairs.” He turned quickly to Viola.

“Why, if you were to dine in the tower with my mother, were you three miles away at eight o’clock?”

She gazed at him perplexedly. Her mind seemed dull and too fatigued for reaction to further shocks.

“Was I to dine in the tower?” she muttered stupidly, then, with a queer flash of eagerness, “Of course! Mrs. Plethern had news of you, Charles. What news was it? A telegram? A letter? She sent word that she had news, and that’s why I was to dine with her. I was a little hurt, you know—that you had neglected me!” She began to laugh foolishly. “But now you’re home it doesn’t matter, does it? Not a bit. Not the least little bit—not——”

She swayed and nearly fell. As he ran to support her, Charles heard the butler’s footsteps in the corridor without. Almost he carried Viola through the door.

“Hopton,” he said quickly, “tell Letty to attend her mistress in her room. I am taking Miss Marvell there now. Do you send George to see if the bedrooms are ready for Lord Rockarvon and Mr. Wilkinson. Then he is to come and help Lord Rockarvon to bed. I may want you later. Don’t go to bed yet.”

Five minutes later he returned to the library. The footman was standing awaiting his return.

“Is the gentleman ready, sir? His room is prepared.”

“More than ready, eh, Rockarvon?” said Charles. “Good night. I hope you will be comfortable. We will go into your ingenious theory of this document in the morning. Believe me, I am much obliged for your help.”

“You have a queer way of showing it, then,” grumbled the earl, as he hoisted himself from his chair. Without another word he stumbled across the room on George’s arm. As he disappeared Charles said to Wilkinson in a low tone:

“The whole thing is a pack of lies! Come along. We are going over to the tower to see my mother.”