Half-an-hour later they were out on the open sea beyond the harbour in a cockleshell even frailer than Quiller's little craft which they had not been able to secure.

The sea was very quiet, only broken by an occasional long swell that drove them southward like driftwood. Merefleet, who had been persuaded to quit the harbour against his better judgment, was not greatly disturbed by this fact. He did not anticipate any difficulty in returning. A little extra labour was the worst he expected, for he knew that a southward course would bring him into no awkward currents. Away to the eastward he was aware of treacherous streams and shoals. But he had no intention of going in that direction, and Mab, who steered, knew the water well.

There was no sun, a circumstance which Mab deplored, but for which Merefleet was profoundly grateful.

"You're not nearly so lazy as you used to be," she said to him approvingly, as he rested his oars after a long pull.

"No," said Merefleet. "I am beginning to see the error of my ways."

"I'm real glad to hear you say so," she said heartily. "And I want to tell you, Big Bear—that as I'm never going to New York again, I've decided to be an Englishwoman. And you've got to help me."

Merefleet looked at her with undisguised appreciation, but he shook his head at her words. She was marvellous; she was inimitable; she was unique. She would never, never be English. His gesture said as much. But she was not discouraged.

"I guess I'll try, anyhow," she said with brisk determination. "You don't like American women, Mr. Merefleet."

"Depends," said Merefleet.

And she laughed gaily.

They were drifting in long sweeps towards the south. Imperceptibly also the distance was widening between the boat and the shore. The wind was veering to the west.

"My! Look at that oar!" Mab suddenly exclaimed.

Merefleet started at the note of dismay in her tone. He had shipped his oars. They were the only ones that had been provided. He glanced hastily at the oar Mab indicated. It had been broken and roughly spliced together. The wood that had been used for the splicing was rotten, and the friction in the rowlocks had almost worn it through. Merefleet examined it in silence.

The girl's voice, high, with a quiver in it that might have stood for either laughter or consternation, broke in on him.

"Well," she said, "I guess we're in the suds this time, Big Bear; and no mistake about it."

Merefleet glanced at her helplessly. He did not think she realised the gravity of the situation, but something in the little smile that twitched her lips undeceived him.

"The sea was full of boats a little while ago," he said. "They have probably gone in for the lunch hour. But they will be out again presently. We shall have to drift about for a while and then run up a distress signal. It will be all right."

She nodded to him and laughed.

"Splendid, Big Bear! You talk like an oracle. I guess we'll run up my red parasol on the end of an oar for a danger sign. Bert could see that from the terrace." She glanced shorewards as she spoke, and he saw her face change momentarily. "Why," she said quickly, "I thought we were close in. What's happened?"

Merefleet looked round with sullen perception of a difficult situation.

"The wind is blowing off shore," he explained. "It was north when we started. But it has gone round to the west. It will be all right, you know. We can't drift very far in an hour."

But he did not speak with conviction. The sea tumbled all around them, a mighty grey waste. And the shore seemed very far away. A dismal outlook in truth. Moreover it was beginning to rain.

Mab sheltered herself under her sunshade and began to laugh. "It's just skittles to what it might be," she said consolingly.

But Merefleet did not respond. He knew that the wind was rising with every second, and already the little boat tipped and tossed with perilous buoyancy.

Mab still held the rudder-lines. She sat in the stern, a serene and smiling vision, while Merefleet toiled with one oar to counteract the growing strength of the off-shore wind. But she very soon put down her sunshade, and he saw that she must speedily be drenched to the skin. For the rain was heavy, drifting over the water in thick, grey gusts. They were being driven steadily eastwards out to sea.

"I don't think my steering makes much difference, Big Bear," she said, after a long silence.

"No," said Merefleet. "It would take all the strength of two rowers to make headway against this wind."

He shipped his oar with the words and began to take off his coat. Mab watched him with some wonder. He was seated on the thwart nearest to her. He stooped forward at length very cautiously and, taking the rudder-lines from her, made them fast.

"Now get into this!" he said. "Mind you don't upset the boat!"

She stared at him for one speechless second. Then:

"No, I won't, Big Bear," she declared emphatically. "Put it on again at once! Do you suppose I'll sit here in your coat while you shiver in nothing but flannels?"

"Do as I say!" said Merefleet, with a grim hardening of the jaw.

And quite meekly she obeyed. There was something about him that inspired her with awe at that moment. She felt as if she had run against some obstacle in the dark.

The rain began to beat down in great, shifting clouds. The sea grew higher at every moment. Flecks of white gleamed here and there on all sides. The boat was dancing like a cork.

Mab sat in growing terror with her eyes on the roaring turmoil. The minutes crawled by like hours. At length she turned to look shorewards for the boats. A driving, blinding mist of rain beat into her face. She saw naught besides. And suddenly her courage failed her. "Big Bear!" she cried wildly. "What shall we do? I'm so frightened."

He heard her through the storm. He was still sitting on the middle thwart facing her. He moved, bending towards her.

"Come to me here!" he said. "It will be safer."

She crept to his outstretched arm with a sense of going into refuge. Merefleet helped her over the thwart. There was a torn piece of sailcloth in the bottom of the boat. He drew her down on to it and turned round himself so that his back was towards the storm. He was thus able to shelter her in some measure from the full fury of the blast.

Mab shrank against him, terrified and quivering.

"It looks so angry," she said.

"Don't be afraid!" said Merefleet.

And he put his arms about her and held her close to him as if she had been a little child afraid of the dark.

No pleasure-boats or craft of any sort put out from Silverstrand that afternoon. The wind eventually blew away the clouds and revealed a foaming, sunlit sea. But the waves were immense at high tide, and the fishermen muttered among themselves and stared darkly out over the mighty breakers.

It was known among them that a boat had put out to sea in the morning and had not returned before the rising of the gale. There were heavy hearts in Old Silverstrand that day. But to launch another boat to search for the missing one was out of the question. The great seas that came hurling into the little fishing-harbour were sufficient proof of that, even to the most inexperienced landsman.

Seton, learning the news when lunch was half over, rushed off to New Silverstrand in the hope that the boat might have been driven in that direction by the strong current. But nothing had been seen from there of the missing craft, and though he traversed the entire distance by way of the cliffs, he saw nothing throughout his walk but flecks of foam here and there over the tumbling expanse of water.

He returned an hour or so later, reaching Old Silverstrand by five. But nothing had been heard there. The fishermen shook their heads when he questioned them. It was plain that they had given up hope.

Seton raged up and down the quay in impotent agony of mind. The off-shore wind continued for some hours. There was not the smallest doubt that the boat had been driven out to sea, unless—a still more awful possibility—she had been swamped and sunk long ago. As darkness fell, the gale at length abated, and Quiller the younger approached Seton.

"Tell you what, sir," he said. "There's a cruiser been up and down a matter of ten miles out. Me and my mates will put out at daybreak and see if we can get within hail of her. There's the light-ship, too, off Morden's Shoal. 'Tain't likely as a boat could have slipped between 'em without being seen. For if she was just drifting, you know, sir, she wouldn't go very fast."

"All right," said Seton. "And thanks! I'll go with you in the morning."

Quiller lingered, though there was dismissal in the tone.

"Go in and get a rest, sir!" he said persuasively. "There ain't no good in your wearing yourself out here. You can't do nothing, sir, except pray for a calm sea. Given that, we'll start with the light."

"Very well," said Seton, and turned away. He knew that the man spoke sense and he put pressure on himself to behave rationally. Nevertheless, he spent the greater part of the night in a fever of restlessness which no strength of will could subdue; and he was down on the quay long before the first faint gleam of light shot glimmering over the quiet water.

It was during those first wonderful moments of a new day that Mab woke up with a start shivering, and stretched out her arms with a cry of wonder.

Hours before, Merefleet had persuaded her to try to rest, and she had fallen asleep with her head against his knee, soothed by the calm that at length succeeded the storm. He had watched over her with grim endurance throughout the night, and not once had he seen a light or any other object to raise his hopes.

They were out of sight of land; alone on the dumb waste. He had not the smallest notion as to how far out to sea the boat had drifted. Only he fancied that they had been driven out of the immediate track of steamers, and in the great emptiness around him he saw no means of escape from the fate that seemed to dog them.

The boat had lived miraculously, it seemed to him, through the awful storm of the day. Tossed ruthlessly and aimlessly to and fro, drenched to the skin, hungry and forlorn, he and the woman who was to him the very desire of life, had gone through the peril of deep waters. Merefleet was beginning to wonder why they had thus escaped. It seemed to him but a needless prolonging of an agony already long drawn out.

Nevertheless there was nothing of despair in his face as he stooped over the girl who was crouching at his feet.

"Glad you have been able to sleep," he said gently. "Don't get up! There is no necessity if you are fairly comfortable."

She smiled up at him with the ready confidence of a child and raised herself a little.

"Still watching, Big Bear?" she said.

"Yes," said Merefleet.

His tone told her that he had seen nothing. She lay still for a few moments, then slowly turned her face towards the east. A deep pink glow was rising in the sky. There was a rosy dusk on the sea about them.

"My!" said Mab in a soft whisper. "Isn't that lovely?"

Merefleet said nothing. He was watching her beautiful face with a great hunger in his heart.

Mab was also silent for a while. Presently she turned her face up to his.

"The Gate of Heaven," she said in a whisper. "Isn't it fine?"

He did not speak.

She lifted a hand that felt like an icicle and slipped it into his.

"I guess we shall do this journey together, Big Bear," she said. "I'm real sorry I made you come if you didn't want to."

"You needn't be sorry," said Merefleet, with a huskiness he could not have accounted for.

"No?" she said, with a curious little thrill in her voice. "It's real handsome of you, Big Bear. Because—you know—I ought to have died more than a year ago. But you are different. You have your life to live."

Merefleet's hand closed tightly upon hers.

"Don't talk like that, child!" he said. "Heaven knows your life is worth more than mine."

Mab leant her elbow on his knee and gazed thoughtfully over the far expanse of water. Merefleet knew that she was faint and exhausted, though she uttered no complaint.

"Shall I tell you a secret, Big Bear?" she said, in the hushed tone of one on the threshold of a sacred place. "I ended my life long ago. I was very miserable and Death came and offered me refuge. And it was such a safe hiding-place. I knew no one would look for me there. Only lately I have come to see that what I did was wicked. I think you helped to make me see, Big Bear. You're so honest. And then a dreadful thing happened. Have you ever spoilt anyone's life besides your own, I wonder? I have. That is why I have got to die. There is no place left for me. I gave it up. And there is someone else there now."

She stopped. Merefleet was bending over her with that in his face that might have been the reflected glory of the growing day. Mab saw it, and stretched up her other hand with a startled sob.

"Big Bear, forgive me!" she whispered. "I—didn't—know."

A moment later she was lying on his breast, and the first golden shimmer of the morning had risen above the sea.

"I shan't mind dying now," Mab whispered, a little later. "I was real frightened yesterday. But now—do you know?—I'm glad—glad. It's just like sailing into Paradise, isn't it? Are any of your people there, Big Bear?"

"Perhaps," said Merefleet.

"Won't you be pleased to see them?" she said, with a touch of wonder at the indifference in his tone.

"I want nothing but you, my darling," he said, and his lips were on her hair.

He felt her fingers close upon his own.

"I guess it won't matter in Heaven," she said, as though trying to convince herself of something. "My dear, shall I tell you something? I love you with all my heart. I never knew it till to-day. And if we weren't so near Heaven I reckon I couldn't ever have told you."

Some time later she began to talk in a dreamy way of the Great Haven whither they were drifting. The sun was high by then and beat in a wonderful, dazzling glory on the pathless waters.

"There's no sun There," said Mab. "But I guess it will be very bright. And there will be crowds and crowds along the Shore to see us come into Port. And I'll see my little baby among them. I told you about him, Big Bear. Finest little chap in New York City. He'll be holding out his arms to me, just like he used. Ah! I can almost see him now. Look at his curls. Aren't they fine? And his little angel face. There isn't anyone like him, I guess. Everybody said he was the cutest baby in U.S. Coming, darling! Coming!"

Mab's hands slackened from Merefleet's clasp, and suddenly she stretched out her arms to the sky. The holiest of all earthly raptures was on her face.

Then with a sharp sigh she came to herself and turned back to Merefleet. A piteous little smile hovered about her quivering lips.

"I guess I've been dreaming, Big Bear," she said. "Such a dream! Oh, such a gorgeous, heavenly dream!"

And she hid her face on his breast and burst into tears.

Before the sun set they were sighted by the cruiser returning to her anchorage outside the little fishing-harbour. Mab, worn out by hunger and exposure, had slipped back to her former position in the bottom of the boat. She was half asleep and seemed dazed when Merefleet told her of their approaching deliverance. But she clung fast to him when a boat from the cruiser came alongside; and he lifted her into it himself.

"By Jove, sir, you've had a bad time!" said a young officer in the boat.

"Thirty hours," said Merefleet briefly.

He kept his arm about the girl, though his brain swam dizzily. And Mab, consciously or unconsciously, held his hand in a tight clasp.

Merefleet felt as if she were definitely removed out of his reach when she was lifted from his hold at length, and the impression remained with him after he gained the cruiser's deck. He met with most courteous solicitude on all sides and was soon on the high-road to recovery.

Later in the evening, when Mab also was sufficiently restored to appear on deck, the cruiser steamed into Silverstrand Harbour, and the two voyagers were landed by one of her boats, in the midst of great rejoicing on the quay.

Seton, who had long since returned from a fruitless search for tidings, was among the crowd of spectators. He said little by way of greeting, and there was considerable strain apparent in his manner towards Merefleet. He hurried his cousin back to the hotel with a haste not wholly bred of the moment's expediency. Merefleet followed at a more leisurely pace. He made no attempt to join them, however. He had done his part. There remained no more to do. With a heavy sense of irrevocable loss he went to bed and slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion for many hours.

The adventure was over. It had ended with a tameness that gave it an almost commonplace aspect. But Merefleet's resolution was of stout manufacture.

The consequences of that night and day of peril involved his whole future. Merefleet recognised this and resolved to act forthwith, in defiance of Seton or any other obstacle. He did not realise till later that there was opposed to him a strength which even his will was powerless to overcome. He did not even take the possibility of this into consideration.

He was very sure of himself and confident of success when he descended late on the following morning to a solitary breakfast—sure of himself, sure of the smile of that fickle goddess Fortune—sure, thrice sure, of the woman he loved.

And he watched for her coming with a rapture that deprived him of his appetite.

But Mab did not come.

Instead, Herbert Seton presently strolled into the room, greeted him, and paused by his table.

"Be good enough to join me on the terrace presently, will you?" he said abruptly.

And Merefleet nodded with a chill sense of foreboding. But his resolution was unalterable. This young man should not, he was determined, by any means cheat him now of his heart's desire. Matters had gone too far for that. He followed Seton almost at once and found him in a quiet corner, smoking. Merefleet sat down beside him and also began to smoke. There was a touch of hostility about Seton that he was determined to ignore.

"Well," said Seton at length, with characteristic bluntness, "so you have done it in spite of my warning the other night."

Merefleet looked at him. Was he expected to render an account of his doings to this man who was at least ten years his junior, he wondered, with faint amusement?

Seton went on with strong indignation.

"I told you in the first place not to be too intimate with her. I told you again two nights ago that she was not free to accept any man's attentions. But you went on. And you have made her miserable simply for the gratification of your own unreasonable fancy. Do you call that manly behaviour, I wonder?"

Merefleet sat in absolute silence for several seconds. Finally he wheeled round in his chair and faced Seton.

"If I were you," he said quietly, "I should postpone this interview for half-an-hour. I think you may possibly regret it if you don't."

Seton tossed away a half-smoked cigarette and rose.

"In half-an-hour," he said, "I shall have left this place, and my cousin with me. I asked to speak to you because I detest all underhand dealings. You apparently have not the same scruples."

Merefleet also rose.

"You will apologise for that," he said, in a tone of conviction. "I don't question your motives, but to fetch me out here and then insult me was not a wise proceeding on your part."

Seton's hand clenched involuntarily. But he had put himself in the wrong, and he knew it.

"Very well," he said at length, with a shrug. "I apologise for the expression. But my opinion of you remains unaltered."

Merefleet ignored the qualification. He was bent on something more important than the satisfaction of his own personal honour. "And now," he said, with deliberate purpose, "I am going to have a private interview with your cousin."

Seton started.

"You are going to do nothing of the sort," he said instantly.

Merefleet looked him over gravely.

"Look here, Seton!" he said. "You're making a fool of yourself. Take a friend's advice—don't!"

Seton choked back his anger with a great effort. In spite of this there was a passionate ring in his voice when he spoke that betrayed the exceeding precariousness of his self-control.

"I can't let you see her," he said. "She is upset enough already. I have promised her that she shall not be worried."

"Have you promised her to keep me from speaking to her?" Merefleet grimly enquired.

"No." Seton spoke reluctantly.

"Then do this," said Merefleet. "Go to her and ask her if she will see me alone. If she says 'No,' I give you my word that I will leave this place and trouble neither of you any further."

Seton seemed to hesitate, but Merefleet was sure of his acquiescence. After a pause of several seconds he fulfilled his expectations and went.

Merefleet sat down again and waited. Seton returned heavy-footed.

"She will see you," he said curtly. "You will find her in the billiard-room."

"Alone?" said Merefleet, rising.

"Alone."

And Merefleet walked away.

He found her sitting in a great arm-chair at one end of the empty billiard-room. She did not rise to meet him. He thought she looked tired out and frightened.

He went to her and stooped over her, taking her hands. She did not resist him, but neither did she welcome. Her lips were quivering painfully.

"What have I done that you should run away from me?" Merefleet asked her very gently.

She shook her head with a helpless gesture.

"Mr. Merefleet," she whispered, "try—try not to be cross any! I'm afraid I've made a big mistake."

"My dear, we all make them," Merefleet said with grave kindliness.

"I know," she faltered. "I know. But mine was a real bad one."

"Never mind, child!" he said tenderly. "Why should you tell me?"

She threw a swift look into his face. She was trembling violently.

"Big Bear," she cried with sudden vehemence, "you don't understand."

He knelt down beside her and put his arm about her.

"Listen to me, my darling," he said, and she shrank at the deep thrill in his voice. "To me you are all that is beautiful and good and holy. I do not want to know what lies behind you. I know you have had trouble. But it is over. You may have made mistakes. But they are over, too. Tell me nothing! Leave the past alone! Only give me your present and your future. I shall be quite content."

He paused. She was shivering within his encircling arm. He could hear her breath coming and going very quickly.

"You love me, darling," he said. "And is it necessary for me to tell you that I worship you as no one ever has worshipped you before?"

He paused again. But Mab did not speak. The beautiful face was working painfully. Her hands were tightly clasped in his.

"Child, what is it?" Merefleet said, conscious of a hidden barrier between them. "Can't you trust yourself to me? Is that it? Are you afraid of me? You didn't shrink from me yesterday."

She bowed her head. Yesterday she had wept in his arms. But to-day no tears came. Only a halting whisper, a woman's cry of sheer weakness.

"Don't tempt me, Big Bear!" she murmured. "Oh, don't tempt me! I am not—free!"

Merefleet's face grew stern.

"You did not say that yesterday," he said.

She heard the change in his tone, and looked up. She was better able to meet this from him.

"I know," she said. "And I guess that was where I went wrong. I ought to have waited till we were dead. But, you see, I didn't know."

"Then do you tell me you are not free?" Merefleet said. "Do you mean literally that? Are you the actual property of another man?"

She shook her head with baffling promptitude.

"I guess I'm just Death's property, Big Bear," she said, with a wistful little smile. "But he doesn't seem over-keen on having me."

"Stop!" said Merefleet harshly. "I won't have you talk like that. It's madness. Tell me what you mean!"

"I can't," Mab said. "I can't tell you. It wouldn't be fair. Don't be angry, Big Bear! It's just the price I've got to pay. And it's no use squirming. I've worried it round and round. But it always comes back to that. I'm not free. And no one but Bert must ever know why."

Merefleet sprang to his feet with an impatience by no means characteristic of him.

"This is intolerable!" he exclaimed. "You are wrecking your life for an insane scruple. Child, listen! Tell me nothing whatever! Give yourself to me! No one shall ever take you away again. That I swear. And I will make you so happy, dear. Only trust me!"

But Mab covered her face as if to shut out a forbidden sight.

"Big Bear, I mustn't," she said, with a sharp catch in her voice. "I've done very wrong already. But I mustn't do this. Indeed I mustn't. It's real good of you. And I shall remember it all my life. I think you are the most charitable man I ever met, considering what you must think of me."

"Think!" said Merefleet, and there was a note of deep passion in his voice. "I don't think. I want you just as you are,—just as you are. Don't you know yet that I love you enough for that?"

Mab rose slowly at the words. She was very pale, and he could see her trembling as she stood.

"Big Bear," she said, "I've got something to say to you. What I told you yesterday was quite true. And I'm in great trouble about it. I thought we were going to Heaven together. That was how I came to say it. But it was very wicked of me to be so impulsive. I've done other things that were wicked in just the same way. It's just my nature. And p'r'aps you'll try to forgive me when you think how I truly meant it. I'm telling you this because I want you to do something for me. It'll be real difficult, Big Bear. Only you're so strong."

She faltered a little and paused to recover herself. Merefleet was standing close to her. He could have taken her into his arms. But something held him back. Moreover he knew the nature of her request before she uttered it.

"Will you do what I ask you?" she said suddenly, facing him directly. "Will you, Big Bear?"

Merefleet did not answer her.

She went on quickly.

"My dear, it's hard for me, too, though I'm bad and I deserve to suffer."

Her voice broke and Merefleet made a convulsive movement towards her. But he checked himself. And Mab ended in a choked whisper with an appealing hand against his breast.

"Just go right away!" she said. "Take up your life where it was before you met me! Will you, dear? It—will make it easier for me if you will."

A dead silence followed the low words. Then, moved by a marvellous influence which worked upon him irresistibly, Merefleet stooped and put the slight hand to his lips. He did not understand. He was as far from reading the riddle as he had been when he entered. But his love for this woman conquered his desire. He had thought to win an empire. He left the room a beaten slave.

Men said that Bernard Merefleet, the gold-king, was curiously changed when once more he went among them. Something of the old grimness which had earned for him his sobriquet yet clung to his manner. But he was undeniably softer than of yore. There was an odd gentleness about him. Women said that he was marvellously improved. Among such as had known him in New York he became a favourite, little as he attempted to court favour.

Towards the end of the year he went down to the Midlands to stay with his friend Perry Clinton. They had not met for several years, and Clinton, who had married in the interval, also thought him changed.

"Is it prosperity or adversity that has made you so tame, dear fellow?" he asked him, as they sat together over dessert one night.

"Adversity," said Merefleet, smiling faintly. "I'm getting old, Perry; and there's no one to take care of me. And I find that money is vanity."

Clinton understood.

"Better go round the world," he said. "That's the best cure for that."

But Merefleet shook his head.

"It's my own fault," he said presently. "I've chucked away my life to the gold-demon. And now there is nothing left to me. You were wise in your generation. You may thank your stars, Perry, that when I wanted you to join me, you had the sense to refuse. When I heard you were married I called you a fool. But—I know better now."

He paused. He had been speaking with a force that was almost passionate. When he continued his tone had changed.

"That is why you find me a trifle less surly than I used to be," he said. "I used to hate my fellow-creatures. And now I would give all my money in exchange for a few disinterested friends. I'm sick of my lonely life. But for all that, I shall live and die alone."

"You make too much of it," said Clinton.

"Perhaps. But you can't expect a man who has been into Paradise to be exactly happy when he is thrust outside."

Clinton took up the evening paper without comment. Merefleet had never before spoken so openly to him. He realised that the man's loneliness must oppress him heavily indeed thus to master his reserve.

"What news?" said Merefleet, after a pause.

"Nothing," said Clinton. "Plague on the Continent. Railway mishap on the Great Northern. Another American Disaster."

"What's that?" said Merefleet with a touch of interest.

"Electric car accident. Ralph Warrender among the victims."

"Warrender! What! Is he dead?"

"Yes. Killed instantaneously. Did you know him?"

"I have met him in business. I wasn't intimate with him."

"Isn't he the man whose first wife was killed in a railway accident?" said Clinton reflectively, glad to have diverted Merefleet's thoughts. "I thought so. I met her once and was so smitten with her that I purchased her portrait forthwith. The most marvellous woman's face I ever saw. The man I got it from spoke of her with the most appalling enthusiasm. 'Mab Warrender!' he said. 'If she is not the loveliest woman in U.S., I guess the next one would strike us blind.' Here! I'll show it you. Netta wants me to frame it."

Clinton got up and took a book from a cupboard. Merefleet was watching him with strained eyes. His heart was thumping as if it would choke him. He rose as Clinton laid the picture before him, and steadied himself unconsciously by his friend's shoulder.

Clinton glanced at him in some surprise.

"Hullo!" he said. "A friend of yours, was she? My dear fellow, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

But Merefleet hung over the picture with fascinated eyes. And his answer came with a curiously strained laugh, that somehow rang exultant.

"Yes, a friend of mine, old chap," he said. "It's a wonderful face, isn't it? But it doesn't do her justice. I shouldn't frame it if I were you."

"Isn't he a monster?" said Mab, as she sat before the kitchen fire in Quiller's humble dwelling with Mrs. Quiller's three months' old baby in her arms. "I guess he'd fetch a prize at a baby show, Mrs. Quiller. Isn't he just too knowing for anything?"

"He's the best of the bunch, miss," said Mrs. Quiller proudly. "The other eight, they weren't nothing special. But this one, he be a beauty, though it ain't me as should say it. I'm sure it's very good of you, miss, to spend the time you do over him. He'd be an ungrateful little rogue if he didn't get on."

"It's real kind of you to make me welcome," Mab said, with her cheek against the baby's head, "I don't know what I'd do if you didn't."

"Ah! Poor dear! You must be lonesome now the gentleman's gone," said Mrs. Quiller commiseratingly.

"Oh, no," said Mab lightly. "Not so very. I couldn't ask my cousin to give up all his time to me you know. Besides, he would come to see me at any time if I really wanted him."

"Ah!" Mrs. Quiller shook her head. "But it ain't the same. You wants a home of your own, my dear. That's what it is. What's become of t'other gentleman what used to be down here?"

Mab almost laughed at the artlessness of this query.

"Mr. Merefleet, you mean? I don't know. I guess he's making some more money."

At this point old Quiller, who had been toddling about in the November sunshine outside, pushed open the door in a state of breathless excitement.

"Here's Master Bernard coming, missie," he announced.

Mab started to her feet, her face in a sudden, marvellous glow.

"There now!" said Mrs. Quiller, relieving her of her precious burden. "Who'd have thought it? You'd better go and talk to him."

And Mab stepped out into the soft sunshine. It fell around her in a flood and dazzled her. She stood quite still and waited, till out of the brilliance someone came to her and took her hand. The waves were dashing loudly on the shore. The south wind raced by with a warm rushing. The whole world seemed to laugh. She closed her eyes and laughed with it.

"Is it you, Big Bear?" she said.

And Merefleet's voice answered her.

"Yes," it said. "I have come for you in earnest this time. You won't send me away again?"

Mab lifted her face with a glad smile.

"I guess there's no need," she said. "My dear, I'll come now."

And they went away together in the sunlight.

"And now I guess I'll tell you the story of the first Mrs. Ralph Warrender," said Mab, some time later. "I won't say anything about him, because he's dead, and if you can't speak well of the dead,—well it's better not to speak at all. But she was miserable with him. And after her baby died—it just wasn't endurable. Then came that railway accident, and she was in it. There were a lot of folks killed, burnt to death most of them. But she escaped, and then the thought came to her just to lie low for a bit and let him think she was dead.

"Oh, it was a real wicked thing to do. But she was nearly demented with trouble. And she did it. She managed to get away, too, in spite of her lovely face. An old negro woman helped her. And she came to England and went to a cousin of hers who had been good to her, whom she knew she could trust—just a plain, square-jawed Englishman, Big Bear, like you in some respects—not smart, oh no—only strong as iron. And he kept her secret, though he didn't like it a bit. And he gave her some money of hers that he had inherited, to live on. Which was funny, wasn't it?"

Mab paused to laugh.

"And then another man came along, a great, surly, fogheaded Englishman, who made love to her till she was nearly driven crazy. For though Warrender had married again before she could stop him, she wasn't free. But she couldn't tell him so for the other woman's sake. It doesn't matter now. It was a dreadful tangle once. And she felt real bad about it. But it's come out quite simply. And no one will ever know.

"Now, I'll tell you a secret, Big Bear, about the woman you know of. You must put your head down for I'll have to whisper. That's the way. Now! She's just madly in love with you, Big Bear. And she is quite, quite free to tell you so. There! And I reckon she's not Death's property any more. She's just—yours."

The narrative ended in Merefleet's arms.

A few weeks later Quiller the younger looked up from a newspaper with a grin.

"Mr. Merefleet's married our little missie, dad," he announced. "I saw it coming t'other day."

And old Quiller looked up with a gleam of intelligence on his wrinkled face.

"Why!" he said, with slow triumph. "If that ain't what I persuaded him for to do, long, long ago! He's a sensible lad, is Master Bernard."

A measure of approval which Merefleet would doubtless have appreciated.

Contents

It had been a hot day at the Law Courts, but a faint breeze had sprung up with the later hours, blowing softly over the river. It caught the tassel of the blind by which Field sat and tapped it against the window-frame, at first gently like a child at play, then with gathering force and insistence till at last he looked up with a frown and rose to fasten it back.

It was growing late. The rose of the afterglow lay upon the water, tipping the silvery ripples with soft colour. It was a magic night. But the wonder of it did not apparently reach him. A table littered with papers stood in front of him bearing a portable electric lamp. He was obviously too engrossed to think of exterior things.

For a space he sat again in silence by the open window, only the faint rustling of the lace curtain being audible. His somewhat hard, clean-shaven face was bent over his work with rigid concentration. His eyelids scarcely stirred.

Then again there came a tapping, this time at the door. The frown returned to his face. He looked up.

"Well?"

The door opened. A small, sharp-faced boy poked in his head. "A lady to see you, sir."

"What?" said Field. His frown deepened. "I can't see any one. I told you so."

"Says she won't go away till she's seen you, sir," returned the boy glibly. "Can't get her to budge, sir."

"Oh, tell her—" said Field, and stopped as if arrested by a sudden thought. "Who is it?" he asked.

A grin so brief that it might have been a mere twitch of the features passed over the boy's face.

"Wouldn't give no name, sir. But she's a nob of some sort," he said. "Got a shiny satin dress on under her cloak."

Field's eyes went for a moment to his littered papers. Then he picked up a newspaper from a chair and threw it over them.

"Show her in!" he said briefly.

He got up with the words, and stood with his back to the window, watching the half-open door.

There came a slight rustle in the passage outside. The small boy reappeared and threw the door wide with a flourish. A woman in a dark cloak and hat with a thick veil over her face entered.

The door closed behind her. Field stood motionless. She advanced with slight hesitation.

"I hope you will forgive me," she said, "for intruding upon you."

Her voice was rich and deep. It held a throb of nervousness. Field came deliberately forward.

"I presume I can be of use to you," he said.

His tone was dry. There was scant encouragement about him as he drew forward a chair.

She hesitated momentarily before accepting it, but finally sat down with a gesture that seemed to indicate physical weakness of some sort.

"Yes, I want your help," she said.

Field said nothing. His face was the face of the trained man of law. It expressed naught beyond a steady, impersonal attention.

He drew up another chair and seated himself facing her.

She looked at him through her veil for several seconds in silence. Finally, with manifest effort, she spoke.

"It was so good of you to admit me—especially not knowing who I was. You recognise me now, of course? I am Lady Violet Calcott."

"I should recognise you more easily," he said in his emotionless voice, "if you would be good enough to put up your veil."

His tone was perfectly quiet and courteous, yet she made a rapid movement to comply, as if he had definitely required it of her. She threw back the obscuring veil and showed him the face of one of the most beautiful women in London.

There was an instant's pause before he said.

"Yes, I recognise you, of course. And—you wanted to consult me?"

"No!" She leaned forward in her chair with white hands clasped. "I wanted to beg you to tell me—why you have refused to undertake Burleigh Wentworth's defence!"

She spoke with a breathless intensity. Her wonderful eyes were lifted to his—eyes that had dazzled half London, but Field only looked down into them as he might have regarded one of his legal documents. A slight, peculiar smile just touched his lips as he made reply.

"I have no objection to telling you, Lady Violet. He is guilty. That is why."

"Ah!" It was a sound like the snapped string of an instrument. Her fingers gripped each other. "So you think that too! Indeed—indeed, you are wrong! But—is that your only reason?"

"Isn't it a sufficient one?" he said.

Her fingers writhed and strained against each other. "Do you mean that it is—against your principles?" she said.

"To defend a guilty man?" questioned the barrister slowly.

She nodded two or three times as if for the moment utterance were beyond her.

Field's eyes had not stirred from her face, yet still they had that legal look as if he searched for some hidden information.

"No," he said finally. "It is not entirely a matter of principle. As you are aware, I have achieved a certain reputation. And I value it."

She made a quick movement that was almost convulsive.

"But you would not injure your reputation. You would only enhance it," she said, speaking very rapidly as if some obstruction to speech had very suddenly been removed. "You are practically on the top of the wave. You would succeed where another man would fail. And indeed—oh, indeed he is innocent! He must be innocent! Things look black against him. But he can be saved somehow. And you could save him—if you would. Think what the awful disgrace would mean to him—if he were convicted! And he doesn't deserve it. I assure you he doesn't deserve it. Ah, how shall I persuade you of that?" Her voice quivered upon a note of despair. "Surely you are human! There must be some means of moving you. You can't want to see an innocent man go under!"

The beautiful eyes were blurred with tears as she looked at him. She caught back a piteous sob. The cloak had fallen from about her shoulders. They gleamed with an exquisite whiteness.

The man's look still rested upon her with unflickering directness. Again that peculiar smile hovered about his grim mouth.

"Yes, I am human," he said, after a pause. "I do not esteem myself as above temptation. As you probably know, I am a self-made man, of very ordinary extraction. But—I do not feel tempted to take up Burleigh Wentworth's defence. I am sorry if that fact should cause you any disappointment. I do not see why it should. There are plenty of other men—abler than I am—who would, I am sure, be charmed to oblige Lady Violet Calcott or any of her friends."

"That is not so," she broke in rapidly. "You know that is not so. You know that your genius has placed you in what is really a unique position. Your name in itself is almost a mascot. You know quite well that you carry all before you with your eloquence. If—if you couldn't get him acquitted, you could get him lenient treatment. You could save his life from utter ruin."

She clasped and unclasped her hands in nervous excitement. Her face was piteous in its strain and pathos.

And still Field looked unmoved upon her distress.

"I am afraid I can't help you," he said. "My eloquence would need a very strong incentive in such a case as this to balance my lack of sympathy."

"What do you mean by—incentive?" she said, her voice very low. "I will do anything—anything in my power—to induce you to change your mind. I never lost hope until—I heard you had refused to defend him. Surely—surely—there is some means of persuading you left!"

For the first time his smile was openly cynical.

"Don't offer me money, please!" he said.

She flushed vividly, hotly.

"Mr. Field! I shouldn't dream of it!"

"No?" he said. "But it was more than a dream with you when you first entered this room."

She dropped her eyes from his.

"I—didn't—realise—" she said in confusion.

He bent forward slightly. It was an attitude well known at the Law Courts. "Didn't realise—" he repeated in his quiet, insistent fashion.

She met his look again—against her will.

"I didn't realise what sort of man I had to deal with," she said.

"Ah!" said Field. "And now?"

She shrank a little. There was something intolerably keen in his calm utterance.

"I didn't do it," she said rather breathlessly. "Please remember that!"

"I do," he said.

But yet his look racked her. She threw out her hands with a sudden, desperate gesture and rose.

"Oh, are you quite without feeling? What can I appeal to? Does position mean a great deal to you? If so, my brother is very influential, and I have influential friends. I will do anything—anything in my power. Tell me what—incentive you want!"

Field rose also. They stood face to face—the self-made man and the girl who could trace her descent from a Norman baron. He was broad-built, grim, determined. She was slender, pale, and proud.

For a moment he did not speak. Then, as her eyes questioned him, he turned suddenly to a mirror over the mantelpiece behind him and showed her herself in her unveiled beauty.

"Lady Violet," he said, and his speech had a steely, cutting quality, "you came into this room to bribe me to defend a man whom I believe to be a criminal from the consequences of his crime. And when you found I was not to be so easily bought as you imagined, you asked me if I were human. I replied to you that I was human, and not above temptation. Since then you have been trying—very hard—to find a means to tempt me. But—so far—you have overlooked the most obvious means of all. You have told me twice over that you will do anything in your power. Do you mean—literally—that?"

He was addressing the face in the glass, and still his look was almost brutally emotionless. It seemed to measure, to appraise. She met it for a few seconds, and then in spite of herself she flinched.

"Will you tell me what you mean?" she said in a low voice.

He turned round to her again.

"Why did you come here yourself?" he said. "And at night?"

She was trembling.

"I had to come myself—as soon as I knew. I hoped to persuade you."

"You thought," he said mercilessly, "that, however I might treat others, I could never resist you."

"I hoped—to persuade you," she said again.

"By—tempting—me?" he said slowly.

She gave a great start. "Mr. Field—"

He put out a quiet hand, and laid it upon her bare arm.

"Wait a moment, please! As I said before, I am not above temptation—being human. You take a very personal interest in Burleigh Wentworth, I think?"

She met his look with quivering eyelids.

"Yes," she said.

"Are you engaged to him?" he pursued.

She winced in spite of herself.

"No."

He raised his brows.

"You have refused him, then?"

Her face was burning.

"He hasn't proposed to me—yet," she said. "Perhaps he never will."

"I see." His manner was relentless, his hold compelling. "I will defend Burleigh Wentworth," he said, "upon one condition."

"What is that?" she whispered.

"That you marry me," said Percival Field with his steady eyes upon her face.

She was trembling from head to foot.

"You—you—have never seen me before to-day," she said.

"Yes, I have seen you," he said, "several times. I have known your face and figure by heart for a very long while. I haven't had the time to seek you out. It seems to have been decreed that you should do that part."

Was there cynicism in his voice? It seemed so. Yet his eyes never left her. They held her by some electric attraction which she was powerless to break.

She looked at him, white to the lips.

"Are you—in—earnest?" she asked at last.

Again for an instant she saw his faint smile.

"Don't you know the signs yet?" he said. "Surely you have had ample opportunity to learn them!"

A tinge of colour crept beneath her pallor.

"No one ever proposed to me—like this before," she said.

His hand was still upon her arm. It closed with a slow, remorseless pressure as he made quiet reply to her previous question.

"Yes. I am in earnest."

She flinched at last from the gaze of those merciless eyes.

"You ask the impossible," she said.

"Then it is all the simpler for you to refuse," he rejoined.

Her eyes were upon the hand that held her. Did he know that its grasp had almost become a grip? It was by that, and that alone, that she was made aware of something human—or was it something bestial—behind that legal mask?

Suddenly she straightened herself and faced him. It cost her all the strength she had.

"Mr. Field," she said, and though her voice shook she spoke with resolution, "if I were to consent to this—extraordinary suggestion; if I married you—you would not ask—or expect—more than that?"

"If you consent to marry me," he said, "it will be without conditions."

"Then I cannot consent," she said. "Please let me go!"

He released her instantly, and, turning, picked up her cloak.

But she moved away to the window and stood there with her back to him, gazing down upon the quiet river. Its pearly stillness was like a dream. The rush and roar of London's many wheels had died to a monotone.

The man waited behind her in silence. She had released the blind-cord, and was plucking at it mechanically, with fingers that trembled.

Suddenly the blast of a siren from a vessel in mid-stream shattered the stillness. The girl at the window quivered from head to foot as if it had pierced her. And then with a sharp movement she turned.

"Mr. Field!" she said, and stopped.

He waited with absolute composure.

She made a small but desperate gesture—the gesture of a creature trapped and helpless.

"I—will do it!" she said in a voice that was barely audible. "But if—if you ever come—to repent—don't blame me!"

"I shall not repent," he said.

She passed on rapidly.

"And—you will do your best—to save—Burleigh Wentworth?"

"I will save him," said Field.

She paused a moment; then moved towards him, as if compelled against her will.

He put the cloak around her shoulders, and then, as she fumbled with it uncertainly, he fastened it himself.

"Your veil?" he said.

She made a blind movement. Her self-control was nearly gone. With absolute steadiness he drew it down over her face.

"Have you a conveyance waiting?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

He turned to the door. He was in the act of opening it when she stayed him.

"One moment!" she said.

He stopped at once, standing before her with his level eyes looking straight at her.

She spoke hurriedly behind her veil.

"Promise me, you will never—never let him know—of this!"

He made a grave bow, his eyes unchangeably upon her.

"Certainly," he said.

She made an involuntary movement; her hands clenched. She stood as if she were about to make some further appeal. But he opened the door and held it for her, and such was the finality of his action that she was obliged to pass out.

He followed her into the lift and took her down in unbroken silence.

A taxi awaited her. He escorted her to it.

"Good night!" he said then.

She hesitated an instant. Then, without speaking, she gave him her hand. For a moment his fingers grasped hers.

"You may depend upon me," he said.

She slipped free from his hold. "Thank you," she said, her voice very low.

A few seconds later Field sat again at his table by the window. The wind was blowing in from the river in rising gusts. The blind-tassel tapped and tapped, now here, now there, like a trapped creature seeking frantically for escape. For a space he sat quite motionless, gazing before him as though unaware of his surroundings. Then very suddenly but very quietly he reached out and caught the swaying thing. A moment he held it, then pulled it to him and, taking a penknife from the table, grimly, deliberately, he severed the cord.

The tassel lay in his hand, a silken thing, slightly frayed, as if convulsive fingers had torn it. He sat for a while and looked at it. Then, with that strange smile of his, he laid it away in a drawer.

The trial of Burleigh Wentworth for forgery was one of the sensations of the season. A fashionable crowd went day after day to the stifling Court to watch its progress. The man himself, nonchalant, debonair, bore himself with the instinctive courage of his race, though whether his bearing would have been as confident had Percival Field not been at his back was a question asked by a good many. He was one of the best-known figures in society, a general favourite in sporting circles, and universally looked upon with approval if not admiration wherever he went. He had the knack of popularity. He came of an old family, and his rumoured engagement to Lady Violet Calcott had surprised no one. Lord Culverleigh, her brother, was known to be his intimate friend, and the rumour had come already to be regarded as an accomplished fact when, like a thunder-bolt, had come Wentworth's arraignment for forgery.

It had set all London talking. The evidence against him was far-reaching and overwhelming. After the first shock no one believed him innocent. The result of the trial was looked upon before its commencement as a foregone conclusion until it became known that Percival Field, the rising man of the day, had undertaken his defence, and then like the swing of a weather cock public opinion veered. If Field defended him, there must be some very strong point in his favour, men argued. Field was not the sort to touch anything of a doubtful nature.

The trial lasted for nearly a week. During that time Lady Violet went day after day to the Court and sat with her veil down all through the burning hours. People looked at her curiously, questioning if there really had been any definite understanding between the two. Did she really care for the man, or was it mere curiosity that drew her? No one knew with any certainty. She wrapped herself in her reserve like an all-enveloping garment, and even those who regarded themselves as her nearest friends knew naught of what she carried in her soul.

All through the trial she sat in utter immobility, sphinx-like, unapproachable, yet listening with tense attention to all that passed. Field's handling of the case was a marvel of legal ingenuity. There were many who were attracted to the trial by that alone. He had made his mark, and whatever he said carried weight. When he came at last to make his speech for the defence, men and women listened with bated breath. It was one of the greatest speeches that the Criminal Court had ever heard.

He flung into it the whole weight of his personality. He grappled like a giant with the rooted obstacles that strewed his path, flinging them hither and thither by sheer force of will. His scorching eloquence blasted every opposing power, consumed every tangle of adverse evidence. It was as if he fought a pitched battle for himself alone. He wrestled for the mastery rather than appealed for sympathy.

And he won his cause. His scathing attacks, his magnetism, his ruthless insistence left an indelible mark upon the minds of the jury—such a mark as no subsequent comments from the judge could efface or even moderate. The verdict returned was unanimous in spite of a by no means favourable summing-up. The prisoner was Not Guilty.

At the pronouncement of the verdict there went up a shout of applause such as that Court had seldom heard. The prisoner, rather white but still affecting sublime self-assurance, accepted it with a smile as a tribute to himself. But it was not really directed towards him. It was for the man who had defended him, the man who sat at the table below the dock and turned over a sheaf of papers with a faint, cynical smile at the corners of his thin lips. This man, they said, had done the impossible. He had dragged the prisoner out of his morass by sheer titanic effort. Obviously Percival Field had believed firmly in the innocence of the man he had defended, or he had not thus triumphantly vindicated him.

The crowd, staring at him, wondered how the victory affected him. It had certainly enhanced his reputation. It had drawn from him such a display of genius as had amazed even his colleagues. Did he feel elated at all over his success? Was he spent by that stupendous effort? No one knew?

Now that it was over, he looked utterly indifferent. He had fought and conquered, but it seemed already as if his attention were turning elsewhere.

The crowd began to stream out. The day was hot and the crush had been very great. On one of the benches occupied by the public a woman had fainted. They carried her out into the corridor and there gradually she revived. A little later she went home alone in a taxi with her veil closely drawn down over her face.