CHAPTER V.
A LEGACY.

A year and a half before this story opens Gavon Keith had got his captaincy in the North Essex Light Infantry, and just about the same time he found himself in a serious scrape. In a moment of weakness he had put himself absolutely in the power of Major Strause. Major Strause was his senior officer. There was a young subaltern in the regiment, of the name of Aylmer. Percy Aylmer had conceived a most chivalrous and passionate attachment for Keith. Keith had been good to him when he first joined, had put him up to the ropes, had been on every occasion his warm friend, and the young fellow in consequence gave the deepest devotion of his heart to Keith.

Now Percy Aylmer was second cousin to Major Strause. Both his parents were dead, and he was possessed of large private means. He had no near relations, and often boasted that he could do exactly what he liked with the thousands which belonged to him. Major Strause was always more or less in money difficulties. He was a man who both gambled and drank. His character in the regiment was by no means without reproach. It was whispered that he was quite capable of doing shady actions, and although nothing absolutely to his discredit was known, he inspired little trust, and had few friends. From the moment that Aylmer had joined the North Essex Light Infantry it had been Major Strause's intention to make use of him. His young cousin's money would help him out of his many difficulties. He intended to make use of it, and probably would have done so but for the influence of Gavon Keith. Keith, upright himself, scrupulously honourable, straight as a die in all his words and actions, read through the major, and in his own way counteracted the influence which he tried to exert over Percy Aylmer. Without saying much, Keith contrived that Aylmer should look at Strause somewhat with his own eyes. And the consequence was that on many occasions Strause's endeavours to get large sums of money from his kinsman were foiled.

There came a day when Aylmer hastily appeared in Keith's quarters, flung himself into a chair, and said,—

"Now what's to be done? Strause is evidently up a tree. He wants me to lend him five thousand pounds. I have all but promised, but as you have always been my best friend, I thought I would let you know."

Keith looked annoyed.

"Where is the use of talking?" he said. "You are aware of my opinion. Strause is a confirmed gambler. Whatever you let him have he will lose either on the turf or the Stock Exchange."

Keith had never said as much before, and he bit his lips with annoyance when the words had passed them.

"Do you really think as badly of him as that?" asked Aylmer, in an anxious tone.

"Yes," said Keith stoutly. "As I have spoken, I hold to it; I cannot mince matters. Strause is not an honourable man, and the less you, my dear boy, have to do with him the better. By-the-way, Aylmer, how old are you?"

"I shall be two-and-twenty in a month," was Aylmer's reply.

"And on my next birthday I shall be twenty-nine. You must see what a gulf of experience lies between us. Now, Aylmer, I like you."

"You are the best friend a young fellow ever had," was Aylmer's reply.

"And I don't want to see you going straight to the devil."

Aylmer fidgeted.

"You may or may not be right with regard to Strause," he said, after a pause, "but one doesn't care to see one's kinsman in distress. Strause says he will be obliged to leave the regiment if I don't help him."

"To the extent of five thousand pounds?" remarked Keith.

Aylmer was silent.

"I tell you what it is," remarked the older man suddenly. "You leave me to see Strause over this matter."

"But he hates you, Keith," was Aylmer's naïve reply.

"All the same, I think I'll tackle him," said Keith. "Don't lend him money, Aylmer. For any sake, be firm with him. Strause can be the very devil if he once has a hold over a fellow."

Keith had cause to remember his own words later on, but at the time he thought only of Aylmer and how best he could save him.

That evening Keith called upon Major Strause, and had, as he expressed it, a straight talk with him. What one said to the other was never known, but when Keith left his brother officer's quarters he was under the impression that Aylmer was saved. This appeared to be the case. Strause was still quite friendly to both men, and Aylmer soon afterwards informed his friend that the loan of five thousand was no longer required.

Some weeks went by, and one evening Aylmer casually mentioned that he was making a fresh will.

"I made one soon after I joined," he said, "about three months after, just when you prevented me from making an ass of myself at mess. Do you remember?"

Keith smiled.

"Yes," he said. "I thought you one of the nicest boys I had ever seen afterwards."

"Well, I made a will then, and—Keith, you must not be angry—I put you into it."

"I wish you would make another, and leave me out," said Keith bluntly.

"That is just what Strause wants me to do."

"Oh," said Keith, altering his manner, "has Strause anything to do with this?"

"A great deal. I went up to town yesterday to consult his lawyer."

"Why? have you not your own business man?"

"I have; but Strause thinks a great deal of Mr. Gust."

"And have you made a will and signed it?"

"There is a will being drawn up. I cannot tell you its contents; it would not be fair, as you are one of those who will profit by it."

Keith sprang to his feet.

"Look here, Aylmer, old man," he said, "I have as much money as I need. Don't put me in your will; strike that part out. I don't want a man to leave his money away from his relatives."

"Well, then, Strause gets about everything. I am an only son of an only son, and my mother had neither brothers nor sisters."

"You talk as though you were dropping into the grave," said Keith. "All in good time you will marry and have children of your own. Don't sign that will, if you take my advice. Strause is playing his cards for his own ends. And now I will say no more."

A week after this Aylmer quite unexpectedly fell ill. At first it was reported that he had taken a bad chill when out hunting, and would be all right again in a few days. Then the doctor began to look grave, and said something about sudden developments and possible danger. Keith heard the news in the mess-room, and went straight to Aylmer's quarters. He found the poor fellow tossing about, flushed and miserable, with Strause in close attendance.

"Keith!" he cried, the moment Gavon Keith entered the room. "Oh, I am glad to see you! So you have come at last!"

"At last!" cried Keith; "I only heard of your illness an hour ago."

"But I have been sending you note after note," said the poor young fellow. "I wanted you so badly last night—yes, and the night before too."

"I'll sit up with you to-night, Aylmer," said Strause.

"Oh, it was dreadful last night!" moaned the boy. "I was alone, and I got so giddy, and thought for a moment that I was dying."

"Why has he not a proper nurse?" said Keith, turning sharply round and facing Strause.

"He doesn't wish for a nurse, nor does the doctor think it necessary. I am prepared to give up all my time to him."

"O Keith, do sit down; don't go quite yet," said Aylmer. His voice was low and his breathing rapid.

Keith did sit down by the bedside. He perceived at a glance that Aylmer's blue eyes were full of suppressed trouble, and resolved, if possible, to see him when Strause was absent. Presently Aylmer gave Keith a glance full of meaning, and the next moment looked in his cousin's direction. Keith bit his lips with annoyance. Strause had evidently no intention of leaving the room. To Keith's relief, however, a moment later an orderly arrived with a message desiring Strause to go to see the colonel immediately. Strause was obliged to comply. The moment he did so Aylmer clutched Keith by the hand.

"Don't leave me alone with him," he said; "he frightens me. If I want a nurse, he says he knows a woman who will come, and I shall be more in his power than ever. Do you know, I have not signed the will. I would rather the old will stood—I think I have remembered every one in it—all the old servants, I mean. I made the sort of will when I first joined that my father and mother would have liked had they been alive. Keith, I am afraid of Strause. He is mad about this will. He is never alone with me that he does not talk of it. It has arrived, and I have only to sign it, and he will easily get witnesses. And he will make me do it. I feel he will if he is alone with me. When you are ill you get nervous in the middle of the night. Don't you understand, Keith?"

"Yes, I understand," replied Keith, in that sympathetic voice which was one of his greatest charms.

"O Keith," continued the boy, "I did not think I could be such an arrant coward!"

"You are ill, and are therefore not responsible," replied Keith. "Now listen, Aylmer. I mean to look after you to-night. I am off duty, and if I cannot get Strause out of the room I will stay here too; so you need not worry about that will, for you cannot sign it while I am here to prevent you."

"No, that's right. What a relief it will be! God bless you, old chap!"

"Cheer up then, now, and go to sleep."

"You don't know how bad I feel, and what awful attacks of pain I get. I have to be more or less under an opiate all the time. What is the hour? Oh, I ought to have my medicine—not the opiate, but the other. You will find two bottles on that table, Keith. Do you mind giving me a dose of the one which is marked 'To be taken every two hours'?"

Keith crossed the room to a little table where some bottles were neatly arranged. One was a little larger than the other. On one were the simple directions that the medicine within was to be taken, two tablespoonfuls at a time, every two hours. The other medicine was to be taken only at the rate of a teaspoonful when the pain was very bad.

"I wish I might have a dose of the other medicine too," said Aylmer, in his weak voice; "it dulls the pain and makes me drowsy. I hate this stuff."

"The pain is not intolerable now, is it?" asked Keith.

"No; I feel much better—more confident, I mean—now that you have come to me."

"I am going to see you through this bout, Aylmer," said Keith; "so rest comfortable, old man. I won't desert you."

"The sound of your voice makes me feel ever so much better."

Keith arranged the sick boy's pillows. He then put the bottles back on the table, and noticed that two doses had been taken from the larger bottle, and that there was enough of the smaller one to last until the next day.

"I wish the doctor would come," said Aylmer, after a pause. "I know by my feelings that I am going to have another paroxysm of that awful pain."

He had scarcely said the words before the doctor softly opened the room door and entered. He was a clever young man, with all sorts of up-to-date knowledge, he made a careful examination of the patient, and the expression on his face was grave.

"He ought to have a trained nurse," he said.

"You must have one to-morrow, Aylmer," here interrupted Keith.—"Perhaps, Dr. Armstrong, you will choose a nurse and send her in."

"You ought to have a nurse to-night, Aylmer."

"Oh no, no; Keith has promised to look after me to-night."

"Yes, that I have," replied Keith; "and I know something of nursing, too," he added.

"Don't go back on your word, Keith," said Aylmer again. "You will do me more good than fifty nurses."

"I will certainly keep my promise," said Keith.—"But I should like to have a word with you, Armstrong, in the other room."

The doctor and Keith went into the anteroom.

"It is a serious case," said Dr. Armstrong: "there is a good deal of inflammation, and it is just possible that there may be a sudden termination; but he has youth on his side. I am glad you are going to stay with him for a bit. His nerves are very much out of order. I believe there is something worrying him more than this illness."

"I give a guess to what it is," said Keith; "and I don't think at a time like the present anything ought to be hidden from the doctor. Now, Dr. Armstrong, without explaining matters too fully, I want you to give me authority to forbid Major Strause to come to his cousin's rooms. The fact is, Strause worries him—it is a money matter. I dare not say any more. Aylmer ought not to be worried."

"I understood that young Aylmer was very rich," said Armstrong.

"So he is; but Strause is poor. Can you not take a hint?"

The doctor smiled.

"I'll have a talk with Strause," he said. "What you tell me explains much. He must not come near his cousin's rooms until the morning."

"Have I your authority to keep him out?"

"You certainly have."

The doctor went away, and Keith returned to his charge. He was a very tender-hearted, sympathetic fellow, and had much common-sense. He made the sick-room as tidy as any woman would have done, and gave his patient food and medicine at the prescribed intervals. The doctor called again late in the evening, and said that Aylmer was going on quite as well as could be expected. He had scarcely gone before Strause appeared. Keith went to the door of the outer room and spoke to him.

"You are not to come in," he said. "Aylmer must not be worried."

"Worried! I am his cousin," said Strause.

"I have the doctor's authority. I am in charge of the case under Armstrong until the morning."

Strause's dull eyes flashed an ominous fire.

"I won't stay if I'm not wished for," he said, after a pause. He raised his voice on purpose. "But I want just to say a word to Aylmer. I shan't be two minutes." As he spoke, with a sudden movement he pushed Keith aside and entered the anteroom. The next instant he was in the sick-room. "I want to say something to my cousin alone," he repeated. "I shan't worry him, and I shan't be long."

"Anything is better than making a fuss," thought Keith, and he went and stood by the window of the sitting-room, trying to stay the impatience which had possession of him. "I must turn Strause out if he stays too long," thought the young man; "but anything would be better than kicking up a row inside Aylmer's sick-room." He noticed, however, that all was quiet in the room. He could not even hear the sound of voices. Strause seemed to be moving about on tiptoe.

After a moment or two he came out.

"Aylmer is asleep," he said. "I didn't disturb him. What I have to say must keep. You need not have been so chuff in your manner just now, Keith. I am glad to hand over the case to you for to-night. You are good-natured, and Aylmer is fond of you. I hope the poor boy will pull through. What does the doctor say?"

"Armstrong says it is a critical case."

Strause's face looked grave.

"He is right," he replied, after a pause. "None of Aylmer's family are sound. The father and mother died young. Well, poor chap, he has an abundance of this world's pelf: it will be a pity if he does not live to enjoy it. I will look round in the morning. Bye-bye for the present."

Strause's manner was friendly, and Keith reproached himself for the marked dislike he felt towards him. Presently he softly entered the sickroom, and sat down. Aylmer was sleeping. He awoke presently, and said in a drowsy tone,—

"My eyes hurt me; can you do without a candle in the room?"

"Certainly," replied Keith. "I will have a light in your sitting-room, and the door between the two rooms can be open."

"I am better, I think," said Aylmer, after a pause. "Is it time for my medicine?"

"Not for half an hour," replied Keith. "Go to sleep; I won't wake you if you happen to be asleep. The doctor says it is not necessary."

Aylmer closed his eyes and lay still. In a few minutes he moved fretfully, and said in a voice full of pain,—

"That horrible torture is beginning again. You must give me some of the opiate."

Keith rose immediately, took the smaller bottle of medicine, went into the anteroom, and poured out very carefully a teaspoonful, which he brought to Aylmer. Aylmer took it and lay still. In about a quarter of an hour he called out,—-

"Keith, are you there?"

"Yes; what's up?"

"The pain is no better. It grows intolerable—I cannot endure it. I must have a second dose at once. Make it a little larger—do, like a good fellow—a dessertspoonful."

"I can't possibly do it, Aylmer. The doctor said that you were not to have this special medicine oftener than once an hour, and it is not a quarter of an hour since you had the last dose. You shall have a second after an hour is up. Now stay quite still, and then perhaps the pain will go off!"

Aylmer lay as still as he could, but the dew on his forehead and the pallor of his drawn face showed the agony through which he was living. His restless hands began plucking at the bed-clothes. Keith suddenly took one, and imprisoned it in both his own.

"My mother used to say that I had the hand or a mesmerist," he said. "Let me mesmerize you now. I will that pain goes."

Aylmer smiled. His blue eyes grew full of gratitude.

"There never was any one like you, Keith, old man," he said. "Whatever happens, I'd like you to know—I'd like you to know what I feel—I mean my gratitude to you. Keith, I believe I'd have gone to the dogs but for you, old fellow. But now—"

"Don't talk, Aylmer; you have to live a long life and prove your words."

"Oh, this agony!" cried the poor boy. "Keith, I don't believe I'll ever get better. Will you send for the doctor again? I know I am much worse."

"I will give you your opiate again at the end of an hour," said Keith, "and then, if you are not better, I will send for Armstrong. But, remember, he expected these paroxysms at intervals. He thought you going on nicely when he saw you at nine o'clock."

"I am worse now—much worse."

Keith suddenly rose.

"Why, it is time for your other medicine," he said; "perhaps you will feel easier after you have taken it."

Keith now crossed the room to the little table, took up the larger bottle, and went into the anteroom. He poured out a full dose of two tablespoonfuls, and brought the medicine in a glass to Aylmer. Aylmer drank it off, uttering a sigh as he did so.

"It doesn't taste quite the same," he said, "but—" His voice dropped away into a drowsy monotone. "You were quite right," he remarked in a minute: "the pain is dulled—I am beautifully sleepy. Don't disturb me, please."

"Certainly not. Go to sleep now; I am close to you."

Keith sat for some time motionless by the sick man's side. He knew by the gentle breathing that Aylmer had dropped into profound slumber. Presently he moved into an arm-chair, stretched himself out, and closed his eyes. Without intending it, he dropped off himself into sleep. During that sleep he had terrified dreams that Aylmer was calling him, and that Strause was preventing his going to him. At last he started up, his heart beating very fast.

"Did you call, Aylmer?" he said in a low voice, and yet loud enough to be heard in case the sick man was awake.

There was no reply. Startled by the stillness, Keith rose to his feet and went to the bedside.

"He is sleeping very quietly indeed," thought Keith; "I cannot even hear him breathe."

Then his own heart began to beat in an irregular, nervous fashion; a cold fear took possession of him. He went into the anteroom, struck a match, lit a candle, and brought it to the bedside. One glance showed him that Aylmer was dead.

Such a sudden termination to a young life caused a good deal of excitement in the regiment, and Keith was so knocked up that he was unable to attend to his duties for a day or two. The doctor expressed no surprise, however, at the sudden ending of the disease. A death certificate was duly given, and a few days afterwards Major Strause followed his young relative to his grave. The other officers of the regiment also followed Aylmer to his last resting-place; but Keith was still suffering from a queer, nervous seizure, which had come to him when he had found his charge dead.

"I can never forgive myself for falling asleep as I did," was his thought. "Perhaps if I had been wide awake and on the alert I might have been able to give the poor fellow a stimulant, and so have saved his life."

After his death Aylmer's will was read, and it was found that he had left Gavon Keith ten thousand pounds. The rest of his money went to different charities, with the exception of a few legacies to old servants of his father's. Major Strause's name was not mentioned at all. This was the will made by Aylmer when he had been three months in the regiment. A few of his brother officers expressed surprise when they heard that Keith had got so large a legacy. He was congratulated on all sides, however, for he was a prime favourite.

A fortnight went past, and one afternoon Major Strause went to see Keith. Keith was better, although he still looked pulled down, and his face was white.

"Well," said Strause, "glad to see you looking more like yourself."

"Yes; I am pulling round at last," replied Keith. "I cannot think why I gave way in this beastly fashion."

"It was a shock. No wonder," said Strause. "You know, of course, what a lucky chap you are? Ten thousand pounds to the good! It is worth having a small shock in such a cause."

Keith did not reply.

"Are you dumb, man?" said Strause, in some annoyance. "You have heard of the legacy?"

"I have. I wish in all conscience that he had not done it."

"Gammon!" was Strause's rude remark.

Keith flushed, and walked to the window. He wished that Strause would leave him. Strause, however, had no intention of doing so.

"There's something I want to say to you," he remarked now, pulling a chair forward, dropping into it, and lowering his voice. "I did not like to tell you before. At present the fact is known only to myself. Whether it goes further remains with you."

"What do you mean?"

"I will explain. Keith, an ugly thing happened in connection with Percy Aylmer's death."

Keith drew himself up very stiffly. He looked full at the major.

"I don't understand you," he said.

"You will soon, if you listen. Of course it was an accident, and a deplorable one, but you, Keith, gave that poor lad the wrong medicine."

"Oh, horror!" cried Keith. He sprang to his feet. A terrible weakness seized him; his head seemed to go round; he clutched a chair to keep himself from falling. "What do you mean?" he added.

"What I say," answered Strause, who read these signs of agitation with pleasure. "It happens that I am in a position to prove my words. You know I was nursing Aylmer all day until you arrived and interfered. Your interference was unwarrantable; but I say nothing of that. I had been giving Aylmer his medicines, and happened to know exactly the amount in each bottle. The alterative medicine, as it is called, had just been renewed, but the bottle containing the opiate was more than half full. The opiate was in the smaller bottle, as you know. The alterative medicine was to be given in tablespoonfuls—two tablespoonfuls to a dose. At the time I gave up my charge of Aylmer to you there were in the larger bottle five doses, but the bottle which contained the opiate was a little less than half full. Do you follow me?"

"I hear you, but I cannot imagine what you are driving at."

"You will soon know. On the morning of the death you were terribly agitated. I rushed off to the poor lad's quarters when I heard the news, and found that you had left, saying that you would be round again presently. I went to the table where the medicines stood, and casually took up the bottle which contained the opiate. The moment I saw it I opened my eyes. The bottle was very nearly empty! Even allowing for your giving him a teaspoonful at a time, it was absolutely impossible that he could have taken anything like the amount which was now gone. I then looked at the other bottle, and found that only one teaspoonful had been taken from it since you had charge of the case. You follow me, don't you? In the bottle which contained the alterative medicine there were still four doses; in the bottle which contained the opiate there was not more than a teaspoonful left. Beyond doubt what happened was this: you gave Aylmer, quite by mistake, two tablespoonfuls of the opiate—a dose which of course caused his death."

"You lie!" said Keith. "How dare you come to this room with that trumped-up story? I did not make a mistake with regard to the medicines. I was most careful, and I am prepared to swear in any court that I took two tablespoonfuls of the alterative medicine, which was in the larger bottle, and brought it to Aylmer between nine and ten o'clock that night."

"Swear it, then," said Strause, in a contemptuous voice, with a sneer on his lips, and a malicious light in his eyes which caused Keith to recoil from him as though he were a serpent—"swear it, and go right through with the whole thing. I have the bottles in my possession, and although there are no witnesses on either side, believe me it will be at best a nasty case for you. You were alone with the sick man—you gave him a fatal dose of the wrong medicine—you were remembered in the poor fellow's will to the somewhat unusual tune of ten thousand pounds. My fine fellow, you are in my power. Even supposing the murder is never brought home to you, your career as an officer in the North Essex Light Infantry is over."

As Strause said the last words he left the room, swaggering out with his usual gait.

Keith sank into a chair and pressed both his hands to his throbbing temples. Was this true?

CHAPTER VI.
A TRYING POSITION.

When he had first got over his start of dismay, Gavon Keith's impulse was to defy Strause. He fully believed that the story was invented by Strause for his own purpose, and that poor Aylmer had not been given the wrong medicine. For what ends Strause should bring such a horrible accusation against him Keith could not at that moment guess. He thought matters over, however, with all the common-sense of which he was capable; and that evening, although he still felt weak and giddy, he went to see Major Strause at his quarters, and found that officer within.

"Ah," said Strause, "I thought you might call round. Well, what do you intend to do?"

"Nothing," replied Keith.

"You sit down under the accusation?"

Keith turned first red, then white.

"I do nothing of the sort," he said. "I deny your charge absolutely. I did not give the wrong medicine. I was particularly careful with regard to the medicines. It is true that poor Aylmer disliked the light—I therefore kept his sick-room in comparative darkness; but on the two occasions when I gave him medicines on that fatal night I took the bottles into the sitting-room. Between ten and eleven o'clock, as he was in considerable pain, I gave him a teaspoonful of the opiate. I distinctly recall the bottle and the words, 'One teaspoonful per dose.' He took it, and said it did him no good. He wanted me to give him a larger dose. This I refused. Soon afterwards the hour arrived when he was to take the other medicine. I took that bottle also into the sitting-room, and by the light from a gas jet poured out two tablespoonfuls—no more and no less. I brought the medicine back with me, and he drank it off. He seemed to find relief as he did so, and dropped off asleep immediately. What are you sneering at?"

"You give yourself away so splendidly," said Strause. "Aylmer would naturally feel relief from such a powerful opiate as you administered."

"I did not administer the opiate. I gave him two tablespoonfuls from the other bottle. It is, I suppose, within the region of possibility that the medicines may have been shifted into wrong bottles. For that I am not responsible. You will recollect, perhaps, the fact that you visited Aylmer in his room soon after nine o'clock that evening. You were there for a couple of minutes, and came out afterwards, telling me that he was asleep. I noted that you were quite two minutes in the room, by the little clock on the mantelpiece. I also observed that you walked about softly while there. If you bring this charge against me, I can but repeat what happened."

"And who will believe your word? you have no witnesses."

"Nor have you."

"I hold the bottles," said Strause, with another sneer.

Keith was silent for a minute or two.

"I see nothing for it," he said, "but to try and get an order to have the body exhumed, and thus have the case properly sifted."

Strause uttered an uneasy laugh. He walked to the window and looked out. Then he returned to Keith.

"You do not know, perhaps," he said, "that the effects of opium are very short-lived, and that long before now all traces of opium would have left the poor fellow's body."

"Let the case be brought openly to trial," was Keith's next remark.

"What! you would have yourself ruined, if not worse?"

"I would rather risk anything than put myself in your power."

As Keith spoke he rose and left the room without even saying good-bye to Strause. All that night he kept to his resolve to sift the matter thoroughly, and then repeated to himself,—

"Anything would be better than getting myself into Strause's power."

But the following morning he received letters from home which caused him to look upon the affair from a fresh point of view. His mother had been seriously ill; his cousin, as he always called Kitty Hepworth, wrote to him to say how nervous she had become. She also said that Mrs. Keith was troubled about money matters, having lately lost a large sum through the failure of an Australian bank. If there was any one on earth whom Keith worshipped, it was his widowed mother. Without a moment's delay he wrote to her to tell her of his unexpected legacy, and to ask her to put at least two thousand pounds of the money to her own credit. He further resolved not to give her anxiety by allowing the case of poor Aylmer's death to be investigated. In short, he deliberately, and without at all realizing what he was doing, put himself in the major's power.

For the first few weeks his enemy lay low, as the expression is. But soon he began to use the dangerous weapon which Keith had supplied him with. The poor fellow was blackmailed, and to a considerable extent. Strause now informed him that his delay in having the case investigated made it black against him.

"Had you acted when you first heard my suspicions, a jury might have been inclined to look leniently at the matter; but your reticence, and the very fact that you have used some of your legacy, would tell terribly against you."

Keith believed him, and that evening handed him five hundred pounds. From that moment his fate was sealed.

His face lost its youthfulness; he became haggard and worn. He hated himself for what he termed his cowardice. He was convinced in his own mind that if there was foul play in the matter Strause was at the bottom of it.

Meanwhile Strause was dropping hints in the regiment which bore fruit in a coldness towards Keith. Strause hinted that Keith held a secret, and that this secret had something to do with his lucky windfall, as it was termed. No one believed much what Strause said, but the evidence of their senses caused his brother officers to gaze at Keith in some surprise. Aylmer's name, mentioned on purpose, caused the man to start and change colour. The mention of the legacy was like touching a raw place. It was known that Aylmer had died very suddenly, that Keith had been with him at the last, and that there was no nurse. It was also known that Keith's legacy was an unexpectedly big one.

There came an evening when Strause and Keith dined together, and Strause, who wanted a very large sum of money from Keith, introduced a peculiar drug into his wine. This drug had a curious effect on the mind—stimulating it at first into unnatural activity, but weakening the judgment, and altogether causing the moral senses to remain in abeyance. It was an Indian drug, which Major Strause had learned the secret of from a native some time before. Its later effect was very much that of ordinary opium.

Keith was asked to dine with his brother officer in his own quarters. Two other men were present. Wine was handed round, and they all made merry. The other men were, however, on duty at an early hour that evening. Strause knew this, but Keith did not. Strause and Keith found themselves alone, and Strause produced the bottle which had been previously prepared. Keith took a couple of glasses—quite enough for Strause's purpose. Soon the effect which the drug always produced became manifest. Keith lost his self-control without knowing the fact. Strause brought the full power of a clever mind to bear on his victim. In the end he got Keith to sign a cheque for three thousand pounds in his favour.

Strause had now, by large sums and small, secured nearly half the legacy. The present three thousand would stave off immediate difficulties, and he resolved, for a time at least, to leave the young man alone.

Keith went out to return to his own quarters; but the excitement of the drug was still on him, and he resolved to take a walk. He had by this time forgotten that he had signed the cheque; but his mind kept dwelling on Aylmer, and it seemed to him that at every turn of the road he saw the dead lad, who came to reproach him for being the cause of his early death.

"If this sort of thing goes on," he said to himself, "I shall end by believing that I really did change the medicines."

Suddenly, as is always the case, the effect of the drug which he had imbibed changed. He became sleepy and stupid. His head reeled, and he staggered as though he were drunk. Presently, unable to go another step, he fell down by the roadside. There Mollie Hepworth found him.

By the next morning he was himself again, and he then remembered all that had occurred. He was convinced that he had been drugged the night before. His suspicions with regard to Strause became intensified, and he felt that if this sort of thing continued much longer there was nothing for him but to leave the army, a ruined, and, in the eyes of many, a disgraced man. For he was quite aware of the fact that Strause dropped hints by no means in his favour. In no other way could he account for the coldness that had arisen amongst his old friends. He was thoroughly miserable, and but for his mother, would have left England for ever.

A few days after this Strause met him with the information that he had exchanged into another regiment.

"I am heartily glad to hear it," was Keith's rejoinder.

Strause looked him full in the eyes.

"All the same, we shall meet again," he said; "I have not done with you, my fine fellow."

Keith had a good deal of recuperative power, and after Strause went he began once again to recover. Hope returned to him; the brightness came back to his eyes, and the vigour to his frame. He never ceased to regret that he had not insisted on Strause's ugly suspicions being brought into the light of day; but being relieved from the man's society, he once more began to enjoy existence. He resolved not to let Major Strause ruin his life.

He sincerely hoped that he and his enemy might not meet again. The loss of five thousand pounds of his legacy mattered but little if he had really got rid of Strause. He became once more popular and beloved, and at the time when this story opens he had, to a great extent, got over the shock which Aylmer's death and its subsequent events had caused him.

Several months had passed since that fatal time when Mollie Hepworth had found him, drugged and insensible, by the roadside. He had tried to forget all the incidents of that dreadful night, except one. Over and over, often when he was dropping asleep, often in his busiest and most active moments, the face of Mollie, so kind, so calm, with an indefinable likeness to another face which he knew, and in a great measure loved, came back to him. He felt that Mollie was his guardian angel, and he wondered if he should ever meet her again. When she arrived at his mother's house, and he found that the girl who had helped him in the lowest moment of his life was really Kitty's sister, his surprise and delight were almost indescribable. Before twenty-four hours had gone the inevitable thing had taken place: he had lost his heart to Mollie Hepworth.

He loved her with all a young man's first passion. He had liked girls before, but he had never loved any one till now. Yes, he loved Mollie, and he did not see that there was any obstacle to his winning her. When he stood by her side in the front drawing-room in his mother's house before dinner, when once or twice his hand touched hers, and when many times his eyes looked into hers, he thought of a moment when he might draw her close to him and tell her everything. He had not told her everything yet. All he had told her was that he knew for a fact that Major Strause had drugged him; that he was in the major's power, and did not see any way out. He had told her nothing about Aylmer. He felt that the story, if it were to be kept a secret, ought not to be known even by one so trustworthy as Mollie. And as he talked to her and listened to her grave, sensible replies, he felt that he loved her more and more each moment. How glad he was now that he had never gone too far with pretty, gay, dear little Kitty! His mother had hinted more than once that Kitty would be a desirable wife for him. He had been wise not to listen to his mother's words. He had always been fond of Kitty, but he had never, he felt, said one word to her which she could justly misinterpret. Yes, he was free—free to woo Mollie, and to win her if he could. He knew that he would woo earnestly and with passion. He had a sudden sense, too, of belief in his own ultimate success. She loved her profession, but there was that in her which would make her love him even better.

He sat down to dinner in the best of spirits, and his eyes often followed the girl who was now occupying all his thoughts. After dinner he was destined to see the other side of the picture; for Kitty, in her despair, had shown him so much of her heart that he could not for an instant mistake her feelings. He was shocked, distressed. Once again he blamed himself.

"I am doomed to be unlucky," he muttered, as he tossed from side to side on his pillow. "Is it possible that Aylmer came by his death by foul means? O my God, I cannot even think on that topic! Is it also possible that at any time I gave poor little Kitty reason to believe that I cared for her other than as a brother? Honestly, I don't think I have done so. Poor little girl! I don't love her in the way she wants me to love her. She would make a dear little sister, but a wife—no. Kitty, I don't love you as a wife ought to be loved, and I do love your sister Mollie. What a position for a man to be in!"

CHAPTER VII.
CONFIDENCES.

When Mollie went to bed that night, she found her sister seated by the fire. Her cheeks were deeply flushed, and traces of tears were plainly visible round her pretty eyes. When she saw Mollie, she turned her head petulantly aside. Mollie, in some astonishment, went up to her.

"Why are you not in bed, Kit?" she asked.

Mollie's matter-of-fact, almost indifferent words were as the proverbial last straw to the excited girl. She sprang to her feet, flung her arms to her sides, and confronted her sister, her brown eyes flashing, her cheeks on fire.

"You ask me that!" she said—"you! Why did you ever come back? If you meant to devote your life to nursing, why did you not stay with your patients? Why did you come back now of all times to—to destroy my hopes? Oh, I am the most wretched girl in the world!"

"What do you mean, Kitty?" said Mollie, in astonishment. "I do not understand you. Have you lost your senses?"

"My heart is broken," answered Kitty; and now all her fortitude gave way, and she sobbed as though she would weep away her life.

Mollie was very much startled. She thought she knew Kitty, but she did not understand this strange mood. She went on her knees, put her arms round the younger girl, and tried, at first in vain, to comfort her.

"You must save me!" cried Kitty presently, and her voice rose to a high hysterical note. "I shall die if you don't."

"But what am I to save you from, Kitty? And die, my darling! What extraordinary, intemperate words!"

"Oh, what do I care for my words? I am too wretched, too miserable! Don't you know what is going to happen?"

"No; what? Do speak."

"Gavon is going away, perhaps to be killed. He—is going to South Africa on Saturday week."

"Then, Kitty," replied Mollie, "are all these tears—is all this awful misery—on account of Gavon?"

Kitty struggled out of her sister's embrace.

"And why shouldn't it be?" she asked. "Have I not loved him for years? Oh, I don't mind saying it. Did I ever care for any other man? I could have married long ago, but I would not. I never cared for any one but Gavon all my days. All my hopes were centred on him, and he—O Mollie, yes, it is true—he did like me until you came."

Mollie felt a crimson flood rush to her face; she also felt a choking sensation round her heart. So this was the secret of Kitty's misery! She was silent for a moment, too absolutely astonished to speak. Then she said in a voice which was stern for her,—

"Dry your tears. Sit down, please. We must talk this matter out."

But Kitty's only response was a fresh burst of weeping.

"She is hysterical; I can do nothing with her until she gets over this attack," thought Mollie. She pushed her sister towards a chair, and said gravely, "If you will not listen to me now, we will defer our conversation. I am going to bed."

She went to the other side of the room, and began immediately to undress. For a time Kitty kept on sobbing, her face buried in her arms, which she had flung across the back of the chair. But presently, seeing that Mollie took not the slightest notice of her, she said in a semi-whisper,—

"I will be good, Mollie. I know I am horribly naughty, but I will be good now. I will listen to you."

"I am glad you are getting back your senses," replied Mollie; "but, Kitty, you must prepare for a scolding."

"Oh, I will be very good," answered Kitty again. "Scold me if you like. Do anything except keep silence; do anything except look so awfully, awfully indifferent."

"Indifferent!" cried Mollie; "how very little you know! But, Kate, my dear, I am ashamed of you. Your want of self-control distresses me. I don't know much about love and lovers, but I do know that, in our mother's day at least, no girl would talk as you have done to-night; no girl would wear her heart on her sleeve; no girl in the old days would declare her love for a man who had not spoken to her of his."

"And what do I care for the old-fashioned girl?" said Kitty. "I am modern, and I have modern ways. I do love Gavon, and I don't mind saying so. And, Mollie, I swear that he did love me before you came."

"Is this true?" said Mollie, in an altered voice. "Tell me everything."

"Yes, it is true. The moment he saw you there came a change over him." Here Kitty looked full up at her sister. "And you love him too, I believe," she said suddenly.

"No, Kitty," answered Mollie; "that is a remark I cannot permit you to make. If Gavon is your lover, he can be less than nothing to me. Now, please, do not conceal anything from me."

Thus adjured, Kitty spoke.

"I am terribly unhappy in every way," she said. "It is not only that for a long time I have hoped to become Gavon's wife, but I have got—yes, it is true, Mollie—I have got desperately and hopelessly into debt. I owe Madame Dupuys a large sum of money. Madame Dupuys knows that when I am of age I shall have quite a nice little fortune of my own, and until lately she seemed quite willing to wait to be paid when it was convenient to me; but of late she has pressed and pressed me. I have not been really frightened, for I thought the very moment Gavon asked me to marry him Aunt Louisa would be so pleased that she would help me to satisfy madame's requirements. But if Gavon doesn't ask me—and now, oh, now I begin to think that he never, never will!—I shall not know what to do. I shall be not only a miserable, forsaken girl, but I shall be disgraced."

"Nonsense, Kitty. It is very wrong indeed to go into debt, and for my part I do not understand any girl going into debt for mere finery."

"Oh, you are so grand and above us all," interrupted Kitty. "You don't understand the failings, the weaknesses, the longings of poor girls like myself."

"In some ways I am glad I don't," answered Mollie. "But there, we need not discuss my feelings in the matter. The thing is to know how to get you out of your present scrape. As to your sensations with regard to Captain Keith I have nothing to say, for I cannot understand your want of reticence in the matter. But the other thing ought to be attended to. You must allow me to tell Aunt Louisa, if you are afraid to do so."

"No, no, Mollie—no, no," answered Kitty; "that would quite destroy my last hope. Auntie has a perfect horror of girls who go into debt, and so has Gavon; I have heard him say so. I heard him say once that even if he loved a girl, and he found that she was frivolous, and extravagant, and ran into debt, he would never, never marry her. And that made me finally make up my mind that under no circumstances was he to know. You must not tell Aunt Louisa. I will get out of it some way, somehow, but you must not tell her."

"It is a very puzzling story. I scarcely know what to do," answered Mollie.

Kitty's eyes had now grown bright. She had ceased to weep so bitterly.

"After all," she said, "if you will only help me, things may come right. I shan't go into debt after this week, and I will try to make some kind of arrangement with madame. I have great hopes that on Monday night Gavon may ask me to marry him."

"Why on Monday night, Kitty?"

"Oh, I am going to Lady Marsden's fancy ball at Goring, and Gavon is to be there; and the beautiful dress I ordered from Madame Dupuys is to be worn on that occasion. I am to go as the Silver Queen. I think Gavon will like me in that dress, and—anyhow it is my last chance. If he proposes to me, all will be well. I shall be engaged—as happy as the day is long; and I don't mind Aunt Louisa knowing then—I don't mind anything then. And there's one way in which it can be done, and one way only."

"What is that?" asked Mollie.

"You, Mollie, my darling, must go away. You must not see Gavon. O Mollie, won't you, won't you help me? I want you to keep right away. I want you to go somewhere just until after Monday. Give me Monday night for my last chance."

"Suppose it fails?" said Mollie, almost in a whisper.

"Then," answered Kitty, with a shiver, "I will try hard to be good. I will take up my poor, broken failure of a life and make the best of it. But please, please give me my last chance. If he says nothing on Monday night, I shall have no hope. Please go away, Mollie, for the next three days."

"I could do so," answered Mollie. "I wonder if it is right. This is Thursday evening. I have a great friend, Nurse Garston, who is also a Red Cross Sister. She has often asked me to visit her in her home in the north of London."

"Then go, Mollie; do, Mollie darling, go!"

"I would do so if it were really the best thing for you."

"It is the only thing."

"But would you marry Gavon, Kitty, if you knew that he did not love you?"

"But he does."

"If you knew that he did not love you just in the extreme way in which a man ought to love the woman he is about to make his wife?"

"I don't care—yes, I would marry him. I would make him love me utterly, completely, if only I were his wife."

Once again Kitty flung herself into her sister's arms, and once again her tears flowed. Mollie was silent for a moment, standing very upright, allowing the young, slight figure to rest against her with all its weight. An imperceptible shudder went through her frame—she was seeing a picture. She saw in Gavon Keith's eyes an expression which no woman ever yet saw and mistook. A secret was whispered in her ear; her heart gave one throb of inexpressible joy, and then went down, down, as though it were sinking out of sight. The next instant her brave young arms were flung around Kitty.

"Come, Kitty," she said, "you are giving way to nonsense, and are hysterical. I will put you to bed. and you must fall asleep."

CHAPTER VIII.
THE PURSE MARK K. H.

Kitty did sleep, but Mollie remained awake. All her healthy nature was disturbed; the daily routine of her useful life was passionately interrupted. She had now come face to face with tragedy, and this tragedy surrounded her own young and dearly-loved sister. Katherine, reckless, undignified, destitute of self-control, had given her heart to Gavon Keith. His heart had not responded to hers. Kitty was driven to despair, and was not strong-minded enough to conceal her feelings.

"He does not care for her," thought Mollie; and as the thought came to her she shivered, and put her hand before her eyes and tried to shut out a picture. It was a picture which fascinated her, and which she had often, often seen since it had first revealed itself to her as a reality. She saw a man lying by the roadside, and a girl bent over him. The girl saw his dark eyes open, and a look of bewilderment, then of gratitude, fill them, and she knew that from that moment she was never to forget those special eyes or that special man. She had never forgotten, and when she saw him in Mrs. Keith's house, and knew that he was, after a fashion, her cousin, and knew also that he was the supposed lover of her sister, the weight on her heart had never lifted. For she knew also that he might have been the one man in all the world to her. She might have given him a woman's first great, tender love. For Mollie, whose deepest affections were hard to touch, when once won, would have been won for ever; and Gavon Keith might have won her. Yes, she knew it; she was too honest to disguise her own feelings. He was in trouble too, and this very night he had taken her into his confidence. Such a confidence was dangerous. She knew that she was on the edge of a precipice; and although there was that within her which was strong enough to resist temptation, yet the temptation was keen, bitter, dreadful. She was in danger of loving the man whom Kitty loved. The predicament was a terrible one. Keith's half-confidence, too, had puzzled her. She felt uneasy about him. In what possible way had he put himself into Major Strause's power?

Towards morning she fell asleep; and in her sleep her dreams were of Keith. She fancied herself alone with him in a country far from England—alone, and in circumstances of exceptional difficulty. He and she were both tried in quite an unexpected manner, but in the trial their hearts drew nearer together; and as Mollie opened her eyes that morning she found herself murmuring his name.

"This will never do," she thought. "I must go away immediately. I will not see him again until he is engaged to Kitty. Oh, he must marry her—he must return her love!"

Mollie rose and dressed quickly. Kitty was still sound asleep. Mollie wrote a little note, and left it on the dressing table. It ran:—

"DEAREST KITTY,—I have one or two old friends to visit in the north of London. One of these friends will in all probability offer me a bed. If so, I shall stay away for two or three days—until after Monday. Please tell Aunt Louisa not to expect me for a few days. MOLLIE."

It was not yet eight o'clock when Mollie ran downstairs. She asked for breakfast, and waited for it in the breakfast-room. She ate hurriedly, being afraid that Keith might come downstairs.

It was close on nine o'clock before Kitty awoke. She could not at first make out why there was such a weight at her heart; then it returned to her—Gavon did not love her. Gavon beyond doubt loved her sister.

"I cannot bear it," thought the petulant and angry girl—"I cannot bear it. Why should Mollie come and take him away from me? Have I not loved him for years?"

She rose, and the first thing she saw was Mollie's little note on her dressing table. She opened and read it, and a look of relief crossed her face. She dressed slowly, putting on her most becoming and stylish garments. Her tears of the previous evening had but added pathos to her beauty. Her face was pale, and her wide-open eyes looked large. She ran downstairs in time to meet Mrs. Keith and her son.

"Where is Mollie?" asked the good lady as Kitty entered the room.

"She left a note. She has gone to visit some friends in North London," said Kitty. "Mollie won't be back for a day or two," she added. As she spoke she flashed a glance at Gavon, who was seated at the table. He rose, and went to the sideboard.

"Shall I cut some ham for you, Katherine?" he asked.

"Thank you. Yes, please, a little," she replied. Her lips quivered; she wondered if she could swallow anything.

The meal was about half through when a servant entered, bringing a note. The note was addressed to "Miss Katherine Hepworth." Kitty tore it open. Its contents caused her face at first to turn rosy red, and then very white.

"Say there is no answer," she said to the servant, who left the room.

"What is it, dear—anything that troubles you?" asked Mrs. Keith.

"Only a letter from Madame Dupuys," said Kitty, speaking as carelessly as she could. "She wants to see me. I hope nothing is wrong with my dress."

"You extravagant girl," said Keith, "are you getting a new dress for Monday evening?"

"Yes—a new dress for you, Gavon," replied the girl, and she looked sadly in his face.

There was something in her expression which gave him a pang of remorse.

"I like you in anything you wear, Kitty," he said, with a sort of assumed carelessness. And then, as he went out of the room he laid his hand for an instant on her shoulder. Light as the touch was, it thrilled her. The clouds vanished from her speaking face like magic, and she turned brightly to Mrs. Keith.

"When must you go to Madame Dupuys'?" asked that lady.

"Early—almost immediately. I will take a hansom and drive over."

"You need not do that; I am going out, and can drop you at madame's, and call for you afterwards."

"Oh, thank you, auntie; that will be lovely."

"I am going out immediately," said Mrs. Keith.

"Then I will run upstairs and put on my hat and jacket," said the girl.

She danced up to her room. She still felt that light, very light, caressing touch of Keith's on her shoulder. It tingled through her being. She dressed herself quickly, and ran downstairs. Soon the elderly lady and the young were driving away together in the direction of Madame Dupuys'. Mrs. Keith's face looked troubled. Kitty glanced at it, and then looked away.

"She is thinking about Gavon, and no wonder," thought the girl.

An impulse of affection, a fellow-feeling in a mutual sorrow, caused her to place her little hand inside Mrs. Keith's. Suddenly the young pair of eyes and the old met.

"How are we to bear it?" said Kitty to his mother.

Mrs. Keith squeezed the slight hand.

"We must prove ourselves Englishwomen, Kitty," she said then. "A brave woman will always willingly give up the man she loves to the cause of his queen and his country."

"Some women are not brave," said Kitty, in a smothered voice.

They arrived at the dressmaker's, and Kitty went upstairs. She was shown into a large showroom. She wandered about restlessly. The next instant a girl appeared, and asked her if she would step into madame's private sitting-room. Fear—an unreasoning fear—now caused Kitty's heart to sink very low. She followed the girl. She was shown into a small, prettily-furnished room. Madame Dupuys was waiting for her.

"I am very much obliged to you, Miss Hepworth," she said, "for calling to see me so early."

"But what is the matter?" said Kitty. "Why did you send me such an alarming note? What can be wrong?"

"I am more sorry than I can say, Miss Hepworth; but even at the risk of losing your custom, it is absolutely necessary that you should pay me at least half of my bill by to-night."

"I cannot possibly do it," said the girl. "What is the matter? You told me you would give me a little time."

"I am sorry, but I am obliged to change my mind. I am pressed myself to pay a large sum—pressed unexpectedly. I cannot let you have the dress for the fancy ball unless you pay me half my account."

"Oh, how terribly cruel of you! You will ruin me if you act so."

"Miss Hepworth," said the dressmaker, "I have to speak plain words; it is best to be straightforward. You have owed me a large sum of money for over two years. Mrs. Keith imagines that you do not owe me anything. If I go to her, the account will be paid at once. You owe me three hundred pounds. I shall be satisfied for the present with a cheque for half. Can you let me have a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds to-day?"

"I cannot do it," said Kitty, in a low, terrified whisper—"I cannot do it; and I must have the dress. Give me until Tuesday morning, and you shall have a cheque for three hundred. Yes, I vow it. I must have the dress; nothing else will effect my purpose. Can you not understand that there are occasions when a girl's whole future—all her future—may depend on one dress, worn on one special evening? Can you not understand?"

"I can partly guess to what you are alluding. Are you likely to have a proposal, Miss Hepworth? Are you likely to make a brilliant match? Do you want to fascinate some one on Monday evening? For if that is the case, and if the man is—"

"Oh, think anything you like—I cannot explain. You know that in a year I shall be comparatively rich; and I will pay you in full—I promise it—on Tuesday. Can you not wait until then? and won't you let me have my dress?"

Madame Dupuys looked at the young girl, She was sorry for her. She possessed a sufficient amount of the vanities of nature to understand that the pretty face and charming figure would look all the more taking and bewitching set out as she could set them out. Kitty's was not that simple order of beauty which needs no adornment. She looked best when she was richly apparelled, and Madame Dupuys had an artist's soul, and longed to see her own work displayed to the best advantage. Nevertheless, she was really pressed just now for just that hundred and fifty pounds which Kitty ought to have given her; and there was an American heiress who would look quite lovely in the dress she was making for Kitty, and would pay her down bank notes on the spot. Why should she wait interminably? for she did not at all believe in Kitty's promise for Tuesday night, and she absolutely wanted her money.

"I am sorry," she said at last. "I should like to oblige you, Miss Hepworth; but there is only one alternative. If you cannot let me have a cheque immediately, or at least by to-night, for one hundred and fifty pounds, I cannot let you have the new dress."