At Bay

CHAPTER X. A TRUE LOVER'S KNOT. "In a few minutes my father will be ready to receive you, if you will be so very good as to visit him—he has been so ill!" "Yes, certainly, I want to see him very much. You do not look particularly well yourself! too much confinement in a sick-room, I suppose." A pause and long searching look. "I have gone out very little for months." "Excuse me, my dear, you will think me an intrusive old woman, but what is your name? Elsie, Elsie! that is quite strange to me. Do you remember your mother at all?" "No—that is, like a faint, far-away dream!" "What was her name?" "I think I was called after her. I never speak about her, for my father cannot bear it. His sorrow must have been great." "I suppose so—I suppose so," thoughtfully. "You will forgive my abruptness, I am not asking from idle curiosity." "I have nothing to forgive." Here the tinkle of a bell was heard. "My father is ready; will you come?" said Elsie, rising. She conducted them into the drawing-room, where Lambert, shaved and smartened up, sat in his large chair, which had been brought down-stairs; a few flowers and some books gave an inhabited air to the room, while the exquisite neatness of the invalid and his surroundings bespoke loving care. Lady Gethin's quick eye noted everything. Lambert brightened a little as he thanked her with simple courtesy for her visit. Glynn saw that she scrutinized him with profound attention, and drew him out rather than spoke to him. Glynn himself had various matters to speak of with Elsie, who looked more like what she had been in Paris than she had since they had met again. After some little time Lady Gethin turned to Elsie and said, gravely, "Will you forgive me, my dear young lady, if I ask you to leave me with your father and Mr. Glynn? I have one or two matters to speak of." She paused. "Certainly," said Elsie, rising; "you will send for me when you want me," and with a smiling, wondering look at Glynn, she left the room. The door being closed, Lady Gethin, turning to Lambert, said, "At the risk of awakening painful memories I must ask you a few questions! Your daughter so resembles a dear friend, or rather one who was a dear friend of mine long ago, that I cannot refrain. Pray has she any relations named Acton?" "No," said Lambert, eyeing her suspiciously; "she has no relation in the world but myself." "She must have some others, Captain Lambert!" persisted Lady Gethin. "Strange ideas rise in my mind, coupling the likeness with Deering's efforts to find her. The friend Miss Lambert resembles, and whose daughter she might be, was Isabel Acton, who married Gilbert Deering against the will of her people, and went away with him abroad, where she died." "My God!" cried Lambert, turning ghastly white, "this is incredible!" He remained silent for a minute, his hands clasping and unclasping the arms of his chair, his mouth twitching, some strong emotion evidently working within him. "Ring the bell!" he said at length to Glynn. "Get me some brandy-and-water. I will tell you my whole story, and I'll want something to help me through. You look like a strong, good woman, Lady Gethin. You will not turn against my girl, though her father has been a bit of a blackguard in his time." "I will not," said Lady Gethin, stoutly. "Do you wish me to leave you?" asked Glynn. "No; my confession is as much for you as for my lady here." He paused while the servant placed the brandy-and-water beside him. "I must go a long way back," he resumed, when she had left the room. "It was about fifteen years ago when, after knocking about in Texas and California, I found myself at Chili in a very low condition, both as to money and prospects. Just at that time a railway had been begun by a clever adventurer who had been kicked out of 'Frisco, but persuaded the Government of Chili to take up his scheme. This railway was to a village up in the mountains, in the middle of a rich mineral district, teeming with wealth. The difficulty was to find ready money to pay current expenses; they were never more than a week ahead of the men's wages. To provide for this outlay, Jeafferson, the Yankee promoter, got together three or four gamblers to meet the men at the village where they were paid, and win back the cash just given out, and have it ready by the next pay-day. I was one of these fine gentlemen," bitterly. "We had a percentage on our winnings, and lots of food and drink at the bars, kept by the company,—that is, Jeafferson. It is curious how little I minded it all then, and what a rascally business it seems now! Among the employés there was a certain Deering, a cold, stern Englishman, an engineer. He was a silent, self-possessed fellow, proud and plucky as the devil. We all hated him, for he looked down on us. He seemed to see through the gambling scheme; he was always interfering, and warning the men against us, and making enemies on both sides. He had had a wife with him, but she was dead. I never saw her." He paused. Both Lady Gethin and Glynn drew a little nearer with breathless interest. "Well," resumed Lambert, "one night I met Deering in a hotel in Lima with a tall Englishman not unlike himself, only fair, with whom he was talking over a bottle of wine; and they had papers and money lying on the table between them. They seemed greatly occupied with their conversation. I had had a hard ride, and a hard drink (I did drink then), and I couldn't resist trying to get up a quarrel with Deering, so I broke in on him and his friend and offered to stake as much as lay there and play him for the whole at poker, euchre, anything he liked. He answered me contemptuously, and rising, left the room. I was in an awful fury, and swore that I'd have his life, and a deal more. The tall friend who remained laughed and taunted me, and gave me more drink, so we grew a bit familiar. The upshot was, I went to see him in his private room; there we got abusing Deering to dirt, and I swore I'd have his life. When this man had listened awhile, says he: 'If you are in earnest, I know a party as would give a bigger pile than that' (meaning the money that had been on the table) 'to know that he was safe under the sod, and not only the serpent but the spawn to; for,' says he, 'he has a child, who may prove worse than the father.' This sobered me. Ay, you may look hard; it had an ugly sound, and blackguard as I had been, I was no cowardly assassin." He stopped, and signed to Glynn to give him some brandy-and-water. "I parleyed with him a bit. However, I could get little out of him, except that there was a good sum to be mine if I would shoot my enemy. Well, I kept quiet. I felt somehow desperately disgusted, and all my fury against Deering began to die away. I said to my new acquaintance, that he should hear from me, and next day I mounted my horse, and rode away to find Deering; not to challenge and shoot him, but to warn him against the treacherous devil that was thirsting for his life. It's truth I'm telling you. Do you believe me?" interrupting himself feverishly. "I do," said Glynn, earnestly. "Pray go on," urged Lady Gethin. "Deering lived away at one of the stations in the mountains, an awful wild place, with a lot of Indians and half-breeds round him; the railway was pushed so far, and the next payments were to be made there. So men were busy rigging up a bar and a gaming saloon, with logs and what not, when I rode in. Lord! what a beautiful place it was! Just a strip of heaven peopled by fiends! I got in there a little after sundown and found Deering kicking up no end of a row, wanting to prevent the saloon being finished and opened. I spoke to him, as I hope—no! I don't hope anything,—but as I live, full of the best intentions. I asked him to come away out into the open with me a bit. There I tried to speak friendly to him, but it was no use. He turned on me and abused me like a pick-pocket, for one of a gang of sharpers. He stung me to the quick; I lost all control of myself, and pulling out my revolver, I challenged him to fight there on the spot. He said something about ridding the place of a pest. Just then a boy—oh, of about nineteen or twenty, a factotum of Jeafferson's—came up. We both asked him to see fair play. O God! it was soon over! He fell at my first fire. I had winged my man before, and didn't mind much. But somehow I felt sorry for him. Vexed with myself, I threw away my revolver, and knelt down beside him, calling to the boy to help; but a confused sound of shouting and a loud hum came from the village or camp, and the boy said, 'They are up to mischief there,' and away he ran. Deering seemed to hear it; he opened his eyes and muttered something—I could only make out the word 'destroy.' Then he caught my hand, and with a despairing, imploring look in his eyes,—I see it still,—groaned, 'My child—save her.' And holding his hand, I swore I'd take care of her so long as I had breath. He pointed to a ring on his little finger, and muttered, 'Take'; then he said, 'My child,' turned sharp, as if in pain, and was gone. I took the ring (I'll show it to you presently), then I made away to his shanty. The devils of miners, and navvies, and half-breeds had risen to revenge themselves, and were wrecking his place. One fellow called out that there was a pile of money in the house, that Deering had got down in the town yesterday. The lot of them were raging like furies and had just set fire to the hut, when I got up. There wasn't a sign of the child. I hunted through the place. The men all thinking I was dead against Deering, didn't interfere with me. At last, crouching in a corner behind a door, quite stupefied with fear, I found a little golden-haired darling, of three or four years old—all alone." "Had she no nurse—or did the nurse forsake her?" asked Lady Gethin, as he paused. "How did he come to keep her in such a place?" "That I cannot answer. I think Deering must have been desperately poor, or he would not have taken service with Jeafferson. Anyhow I took the child, who screamed at me in an agony of terror. I told her I would take her to her father. I wrapped a cloak that hung on the wall round her, and got out. She was quite still—so still that I feared she was dead. So I managed to saddle Deering's horse, which was fresh; and as night was falling I rode away, while those mad devils where shouting and dancing round the burning wreck." He stopped, quite exhausted. "You had better not go on now," said Glynn. "I begin to understand your position. Lady Gethin will, I am sure, return to——" "I must go on," interrupted Lambert. "I can't rest till I have finished; and there's a lot more to tell." "He had better get through it," said Lady Gethin. "When I got down to Lima, I went to an out-of-the-way eating-house, where I sometimes put up when funds were low. The woman that kept it was a good soul when sober. I got her to take care of the child for a day and a night. She didn't ask questions. Then I thought what to do, for I was at the end of my cash. It struck me as a grand 'ploy,' if I could get the price of poor Deering's life out of the long fellow at the hotel, and build up a fortune for the child. So I went to him, and told him what had happened, and a good deal more—faith! I said I found the child suffocated with the smoke, and just squeezed my hand round its throat to make sure. He took it all quite easy. 'You are a handy scoundrel,' he said; and I answered, 'You are an unhandy one. Now, are you going to keep your word, and give me over what you wouldn't give poor Deering?' "'What he wouldn't take,' says he. 'How do I know you are speaking truth?' "'Send and see,' said I. 'If you cheat me, I'll raise the hue and cry against you.' "'Who will believe you against me?' said he with a sneer. 'I am an Englishman of unblemished character. What would your assertions be against mine? However, I don't want to cheat you. Come here to-morrow.' "To make a long story short, the woman who had had the care of the child came roaring and crying to this man, who was another Deering,—he never disguised his name,—and said the child had been killed, or at any rate burned to death, and Deering was killed too while she was away, taking some food to her husband. Anyhow that long devil was satisfied, and gave me the money. I must hurry a bit. "I had agreed to quit South America, and so I took a passage to Melbourne. I never thought the child would live; she pined and seemed silly. There was a good woman on board the vessel we sailed in who took to my little darling. She had lost her baby and her husband. He was the skipper of a ship that traded between San Francisco and Callao, and sometimes to Melbourne. She was wonderful fond of Elsie. I called her Elsie after a little sister of my own; I never knew what name she had been christened. This good woman is Mrs. Kellett. She was going to join a sister who was married in Melbourne, and intended getting work of some kind, as she had little or no money. "Well, the upshot was, that she agreed to take charge of Elsie. I paid well; and then I took to breaking horses, then I bought and sold them, and made a good bit, and saved—Lord, how I saved! I left off drink,—two glasses of beer in the day was my allowance. If I could only make up to that child for all I had robbed her of!—and she began to know me. The day she first put her little arms round my neck, and stroked my face, and wouldn't let me go, I made a darned fool of myself, and cried. Mrs. Kellett, not understanding, says, 'She'll be as sensible as any child yet.' Ah! so she is. One time I wasn't lucky, that is, I got next to nothing for myself, for I kept the profits of Elsie's money separate from my own, and it's wonderful how everything I undertook for that child prospered. It was then I went over to California, and scraped around a bit, and collected gold-dust and nuggets; some I bought, some I dug myself. It was there I fell in with you , Glynn. I seemed a penniless adventurer, didn't I? Aha, my boy!—I had nigh a thousand pounds' worth stitched into my belt. I kept out a little just to throw away and keep up with the others, but did you ever see me forget myself in drink?" "I was always struck by your extreme temperance," returned Glynn. "Ah! well, those were happy days," resumed Lambert. "After that spurt I went back to Melbourne. Presently Mrs. Kellett wanted to go home; her brother had come into his uncle's farm; he was a widower, with a lot of boys, and wrote for his sister to keep his house; so I came with her, and saw the place, and left my precious child there, where she throve like a lily for near five years. I settled in Paris, always working her money and my own very cautiously, and looking forward to the day she'd come and take care of her father. I declare to God, I used to forget she wasn't my own child! When she was, as I reckoned, about twelve, I put her into the convent, and used to have her out on holidays. She never enjoyed them more than I did, and she grew fonder and fonder of me. Then I made a snug little nest for her, and took her home for good. Then I met you, Glynn, and now I'm coming to the trouble. You remember Vincent. Well, when I first met him with some very respectable Americans in Paris, I was puzzled with the notion that I had seen him before, and I told him so. Then he grinned, and said he was the boy that had witnessed my duel with Deering. We agreed to bury the past, as it wasn't exactly a letter of recommendation. I wasn't over-pleased with him, but he was uncommon civil, and used to come to the house, and I got accustomed to him. Then he proposed for Elsie, and I refused him; still he hung on, and asked a second time; after that he got spiteful. You know all about that time, Glynn! Wasn't it a slice out of heaven? It didn't last long. You were at the Davilliers' the evening I came in, and saw Deering talking to my Elsie, and looking at her. By Heaven, I understood his looks! and if I had had my knife in my belt, as in the old days, he'd have looked his last. I thought the sight of me would have frightened him." Lambert paused, and lay back in his chair. "Did he recognize you?" cried Lady Gethin with breathless interest. "Ay, that he did. He was calm, and civil, and damnably superior, and came the next day to call, and sat talking so softly and elegantly to my blessed child. At last he begged for a private interview with me,—said he had something of importance to say. I was obliged to go to his hotel, there was no use refusing." Lambert stopped, took a little more brandy-and-water, drew a long breath, and began again. "As soon as the door was closed he asked me to come up by his writing-table. Then looking straight at me he exclaimed, 'You lied to me. You did not strangle Gilbert Deering's infant! I recognized the girl's likeness to her mother at the first glance.' "'What's that to you?' said I. 'There's a crime the less on your conscience.' "He laughed harshly. 'I confess she was worth sparing; she is a charming creature. You seem to have brought her up remarkably well, but I think you have done enough. I propose to assume her guardianship in future.' Then he went on to offer me money— me! —to give up my child. I saw his infernal scheme, and I burst out in a fury. I threatened to expose him. 'Try,' he replied, 'and see what will become of it. I shall simply tell my story. I went out to Chili to find my cousin, who had succeeded to the family estate of Denham. I had a considerable sum of money with me for his use. A desperate scoundrel sees us discussing business matters, and the money on a table before us. He follows poor Gilbert, murders and robs him; incites the ruffians of the place to fire Deering's house. In the scuffle Gilbert's little girl is supposed to be burnt—years after I discover her in Paris. I denounce the murderer, save my young cousin, unveil the monster on whom she has lavished her filial affection—and——' "'Lose your estates,' I interrupted. 'You didn't want to murder Gilbert Deering for nothing. How would my story tell against yours?' "'My good friend, not a soul would believe your word against mine. Your antecedents would put you out of court!' "'You would need a witness or two,' said I. "'I might find one,' he said, with an air of careless security that thrilled me with fear. I thought of his strange intimacy with Vincent. But he wouldn't be such a villain as to forswear himself? 'I'll give you a few days to reflect,' he went on. 'This is my proposition. Hand over the girl to my custody. I will find her a good husband, and generally take care of her. You make yourself scarce; be off to America, and drink yourself to death. I'll give you two hundred a year while you are above ground. Refuse, and I'll lodge information against you in consequence of revelations made to me by your friend Vincent. Now take your choice. My position is impregnable; every one knows Gilbert Deering was murdered; it only remains to discover the murderer. If I am driven to this, I shall stand out in bright colors as a just and chivalrous kinsman, and no doubt some compromise beneficial to me can be arranged. Of this I am resolved,—to get rid of you .' He would not say another word, and I left him, feeling more than half-mad with helpless rage—ay! and terror! I am no coward, I could face death as steadily as any man; but to leave my Elsie at the mercy of such a villain, with the stain of my public execution on her life, with the bitter knowledge that I had killed her real father, to blot out all tender, kindly recollection of me—no, I could not face that . Then to hand her over to a wretch who would destroy her if he could: that idea drove me wild. I tell you in my agony I half determined to put an end to her and to myself, as the best and most merciful mode of cutting the knot." He paused, shuddering. "No poor words can tell the horror of those days. I had more than one interview with Deering, and the calm way he affected to believe his own lies drove me wild. I urged that the disappearance of the large amount of money with which he was entrusted to give his cousin would tell against him. He said he had given the money to Gilbert, and that I had robbed him of it. I appealed to Vincent. Vincent coolly told me that I had shot Deering in the back. I was utterly powerless; all I could gain, was time. "I pretended to take the proposition of giving her up to Deering into consideration. They thought I was going to yield. Then you came back, and I played a last card. I asked you to marry my Elsie. I thought she would be safe, and I'd go away and hide. But you couldn't, or wouldn't." Glynn started up. "I don't know," he began. "Let me finish," interrupted Lambert; "I have nearly done. I was desperate, and at bay. The thought came into my mind to hide my darling. I ran over to England, telegraphed to Mrs. Kellett to meet me at a neighboring town, and told her something of my difficulties. She knew my love for my child, and obeyed my instructions. I transferred all the money I could to her name. I took counsel with her as to where Elsie should stay, and when she (Mrs. Kellett) should come to Paris, and many details I haven't time to tell. A day or two before the ball Mrs. Kellett, down at her brother's place, was laid up with a severe cold, and was waited on by a faithful old servant who was partly in her confidence, and let no one else into her room; whereas in the night she had slipped out of the house and walked to the nearest station, where she caught the first train to London, and came through to Paris, bringing with her some English-made clothes to dress Elsie in. I did not warn my jewel, lest she should betray any uneasiness, but at the last moment I made her promise to come home from the ball,— not to go to Madame's. This between ourselves. "Then I met her, and took her into the kitchen of the empty étage below us. I had to contrive to get hold of the key. She was terribly startled; but I made her believe her hiding was essential to my safety. She changed her clothes, and tried to eat something. We waited till I heard the concierge moving about, for the danger was in going out. I had brought Mrs. Kellett in with myself the night before as soon as the house was shut up, so that no voice but mine was heard when the concierge asked, 'Who was there?' Well, they got out exactly as that thief of a detective guessed, while the concierge was at the pump. They walked quietly along over the Pont d'Alma, where they got rid of the ball-dress, and near the Invalides took a fiacre ; thus they got off by the first train. "I was careful to make no discovery, till I thought they would be safe on board the Calais boat. Once landed safely in England, and steaming to London, it would be next to impossible to track them. In London, they drove to the Great Northern, and thence, late in the evening, to the South-Western; from that to a lady's school at Clapham, kept by a cousin of Mrs. Kellett's, where Elsie was to go as a teacher without salary. "I made up my mind to do without letters for months; only one I must have, to say she was safe; that was sent to a false name at Marseilles, where I journeyed to get it. I had given Mrs. Kellett a certain set of advertisements to be inserted week after week in the Daily News , on Wednesdays and Fridays, which informed me that all was well; and one which was only to be inserted if my presence was required,—a danger signal, in fact. I knew the shrewd devils I had to deal with; the money power that Deering wielded. Nothing gave me a chance but the eight or nine hours' start before the police were on the track. "So I waited and waited, never writing to England except to Mrs. Kellett now and again, letters composed for inspection; never remitting money; waiting, watching for a chance of seeming to go back to America; really, of joining my jewel, and I found it at last; but there, I can't say another word. If it hadn't been for this unlucky illness, we'd have been on our way to Australia. There, give me some more." He lay back profoundly exhausted. Glynn held the glass to his lips, while he exchanged a look of wonder and sympathy with Lady Gethin. CHAPTER X. A TRUE LOVER'S KNOT. Lambert's hearers were silent for a few minutes. Both perceived the danger and difficulty of his situation. If Deering stuck to his text, and could trust Vincent to show equal pertinacity, all probabilities were on the side of the man of high character, fortune, and position. Lady Gethin and Glynn might believe his story, from the internal evidence of sympathy and sentiment, but to the legal mind that would not be worth a straw. If Deering chose, he might obtain Lambert's condemnation as a robber and murderer, and purchase revenge by the sacrifice of his estate. Thus a blow—a fatal blow—would be dealt to Elsie, whose tender, faithful nature would suffer intensely from the shock of such knowledge. To Glynn there seemed but one means of security to both—one he was most ready to adopt. As his wife, Elsie would be out of Deering's reach, and with such a champion of her rights, he could not hope to make very favorable terms; still, for character's sake, he was almost bound to support his assertions should a whisper of them reach any ears save Vincent's and Lambert's. While he thought, Lambert seemed to revive. "I never heard of such an utter villain!" exclaimed Lady Gethin. "I perfectly remember the death of old Deering. The next heir had been carried off by fever just before, making way rather unexpectedly for Gilbert. "This man, Travers Deering, who had had a quarrel with his cousin, was in the office of the family solicitor, and was sent out to look for him in South America, as he had not been heard of for some time. The story goes that he met him and gave him rather a large sum of money for his expenses, which Gilbert took away up to some barbarous place, where he had left his baby girl. He was murdered and robbed in an outbreak of roughs, and the child was burned, they said, in the fire which consumed Gilbert's hut or house. It was all in the papers at the time, and Deering made search for the child, offered rewards, etc., and did not take possession of the property for some little time." "That lynching business was a stroke of luck for Deering," said Lambert feebly. "If not inconvenient, I should like to see the ring you mentioned," said Lady Gethin. "Certainly," said Lambert. "Glynn, ask Elsie to bring the little despatch-box from the table in my room." Glynn went to deliver the message, and Elsie, who came down-stairs, inquired anxiously if her father was not overtired. Glynn assured her that he seemed better for the relief of complete confidence. "I trust we shall be able to find a way out of all his difficulties," he concluded. Elsie brought the box, and placing it in his hands, looked up in his eyes with a sweet, frank smile. "If his mind is at rest, he will soon be better." "I am sure he will," said Glynn, his heart swelling with infinite compassion, as he thought of the tangled villainous mesh which had twined itself round her pure and simple life. To him belonged the task of protecting and delivering her. "And you too," he added, "you need rest and a sense of security." "When I see him well, I too shall be myself again." Glynn took her hand, and kissed it reverently. Something of consciousness called the color to her cheek at the touch of his lips, and it was with a faint, delicious glow of hope that Glynn went back to Lambert, who, drawing out a key which hung to his watch-chain, unlocked the box. After a little search he produced a small case from which he took an old-fashioned gold ring, two hands clasped, and a bracelet of tiny turquoises on each wrist. "There," said Lambert, "that is the ring I took from the poor fellow's hand after he had breathed his last." Lady Gethin took it, and sat looking at it for a moment or two, her keen black eyes suffused with tears. "This is indeed a message from the grave," she said, with much emotion. "I gave this ring to Isabel Acton, a few days before she married my relative, Gilbert Deering. I was very poor at the time, and had little or nothing to give, so took this quaint old thing from my finger to put on hers. I never saw the poor girl again." "What an extraordinary piece of evidence!" exclaimed Glynn. "It corroborates the effect of your daughter's remarkable likeness to her mother. 'There is a providence that shapes our ends,'" said Lady Gethin in a low tone, and silence fell upon them, from which she was the first to rouse herself. "There is no time to be lost in making some arrangement that will relieve you from this horrible condition of fear and concealment. Let us consult my lawyer." "A lawyer!—no, no!" cried Lambert. "That would be dangerous." "We must proceed with infinite caution," observed Glynn. "Deering's position is a strong one. You have only your own word to weigh against his. If we could get hold of Vincent?" "There is little chance of that," said Lambert. "If I could only be sure my precious Elsie were safe." "She shall come and stay with me," cried Lady Gethin with enthusiasm. "That would be going into the lion's jaws," said Glynn. "This is my plan: I have learned to love your daughter (as I still consider her); let me try and win her; and let us keep all dark till she is my wife." Lambert stretched out his hand to grasp Glynn's; he tried to speak in vain, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. "Moreover," continued Glynn solemnly, "I promise, that if Deering resigns his bold attempts at revenge, no love of mere wealth shall induce me to open up the question of Elsie's parentage or your past life." The sound of her father's sobs brought Elsie into the room, and broke off the conversation. "It is altogether the most extraordinary romance I ever heard of," said Lady Gethin, when Glynn called a few days after these exciting disclosures. "I have been thinking what is best to be done. Suppose I take Elsie abroad with me, and you follow. You can be married quietly, and then snap your fingers at Deering. Lambert alone he could easily crush, but Lambert as 'father-in-law to a very magnificent three-tailed Bashaw' is a different matter. I am deeply interested in your little lady-love, and I am by no means disposed to give up her inheritance to that double-dyed traitor." "You must remember I have not yet been accepted. I have not even tried my chance." "Pray do not lose any more time. She would never be such a fool as to refuse you! You are really a very acceptable sort of man." "Thanks for the compliment. But I hesitate; because I dread the complications which would ensue if she refuses me!" "Fiddle-de-dee. She won't refuse you! I would not refuse you were I a young lady." Glynn laughed, and then grew grave. "I was rather annoyed yesterday to hear from Mrs. Kellett, who is staying at her cousin's school at Clapham, that she is afraid she is being watched—she is not sure; but of course she is nervously on the qui vive . She rarely ventures to Garston Terrace; and the blessed day I found Elsie they had met at that hotel in Holborn to arrange some money matters, as Mrs. Kellett is afraid to write." "What a dreadful state of things! So it was Elsie's voice you heard at Clapham! Was that Mrs. Storrer in the secret?" "Not altogether. When Elsie first went she thought she was French; afterwards Mrs. Kellett partially confided in her, and between them they prepared the story of her having gone with a family to India, in case of inquiries." "Well!" said Lady Gethin, "I shall make my preparations for going abroad; and you go and settle things with Elsie and her father. By the way, have you found out how he escaped from the steamer where Vincent absolutely saw him en route for America?" "By a very clever dodge. Lambert waited and watched till he found a needy countryman something of his own height and color, who wished to go to New York. He offered to pay this man's passage from Liverpool if he would go under the name of Lambert. This he readily agreed to. Lambert went to see him off. His representative wore a mackintosh of a peculiar cut, a chimney-pot hat, and a large, white comforter muffling the lower part of his face. Lambert had a brown cloth overcoat, and fur travelling-cap. He and his friend talked together on the deck till the last moment, and then seeing Vincent (of whose presence he had been aware) move off, he slipped behind some shelter with his friend, and changed coat and hat in hot haste; Lambert twisted the comforter round his throat and face, and joined the crowd on the gangway a little behind Vincent. The fellow paused on the pier to watch the rest go by; and Lambert passed him with the utmost sang-froid , even stopping to wave his hand to his friend on deck, and then walked smartly on, jumped into a cab, and caught the London train." "Well done! But the most determined will, the most inventive brain, cannot keep up concealment in these days if you are looked for! Suppose you were to see Deering yourself, Hugh?" "No; the only chance for present peace is to let him suppose that I am ignorant of the truth." "Perhaps so! I must say I am most reluctant to let that wretch escape." "So am I; but I think of Elsie before everything. Well, go away and settle everything with her; tell her to be ready to start for the Continent on Monday." It was late before Glynn reached Garston Terrace; he had had some business to attend to, and took a hasty meal at his club, thus securing a long evening. Never did the way seem so long. He was resolved that if an opportunity offered, or even if it did not, to avow his affection to Elsie, and try to obtain her promise in return. When he reached the door, the landlady informed him that Missee "was very much upset, and waiting for him in the drawing-room." The moment he entered she flew to him with outstretched hands, which he took and tenderly held. "Why have you been so long? Oh! I have seen him. He has followed us here! What shall we do?—how shall we escape?" "Whom have you seen?" asked Glynn, drawing her to him, distressed at the wild fear in her eyes. "Vincent!" she whispered. "I saw him from my bedroom about three hours ago; my room is to the front. He did not see me, I am sure; he was looking round when I first caught sight of him, and his back was towards me, so I kept behind the curtain. Oh! Mr. Glynn, it will kill my father, I know it will! What can we do? Will you not help us?" "I would give my life to buy peace for you, sweetest," cried Glynn passionately. "Give me the right to be with you, to guard you and your father! I love you with all my heart and soul. Give me a little love in return! be my own dear wife. I swear, whether you are or not, that accursed American shall do you no harm. Elsie, beloved! will you be mine?" He grasped her hands tightly, and held her eyes with his, as if he would penetrate her heart's secret. At first an expression of profoundest amazement flitted over her face, succeeded by a deep burning blush, as she shrank back from him. "Are you sure this is not compassion?" she asked, in a very low voice. "Compassion? No; why should it be compassion? Do you not feel, do you not see, that I love you, as men rarely love?" A curious, amused smile stole round Elsie's lips, and her eyes sunk to the ground. "What do you smile at?" asked Glynn, surprised in his turn. "At your change of mind. Some seven or eight months ago you refused to marry me!" "How do you know?" cried Glynn, feeling as if the glowing currents in his veins were arrested and turned to ice. "By means of which I ought to be and am ashamed." "Tell me!" "You were sitting after dinner with my father, and I came into my own little room. The curtain was down, but I heard him say something about 'my jewel,' as he so often called me, and," hesitating, "I listened. I know it was shameful, but I could not resist. What struck me most was that he offered to go away, not to see me. I wondered what sort of man you could be to need such an assurance!" "What could you have thought of me?" cried Glynn. "Can you ever forgive my insane folly?" "Oh! I did not mind! These plans of marriage are often made by thoughtful parents. You hardly knew me then; it would have been foolish to agree to what might not have been suitable. I did not dream of marrying you. You seemed to me too——" "Old?" suggested Glynn, more charmed than ever with her sweet, grave simplicity, and thirsting to kiss the lovely mouth that spoke so melodiously. "No," with a smile, "not old, but grand; I cannot exactly express what I mean. I did not want to marry you. Indeed, I was so taken up with what my father said about keeping away from me, that I did not think much about you." "Will you think of me now?" exclaimed Glynn. "Look at me, dearest! read my heart in my eyes. Believe me, there is nothing in heaven above, or earth beneath, that I desire as I desire your love!" Elsie grew a little pale. "I am half-frightened at the idea. It is not good for you; it is not wise of you; though I am ignorant of the world, I know it must be bad for any man to marry a girl who has been obliged to hide away as I have been—who is surrounded with mystery and fear, and who could never, never forsake her dear father even for you!" "Even for me! then you love me a little, Elsie?" "I do!" with a slight sob. "I love you for your loyalty and goodness to my father. I love you"—she stopped and added with gentle solemnity—"for yourself." Yielding to his passionate embrace, she clung to him and burst into a fit of wild weeping that surprised and disturbed him. "I hope it is not wrong to let you love me," she murmured brokenly; "I do not know what is behind, and if we must part——" "We never shall unless by your special wish, my own, my life. I know everything, and you shall know everything by and by. Will you not wait and trust your father and me?" "I will," she returned, and Glynn felt her "I will" was equal to another's oath. She disengaged herself from his arms, and stood for an instant with clasped hands in silent, prayerful thought. Glynn waited till she stirred, and then taking her hand, began softly to explain to her the necessity of a speedy marriage, and Lady Gethin's wish to take her abroad at once. This Elsie demurred to; she could not leave her father, who, though wonderfully recovered in health, was greatly depressed and despondent. "Let us go and consult him," said Glynn. "Oh, yes; I have forgotten him too long. Shall we tell him that I saw Vincent?" "No, certainly not. The knowledge will not add to his safety, and may injure him. He must leave this——" "He is very safe here. The house is really ours. Mrs. Kellett took it furnished for a year. The landlady is really her old servant, who knew me as a child. She was here for two months before we came. She will never say anything that could betray us." "Ah! an excellent plan. But come to your father—we must consult him." Lambert was reading a newspaper when they entered his room. He was looking stronger and more like himself than Glynn had seen him since they had met in London. He welcomed them cordially, glancing from one to the other, as if perceiving traces of unusual emotion. "Lambert," said Glynn, "we have come to ask your consent. I am so infinitely happy as to have won Elsie's; you will not withhold yours?" "My God, I thank Thee!" murmured Lambert. "My child—my Elsie, you will be safe now, and I have done with life." Elsie ran to him, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him over and over again, exclaiming, "No, my own dear father, you will begin life anew; the best of it is to come. He loves you, too; he will help me to make you happy." When they were a little calmer Glynn began to speak of Lady Gethin's plans, and rather to Elsie's surprise Lambert was eager to adopt them. He declared it would make his mind quite easy to know that his daughter was under Lady Gethin's care; that he would soon be able to travel, and join them with Glynn. He seemed eager that this plan should be carried out. "Father," said Elsie, taking his hand in both hers, "will you not trust me?—will you not tell me the secret?" "Well, not quite all of it," said Lambert, with a peculiar look at Glynn. "You see, my dear, a long time ago I was foolish enough to get mixed up in a political plot to upset the Government in Ireland. Well, it never came to anything; a blackguard connected with it betrayed everything, and he was murdered out—oh, out in California. Well, unfortunately I was the last person seen with him, and Deering has got evidence that might hang me. Now I don't want a row until I have the means of disproving his assertions. Of course he has an object in all this, and of course you don't believe I would take a life?" " You , dear, dear father! No, indeed; but why—why were you obliged to hide me ? Would it not be better to face it all?" "I hid you, my darling, because that red devil had a design to remove you from my guardianship on the plea that I was a criminal; and as to facing it, I'll do that when I have counter evidence, which I hope to get." "Which is only prudent," put in Glynn. "It is all very strange," said Elsie, trembling visibly. "They cannot hurt him, can they?"—to Glynn. "They shall not. And you," she continued, turning to him, "you wish to marry me in the face of all this?" "As ardently as if you were the daughter of the proudest potentate in Europe." Elsie was silent, her bosom heaved, tears hung heavy on her long lashes, and it was only by a strong effort of her habitual self-control that she resisted an outburst of tears. "You are fit for the best king that ever sat on a throne," cried Lambert: "and Glynn is worthy of you. Now, my darling, go—go write a letter to Mrs. Kellett and tell her everything; Glynn will post it (we are desperately cautious about communicating with Mrs. Kellett), and I will have a little talk with Glynn." Elsie, who looked shocked and shaken, kissed her father's hand lovingly, and exclaimed: "You can never be accused seriously. Surely there is no danger? Why does Mr. Deering hate you? I did not believe there was such wickedness except in books." With an appealing look at Glynn, she left the room. "It was a good thought," said Lambert, leaning back with a deep sigh, "a very good thought, to make her believe I was mixed up with the rebel Irish; so I have been, but not much. Anything rather than the truth. I tell you, Glynn, she must never know that I killed her own father, of whom she has still a confused memory, for she has let out that I sometimes seem different from the picture her early memory presents of me. I'd die out-right rather, Glynn. The toils press me closer and closer, but my Elsie will be safe with you." "As safe as love and care can make her," said Glynn in a low, solemn tone. "Then it matters little about me," said Lambert, and remained silent for a few minutes with a look of deepest despondency. "Suppose you let me see Deering on your behalf?" suggested Glynn. "I might——" "No, no," interrupted Lambert vehemently; "none must meddle with him but me. Once Elsie is away, I will go and see him. If he knows she is safe out of his reach, the black villain, he may come to terms. But he'd do anything for revenge. I believe he could hang me; and he might choose to destroy me, and through me my darling. No; I will see him myself as soon as I am a trifle stronger." Lambert rose, and walked up and down the room with a sort of feeble energy very touching. "If I could get out," he said, "I'd gather strength, and I don't want to face that scoundrel till I have the pluck to stand up to him. Oh, Glynn, Glynn, I feel as if he would get the better of me!" "You must keep up your heart, Lambert, for her sake. If Deering knows that Elsie is, or soon will be, my wife, and that you will not press any claim upon him, he will be glad enough to keep quiet." "May be so, may be so; anyway, you lifted a great load off my mind by making it all right with my jewel. I'll let you go now, I am desperate tired. You go and have a little talk with Elsie while I rest and think what's best to be done. You tell Elsie to get all ready to start with Lady Gethin; and, Glynn, promise me one thing—never let her know that I shot her father. Your hand on it." "I promise you," said Glynn gravely. Another delightful hour with Elsie, and he was obliged to go. He had persuaded her to accompany Lady Gethin, and had undertaken not to lose sight of her father until he conveyed him safely to Lausanne. The idea that Deering was plotting against his life had greatly affected her. "There must be much you do not tell me," she said. "The whole thing seems so strange and terrible." "No doubt it does," said Glynn. "Later, I am sure, your father will tell you more. Now, my love, my darling, I must leave you." "Before you go," said Elsie, raising her eyes to his with a grave smile, "tell me your name! I never heard it, and I want to know; I want to call you by some name more familiar than Mr. Glynn in my thoughts." "I hope you will, dearest. I am called Hugh." "Hugh! I do not know that name. I like it. It sounds strong." Then, with a vivid blush, but a certain steadiness, as if she had made up her mind, she said, "Good-night, dear Hugh." Glynn clasped her in his arms, and kissing her tenderly implored her to take courage and believe that her father's innocence would yet be proved, and the villainy plotted against him frustrated. It was a dreadful wrench for Elsie to part from her father. It needed the united influence and urging both of Glynn and Lambert to persuade her at the last. For the few days intervening between Glynn's avowal and Elsie's departure, Lambert walked every morning in the little garden behind the house, leaning on his daughter's arm. He seemed feverishly eager to regain strength now that the local doctor who attended him ceased his visits, and declared him convalescent. Lambert, having determined to declare himself to Deering, was less nervously anxious to keep in hiding, and even drove with Glynn and Elsie as far as Lady Gethin's the morning of the day the latter were to start for the Continent. He wanted, he said, to see the last of his child. "The last for the next few weeks," corrected Glynn. "May be so, may be so," said Lambert, with a sad ring in his voice. Lady Gethin made him welcome, and at once evinced an inclination to pet Elsie, who was too much overcome by the dread of leaving her father to heed the minute kindnesses heaped upon her. "Don't be too downcast about her," said Lady Gethin, who was in her element at the head of affairs and in the centre of a romantic mystery. "When she is clear away, and has had a few cheering letters from her father, she will be all right. The sooner he makes things square with Deering the better. I can never believe he would be such a headstrong idiot as to throw away a splendid estate and high position for the sake of mere revenge." "Mere revenge! It is a powerful incentive. Remember the ill-health of that crippled boy of his! I doubt if he cares to transmit much to him, and then he no doubt counts on a compromise that he would be left the life-use of the property." "To which I hope and trust you would never consent, Hugh! I'd take that wretch's skin off, if I could! In fact I have set my heart on seeing you master of Denham one of these days. It is infamous that wickedness should flourish in high places." "I prefer keeping my word to Lambert that Elsie should never know how her real father died, to possessing the finest property in the kingdom." "Well, you need not break your word; neither need you be Quixotic." These sentences were exchanged in the dining-room, from which Lambert and Elsie had retired to have a few words in private in Lady Gethin's boudoir. Thither she and Glynn followed them, the latter drawing Elsie into the conservatory adjoining. "The next fortnight will be awfully blank," he exclaimed, when they were out of earshot. "By that time I trust all difficulties will be surmounted, and I shall be able to start with your father for Lausanne; then I trust there will only be peace and love for you both in the future." "Would to God this terrible interval were over!" said Elsie, with a quivering sigh. "I intend to insist on your father's staying with me in my chambers until he is free to join you! Trust him to me, dearest," replied Glynn. "How good you are! How can I ever thank you enough?" cried Elsie, and carried away by tenderness and gratitude her arms stole round his neck, and she kissed him repeatedly in all the simple sincerity of unhesitating affection. Soon after, as it was growing late, Lambert proposed returning to his lodgings. He had said good-bye to Lady Gethin, and tenderly embraced Elsie. He had even gone half-way down-stairs when he suddenly paused, and turning back exclaimed, "I must take one more look at her," and ascending to the drawing-room, took her hand in both his own. Gazing intently into her face, he said softly, "My own jewel! Have I made you happy? Will you pardon me any wrong I may have done you?" "Wrong!—you have done me nothing but good. No father ever made a daughter happier than you have made me." "Then give me a loving thought now and again. God bless you, my darling. Good-bye, good-bye." "Only for a little while, dearest, best!" she exclaimed. "Be careful, and come to me soon!" Lambert made no reply. He hurried into the cab which waited below, and accompanied by Glynn returned to his lodgings in safety. There was little or no difficulty in persuading Lambert to accept his future son-in-law's invitation. Though greatly pleased to know Elsie was with Lady Gethin, he evidently shrank from being alone, and was in so low and nervous a condition that Glynn insisted on carrying him off to his chambers the day after Elsie's departure. Here he revived considerably, and was able to receive a visit from Mrs. Kellett. Letters from Elsie and Lady Gethin also cheered him. Still he was not himself, and his restlessness was painful at times. Glynn carefully avoided any appearance of change in his habits, and went out to dinners and parties as usual. At one of these he encountered Deering, and took the initiative by asking if he had been all this time in the country, as he had not met him anywhere lately. "I stayed longer than I intended at Denham, putting matters in train for the election, and now that radical fellow Smithson will neither die or retire. But you have been rather scarce lately. I haven't seen you in the haunts of men." "I think I have been as much about as usual. By the way, is your American friend Vincent in town? I fancied I saw him the other day in Bond Street." "Vincent! yes; at least he was last week. The fellow is a born detective. He will not give up the chase after Lambert and his daughter. It seems he found out that the woman who brought Miss Lambert up is staying at Clapham, and he has been dodging her, thinking he will track the Lamberts through her. By the way, the American police are duffers: they have at last found out that they have been hunting the wrong man. My own belief is that Lambert never quitted England." "Perhaps not," returned Glynn. "Are you to be at the Milton wedding next week? Lady Agnes is your sister-in-law, is she not?" "No, only my wife's cousin; she is not very well,—Lady Frances I mean,—and I have begged off the festivity. I go down to Denham on Wednesday for a few days. I am making some alterations there, and want to look after them." "Well, good-night." Glynn returned with so much information for Lambert, who was evidently stirred by it. "I am better and stronger," he said, rising and stretching himself: "I'll take heart, and go talk to him in the midst of his ill-gotten property; maybe he'll hear reason. If not——" "If not, let me see him and remonstrate." "Anyway, I'll not bear this state of misery any longer; I'll find freedom somehow!" cried Lambert, with an air of determination. CHAPTER XI. PAID IN FULL. "I feel like myself," said Lambert to his host, a few days after the encounter above recorded. "I'll go down to Denham to-morrow, and get my interview with Deering over." "I am not at all sure you are equal to it, Lambert; you are feverish and excited. Why not wait till he comes up to town?" "Because I'd feel safer in the country. That fellow is just traitor enough to keep me in talk while he sent for a constable, and made a charge of murder against me. Constables are not so near at hand in the country." "I think you are mistaken; I don't fancy Deering will cut off his nose to spite his face." "It's hard to tell. Anyhow I'll try him. I suppose there is some village or town near where a man could put up?" "There is a village at Denham, I believe, but the railway-station is five or six miles off, I am told, at a town called Earlshall, where no doubt you will find accommodation. I wish you would leave the matter in my hands, Lambert." "That I cannot; but I think I am sufficiently backed up now to make terms with him." "I wish you could carry the war into the enemy's country, but that without witnesses would be impossible," returned Glynn. "Make the best terms you can. I agree with you in thinking that no amount of wealth could atone for shocking and grieving Elsie." "Nothing could!" ejaculated Lambert. "And suppose I am hanged, will you be true to my darling?" "Yes, even if I believed you guilty of murder, I would stick to her!" Lambert seized and pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence resumed: "I'll go and sleep at my own place to-night; it's nearer the Great Northern, and I'll start off to-morrow morning. Maybe I'll be lucky, hey?" He pulled out Elsie's last letter and read it through in silence. "She is happy anyway, but she's wearying for her old dad! God bless her! God bless her, and watch over her!"—with a burst of feeling. "The blessing of a vagabond like myself isn't worth much, but there it is. Maybe but for me she'd be a great lady now, and holding her own in the sight of all men." "And perhaps but for you she would be in her grave, or struggling in poverty and degradation," said Glynn. "Who can tell?" rejoined the other, and he left the room to prepare for his return to his own abode. "I'll not write to you, Glynn," were his last words at starting; "I'll just come straight back and tell you everything." "Do; and remember that the bolder front you can show, the greater the chance of his yielding. Speak as if you had a cloud of witnesses to back you." "Ay, that's the plan! I'll try it, if only my nerves keep as steady as they feel to-day." The chief inn of Earlshall, a small town on the borders of Northshire, was full and busy one morning in May, more than twelve months from the opening of this true history. It was market-day, and the coffee-room resounded with the loud voices and creaking boots of the neighboring farmers, who had looked in for a mouthful and "a drop of drink" somewhat stronger than coffee. The stables were full of strong, serviceable nags, worthy of the shire which bred them, and the busy hostlers had scarce time to attend to the demand of a stranger, who had been staying for the last two days at the inn, that one or other of them should saddle the horse he had ridden each day since he arrived. "Hand it over to me, and I'll saddle him myself," he said at length. "I am no fool about a horse, and can generally manage all I want with my own hands." So saying, he proceeded to saddle the steed he had selected, and soon trotted out of the yard. A stranger was a novelty at Earlshall, and several inquiries were addressed to "mine host," who mixed on pleasant, easy terms with his guests. "The visitor was from 'Lunnon' or from furrin parts." But he knew a horse when he saw one; he had been over to Denham all day long; the landlord's opinion was that likely he came from a newspaper, and he hoped as how he would write up the 'Black Horse.' There was a letter for him that morning from Denham. "I know the paper and the crest stamped outside," added the host; "I dare say he's an electioneering chap." Unconscious of these comments Lambert rode on, with a grey, set face, and firmly-closed mouth. The letter he had received that morning had been brief:—"I will hear what you have to say, but I do not wish a criminal to cross my threshold. You must meet me by the Deer's Barn in the Beech Wood, about a mile from the village. Any one will direct you." This had no signature, and was addressed to "Mr. Smith." Lambert took it out and read it, gnashing his teeth as he did so. "The insolent, daring villain," he muttered; "can I do nothing to turn his flank? If he had a gleam of conscience he would be less daringly unscrupulous, but he hasn't enough to make a coward of him. Glynn is my best card, but Deering knows his strength; he has only to lie boldly, and I am at his mercy. But he'll never get hold of her : she is safe from him." Then his thoughts wandered away to a bit of country near Mrs. Kellett's home, where in some of his many visits to his darling daughter, he had led her little Welsh pony, while she talked to him of her own simple fancies—of her dearly loved pets, of the wild flowers, and birds, and insects, all of which were so familiar to the country-bred child. What a foretaste of heaven it all was! No soiled sinner purified by purgatorial fires and admitted into the divine calm of celestial joy could have felt more keenly the sense of regeneration and revival than the poor battered wanderer who had devoted himself to the care of his enemy's orphan; and now, as he reflected that he had brought misfortune to the creature he so fondly loved, that he had unconsciously put her and himself into the power of a bold scoundrel, his heart throbbed with fury so wild, so overpowering, that he was almost alarmed at himself. "I must keep my brain clear," he muttered. "I wish I could get quit of this mad desire to shoot Deering,—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't do. I could never stroll through cool country lanes with my Elsie again; I never could stroke her bright hair with this right hand if it had committed murder. That I have never done. No, Deering, you infernal liar, never!—only in fair fight have I killed my man." He stopped with an odd sense of confusion, finding that he spoke aloud. His horse stumbling at the same time, the current of his thoughts changed. He began to look forward. Elsie and Glynn were married; they had a beautiful home in London, and he (Lambert) a snug little apartment in Paris—he was more at home in Paris—and they visited each other. Then as years stole on, and he didn't care to move about much, he would sit in his chair, and Elsie would soothe him with her heavenly songs, her delicious voice. Ah well, he might bring Deering to reason; if not, well, he could never meet Elsie's eyes when opened to the knowledge of deeds hidden away in his past life. Anyhow he must commit no act of violence; this 'must not' but thinly veiled a strange kind of conviction that something beyond himself would compel him to do a desperate deed. When he reached the very humble little hostelry distinguished by the sign of the 'Saracen's Head,' the crest of the Deerings, which stood beside the village green of Denham, Lambert was cool and collected enough. He dismounted, and desired that his horse should be given a feed of oats, that the girths should be loosened, but the saddle was not to be removed, "for," said he very deliberately, "I want to finish a sketch of the Deer's Barn, and get back to catch the up-train at Earlshall about six, so I may want the horse all in a hurry." So saying, he walked quietly through the great old wrought-iron gates, and up the stately avenue for a few hundred yards. Then striking to the left, he quickened his pace, and plunged into the beautiful woods all flushed with the first tender green of spring, trampling down the great feathery fronds of the fern, the variously-tinted leafage of the undergrowth, till he reached an open space, from which a heath and gorse-grown upland sloped gently towards some distant hills. And all these grand woods, this beautiful sweep of hills, these groups of dappled deer, that murmuring brown stream, the solemn, stately beeches that clustered round the barn which stood at the verge of the deer-park,—all these were Elsie's; and as he thought, Travers Deering came out from the shadow of the rough, picturesque edifice and advanced to meet him. The two men came face to face, a little in the rear of the barn, and stood in silence for a few seconds, eyeing each other with deadly hatred; nor was the gaze of the unscrupulous villain a shade less steady or unflinching than that of the man he intended to make his victim. "Pray why have you taken the trouble to come down here, when you might have seen me in town next week?" asked Deering coolly. "For various reasons, chiefly because I could not wait." "Then you have something important, something favorable for yourself to propose. First, where is Elsie? You know?" "I do." "Is she in England?" "No." "Will you tell me where she is?" "I will further on." "Very good. Let me hear what you have to say," taking out a cigar, and striking a fusee he lit it with elaborate composure.

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