Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“I hate him,” cried Cynthia, angrily. “He’s a great stupid coward.”

“No, you don’t, Cynthy; and you don’t think he is a coward.”

“Well, perhaps I don’t hate him very much, and perhaps I don’t think him a very great coward; but, oh! Harry, if I had been a man, do you think I would have allowed that miserable – miserable – ”

“Design for a wall-paper or fresco?” suggested Artingale.

“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Cynthia, laughing and clapping her hands with childlike delight. “That’s it: what a grand idea! Oh, Harry, how clever you are!”

She looked up at him admiringly, and he smiled, and – Well, of course, that was sure to follow. Young lovers are so very foolish, and it came natural to them to tangle one another up in their arms, and for Cynthia’s nose to be hidden by Artingale’s moustache.

Then they grew sage, as the French call it, once more, and Artingale spoke —

“That’s right, little pet, think so if you can; but I wish, for your sake, I were – ”

“Were what, sir?”

“Clever. Do you know, Cynthy, I often think what a good job it was that nature had the property valued before I was launched.”

“Why, you dear stupid old boy, what do you mean?”

“What I say, pet: had me valued. Then he said, ‘Well, he’s got no brains, and he’ll never do any good for himself if he is left alone; so I’ll make him a lord and give him an income.’”

“Oh, Harry, what nonsense!”

“And then, to help me on a bit farther when I had grown to years of indiscretion, she gave me, or is about to give me, the dearest and best and sweetest and most beautiful of little women to be my wife.”

Which was, of course, very stupid again; and more resulted, after which Artingale said quietly —

“Cynthy, dear, you believe in me thoroughly?”

“Thoroughly, Harry.”

“You know I love you with all my heart?”

“Yes, Harry,” she replied, with her hands in his.

“Then you will not think me strange if I say to you I don’t want to be married yet?”

“N-no,” said Cynthia, with just a suspicion of hesitation.

“Then I’m going to speak out plainly, darling. I’m stupid in some things, but I’m as sharp as a needle concerning anything about you, and I couldn’t help seeing that the Rector and mamma thought that our wedding might take place at the same time as Julia’s.”

“Ye-es,” faltered Cynthia.

“Well, then,” said Artingale, “I would rather for several reasons it did not.”

He waited for a few moments, but Cynthia did not speak.

“I’m not going to talk nonsense about being like brothers,” he continued, “and loving James Magnus; but, Cynthy, dear, I never yet met a man whom I liked half so well, and – and I’d do anything for poor old Jemmy. Well,” he continued, “for one thing, it seems horrible to me to make that the happiest day of my life which will be like that which kills his last hope.”

Cynthia did not speak, but nestled closely to him.

“Then it gives me a sensation like having a cold douche to think of going up the church with that fellow, for I know he’ll be dressed up like a figure in an old picture, with his sisters and friends like so many animated pre-Raphaelites in an idyllic procession attending the funeral of a fay.”

“I say, Harry,” cried Cynthia, “that’s not your language, sir. Where did you pick it up?”

“Oh, out of Perry-Morton’s new poems, as he called them. ’Pon my word, you know, I should feel as if it was a sort of theatrical performance. Oh, Cynthy, I should like to have you in white, and take you by the hand, and walk into some out-of-the-way little church in the country, where there was a nice, pleasant old parson, who’d read the service and say God bless us both; and then for us to go away – right away, where all was green fields and flowers, and birds singing, and all the confounded nonsense and fuss and foolery of a fashionable wedding was out of my sight; and Cynthy, darling, let’s make a runaway match of it, and go and be married to-morrow – to-day – now; or let’s wait till poor Julia has been sold. There, pet, hang it all! it makes me wild.”

He jumped up and began to pace the room, and Cynthia went up to him and put her arm through his.

“Harry, dear,” she said softly, “you’ve made me very happy by what you have told me. Let’s wait, dear. I should not like to be married then. I should like – should like – ” she faltered, with her pretty little face burning – “our wedding to be all happiness and joy; and on the day when Julia is married to Perry-Morton, I shall cry ready to break my heart.”

Part 2, Chapter XII.
Lambent Love

A certain small world, of which Mr Perry-Morton was one of the shining lights, was deeply agitated, moved to its very volcanic centre, and gave vent to spasmodic utterances respecting the approaching marriage of their apostle to Julia, eldest daughter of the Rev. Eli Mallow, Rector of Lawford. There were no less than four paragraphs in as many papers concerning the bride’s parure and trousseau, and the presents she was receiving.

“But I thought it would have excited more notice,” said the Rev. Eli, mildly, after a discussion with the invalid, wherein he had firmly maintained his intention not to invite Cyril and his wife to the wedding.

The papers devoted to art gave a description of the interior of Mr Perry-Morton’s new mansion in Westminster, and dwelt at great length upon the artistic furnishing, and the additions being made of art tapestry, carpets, and curtains manufactured by the well-known firm of Gimpsley and Stough, from the designs of Smiless, A.R.A., and the wealthy bridegroom himself. The golden beetle conventionally treated was the leading motif in all the designs, and a yellow silk of a special orange-golden hue had been prepared for the purpose, the aniline dye being furnished by Judd, Son and Company. The carpets were so designed that on at-home nights the guests would be standing in the midst of gorgeous bugs, as an American friend termed them – beetles whose wings seemed to be moving beneath the feet of those who trod thereon. But the great feature of the salon was the central ottoman, which was a conventional rendering of a bank of flowers supporting golden beetles, amidst which were a few places upon which the so-inclined might rest and fancy the insects were alive.

Columns of chat were written in praise of Perry-Morton and his place, and copies of the papers in which they were, somehow found their way into a great many houses through the length and breadth of the land.

There was only one drawback to the joys of the stained-glass sisters, as they showed their friends through the house, and posed in graceful attitudes all over the carpets and against the hangings, in whose folds they almost wrapped themselves in their sweetly innocent delight – there was only one drawback, and that was, that another season was gliding by, and they were still on the matrimonial house-agents’ books – these two eligible artistic cottages ornées to let.

Stay: there was another drawback. When dear Perry was married they would have to go, for unless dearest Julia pressed them very, very much indeed to continue their residence there, of course they could not stay.

These were busy times for Perry-Morton, who, in addition to the almost herculean labours which he went through in planning and designing, so as to make his home worthy of his goddess, had to beam every evening in Parkleigh Gardens.

This beaming was a very beautiful performance. Some men love with their eyes and look languishing, dart passionate glances, or seem to ask questions or sympathy from the fair one of their worship. Others, more manly and matter-of-fact, love with their tongues, and if clever in the use of this speaking organ, these generally woo and win, for most women love to be conquered by one who is their master in argument and pleading. There are others, again, who do not woo at all, but allow themselves to be fished for, hooked, and – and – what shall we say? There – cooked, for there is no more expressive way of describing their fate.

But Perry-Morton was none of those. He was like the Archduke in the French comic opera, nothing unless he was original; and it was only reasonable to suppose that he would bring his great artistic mind to bear upon so important a part of his life as the choice of an Eve for his modern-antique paradise. He did his wooing, then, in a way of his own, and came nightly to beam upon the object of his worship.

This he did in attitudes of his own designing, while Cynthia felt as if, to use her own words, she should like to stick pins in the man’s back.

For Perry-Morton’s love seemed to emanate from him in a phosphorescent fashion. He became lambent with softly luminous smiles. His plump face shone with a calm ethereal satisfaction, and of all men in the world he seemed most happy.

He did not trouble Julia much, only with his presence. He would lay a finger on the back of her chair, and pose himself like a sculptor’s idea of one of the fat gods in the Greek Pantheon – say Bacchus, before too much grape-juice had begun to interfere with the proper working of his digestive organs. Or before the first wanderings of his very severe attacks of D.T., which must have caused so much consternation and dismay in Olympus’ pleasant groves, and bothered Aesculapius, who applied leeches, because he would not own to his ignorance of the new disease.

He never kissed Julia once, so Cynthia declared. It is open to doubt whether he ever pressed her hand. His was the kiss-the-hem-of-the-lady’s-garment style of love, and he once terribly alarmed Julia by gracefully reclining at her feet, with one arm resting upon a footstool, and gazing blandly in her face.

At other times he seemed to love her from a distance – getting into far-off corners of the room, and gazing from different points of view, standing, sitting, lying on sofas – always gracefully and in the most sculpturesque fashion. In fact, Artingale in great disgust wondered why he did not try standing on his head: but that was absurd.

As the day fixed for the wedding drew near, Perry-Morton was most regular in his visits – most devoted, and his lambent softness seemed to pervade the parental drawing-rooms.

Meanwhile Julia went about like one in a dream. She was less hysterical and timid than she had been for many weeks past, and finding that her lover troubled her so little, she bore his presence patiently, delighting him, as he confided to Cynthia, by her “heavenly calm.”

“I don’t think she’s well,” said Cynthia, shortly.

“Not well?” he said, with a pitying smile. “My sweet Cynthia, you cannot read her character as I read it. Do you not see how, for months past, our love has grown, rising like some lotus out from the cool depths of an Eastern lake till it has reached the surface, where it is about to unfold its petals to the glowing sun. Ah, my sweet child, you do not see how I have been forming her character, day by day, hour by hour, till she has reached to this sweet state of blissful repose. Look at her now.”

This conversation was going on in the back drawing-room, on the evening preceding the wedding-day, every one being very tired of the visitors and congratulations, and present-giving, the Rector especially, and he confided to Mrs Mallow the fact that after all he would be very glad to get away back to Lawford and be at peace.

“Yes,” said Cynthia, rather ill-humouredly, for Harry had not been there that evening, “I see her, and she looks very poorly.”

“Poorly? Unwell? Nay,” said Perry-Morton serenely, “merely in a beatific state of repose. Ah, Cynthia, my child, when she is my very own, and Claudine has imparted to her some of the riches of her own wisdom on the question of dress, I shall be a happy man.”

Cynthia seemed to give every nerve in her little body a kind of snatch, but the lover did not perceive it; he only closed his eyes, walked to the half-pillar that supported the arch between the two rooms, leaned his shoulder against it, crossed his legs, gazed at poor listless Julia for a few moments from this point of view, and then turning his half-closed eyes upon Cynthia, beckoned to her softly to come.

“Oh,” whispered the latter to herself, as she drew a long breath between her teeth, “I wish I were going to be married to him to-morrow instead of Julia. How I would bring him to his senses, or knock something into his dreadful head, or – there, I suppose I must go. Julia must be mad.”

“Yes,” she said, as she crossed to where her brother in prospective stood.

“There,” he said; “look now. Could there be a sweeter ideal of perfect repose? Good – good night, dear Cynthia, I am going to steal away without a word to a soul. I would not break in upon her rapturous calm; and the memory of her sweet face, as I see it now, will soothe me during the long watches of the peaceful night. Good night, Cynthia. Ah, you should have changed names. Yonder is Cynthia in all her calm silvery beauty. Good night, sweet sister – good night – good night.”

There was something very moonlike in his looks and ways as he softly stole from the room and out of the house, leaving Cynthia motionless with astonishment.

“I want to know,” she said to herself at last, “whether those two are really going to be married to-morrow, or whether it is only a dream. But there, I wash my hands of it all; I feel to-night as if I hate everybody – papa, mamma, Harry for not killing that horrible jelly-fish of a creature. Oh, he’s dreadful! And Julia, for letting herself be led as she is, when she might have married dear James Magnus, and been happy. No! poor girl, I must not blame her. She felt that she could not love him, and perhaps she is right.”

“Good night, Julia darling; I’m going to bed,” she whispered, and, seating herself by her sister, she clasped her waist, and placed her lips against her cheek.

“To bed? so soon?” said Julia, dreamily.

“Soon! It is past eleven. Will you come and sit with me in my room, or shall I come to you?”

Julia shook her head.

“Not to-night – not to-night,” she said softly; and she clasped her sister in her arms. “Good night, Cynthia dear. Think lovingly of me always when I am gone.”

“Lovingly, Julie, always,” whispered Cynthia; “always, dear sister.”

“Always – whatever comes?” whispered Julia.

“Always, whatever comes. Shall I come and sit with you, Julie; only for an hour?”

“No,” said Julia, firmly, “not to-night. Let us go to our rooms.”

They went out of the drawing-room with their arms round each other’s waists, till they were about to part at Julia’s door, when the final words and appeals that Cynthia was about to speak died away upon her lips, and she ran to her own chamber, sobbing bitterly, while, white as ashes, and trembling in every limb, Julia entered hers.

“Poor, poor Julie!” sobbed Cynthia; and for a good ten minutes she wept, her maid sniffing softly in sympathy till she was dismissed.

“Go away, Minson,” cried Cynthia; “I don’t want you any more.”

“But won’t you try on your dress again, miss?” said the maid in expostulation.

“No, Minson, I only wish it was fresh mourning, I do,” cried the girl, passionately; and the maid withdrew, to meet Julia’s maid on the stairs, and learn that she never knew such a thing before in her life – a young bride, and wouldn’t try on her things.

Cynthia sat thinking for a few minutes, and then a bright look came into her eyes.

“He didn’t come to-night,” she said. “He was cross about Julie. I wonder whether I could see the bright end of a cigar if I looked out over the gardens. Oh, the cunning of some people, to give policemen half-sovereigns not to take them for burglars, and lock them up.”

As she spoke, Cynthia drew up her blind softly, and holding back the curtain, ensconced herself in the corner, so that she could look down into the gardens, her window being towards the park.

It was a soft, dark night, but the light of a lamp made the objects below dimly distinct, and she rubbed the window-pane to gaze out more clearly, saying laughingly to herself —

“I wonder whether Romeo will come!”

Directly after she pressed her face closer to the glass.

“There he is,” she said, with a gleeful little laugh. “No it isn’t, I’m sure. What does it mean? What is he doing there?”

Part 2, Chapter XIII.
An Eventful Night

“I can’t go, and I won’t go,” said Artingale. “It’s bad enough to have to be at the church to-morrow and see that poor little lass sacrificed, with everybody looking on smiling and simpering except, the bridesmaids, who are all expected to shed six tears.

“Six tears each, and six bridesmaids; that’s thirty-six tears. I’d almost bet a fiver that those two pre-Raphaelite angels will each be provided with an antique lachrymatory designed by their dear brother, and they’ll drop their tears therein and stopper them up.

“Oh, dear! This is a funny world, and I’m very fond of my pretty Cynthy, who’s a regular little trump; but I’m getting deuced hungry. I’ll go and hunt up old Mag, and we’ll have a bit of dinner together, and then go to the play. Liven him up a bit, poor old man. Hansom!”

A two-wheeled hawk swooped down, and carried him off to the studio of James Magnus, where that gentleman was busy with a piece of crayon making a design for a large cartoonlike picture, and after a good deal of pressing he consented to go to the club and dine with his friend.

“I’m afraid you’ll find me very dull company,” said Magnus, sadly.

“Then I’ll make you lively, my boy. I’m off duty to-night, and I feel like a jolly bachelor. Champagne; coffee afterwards, and unlimited cigars.”

“What a boy you are, Harry!” said the artist, quietly. “How you do seem to enjoy life!”

“Well, why shouldn’t I? Plenty of troubles come that one must face; why make others?”

“Is – is she to be married to-morrow, Harry?” said Magnus, quietly.

“I say, hadn’t we better taboo that subject, old fellow?” said Artingale, quickly.

“No. Why should we? Do you think I am not man enough to hear it calmly?” Artingale looked at him searchingly. “Well, yes, I hope so; and since you have routed out the subject, I suppose I must answer your question. Yes, she is, and more blame to you.”

“We will not discuss that, Harry,” said the other, sadly. “I know well enough that it was not in me to stir a single pulse in Julia Mallow’s veins, and I have accepted my fate. Are you going to the wedding?”

“Yes: I feel that I must. But I hate the whole affair. I wish the brute would break his neck. Ready?”

“Yes,” was the reply; and going out to the waiting hansom, they were soon run down to the club, where the choicest little dinner Artingale could select was duly placed before them.

But somehow, nothing was nice. Artingale’s hunger seemed to have departed, and he followed his friend’s example, and ate mechanically. The dry sherry was declared to be watery, and the promised champagne, though a choice brand and from a selected cuvée, was not able to transmit its sparkle to the brains of those who partook.

Artingale talked hard and talked his best. He introduced every subject he could, but in vain, and at last, when the time had come for the claret, he altered his mind.

“No, Mag,” he exclaimed, “no claret to-night. We want nothing calm and cool, old fellow. I feel as if I had not tasted a single glass of wine, but as if you, you miserable old wet blanket, had been squeezing out your drops into a tumbler and I had been drinking them. What do you say to a foaming beaker of the best black draught?”

“My dear Harry, I’m very sorry,” said Magnus, laughing. “There, I’ll try and be a little more lively.”

“We will,” exclaimed Artingale, “and another bottle of champagne will do it.”

Magnus smiled.

“Ah, smile away, my boy, but I’m going to give you a new sensation. I’ve made a discovery of a new wine. No well-known, highly-praised brand made famous by advertisements, but a rich, pungent, powerful, sparkling champagne, from a vineyard hardly known. Here, waiter, bring me a bottle of number fifty-three.”

The wine was brought, and whether its virtues were exaggerated or no, its effects were that for the next two hours life seemed far more bearable to James Magnus, who afterwards enjoyed his coffee and cigar.

Then another cigar was partaken of, and another, after which it was found to be too late for the projected visit to one of the theatres, and Magnus proposed an adjournment to his own room.

To this, however, Artingale would not consent, and in consequence they sat till long after ten, and then parted, each to his own chambers.

Artingale’s way of going to his own chambers was to take a hansom, and tell the man to drive him to the Marble Arch, and then along the Bayswater-road until told to stop.

This last order came before Kensington Gardens were reached, when the man was dismissed, and the fare wandered down the nearest turning, and along slowly by the backs of the Parkleigh Gardens houses – or their fronts, whichever the part was termed that faced north.

Up and down here he paraded several times – not a very wise proceeding, seeing that he might have come sooner in the evening, and the doors would have flown open at his summons. But it has always been so from the beginning. A gentleman gets into a certain state, and then thinks that he derives a great deal of satisfaction in gazing at the casket which holds the jewel of his love. When the custom first came in it is of course impossible to say, but it is extremely probable that Jacob used to parade about in the sand on moonlight nights, and watch the tent that contained his Rachel, and no doubt the custom has followed right away down the corridors of time.

When Artingale had finished the front of the house he went round to the back, made his way by some mysterious means into the garden, where he fancied he saw some one watching; and concluding that it would not be pleasant to be seen, he beat a retreat, and after a glance up at Cynthia’s window, where he could see a light, he contented himself by walking slowly back, so as to get to the other side of the lofty row of houses.

“Just one walk up and down,” he said to himself, “and then home to bed.”

It was some distance round, and as he went along he made the following original observation: – “This is precious stupid!” And at the end of another fifty yards – “But somehow I seem to like it. Does one good. ’Pon my soul, I think the best thing a fellow can do is to fall in love.”

He sauntered on from gas-lamp to gas-lamp, till he was once more at the front, or back, of the great houses, with their entrance-doors on his right, and a great blank-looking wall on his left.

He went dreamily on along the pavement, past the furnished house that the agent assured the Rector he had obtained dirt cheap, which no doubt it was, but it was what a gold-miner would call wash dirt. When about midway, Artingale passed some one on the other side, close to the wall, and walking in the opposite direction.

But the presence of some one else in the street did not attract Artingale’s attention, and he sauntered along until he reached the end, and stopped.

“Now, then,” he said, “home? or one more walk to the end and back?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then turned beneath the lamp-post, with a smile at his own weakness, and walked slowly back.

“I should have made a splendid Romeo,” he said. “What a pity it is that the course of my true love should run so jolly smooth. Everything goes as easy as possible for me. Not a single jolly obstacle. Might have been married to-morrow morning if I had liked, and sometimes I wish I had been going to act as principal; but it is best as it is.”

He was nearing the Rector’s residence once again.

“Now with some people,” he continued, half aloud, “how different it is. Everything goes wrong with them. Look at poor old Magnus – The deuce! Why, Mag!”

“I thought you had gone home!”

“I thought you had gone home!”

“I thought I would have a walk first,” said Magnus, quietly.

“So did I, old fellow. But oh, I say!”

“Don’t laugh at me, Harry,” said the artist, sadly. “It is like saying good-bye. After to-morrow I shall settle down.”

“I don’t laugh at you, old fellow,” said Artingale, taking the other’s arm. “It’s all right. I might just as well ask you not to laugh at me. Have a cigar?”

Magnus nodded, the case was produced, and they both lit up, and instead of going straight back east, continued to promenade up and down, and then right round the great block of houses over and over again, for quite an hour, saying very little, but seeming as it were attracted to the place, till coming to the front, for what Artingale vowed should be the last time, he saw a couple of figures apparently leave one of the doors, and go right on towards the other end.

“Somebody late,” he said, feeling a kind of interest in the couple that he could not account for.

“Yes,” said Magnus, quickly, “very late. Come along.”

Artingale involuntarily quickened his steps, and they followed the two figures without a word, seeing them sometimes more, sometimes less, distinctly, according to the position they occupied relative to the lamps.

Why they took so much interest in them was more than they could have explained, for a couple of figures going late at night along a London street is no such very great novelty; but still, they quickened their steps, feeling ready at the slightest hint to have increased the pace to a run.

There seemed no sufficient reason though for such a step, and they continued to walk on fast, till they came to the end of the row of houses; and turning sharply they were just in time to hear the jangling noise of the door of a four-wheeled cab slammed to, then what sounded like a faint wailing cry.

“There’s something wrong, I think,” said Artingale; but as he spoke the glass was dragged up, the horse started off at a rapid trot, the cab turned into the road by the Park railings, and was gone.

The two friends stood hesitating, and had they been alone, either would have run after the cab. But as they hesitated from a feeling that such a proceeding would have been absurd, the vehicle was driven rapidly away.

“What made you say there was something wrong?” said Magnus at last, in a hoarse voice.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell: where did those people come from? I hope no one’s ill.”

“From one of the houses near Mr Mallow’s,” said Magnus.

“I think so; I couldn’t be sure. Let’s walk back.”

They hurried back past the series of blank doors, till they were about half way along, when as they reached the Rector’s they found that a policeman had just come up, and he made them start by flashing his lantern in their faces.

“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said to Artingale. “Were you coming back here?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you left the door open.”

“Then there is something wrong, Magnus. Here, let’s run after the cab.”

“It’s half a mile away by now,” said the other hoarsely. “You’d better see, constable.”

“It’s a crack,” said the policeman, excitedly, “and the chaps must be in here. Will you gents keep watch while I get help, and put some one on at the other side in the Gardens?”

“Yes – no – yes,” exclaimed Artingale. “I’m afraid some one’s ill. We saw two people come away hurriedly and take a cab at the end.”

“They wouldn’t have took a cab,” said the constable. “There’s a doctor at the end there close by. We’re too late, for a suverin. Or no; stop. There’s something else up. Look here, sir, I’ve had you hanging about here and on the other side ever since the family has been in town. Now then, who are you?”

“There is my card, constable,” said Artingale, shortly. “You know why I came.”

“Yes, sir – my lord, I mean. But why did that big hulking rough chap, like a country gamekeeper, come? He’s been hanging about – ”

“Stop!” cried Artingale. “Was it a big black-bearded fellow above six feet high?”

“That’s the man, sir. I set him down as from the country house, and after one of the maids.”

“When – when did you see him last?” cried Magnus.

“To-night, sir.”

“To-night?”

“Yes, m’lord. But while I’m stopping here they may be getting out at the other side and be off.”

“I’ll watch here,” said Artingale.

“Right, sir. I’ll soon have some one on at the other side. You, sir, watch at the area,” – to Magnus. “If any one comes out and tries to run, you lay hold and stick to ’im. I’ll soon be back.”

“Quick, then; for heaven’s sake, quick!” cried Artingale; and the man went off at a run.

“Let’s go after the cab, Harry,” cried Magnus, excitedly.

“Let’s run after the moon, man. It would be madness. If anything is wrong they are far away by now. But we don’t know yet that anything is wrong. Wait a few minutes. We shall soon find out.”

“And meantime?” panted Magnus.

“We can do nothing but act like men, and remain calm. Go to your post,” exclaimed Artingale; and he spoke in a sharp, decisive way, that showed that the service had missed a good officer.

Five minutes – ten minutes – a quarter of an hour of torture, during which all inside was as still as death. Then as Artingale stood in the open doorway he fancied he heard a slight sound, and as he stood upon the qui vive, ready to seize the first man who presented himself, he heard steps outside, and saw that a policeman was coming.

Steps inside, too, and then from the hall a bull’s-eye lantern flashed upon him.

“All right, sir,” said a familiar voice; and he saw that it was the first policeman. “The dining-room window was open facing the Park. I come in there. I’ve got a man watching. That you, sergeant?”

“Yes. You stop here with this gentleman; get out your truncheon, and don’t miss ’em, whatever you do. Roberts will be along here directly.”

“What are you going to do first?” said Artingale.

“Rout up the butler and one or two more, sir, directly,” said the sergeant, opening his lantern; and as they entered the hall he made the light play about the perfectly orderly place, before going softly into the great dining-room.

“Don’t quite understand it yet, sir,” he said. “The dining-room shutters here had been opened from the inside. Window was open. Seen anything?” he said to some one in the shadow. “No.”

“There’s plate enough on that sideboard,” continued the sergeant, “to have made a pretty good swag, if it ain’t ’lectrer.”