On her way from Lesser Thorpe to Southampton, Miriam, alone in a third-class carriage, was reading Jabez' letter for the fifth time. Short as it was, utterly selfish too as it was, it seemed to give her some sort of satisfaction. It bore a post-mark in the vicinity of the London Docks, and its contents were these: —

"28th December.

"Dear Miriam,

"I am not going to the States after all. From all I can hear there's too much of a crowd in the beastly place already. I have got hold of a tub off to the Cape – going to kick around there in search of what she can snatch in the way of cargo. I've managed to persuade the skipper to let me work half my passage money, so I shall arrive in Table Bay with a pound or two in my pocket after all. But if you can manage to screw some more out of the old man do, and send me on a P.O.O., and I'll look in for it at the office at Cape Town when I arrive. The old tub's called the 'Firefly,' though there's precious little 'fly' about her, and altogether she's about as sick a hulk as ever you saw. If I make a pile, I'll come back under another name, and look you up. If I don't, well, then you've said good-bye to me for bad and all. You won't wipe your eyes out over that, or I'm much mistaken. Good-bye. Yours,

"Jabez."

She sighed deeply as she finished reading, and her eyes were full of tears. How utterly callous and selfish he was! She wondered did he ever think of all that she had sacrificed for him – of the agony of mind, which, through him, she had been made to suffer. The letter was dated 28th of December. This was the third of January. He would be well away by now. How glad she was of that! At least she would be able to begin her life again without his burden to hamper her. She had thirty-five pounds in all, and, thanks to Barton's generosity, a roof at the hotel as long as she needed it. She had been worse off in days gone by. Then she fell to thinking of the unpleasant work before her. The mere thought of contact with the police repelled her. Still, she could see no help for it. Beyond reach of Mrs. Darrow she must be. Then came that other awful thought upon her: could it be possible – oh, the horror of it! – could it be possible after all that Jabez – She put it from her. She could hardly bear to think of it. And yet – But surely for his own sake he would not have risked that? It was not as if Barton had interfered with him. His hurried departure though, would of itself look suspicious she was afraid. And Mrs. Darrow would not fail to make the most of that injudicious threat of his against Barton. If only the letter had been dated the 25th instead of the 28th, she might have shown it to the inspector. It would have gone to prove an alibi. As it was she judged it would be wiser not to show it. She almost wished now that Jabez had waited. He might easily have been able to prove that he had returned to town on the morning of the 26th. But there again – no, he would not have dared even to come forward to do that. She feared that the past would be highly prejudicial even to him now if he were known. He was best away. She wondered if she were wise in stirring in the matter at all. But if she didn't Mrs. Darrow certainly would, and now, for once, she must consider herself. But she would screen Jabez if she could. The thing was how best to do it.

As Miriam was musing thus, the train ran in to Southampton. Depositing her traps in the cloak-room, she took a fly and drove straight to the police station. If possible she was very anxious to be able to return that night to London. She was received by Inspector Prince with all courtesy, for not only was the inspector well known in Lesser Thorpe, but he on his part had at his fingers' ends all that was worth knowing about everybody of any account in that not very extensive neighbourhood. And although he was by no manner of means a Vidocq, this genial officer, he was intelligent – highly so. To his present position he had risen deservedly if not with either rapidity or brilliance.

In appearance he was of ample figure and of fresh complexion, and his eyes were, Miriam thought, the lightest blue eyes she had ever seen. His whole bearing was nothing if not military. And like most men who have a very soft side to women, he was apt to convey that much when first coming into contact with them. Miriam therefore did not take long making up her mind that with him her course must be one of complete frankness and confessed weakness combined. With such weapons – and it must be confessed she knew well how to use them – she had every hope of achieving success with Mr. Inspector Prince.

"Well, Miss Crane, and what is it I can do for you?" he asked, when the door was closed upon them.

"I have come to see you about Mr. Barton's murder, Mr. Prince."

The pleasant smile vanished from his face, and gave place to an expression of extreme officialdom.

"Indeed!"

"Yes. I have something to tell you, which perhaps you will say I should have told you before. Mr. Barton's niece, Mrs. Darrow, accuses me of having inspired her uncle's murder!"

"Miss Crane, you surprise me," said the inspector. "That would mean that you were an accessory before the fact – a very serious charge, very serious."

"Exactly, and that is why I am here, Mr. Prince. I place myself unreservedly in your hands. It is, I need hardly say, as false a charge as it is malicious, and against such malice I feel I must protect myself. I felt that you were the proper person to come to. This Mrs. Darrow, I must tell you, hates me. I have been for some time, as I daresay you are aware, in her house as governess to her little boy. Not long since she contrived to overhear a conversation between myself and a friend of mine who came down from London to apply to me for help. She actually followed me to the place where I was to meet him, and in hiding listened to what passed between us. It so happened that my friend spoke of Mr. Barton in terms which he should not have used, and it is upon this that she has made this charge against me."

"May I ask the name of your friend?"

"Jabez – " Miriam gave a cursory glance round the room. "Jabez Tracey," she added, after a pause.

Now if Inspector Prince had been as clever as the cleverest of his kind, he would not have failed to notice that glance of Miriam's, and, having noticed it, to remark that the name Tracey was there in all the largeness of print upon a list of voters hanging on the wall. As it was he noticed nothing of the kind.

"Jabez Tracey," he repeated. "Well, let me hear some of the conversation, please, Miss Crane."

Miriam complied readily, suppressing nothing, not even the fact that Jabez had threatened to "knife" Barton should he molest him. To do so would have been to make a false move she knew, since Mrs. Darrow was sure to make a feature of it.

"And who is this man?" asked the inspector.

"That I have never told to anyone, but I will tell you now," said Miriam, in such a tone that the good inspector's protective shell of professionalism was so far pierced as to permit of the relaxing of his facial muscles visibly.

"He is an old playfellow of mine," she went on. "I must tell you I am the daughter of a sea-captain, and was brought up in the little fishing village of Brixham in Devonshire. Jabez Tracey was the son of a retired naval officer, and lived in the next house to ours. He became the teller of one of the banks in the West of England, and in a weak moment he embezzled some money. He was prosecuted and sent to prison. After he had served his sentence he went to London, where he fell into a life of dissipation and evil ways. About that time my father died, and I, too, had to go to London, and try and earn a living as a governess. One day I met Jabez in the street. He looked so miserably poor and ill, that in spite of everything I felt sorry for him, and I gave him what money I could. When I was engaged by Mr. Barton as governess for his little grand-nephew, I told him about Jabez. He, being intensely interested, as you probably know, in everything to do with crime and criminals, made inquiries about Jabez, and found out that he was once again in danger of arrest. Then I received a letter from Jabez saying that he was coming to Lesser Thorpe to see me, and asking me to help him to go to America, and make a fresh start there. By appointment I met him, as I have told you, near the church one evening, and gave him all the money I had – some twenty pounds. He took it gladly and went, saying that he was leaving for America at once via Liverpool. Since then I have not seen him."

"Nor heard of him?"

"Nor heard of him!" replied Miriam coolly. "But at that I am not in the least surprised, for he is the most selfish and ungrateful of men. There is another thing too; Mrs. Darrow, not content with her accusation of murder, says that I induced this man to steal Mr. Barton's will – you have heard of course that he made a will almost immediately before his death, and that it is nowhere to be found?"

"Certainly – that is so, Miss Crane. But excuse me, did Mr. Barton know this man?"

"No, I don't think he ever saw him."

"Will you be good enough to describe his appearance?"

"He is small and slight, very dark, and clean-shaven. His eyes are jet black, and he was very shabbily dressed in a suit of blue serge."

"And he said he was going to America – by that he meant the United States, I suppose?"

"Yes. On the night I saw him he left me with the expressed intention of joining the steamer at Liverpool next day."

"Rather strange, isn't it, that he didn't go by Southampton, since he was so near?"

"That I can't say. It never struck me. I have told you everything, Mr. Prince, exactly as it happened, because I feel I can trust you," and the look with which she accompanied her words was altogether too convincing for this very human inspector. "You see how absolutely baseless and spiteful this accusation is," she went on. "What interest could I possibly have in the theft of poor Mr. Barton's will? On the contrary, if she only knew it, I had a very strong interest in the opposite direction, since I believe it contained a legacy in my favour!"

"What's that, Miss Crane?"

"Mr. Barton was always very good to me. In fact, well – " and here Miriam cast down her eyes, "in fact, he wished to marry me!"

"'Gad, I don't wonder at that, miss. And may I make so bold as to ask why you refused him? He was eccentric we all know, but he did have a lot of money."

"Our ages alone made it quite impossible," replied Miriam. "I was obliged to tell him I could not marry a man I did not love, and I believe it was in the first instance that that made him think of me in his will. He told me I was the only woman he had ever known who put love before money, and that he intended leaving me a small income in his will."

"And did he?" asked the wily inspector, unable to resist laying a trap for her.

"Well, of course I don't know. I never saw the will. I only know he promised to, and I only tell you now to show you that it was presumably to my interest that the will should be forthcoming, not stolen."

"Most certainly. I have no hesitation in saying that from what you have told me, Miss Crane, there is not the slightest foundation for any sort of charge against you, and so I shall tell Mrs. Darrow if she comes to me."

"Then you won't require me to remain? I am quite willing to stay if you wish."

"Why, you're not leaving Lesser Thorpe?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I am doing, Mr. Prince. You can imagine it is not possible for me to remain with Mrs. Darrow after this. I am going to London to-night, to the Pitt Hotel in Craven Street, which will be my address for the present. Wherever I am, in fact, that will always find me."

"Well, so far as this matter is concerned, miss, there is no need for you to remain here. If I should want you I know where to find you."

"You may rely upon my doing anything that is in my power to help you, Mr. Prince, towards bringing to justice the murderer of my old friend. For Mr. Barton was the best of friends to me, and even if Jabez Tracey were to turn out to be guilty, which, mind you, I don't for one moment think likely, I should feel it my duty to do none the less on that account."

"Well, there's no denying it, miss, it is very strange that he should take himself off so very soon after he was heard to threaten Mr. Barton."

"But you forget; Mr. Barton was strangled – Jabez' threat was to 'knife' him!"

"Quite so. However, miss, these aren't the sort of things for you to meddle with. I may at some future time require your evidence, and in that case I'll let you know. Meanwhile, what you have told me, and your description of this young man, will be most useful. They shall have it in Liverpool within half an hour. Good-day to you, Miss Crane, good-day."

As Miriam turned the corner from the police station, she drew one long sigh of relief. For once it seemed as though Fortune were on her side. Inspector Prince might have been a very different kind of man, and then, well, Miriam had an uncomfortable conviction that her interview might have had a very different kind of ending. As it was she made her way to the station with a comparatively light heart, feeling that not only she herself but Jabez was perfectly safe. By means of the description she had provided, he would never be found in Liverpool or anywhere else.

There was the best part of an hour before her train left for London, so she went into the restaurant and ordered a chop.

When she came out the platform was already crowded, although there was still a quarter of an hour to wait. She was strung up and impatient, and the time seemed an eternity to her. At last the train was signalled and the bell rang. She stood beside the porter who was carrying her things. Suddenly she drew back with an exclamation of terror. There, on the platform before her, showing himself boldly to the world, was Jabez!

CHAPTER XVII.
A ROMAN FATHER

"Do you mean to tell me you are actually engaged to that penniless scamp," raged Dr. Marsh, bringing his fist down on the table.

"For Heaven's sake, George, take care of the china," implored his wife; "four cups already are broken, and it's so difficult to match this – "

"Answer me, Hilda!"

The young girl raised her head, in no wise daunted by the paternal wrath.

"If Gerald were not poor, he would not be so much of a scamp in your eyes, father," she said bitterly. "Engaged? – I am not so much engaged but that I can be quickly disengaged. I have only to tell Gerald you refuse your consent and the reason, play the part of a dutiful daughter generally, and the thing's settled, or rather unsettled."

"You should not have engaged yourself to the fellow without being certain of what you were doing," fumed Marsh.

"I couldn't be more certain," retorted Hilda. "When an old man goes the length of announcing a nephew as his heir, and actually makes a will in his favour, you naturally think that nephew will get the money. It isn't my fault that the will disappeared. I wasn't to know that."

"Of course not, dear," put in Mrs. Marsh; "but as it is now you must give up Gerald."

"And marry the Major, I suppose? What do you think I'm made of, I wonder, to turn like this from one man to another? I love Gerald as much as I could love any man. Why should I give him up now?"

"Because he can't keep you," retorted her father. "Marry Arkel without a penny; why, child, you must be mad!"

"I am sure Major Dundas is a very nice man, Hilda," put in her mother.

"Very nice," assented the girl with irony – "altogether too nice to buy me. I am for sale to the highest bidder, I know, but it doesn't say because I am for sale that Major Dundas is going to buy me. He's got his own little fish to fry. He's in love with Miriam Crane!"

"What! the governess?" scoffed the doctor, holding out his cup for another cup of tea. "You needn't trouble yourself about her. From what Mrs. Darrow hinted that young lady is no better than she should be. I couldn't quite get at the facts, but there's a good deal that's queer about her, and Dundas is not the man to marry a woman with a doubtful past."

"And he most certainly is not the man to marry a girl who jilts another man because he happens to be poor."

"There will be no jilting about the matter," replied Dr. Marsh irritably. "You engaged yourself to Gerald Arkel without my knowledge. Now that it has come to my knowledge I refuse to sanction it, that's all."

"And unless I obey you'll cut me off with a shilling, I suppose," sneered Miss Hilda.

"Don't be insolent, girl!" shouted the doctor, colouring with rage. "I won't have it. I've been more than a good father to you. Haven't I given you a first-class education, dressed you like a princess, and allowed you to do absolutely nothing, as if you had a thousand a year of your own?"

"Oh, you've done all in your power to make your Circassian a saleable article, I admit."

"Circassian! what does the girl mean?"

"Simply that I have been fed and dressed and pampered just like a Circassian for the Sultan's harem."

"Harem!" shrieked Mrs. Marsh. "Hilda, you positively shock me! Where do you learn such language?"

"I shock myself when I think of myself, mother. They sell Circassians in Turkey, and what do you and father intend to do with me – what have you always intended to do with me – but sell me to the highest bidder? Simply because it turns out now that Major Dundas has this money I am to be put on the market for his inspection. A little while ago I should not have minded – I did not mind; but now, oh!" – she was on her feet by this time and white with anger – "it is too degrading to be treated like a bale of goods. You think nothing of my heart – of my feelings. I believe you would throw me gladly into the arms of the Prince of Darkness himself if he was rich enough. I hate you both for it, and I hate myself, and – and I won't stand it! I won't!" And the wretched girl, unable to contain herself, ran out of the room. For she had discovered for the first time that she could feel, and her feelings had been touched, and all the training of past years was powerless to prevent a little outburst of nature.

The parents looked significantly at one another. This their first taste of Hilda, the matured woman, did not augur well. If rendered obstinate and driven into a corner, she was quite capable of destroying all their fine aerial edifices, and of marrying Gerald in spite of them. The doctor looked round at the untidy room, at the ill-appointed table, and thought of his many debts and small income, and incessant endeavours to make two refractory ends meet. And his brow grew dark at the thought, and he struck the table again.

"She shall not marry that pauper," he cried fiercely, "she shall marry Dundas. He'll turn to her right enough now that the Crane woman is out of the way. Cheer up, Amelia, we shall see Hilda at the Manor House yet."

But the wife of his bosom was not thus to be comforted.

"Any day the will might be found," she suggested, rather timidly.

"It won't be found. Search has been made in every hole and corner. There isn't a doubt but the blackguard who murdered the old man carried it off. And he daren't produce it again, you see, even as a means of blackmail, without risk of putting his head in a noose."

"Oh, George, you don't think the man is at large – you don't think he's about here, do you?"

"How the devil do I know where he is. There's not much doubt about his being at large I should say, seeing it's now three weeks since the funeral, and the police haven't progressed an inch. Prince told me they had a clue, and traced it to Liverpool, but there it ended. The man's got away safe enough."

"Perhaps it wasn't a man, George!"

"Of course it was. You don't suppose a woman would have had the strength to strangle Barton, do you? The thing was done deliberately, I tell you – by his friend, most likely."

Mrs. Marsh squeaked again.

"His friend, George?"

The doctor nodded.

"I was talking over the matter with Prince," he said, "and he agrees with me that the assassin was known to Barton. If you remember the window was open. Well, Barton must have opened it to admit his visitor, whoever he was. They talked about the will, no doubt, and Barton probably produced it. While he was reading it, or some clause from it, his good friend must have slipped a scarf or a rope or something of the kind round his neck, and the thing was done. I don't suppose he uttered as much as a cry."

"But what could anyone want with the will, George?"

"Ah! that's more than I can tell you. There's nothing in the will itself to help us there, although Dundas let me read the original draft: the lawyer brought it down to show him. You see, Barton," here the doctor shook his head and looked exceeding wise, "Barton was a queer customer, and what's more, he knew all manner of other customers a good deal more queer even than himself. Those journeys of his to London brought him into contact with a heap of rascality. I shouldn't be surprised if some of his slum friends had polished him off. But, as I say, whoever he is, the assassin can never produce the will. It is gone, Amelia, and you can take my word for it, it will never turn up again. Dundas will remain in possession of the Manor House for his time. So Hilda will be perfectly safe in marrying him."

"But Hilda says he is in love with Miss Crane!"

"Stuff and nonsense. Don't I tell you she's gone away? Besides, Mrs. Darrow'll soon stop anything in that direction. She's only got to tell Dundas a little of what she knows about this precious Miriam creature."

Mrs. Marsh was alive with curiosity.

"Oh, George, what does she know?"

"Can't say; but I gather it's something by no means to Miss Crane's credit. More than that I couldn't get out of her. But I can tell you that if Dundas shapes that way, Mrs. Darrow will make him open his eyes pretty wide, though I don't believe myself Dundas even knows where the woman is. She seems to have vanished like a drop of water in the ocean of London. Take my word for it, he'll stay here, my dear, and helped by Mrs. Darrow our little girl will before long be occupying her proper place at the Manor House."

"And Gerald?"

"I'll settle him. He's coming here to see me this morning. I sent for him directly I heard of this affair. It's got to be cut root and branch, Amelia, for I tell you what it is, if we don't get money soon from somewhere, the bailiffs'll be in the house; so now you know!"

Indeed, poor Mrs. Marsh had cause to know; she had already quite a bowing acquaintance with the shabby personality of the man in possession. With terror in her heart at the mention of him, she hurried upstairs to her daughter, whilst the doctor, in his character of Roman father, remained behind. The dining-room was not only untidy, but peculiarly shabby, and for that reason he had decided that it was especially well adapted for his interview with Gerald. Surrounded thus by the undeniable evidences of his poverty, he hoped the better to drive his very trenchant remarks well home. Indeed, he was anticipating his lecture with no little pleasure, for if there was one thing upon which Doctor Marsh prided himself more than another, it was his oratorical powers, and the present he judged an admirable opportunity for exhibiting them.

Gerald made his appearance with the air of a man about to be hanged. He guessed well enough why Marsh wished to see him, but even in his dejection he was resolved upon making a fight of it. He had lost his inheritance, but he was determined, in his weak, mulish way, that he would not lose Hilda. And he was depending no little upon the girl herself helping him, if indeed she had not done so already. But in this he was destined to disappointment. Miss Marsh, in spite of her recent little outburst, was not the young lady to defy the world and console herself with love in a cottage. By no means; the tree must grow as the twig is bent, and although at first she had been a good deal disturbed at finding out the nature of her own feelings, it was not long before she returned to her old self, and the conclusion that in the existing circumstances Gerald Arkel was not for her, nor she for Gerald Arkel. Poor fond lover – his very moustache drooped with melancholy!

"Sir," began the Roman father, for the younger man left him to open the ball, "I am astonished and pained to learn that without my consent, that utterly unknown to me, you have had the audacity to engage yourself to my child; under such provocation I have no hesitation in saying that many a father would break off such a connection, root and branch, without vouchsafing reason of any kind. But I condemn no man unheard. You will therefore perhaps grasp the opportunity I hold out to you to explain your – your part of this affair."

"I love her," said Gerald, sitting miserably on his chair, "and she loves me, and what's more, I shan't give her up."

"Sir! I need hardly say you astound me. But once again in justice I ask you if you are in a position to support my child?"

Gerald cast a cynical glance round the shabby room.

"I can give her a better home than this," he said sullenly.

At this the Roman father threw off his classic yoke and took refuge in a more vehement and less stately method of expression.

"Confound you and your damned impudence, Mr. Arkel. What the devil do you mean by calling my house names? We are poor if you like, but honest – and that is more, yes, a damned deal more than you are."

"I am poor enough, I know, but – "

"I know that; you are a pauper – an absolute pauper, yet you have the brazen impudence to want my daughter to marry you!"

"I can work for her, I suppose?"

"No, sir, that's just what you can't do. Idle and dissipated you have always been, and idle and dissipated you always will be. Oh, I have heard of your goings-on in London, Mr. Arkel. You spent Barton's money freely while you had it, now you haven't got it, you are certainly not likely to make any for yourself."

"If the will is found – "

"Will! – found! – stuff and nonsense! Do you think the man who murdered your uncle for the sole purpose of stealing it is going to emerge from his hiding and make you a present of it? Don't be a fool, sir! Go and ask Dundas to give you a leg up, and try and do something to earn a pound a week. As to Hilda, put her out of your head."

By this time Gerald was almost beside himself.

"Mind your own business, Marsh," he shouted, jumping up. "I will not touch a penny of Dundas' money. But how I make my living, and what I decide to do, has nothing to do with you."

"Right! it hasn't. If I gave my consent to your marrying Hilda, it would have; as I decline to let my child throw herself away on a pauper, it hasn't. The best thing you can do is to quit this house and try and preserve your few scattered wits."

"You are beastly rude. But allow me to say that before I go I must hear what Hilda says," and with a very dogged look upon his face Master Gerald sat down.

"You will find that although Hilda has lapsed so far as to engage herself to you, she has still sufficient regard for the wishes of those in authority over her to obey them." The doctor was becoming classic again. "However, you shall see her."

Again Gerald cast an ironical glance round the room, as though mutely inquiring if he could possibly take Hilda into surroundings more impoverished than those amid which she was at present. But Marsh ignored the look entirely, for the very good reason that its contention was irrefutable even by him. So he stalked away, leaving Gerald to gnaw his moustache, and curse the fate which had robbed him of his money and now threatened to rob him of "the only girl he ever loved."

"But Hilda will be true," he thought. "She is too fond of me to lose me!"

She entered the room alone, red-eyed and pale, but with a look of determination on her face which sent a chill through Arkel's heart the moment he saw it. He rose to meet her, holding out his arms in welcome. Her name sprang to his lips. But she waved him back.

"No, no, Gerald! I cannot! I cannot! We must part."

"We will not part!" cried the man furiously. "You love me and I love you – no one has the right to part us."

"I must obey my parents."

"Not if they counsel you wrongly."

"Do they counsel me wrongly?" asked Hilda. "Gerald, do be reasonable – you are poor; I am poor. How can we marry?"

"I will work for you, Hilda – with you I can do anything!"

The girl shook her head sadly.

"If you were any other sort of man than what you are, perhaps," she said with relentless common-sense. "But I know you better than you do yourself. You love pleasure and you hate work. You have always pursued the one and avoided the other. I hate poverty with all the loathing of a lifetime. We should soon tire of each other. Believe me, Gerald, love in a cottage would not suit either of us. It would be madness to attempt it. Fond as I am of you I cannot contemplate it. It isn't to be thought of."

"So you really give me up?" cried he in anger.

She bowed her head.

"For both our sakes I give you up."

"You never really cared for me!"

"I did – I do. You are the only man I ever loved; but I cannot blind myself even so. If you had only a small income I would marry you; or if you had a strong will or a clever brain I would marry you. But, Gerald, dear Gerald, you know you have neither. You are the dearest fellow in the world; yes, and the handsomest, and the nicest, but – but without an income! No, dear, it would never do. We should grow to hate each other in no time. Take my advice: marry a rich woman, and you will be happy."

He looked at her for a moment, and tried to speak. Then his fury overcame him, and he grew scarlet in the face and inarticulate. Alarmed at his violence Hilda ran out of the room. As she opened the door her father appeared.

"Arkel, Arkel, what is this?" he said. "Control yourself, man, control yourself."

Gerald staggered forward and clutched the doctor's arm. Again he tried to speak, but failed to articulate a word. Then, with a pitiable cry, he fell senseless to the floor.