The name whispered by the unhappy Shorty into the Major's ear was that of Mrs. Dacre Darrow – or, to use his peculiar phonetic variation of it – "Mrs. Darrer." As has been related its effect upon the Major was immediate, and fraught with, to Shorty, very tangible consequences. The sound of his cousin's name in the boy's mouth had upset his equanimity altogether for the moment. But the expenditure of his indignation physically, upon that very ample frame, soon brought the Major into a calmer state of mind, and resulted eventually in recourse to less forcible methods on his part. He came to the conclusion that for a time at least verbal tactics might prove of vastly more advantage to himself. So he released the boy, and submitted him instead to the fire of cross-examination. And from the look of relief on Shorty's face, he was quick to appreciate the change.

Not for one moment did the Major believe there was any truth in the accusation brought against his cousin. He had no high opinion of her, to be sure, but he felt quite certain that she would never stoop to an act of this kind. Besides, even granting that her sense of moral rectitude were sufficiently flexible to allow of such a lapse on her part, he failed to see what motive she could have had. She must be aware that even to suppress the existence of this will would be to put herself within reach of the law.

But Shorty held firmly to his story of that night. Seeing a light in the library he had gone on to the terrace, and the blind being up, he had been able to see into the room without himself being seen.

"And you say Mr. Barton was alive then?" queried the Major.

"Oh, the ole cove wer' alive right enough then – I seed 'im go out o' the room an' leave a long paper – that wer' the will – on the table."

"And how, pray, do you come to know a will when you see one?"

"I didn't know wot it was then, but a'rterwards Mrs. Parsley, she told me as 'ow a will 'ad been nabbed, an' it didn't take me long to twig as 'ow it must ha' been that paper wot I saw Mrs. Darrer bone. She slipped into the room jest as the ole cove 'ad gone out – then 'er eye catches the paper on the table, an' she gives a kind o' jump, an' begins a-readin' of it. An' lorksy, didn't she look mad when she'd read a bit! Then she slips it somewhere in the stern of 'er, an' clears out. I thought then as 'ow it were about time I cleared out too, so I hooked it down the steps, and back through the medder that way."

"What time was this?"

"Oh, arter supper – leastways I s'pose it wer' supper. I'd seen yer all eatin' an' drinkin' 'bout 'alf a hour before, an' it dudn't make me feel no better, I kin tell yer!"

Dundas reflected. It was just possible the boy was speaking truth. He remembered how Barton had shut himself up in the library while he and the other men had had their smoke in the dining-room. It was quite possible that Julia should have dropped into the room just as he had described. But what could there be in the will to cause her to purloin it? – a revocation of the clause relating to her income? Surely not. He continued to question Shorty.

"Did the old gentleman enter the room again after that?"

"Well, as I tell yer, I cleared out, sir. I never thought no more about it till I 'eard as 'ow a will had been prigged, and as 'ow you 'ad got the tin wot t'other cove ought to 'ave 'ad. Then o' course I seed 'ow it was, so I thought I'd just come 'ere an' – "

"Do a little blackmailing, eh?"

"No, sir, only I thought as 'ow 'twould be worth a tip to 'ave yer mind made easy like. 'Tain't much of a tip though as yer've parted with – strikes me I'd do better to go now to t'other cove, an' see what 'e's got to say!"

"Look here, you young blackguard, not another penny do you get from me, do you understand? And I'll take very good care that Mrs. Parsley knows the sort of scamp you are. Now clear out of this!" thundered the Major, bringing down his cane on the table, "or I'll give you as sweet a hiding as you ever had in your life."

At this Gideon Anab made a hasty exit. He had no fancy for any further chastisement at the hands of the irate Major. After all a fiver with a whole skin was better than nothing with a damaged one, and he had a very shrewd idea that that was how it would be with him if he remained. So he left the Major to reflect on his position.

It was not a pleasant one which ever way he looked at it. On the one hand he was liable at any moment to lose everything by the production of the lost will; on the other he was placed in the position of compounding a felony, or at least of retaining and enjoying what he knew was not his to enjoy. If he took what he held to be the only right course open to him the result would be very far reaching. For himself he did not care so much, although he was in nowise insensible to the difference between some five hundred – which was the amount of his private means – and five thousand a year. But he really did not like to think what the effect would be upon Hilda, when that young lady was called upon to give up all that she had schemed for – he knew well by this time that she had schemed for it. And upon Miriam too this reversal of fortune would fall hardly, since it would mean the speedy and inevitable degradation of her husband. As he turned all this over in his mind, he was sorely tempted for her sake and for his wife's to leave things as they were.

There was just one loop-hole of escape! – that Mrs. Darrow might have destroyed the will. In that case no possible good was to be achieved by exposing her. He would let her see that he knew her for what she was. But a scandal was a thing he had a loathing of, and would never be the one to bring about. Of course all this was based upon the hypothesis that Shorty had told the truth. There was always the possibility that he had not.

Hilda arrived home for dinner in the best of tempers. Her visit had been to her thoroughly successful, since not only had she been the best looking and best dressed woman in the room, but had been told so, which was infinitely more important. Her husband told her of the arrangement he had made for her to take Dicky to Rosary Mansions the following afternoon. She was pleased to express herself delighted. It, too, was likely to be a highly successful visit from her point of view. She, the mistress of Thorpe Manor, conferring her presence upon Dicky's quondam governess now married to the man whom she had jilted, and resident in one of the meaner tenements of West Kensington, was a picture in which she could see herself quite plainly. Still she was prepared to be cordial.

When Miriam came to welcome her she was surprised at the warmth of her manner. Dicky of course was embraced and made much of.

"And how is the doctor, Hilda, and your mother?" asked Miriam.

"Oh, they are pretty well, thank you – they are better off now, of course, and the children are at school. But the house is much the same, dirty as ever. Sometimes when I drive round to see them, I wonder how I ever managed to support existence in that poky place. I hate small rooms, don't you?"

Miriam did not reply.

"And Mrs. Darrow – how is she?" was all she said.

"Oh, I believe much the same. I don't see much of her, you know. In fact, I was obliged to give her clearly to understand that I was mistress in my own house. As a result she has no great love for me, you may imagine. However, she keeps out of the way, and that's the great thing."

"I wonder she entrusted Dicky to you!"

"Oh, she knew Dicky would be all right; besides, the arrangement was that my husband was to bring him up to see Dr. Briggs. She didn't know anything about my coming. I expect when she hears he's been with me, there'll be a nice old row. However, I don't care. Nothing can make me dislike the woman more than I do. I think she's the most detestable – "

"Hush, Hilda, the boy will hear you! Run along, Dicky, and have a prowl round the house."

"But this is a flat, Miss Crane, isn't it, not a house?" said Dicky dubiously.

"Well then, the flat, dear, since you are so particular."

He looked terribly fragile Miriam thought. And the flush on his cheek and the bright light in his eyes indicated only too surely the road upon which he was travelling.

"May I go into all the rooms, Miss Crane? – even into the kitchen?"

"Yes, dear, anywhere you like – we have no blue-beard's chamber here."

"I suppose you are very happy," continued Miriam, taking in the various details of Hilda's splendour.

"Yes, I suppose so. As happy as I can hope to be. He gives me everything I want. But I wish he would leave the Army altogether. For most of this year we have been living in a horrible little garrison town, and the society there consisted solely of the wives and relations of the other officers. They were all so jealous of me that it really was quite unpleasant."

"I suppose you would rather live at Lesser Thorpe altogether?"

"No, I hate Lesser Thorpe. I want to live in London, and go abroad, with now and then a week or two in Scotland."

"In fact, you like a regular society life."

"Well, I suppose you would call it that, yes; at least, I say, when one has the means let one live, not vegetate in some little hole and corner place. Of course John doesn't mind. One place is as good as another to him. I never saw such an extraordinary man; he never seems dull. He'll tramp for miles over the country – dirty, muddy, ploughed fields – and come back as hungry as a hunter, and say how much he has enjoyed himself. I can't stand that dead alive sort of existence. I must have my shops, and I love the theatre, and the ballad concerts, and the heaps of jolly things one can do in London. Don't you?"

"Well, you see," said Miriam, "I haven't quite so much time on my hands as you have. For instance, we cannot afford more than one servant, and that means that there is a good deal for me to do at home, if the house is to be kept as I like it – that reminds me, I must just go and see about tea, if you'll excuse me a few minutes."

Hilda made no attempt to conceal what she felt.

"Really. I think I should kick at that if I were you; it must be awful to have only one servant – in London of all places! Why don't you make your husband do without something? He'd appreciate you all the more."

"I don't think he could appreciate me more – he is everything that is good to me. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, you know, and – well, we prefer to do with one servant. Will you just see where Dicky is while I go into the kitchen?"

As she left the room Hilda went in search of Master Dicky, and found him stretched out on the floor of the bedroom. He was very busily occupied with a heap of treasures he had found in an old ivory work-box which Miriam had managed to keep possession of in spite of her many vicissitudes. It was true it had for a few months reposed on the shelf of a pawnbroker in the Strand, to whom she had confided it during that terrible time just before she met with Barton. But it had been the first thing she had redeemed. It was a very old piece of Indian work, wondrously carved, and had always been a favourite of Dicky's at Pine Cottage. The boy welcomed it now as an old playfellow.

"Dicky, whatever are you doing?" exclaimed Hilda, when she saw him. "You'll catch it from Miriam, upsetting her things like that!"

"No, I won't," replied the boy calmly. "She always let me play with this; there's such a funny little place in the lid she used to show me, I can't find it now – ah, here it is, I've got it."

Hilda bent over him curiously. His little fingers had touched a spring, which, when pressed, caused the lining of the lid – a plain sheet of ivory – to fall inwards. As it opened an oblong sheet of bluish paper, folded – a typical legal document – fell out.

"Now, Dicky, see what you've been doing; you've – "

She stopped short, for she had read the writing on the paper: "The Will of George Barton. Dated December the 20th, 189-."

CHAPTER V.
JUST IN TIME

At the sight of those words even Hilda's self-possession forsook her for the moment The will of George Barton, dated December, here, in Miriam's keeping! There was only one conclusion to be arrived at from that. She had stolen it – that she might secure Gerald. As the thought flashed through her mind a great bitterness – a greater hatred for her rival came over Hilda. Dicky, absorbed as he was, saw that something was wrong. His keen little eyes had not failed to read the fateful heading. The word "will" was by no means without meaning for him. How often his mother had spoken of Uncle Barton's will! He had heard her not once, but a score of times. Child as he was, he knew quite well what had happened to deprive Gerald of his inheritance.

Hilda glanced hurriedly, stealthily, through the contents of the deed. "I devise all my real and personal estate to my nephew, Gerald Arkel, absolutely" – those were the words her eye now caught, and they were more than enough. And she was the wife of John Dundas! Why had Fate played her such a sorry trick? – she who had given up so much – had schemed so zealously for the possession of this affluence. It had been her goal through life. She had sacrificed everything to it, only to have it snatched from her now that she had tasted the sweet of it. It was too cruel. What should she do?

Dicky looked up, all innocent inquiry. That look brought her to herself again. At any cost the truth must be kept from him. She smiled and put her hand upon his shoulder.

"Dicky dear," she said in a whisper, "do you know what this is?"

"It's a will, Hilda, isn't it? Mother was always talking about Uncle Barton's will. Is this the one?"

"Yes, dear, this is the one. It's been lost for ever so long, and now that you have found it your dear Miriam will be so rich."

"Oh, how jolly! – I am so pleased, aren't you, Hilda?"

"Yes, dear; and I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll prepare such a surprise for Miriam."

"Oh yes; how, Hilda, how shall we do it?" The little fellow's eyes positively danced with delight.

"Well, first I must talk to Major Dundas about it, because of course he will have to give the money to Miriam's husband. Now, Dicky, whatever you do you must not say a word about it. It must be a great secret. You must promise me that first of all. Very well – "

"But, Hilda, I wonder why Miriam didn't know it was in her box?"

For a moment the woman was at a loss. Then she answered.

"Well, that we don't know, Dicky. Perhaps she hid it there herself and forgot all about it, or perhaps Gerald put it there. That doesn't matter – we've found it, that's the great thing, and it will be such a surprise for both of them."

"Oh yes, Hilda. I won't say a word about it, I promise."

"That's a good boy. Now put away the work-box quickly, just as you found it, and don't tell Miriam even that you were playing with it." She kissed him, and slipped the deed into her dress. Dicky put back the trinkets and replaced the box.

She felt she could rely on the boy's not betraying her, and she congratulated herself on the success of her plan. She could hear Miriam in the drawing-room now. Hurriedly she picked up a copy of the Strand Magazine which Dicky had been looking at and gave it to him.

"We must go to tea, Dicky. Come along, bring your book with you."

At that moment Miriam called.

"That boy's simply crazy about pictures," said Hilda, as she entered the room. "I can't get him away from them." She looked at Dicky hard. He seemed to understand – it was to him all part of a glorious surprise for Miriam. And the element of secrecy appealed to him irresistibly.

"What's he got – the Strand Magazine?" said Miriam, catching sight of the well-known cover. "Oh, that's Gerald's – he's never happy without his Strand."

"It is an awfully jolly magazine, Miss Crane – I wish mother would get it."

"Ah, here is Gerald," exclaimed Hilda, as at that moment he entered the room. "Speak of angels and you hear their wings."

"That's dangerously suggestive of another phrase more often applied in the same circumstances – and rather more apt in this case too, I fancy!"

With heightened colour he came forward and took her outstretched hand. He was quite unable to conceal his emotion at this unexpected meeting.

"I didn't hear you come in, Gerald," said his wife in surprise.

At the sound of her voice some of his self-possession returned to him.

"No, I stole a march on you – unawares – got awfully sick of the office, so I chucked it for to-day."

Miriam looked at him uneasily. This sort of thing was continually happening. She was thankful at least he was himself in other ways.

"Well, Mrs. Dundas, I must certainly congratulate you – I don't know when I've seen you look so well."

"Why don't you call her Hilda?" put in the convivial Dicky. "I hate Mrs. Dundas."

"Do you? Well, you see, there are certain difficulties in the way, Dicky. In the first place we are all very much 'grown-up' now; indeed, I don't know that strictly speaking we oughtn't to call you 'Mr. Darrow.' Besides, if I were to call Mrs. Dundas by her Christian name, she might reprimand me severely."

"What nonsense you talk, Gerald," put in that young lady; "there, you see, I take the wind out of your sails at once – I am sure Mrs. Arkel doesn't mind. Do you?" she turned to Miriam with the sweetest of smiles.

"I – indeed no. Surely you are old enough friends for that. Well, we're relations too, now, in a sort of way, aren't we, Hilda?"

"I suppose we are – cousins by marriage."

"I'm a cousin by marriage too," announced Dicky; with his mouth full of cake; "we're all cousins."

"In that case, Dicky, let me give you cousinly advice – not to speak with your mouth full!"

"No, Miss Crane – I won't."

"Hullo, young man," cried Gerald; "and who's Miss Crane I'd like to know?"

"This is, of course – your Mrs. Arkel, but my Miss Crane. She ought to have waited till I was grown up, and I'd have married her," said Dicky with all the solemnity in the world.

"You precocious young rascal," laughed Arkel, ruffling the boy's hair. "Are you staying for any time in town, Hilda?"

"No, only for a few days. But, Gerald, this is an unexpected pleasure to see you. I thought you had joined the noble army of toilers in the city, and weren't visible except by night?"

"Nor am I, as a rule. Needs must you know when a certain gentleman's on the box. But, as I was telling my wife, to-day I felt I couldn't stand the place, so I toddled home. It's a case of reward for a lapse from virtue for once in a way."

"Well, hard work's good for you, I've no doubt. At all events, you had plenty of play once," said Hilda, putting on her gloves and rising to go.

"Yes, this is the swing of the pendulum, I suppose. But, by Jove, if ever it swings back again, I'll take jolly good care it sticks there until I shuffle off, anyhow."

And Miriam sighed, knowing only too well how true that was.

"Well, come along, Dicky, we must be off; the Major'll be waiting, and he hates that. I've managed a good many things with the Major, but I've never managed to imbue him with a sense of patience."

The boy rose rather reluctantly. He would so much rather have stayed with Miriam. He had not had her to himself at all. Gerald put on his hat and coat.

"You must let me come some of the way with you," he said.

"Oh, no, Gerald, you mustn't leave Miriam – I'm sure she – "

"Oh, please don't think about me. It's so dull for Gerald. I'm only too glad for him to enjoy himself when he can."

There was a rather embarrassing silence for a few minutes. Then Hilda imprinted upon Miriam's cheek the kiss of Judas, and they left.

"Jove, she's about right," said Arkel, when they were out of earshot. "I should think it is dull. I never realised before, Hilda, how much London was the rich man's paradise and the poor man's Sheol."

"Oh, come, Gerald, it's not so bad as all that, surely. You're out of sorts to-day."

He did not reply, but hailed a four-wheeler that was passing.

"Oh, Gerald, why did you do that? I do dislike these dirty growlers," she said.

"You won't get a decent hansom in this God-forsaken part of the world. Better take this now."

"Very well, I suppose we must."

"And may I sit beside the driver?" said Dicky. "I should like to awfully."

"Oh, I don't know, dear. I am afraid of your catching cold."

"No fear of that," replied Gerald. "It's quite warm, and he's well wrapped up. Jump in, Hilda."

He helped her in, and confided Dicky to the care of the cabby. The boy's proposition suited him in every way. Indeed, it had been an essential part of his plan. As for Hilda, she had a very shrewd idea of what she might expect. It is only fair to her to say that she hesitated – but the eloquent appeal from those blue eyes of Gerald's had been too much for her. She was surprised at herself now, for her heart was beating as she had never known it beat before.

"I wish you could get a hansom," she said; "we shall be hours getting home in this."

"And would that be so very terrible?" he asked. "It would not have been once, Hilda."

"Oh, Gerald, don't talk about that. You know that is all over and done with now."

"It is not over, Hilda – it never has been over, we need never have parted but for you. For these two years I have been longing for a chance of seeing you alone. I have got it now, and I'm not going to lose it."

"What is it you want? You forget Miriam – "

"Oh, hang Miriam! I wish I could forget her. But she's not the sort of person one can forget, worse luck. Hilda, it was cruel of you to drive me to her – "

"Cruel of me? I drove you to Miriam? Really, Gerald, if that's the kind of thing you're going to say, I am sorry I allowed you to come at all. You know perfectly well things were not in my hands. I had to do as I was told. And you – well, you and Miriam were always what you call 'good friends.'"

"You managed to console yourself pretty quickly any way."

"Not so quickly as you, I believe," retorted Hilda.

"I console myself? A pretty sort of consolation mine has been! You at least have the satisfaction of having plenty of money. If it were only the other way round, I tell you, Hilda, I wouldn't hesitate for one moment; I'd clear out with you to-morrow."

"Indeed, that's taking me a little bit for granted, isn't it? You don't seem to count the cost – to me! Remember, the unfortunate woman always pays in these cases, as indeed she does in most others, as far as I can see. No, Gerald, you've got to stick to your bargain and I to mine. I was always fond of you, you know. But Fate evidently didn't intend us for one another."

"If only I thought you really cared for me still – Hilda, tell me you do; say you do care for me now as you used to do."

"Gerald, I forbid you to behave like this. Are you crazy? What do you expect this sort of thing to lead to? – ruin, absolute ruin, in every way for me – yes, and for you too for that matter."

"I don't care – I care for nothing but you. I will have you, I – "

He was blind with passion now, and she saw it. Without another word she pushed his arm aside, and letting down the window, called upon the driver to stop.

"Very well," he said, when he saw what she had done. "I have finished with you from this moment. Remember, whatever happens is your doing."

"Will you help Dicky inside, please, and tell the driver to go on?"

Her intense placidity infuriated him only the more. He seized her wrist roughly and twisted it, glaring at her. Then he banged the door and strode away.

Without word or sound – though he had hurt her wrist badly – she jumped out of the cab and got Dicky down from his perch. She bade the driver go on to the hotel. Then she leaned back in her seat and smiled, well pleased with herself. Placed as she was she couldn't have done better, she thought. He was as much in love with her as ever, that was quite certain. He would not be content to leave her like that. She had thrilled at his savage clutch of her, painful though it was. It meant that he was hers, body and soul. He would come at her bidding – he would be her slave. But not now was he for her or she for him. There might come a time, perhaps —

But that was another story. Now, she was face to face, she knew, with the crucial point of her life. On her immediate action depended everything. The will was in her possession to do with it what she would. What should she do with it? Destroy it – destroy it – destroy it – the words seemed to buzz continually in her brain.

She was so completely engrossed that she did not notice that they had arrived at the hotel. The porter came to the door. Taking Dicky by the hand, she went straight upstairs to their private sitting-room. Her husband was there reading the paper. She was surprised to see him.

"Dear me," she said, "you here, John? I thought you surely would be at the club. You don't mind if I leave the boy with you till Kimber can take him? I have such a splitting headache that I must go straight and lie down."

"Sorry, Hilda – leave him by all means." She certainly looked tired he thought.

In her own room, having dismissed her maid, she threw herself on the bed, and fell to thinking again. Five minutes after she rang the bell.

"Kimber," she said, as the maid appeared, "I am shivering – just put a match to the fire. That will do, thank you; you needn't wait."

As the fire burned up she rose from the bed, and settled herself on the rug by the hearth. Then she took the will from the pocket of her dress and spread it out before her. She read it from beginning to end. And so she learned how Miriam, if she had done this thing, had sacrificed herself in the doing of it. Could she have sacrificed herself like that? No – emphatically no. Could Miriam? She was obliged to confess to herself that she thought she could – and had. But the confession galled her ever so, and she hated her the more for it. And then for a moment she gave way to her hate.

"She shall not have it," she almost hissed; "nor shall she have him much longer. Yes, I'll burn it I'll teach her not to try conclusions with me!"

At that moment her meditations were interrupted. The door opened, and her husband, pale and short of breath, literally burst into the room. Their eyes met. Instinctively she knew that he knew. Without a moment's hesitation she threw the will into the fire. Catching her round the waist he flung her quickly to one side and rescued it.

"Just in time," he panted; "only just in time!"