Although for long Miriam had felt convinced that Major Dundas knew considerably more about her brother's life than he had any intention of acquainting her with, the force with which he drove home those last words completely terrorised her. Coming as they did immediately on the top of what Mrs. Parsley had told her, they, to her mind, conveyed only one meaning – that her brother was known now as the murderer of Mr. Barton, and as such would assuredly have to pay the penalty of his crime. She could not conceal the alarm she felt, and as she leaned back in her chair pale to the lips, her throat seemed almost to close, and her heart to stop with nervous dread. With quick indrawn breath she waited for his next words. They were words of comfort.

"Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I fear I have alarmed you. Believe me, you can trust in me. What I have just told you I knew a year ago. If I did not have your brother arrested then you need not fear that I shall do so now. He is safe from me – for your sake."

She was puzzled. It could not have been then to the murder of Mr. Barton he had referred after all. He could not have known about that a year ago. He must have meant that other – that terrible crime which had so overshadowed her life during all these years, and of the consequences of which to Jabez she had lived in daily dread. She took for granted that it was so.

"I know – I know," she said, "and I can never thank you for your forbearance. But, indeed, the charge against my unfortunate brother was not one of murder – it was manslaughter."

Dundas paused before replying.

"I am afraid," he said, a trifle drily, "that you will find the verdict of the coroner's jury leaves no room for misunderstanding on that point; still, there is of course the chance that after all this time – it is six years ago you remember – I may be mistaken."

"Do you know all the facts of the case, Major?"

"Surely. The affair made a great stir in my regiment at the time. You see your brother had shown very soon after enlisting that he was a man of ungovernable temper, and no amount of discipline seemed to have any effect upon him. He was punished again and again for his insubordination. At last after punishment more than usually severe he deserted, and for a long time, in spite of the most careful search, he eluded capture. When in the end they did find him it was in London, and he was arrested by four men and a sergeant. He surrendered so quietly that the sergeant foolishly omitted to handcuff him. The hour was late and the street ill-lighted. He attempted escape. The sergeant snatched a bayonet from the musket of one of the men, and as he did so Crane closed with him and stabbed him to the heart, and then managed to get clean away. The whole affair, I suppose, was the work of a few seconds. They chased him as far as the river, and he was seen to throw himself in. Then they appear to have abandoned him, and he has not since been heard of. I think these are the facts exactly, are they not, Mrs. Arkel?"

"From one point of view, yes; but Jabez has always declared that the sergeant tried to stab him, and that he snatched the bayonet from him in self-defence only. In the struggle that ensued the sergeant was stabbed, true, but the act was defensive on Jabez' part, not aggressive. That I really believe is the truth, in which case of course it would be manslaughter and not murder."

"Your brother naturally makes out the best possible case for himself. But the evidence of the men went to prove conclusively that the act was deliberate. At all events he funked trial, and the coroner's verdict was one of wilful murder."

"Yes, I know he did. It was marvellous how he escaped, and afterwards he was afraid to give himself up. How he managed, good swimmer as he was, to keep himself afloat in that surging stream, was always inexplicable to him himself – sheer force of despair, I suppose. However, he did manage it, and eventually found shelter at Mother Mandarin's."

"Who is this Mother Mandarin?"

"She is an old woman who keeps an opium den in Lambeth. Her name came to her through her having been an orange-seller at one time. Jabez had among other vices contracted that of opium smoking, and he was a good customer of hers. Consequently when he rushed in soaking wet that night, and told her he was in danger, she took him in and concealed him. For months he remained there, not even the immediate neighbours knowing of his presence."

"No – it was assumed he was drowned. The district was supposed to have been thoroughly searched, and absolutely no trace of him was found. I myself was of the same opinion until that day I saw him here."

"How did you recognise him?"

"By the colour of his eyes and hair, and more particularly by the scar on his forehead. For a while I could not place him, though I was positive I knew the man. Then suddenly it flashed across me, and the identity of his name with yours struck me. You remember how startled you were? I concluded of course from the name that he must be some connection, but it never dawned upon me he was your brother. I can hardly describe to you what I felt when you told me."

"Can you imagine what it was to me to have to tell you?"

"I know – don't think of it now. It has all been very terrible – very horrible. And the worst of it is I fear there is more to come!"

She paled again, and looked up quickly.

"Is there something you are keeping from me? If so it would be kinder to tell me. I can bear anything now I think."

The Major appeared nervous and ill at ease.

"Well, Mrs. Arkel, I feel in one way I ought to, and yet the subject is so very painful for both of us – "

"For both of us?"

"Surely you know how I feel – "

"Yes, yes; but tell me what you have in your mind."

"Well, then, I am very much inclined to think that your brother killed my uncle."

Miriam remained perfectly calm. She had fully expected this; but she felt secure from what he had said, that for her sake he would take no action.

"What reasons have you for thinking that?"

"Perhaps it is safer to call them suspicions. I have really no direct evidence, only I feel that between you and me, even on this terrible topic, absolute frankness is best. I admit that for long past I have not been able to dissociate in my mind the fact of your brother having been in Lesser Thorpe on Christmas Eve, and having been heard to threaten my uncle, from the fact of the old man having been murdered the following night. You may say it was pure coincidence – that it is mere conjecture on my part, based on the most fallible of circumstantial evidence; but I tell you candidly that if it had not been for you, I should have sifted that thing to the bottom long ago. As it was I preferred to leave it in the hands of the police."

"What you say is perfectly true, and I, too, would rather we spoke quite freely on the subject, horrible as it is. I tell you that from the bottom of my heart I don't believe that Jabez is guilty of this crime. But there is another thing I must also tell you. Mrs. Parsley told me before she left to-day that the boy Shorty has recently made certain confessions in connection with Mr. Barton's murder, amongst them that he saw Jabez in the library that night – in fact, he accuses Jabez directly of the murder."

"And even in the face of that you believe him innocent? My dear Mrs. Arkel, I confess I cannot. It requires only the least bit of evidence to confirm my suspicions. But I am glad you told me this, for it is serious."

"You won't allow it to alter you? For my sake you won't – "

"For your sake I would do almost anything. I say almost, because there is just one thing I cannot do."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, don't you see my position? If this evidence gets to the police it will mean immediate action on the part of some of the smartest detectives in London – in fact, everywhere additional particulars of your brother and this crime will be sent. Within a month he may be caught and within another month have to stand his trial! What happens then? Why, in all probability it will transpire, or out of sheer spite at me – for he bears me no love I can tell you – he will say how we met at your house, and how I, knowing well who he was, failed to give notice to the authorities, as I should have done for your sake. Think then of the position I am in – in fact, of the position we both are in!"

"My God!" she cried, "that must not be. You must run no risks. You must not consider me. Oh, if anything were to happen to you through this! – through me! If necessary you must act at once – you must give him up before this fresh charge comes."

"First of all I think we had better inquire a little more closely into the value of this boy's evidence. He is an unscrupulous young liar, as I have already proved. Then we will act accordingly. Meanwhile, there is not the least need for you to alarm yourself. You can safely leave the whole affair in my hands. But there is something else I would like you to tell me if you will – that is, how, in the first instance, you came into contact with my uncle. I know partly it was through a governess agency, but somehow – I – I have often thought there was something more – something that you would tell me of your own accord perhaps some day?"

"Yes," she answered simply, "you are right, there is. And I had fully intended to tell you. Your friendship deserves – "

"Friendship, Miriam?"

"Let us call it that – it is best so. But before I can tell you exactly how I came to meet with Mr. Barton, I must tell you of my life before that time. It will not be pleasant hearing for you. It is terrible to me, even now, to go back to it, for it was a time of darkness and of deprivation, of absolute want, and of the most acute suffering, physical and mental."

He looked at her with a whole world of pity in his eyes.

"Don't, if it pains you so," he said.

"Yes, it is but right you should know," she replied simply. "I will begin at the beginning, and you shall judge of me for yourself. My father was, as I think I once told you, a sailor. For many years he was in command of a ship trading between London and China. We lived at Deal then, in our own house, with my mother, who was a most sweet and gentle woman, and devoted to us. But, alas, when I was only fifteen years of age she died, and I was left in charge of everything. Jabez was five years older than I, and for some time had occupied the position of clerk at a local bank. Even then he was violent tempered, and thoroughly idle, and given to affecting the lowest of company. My mother had adored him, as mothers always adore the scamp of the family. Yet she had not been wholly blind to the weakness of his nature. Indeed, she knew well that he would never withstand the temptations of the world, and on her death-bed she made me promise never to forsake him."

"And I'm sure you've kept that promise," said Dundas.

"God knows at what cost," said Miriam. "It is no use my making light of the burden I then took up. It was a heavy one, and the bearing of it took all the brightness out of my youth. When my father came back he engaged a housekeeper, and sent me back to school where I remained three years. Jabez still lived at home, but he did not get on well with the housekeeper. She was not a nice woman – in fact, she made up her mind she would marry my father, and I am sorry to say she succeeded. I returned from school to find myself a stranger in my own home. My father was a kindly man, but weak as water, and perfectly unable to deal with a woman like his wife. Jabez and she quarrelled constantly, and although I tried my best to keep peace I invariably got the worst of it, as peace-makers usually do."

"True – true," said Dundas, thinking of sundry family quarrels begun and continued by Mrs. Darrow, "I know that from my own experience."

"With such a home you can easily guess how Jabez went from bad to worse. He took to staying out at night, to drink, to gamble, and to idle away his time. Then one day he took some of the bank funds and made off with them. My father was at home at the time, and by repaying the money immediately managed to hush it up, but he swore never again to receive Jabez or to regard him as his son. After a while I heard from him from London. He was without money, and unknown to anyone I sent him what I could. The next thing I heard was that he had enlisted. You know his life and doings during that period.

"Just then my father started off on what proved to be his last voyage, for he and all his crew were lost in a cyclone in the Chinese seas. No sooner did we receive the terrible news than my stepmother turned me out of the house."

"But, my dear Mrs. Arkel, how was such a thing possible?"

"My father left everything to her – house, money, lands, everything. I was not so much as mentioned in his will. My stepmother told me plainly she had always hated me. For very shame she could not turn me out penniless, so she gave me fifty pounds. I took it, indeed, what else could I do? Besides the money was rightfully mine. But that was not the worst. Jabez' misfortune happened about that time. I saw the whole thing in the papers, and I was in despair. Still what could I do? I was helpless. Next I heard from him that he was penniless, and in hiding, and asking me for money to enable him to leave England. I had fifty pounds; so I sent him half. I had to keep the rest until I got a situation as nursery governess. While I was in this place I heard of my stepmother's marriage to a young sailor, then I knew that my father's money was lost for ever."

"How could your father make such a will?"

"He was weak, and this woman got the better of him. Besides, he believed naturally that she would look after me. It was shortly after hearing about the marriage that I again met Jabez. He had not left England but had spent the money. He found out my address from my stepmother, to whom he had written. She knew what he was, and she was always ready to do me an ill turn. At all events the result was he came to see me one day while I was in the Park with the children. Vice and poverty had set their marks on him, and he looked horrible. The children were frightened and complained when they came home, and I was dismissed."

"But did you not explain that he was your brother?"

"I did. And the explanation made matters worse. The lady with whom I was said that she could not retain in her services anyone having a brother so disreputable. She took the trouble even to drive to the Institute and tell them about it. Consequently I could not get another situation. In despair, as my money was running low, I went to see Jabez at the address he had given me at Lambeth."

"Ah, there you were wrong – you should have kept clear of him at all costs."

"What else could I do?" said Miriam plaintively. "I was alone, and Jabez – bad as he was – was my brother, my sole living relative. I went to see him, to beg him to try and get some honest work under an assumed name. He was at Mother Mandarin's" – she shuddered – "and for the first time I saw that awful den – it was like a glimpse of hell. Jabez would not go out and work, he was afraid of being recognised and arrested he said. So I shared what I had with him – I, oh – " Miriam covered her face with her hands. "How can I tell you the horrible life of those eighteen months! – the sufferings, the penury! I tried to get work – I walked into every registry office in London to hire myself out as a servant – but all in vain – my appearance was against me. They did not think my appearance was suitable. Everywhere I went it was the same thing. I applied at Nursing Institutes, at hospitals, but the authorities refused to take me without certificates of competency and respectability. My clothes got shabby – I could not buy more. Major Dundas, if you only knew what I suffered, what I did to keep the bread in the mouths of myself and Jabez!"

"The hound!" cried Dundas furiously, "and he wouldn't work!"

"He was afraid of arrest. I sang in the chorus at a music-hall – I sang in the streets – I sold flowers – I – I – I begged on one occasion. Rung by rung I fell lower and lower. But I was still true to myself – I was still honest – I believed that one day God would end my martyrdom. It ended on the night I met Mr. Barton."

"Where?"

"On Waterloo Bridge at midnight. We had been starving for days, and Jabez was seized with a fit of compunction. He went out with the boy Shorty to get food by fair means or by foul. He was desperate. I knew that he would stop at nothing that night, indeed I heard him say as much to Shorty. So I followed them. Mr. Barton came over the bridge. He had evidently lost his way in the fog. He stopped, asking Shorty to direct him. The boy, taking in his fur coat at a glance, saw at once that he was worth robbing. He called to Jabez, and the two of them set upon him, and half strangled him in the attempt to take his watch. I tried to stop them but it was no use. Jabez persisted. Then I climbed on to the parapet of the bridge, and threatened to throw myself into the river if he did not at once release Mr. Barton. He hesitated, and at that moment I heard the policeman coming. Jabez and Shorty took to their heels, and I helped Mr. Barton to his feet.

"The old man was considerably knocked about, but he was able to walk slowly to his hotel, where he insisted on my accompanying him, and on doing something for me to show his gratitude. Starving as I was I accepted his help only too gladly. It was the Pitt Hotel in Craven Street he took me to.

"After that he caused inquiries to be made about me, I believe, and the end of it was he took me down to Lesser Thorpe as governess to Dicky. The rest you know."

"Good God!" cried Dundas, much agitated, "how you must have suffered!"

"Indeed I have; but in all my suffering I never lost my faith in God. Tell me, Major, you do not shrink from me now that you know?"

Trembling with emotion he took her hand.

"Miriam," he said, "what you have told me has only confirmed the belief I had in you. You are a martyr, a saint."

"Poor saint, I fear," she said faintly.

"Dearest," said the Major gravely, "in my eyes you are the noblest and best of women."

She looked into his eyes. And as she did so she felt that all her suffering had not been in vain.

CHAPTER XI.
IN THE DEPTHS

It was characteristic of John Dundas that after hearing Miriam's story he was more than ever bent upon making her his wife. In so far as the chief traits of their respective dispositions were concerned, there was a good deal of similarity between the Major and Mrs. Parsley. Both were "big" in their way of looking at the more serious issues of life; both were inclined to ignore the smaller ones; both were generous, steadfast, and strong. Consequently, the free confession of what her past had been, which Miriam had made to each of them in turn, was attended with much the same result in either case – a strengthening rather than otherwise of their belief in and of their love for her.

And it must be confessed that there are many men who, while believing themselves to be ever so deeply in love with the woman of their choice, would still hesitate at marrying her in the face of the almost certain arrest and conviction of her brother for double murder. But not so this worthy soldier. His only qualm was lest she should on that account refuse to marry him when she was free to do so. And that time seemed very near at hand. News had come from Gerald in Paris.

"I am very ill," he wrote, "in fact, they tell me I cannot last long."

It was a pitiful letter. He begged his wife to forgive him; he had sinned, and sinned deeply against her he knew. Hilda had left him, and he craved that his wife should be with him when he died. As soon as there was the slightest chance of his being able to bear the journey, he was coming to London. Would she receive him? Would she forgive? Would she stay beside him and soothe his last hours?

With such a woman as Miriam there was but one answer to this plea. The tears fell fast as she read.

There was only one thing of more importance to her now. Since it had been made clear to her that the safety of Jabez meant not the safety of Jabez alone, but the safety of John Dundas – meant indeed the upholding of his good name, she had made up her mind to act. If Jabez could be got right away before any official intimation could be given of this new charge against him, she felt convinced of his ability to evade capture. She determined that this must be her work. And it must be done too at once, before he should have opportunity of getting rid of much of the money she had given him.

She knew where to find him. The den of Mother Mandarin was no new ground to her, though she loathed the idea of going there. Strange that the night she chose for her errand should be just such a night as that on which she had met Mr. Barton. The fog was dense, almost as dense as it had been that night, and a thick drizzle was beginning to squeeze its way through it as she left the respectable portico of Rosary Mansions for the abode of vice and profligacy which sheltered her brother. In half an hour she was at Westminster Bridge. As she crossed over, the clock tower rang out nine.

Leaving the main thoroughfare she plunged into the network of lanes and alleys which thread the mass of miserable dwellings lying within a stone's-throw of the river. How familiar were those ways to her even now! How vividly she recalled the days of penury and misery when footsore and in despair she had trodden the stony pavements there! Every corner loomed up a landmark in her mind!

The unclean figures brushing past her in the darkness in no way scared her now. With a light and rapid step she turned down a lane which sloped to the river, and out on to a ruined wharf green with slime, red with dust. A sharp turn at the bottom of the lane brought her into a small court, now a mere vessel for the fog. Here the houses were all askew. Within them the ragged dwellers snarled and wrangled with each other for all the world like jackals over a carcase. Two or three struggling gas lights managed to pierce the murky air. They served to save her from stumbling. Cautiously she groped her way toward an emaciated-looking building of three stories, its roof so pointed and so narrow as to admit of but one window on each floor. And even these were innocent of glass. They were stuffed with rags.

As she climbed the stairs a hubbub of laughter and of shouting met her ears. Foul as had been the atmosphere without it was more foul within. She had to grasp the filthy iron railing, for she felt an oppression at her chest. As she ascended the sounds died away. At last, panting, she reached the top storey. The door faced her. It was heavy and rudely bound with iron. Three times she knocked lightly. It swung open immediately. Mother Mandarin was in her den – or rather in her eyrie.

The place was still the same. She remembered it well – the square room, with its whitewashed walls, discoloured and scrawled over with vile words and viler caricatures; the great open brick fireplace in which, always smouldered a handful of fire; the filthy mattresses laid out at the far end, on which the customers were wont to sprawl and sleep; and pervading all, the mephitic atmosphere illumined dimly by the swinging petrol-lamp set in a bracket over the fireplace. A Lascar and a Chinaman were lying there like corpses, narcotised by the drug, and dreaming God knows what dreams of paradise. Close to them lay a European, sallow-faced and ragged, and restless for his pipe, which was in course of preparation by the lady of the house. She crouched on the floor near a lamp, twisting and stirring the brown confection with a knitting needle, over a clear flame. As it frizzled and spat, she held a long-stemmed pipe for its reception. Though thus engrossed, she raised her grizzled head as Miriam entered.

The boy who had opened the door, sank back into the corner behind it, and rolled himself into a ball like a doormouse. Mother Mandarin rasped out her welcome.

"Eh, lovey, dovey, deary, and is it you, swelley? Oh, I know'd so well you'd come. Didn't I dream of 'awks kerryin' stones last night, an' if that ain't you with money for your poor ole aunty, she ain't the poor thing as wants it. Come, pretty ducky, chuck us the blunt!"

A small worm of a woman this, with a wrinkled face like a baboon, and eyes piercing as gimlets, and a mass of white hair like spun silk. She wore a dress of old green stuff, threadbare now, patched and discoloured. A dingy red shawl was drawn tightly over her red spare shoulders and across her chest – a woman full of evil, saturated with vice, and exhaling it so powerfully as to repel.

Miriam could not repress a shiver, but she addressed herself at once to the business she had in hand, being only too anxious to have done with it and get away.

"I have come for Jabez," she said. "Where is he?"

"Lor' bless you, lovey dearie, he's jes' stepped out for a dram. He'll be back in no time. Wot's it you wants, sweet sweety?"

"Are they awake?" asked Miriam, indicating the apparently insensate forms on the mattresses.

"One of 'em is, lovey, he 'asn't had 'is yet. But he's noo to the pipes, yer see, ducky, and it won't take long to get him orf. Here, dearie, this is as strong as strong."

The man, who had thrown an indifferent glance at Miriam, clutched the pipe and lay back on the bed to indulge in it.

"He'll be off directly, pretty dovey," droned Mother Mandarin, loosening his collar; "he's noo to it."

One of the Lascars emitted a horrible sound and rolled over.

"'E's a dreamin', yuss! I knows they're 'untin' you, pore 'eathen. Don't you let 'em catch you, dearie!"

"What are you talking about?" inquired Miriam, looking at the motionless figures.

Mother Mandarin stoked the fire.

"'Bout them, dovey; I don't know what you calls 'em. When you takes the stuff they comes a 'untin' you. I've met 'em myself in the galleries – no faces, or 'ands, or nothin'; but they ketches you!"

It was all quite unintelligible to Miriam. She noticed the young lad curled up in the corner.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"That, why don't you know 'im? that's Shorty, dearie, m' grandson. The good lady's bin a tryin' to 'elp 'im, but 'e won't be 'elped. Wot's the good o' sarm-singin' when you're 'ungry? 'Ark!" She raised her head and sniffed the wind like a disturbed stag. "It's Jabez' foot, that is!"

Jabez it was. He rolled into the room a good deal the worse for liquor. Recognising his sister he hailed her boisterously.

"You here, old girl? Why, what's in the wind now?"

"There ain't no blunt, any'ow," whined Mother Mandarin; "it's a right down shame as a pore thing like me 'asn't 'eaps of it, 'eaps of it! – poun's an' pence. One as 'ard to git as t'other." A snarl came from one of the sleepers. "Oh, they've ketched you, 'ave they? Why don't yer run now? – there's the road by the 'eath, and the gall'ry in the palace – take which way yer like, but run, or they'll ketch yer!" So did she drone on like some witch evoking a spell.

"Jabez!" Miriam drew him to the other end of the room, and made him sit down. "I have come to warn you. You are in great danger. You must get away at once."

The words sobered the man as nothing else would have done. His face blanched, and his red moustache and beard stood out in horrible relief.

"Danger!" He glanced at the sleepers, at Shorty snoring heavily in his corner, and at Mother Mandarin rocking, rocking, and muttering endlessly before the fire. "We are safe here," said Jabez, "but speak low. What is the danger – that infernal Dundas?"

"Major Dundas knows everything – not only your first crime – "

"First crime! Why, what the devil d'you mean? I only committed one!"

"Oh, Jabez, do be honest with me. Tell me the truth. Surely by this time you can trust me. Is it true that you murdered Mr. Barton?"

"It's a lie – upon my soul, Miriam, I did not lay a finger on the old man – I wasn't even near the house. On Christmas Day I was in London."

"But I saw you at Southampton afterwards. Don't deceive me, Jabez; everything depends upon your telling me the truth. How came you in Southampton?"

"I told you before. But at the time of the murder I was in London. I can prove it!"

"I believe you, Jabez; but you must not prove it; you dare not!"

"By Jove, that's true; I see what you mean. I'll be nabbed for the other affair if I do. But whose game is this, Miriam? – who says I killed old Barton?"

She cast a glance at the bundle in the corner, and brought her lips to Jabez' ear.

"Shorty says he saw you! Hush! don't waken him. You must get away as quick as ever you can. It's your only chance."

He clenched his fists.

"I'm inclined to slip a knife into the young devil as he lies there," he said. "Saw me, did he? Let me stir him up a bit – "

"Jabez, for God's sake don't. You must run no risks. A word now from anyone casting suspicion upon you and the other affair will all come out."

"He knows nothing of the other affair," retorted Jabez, inclined to argument.

"How can you be so mad. What does that matter when the police know? So does Farren; he's been watching you, do you know that?"

"Farren, Farren? – who the deuce is Farren? Some detective bloke, eh?"

"Farren is a spy," replied Miriam bitterly. "He was the man employed by Mr. Barton. He discovered your name, and that I was your sister. He knows everything about you, everything, Jabez. That was how Mr. Barton had such power over me. I was forced to obey him for your sake."

"Well, that wasn't very hard work I reckon," replied the man with an impatient scowl. "So this Farren chap's been watching me, has he? How did you know that?"

"Mrs. Parsley saw him following you after you left me at the flat the other day."

"What!" exclaimed Jabez – "a tall dark chap, wearing a cloak and a soft hat – nasty-looking devil?"