CHAPTER XI.

"AND YOU SHALL STILL BE LADY CLARE."

On leaving the library after the scene with Olive Deane, Gerald had whispered to Eleanor: "Don't open the sealed packet till you have seen me again. I shall be in the conservatory half an hour after luncheon."

To the conservatory Eleanor went at the time specified, taking the sealed packet with her, and there she found Gerald awaiting her arrival. There was a bright, happy look in his eyes, such as she had not seen in them since that never-to-be-for-gotten evening when he first took her in his arms and told her that he loved her. He came to meet her as soon as she opened the door, took both her hands in his, kissed her, and led her to a seat where they would be safe from interruption.

Eleanor did not feel at all like a young lady on whom fickle Fortune had been playing one of her strangest practical jokes; she did not feel a bit like the genteel pauper Lady Dudgeon had called her: she felt very, very happy. It was wrong of her to feel so--very wrong; but she could not help it.

"I dare say you thought my request a very singular one," said Gerald, as he sat down beside her, "but you will hear something still more singular before the day is over."

"This has been a day of surprises," answered Eleanor. "It seems like twenty years since yesterday."

"It will seem like twice twenty when you shall have heard all that I have to tell you."

He looked into her eyes, and in their shrinking depths he seemed to read a question which she was afraid to put into words: "Are you going to tell me that you love me no longer?"

A kiss--or it may be half-a-dozen, for in such cases one soon loses count--did something towards reassuring her.

"I asked you not to open the sealed packet till you had seen me again, because I thought it better that I should first tell you a certain strange story, of which as yet you know nothing, and so prepare your mind for what you will find there when you come to open it."

"But--but how is it possible that you can know anything as to the contents of the sealed packet?"

"It is quite possible, as you shall presently hear," answered Gerald, with a smile. "But before I go any further, I want you to promise me one thing."

"Only one! I think I may promise that. But tell me what it is."

"Simply this. That nothing I may tell you this afternoon will be allowed in any way to prejudice the promise which you gave me this morning."

"The promise which you stole, you mean."

"Well, then, the promise which I stole. But since you put the case in that way, I must change my request into a warning. Take notice, that I, John Pomeroy, do hereby warn you, Eleanor Lloyd, that whatever I may have to tell you to-day notwithstanding, I shall consider you bound in honour to fulfil and carry out a certain promise which, whether it was stolen from you or given of your own free will, is none the less a promise, and binding on your conscience as such. I cannot just now call to mind the particular Act of Parliament applicable in such cases, but I have no doubt that there is one. Consider yourself, therefore, as having been properly warned."

"And now, sir, may I ask of what strange, eventful history all this may be looked on as the prologue?"

Her lip quivered a little as she asked this question. She was beginning to fear she knew not what. Involuntarily her fingers closed more tightly on the hand that was still holding hers. The close contact seemed to give her strength. "What need I fear now I know that he loves me?" she asked herself; and her heart whispered back--"Nothing."

"A strange, eventful history, indeed," said Gerald; "so strange, that I hardly know how to begin it."

His tone was grave enough now. He was, in truth, puzzled how and where to begin his revelations.

"Once on a time," he said, at last--"that is to say, some five or six months ago--I was living very quietly in a little town in the south of France, when, one fine morning, I was summoned post haste to London. A certain lady, an old friend of yours. Miss Bellamy by name, was the person whose imperative summons I felt bound to obey."

"Do you know Miss Bellamy?" asked Eleanor, opening her eyes very wide indeed.

"Miss Bellamy used to buy me sweets when I was a very small shaver indeed. In fact, there is a legend current that she assisted at the cutting of my first tooth."

"But why did she send for you all the way from France?"

"Some seven weeks previously, she had sent through the post, to Mr. Kelvin at Pembridge, the very sealed packet about which so much has been said to-day. That packet had been placed by Mr. Lloyd in her hands many years before, with a request that she would keep it carefully by her till after his decease. When that event took place, Miss Bellamy was at Guernsey, and six months elapsed before the packet reached the hands of Mr. Kelvin. Immediately on receipt of it, his duty was to communicate to you those facts of which you were allowed to remain in ignorance till this morning. Finding, after a lapse of several weeks, that Mr. Kelvin had done nothing in the affair, Miss Bellamy sent for me, and asked me to go down to Pembridge, and ascertain from Kelvin the reason of his unaccountable inaction. I went down to Pembridge and saw Kelvin--whom I had once met years previously; but, singular as it may seem, I said nothing to him of the one particular object that had taken me there. At that time Olive Deane was living with her cousin, and it was suggested by her that, as Sir Thomas Dudgeon happened to be in want of a secretary, the place might perhaps be one that would suit me. She suggested, too, that I, being a poor man, might improve my fortunes by marrying an heiress, the heiress in question being Miss Eleanor Lloyd. For reasons of my own, I appeared to fall in with her views. The situation was procured for me, and I made my appearance at Stammars.

"One of my reasons for acting thus was my desire to see and be near you. I had heard a great deal about you at different times, and I wanted to make your acquaintance, and judge you for myself before letting you know that I was in any way mixed up with your private affairs. I wanted, in fact, to meet you as an utter stranger."

"Before you go any further," said Eleanor, "I should like to ask you one question. When you first came down to Pembridge, did you know that I was not Mr. Lloyd's daughter, and, consequently, not entitled to his property?"

"I did know it."

"Then it was very wrong of you to let me live on in ignorance of my real position. You were making yourself the accomplice of Mr. Kelvin."

"Granted. But I had very special reasons for acting as I did. I suspected the existence of some plot or scheme against you which I was desirous of fathoming. Besides, I could not find in my heart to be the one to strike the cruel blow that would deprive you of name and fortune, and shake the very foundations of your life."

"The cruelty lay in not telling me. You did me a great injustice, and, at the same time, you deeply wronged Mr. Warburton the real heir."

"Oh, if Mr. Warburton's anything like a decent sort of fellow, he won't mind a bit when it's all explained to him," said Gerald, with a twinkle in his eye.

Eleanor looked excessively pained. "You talk so strangely," she said in a faltering voice, "that I hardly understand you."

Gerald's arm went round her waist, and before she could offer any resistance half a score kisses had been rained on her cheeks.

"Oh! my darling," he cried, "cannot you see through it? Cannot you understand it all? I--I am Gerald Warburton!"

"You Gerald Warburton!" she said, as if repeating the words mechanically after him, but without comprehending what they meant. She put his arm aside, and stood up and stared into his face, as she might have stared had she been walking in her sleep, and were now coming back to consciousness.

"You Gerald Warburton!"

He drew her down gently on to the seat again, and made one of her hands a prisoner in his.

"It is even as I have told you," he said.

"It was I who Miss Bellamy sent for when she became alarmed by Kelvin's long silence. It was then, for the first time, that I heard your real history. Up to that day I had always looked upon you as my cousin. I came here under an assumed name, and I accepted the secretaryship to Sir Thomas Dudgeon, simply that I might see you and be near you, myself unknown. To see you and be near you was to love you. I determined, if it were possible to do so, to win you in the character of a poor man. Whether I have succeeded or failed, you know best."

"All this seems very hard to believe," said Eleanor at last. "And yet, if you tell me it is true, I suppose it must be so." She sighed; and then, in a low tone of voice, as if speaking to herself, she said: "'Lord Ronald is heir of all my lands, and I am not the Lady Clare.'"

"Yes; but what says his lordship in conclusion? 'We two will wed the morrow morn, and you shall still be Lady Clare.'"

She gazed at him sadly, wonderingly.

"Don't forget your promise," he said. "With Heaven's help, this day month we will be man and wife!"

"Then you knew from the first that you were Gerald Warburton, the heir, and that I was--nobody?"

She seemed as if she wanted his further assurance before that fact would impress itself with sufficient clearness on her mind.

"I knew, dearest, what I have just told you. I heard it from Miss Bellamy before I first came down to Pembridge."

"You came to me as a poor man, and stole my heart away before I knew what had happened--stole it away, perhaps, for mere amusement. But now that you have thrown off your disguise, now that I know you for the caliph himself, the amusement is at an end, and you had better give me back a poor trifle for which you can now have no possible use."

"As if that poor trifle, as you call it, were not the one treasure which I hold as far more precious than aught else the world could offer me. I have won you, and I mean to keep you, so you may as well resign yourself to your fate."

"Are we in a land of freedom, or are we not?

"You are not in a land of freedom."

"Then resistance is useless?"

"Entirely so."

Eleanor mused for a moment.

"Tell me this," she said. "Why did you make that confession to me one day in the library? Why did you accuse yourself of having been actuated by mercenary motives?"

"Because I had been told of the interview between young Piper and yourself. I knew, after that, what your thoughts must be concerning me, so that, all things considered, it seemed to me the best thing I could do was to cry 'mea culpa,' even at the expense of lowering myself for a time in your estimation."

"But rather than do that, why not have confessed everything? Why not have told me then what you have told me to-day?"

"Because at that time my plans were not ripe for such a confession. Because I could not then have taken you to your father."

"My father, Gerald!" she cried, as she started to her feet. "Oh! say those words again!"

It was the first time she had called him by his real name, and it thrilled him strangely to hear it from her lips.

"Eleanor, your father--I do not speak of your adopted father this time--is still alive--is waiting and longing to see you. I had a telegram from him only a few hours ago. See, here it is." He took a telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read aloud as follows:

"Everything proved. Our task is at an end. Come at once, and bring my daughter with you."

These words, "my daughter," from a father whom she had never seen, moved Eleanor strangely. Her heart beat so fast, that for a little while she could not speak.

"If I have a father," she stammered out at last, "why did he not send for me before? Why have you kept me from him all this time?"

"The story that I have now to tell you," answered Gerald, "is a very painful one, but that it will have a happy ending there is proof positive in the telegram which we have just read together. It is the same story in substance as you will find told by Mr. Lloyd in the sealed packet. I think it will be better that I should tell it to you first, and leave you to read it afterwards."

Eleanor was trembling a little. She could not help it. She seemed to dread hearing what Gerald might yet have to tell her. He tried to comfort her after the foolish fashion of people in love. Then drawing her close to him, so that her head rested on his shoulder, he went on with his narrative.

"Many years ago, in a small provincial town more than two hundred miles from this place, there lived four young ladies who had all been schoolfellows together, and who, now that they were grown up, were bosom friends. One of these young ladies married a gentleman, Ambrose Murray by name, and a doctor by profession. You are their only child, and your name is Eleanor Murray. Another of the young ladies married Mr. Jacob Lloyd, and you were their adopted daughter. The third married my father. The fourth remained unmarried, and is your friend and mine--Miss Bellamy.

"A few months after you were born, a terrible misfortune befel your father. He was arrested on a false charge of murder, was tried, and condemned to die."

"Murder! Condemned to die!" gasped Eleanor.

"The charge was a false one, dearest--don't forget that. But before the day came that would have left you fatherless, his mind gave way under the shock, and his sentence was commuted into one of imprisonment for life. Your mother, frail of health and delicate from a child, found the burden of life more than she could bear, and Heaven, in its pity, took her to itself."

Gerald paused, and as he did so he felt that Eleanor was sobbing silently, with her head still resting on his shoulder.

"Then it was, when you were left alone in the world, that Mr. Lloyd and his wife took you to their hearts and home. They had no children of their own, and they adopted you as their daughter, even to giving you their name--for, as you must remember, your fathers innocence had never been proved. The evidence at the trial had been terribly against him, and the world still adjudged him to be guilty.

"Shortly after their adoption of you, Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd removed to Pembridge, where they were entire strangers, and, except Miss Bellamy, no one ever knew that you were not their own child.

"And so years went on till Mrs. Lloyd died. It was shortly after this event that Mr. Lloyd, mindful, probably, of the uncertainty of life, put into Miss Bellamy's hands the very sealed packet about which we have heard so much of late. In case Miss Bellamy should survive him, it was to be given over by her into the hands of Mr. Kelvin, who had had the management of Mr. Lloyd's affairs for years. Mr. Lloyd himself doubtless shrank from telling you the real facts of your history; but as your father was still living, it was imperatively necessary that you should be made aware of them whenever he--Mr. Lloyd--should die. To Mr. Kelvin was delegated the task of breaking the news to you. In what way he has fulfilled that task we have now seen.

"All these long years Mr. Murray had been shut up in his living tomb. In the course of time his senses had mercifully been given back to him. Two or three times a year Miss Bellamy went to see him, and took him tidings of you and of the outside world. He knew that you were safe and well, and he would not let your young life be blighted by the sad story of his wrongs and sufferings."

"Oh, if some kind friend but told me!" exclaimed Eleanor. "It was cruel, cruel to keep me in ignorance of what it was my simple right to be told! It was my place, not Miss Bellamy's, to go to see him and comfort him."

"It was at Mr. Murray's own frequently-expressed desire that you were left in ignorance."

"All those years--all those summers and winters while I was growing up a happy, careless girl, he--my father--was shut up between the terrible walls of a prison. I--I cannot bear to think of it!"

"But it is air over now, and in a few hours more you will be with him."

"And you know him, Gerald! You have seen him and talked with him! No wonder some instinct of the heart bade me love you."

Gerald kissed her again--whether for the twentieth or twenty-first time in the short space of thirty minutes, matters nothing to nobody. He felt that he had long arrears to make up. Then he went on with his story.

"The first time I ever saw Mr. Murray was in Miss Bellamy's sitting-room a few nights after my arrival in London in answer to her summons. Your father had escaped from prison, and had come to Miss Bellamy, as the only person living whom he knew, for shelter."

"Escaped! Oh! if I had only been there to receive him!"

"He and I became friends at once when he knew that I was the son of one whom his wife had known and loved so well. Fortunately, no very extreme search was made after him, and I may so far relieve your mind at once by telling you that he has never been re-captured. In making his escape from prison, Mr. Murray's mind seemed to be possessed by one idea, and one only. That idea was the possibility, or probability, of being able to prove to the world his innocence of the dreadful crime laid to his charge twenty long years ago.

"How and by what means this great end has at last been accomplished, it would take me too long to tell you in detail now. That may be left for an after occasion. That he has succeeded completely and fully in what for a long time seemed an utterly impossible task, this telegram in his own words is ample proof. Not till he should have so succeeded would he allow you to be communicated with, or even to be made aware of his existence."

"How very strange of him! If he had but trusted me!"

"But the troubles of the past are over now. I propose to start for London by the six o'clock train this evening, and to take you with me. We shall find your father waiting at Miss Bellamy's to receive you."

"This evening! See my father this very evening!"

"Why not? Has he not sent for you?"

"I shall have to speak to Lady Dudgeon, and--and----"

"And you will be ready equipped for your start by 5.30. I will ask Sir Thomas to let Fenton drive us to the station in the wagonette."

Eleanor stood up and pressed both her hands to her head. "I am far from sure that it's not all a dream," she said.

Her eyes were still tear-stained, but a wan April smile was hovering faintly round her lips.

"Kiss me, and try to discover whether you are awake or asleep that way."

"Does my father know that you are acquainted with me?" she asked suddenly.

"Not till a few days ago was he made aware that I had ever seen you."

"Then all the time you have been at Stammars you have known my father, but without making him aware that you knew me, as you have known that I was not Mr. Lloyd's daughter, and that you yourself were the heir to his property."

"It would be impossible to state the case more briefly and clearly."

"Even now I hardly seem to see clearly the motives by which you were actuated. But I have heard so many strange things to-day, that that is hardly to be wondered at."

"The two most powerful motives that actuated me were these: your father's strongly-expressed wish that you should be left unaware of his existence and of the terrible story of his life till he himself was prepared to reveal everything; and secondly, my desire to win my wife as a poor man wins his--for himself alone, and not for whatever worldly goods fortune may have encumbered him with."

"I am afraid," said Eleanor, still with a smile, "that you are a far more enigmatical character than I took you to be--that I shall find you far more difficult to understand than, in my simplicity, I ever dreamt of."

"You hold the key to my heart, and that unlocks everything. When you come to know me better, as I hope you will do some day, you will find that, like most of my fellows, I am very shallow when properly gauged. Only, perhaps, I have the art of hiding it better than some. But now I must leave you for a little while. Remember, I shall expect you to be ready by half-past five. In fact, I have already telegraphed that we shall leave for London by the six o'clock train."

He pressed her hastily to his heart, and then she fled.

It was half-past seven when Eleanor and Gerald alighted at King's Cross Station. Miss Bellamy was there to meet them. Eleanor's arms were round her neck in a moment.

"Oh, my dear Miss Bellamy!" she exclaimed, half laughing and half crying, "how happy it makes me to see you again! I thought you had run away from me forever."

"Only for a little while, love. I had some one else to look after of late--someone who is anxiously waiting to see you."

They all got into a cab. There was no opportunity for much conversation as they rattled through the noisy streets; but just then Eleanor did not want to talk. She sat holding Miss Bellamy's hand very fast and inwardly trembling.

It was a good hour's drive to Ormond Square, but to Eleanor it seemed only a few minutes. Gerald, having handed the ladies out of the cab, took his leave for a little while, promising to call again in an hour. Eleanor, still like one in a maze, and still clinging tightly to Miss Bellamy, found herself next moment indoors.

"Take off your hat, love, but don't bother about anything else just now," said Miss Bellamy.

Then they went upstairs, and then a door was flung open, and there, in the middle of the lighted room, Eleanor saw standing a tall, frail-looking man, who seemed as though he were obliged to steady himself by clinging to the back of a chair, and whose lips were working with nervous excitement.

"Eleanor Murray, there is your father!" said Miss Bellamy, in a voice that was not without a touch of solemnity.

Eleanor staggered forward into the room. Ambrose Murray met her half-way, and caught her in his arms. She fell on his breast in a passion of sobs.

"Oh, papa, papa! why have you kept me from you all this time?" was all she could say.

Miss Bellamy came gently out and shut the door.

CHAPTER. XII. THE STRONG-ROOM.

"No chance of anybody hearing him but the dead folk in the churchyard, and they'll only grin to themselves and take no notice." So muttered Pringle to himself as he stood at the foot of the stairs and listened to Van Duren's cry for help.

And he was right. So long as the doors were kept shut, Van Duren's loudest cries would not penetrate beyond the basement-floor of the old house. In the office above people might, and did, come and go on business, but not the faintest echo of that terrible cry of despair, that was so near and yet so far away, ever reached them.

Pringle was there, as usual, to attend to the different callers, so far as it was possible for him to do so in the absence of his chief. Many were the inquiries during the day as to the probable date of Van Duren's return.

"He may be here at any time, or he may be away for another week. Most uncertain in his movements," Pringle would say to the inquirers. And as soon as they were gone he would rub his hands, and chuckle to himself, and mutter: "Revenged at last! Every dog has his day, and mine has come now."

And so the day slowly wore itself through till evening came round again. Pringle shut up the office at the usual time, and then, after a hearty tea, he prepared to sally forth for the evening's enjoyment. He told himself that he would take the entire round of the haunts where he was known, indulging himself with a glass or two at each of them, and have, altogether, a very pleasant time of it.

Before starting he went to bid Van Duren good-bye.

"If the postman comes while I'm out, you'll kindly take in the letters, won't you?" he said, with a sneer. "There have been more inquiries than usual for you to-day. What fun it was to send them off--some with one excuse, and some with another--and you within a dozen yards of them all the time! But I must go now. You are very pleasant company, Mr. Van Duren, but I must leave you for a little while."

Thus saying, Pringle locked the outer door, and having made sure that he had the latch-key in his pocket, he put down the kitchen gas, and let himself out by way of the front door, which he clashed to after him with a bang loud enough to wake every dismal echo that had its lodgment in the dismal old house in the churchyard.

It was close upon midnight when Jonas Pringle came picking his way carefully along the silent streets in the direction of Spur Alley. This care on his part was necessitated by the number and strength of the potations in which he had indulged during the evening. He knew quite well what he was about; he knew that he had taken more than was good for him; he knew that his course along the streets was rather a mazy one; he knew that his speech was a little thick, and that short words were infinitely preferable to long ones; but for all that, it was only his legs that were affected: his head was still as coldly calculating as ever it had been.

He had just turned the corner of Spur Alley, and was within a few yards of the house, when suddenly a woman, who had been sitting in the shadow of the steps, sprang to her feet, stood for a moment gazing fixedly at him, and then took to her heels and quickly disappeared round the opposite corner. A presentiment that it was his daughter shot through Pringle's heart the moment he set eyes on her. He shouted to her to stop, but she never even turned her head. He made an abortive attempt to run after her, but that was equally unavailing. Then he sat down on the steps where his daughter had been sitting--for he felt sure that it was she--and began to cry.

He was roused by the clocks striking the half-hour after midnight. He got up, shivering from head to foot, and let himself in by means of the latch-key. He did not go downstairs, but stumbled his way to his own room, and, without undressing, flung himself on his pallet, and slept unbrokenly till long after broad daylight.

He lighted the kitchen fire and got his breakfast ready before going near his prisoner. Last night's excitement and dissipation had left him, if such a thing were possible, harder and more cruel than before. Not one single grain of pity for his wretched victim made itself felt in his heart when, after breakfast, he went and knocked at the door of the strong-room. He was still convinced that it was his daughter whom he had seen over-night, and the sight of her only served to freshen up his wrongs, and to intensify a hatred that needed no additional fuel.

"Max Van Duren, are you still alive?" The cried, rapping with his key on the door.

A deep groan was the only reply for a little while.

Pringle kept on hammering at the door. "Why don't you answer me?" he screamed.

"For Heaven's sake, Pringle, give me a drop of water, or else leave me to die in peace!" It was hardly to be recognized as the voice of Van Duren, so faint and full of anguish was it.

Pringle's only answer was a laugh.

"Pringle, I am dying!" pleaded the imprisoned man. "The wound on my head has opened afresh, and I am slowly bleeding to death. I am too weak to stand. A few hours will end everything. Give me some water--give me a pillow for my head--give me a little light--and then you may leave me to die."

"All very fine, Mr. Van, but you don't get over me with any of your dodges. Once get the door open it would be all over with me."

"Pringle, I swear to you that I am dying--that I have not strength to walk across the floor."

"Then die," cried Pringle. "It is all you are fit for. Ask for no pity from me." And with that he strode away without waiting to hear another word, and shut the outer door behind him.

He stayed in the office as usual till evening; but he did not go near Van Duren again all day. He had found a bottle of brandy upstairs in Van Duren's room; this he appropriated, and his devotions were paid to it so often during the day, that when evening came very little of it was left. When he had closed the office, he sallied out, as on the previous evening, but still without visiting his prisoner. He had no appetite to-day; he could not eat. All he craved was more drink, and so long as he had money in his pocket there was no difficulty in getting that. Again he took what he called his rounds, and again it was close on midnight when he found himself back in Spur Alley.

He was fumbling with his latch-key, when a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. He had heard no sound of footsteps, and he turned with a low cry of terror. He turned and saw that it was his daughter who had touched him.

"Why, Jessie--Jessie, my darling! is that you?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it is I," said the woman, bitterly. "What have you done with Max Van Duren?"

"Oh, never mind him just now. But why don't you kiss me, Jessie? Why don't you kiss the foolish old man that has never ceased to love you, and search for you, and long for you, day and night?" He was half laughing and half crying as he spoke.

She just put her lips to his cheek, but he was not satisfied till he had drawn her to him and she had kissed him again and again. Then she repeated her question: "Father, what have you done with Max Van Duren?"

"Oh, I've got the scoundrel in safe custody, never fear!"

"In safe custody! What do you mean?" she asked, anxiously.

"Come inside, and I'll tell you all about it."

He had succeeded in opening the door by this time, and his daughter followed him into the dark entrance-hall.

"You needn't be afraid of meeting anything worse than black-beetles," he said, with a chuckle. "Follow me, Jessie, and mind the stairs," he added, when he had bolted the front door. "There's fifteen of 'em; I've counted them many a time. We shall find a glimmer in the kitchen, I dare say."

They groped their way down, and entered the room.

"Many a worse crib than this," said Pringle, as he turned the gas full on.

Then he stirred the fire, and drew a chair up for his daughter and another for himself, and produced a bottle of brandy.

"And now for a comfortable little confab," he said, gleefully. "I've quite a lot to tell you, dear; and I dare say you have something to tell me."

"Suppose you tell me your news first," said the woman. Neither in her manner towards him, nor in her mode of addressing him, was there the slightest trace of tenderness, or any token by which a stranger would have guessed that the man before her was her father, whom she had not spoken to for several years. Her hard mouth and her watchful eyes never for a moment relaxed their hardness or their watchfulness.

"Funny, wasn't it," began Pringle, rubbing his lean, yellow hands in front of the fire, but with his eyes fixed on his daughter, "that I should have been Van Duren's clerk for three years before finding out who he was?"

"And how did you find it out at last?" asked Jessie, without any apparent emotion.

"I was rooting about among his papers one day, when I found some of your letters, my dear. It was the greatest surprise I've ever had in my life."

"He has kept my letters, has he?" said the woman, in an eager, passionate way, breaking for a moment through the restraint she had hitherto put upon herself.

"He _has_ kept them; so much the worse for him, as things have turned out," said Pringle, grimly.

"What did you do next?"

"I put back the letters where I had found them, and waited for him."

"And waited for him?" cried the woman, wonderingly.

"Yes; he was away from home at the time I discovered the letters, and I waited till he came back."

"And what did you do then?"

"It was only the night before last that he got back home. I had made up my mind from the first how to act. He was only here for the night. He was going to start away again next morning; but I guessed he wouldn't leave without visiting the safe in the strong-room. So instead of going up to bed, I came down here and waited in the dark for him. I seemed to have been waiting a month, but it was only a few hours, when he came. He went forward into the strong-room, and turned on the gas. Then I stole swiftly after him. He did not hear me--he did not see me till the last moment; and then it was too late. Before he could reach the iron door, I had shut it on him and turned the key."

"You locked him in!"

"I locked him in. I made him my prisoner; and there he is at this very moment."

The woman had changed colour and started to her feet when her father made this disclosure. But another thought seemed to strike her, and she sat down again, her ashy face turned full upon him, and a strange, half-savage, half-defiant look in her eyes, which it was just as well that the old man did not notice.

Pringle lighted his pipe.

"There's nothing like taking things comfortably," he said. "What a fanny girl you are," he added presently. "I thought when you heard how I had bowled out the scoundrel who had blasted both your life and mine, that the least you could say would be, 'Well done!' But there you sit as cool as a cucumber, and as mum as a mouse--just as if I had been telling you a bit of news out of yesterday's paper."

"Your news has taken me so much by surprise, that I don't know what to say," replied Jessie; "I want time to think it all over."

"But aren't you glad, girl, that we've got the villain fast? Isn't it sweet to you to feel that his turn has come at last? My wrongs are deep, but yours are deeper. You ought to exult in what I've done!"

"So I do, but I can hardly realize it yet. I keep on fancying it must all be a dream."

"It's an uncommon ugly reality as far as he's concerned," answered Pringle. "I don't think he'll trouble us long. I think another day and night will about finish him."

Gradually the warmth of the fire, and the brandy he had taken and was still taking, had a somnolent effect upon Pringle. He found his eyelids closing involuntarily.

"I don't think an hour or two's snooze would be a bad sort of thing," he said.

"Where is this strong-room that you talk about?" asked Jessie.

"Why, close by here--on the bottom floor--just at the end of that passage."

"And the keys--who keeps them?"

"Who should keep them but me? I've got them safe enough, never you fear," and he tapped his pocket to verify the fact.

He poured himself out some more brandy, and when he had drunk it she assisted him to the sofa, lowered the gas a little, and then took up her own position in the big easy-chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

A few minutes later her father's deep, regular breathing told her that he was fast asleep.

Then she crossed noiselessly over to where he was lying, and began to feel for the pocket that held his keys. She was not long in finding what she wanted. Then she lighted a candle, and taking the candle-stick in one hand and the two keys in the other (after giving a last look at her father), she set out in search of the strong-room.

The little Dutch clock in the kitchen was on the stroke of eight when Jonas Pringle opened his eyes. He opened them, rubbed them, shut them, and opened them again. He might well stare and ask himself whether he had not taken leave of his senses. On a mattress in front of the kitchen fire, a coverlid thrown over him, lay the form of Max Van Duren. His eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily. Pringle was still staring at this terrible object, and trying to pull his wits together, when his attention was attracted by the noise of footsteps descending the stairs, and next moment Jessie ushered into the room a stranger, who at once crossed to where Van Duren was lying, and gazed fixedly down on him. The stranger was, in fact, a doctor whom Jessie had summoned by bribing a passing milk-boy to go and fetch him.

Van Duren was an utter stranger to him.

"Who are you, and what have you come for?" screamed Pringle. "Get out of this, or it will be worse for you! I'll have no thieving quacks here."

"Who is this man?" asked the doctor.

"My father."

"Then the sooner you have him removed the better. He must be either drunk or mad."

Jessie took her father by the shoulders and pressed him down by main force on to the sofa.

"Speak another word at your peril," she said sternly. "Disturb this gentleman again, and as sure as I am what I am, I'll have you locked up in there--in there, do you understand?" and she pointed in the direction of the strong-room.

There was something in his daughter's face that cowed him--that frightened him even. He had never seen such an expression on any other face. He sat down without a word.

The doctor was down on one knee by this time, examining the unconscious man.

"How did he come by this terrible wound on his head?" he asked presently; "and why has he been allowed to sink so low? Some one ought to have been called in two days ago."

"It's only about two days since he got home," said the woman, "and he brought the wound with him. How he came by it nobody knows but himself. Then, he was accidentally"--with a glance at Her father--"shut up in the room where he keeps his books and things, and couldn't help himself, and there I found him about two o'clock this morning."

"Was he conscious when you found him? Did he know you?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not send for medical assistance as soon as you found him?"

"Because he wouldn't let me--he wouldn't hear of it."

"More fool he," said the doctor brusquely. "What did you give him to eat or drink?"

"All that I could persuade him to take was a little brandy and water."

"Well, I can do nothing for him till he wakes," said the doctor as he rose to his feet. "I may tell you that he appears, so far as I can judge at present, to be in about as bad a way as it is possible for a man to be. I don't think it advisable to disturb him, and this sleep may do him good. I will call again about ten o'clock. Should he awake before then send me word, and till I arrive keep on giving him a teaspoonful of brandy every few minutes." With that the doctor went.

Jessie was kneeling by Van Duren's head, and she never moved to let the doctor out. Pringle, with his red, watery eyes, and doubled-up back, still sat on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin in the palms of his hands, looking like a ghoul waiting for its prey. Suddenly his daughter turned her head, and their eyes met.

"Look on your work and be satisfied," she said.

"I am looking, and I am satisfied," was the grim reply.

"And now," said the woman, speaking quietly, but with the same look on her face that had already cowed him, "you had better leave me, or there'll be harm done. I know there will. If you hadn't been my father I should have stabbed you to the heart before now for what you have done here"--pointing to the dying man. "Go! go! or worse will come of it."

Pringle cowered before her, and muttering something to the effect that a good wash would freshen him up, he slunk out of the room and shuffled upstairs, coughing painfully as he went.

Jessie resumed her watch by the unconscious man, bathing his brows now and again with a little vinegar. Presently he opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into her face. Then he tried to raise himself on his elbow, but fell back with a groan. Jessie gave him a little brandy, and that seemed to revive him.

"Where am I; what has happened?" he murmured.

"Hush! don't talk now," said Jessie. "The doctor will be here in a little while, and give you something to revive you."

"The doctor? The----Ah! everything comes back to me now. It was you who opened my dungeon and helped me, bit by bit, to crawl here. What good angel sent you to me, Jessie?"

Then, before she could answer, he began to mutter to himself in German, a language which he very rarely spoke, and evidently knew her no longer.

At this moment there came a sound of loud knocking at the front door. At the noise Van Duren again turned his eyes on Jessie.

He looked at her as he had never looked at her before: with a pathos and tenderness indescribable. But he did not speak.

Jessie's quick ears had heard her father open the door in answer to the knocking, and now there was a sound of footsteps coming down the stone stairs that led to the kitchen. Next minute the door was pushed open, and three men came into the room. One of them was Peter Byrne, and the other two were members of the police force in plain clothes. Byrne was startled at the sight before him, but he did not lose his presence of mind.

"There, gentlemen, is the man you are in search of. This is Max Van Duren, formerly known by the name of Max Jacoby."

One of the officers advanced. "Max Jacoby, you are charged with being the murderer of one Paul Stilling, at Tewkesbury, many years ago, and I hold a warrant for your arrest."

"A warrant for my arrest!" echoed Van Duren feebly. "You have come too late, gentlemen--too late, I say! I am beyond your reach now. I am going where you dare not follow me!"

His eyes closed once more; he breathed three or four times, and then not again.