mill. He blinked with his eyes, and the damp dripped from his face,

which showed haggard and drawn; but Appleby, who wondered if his own wore that look, surmised that this was not due to cowardice, and understood why the man breathed in gasps.

"Leave the light, and go for the Senor Harper, Pancho," he said, and his voice sounded curiously harsh and uneven.

The major-domo, however, shook his head. "With permission, I will stay here, senor," he said. "Ask him what he has come for."

The other man sat down somewhat limply on the table and essayed to laugh. "The question is not necessary, Don Pancho," he said. "One has always a use for silver."

Appleby glanced at the safe, which had not been tampered with, and fancied as he did so that Pancho made a sign to him.

"You were looking for it in a curious place," he said. "One does not keep silver loose in a drawer. At least, not in Cuba. It would be better if you told us plainly what brought you here."

"To what purpose, when you do not believe me?" said the man, with an attempt at tranquillity. "Still, the Senor Harding is only liberal to his countrymen; and I have been unfortunate at the Casino."

Appleby saw the major-domo's smile of incredulity, and felt a mild astonishment at the fact that he was quietly arguing with a man who would, he knew, have killed him without compunction a few minutes earlier had the opportunity been afforded him.

"Well," he said a trifle impatiently, "you can explain it to the Alcalde. Will you go for the Senor Harper, and unlock the cellar next the stables as you come back, Pancho? He would be safe there until to- morrow."

The major-domo shook his head. "It would be better if you let him go," he said. "The law is troublesome and expensive in this country."

Appleby, who was already aware of this, reflected. He knew the insecurity of his own position, and Harding had warned him especially to keep clear of any complications with the officials; while he had confidence in Pancho and recognized the significance of his tone. Still, he was unwilling to let their captive go scot-free and gazed at him steadily.

The man, who met his gaze, smiled a little. "It is good advice Don Pancho has given you. I tell you so with all sincerity."

"Well," said Appleby, "you can go, but you will not get off so easily if you ever come back again. Still, I want the pistol you stole from me."

The man raised his shoulders. "It is an unpleasant word, senor, and you will find the pistol in the drawer beneath the one where you usually keep it. It is too noisy a weapon to be much esteemed in Cuba. Still, to requite a courtesy, you will take a hint from me. When a man is in charge of a good many pesetas it is not wise of him to keep his pistol in a drawer."

He slipped down from the table, asked Pancho for his knife, and took off his hat with grave politeness when it was handed him. Then he went down the stairway, and sitting down at the foot of it apparently put his shoes on before he strode away along the tram-line. Appleby laid his hand on the major-domo's shoulder.

"You came opportunely, comrade," he said. "I am grateful."

It was not by accident he employed the Castilian word which implies a kindly regard as well as familiarity, and the man seemed to recognize it, for he smiled curiously.

"It is nothing, senor," he said. "I did not sleep well, and saw the man creep into the veranda from my bed, which is near the window. In not sending him to the Alcalde you were wise."

"I am not sure that I was," said Appleby.

Pancho made a little gesture. "It is a turbulent country, and the man who escapes trouble is the one who lives the most quietly."

He turned away, as though to avoid further questions, while Appleby went back to bed, and, contrary to his expectations, slept until the morning.

It was some days later when he rode over to Santa Marta and, leaving the mule at the "Four Nations," called at the banker's house, where he found Nettie Harding sitting with her host and hostess on the flat roof. It was, though still early in the evening, dark, and the after-dinner coffee, the choicest product of Costa Rica, was set out in very little cups on the table before them; while the banker, who was stout and elderly, lay drowsily in a big chair. His wife had also little to say, and Appleby drew his chair up to Nettie Harding's side. The lamp on the table burned without a flicker in the still air, and a cloudless vault of indigo stretched above the sun-scorched town. Beyond the rows of roofs a band was playing in the plaza, and a hum of voices rose from the shadowy streets beneath. It was a little cooler now, and a pleasant scent of heliotrope came up from the patio.

Nettie Harding raised her head as though to listen to the music, and then glanced at the stars above. "All this," she said, "is distinctly Cuban, isn't it?"

Appleby nodded. "It's Spanish, which is the same thing. They're a consistent people," he said. "Still, I'm not sure that I quite catch your meaning."

Nettie laughed, and turned so that the lamplight touched her face. "Oh, I talk quite casually now and then. I meant that being Cuban it couldn't be English."

"That is apparent."

"Well, I was wondering if, bearing in mind the difference you were content with it."

Appleby laughed. "I am, you will also remember, an adventurer, and the country that feeds me is, as they say in yours, quite good enough for me. A little to eat, a little sunshine, a comrade's smile, and enough kindly earth to cover one at the last, is all, I believe, that one is entitled to expect."

He had meant to answer lightly, but a curious little inflection crept into his voice against his will, and he sat still a moment while the memories crowded upon him, with a longing that would not be shaken off. Once more he seemed to be gazing down on the red beech woods and palely flashing river from the terrace at Northrop Hall, though he recognized that in the meanwhile Nettie Harding was watching him with a gleam of sympathetic comprehension in her eyes. It was significant that he did not feel impelled to speak, for they had arrived at a degree of intimacy which made silence admissible, and still were comrades, and nothing more.

"If you had said that with a purpose I wouldn't have been in the least sorry for you," she said. "It would have been cheap, but that's just why I know you didn't. Still, are you quite sure there is nothing you long for over there? I mean, of course, in England."

Appleby was on the roof in Santa Marta in body, and noticed that Miss Harding made a very effective picture in her long white dress as she glanced at him with the little smile, but he was at the same time dually sensible of the crimson flush on the English beech woods and the meadows streaked with wisps of mist, while once more the alluring vision he had fought against glided into the scene. It was a girl with gray eyes and ruddy hair, graver, deeper of thought and emotion, and more imperious than Nettie Harding.

"Nothing that I am ever likely to get," he said.

Nettie laughed, but there was a faint ring in her voice, and long afterwards Appleby remembered her words, which then appeared prophetic.

"Well," she said, "do you know that if I could I would get it you, and there is very little an American girl can't get when she sets her heart on it? Now that sounds bombastic, but I'm not sure that it is. Anyway, I'm going to England presently."

Appleby looked up sharply. "To England!"

"Yes; you heard me. You will be sorry, but, of course, I'm coming back again."

"I know I can tell you that I certainly shall without its appearing presumption," said Appleby.

The girl nodded. "We haven't any use for that word in our country. In fact, we have rather a liking for a presumptuous man so long as he is sensible," she said. "Then there is nothing I can do for you there?"

"No," said Appleby.

Nettie leaned a little nearer him, and though she smiled a faint flush crept into her cheek. "If there were, you would tell me? I can't help remembering what you did for me."

"I think I would. Still, you see there is nothing."

"Well, I'm not quite sure, and one never knows who they may meet in England. It's quite a small place, anyway."

Then there was a ringing of steel on stone, and she looked round with a little impatient gesture as she said, "Here is that odious Morales again!"

The banker rose, and brought a chair as the colonel came forward, but the little pressure of the girl's hand on his arm warned Appleby that she desired him to remain, and for an hour they discussed the campaign. Then Appleby decided to relate what had happened at the hacienda a few nights earlier, though he said very little about the papers and nothing concerning the hidden receptacle. Morales, he fancied, listened with eagerness, and once his dark eyes flashed.

"You were wrong when you let him go," he said. "If it happens again I should suggest the pistol. One gains nothing by showing those gentlemen toleration."

Then he shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the banker's wife with a smile; but Appleby had noticed the vindictiveness in his tone, and as he surmised it was not accounted for by the fact that the man had broken into Harding's office, wondered whether it was because he had failed to accomplish his purpose. He, however, felt that Nettie Harding desired him to outstay the colonel, and was content with the little grateful glance she cast at him when Morales went away. Ten minutes later Appleby also rose, but the banker detained him a minute or two.

"You have a consignment of sugar to be shipped," he said "Some one will go down to the port. Yourself, I think?"

"Yes," said Appleby.

"Then it would be a kindness if you would hand this letter to the captain to post in America," he said. "It is of some importance to the Senor Harding and others."

"With pleasure, but why not post it here?"

The banker laid his hand on Appleby's shoulder, and shook his head significantly. "One does not trust anything of importance to the post just now," he said. "This is an affair in which the greatest discretion is necessary. When one puts anything he does not wish the administration to know in a letter he burns the blotting paper."

Appleby was not altogether astonished, but he took the packet the banker handed him; and when they shook hands the latter once more glanced at him warningly.

"The discretion!" he said. "You will remember--the discretion."

XIII -- THE SECOND ATTEMPT

IT was at a brisk walk Appleby left the banker's house, but he stopped a few minutes later where several streets branched off from a little plaza. He had some trifling business with a tobacco merchant who lived in one of them, but he decided after a moment's reflection that it was scarcely likely he would find the man, who probably spent the evenings at a cafe, at home just then. Appleby had, however, stopped somewhat suddenly, and noticed that the footsteps he had heard behind him also ceased a second or two later. This, he surmised, had in all probability no special significance; but he raised his hand to an inner pocket where the letter the banker had given him lay. It was evidently of some importance, and he remembered that it was not money the man he had surprised at the hacienda was in search of.

As it happened he carried another letter, which he meant to ask somebody at the "Four Nations" to post. It was of very little consequence, and contained only a list of American tools and machinery which Harding dealt in, and Appleby smiled as he slipped it into the lower pocket of his jacket. Then he took out his cigar-case and slowly lighted a cigar, so that anybody who might be watching him should find a motive for his delay. He looked about him cautiously as he did so.

The plaza was small and dark, though a thin crescent moon was just rising over the clustering roofs. Its faint light silvered the higher portions of the two square church towers that rose blackly against the velvety indigo with one great star between them, but the rest of the building, which was the one Nettie Harding had found shelter in, was blurred and shadowy. Beyond it a few lights blinked in the calle he had just passed through, but they only intensified the darkness of the narrow gap between the flat-roofed houses, and--for it was getting late-- the street seemed utterly silent. Yet Appleby had certainly heard footsteps, and no closing of a door to account for their cessation. The houses were large in that vicinity, and built, for the most part, round a patio, the outer door of which not infrequently consisted of a heavy iron grille which could scarcely be closed noiselessly. In front of him two streets branched off, one broad and well paved, the other narrow and very dark. The latter, however, led straight to the "Four Nations," past the carniceria, or butchery, and two or three of the little wine-shops of shady repute which are usually to be found close to the principal church in a Spanish town. Here and there a blink of light streamed out from the open lattice of one of them.

Appleby stood still a moment, and then, reflecting that anybody who might be following him would expect him to take the broader way, slipped into the narrow street. A day or two earlier he would have laughed at the notion, but the footsteps which had stopped so abruptly troubled him. He had passed one wine-shop when he heard them again, and, though it seemed at least possible that they were those of some citizen going home, there was an unpleasant suggestiveness in them, and when the light of the second wine-shop fell across the street he decided to enter it. If the man behind him also stopped, his motive would be apparent.

Two or three men sat in the wine-shop with little glasses of cana before them, and Appleby was reassured when he glanced at them. They were evidently of the humbler orders, men who earned a meagre two or three pesetas a day; but their garments of cotton and coarse unstarched linen were, as usual, spotlessly clean, and he surmised from their shade of complexion that they had emigrated to Cuba from the Canaries. They saluted him courteously when he took off his hat on entering, and one laid down the torn and wine-stained journal he was reading.

"The war is making sugar dearer, senor," he said.

Appleby was not altogether pleased at being recognized, as the observation implied, but the man seemed civil, and he smiled.

"It also puts up the cost of making it," he said, turning to the landlord, as an excuse for remaining a little occurred to him. "You have Vermouth in an open bottle?"

"No, senor," said the other, as Appleby had expected. "Since the war makes pesetas scarce one drinks the thin red wine and cana here. Still, I have a few bottles with the seal on."

Appleby laughed. "Well," he said, "as it has been observed, sugar is dear, and Vermouth is a wine I have a liking for. It is conceivable that these gentlemen would taste it with me."

The men appeared quite willing, and one of them brought out a handful of coarse maize-husk cigarettes when the host laid down the bottle with the white Savoy cross upon it and a few little glasses.

"It is not the tobacco the senor usually smokes, but his cigar has gone out, and one offers what he has with the good will," he said.

The man was clearly a peon, a day laborer, but Appleby fancied his manner could not have been improved upon, for it was free alike from undue deference or any assertion of equality. He took one of the cigarettes, and when he had handed round the little glasses sat with his face towards the door. The light from it, as he was pleased to notice, fell right across the narrow street, and he sat with his back to it. He had also not long to wait, for a patter of footsteps flung back by the white walls grew louder, and Appleby noticed that while they had rung sharp and decided they appeared to slacken as the man approached the wine-shop. This appeared significant, since it suggested that the man did not wish to cross the stream of light.

It was, however, evident that he must either stop or pass through it, and in another moment Appleby saw him. There was nothing especially noticeable about him except that the broad felt hat was pulled down a trifle lower than seemed necessary, and Appleby wondered if his suspicions were causeless, until the man turned his head a trifle. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Appleby felt that the dark eyes had rested on him a moment. Then as the stranger passed on he saw one of the men in the wine-shop glance at his companion, who made a little gesture of comprehension. It was, however a few moments later, and there was once more silence in the shadowy street when he turned to Appleby.

"It is getting late, senor," he said significantly. "You sleep at the 'Four Nations'?"

"No," said Appleby, who wondered if this was intended as a hint. "Still, I am going there."

The peon, he fancied, glanced at the landlord. "Then it would perhaps be better to go round by the calle Obispo."

Appleby reflected a moment, for he fancied there was a meaning in this, but he knew the calle Obispo would be almost deserted at that hour; while by going through the carniceria he would shorten the distance, and, at least, have the man he suspected in front of him.

"I think I will go straight on," he said.

"Then you will find it convenient to walk in the middle of the road," said the peon.

Appleby glanced sharply at the man. He had seen sufficient of Spanish towns to know that there were reasons quite unconnected with the safety of foot passengers or their property which warranted the warning; but the olive face was expressionless, and with a punctilious salutation he left the wine-shop. Glancing over his shoulder a moment or two later, he saw the men silhouetted black against the light as they stood in the doorway, and swung into faster stride. He felt he had nothing to fear from them, but their hints had been unpleasantly suggestive.

In two or three minutes he reached the dark slaughterhouses, which were faced by a wall with one or two unlighted windows high up in it, and as, treading softly, he strained his ears he once more caught a faint patter behind him. This was somewhat astonishing, as it was evident that if the man who passed the wine-shop still desired to keep him in view he must have made a considerable round. Appleby stopped suddenly, and made up his mind when the footsteps ceased too. The spot was lonely, and shut in by the slaughter-houses and high blank walls; while the feeling that somebody was creeping up behind him through the darkness was singularly unpleasant, so much so, in fact, that it changed the concern he was sensible of into anger. He had also distinct objections to being stabbed in the back, and decided that if an affray was inevitable he would, at least, force the assailant's hand, and to do that cover of some kind was necessary. Sooner or later he would find a doorway he could slip into, and he went on again softly and hastily.

He had made another fifty yards, and the footsteps were plainer still behind, when a pillar partly bedded in it broke the bare line of wall, and pulling out the little pistol from his hip pocket he turned sharply and flung himself into the gloom behind it. Then he realized his blunder, and that he had two men to deal with instead of one, for a strip of heavy fabric was flung about his head, and hard fingers fastened on his throat. Appleby gasped, and drew the trigger convulsively, while there was a crash as the pistol exploded. Then he felt it slip from his fingers, for the strength seemed to go out of him, and he was only sensible that he was fighting hard for breath. How long the tense effort lasted he did not know, but his faculties had almost deserted him when a cry he could scarcely hear rose from the street, and was followed by a sound of running feet.

Then he was flung against the pillar, and there was a crash as a shadowy object leapt into the doorway. A man reeled out of it in a blundering fashion, another sped down the street, and Appleby, staggering out, leaned, gasping, against the wall. It was some moments before he could make anything out, and then he saw two men standing close in front of him. One held something in his hand, and by their voices he fancied they were the peons he had met in the wine-shop. Looking round him as his scattered senses came slowly back, he saw another man apparently crawling out of the gutter. Then there was a rapid tramp of feet further up the street, and one of the men seemed to look at his companion, who made a sign of agreement.

"The civiles!" he said.

Then they fell upon the man in the gutter, dragged him to his feet, drove him before them with kicks, and stood still again while he reeled away in an unsteady fashion which suggested that he was at least half dazed. In the meanwhile the rapid tramp behind them had been growing louder, and the shuffling steps had scarcely ceased when a light was flashed into Appleby's face, and he saw a man with a lantern in trim white uniform standing a few paces away, and another who carried a pistol behind him. Then the light was turned aside, and revealed the two peons from the wine-shop waiting quietly to be questioned.

Appleby recognized the men in uniform as civil guards, and knew that almost every man in that body had won distinction in the military service.

The street was now very silent again, and it was evident that the peons did not consider it advisable to put the civiles on the track of the fugitive just yet. The one who held the lantern looked at them, standing erect, with knee bent a trifle and a big pistol projecting from the holster at his belt.

"There was a shot, and by and by a shout," he said. "An explanation is desired. You are warned to be precise."

"It is simple," said one of the peons. "Comes this senor the American, into the wine-shop of Cananos where we are sitting. There he takes a glass of Vermouth and goes away. Then comes a man slipping by where it is darkest, and we go to warn the senor taking the cana bottle. It appears there is another man waiting in this doorway, there is a struggle, and Vincente strikes down one of the prowlers with the bottle. He gets to his feet again, and they go in haste when they hear you coming. Then we find the senor faint and short of breath."

The civile stretched out his hand for the cana bottle, which was apparently corked, and balanced it. "It would serve--a man might be killed with it," he said. "But you had a knife!"

"With excuses," said the peon. "We respect the law. The knife is forbidden."

There was a little grim twinkle in the civile's eyes, but he fixed them on Appleby. "I will not ask you to shake your sleeve, or question your comrade, because his tale would be the same," he said. "That is what happened, senor?"

"Yes," said Appleby, "so far as I can remember. I was going from the banker's to the 'Four Nations' when I became aware that there was a man following me. To avoid him I slipped into this doorway, where another man was waiting. It was my pistol you heard, but the other man, whom I had not expected, had his fingers on my throat, and I was helpless when these others appeared."

The civile made a little gesture of comprehension, and then, tilting up his chin, laid his fingers on his throat. "The head drawn back--and the thumb so! With the knee in the back at the same time it was as sure as the knife. The senor is to be felicitated on his escape. But the motive? Even in Santa Marta men do not fall upon a stranger without a purpose."

Appleby, who was on his guard at once, felt his pockets, and was sensible of a vast relief when he found the letter the banker had given him was still in his possession. The other in his outer pocket had, however, as he expected, disappeared.

"I think their purpose was evident. It is for money one usually goes to a banker's," he said. "It is also known that I have dealings with the Senor Suarez. Still, thanks to the promptness of the gentlemen here, nothing of importance has been taken from me."

The civile with the lantern glanced at his comrade, who nodded.

"It would be wiser to go there in the daylight another time," said the latter as he held out Appleby's pistol, which he had unobtrusively looked for and picked up. "One cartridge burned--it confirms the story! You would not recognize the men who attacked you?"

"No," said Appleby, and the peon whom the civile turned to shook his head emphatically.

"It was very dark," he said.

The civiles asked a few more questions, and then one of them insisted on escorting Appleby, who apparently failed to make the peons understand that he desired a word with them, to the "Four Nations." The man, however, left him outside the hotel, and Appleby had spent a few minutes there waiting for his mule when one of the peons came quietly up to him in the patio.

"The senor lost this letter not long ago?" he said.

"I did," said Appleby, taking the envelope. "Where did you find it?"

The peon smiled in a curious fashion. "It seems you know our country. I took it from the man Vincente felled, but it did not seem wise to mention it before the civiles. They have sharp eyes, those gentlemen."

"I am indebted," said Appleby. "It is, however, of no importance."

The peon smiled again. "And yet you knew you had lost it, and said nothing. Why would one run a risk to seize a letter?"

"I don't know," said Appleby. "Nor am I sure why you and your companion should take so much trouble to guard a stranger. I would not, of course, offend you by suggesting that you did it to repay me for a glass of Vermouth."

"For the charity then?" said the peon, smiling.

"I do not think so," said Appleby, who looked at him steadily.

The man laughed. "Well," he said reflectively, "there may have been another reason. It is known to a few that Don Bernardino is a friend of liberty."

Appleby was a trifle astonished, but not sufficiently to show it, since he had already had vague suspicions.

"It is," he said, "a thing one does not admit in Santa Marta, but if one might reward a kindness with money I have a few dollars."

"It is not permissible, senor--not from a comrade," and the man straightened himself a trifle. "Still, one might be grateful for a little bottle."

Appleby laughed, though he was not quite at ease, and entering the hotel came back with two bottles of somewhat costly wine, which he thrust upon the man.

"If I can be of service I think you know where I am to be found," he said.

Again the curious little smile showed in the man's face, but he took off his hat and turned away; while ten minutes later Appleby rode out of Santa Marta somewhat troubled in mind. It was tolerably plain to him that Harding's affairs were being watched with interest by the Administration or somebody who desired to gain a hold on him, and that his own connection with the Sin Verguenza was at least suspected by the peons who had befriended him. That being so, it appeared likely that others were aware of it too.

XIV -- APPLEBY PROVES OBDURATE

THE hot day was over, and the light failing rapidly when Appleby, who had just finished comida, sat by a window of the hacienda San Cristoval with an English newspaper upon his knee. The room behind him, where Harper lay in a cane chair, was already shadowy, but outside the saffron sunset still flamed beyond the cane, and here and there a palm tuft cut against it hard and sharp in ebony tracery. Inside the air was hot, and heavy with the smell of garlic-tainted oil; but a faint cool draught flowed in between the open lattices, and Appleby, who had been busy since sunrise that day, sighed contentedly as he breathed it in. Beneath him the long white sheds still glimmered faintly, and a troop of men were plodding home along the little tram-line that wound through the cane; while in the direction they came from the smoke of the crushing- mill floated, a long, dingy smear, athwart the soft blueness, out of which here and there a pale star was peeping.

Appleby was dressed in spotless duck, with a gray alpaca jacket over it, and the thin garments showed his somewhat spare symmetry as he lay relaxed in mind and body in his chair. He felt the peaceful stillness of the evening after the strain of the day, for Harding had left him in sole charge for some months now, and the handling of the men who worked for him had taxed all his nerve and skill. By good-humored patience and uncompromising grimness, when that appeared the more advisable, he had convinced his swarthy subordinates that they would gain little by trifling with him, though he had wondered once or twice when an open dispute appeared imminent why it was that certain peons had so staunchly supported him against their discontented comrades. It was not, however, his difficulties with the workmen which caused him most concern, but the task of keeping on good terms with an administration that regarded aliens, and especially Americans, with a jealous eye, and appeasing the rapacity of officials whose exactions would, if unduly yielded to, have absorbed most of Harding's profits. To hit the happy medium was a delicate business, but hitherto Appleby had accomplished it successfully.

The cigar he held had gone out, but he had not noticed it for the paper on his knee had awakened memories of the life he had left behind him. He could look back upon it without regret, for its trammels had galled him, and the wider scope of the new one appealed to him. In it the qualities of foresight, quick decision, daring, and the power of command were essential, and he had been conscious without vanity that he possessed them. Also, though that counted for less, his salary and bonus on the results of the crushing was liberal.

Still, he was thinking of England, for a paragraph in the paper had seized his attention. There was nothing to show who had sent it him, though two or three had reached him already, and he knew that Nettie Harding was in England. He could scarcely see, but he held up the journal to the fading light, and with difficulty once more deciphered the lines:--

"The electrical manufacturing company have been very busy since the consummation of their agreement with Mr. Anthony Palliser. Already their factory at Dane Cop is in course of construction, and they have an army of workmen laying the new tramway and excavating the dam. It is also rumored that negotiations are in progress for the establishment of subsidiary industries, and it is evident that Northrop will make a stride towards prosperity under the enterprising gentleman who has recently succeeded to the estate."

Appleby smiled curiously as he laid the paper down. Tony, it was evident, would no longer be hampered by financial embarrassments, and Appleby did not envy him the prosperity he had not hitherto been accustomed to. Still, he wondered vaguely why Tony had never written to the address in Texas, from which letters would have reached him, especially since it appeared that Godfrey Palliser was dead. He was also curious as to whether Tony was married yet, and would have liked to have heard that he was. That, he felt, would have snapped the last tie that bound him to the post, and made it easier to overcome the longing he was sensible of when he remembered Violet Wayne. It would, he fancied, be less difficult if he could think of her as Tony's wife. Then he brushed away the fancies as Harper noisily moved his chair.

"Hallo!" he said. "Another of their blamed officers coming to worry us!"

Appleby heard a beat of hoofs, and looking down saw a man riding along the tramway on a mule. It was too dark to see the stranger clearly, and he sat still until there was a murmur of voices below, and a patter of feet on the stairway.

"He is coming up," he said, with a trace of displeasure in his voice. "I fancied I had made it plain that nobody was to be shown in until I knew his business. Still, we can't turn him out now. Tell Pancho to bring in the lights."

Harper rose, but as he did so the major-domo flung the door open, and stood still with a lamp in his hand as a man walked into the room. He made a little gesture of greeting, and Appleby checked a gasp of astonishment. The major-domo set the lamp on the table, and then slipped out softly, closing the door behind him.

"Don Maccario!" said Harper, staring at the stranger. "Now, I wonder where he got those clothes."

Maccario smiled, and sat down uninvited. He was dressed in broadcloth and very fine linen, and laid a costly Panama hat on the table. Then he held out a little card towards Appleby.

"With permission!" he said. "Don Erminio Peralla, merchant in tobacco, of Havana!"

Harper laughed when he had laid out a bottle and glasses, and the faint rose-like bouquet of Canary moscatel stole into the room.

"That's a prescription you are fond of," he said. "The tobacco business is evidently flourishing."

The last was in Castilian, and Maccario delicately rolled up the brim of the hat and let it spring out again to show the beauty of the fabric, while his dark eyes twinkled.

"It seems that one's efforts for the benefit of his countrymen are appreciated now and then, but my business is the same," he said. "One does not look for the patriot Maccario in the prosperous merchant of tobacco, for those who would make mankind better and freer are usually poor. That is all--but I am still a leader of the Sin Verguenza, and as such I salute you, comrade."

He made Appleby a little inclination, which the latter understood, as he drank off his wine. It implied that he, too, was still counted among the Sin Verguenza.

"There is business on hand?" he said quietly, signing to Harper, who moved towards the door.

Maccario, somewhat to his astonishment, checked Harper with a gesture. "It is not necessary," he said. "There is nobody there. Morales is sending his troops away, and by and by we seize the Barremeda district for the Revolution."

"You want me?" asked Appleby very slowly.

A curious little smile crept into Maccario's eyes. "Where could one get another teniente to equal you?"

Appleby sat very still. He had, he fancied, started on the way to prosperity when he became Harding's manager, and while he sympathized vaguely with the aspirations of the few disinterested Insurgents who seemed to possess any he had seen sufficient of the Sin Verguenza. If he could cling to the position it seemed not unlikely that a bright future awaited him; and while free from avarice, he had his ambitions. On the other hand, there were privations relieved only by the brief revelry that followed a scene of rapine, weary marches, hungry bivouacs, and anxious days spent hiding in foul morasses from the troops of Spain. Still, he had already surmised that he would sooner or later have to make the decision, and while he remembered the promise the ragged outcasts had required of him a vague illogical longing for the stress of the conflict awoke in him.

"Well," he said quietly, "when I am wanted I will be ready."

Maccario made him a very slight inclination, which was yet almost stately and expressive, as only a Spaniard's gesture could be.

"It is as one expected, comrade; but perhaps we do not want you to carry the rifle," he said. "It is the silver we have in the meanwhile the most need of."

"What I have is my friends', to the half of my salary."

"We do not take so much from you. A little, yes, when the good will goes with it; but there is more you can do for us."

"No!" and Appleby's voice, though quiet, had a little ring in it. "There is nothing else."

Maccario lifted one hand. "It is arms we want most, my friend, and now the patriotic committee are liberal we are getting them. There remains the question of distribution and storage for the rifles as they some from the coast, which is difficult. Still, I thing Morales would not search one place, and that is the hacienda San Cristoval. It is evident how you could help us."

"No," said Appleby grimly. "Not a single rifle shall be hidden here. When the Sin Verguenza send for me I will join them, but in the meanwhile I serve the Senor Harding. That implies a good deal, you understand?"

Maccario appeared reflective. "A little hint sent Morales would, I think, be effectual. Arrives a few files of cazadores with bayonets, and the Senor Harding will want another manager."

"Oh yes," said Harper dryly as he sprang towards the door. "That's quite simple, but the hint isn't sent yet. A word from me, and I guess the Sin Verguenza would be left without a leader!"

Maccario looked round, and laughed softly as he saw the American standing grim in face with his back to the door and a pistol glinting in his hand.

"It is Don Bernardino I have the honor of talking with," he said.

"You have heard all I have to tell you," said Appleby. "I cannot embroil the Senor Harding with Morales."

Maccario rose, and smiled at Harper. "It saves trouble when one has an understanding; and now, my friends, I will show you something. The major-domo had orders not to send up anybody without announcing him, but he admitted me. Will you come out with me into the veranda?"

"Put your pistol up, Harper," said Appleby; but Maccario shook his head.

"Not yet, I think," he said. "Open that lattice so the light shines through. Will you send for the men I mention, Don Bernardino?"

They did as he directed, and when they went out into the veranda Appleby blew a whistle. It was answered by a patter of feet, and Appleby spoke swiftly when a man appeared below.

"I have sent for the men. They are among the best we have, and supported me when I had a difference with the rest," he said.

Maccario smiled. "They did as they were told, my friend."

Appleby could not see his face because the light from the room was behind them, but his tone was significant, and he waited in some astonishment until the patter of feet commenced again, and half-seen men flitted into the patio. The latter could, however, see the men above them, for a threatening murmur went up when they caught the glint of Harper's pistol, and two of them came running to the foot of the stairway. Maccario laughed, and laid his hand on Harper's shoulder. Then the murmurs died away, and the men stood still below, while Maccario turned with a little nod to Appleby.

"One would fancy they would do what I wished," he said. "The Sin Verguenza have, it seems, friends everywhere. It is permissible for one to change his mind."

"Yes," said Appleby, who hid his astonishment by an effort. "Still, in this case you have not been as wise as usual, Don Maccario. There are men who become more obdurate when you try to intimidate them. You have already heard my decision."

Maccario laughed, and waved his hand to the men below. "I commend these two gentlemen to your respect. They are good friends of mine. There is nothing else," he said. "Now we will go back again, Don Bernardino."

The men apparently went away, and Maccario, who walked back into the room, smiled when he seated himself again.

"The Senor Harding is to be congratulated upon his manager," he said. "Still, there is a difficulty about the rifles. There are ten cases of them here already. They are marked hardware and engine fittings."

Harper gasped. "Well, I'm blanked!" he said. "I guess it's the only time any kind of a greaser got ahead of me."

"Then they must be taken away," said Appleby. "Where are they, Don Maccario? If you do not tell me I shall certainly find them."

"In the iron store shed, I understand. They would have been sent for at night to-morrow."

"Get them out," said Appleby, turning to Harper. "They will be safer lying on the cane trucks in the open than anywhere."

Harper went out, and Maccario poured out a glass of wine. "It is fortunate you are a friend of mine, and one in whom I have confidence," he said. "Had it been otherwise you would have run a very serious risk, Don Bernardino."

Appleby laughed, though he was glad that he sat in the shadow. "I can at least, let you have four hundred pesetas if the Sin Verguenza want them; but you will remember that if more rifles arrive here I will send them to Morales."

"In silver?" said Maccario. "I have samples of tobacco to carry, and a mule."

Appleby brought out two bags of silver from the chest in his office, for golden coin was almost as scarce in Cuba then as it usually is in Spain, and the two talked of different subjects with a frankness that concealed their thoughts, until there was a rattle of wheels as Harper passed below with several men pushing a little truck along the cane tramway. By and by he came in and sat down.

"The cases are marked as he told us, and I've left them on the line," he said. "I guess nobody would think of looking for rifles there. When are your friends coming for them, Maccario?"

"I think that is better not mentioned," said Maccario. "Those cases will, however, not be there to-morrow."

"And your men?" said Appleby. "I cannot have them here."

"You will listen to reason, my friend. I know you are one who keeps his word, and we will send no more rifles here. Still, those men work well, and the Senor Harding is not a Loyalist. He is here to make the dollars, and because the Spaniards are masters of Cuba he will not offend them. By and by, however, there is a change, and when it is we who hold the reins it may count much for him that he was also a friend of ours."

"You know he is not a Loyalist?" said Appleby.

Maccario laughed a little. "Can you doubt it--while the hacienda of San Cristoval stands? There are many burnt sugar mills in Cuba, my friend."

"Now," said Harper dryly, "it seems to me he's talking the plainest kind of sense. Make him promise he'll give you warning, and take his men out quietly when he wants them for anything."

Maccario gave his promise, and they sat talking for awhile until there was a knocking at the door below, and Pancho, who came up the stairway in haste, stopped where the light showed the apprehension in his olive face.

"Comes the Colonel Morales, and there are cazadores in the cane," he said.

There was a sudden silence, and Maccario, who started to his feet, seized one of the bags of silver. He, however, nodded and sat down again when Appleby's hand fell on his shoulder. There was, it was evident, no escaping now, for a quick tread showed that the officer was already ascending the stairway. Maccario made a little gesture of resignation.

"He has never seen me as a merchant of tobacco, and if he notices too much it is assuredly unfortunate for him," he said. "Pancho will already have the affair in hand."

Appleby said nothing, but he could feel his heart thumping painfully as he leaned on the table until Morales came in. He carried his kepi in one hand, and though he greeted Appleby punctiliously there was a little gleam in his eyes, while for just a moment he glanced keenly at Maccario. In the meanwhile Appleby saw Pancho's face at the lattice behind his shoulder, and surmised that Morales was running a heavy risk just then. He had little esteem for the Spanish colonel, but it seemed to him that the fate of the San Cristoval hacienda, as well as its manager, depended upon what happened during the next five minutes.

"You will take a glass of wine, and these cigars are good," he said.

Though every nerve in his body seemed to be tingling his voice was even; but while the officer poured out the wine Maccario laid a bundle of cigars before him, and smiled at Appleby.

"Your pardon, senor--but this is my affair," he said. "It is not often I have the opportunity of offering so distinguished a soldier my poor tobacco, though there are men of note in Havana and Madrid who appreciate its flavor, as well as the Senor Harding."

Morales glanced at him, and lighted a cigar; but Appleby fancied he was at least as interested in the bag of silver on the table.

"The tobacco is excellent," he said.

Maccario took out a card. "If you will keep the bundle it would be an honor," he said. "If you are still pleased when you have smoked them this will help you to remember where more can be obtained. We"--and he dropped his voice confidentially--"do not insist upon usual prices when supplying distinguished officers."

"That is wise," said Morales, who took the cigars. "It is not often they have the pesetas to meet such demands with. You will not find business flourishing in this country, which we have just swept clean of the Sin Verguenza. They have a very keen scent for silver."

"No," said Maccario plaintively. "There are also so many detentions and questions to be answered that it is difficult to make a business journey."

Morales laughed, "It is as usual--you would ask for something? Still, they are good cigars!"

"I would venture to ask an endorsement of my cedula. With that one could travel with less difficulty."

He brought out the strip of paper, and Morales turned to Appleby. "This gentlemen is a friend of yours?"

Appleby nodded, and the officer scribbled across the back of the cedula, and then, flinging it on the table, rose with a faint shrug of impatience.

"A word with you in private!" he said.

Appleby went out with him into the veranda, and set his lips for a moment when he saw, though Morales did not, a stealthy shadow flit out of it. He also surmised there were more men lurking in the patio beneath, and felt that a disaster was imminent if Maccario's apprehensions led him to do anything precipitate. Then it seemed scarcely likely that the colonel of cazadores would leave the place alive. Still, his voice did not betray him.

"I am at your service, senor." he said.

"The affair is serious," said Morales dryly. "I am informed that there are arms concealed in your factory. Ten cases of them, I understand, are in your store shed."

If he had expected any sign of consternation he did not see it, for Appleby smiled incredulously.

"If so, they were put there without my consent or knowledge, but I fancy your spies have been mistaken," he said.

"Will you come with me and search the shed?"

Morales made a little gesture of assent. "I have men not far away, but I am a friend of the Senor Harding's, and it seemed to me the affair demanded discretion," he said. "That is why I left them until I had spoken with you. Still, if we do not find those arms nobody will be better pleased than me."

They went down the stairway, and Appleby bade a man in the patio summon his comrades. Then they walked along the tramway towards an iron shed, where there was a delay while one of the men lighted a lantern and opened the door When this was done they went in, and for almost an hour the peons rolled out barrels and dragged about boxes and cases of which they opened one here and there. Still, there was no sign of a rifle, and when they had passed through two or three other sheds Morales' face was expressionless as he professed himself satisfied. They walked back silently side by side, until the officer stopped by a cane truck and rubbed off the ash from his cigar on one of the cases that lay upon it. He also moved a little so that he could see Appleby's face in the light of the lantern a dusky workman held. The latter was eyeing Morales curiously, and Appleby fancied by the way he bent his right hand that very little would bring the wicked, keen-pointed knife flashing from his sleeve.

"It seems that my informants have been mistaken," said the colonel. "I can only recommend you the utmost discretion. It is--you understand-- necessary."

He turned with a little formal salutation and walked down the tram-line, while the dusty workman smiled curiously as he straightened his right hand. Appleby gasped and went back slowly, while he flung himself down somewhat limply into a chair when he reached his living-room, where Harper sat alone.

"Where is Maccario?" he asked.

"Lit out!" said Harper dryly. "He'd had 'bout enough of it, though I guess his nerves are good. Kind of a strain on your own ones too?"

Appleby's face showed almost haggard, and he smiled wearily.

"It is evident that if we have much more of this kind of thing I shall earn my salary, though the Sin Verguenza will apparently get most of it," he said.

XV -- TONY'S LAST OPPORTUNITY

THE sun shone pleasantly warm, and a soft wind sighed among the branches, when Violet Wayne pulled up her ponies where the shadows of the firs fell athwart the winding road that dipped to Northrop valley. There had been a shower, and a sweet resinous fragrance came out of the dusky wood. Godfrey Palliser, who sat by the girl's side, however, shivered a little, and buttoned the big fur-trimmed coat that lay loose about him, which did not escape his companion's attention.

"Shall we drive out into the sun?" she asked.

"No," said the man, "I think I should be just as chilly, and the view from here pleases me. It is scarcely likely that I shall see it very often again."

Violet Wayne shook her head reproachfully as she glanced at him, though she felt that the prediction might be verified, for Godfrey Palliser had never been a strong man in any respect, and though he sat stiffly upright he looked very worn and frail just then. The pallor of his face also struck a little chill through her, for her pulses throbbed with the vigor of youth, and all the green world about her seemed to speak of life and hope. Yet there was a gravity in her eyes, which suggested that the shadow of care also rested upon her.

"That is not the spirit to hasten one's recovery, and you have been ever so much better lately," she said.

There was a curious wistfulness in Godfrey Palliser's smile, and he laid a thin hand upon her arm. "I should like a little longer respite, if it was only to see you Tony's wife," he said. "Then I should know that what I had striven for so long would be worthily accomplished. Still, since my last illness I have other warnings than those the eminent specialist gave me, and I do not know at what hour the summons may come."

At the mention of Tony the shadow deepened for a moment in the girl's face, for it seemed to her there was a meaning behind what the old man had said which chimed with the misgivings that had troubled her of late. Still, she was loyal, and would not admit it even to herself.

"Tony would have made you a worthy successor in any case," she said.

Godfrey Palliser smiled curiously. "Tony has many likable qualities, but he is weak," he said. "That, my dear is one reason I am glad that he is going to marry you, for it is a burden I shall, I think very shortly, bequeath him. You will help him to lighten it, as well as bear it honorably."

"There are, as you know, women in this country who would not consider it a burden," said the girl.

Godfrey Palliser stretched out his hand and pointed to the vista of sunlit valley which, framed by the dark fir branches, opened up before them. Green beech wood, springing wheat, and rich meadow rolled away into the blue distance under a sky of softest azure, with the river flashing in the midst of them. Across the valley, under its sheltering hill-slope the gray front of Northrop Hall showed through embowering trees, and the tower of a little time-worn church rose in the foreground. It was this, Violet Wayne noticed, the old man's eyes rested longest on.

"It will all be yours and Tony's from this bank of the river as far as the beech woods where Sir George's land breaks in, and it is a burden I have found heavy enough these thirty years," he said. "The debt was almost crushing when it came to me, and rents were going down, while one can look for very little from agricultural property. I did what I could, and thanks to the years of economy the load is a little lighter now; but once I betrayed the trust reposed in me, and failed in my duty."

Violet Wayne could not quite hide her astonishment, for no shadow of reproach had ever touched the punctilious Godfrey Palliser. He smiled when he saw the incredulity in her eyes.

"It is quite true, and yet the temptation to deceive myself was almost irresistible," he said. "For thirty years I had lived at Northrop with the good will of my tenants and my neighbors' esteem, and if that counted for too much with me it was because I felt I held the honor of the name in trust to be passed on unblemished to you and Tony, and those who would come after you. That was why I yielded, and it is only because you will be Tony's wife I make confession now."

"You are cold," said the girl hastily. "We will drive out into the sunshine."

Godfrey Palliser nodded, but he turned to her again as the ponies went slowly down the hill. "It is necessary that you should listen, because the man may live to trouble you," he said. "It never became apparent who killed Davidson--for killed he was--but Tony and I knew, though I strove to convince myself the man I should have exposed might be innocent. Bernard Appleby would not have escaped to America if I had done my duty. Had the warrant been signed when it should have been Stitt would have arrested him."

"You cannot believe that Bernard Appleby was guilty!"

"I am sure, my dear. I would not admit it, but I knew it then--and still, perhaps, I had excuses. The man was of my own blood, and I had meant, when he had proved his right to it, to do something for him. Tony is generous, and would not have grudged what I purposed to spare for him. It was a crushing blow, and left me scarcely capable of thinking, while before I quite realized it the thing was done, and I had become an accessory to the escape of a criminal."

He stopped, gasped a little, for he had spoken with a curious intensity of expression; but the girl looked at him steadily.

"Still," she said quietly, "I am not convinced yet."

"No? It is quite plain to me that it could only have been him or Tony, and the latter suggestion is preposterous."

"Yes," said the girl, who shivered a little, though the sun was warm. "Of course it is! Still, I cannot believe that the culprit was Bernard Appleby."

Palliser smiled faintly. "One could envy you your charity, my dear, but I have a charge to lay on you. That man may come back--and Tony would temporize. You, however, will show him no mercy. Not one penny of the Northrop rents must be touched by him--and now we will talk of something pleasanter."

Violet Wayne shook the reins, and made an effort; but the old man appeared exhausted, and she was glad that he evinced no great interest in her conversation. What he had told her had left its sting, for she had already been almost driven to the decision he had come to. Appleby, she felt,--why she did not exactly know, though the belief was unshakable,--could not have done the horrible thing, and all the love and loyalty she possessed revolted against the suggestion that Tony was guilty. Yet the brightness seemed to have gone out of the sunlight, and the vista of wood and meadow lost its charm while the shadow deepened in her face as they drove down into the valley.

Her mother was waiting on the terrace when they reached Northrop Hall, and when Palliser had gone into the house leaning on a man's shoulder she looked at the girl curiously.

"You are a trifle pale, Violet," she said. "Of course, it is almost a duty, and he seems more tranquil in your company; but I have fancied lately that you spend too much time with Godfrey Palliser. He seems unusually feeble."

"I do not think he is as well to-day," said the girl.

"He has sent for lawyer Craythorne," said her mother thoughtfully. "Well, you must shake off any morbid fancies he may have infected you with. You have Tony to consider, and he has been moody lately. I scarcely like to mention it, my dear, but I wonder if you have noticed that he is not quite so abstemious as he was a little while ago."

A flush of crimson crept into the girl's cheek, and once more the little chill struck through her, but she met the elder lady's eyes.

"I think you must be mistaken, mother," she said.

She turned and went into the house, but Mrs. Wayne sighed as she walked thoughtfully up and down the terrace, for she had noticed more than she had mentioned, and had fancies that were not pleasant to her. She had borne much sorrow in her time with a high courage, but she was anxious that afternoon, for it seemed to her that there might be a grim reality behind those fancies.

Godfrey Palliser insisted on dining with his guests that evening, which he had seldom done since his illness, and his four companions, among whom was the lawyer who had done his business for thirty years, long remembered that meal. Their host was dressed with his usual precision, and sat stiffly erect, as though disdaining the support the high-backed chair that had been brought him might afford, but the sombre garments emphasized the pallor of his face, until, as the glow of the sinking sun streamed in through the colored lights above the western window, a ruddy gleam fell upon it. In that forced brilliancy its hollowness and fragility became more apparent, and it was almost a relief to those who sat at meat with him when the hall grew shadowy. He ate very little, and scarcely spoke to any one but Violet, though his voice was curiously gentle when he did so; and when he sat silent his eyes would rest on her and Tony with a little contented smile.

Though they did what they could to hide it, there was a constraint upon the party which the very servants seemed to feel, for Tony fancied they were more swift and noiseless in their movements than usual. He also noticed the curious look in one man's eyes when, though the light was scarcely fading outside, Godfrey Palliser signed to him.

"Bring lights. I cannot see," he said.

The lights were brought, naked wax candles in great silver holders, and their pale gleam flung back from glass and silver had a curious effect in the lingering daylight. There was silence for awhile, and Tony was grateful to Mrs. Wayne, who broke it tactfully; but the vague uneasiness remained, and more than one of those who saw the strained expression in his eyes wondered whether it was the last time Godfrey Palliser would dine in state at Northrop Hall. Nobody was sorry when Mrs. Wayne rose, but Palliser smiled at his nephew when Violet went out of the room with her.

"You will spare me a few minutes, Tony. I have something to ask you," he said. "We need have no diffidence in speaking before Mr. Craythorne."

The elderly lawyer bent his head, and Tony felt uneasy. "I shall be glad to tell you anything I can, sir," he said.

"It is rather your opinion than information I want," said Palliser. "Some time ago you tried to convince me of Bernard's innocence, while to-day Violet persisted that she could not believe him guilty--even when I pointed out that so far as I could see the culprit was either you or he. Are you still as sure Bernard was not the man responsible for Davidson's death as you were then? I am not asking without a purpose, and the fact that we are honored with Craythorne's company will show you that I consider it necessary to set my house in order. It may be yours very soon now, Tony."

His low, even voice jarred upon one listener, and Tony spoke no more than the truth when he broke out, "I hope you will hold it a good many years yet, sir!"

"Yes," said Palliser, with a little smile, which something in his eyes redeemed from being coldly formal, "I believe you though I scarcely think it likely. Still, you have not answered my question."

"My opinion is not worth much, sir."

"I have asked you for it," said Palliser. "Nobody knows Bernard so well as you do, and while I have scarcely a doubt in my own mind, Violet's faith in him had its effect on me. After all, he belongs to us, and I would like to believe him innocent, incredible as it seems, or at least to hear something in extenuation. You will think me illogical in this, Craythorne?"

Craythorne smiled. "Then I admit that, being a lawyer, I am more so, for I would believe in Bernard Appleby against the evidence of my eyes. It also seems to me that the intuitions of young women of Miss Wayne's kind merit more respect than they usually receive."

"I am still waiting, Tony," said Palliser.

Tony sat silent almost too long, for the words "either you or he" troubled him. Had Godfrey Palliser not spoken them he might have answered differently, but as it was his apprehensions overcame him.

"It is a hard thing to admit, but I am afraid my views have changed since then," he said.

The lawyer regarded him covertly, and noticed the furtiveness of his eyes, but Palliser sighed. "You have," he said, "nothing to urge in extenuation?"

"No, sir," said Tony. "I wish I had!"

"Then you will be so much the richer," said Palliser dryly. "Now Violet will be waiting, and Craythorne and I have a good deal to do. I shall retire when we have finished. Good night, Tony!"

He held out his hand when Tony rose, and the younger man noticed how cold his fingers felt. "Good night, sir," he said. "I trust you will feel brighter in the morning."

The chilly fingers still detained him and Palliser said very quietly, "One never knows what may happen, Tony; but it would be my wish that you and Violet did not wait very long."

Tony went out with a curious throbbing of his pulses and a horrible sense of degradation, for he knew that he had perjured himself to a dying man who trusted him. The room he entered was dimly lighted, but he knew where the spirit stand and siphon were kept, and a liberal measure of brandy was frothing in the glass, when there was a light step behind him and a hand touched his arm.

"No!" said a low voice with a little ring of command in it.

Tony started, and swinging round with a dark flush in his face saw Violet Wayne looking at him. There was also a little more color than usual in her cheeks, but her eyes were steady, which Tony's were not.

"I never expected you, Violet," he said. "You made me feel like a boy caught with his hand in the jam-pot. It's humiliating as well as ludicrous!"

The girl smiled very faintly. "I am afraid it is," she said. "Do you know, Tony, that this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life?"

Tony saw the slight trembling of her lips, and laughed somewhat inanely as he held out his hands.

"I think I needed it!" he said; and in a sudden fit of rage seized the glass and, moving a few steps forward, flung it crashing into the grate. Then he turned and faced the girl, flushed to the forehead, but stirred to almost unwilling respect.

"There is not one woman of your station in a thousand who would have had the courage to do that," he said. "Still, it is preposterous to think that there was the least reason for it."

"Tony," said the girl very slowly, "I fancy I should hate you if you ever made it necessary for me to do as much again, but we will try not to remember it. What has been troubling you?"

Tony was glad of the opening, though under different circumstances he would not have availed himself of it.

"I'll try to tell you," he said. "I am afraid Godfrey Palliser is very shaky. In fact he was oppressively morbid to-night."

"No," said the girl. "I know what you mean, but morbid is not the right word. Your uncle is now and then pedantic but one could only feel respect for him to-day."

"Of course!" said Tony. "I shall be very genuinely sorry if his fancies turn out right. That, however, is not the question. He asked me if I still believed in Bernard, and I had a difficult thing to do. It seems that your faith in the man had almost convinced him. He wanted to believe him innocent, and leave him something in his will."

"And you told him--"

"What could I tell him? Only that I was not so sure of Bernard as I had been."

There was a gleam of something very like anger in Violet Wayne's eyes. "So you shattered the faint hope he clung to, and turned the forgiveness, which, mistaken or not, would have been a precious thing just now, into vindictive bitterness!"

"He asked me," said Tony. "What could I do?"

"You could have defended your friend--the man who has done so much for you."

Tony stared at her, and once more the girl felt a little shiver of apprehension when she saw his face, but in a moment he recovered himself.

"I want to know exactly what you mean by that?" he said.

"Isn't it evident from what you have told me of your early days?"

Tony's apprehension disappeared, for it seemed he had been mistaken. "Of course!" he said. "Still, the difficulty was that I couldn't urge anything. I can't see why you believe in Bernard, Violet. Isn't it plain that--it must have been either he or I?"

Tony was not devoid of a certain cunning, and the boldness of the question had its effect, but the girl's eyes gleamed as she said, "I could almost as soon believe you guilty as Bernard Appleby."

"Then," said Tony with a quietness which served him very well, "I am sorry you have so little confidence in me!"

Violet stood still a moment, a trifle pale in face, and very erect. Then she made a little gesture, and her lips trembled.

"Tony," she said simply, "you will forgive me that, though I scarcely deserve it. If I could have meant it would I have done--what I did a little while ago?"

Tony caught her hands, and would have drawn her to him, but the girl shook off his grasp and slipped away, while the man stood still until the door closed behind her, and then shook his head.

"Angry yet!" he said. "If one could only understand her--but it's quite beyond me, and I've no inclination for further worries of any kind just now."

He turned towards the cupboard again, stopped a moment, and then, with a little impatient gesture, went out of the room. He did not see Violet again that night, and went to bed early, though it was long before he slept. It was early morning when he was awakened by the sound of a door being opened suddenly and a hasty running up and down. In a few minutes there were voices beneath him in the hall, while he huddled on his clothes; and going out he stood a moment, irresolute, in the corridor. A man who seemed to tread in a curious fashion was coming down the stairs, and passed apparently without noticing him. Then Tony gasped as the Darsley doctor he had sent for touched his arm, for he could see the man's face dimly in the faint gray light.

"Yes," said the doctor quietly, answering the unspoken question. "I never expected it would come so suddenly, or I would have sent for you. Godfrey Palliser passed away ten minutes ago."

XVI -- DANE COP

IT was a dismal wet afternoon when Tony Palliser stood bareheaded beside a dripping yew tree under the eastern window of Northrop church. His head was aching, for the last few days and nights had not passed pleasantly with him, and confused as his thoughts were he realized what he owed to the man the bearers were then waiting to carry to his resting place. Godfrey Palliser had been autocratic and a trifle exacting, but he had taken his nephew into the place of his dead son, and bestowed all he had on him, while Tony remembered what his part had been. He had with false words hindered the dying man making a reparation which would have lightened his last hours.

Tony was not usually superstitious, or addicted to speculation about anything that did not concern the present world, but as he glanced at the faces close packed beyond the tall marble pillar with its gleaming cross, and heard the words of ponderous import the surpliced vicar read, he was troubled by a vague sense of fear. Godfrey Palliser had gone out into the unknown, unforgiving, and with heart hardened against his kinsman who had done no wrong, but it seemed to Tony that the man who had deceived him would be held responsible.

By and by somebody touched his arm, the droning voice died away, there was a shuffle of feet, and he watched the bearers, who vanished with their burden beyond a narrow granite portal. Then the voice that seemed faint and indistinct went on again, there was a grinding of hinges, an iron gate closed with a crash, and though Tony felt the damp upon his forehead he straightened himself with a little sigh of relief. He need, at least, no longer fear the righteous indignation of Godfrey Palliser, who had gone down into the darkness with his trust in him unshaken.

Still, it was with an effort he met the rows of faces that were turned in his direction as he walked slowly between them to the gate. They were respectfully sympathetic, for Godfrey Palliser had held the esteem of his tenants and neighbors, who had only good will for the man who would succeed him. They still stood bareheaded, for the most part, in the rain, and Tony closed the fingers of one hand tight, for he had erred from fear and weakness and not with deliberate intent, and the men's silent homage hurt him.

It was but a short drive back to the hall, and bracing himself for a last effort he met the little group of kinsmen and friends who were assembled about lawyer Craythorne in the great dining-room. Nobody desired to prolong the proceedings, and there was a little murmur of approbation when the elderly lawyer took out the will. He read it in a low, clear voice, while the rain lashed the windows and the light grew