Chapter XXXVIII: Whirlwinds

Miss Hadleigh was always effusive in her welcomes, and on the present occasion she was more effusive than ever in her reception of Madge.

‘I have been dying with anxiety to see you, dear; and if you had not come to-day, I should have gone to Willowmere, or sent for you.’

‘I am glad to have come at the proper moment, then—when you wanted me.’

‘Oh, it is most, most fortunate!’ (She found a difficulty in discovering a sufficient superlative, and so doubled the one at her command.) ‘And it concerns you as much as us, for it is about Philip and his uncle.’

Madge had not been excited with curiosity about the cause of Miss Hadleigh’s anxiety to see her; and even now she was not disturbed, although more interested, when she learned that Philip had something to do with it.

‘Has anything particular happened?’

‘We don’t know yet, dear; that is what vexes us. Philip has not been here for—oh, ever so long; and such strange things are being said about them in the city, that a friend of mine’ (a pretty simper here) ‘considered it to be his duty to come out expressly to tell me and ask if I knew anything.’

‘But what is being said and who has told you?’ inquired Madge, still undisturbed, and even inclined to smile, having experience in the young lady’s way of revelling in exaggerations on the most trivial occasions.

‘Alfred—that is Mr Crowell, you know.’

The correction was made with a little self-conscious smile, as if she were saying: ‘Of course you know that I have the right to call him Alfred.’

Madge bowed.

‘Well, Alfred tells me that people are saying that Mr Shield’s great fortune is a great bubble swindle; and something about bulls and bears, that I don’t understand; and that poor Philip will never be able to meet the engagements he has made in the belief that this man possessed millions. He has been dreadfully deceived; but nobody will believe that; and Philip will have to suffer all the blame, because the thing has been so cunningly done that nobody can touch Mr Shield. He is not a partner, and is in no way responsible for what Philip said or did.... It is perfectly frightful, and has made me so nervous that I really don’t know what I am doing ever since Alfred went away. Alfred is so generous and so brave—he has gone to search for Philip, and see if anything can be done to help him out of the mess.’

Making all allowance for probable and possible exaggerations, this news was startling, and it was rendered more so by the excited interjectional manner in which it was conveyed. But it obtained additional significance when she remembered what Philip himself had said of his worries, and what had passed between her and Mr Beecham. No doubt, Philip, desiring to spare her anxiety, had made too little of his difficulties, had avoided details, and left her to believe that they were only of such a nature as to involve temporary embarrassment, which could be overcome by coolness and resolution. Alfred Crowell, being under no constraint, had blurted out the truth—or rather, he had found the rumours of such importance as to induce him to make a special journey to Ringsford to inquire into their truth. That he should make the rumours an excuse for an extra visit to his betrothed was out of the question. He came and went at will.

If it were true, then, that Philip had fallen into or been led into such desperate trouble, what was she to think of Mr Beecham’s assurances that no harm should come to him? And she had pledged herself to remain silent!

These things passed through her mind as the panorama of a whole life appears in one picture to the eyes of a man who is drowning. But with the same rapidity came the suggestion of what should be done.

‘You ought to seek the advice of your father.’ The voice was a little husky, but the manner was decisive.

Miss Hadleigh moved her hands—they were neat hands, and she was fond of displaying them—gently upward and stared in despondent astonishment.

‘We dare not speak to papa about anything connected with Mr Shield. You can’t know how badly papa has been treated by him, or you would never think of such a thing.’

‘Then I must do it.’

She rose and made a pace towards the door as she spoke.

‘Oh, you must not do it, dear, for your own sake!’ cried Miss Hadleigh, alarmed at the idea of anybody venturing to speak to her father on a subject which he had absolutely forbidden to be mentioned. ‘You will bring us all into trouble if you do. You _do_ know that papa did not want Philip to have any dealings with this dreadful person, and Philip would take his own way. You could not expect papa to be pleased with his disobedience; and you _cannot_ expect him to be ready to give advice now, when his former advice was neglected. If you have any notion of papa’s way, you must understand that he would only be angry, and say that he spoke at the right time, and it was no use speaking now.’

‘I shall not bring any trouble upon you,’ said Madge quietly; ‘and although I see how unpleasant the subject must be to your father, I wish to speak to him. Do not be afraid, Beatrice.’

She took Miss Hadleigh’s hand in both her own and looked kindly in the flushed face. But although Miss Hadleigh was afraid of her father, she could not endure to be assured by another that she need not be so. Consequently, her shoulders went up, and her chin went up, and her brows came down a little, whilst her tone became slightly supercilious.

‘Oh, it is not on my own account that I advise you not to speak to him about this most painful business. _I_ was thinking of _you_; for it _will_ be a little awkward if you make him angry and refuse to help Philip, even when he has got rid of this most extremely disagreeable relative. But of _course_ you can please yourself. I do not think my brother will be grateful to you afterwards, when he learns how careful I was to warn you.... Shall I inquire where papa is?’

‘If you please,’ said Madge, attempting to smile; ‘but you are not to be vexed with me, Beatrice.’

‘Not at all, dear,’ was the response, in a slightly hysterical note, as the bell was rung with emphasis; ‘my anxiety is entirely to save you disappointment.’

‘I must risk that.’

The servant who answered Miss Hadleigh’s summons informed her that Mr Hadleigh was in the library.

‘He spends nearly all his time there now,’ said Miss Hadleigh, when the servant had departed with his message; ‘he goes to town seldom, and often does not go out of the house all day.’

She was interrupted by the appearance of her father; and he was so rarely seen in the drawing-room, except for a few minutes before dinner—and not always then, unless when there were guests present—that she was startled by the sudden apparition. Moreover, she had calculated that he would send a message to the effect that he was engaged, or that he would see the visitor in the library, and in either case, she would have been protected from the suspicion of having any share in bringing about the interview. She was determined that she should not be forced to take any active part in it, and not being prepared with an excuse, she said plainly: ‘Madge wants to speak to you,’ and went out of the room.

Mr Hadleigh’s cold face never indicated the emotions of his mind or heart; but his eyes, which followed Miss Hadleigh until the door closed upon her, turned slowly to Madge, met hers, and noting her disturbed expression, seemed to ask for explanation.

‘You so rarely ask to see me, Miss Heathcote, that I am afraid something unpleasant has occurred.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she began quietly, but the undercurrent of agitation was revealed by the hesitating awkwardness of her manner.

‘You ought rather to say that you know I am willing to be disturbed whenever you wish to see me,’ he rejoined, with that suggestion of a smile which appeared at times to her and to no one else.

‘Thank you—thank you. But have you not heard that Philip is in difficulties?’

‘What kind of difficulties—about money?’

‘Yes, yes; and his uncle, it is said, will not help him, or cannot. But you can, and will, if it should be true.’

Her hand touched his arm trustfully, as if to signify that her hope of safety lay in him. He placed his hand on hers.

‘I know nothing of Philip’s affairs, and have forbidden any one in the house to speak about them to me. He and I have settled matters between us: he has chosen his course, and is to abide by it. You are aware that it is not the course I should have liked him to follow; and being as it is, I cannot interfere with him.’

‘But if you learn that he has been deceived and is on the brink of a great misfortune—of ruin, which will bring disgrace with it—you would not refuse to guide him!’

For an instant there was a gleam in the man’s eyes, as if he rose in triumph over a fallen foe.

‘You must tell me what you mean,’ he said, controlling whatever evil passion had stirred within him and speaking in his ordinary measured tone. ‘What you say would be very alarming, if I did not think that you must be mistaken in regard to Mr Shield. As for Philip’s speculation, I did not think it had much chance of success, although it seemed to me worth trying, if it afforded him pleasure, and if—as I understood—the success or failure of his project was provided for. Has he told you that the failure has come so quickly?’

‘No; he has not told me that failure has come upon him, but that he feared it. The men, the work, and all the calculations of expenses seemed to have gone wrong when he last spoke to me. Within this hour, I learned that it was reported in the city that he would be unable to meet the engagements he has made.’

‘You must not mind city reports about new concerns, Miss Heathcote, for they are frequently the result of nothing more than the whispers of rivals who speak of what they wish to happen. Rumours are seldom circulated about an old established business without some good grounds for them. But for Philip’s business, you will have to prepare yourself for all sorts of ridiculous rumours. You must admit that his experiment is peculiar enough to provoke them.’

‘Then you do not think they can be true,’ she said, drawing a long breath of relief.

‘That would depend upon their source, as I am trying to make you understand. You need not in any case be anxious until you have definite information from Philip himself. I do not like to speak about Mr Shield; but, eccentric as he is, I do not think he would leave him in the lurch, when he knows that so long as Philip continues to hold the position of his heir, I shall do nothing for him.’

‘Not even if Philip had been deceived?’

‘Not even then.... But I will do anything for you.’

‘And that will be the same thing,’ she said, her face brightening.

‘Not quite,’ he observed with a coldness that was almost harsh.

But she did not observe the difference of tone and manner: she only felt that here was the opportunity to make Philip’s rumoured misfortunes the means of bringing about what Philip most desired—the reconciliation of his father and Austin Shield.

‘You say you would do anything for me,’ she said after a moment’s reflection, her expression becoming very serious as she lifted her eyes to his with pensive inquiry.

‘I have said it.’ The coldness had left his voice, and in its stead there was a subdued fervour, which indicated how much he was in earnest.

Then she looked at him steadily for a minute—still with that pensive inquiry in her eyes.

‘You were kind—most kind and generous to me, when you desired that I should stop Philip from going to Mr Shield. You were kind, too, in the calmness with which you accepted my explanation why it was that I could not comply with your request. I am grateful.’

‘Do not speak in this formal way,’ he interrupted—a very unusual breach of manners for him. ‘Tell me what it is you want, and if it is in my power, it shall be done.’

‘It is quite within your power’—she was speaking very slowly—‘but as I understand, you will find the task a most disagreeable one.’

‘That does not matter. Try me.’

‘Your readiness to promise makes me afraid to speak.’

‘That is not fair to me, when you say that the task is quite within my power.’

‘It is, it is; and it has been in my mind for months to ask you to do it.’

‘If it is to serve you, have no hesitation in asking.’

‘It will be a great service to me, because it will add very much to my happiness and to Philip’s. I know—I have been told by yourself and others—that your relations with Mr Shield were of an unpleasant nature.’

As she made an awkward pause, he bowed his head slightly, and the cold expression was beginning to appear on his face again. Her voice was not quite so steady as at first when she continued:

‘Well, will you prove to me that there was something more than a mere good-natured desire to please, when you said that you were ready to do anything for me? Will you agree to forget, or forgive, whatever misunderstandings there were between you in the past, and consent to offer your hand in friendship to your wife’s brother?’

Mr Hadleigh stood quite still and silent for a little. Whatever surprise or displeasure he might be feeling, there was no indication of either on his face. He was again the hard stern man he appeared to the people around him. Madge did not like this change, and became pale as she remembered the terrible charge which was laid against him. She almost trembled with fear lest she should find it true; and then there was a flush of anger with herself for pitying one who could be so heartlessly cruel.

‘Do you know the man?’ he asked quietly by-and-by.

‘Yes; I have met him.’

‘And like him?’

‘I do; and believe him to be our friend, no matter what may be said about him.’ Even in her present excitement she was surprised at the singular coincidence in the nature of the questions asked by Mr Beecham and Mr Hadleigh about her acquaintance with them.

‘Is it at his suggestion that you have made this proposal to me?’

‘He is entirely ignorant that I had any such intention.’

‘And if you had told him, he would have scoffed at the idea that I was capable of saying—even for your sake—Yes; I am ready to give him my hand in all friendliness, if he is willing to accept it.’ The sad smile which lightened and softened his features appeared again. ‘Have I satisfied you that I am ready to do anything for you?’

She was astounded by his sudden change of manner and ready consent to become reconciled to his enemy. Then her face brightened, and there was something approaching to an hysterical note of joy in her voice as she exclaimed: ‘Then you are innocent! It is not true that you had any part in the ruin of his friend George Laurence—it is not true that you had anything to do with the report of Mr Shield’s marriage which destroyed my mother’s happiness! Oh, I am glad—glad and grateful!’

And in the impulse of her gladness, she would have clasped his hands; but he looked startled and drew back, as a guilty man might do. Her astonishment took another turn: was it possible that he yielded so readily to her proposal because he wished to make atonement for the past?

He recovered himself instantly, and took her hand.

‘I see, Miss Heathcote, that Mr Shield has told you his version of these unhappy events,’ he said anxiously; ‘and in justice to myself, I must tell you mine.’

ELECTRICITY FOR NOTHING!

We recently received an invitation to witness, in London, a new method of producing electricity for lighting and other purposes ‘free of cost.’ The announcement that anything, with the exception, perhaps, of the air we breathe, can in these days be had for nothing, tempted us without delay to pay a visit to 31 Lombard Street, where, at the offices of Mr H. A. Fergusson, the new system was to be seen at work. Here we found a number of the now familiar incandescent globes dispersed about a large room, together with some small motors for driving sewing-machines, &c., the whole or any number of which could be put into operation by the turn of various switches. These lamps and motors all derived their electrical energy from a primary battery contained in a cupboard. Upon looking into this cupboard, we saw a number of wooden trays, lined with sheet-copper, piled one above the other like a nest of drawers; and we were told that each tray represented one cell of the battery. Further examination showed that the constituents of each cell were a plate of zinc, placed horizontally above a dark layer of oxide of copper in a solution of caustic potash. Coming to the question of cost, or rather of alleged freedom from cost, we learned that the cells were easily charged in the first instance, and that when once charged, would remain without attention for at least a month. During this time the battery would furnish a current. In the process, the copper would be gradually exhausted; but by a simple operation, could be brought back to its pristine state, and would be ready once more for another month’s work. Meanwhile the zinc would gradually be dissolved to form oxide of zinc. Now, one ton of metallic zinc can be transformed in this way to a ton and a quarter of oxide—a valuable white pigment—and as the oxide sells for a greater price than the original zinc, the promoters have some ground for their statement that electricity can be produced by this battery free of cost.

Unfortunately, recent experience of electric-lighting schemes has made the public very cautious in their reception of any new thing of an electrical nature, and there is little doubt that for some time really promising schemes will suffer for the shortcomings of their predecessors. It is, too, by no means the first time that a battery has been brought forward with the intimation that it will pay its own cost by the value of its by-products. But the effect upon the price of such by-products of glutting the market with them, is generally omitted from the calculations. Hitherto, such schemes have proved illusory; though it by no means follows that they must always do so. We have the example of gas manufacture before us, where, by careful working, the cost of the gas could be more than covered by the value of the other products of the coal.

A great deal of valuable information on the subject of primary batteries for electric lighting may be gleaned from a paper recently read before the Society of Arts, London, by Mr Isaac Probert, and which has since been published in that Society’s _Journal_. (We may here point out that the word ‘primary,’ as applied to batteries, has become necessary in quite recent times, to distinguish those which furnish a direct current from those which, under the name of accumulators, storage or secondary batteries, require charging, in the first instance, from another battery, or dynamo-machine. The current so stored can be afterwards utilised, as convenience may dictate.) This paper records in a lucid manner the numberless attempts which have been made to utilise primary batteries; but, except for experimental purposes, the cost has always proved prohibitive. The unhealthy fumes given by such batteries as those of Grove and Bunsen—which were, until lately, practically the only forms that could be used for electric lighting—also limited their use to situations where the fumes could do no harm. In process of time, Faraday’s grand discovery, that electricity could be generated by a magnet, and the ultimate outcome of that discovery—the introduction of the Gramme machine and its hosts of fellows—gave for a time the _coup de grace_ to battery projects, and for a long time they were heard of no more. But why was this? Let the question be answered by the practical illustration given by Mr Probert, which we must quote—for want of space—in a very condensed form.

Let it be supposed that a house is furnished with one hundred incandescent lamps, the electric energy for which is provided by a dynamo-machine and its necessary companion, a steam-engine. The mechanical energy required for the work is, say, twelve and a half horse-power. This is of course derived from the combustion of so much coal; and if there were such a thing as a perfect engine where no heat was wasted, the amount of fuel required would be very small indeed. But, as a matter of fact, with an ordinary engine the weight of coal required to furnish the power given would be about fifty-six pounds per hour—costing, say, sixpence. Giving the lights a working period of five hours a day all the year round, we have a cost for fuel alone of forty-five pounds. Then we have to take into account the first cost of the machinery, the interest on that cost, annual depreciation, and attendance. We need not dwell on the separate estimate for each item, but may state the total yearly cost of the installation at one hundred and forty-seven pounds, or nearly thirty shillings per lamp.

Now, let us assume that instead of a dynamo-machine and its motor, a galvanic battery is employed, and that the amount of energy furnished is the same as before. In this case, we shall owe our energy to the combustion of zinc in lieu of coal; and instead of obtaining the oxygen for the process from the air, which costs nothing, we must of necessity get it from an acid, which costs a great deal. The total amount of zinc dissolved per hour in the acid, to furnish the current required for our one hundred lamps, will be about thirteen pounds-weight, the cost being nearly three shillings. Added to this sum must be the amount expended on acids, the cost of attendance, prime cost of apparatus, interest, depreciation, &c., bringing up the total annual charge to seven hundred and fifty-nine pounds ten shillings, or seven pounds eleven shillings and eightpence per lamp.

These figures will be both interesting and instructive to many persons who wish to have some idea of the probable cost of changing their old lamps for new ones; but they serve our present purpose in pointing out the reason why the battery current has been superseded for lighting purposes by the far more economical dynamo-machine. Still, it is not every one who requires so many as a hundred lamps; and for smaller installations, an efficient, easily managed, and cheaply working battery would have a wide application. But it must be remembered that electricity can now be had at comparatively little cost to light a dozen lamps or so by employing a small dynamo-machine driven by a gas-engine. Inventors of batteries must, therefore, remember that they have rivals in the field, and that if they would successfully compete with them, they must offer something as cheap and efficient. Hitherto, this something has not appeared. But human nature is sanguine, and the most sanguine of mortals perhaps is one in whom the inventive faculty is highly developed. In spite of previous failures, no fewer than one hundred and fifty patents for primary batteries have been taken out during the past three years. Some of these are acknowledged improvements upon past models. Many batteries now before the public cannot be critically examined, for they employ fluids the nature of which are kept secret. (Of course this objection cannot apply to a patented invention, for one of the conditions of granting protection is that the invention must be so described in the specification that any intelligent workman can understand its nature and construction.) Others cannot be well described without diagrams and technical details of no interest to the majority of our readers.

To return to the primary cell of Mr Fergusson—which, by the way, is called the Domestic Primary Battery—and putting aside all its claims to produce electricity for nothing, we may broadly state that it possesses many advantages. It is compact enough to be put away in any odd corner; it is constant in its action; it seldom requires recharging, and such recharging is a simple operation; and lastly, it has the very rare merit of giving off no fumes whatever.

TERRIBLY FULFILLED.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.

Thursday evening came, and with it Captain Ferrard; and the two shook hands with a certain guarded cordiality, as of prize-fighters about to ‘get to business.’ But the dinner was a good one; Ferrard thawed considerably under the influence of a bottle of old Johannisberg, and enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. His host treated him with much deference, and seemed considerably impressed by his conversation. The captain was consequently in great good-humour with himself and all the world, and exerted himself—as, to do him justice, he well knew how—to be agreeable and amusing and to make a favourable impression. He was surprised also to find that this auctioneering father-in-law of his was really a very entertaining fellow. He overflowed with anecdote of a certain highly flavoured kind, and was full of curious experiences; he talked a good deal of ‘shop,’ about pictures and precious stones and such matters in the way of his trade, but it was amusing ‘shop,’ and served to introduce many strange and out-of-the-way facts and incidents.

The truth was that Mr Cross was taking a good deal more wine than usual, whereby he was ably seconded in his loyal resolve to think as well of his son-in-law and to be as friendly and open with him as possible. The pleasingly insinuating ways of the gallant captain were not without their effect, and the auctioneer began to feel more favourably disposed towards him than he had at one time thought possible. He appeared, now that one knew him, to be an open-hearted, good-humoured sort of fellow, one who was nobody’s enemy but his own, who was more sinned against than sinning, and so on. In his then condition, it seemed to Mr Cross that he had perhaps been rather too hasty and prone to think evil. His daughter, as he well knew, had her ‘little tempers,’ and might herself to some extent have contributed to her wedded unhappiness. No doubt the young man would be amenable to reason, and with judicious management and some outlay, might make a tolerable son-in-law after all.

The talk at last centred itself upon diamonds, and Ferrard was in the midst of an animated description of those belonging to certain family connections of his own, when the auctioneer interrupted him.

‘I know all about the Frayer diamonds,’ he said—‘no one better. But I wouldn’t mind laying you a wager that I could show you some, and not far off either, that would beat them hollow.’

‘I think you would lose your money,’ said Ferrard.

The auctioneer regarded him with vinous solemnity. ‘Look here, my boy,’ he suddenly said; ‘I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m sorry we should have been at odds so long. Perhaps I may have something else to say to you to-morrow, and perhaps you may be glad to hear it—I can’t tell. Anyhow, to prove to you that I’m in earnest, I’ll show you to-night what I wouldn’t show to any other man alive. Just you come with me.’

‘Are you going to let me have a sight of the wonderful diamonds?’ laughed Ferrard, as he followed his host into the hall.

‘That’s just what I am going to do, and a little more besides. But first of all, you give me your word as an officer and a gentleman that you’ll tell nobody about anything you may see to-night. Promise!’

‘By all means—of course,’ assented Ferrard carelessly. He was becoming a little bored, and had no expectation of seeing anything out of the common.

‘That’s all right. Put on your hat,’ said Mr Cross, taking his lantern from a cupboard and opening the hall-door.

They were absent about half an hour. When they returned, Ferrard was in a state of dazzled amazement. He did not in truth know which most to wonder at—the number and beauty of the gems, the ingenuity of their safe keeping, or the fatuous folly of the man who, even under the influence of wine, could impart such a secret to a person of whom he knew next to nothing, except that—as the captain frankly confessed to himself—he did not bear the best of characters. And he fairly hugged himself at the thought, that if he played his cards well, the wealth which was capable of affording such surprises as this might one day be his own.

‘I am glad we did not bet, Mr Cross,’ he said, ‘for I cannot afford to lose. They are far the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. I must really thank you for giving me such a sight, and especially for the confidence you have placed in me, which I hope is an earnest of our future friendship.’

‘Wait till to-morrow—that’s all I say—wait till to-morrow,’ said the auctioneer thickly. ‘I’m hardly fit to talk business just now. But I _will_ say,’ he continued, laying a heavy hand on Ferrard’s shoulder, ‘though I always knew, of course, that you were quite the gentleman, I never thought I should have taken to any man, least of all to you, as I have done. We had best be going to bed—it’s late; and I must have an hour in the City to-morrow, before I meet Amy at London Bridge.—Good-night, and pleasant dreams, my boy.’

Some men, the worship of Bacchus visits with heavy and dreamless slumber; others it renders wakeful and uneasy. This latter was the case with Mr Cross. He tossed and turned, courting sleep in vain; and thirst and dyspepsia supervened on excitement. His thickly crowding thoughts took a gloomy and despondent tone. Now that he was sober and sorry, he anathematised his folly in betraying the secret of his safe, so closely guarded through long years, even from his nearest friends, only to be blurted out in a moment of ill-judged confidence to a mere stranger, of whom he knew nothing but ill. All his old dislike and distrust of Ferrard returned, intensified by the consciousness that that gentleman had gained a distinct advantage over him. He determined that, although he would not altogether go back from his implied promise, he would hedge its fulfilment about with such conditions as should insure an entire change in Ferrard’s habits and mode of life, and should oblige him to cast in his lot with the class to which his wife belonged. In this way alone, he considered, could he ascertain whether it would be possible to trust the man and to secure peace, if not happiness, for Amy; and at the same time to patch up to some extent her husband’s shattered plans. At last he rose from an almost sleepless bed, feeling ill and worried, and more disposed than ever to repeat his wish for Captain Ferrard’s speedy dissolution.

When guest and host met at the breakfast-table, the manner of the latter, to Ferrard’s surprise, had totally changed. He was nervous and irritable; he complained that he was growing old, and said that a bottle or two of wine overnight would not once have affected him in this way. He ate little, but drank a good deal of coffee, and kept fussing nervously with several keys which lay beside his plate, putting them into his pockets, taking them out again, dropping them on the floor, and grumbling at his own awkwardness; altogether, behaving like a man considerably off his balance.

‘I’ve been up and about, for all I took too much last night,’ he said; ‘and sent my traps off to the cloak-room at London Bridge before you were out of your bed, young man. I’ve found time to take a look at the sparklers too,’ he added, holding up two of the keys, fastened together by a ring. ‘Always do, every day of my life, before I leave in the morning, and the last thing at night. Wouldn’t leave it undone for anything you could mention. These diamonds—I meant them for Amy, poor girl; and if—— But never mind about that just now.’

‘As I understood you last night,’ said Ferrard, who was growing impatient, ‘you had something of importance to say to me this morning touching our mutual relations.’

‘Well, I don’t know—I don’t know,’ replied the auctioneer. ‘You mustn’t take everything for gospel a man says when he’s had a glass.’

The captain’s face grew long.

‘Oh, you needn’t look so glum. I’m not going back upon what I intended, though perhaps it may not be all you were expecting. I have felt uncommon sore about this business, Ferrard, I can tell you; and if you and I are to patch up a bad job, you’ll have to make a fresh start altogether, and that’s flat.’

Ferrard remained silent.

‘I’m pretty plain-spoken, and I tell you straight that I can’t bear an idle man, and won’t have anything to do with one, if I can help it. All the same, I want to be friends with you, and let bygones be bygones; and so this is what I offer. Cut the West End, and racing and billiards and gallivanting, and come into the City. I’ll employ you in the business. If you give your mind to it and work hard, you’ll soon find your feet; and then I’ll take you into partnership. When I go, you will have it all to yourself; and a very pretty penny it will be in your pocket. Your father will stop your allowance, of course; but you and Amy can live here with me, free; that’ll save you a good bit; and giving up your expensive habits will save you a lot more. Till you are in the business, I’ll allow you—ah, I’ll allow you three hundred a year; and altogether, you’ll be better off in this way than you’ve been for some time.—Don’t say anything now’ (not that the captain had any such intention, being stricken literally dumb); ‘think it over, and make up your mind by the time I come back.’

He gathered his keys together with a good deal of unnecessary clatter, and locked them into a leathern wallet, muttering something about leaving them at his bank. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Hillo! I have not got another minute. You must excuse me, captain—don’t hurry over your breakfast, but I must leave you at once—there’s a deal to be seen to before we start. Good-bye; don’t move; and think it over—think it over.’

He had shaken hands, talked himself into the hall, and slammed the front-door, before the captain had been able in the slightest degree to grasp the situation, so utterly confused and astounded was he at this sudden wreck of his hopes. Anger had no place whatever in his mind. At another time, he might have been both amused and indignant at the offer which had been made him and at the manner of its making. The picture of himself as an auctioneer’s clerk, with the prospect of becoming in time, if he were good, a real auctioneer, might have struck him as exquisitely ludicrous; yet, though a gambler, a spendthrift, a debauchee, he was no fool; and it was just possible that, considering the splendid reward in prospective, he might at anyrate have seemed to assent, in the hope of making better terms after a while. But now, there was no room for any such speculations, for absolute ruin stared him in the face. The auctioneer had supposed him to be hard pressed for money; but what was the real nature of the pressure, he was far from imagining. In a short while, a certain acceptance for a heavy amount would fall due, renewal of which had been definitely and decidedly refused on the very day of Amy’s visit to her father. Unless that acceptance were taken up on presentation, it would forthwith be known that the signature of one of the indorsers had never been written by that gentleman; and in that case, the career of the Honourable James Ferrard would be most unpleasantly terminated. This was more than suspected by the holders of the bill; it was their reason for refusing renewal; and it was their intention to use it as a lever for extorting from the captain or his family, not only payment of the debt, but a goodly sum, by way of hush-money, into the bargain. Money he must have somehow, and that immediately, even if he had to appeal to his father; a last resource which, though audacious enough in general, he could not contemplate without dismay. Besides, the earl’s affairs were themselves so desperate, and the amount was so large, that he had little expectation that assistance would be possible, even if the will to afford it were good. A faint hope of escape had been held out to him by the auctioneer’s visit; and last night, from the friendliness of his host’s manner and the extraordinary mark of his confidence, he had fully expected that, with a little management, the money would be forthcoming. But this chance was now utterly gone; and flight, suicide, or penal servitude seemed to be the only alternatives left to him.

At this stage of his meditations, he became aware of three keys in a ring which were lying under the edge of his host’s plate. He continued to gaze abstractedly at them for some moments, half-unconsciously noting certain peculiarities in the shape of the larger of them. All at once he came to himself with a start. They were the keys of the strong-room and the iron box; overlooked, of course, by the auctioneer when he put the others into the locked-up wallet. To do him justice, Ferrard’s first thought was to snatch them up, take a cab into the City, and restore them to their owner. Mechanically he stretched out his hand, then drew it quickly away, and fell back in his chair, horrified at the thought which had at that moment seized upon him. He had written the name of another man; it was done in a minute, and was comparatively easy. But it is not easy, for the first time at least, to take the goods of another man—to steal.

There they lay, close to his hand as it were, utterly in his power. All that sweet and desirable money, frozen into a few crystals, the property of this plebeian, who had so poor an idea of enjoying it, so hateful an objection to parting with it. He tingled with envious rage at the thought. Why, a poor dozen of them, like angels of light, would put to the rout his persecuting demons of difficulty and danger; yet to help himself to them would be—theft. He looked at his watch. Half-past ten. The train was to leave at ten minutes to eleven. No doubt Cross would discover his oversight, and return with all speed to remedy it. He sat on and on, and gazed at the fatal keys until they seemed to fill his eye and brain. Once a footstep approached the door of the room. Without knowing why, he hastily moved the plate so as completely to hide them. A servant looked in, and seeing him still there, begged pardon and withdrew, wondering when he would have finished breakfast. Then he softly moved the plate back, and again sat looking at the keys. One thought ebbed and flowed continually in his mind, flowing more and more fiercely, ebbing with surely decreasing force. To take the diamonds—theft. Not to take them—ruin.

Half-past eleven. No cab at the door, no hurried step in the hall. Cross must now be well on his way to Brighton, and under the idea that the keys were safe at his bank. At anyrate, the things must not be left lying there. Clearly, it was his duty to take charge of them until they could be restored to their owner.

Ferrard presently rose from his chair, and put the keys in his waistcoat pocket. Then he left the house, stealthily, like one in fear.

That night, or rather the next morning, for it was between one and two o’clock, a figure came round the corner of the street from the square and walked a few paces past the iron door. Then the figure stood still for a moment and peered up and down the road. Not a sound, save the distant rattle of a night-cab—not a movement anywhere around. The figure turned and walked back. It stood in the shadow of the wall, glanced round once more, seemed to listen, opened the door, entered, and closed it gently from within.

The few hours of night wore out, the bright summer morning was come. The blinking policeman drifted slowly up the street, and as usual inspected the door. All well. He thought he heard a distant cry, and raised his head to listen. The cry was repeated. Satisfied that it was very far off—nowhere near _his_ beat—he smote his chilled hands together and sauntered away, to meet his welcome relief.