Chapter VII: Part 7

Mr. Maybury gently disengaged himself from her embrace, and looked steadily into her face.

"Dora, tell me! do you love him?"

She buried her face again in the kind shoulder.

"Yes," she said, "with all my heart."

For a long, tense minute no word was spoken. Then Mr Maybury broke the silence.

"If that is so," he said, "you must not marry Mr Jefferson, and I must go and tell him so."

Dora raised her head. Her eyes shone like stars because of the great love she bore for Jim Mortimer.

"Go, then," she said, "and I promise you I will be brave--now, and until the end."

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*A DELICATE MISSION.*

Mr Harold Jefferson lived in the Albany, where a long succession of well-to-do bachelors, good and bad, have occupied chambers since the days of the later Georges. The bachelor nests in the Temple--so beloved of young Bar students fresh from the 'Varsity--wax insignificant in comparison with the lofty, depressing spaciousness which characterises Albany chambers. The rents, too, differ widely, for whereas a man may cut quite a tenemental dash in the Temple for fifty or sixty pounds a year, in the Albany one's rental may run into anything between a hundred and forty and four hundred per annum.

A quaint nook is this Albany. As one paces the stone-flagged footway in the contemplative stillness which broods over the place, it is an easy feat of the imagination to put the clock back a hundred years, to people the lettered houses with bucks and bloods in Regency attire, and, with the fall of night, to set the gaunt old quarter ablaze with candles, and listen to the flick and rattle of cards and dice, the popping of corks, and the sound of those old-fashioned oaths which it was thought fit that gentlemen should use freely in the days when Byron and Macaulay lived in this aristocratic bachelor precinct.

But new times bring new men, and Harold Jefferson was of the newest. He lived in the Albany for the same reason that he drove a motor-car, ploughed the Thames in a steam launch, and frequented fashionable restaurants at fashionable hours--because it was expensive.

On this particular night--the eve of his wedding day--Jefferson was superintending the packing of his various possessions. This was his last night in the Albany, so much had to be done. Albert, his valet, was moving here and there with dapper, noiseless steps, folding, arranging, pressing down, strapping, and locking. Albert was, on the whole, a good valet. He was punctual, obsequious, diplomatic, and only stole odd sixpences and shillings--for his was a mean little nature, content with little thefts.

Albert put up with abuse that no honest man would have listened to in silence. Therefore he suited Jefferson. True, he had no respect whatever for his master, but Jefferson paid him more liberally than, say, a military gentleman would have done, so he stayed on with Jefferson, wore his left-off suits, annexed his small change, and was quite contented with himself in his negative, unambitious way.

Harold, this evening, was in a high good-humour. Everything had fallen out as he had desired that it should do. He was marrying a lovely girl, and would be envied for his prize far and wide. He would dress her in the prettiest attire obtainable for money, deck her out in costly jewels, and constantly bask in the reflected glory of her beauty. When they came back, he promised himself he would take precious good care she didn't pay many calls at No. 9, or have her starveling relations to see her more than twice a year.

At ten o'clock Albert, having completed his tasks, left the Albany. At eleven Jefferson was due at a farewell supper party which was to be given in his honour that night by some of his bachelor friends at the famous Whittingham restaurant, where they charge you eighteen-pence simply for hanging your hat up. The price of food and wine, reckoned on a similar scale, may be imagined. But then, Mr Jefferson and his friends set little store by a meal that did not cost them about six times more than it was worth.

Harold had adjusted his tie and put on his overcoat, preparatory to sallying forth, when there came a knock at his door. Albert having departed, he was obliged to answer the summons himself.

"Mr Maybury!"

Harold's tone smacked more of surprise than cordiality.

"Yes, I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Jefferson, but my errand is an important one. May I come in?"

"Of course, of course! I am afraid I cannot ask you to stay very long, as I have to be at the Whittingham at eleven. Some of my friends are giving me a send-off. Will you have a glass of champagne?"

"No, thank you."

"A cigar, then?"

"Again, no, thank you. Such things would not harmonise with my errand, for I have come, Mr Jefferson, to break some very unpleasant news to you."

"I hope nothing is wrong with Dora?"

"My visit concerns Dora. To come to the point at once, I am afraid that this marriage arranged for to-morrow cannot take place."

Jefferson stared at him aghast.

"In the name of goodness--_why_ not?"

Jefferson had seated himself on the table, one slippered foot just touching the floor. Mr Maybury walked up to him.

"I am exceedingly sorry to have to bring you this news. Believe me, I feel for your position. The truth of the matter is, Dora loves another man, and therefore it would be most wrong on my part to allow your marriage with her to take place."

Jefferson stared at his visitor in amazement

"Are you quite sober, sir?" he demanded.

"Yes, I am absolutely sober."

"Then allow me to tell you that you are talking so much tomfoolery! Of course the marriage must take place! How on earth can you have allowed yourself to come here with such a suggestion? I suppose Dora is in a state of nervousness that borders on hysteria and so has got some foolish fancy into her head that she doesn't like me enough. For Heaven's sake, man, go home and reason with her, and don't delay me any longer with such a wild-goose tale."

The ex-merchant regarded Jefferson with a cool and resolute gaze.

"This is not a wild-goose tale. Dora is not hysterical. Nor is this a foolish fancy of hers. She prefers young Mortimer to you, and it would be an unpardonable crime on my part to allow her to marry you."

"Mortimer!--_that_ bounder!"

"She loves Mortimer--and he is not, I may add, a bounder. He is as good a gentleman as I have ever met."

The situation was getting serious. Jefferson took off his overcoat and lit a cigarette. Then--by way of steadying his own nerves--he mixed himself a whisky and soda. Finally he came to a halt opposite his visitor, and as he did so his lips set in an ugly and determined line.

"Now, look here, Maybury," he said, blowing a column of smoke ceilingwards, "let us talk sense. Dora likes this Mortimer--I have known that for a long time. To-night his name is in every mouth--yes, I have read in the evening papers of what he has done. And so it suddenly occurs to her that she would prefer to be the wife of a brilliant young surgeon rather than of a--well, of a not very brilliant young stockbroker."

Mr Maybury held up his hand, but Jefferson would not be silenced.

"She comes to you in tears, declaring she cannot marry me. You, not knowing women as I do, are convinced by her tears, and come straight off to me to say the marriage can't take place. You are, if you will excuse me for saying so, a fool. I will marry Dora to-morrow, and afterwards I will prove to you that I am as good a man as any common cad of a surgeon you may please to take into your house as a lodger!"

Jefferson's eyes were blazing with fury. The whisky had done its work.

"I have already told you," returned Mr Maybury, in even, quiet tones, "that I feel very much for you. The abandonment of this match will put you in a very awkward position, but I must repeat that the marriage cannot and _shall not_ take place."

"And _I_ say," shouted Jefferson, "that I will not be bested by Mortimer. He shall not marry Dora. I look to her to keep her promise. Mortimer shall never have her!"

"No, he never will," said Mr Maybury.

"What! You said just now that she prefers him to me!"

"She will never marry him," Mr Maybury resumed, "because in all probability he will be dead within four-and-twenty hours!"

"_Dead!_" Jefferson's face lit up with renewed hope.

"Yes, he has been severely mauled by a gang of Hooligans. The medical man who has seen him declares that his case is hopeless."

Jefferson did not speak for a few moments. Then he burst into a laugh.

"I see--I see it all! Mortimer is brought in unconscious, and Dora promptly faints. She is inclined to be sentimental, as I know. And so you come here and tell me I mustn't marry her. Did ever man set out on such a preposterous errand? My good Maybury, I shall be at the church to-morrow, and if you and your daughter are not there you will never set foot in my office again."

"We shall certainly not be there," replied Mr Maybury.

"We shall see. You've got a night to sleep on it. My father is ill, and is away on the Continent. I am head of the firm during his absence. Fail to keep your contract to-morrow afternoon, and you need never show your face in my office again. Were my father in London he would support me, for he will not see me insulted in this manner. I will telegraph to him, if you like."

"You need not do that," said Mr Maybury, moving towards the door; "I accept my dismissal at your hands."

Jefferson laughed again. "I really think you cannot be quite sober. Just reflect on what you are doing. Can you afford to throw up your job with us?"

Mr Maybury turned fiercely upon the young man. "_Afford_! Listen to me, Mr Jefferson. My child's happiness is to me a matter of higher importance than my post in your firm. I am a poor man--Heaven knows!--and want every penny I earn as your book-keeper, but that fact will not deter me from doing what I conceive to be my duty. I say my child shall _not_ marry you."

And without another word Dora's father turned on his heel and went his way.

*CHAPTER XXIX.*

*THE DOCTOR VISITS MOUNT STREET.*

When Koko left No. 9, after seeing Jim put to bed, he went straight to Taplow's surgery, and was lucky enough to find that the bearded man was still there.

"Doctor, I want you to spend the night with Mortimer," said Koko.

"Impossible," said the bearded man. "I have an urgent case which will keep me up till four."

"What's to be done, then?"

"Get a trained nurse--I'll give you the address of a place in the West End where about two hundred of them live when they have no case on. Telephone the manageress, and say you want a nurse sent to No. 9 Derby Crescent to-night. I'll look in at breakfast-time."

He gave Koko the address of the nurses' home.

"Right!" said Koko. "Now, doctor, tell me candidly--has Mortimer got a chance?"

"Not a ghost of one," said the bearded man; "even if he pulled through he would be paralysed for the rest of his life, but he won't pull through. The mischief is in the spine--where he was kicked."

"I shot the fellow," said Koko, between his teeth.

"Did you? Well, I don't suppose he will be much loss. If the police were allowed to carry revolvers we shouldn't hear much more of this Hooliganism."

Koko paced restlessly up and down the surgery, and then turned abruptly to the bearded man.

"Look here, doctor," he exclaimed, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but is it possible that you're mistaken about my friend Mortimer?"

"Time will show," said the bearded man, coldly. "I give him twenty-four hours. Now, if you're ready, I'll turn the gas out. I must be off."

With a sorrowful heart Koko hailed a cab and drove to the nurses' home. He had experienced too many of the telephone's delays. At the home he promptly engaged a nurse, waited while she packed her box, and then conveyed her to No. 9, where he confided her to the care of Mrs Maybury.

After this Koko made his way to a telegraph office in the Strand, and inquired whether he could wire to Threeways. He was told that he was too late. He therefore wrote out a telegram, briefly informing old Dr Mortimer of what had happened, and left it with the clerk at the counter to be dispatched directly the office opened on the following morning.

Then Koko, worn out, sought his bed. At ten the next morning he had to appear at the Blackfriars police court to answer the charge of "causing the death" of the bandaged Hooligan, and also to give evidence against the six roughs in custody.

About eleven the next morning Dr Mortimer arrived at No. 9, and was ushered up to Jim's bedroom. A brief examination told him that his grandson was very far gone indeed, and so without delay he drove to Harley Street and alighted at the door of Trefusis, the first authority on spine trouble. Dr Trefusis promised to proceed to Derby Crescent immediately. A few doors lower down lived Sir Savile Smart. Dr Mortimer was so fortunate as to find him in.

"Smart, I want you to come and look at my boy."

"Jim! What's wrong?"

"The Hooligans have been at him. I want you to meet Trefusis and give an opinion. Brain and spine injuries. You'll come?"

"My shoulder hurts; but I'll come with pleasure."

By one o'clock Jim had been examined by the two great surgeons. During the process they both looked grave, but at the end of it Sir Savile drew a deep breath of relief.

"He's a tough young dog. We shall pull him through, Trefusis?"

The spine man looked doubtful

"We may. He'll be unconscious for a week. When he comes round we shall be able to tell better."

Then the specialist turned to Dr Mortimer.

"I will do my best for your boy, sir. He may live. I cannot say with certainty. A great deal depends on the nursing. I'll come to-morrow. Good-day.

Soon after the two surgeons had driven off, Koko arrived at No. 9. He had satisfied the magistrate that he had shot the Hooligan because his own life was threatened, and had subsequently given some solid evidence against the six prisoners, all of whom were committed for trial. Koko, however, had still to attend the inquest on the dead Hooligan, to be held two days later, and exonerate himself from all blame.

Mr Maybury introduced Koko to Dr Mortimer.

"This is your grandson's great friend--Mr Somers."

They shook hands.

"I thought your name was Coke," said the old Doctor.

"Jim calls me Koko because I am rather bald," explained Somers, meekly.

"And you saved Jim's life last night?"

"I shot----"

"Yes, I read about that in the paper. Will you shake hands with me again? ... and now please take me round to my boy's surgery. I've only seen a photograph of it up to the present."

Side by side the wealthy Eastfolk doctor and the little sporting reporter walked out of Derby Crescent into the bustling Blackfriars Road, and presently wheeled out of that thoroughfare into Mount Street.

"What a detestable district!" exclaimed Dr Mortimer as they were passing the Nathans' fried fish shop, from which proceeded a by no means delectable odour of hissing horse fat.

"It's Jim's country," said Koko.

"Is he popular round here?"

"They love him," said Koko.

The old Doctor's face just then was a study. He may have been thinking of Threeways, where he had resided for so many years without endearing himself to a single soul.

"What sort of a living has my grandson made here?" he asked presently.

"Oh, he has scraped along."

Dr Mortimer cleared his throat.

"When he was at Matthew's he used to run up very extravagant tailors' bills--indeed, he ran up extravagant bills of all kinds."

"I know he did," said Koko.

"I expect," continued Dr Mortimer, "he has rather missed that sort of thing over here."

"He hasn't had any new things since he's been here," said Koko.

The Doctor cleared his throat again. "I presume--er--I presume he had sufficient clothes?"

"Oh yes--but last winter's things had to do, you know."

The Doctor was silent for some moments. The Jim who could make old things do was not the Jim he had known. Jim, up to last September, had always been fastidious about the cut of his coats, and most partial to fancy waistcoats. Not that the Doctor had really minded paying for them--in fact, he had liked to see Jim well-turned-out. What he had objected to was Jim's utter disregard of even moderation in expenditure. And to think that this same Jim had been making last winter's things "do"!

The Doctor reflected a good deal on Koko's replies. It occurred to him that if he had tried to understand Jim better in the past, this split would never have occurred. He had thundered rebukes at Jim much as an army sergeant would upbraid a refractory private, and Jim, in return, had simply been cheeky. Now, supposing he had reasoned with the lad in a kindly, gentle manner, would that not have proved more effectual than inditing fierce epistles to his grandson, when the latter was in town, or shouting a lecture to him across the telephone, as on that September morning of vivid remembrance?

Jim had never known a mother's care. He had been brought up by his grandfather, who had taken a pride in him such as a man takes in a handsome horse or dog. And so Jim ran wild, and, in the end, was expelled from Threeways.

Such were the thoughts that coursed through the old Doctor's mind as he paced down Mount Street by the side of George Somers.

"Here we are," said Koko at length.

So this was Jim's surgery! The old Doctor halted and stared at the shabby-looking corner building. This was where Jim had been getting his living since he had been barred from the old roof-tree in Eastfolk!

"Did he rent the entire building?" inquired Dr Mortimer.

"Yes. It was a pawnbroker's place before Jim took it."

"Great heavens! And why did he allow these abominable placards to be pasted on his walls?"

"The old chap who let him the place wanted some money, so Jim made him a present of the outside of the house for advertising purposes," explained Koko.

The Doctor looked amazed.

"Dear! dear! What a quixotic notion!"

"Jim was always like that," said Koko.

The old Doctor bit his lip and again frowned upon the posters. Filling the bill this week at the local theatre was a play in which a steam-roller was the principal attraction. A poster, cunningly attached to Jim's wall, just where his red lamp would shine upon it after dusk, depicted the steam-roller descending a narrow hill at top speed, while directly in its track lay a young woman in evening dress, and apparently unconscious. The poster had attracted half the adult population of Mount Street to the theatre.

"Now I come to think of it," said the Doctor, "I remember something of this kind was visible in the photograph of the place which James sent me at Christmas. It represented a man throwing another man--or a woman, possibly a woman--out of a balloon. I suppose these dreadful pictures are changed every week?"

"Yes, something fresh every Monday," said Koko.

"Dear, dear me! To think of it!"

"It didn't matter to Jim," put in Koko; "he was rather amused by the posters."

"And who was the man who prevailed upon James to part with his walls in this philanthropic manner?" inquired the Doctor.

"A provision dealer called Harris."

At that moment Koko felt a touch on his arm, and wheeled round to find old Harris himself at his elbow.

"Mr Somers, sir, seeing you standin' 'ere, I've come to ask after the doctor. All Mount Street wants to know 'ow 'e is. Is he like to die?"

"There is hope, but not much. You know yourself how badly he was knocked about."

"Yes, I know that. Yes, and I pretty near screwed that 'unchback's 'ead orf, so 'elp me!" returned the provision dealer, with a savage chuckle.

"Are you the man mentioned in the newspapers as having fetched the police?" Dr Mortimer demanded of Mr Harris.

"Yes, I'm the man," was the answer--"I fetched 'em. You see, last night I goes into Dr Mortimer's surgery and svallows vot I took for prussic acid. Yes, 'arf a pint. And vile I vos vaitin' for the end, I fell asleep, and ven I vakes the doctor vos standin' by me. Vell, 'e tells me it vosn't p'ison, and then 'e goes orf to Pine Court. Vell, just after, in comes Mr Somers, and says 'e: 'Vare is the doctor?' an' I says: ''E's gone to vare it mentions in that bit of paper.' 'Pine Court,' says Mr Somers. 'Mrs Murphy's.' 'Mrs Murphy don't live in Pine Court,' says I. 'I knows all the people in these courts.' Mr Somers 'e looks startled, and reads the note again. 'This looks fishy, 'Arris,' he says; 'this writin's in a disguised 'and.' I gets up and looks at the note, and I sees at once it vos my son Isaac's 'andwritin'----"

"Your son's!" exclaimed Dr Mortimer. "Do the police know that?"

"They don't," replied Mr Harris; "and for vy? Vy, for becos I says to Mr Somers: 'This is a trap,' I says, 'and ve'll be after the doctor and save 'im. But I'll 'elp you on one condition only.' 'Vot's that?' says Mr Somers, sharp like. 'That you don't split on Isaac! You agree to that, an' I'll lend you this revolver!' I vos goin' to shoot myself at first, you see, sir, an' then I thought p'ison vould be cleaner. 'Agreed,' says Mr Somers, and off ve goes, I to fetch the police and Mr Somers straight for Pine Court, vith the loaded revolver in 'is pocket."

"And this scoundrel of a son of yours--where is he?" demanded the Doctor.

The old man laughed softly to himself.

"My son Isaac? '_E's bolted_! 'E vent at once--vithout a vord. I says: 'Isaac,' I says, 'you wrote that note. You're in my power. You'll 'ang if I put up my little finger!' And Isaac, 'e just vent right out of the door vithout even puttin' on 'is 'at! 'E von't trouble me no more, but 'e'll always get a livin'. 'E's clever as paint, is Isaac! Yes, 'e vent out like that--never saw a man go out of a 'ouse so quick in my life. So I've altered the name over my shop back to '_Arris & Son_--there's the painter just finishin'--and now I'm my own master agen."

And the old dealer snapped his lean fingers for sheer joy.

"Why 'Harris & Son,' if your son has run away for good?" asked Dr Mortimer.

"Becos 'Arris by itself vould cause remark. If anyone says: 'Vare's your son, Mr 'Arris?' I shall say, '_E's gone avay for 'is 'ealth,_' and that'll 'ave to satisfy 'em."

And with a leer of the utmost self-complacency Mr Harris saluted his two listeners, and went back to watch the painter conclude the alteration in the title over the provision shop.

Mrs Brown, Jim's caretaker, was in, and admitted Koko and his companion. The old doctor gazed silently round the surgery. There was Jim's working coat, there was his pipe-rack, there was the quaint Chinaman whose sudden fall forwards--ingeniously contrived by the Long 'Un--used to announce the opening of the street door.

"I should never have thought," murmured the Doctor, "that Jim would have settled down in a place like this."

"He did settle down, though," said Koko, "and he was working it up into a good thing when this horrible plot was laid for him."

"We must keep it going, then," said the Doctor. "Do you suppose any of his friends at the hospital would be willing to act in his place?"

"Sure of it," said Koko. "I think you had better ask Evans--a red-headed man--and Deadwood. They are both friends of Jim's."

"I'll go and see them at once," said the Doctor, "and then I must get back to Threeways. I have some patients I cannot leave for long."

"What about the hoarding?" asked Koko.

"Well," said the Doctor, "considering the service Mr Harris rendered last night, I think we ought to let him continue to make money out of Jim's walls."

And so, thereafter, each Monday saw a fresh pictorial embellishment of the surgery's exterior; every Monday the youth of Mount Street was thrilled to the marrow by new scenes of derringdo of lovely ladies in peril and gallant gentlemen dashing to their assistance, and of virtue triumphing over vice, as always virtue will do so long as there remain in the world good women and honourable men.

And the transpontine drama reaped many sixpences thereby.

*CHAPTER XXX.*

*THE WEEK PASSES.*

True to the prognostication of the great Trefusis, Jim Mortimer remained unconscious for seven days. During that time, liquid food--beef extract and milk--was poured down his throat, and thus the lamp of his life was kept alight. At the end of the week, Jim, emaciated and hollow-cheeked, opened his eyes, and the first person he caught sight of and addressed was, appropriately enough, his friend George Somers.

"Well, young feller!" he said, with a brave attempt to smile in his old, cheery way.

Koko took his hand and pressed it gently.

"You must get well quick now, Jim, old boy."

"It isn't in me," said Jim.

"But you must. Oh, Jim, please buck up and get well!"

Jim tried to shake his head, and the agonising pain which this slight action caused him brought the perspiration out on his face.

"I'm too far gone, dear old chap," he murmured. "I know it."

Koko gently bathed his friend's damp face with a sponge dipped in some cool, soothing lotion. His touch was as soft as a woman's. The trained nurse, when she went out for her daily ride on the top of a 'bus, knew that she was leaving her patient in good hands when she left him with Koko.

"That's great," muttered Jim, and fell into a doze.

As Koko kept watch by his chum's bedside, his kindly brown eyes became dim and misty. Could it be that he was to lose Jim after all? he wondered. Oh no, that could not be! Surely this great, honest fellow would be spared! He was so young--hardly more than a boy--and had lived such a little time.

Surely, thought Koko, in his simple faith, God would take that into consideration. _He_ would remember how young Jim was, and remember, too, that in spite of all the knocking about and drinking and ragging he had done, Jim had never once been guilty of a dishonourable action. He had lived a clean life, and such errors of conduct as he had been guilty of had been due rather to his careless, happy-go-lucky nature than to vicious inclination. He had knocked policemen down and painted the town blue, but he had been a gentleman through it all. The policemen always seemed to feel that, apart from the apologies and sovereigns he had subsequently applied to their bruises as healing balm of a practical kind.

The matter with Jim had been--until a few months since--that he had always had too liberal a supply of pocket money to draw upon down at Threeways. Consequently, unscrupulous fellow-students had borrowed from him and never troubled to repay him; consequently, it was always Jim who stood treat; consequently, he had got into disgrace and earned the penalty of banishment.

Such were Koko's sad reflections as he sat by the sick-bed. Presently he looked at his watch, and discovered that he had just forty minutes in which to get his bag from his rooms in the Adelphi, and then catch a north-going express. For that night he was due to referee at a glove fight, at Gateshead, between Micky Brown, the Northumberland middle-weight champion, and Jake Morris, of Bethnal Green. He had also to wire a half-column report of the fight to the _Sporting Mail_.

So he had, perforce, to leave Jim, not knowing whether he would ever see him alive again. For Trefusis had said that the forty-eight hours following Mortimer's return to consciousness would decide his fate.

Jim was still dozing. One of his hands lay limply on the coverlet of the bed. Koko laid his right hand upon it and gazed at the white face and the boyish, close-clipped head in its snowy bandages.

"Good-bye, Jim!" he murmured, and went softly round to the door. He expected the nurse back about this time. If she had not come in he would have to ask Miss Bird to sit with Jim, as Miss Bird had already taken turns with Koko, Mr Maybury, and the trained nurse in sick-room duty.

Koko was looking back for the last time at the still form of his friend, the sadness of his heart showing very visibly in his face, when the handle was turned and the trained nurse came in, fresh and rosy from her ride in the keen air. She was a bonny Scotswoman--quite a little thing--with blue eyes and flaxen hair.

"Are you going so soon, Mr Somers?" she said.

"Yes, I haven't a moment to lose. I have to catch a train for Newcastle."

A third person, watching the two faces, would have noticed a shadow of disappointment fall across the little nurse's pretty face. A third person--such as Miss Bird or Dora--would possibly have deducted a certain fact from this shadow. And a third person, watching Koko and Jim's nurse clasp hands in bidding each other good-bye, would have smiled to herself and looked another way, for it would seem that the parting of these two was not without a touch of feeling which had nothing whatever platonic about it.

Well, Koko caught his train, and ten hours later was the central figure of an almost indescribable inferno. For, as neither man had been knocked out in the twenty rounds to which the contest was limited, Koko, according to rule, had awarded the fight to the London man "on points." Whereupon had arisen such a hurricane of yells and oaths from the miners and shipwrights with which the hall was crammed, that a man with less pluck might well have been appalled. But the little bald-headed reporter from London stood his ground, and looked calmly upon the infuriated faces and forest of horny fists that surrounded the ring.

"Jake Morris wins," he said again, during a lull in the storm, "_on points_."

And again the miners--most of whom had money on the local pet--howled like wolves.

The police inspector standing near Koko whispered a warning.

"Go out by the extra exit," he said; "they won't be looking for you there."

Koko, without looking round, nodded, and, having made certain necessary entries in his note-book, took the inspector's hint, and made such good time over the high level bridge into Newcastle that he was safe in the smoking-room of his hotel while a mass of drink-inflamed Northumbrians were still awaiting his appearance at the stage door.

From the sick-room to this scene of unbridled brute passions--a change indeed! But Koko took it coolly, as part of the day's work--sent off his report, snapped up some supper, and went to bed, and by eight next morning was speeding back to London and Jim, with a sixpenny novel--upside down on his knees.

During these seven days, events had been treading quickly on each other's heels.

Harold Jefferson, knowing perfectly well that Mr Maybury thoroughly intended that he should be taken at his word with regard to the marriage, had not attempted to see Dora. As a matter of fact, he had entertained doubts for some time past with regard to Dora's affection for himself, and her father's unexpected call at the Albany that night had made it doubly plain to the young stockbroker that Dora Maybury, even though she might be prevailed upon eventually to marry him, was not likely ever to prove a very affectionate wife.

So Jefferson, instead of putting on his wedding clothes, informed his best man (the only guest invited on his side) that the marriage had been postponed owing to an illness in Dora's family, and that he (Jefferson) was off to Nice.

To Nice, therefore, he went, expecting to meet his father there and explain the situation to him. But, unfortunately for this plan, Jefferson senior made up his mind that very day to cut his visit short and return to London.

Two days after the date fixed for the wedding, therefore, Mr Jefferson arrived at his office in Cornhill to find that his cashier had been run over and seriously injured by an omnibus, and also that he was a book-keeper short, "Mr Harold," before his departure for Nice, having notified the manager to the effect that Mr Maybury had decided to relinquish his post in the firm. "Mr Harold" gave no reasons--he simply stated the fact. The manager therefore presumed that Mr Maybury had obtained a better job.

So far from having secured a more lucrative post, Mr Maybury had been a prey to considerable anxiety. Being his wife's property, he had no rent to pay for No. 9 Derby Crescent, and so he was always certain of having a roof over his head. The weekly sums paid by Miss Bird, Mr Cleave, and Jim went into his wife's pocket for housekeeping purposes. Out of the princely salary of L150 a year which he had received from the Jeffersons, Mr Maybury had had to pay rates and taxes, defray Frank's schooling expenses, and contribute towards his family's clothing bill. It will therefore be readily comprehended that he himself was not able to indulge in a very sumptuous midday meal, or pander to his own modest wants in any but a most economical manner.

When, therefore, the ex-merchant explained to his wife that he was no longer employed by the Jeffersons, and why, such a shower of vicious invective descended upon his unfortunate head that he felt strongly inclined to take a steerage passage to the States and there endeavour--with his extensive knowledge of the cotton trade--to retrieve his fallen fortunes. He was, in point of fact, actually looking through the shipping advertisements with the laudable object of finding the cheapest line by which it was possible to cross the Atlantic, when he received a wire from Jefferson senior desiring him to attend at the office with the least possible delay. When he returned in the evening, Mr Maybury informed his wife that Mr Jefferson had appointed him cashier to the firm at a salary of L300 per annum, _vice_ the gentleman who had been run over by the omnibus, whose injuries, it appeared, had proved so serious that Mr Jefferson had decided to pension him off.

"And what did Mr Jefferson say about Dora?" inquired Mrs Maybury, when she at length came to the end of her eloquent expressions of satisfaction.

"He said," replied Dora's father, "when I had explained the circumstances to him, that he considered I had acted quite rightly."

"And Harold?"

"Will stay at Nice till the spring."

Thus did the wheel of Fortune, in its strange revolutions, bring Mr Maybury once more a modest sufficiency of Income. He had not hesitated a moment in accepting the vacant post and the additional salary, for he knew that he was quite capable of doing the work, and that he would not be receiving a penny too much for the responsibility and the trouble his new duties would involve.

"I think," said Mr Maybury, just before he and his good lady fell asleep that night, "that we might now engage a cook. H. R. deserves a rest."

"Very well, dear," said Mrs Maybury, quite amicably.

"And then, as to Miss Bird and Mr Cleave----"

"Oh, they had better stay on," interrupted Mrs Maybury; "three hundred a year, though magnificent compared to what you have been getting, is not a very great income. Miss Bird and Mr Cleave will still be a great help."

"I have altered my opinion about Miss Bird," said Mr Maybury; "I am beginning to like her."

"And do you still consider Mr Cleave an 'old woman'?" inquired Mrs Maybury.

"I do," said Mr Maybury--"an older woman than ever. If he wants to go, I shan't beg him to stop."

Curiously enough, within a few days Mr Cleave put Mr Maybury's declaration to the test. For, on the day Jim recovered consciousness, Mr Cleave informed Mrs Maybury that he had decided to go and live with some relatives at Norwood. Mrs Maybury said that she should be sorry to part with Mr Cleave, but Mr Maybury preserved a discreet silence on the point.

And it fell out in this wise.

Mr Cleave had always admired Dora, and had always exerted himself to be agreeable to her. When, therefore, Dora's engagement with Harold Jefferson was broken off, Mr Cleave began to pay a large amount of attention to his appearance. He bought some new made-up ties and some new collars of the latest shape; also, he had his hair cut, and purchased a new pair of button-up boots.

At all meals, thenceforth, he engaged Dora in sprightly conversation, and one day, meeting her alone in the drawing-room, he handed her a book.

"A little present, Miss Dora," he said.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Cleave," said Dora, politely.

On examining the work, Dora found it to consist of _The Total Abstainer_ for the past six months, bound up in a green cover. Glancing casually through it, she suddenly came across a passage heavily marked with a blue pencil. The page on which the passage occurred was headed "Our Pillory," and directly Dora's eye fell on the paragraph she recognised it as an old friend.

"A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol may bring a man to (_ran the paragraph_) was afforded by a case which came before our notice one day last week in the Kensington Police Court. The degraded being who faced the magistrate with an unabashed gaze was a young doctor named Mortimer----"

Oh yes! Dora _well_ remembered a certain evening in September when Mr Cleave read this out to the assembled company in the drawing-room.

"Do you know, Mr Cleave," she said, sweetly, "I am afraid this book will be _rather_ thrown away on me. _I_ don't drink----"

"There are some excellent tales illustrating the evils----" Cleave was protesting, when Dora interrupted him.

"Yes, but they are hardly the kind of tales girls care to read. It is very kind of you to give me this volume, but I feel you could bestow it better elsewhere."

"As you like--as you like," said Cleave, looking much offended.

"But," said Dora, producing a tiny pair of scissors from her chatelaine, "there is one paragraph I should like to cut out, if you don't mind. This one, look...."

Mr Cleave looked--and turned pale. He had entirely forgotten having marked that report of Jim's wrong-doing.

"You see," explained Dora, a bright flush irradiating her face, which had been very wan and pensive all this week of dire suspense, "I take a great interest in the--the person this paragraph is about."

Then she quickly snipped the paragraph out and put it safely away in her purse.

"Thank you so much, Mr Cleave," she said, handing back the volume.

And so Mr Cleave, after giving the matter due reflection, decided that he couldn't do better than go to live with his relatives at Norwood. He had always fancied that they didn't understand him at No. 9. He felt quite sure about it now.

*CHAPTER XXXI.*

*IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE BEARDED
MAN HAD MADE ANOTHER MISTAKE.*

Mr Evans Evans, of the red hair, and Mr Deadwood, the truculent and filibustering, having recently (after an eight or nine years' struggle) obtained their qualification, accepted Dr Mortimer's invitation with alacrity. Yes--certainly they would look after the Long 'Un's practice. Only too pleased. Start at once and share proceeds? Right O!

They were both capable men, and so they found it quite within their power to cope with the work in Mount Street and its environments. True, Mr Evans did the brunt of the work, but Mr Deadwood had his uses.

For, taking into consideration the manner in which the Long 'Un and his predecessor had been handled by the Hooligans of the neighbourhood, Mr Deadwood, after due thought, decided that the thing was to take a strong line with such roughs as might assume a hostile, or even an impertinent, attitude towards himself and his colleague. There were still a good many Hooligans about, and the colour of Mr Evans's hair provoked a variety of rude jests from a group of them on the afternoon of the day Messrs Evans and Deadwood started operations in this district.

The first guffaw had hardly sounded out upon the raw February air when Mr Evans smote the nearest humorist on his nose, and Mr Deadwood knocked the principal guffawer's head against the wall that was supporting his idle form. The other Hooligans objecting to this species of rebuke, a spirited free fight was soon in progress. But, after Covent Garden porters, Mr Deadwood found the weedy louts of Mount Street comparatively mild customers to tackle, and he laid about him with such energy that the group of Hooligans soon decamped with many oaths and much gnashing of such teeth as Jim's deputy had left in their gums.

In brief, Mr Deadwood, who had been a scrapper from his birth, and who had only been knocked out in fair fight once in his life--his opponent on that occasion being James Mortimer--established what is called a "funk" in Mount Street, for, after his primary bout with the Hooligans, the mere sight of his great shoulders and bull-dog jaw caused such law-breaking vagabonds as he might meet in the course of his rounds to slink off rapidly down dark alleys and tortuous byways in order to avoid him.

"The fact is," said Mr Deadwood one day, "Jim was much too gentle with these chaps. He didn't hurt 'em enough. By George! when I think how he was served, I feel inclined to go for every pub-propper-up I meet."

And indeed, Mr Deadwood's countenance wore such a pugilistic expression whenever he walked abroad--which was a good many times daily--that the local Hooligans began to decamp to less perilous quarters, and Mount Street in time came to be quite a respectable thoroughfare for those parts.

Occasionally Messrs Evans and Deadwood, having finished their day's work, would go to see Jim. The little Scottish nurse took care that they did not talk very much, and so the partners found their visits to No. 9 hardly what one would call lively excursions, though it is true they took a certain pleasure in calling there, for Mr Evans quickly came to the conclusion that the trained nurse was "a nice little thing," while Mr Deadwood, after talking to Dora, would fall into a strangely sentimental and melancholy mood. A few pints of bitter ale, however, served to dispel his gloom in the long run, and then he would hie forth and search for Hooligans, and the latter had a bad time if he happened to find them.

One evening, when the partners called at No. 9, they were told that they couldn't see Jim, as Dr Trefusis and Sir Savile Smart were with him. Mr Evans therefore challenged Miss Bird to a game of draughts, and Mr Deadwood favoured Dora and Frank with a lurid account of the various battles he had fought during his hospital career. It was not an improving discourse, and as a consequence of it Frank came home the next day with a black eye, the result of having engaged a much larger boy than himself in fistic combat.

The outcome of the specialists' conversation with Messrs Evans and Deadwood, after a rigorous examination of Jim's injuries, was that Mr Deadwood called on the bearded man when the latter was discussing tea and crumpets on the following afternoon.

"Oh, how do you do?" said the bearded man rather stiffly, as he rose from the table.

He had observed the arrival of the partners in Mount Street with some misgivings, for he recognised them as members of the Matt's band that laid waste his surgery. He did not go out of his way to renew his acquaintance with them, and trusted they would not take the initiative in that respect. However, in view of the ferocious character his patients had given Mr Deadwood, he thought it would be as well to be polite to him.

"Don't let me disturb you," said Mr Deadwood; "I have only dropped in to tell you, in the plainest way the mind of man is capable of conceiving, that you are an ass!"

"What reason have you for saying this?" demanded the bearded man, coldly.

"In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained Mr Deadwood, "added to your coruscatingly conceited idea that you know anything whatever about the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance that Jim Mortimer would only last twenty-four hours."

"Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I meant it. Is he still alive?"

"Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts me to think that you come from Matt's--a place that has bred many eminent surgeons, including myself and my friend of the carmine tresses."

"Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the bearded man.

"He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that Trefusis says he will be playing cricket in June! Wherefore, what price _your_ diagnosis of his hurts, my whiskered fakir?"

"I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard.

"Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "and why? Because you are an ass. Sir, you ought to take a job on an Australian liner. You would find little to do except consume meals and inhale ozone. Going out, possibly there would be a few sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted with what is politely called the 'drink habit'! You would help the latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one would mind. Coming home, you might pick up a soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for the Pasteur Institute. You would cut off his leg and think you had cured him. So why not get a liner job, my hairy false prophet?"

"Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the bearded man, shortly.

"Tut! tut! Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am only giving you these hints for your good. You ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates or Esquimaux. Why not turn vet. and specialise in elephants? They take a lot of killing."

"I think you are very rude," protested the bearded man.

"Pulling out horses' teeth isn't a bad-paying business, either," continued Mr Deadwood. "You use forceps about as large as tongs. They would just suit your delicate touch."

"Everybody is liable to make mistakes," pleaded the bearded one.

"But when a man practising medicine makes the mistakes you do," returned Mr Deadwood, "he had better set up at once as secret agent--on a liberal salary--to a necropolis company."

But the bearded man was only half-listening to his visitor.

"I can't understand it," he muttered; "he was frightfully injured."

"But he's frightfully tough," rejoined Deadwood: "footer, rowing, cricket--all good for the spine. He'll get well! Ahem! Sorry to have to suggest it myself, but have you got any tea to give away to a thirsty apothecary?"

"Certainly. Sit down and have a cup."

"I will," said Mr Deadwood. "As I have previously remarked, you're not a bad sort. After all, you can't help being an ass. _You_ condemned Jim to death, and Trefusis has reprieved him. Two lumps and plenty of milk, and the toast is--JIM!"

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

*IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE SET OUT UPON A JOURNEY.*

The Long 'Un lay staring at the wall-paper. How often had he counted that design! Above the window it was repeated seventeen times--over and over again he counted the pattern to make sure it was repeated seventeen times--eight each side and one odd one in the middle. And again underneath and along each wall ran the design in serried and monotonous rows. He knew every bend and turn of it by heart. It represented a herb or flower of some kind, the like of which never was seen by mortal eye in garden, forest, field, or dell.

Almost unceasingly Jim had gazed on this stiff unnatural growth since he had regained consciousness. He had nothing else to do. He didn't want to talk, and he wasn't encouraged to. All he could do was lie there and stare at the wall-paper.

And when he was not counting the wall-paper pattern he would close his eyes and picture Dora to himself. He would think of her in the neat coat and skirt she wore to the post-office and back; then simply in the blouse and skirt she dressed in "for the house"; then in the white frock she donned when bound for any entertainment in Jefferson's company. On the whole, Jim most liked to dream of her in the blouse and skirt. He had seen her thus attired most frequently; such was her costume when he first set eyes on her in the A B C shop that memorable August afternoon.

And so he lay with his head in white bandages and his back in plaster-of-Paris--not able to sit up or to turn even; so he lay and gazed upon the pictures of Dora that floated before his mind's eye.

They had not told him that no marriage had taken place. The matter had been delicately mentioned to the two great surgeons by Mr Maybury, but they had both set their faces against the idea of saying anything to Jim about it, Trefusis declaring that it would excite his patient too much.

Sir Savile concurring, Mr Maybury was obliged to submit, although he himself could not help thinking that the intelligence would banish that brooding expression for ever from Jim's eyes. For Dora's father sitting by the bedside, could see that Jim was suffering from something more than the physical injuries he had sustained in the Silent House.

Mr Maybury spoke to Koko about it.

"Yes," said Koko, promptly; "I have a good mind to tell Jim, and let the doctors go hang. They only take a scientific view of his case. _Shall_ I?"

"We must obey orders," said Mr Maybury.

"Well I don't believe it would do him all that harm--and it might do him an awful lot of good."

"I think with you," said Mr Maybury, "but the doctors probably know best."

"All the same, doctors don't know everything," grumbled Koko.

Jim did not make a single inquiry on the subject. He presumed Dora was away honey-mooning under the fair blue skies of the Mediterranean. He had no idea she was still at No. 9, seriously considering the question of taking a business situation of some sort, since she could not return to the post-office. Her father did not encourage the idea, nor did he oppose it. If Dora would be happier going to a city office every day, well--she had better go. But, on the other hand, he was quite content that she should remain at home, now that he was so much better off.

So stood matters when old Doctor Mortimer stole a couple of days from his wealthy and, in many cases, hypochondriacal patients down at Threeways, and, running up to town to see Jim, pitched his tent in a quiet Arundel Street hotel. In order to reach Mount Street he had only to make his way along the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, whence to Derby Crescent was a smart fifteen minutes' walk. For the Doctor always walked if it was fine weather. "It keeps a man alive--walking," the old gentleman told Koko, who lunched with him on the day of his arrival in town. And, to be sure, it was good to see the Doctor's stalwart form striding briskly along the crowded pavements, his fine, clean-cut face ruddy and wholesome showing up refreshingly against the pallid cheeks of London wayfarers.

"We must get Jim away to the seaside as soon as possible," he said to Koko, as the latter with some difficulty kept step for step with his big companion; "what he wants is oxygen--oxygen."

During lunch Koko had given Jim's grandfather a complete history of the Jefferson episode. He also mentioned that Jim was being kept in ignorance of the closing incident. So, after a short silence, Dr Mortimer slackened his pace, and said: "She's a nice girl, then, Mr Somers?"

"She's as nice a girl as you could meet, Doctor."