Chapter V: Part 5

"Why, of course not!" exclaimed Madelaine. "The postmaster there was a new man, and had only heard of me as Mrs. Power, so he would not recognize me as the same person about whom you were asking. I must tell you how the change came about, for I have something to confess to you, Gerald, something which I must ask you to forgive. I do hope you will not think I did wrong, but truly it was a difficult matter to decide."

"You did perfectly right, Madelaine," replied her husband, when he had heard the story of the generous friend who was raised up so opportunely to care for the helpless ones he had himself deserted in their need. "I am only thankful that you did not suffer more from my selfish cowardice. It has been misery to me to think what you might be enduring, and I powerless to make amends. During all my wanderings I have tried to put by small sums from time to time, hoping that one day I might find out your retreat, and be able to make life easier for you, anonymously at least, even if I were unable to reveal myself as your rightful provider and guard."

It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald had at length taken the voyage to England, trusting that the ten long years which had passed had so effectually altered his appearance, that he could safely revisit the scenes where he might most probably hear news of those he had lost. A morbid terror of recognition had by this time fastened upon him, becoming a second nature, so that he could not easily associate with other men. Thus all his enquiries had ended in disappointment and failure, being only addressed to strangers who would naturally be unable to give him the personal clue which he sought.

"I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said, "knowing that you had a relative there who might help, but I found that he was dead, and his wife also, so that hope fell to the ground. By this time I was quite worn out by privation and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and I had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go into hospital for some weeks. It was there that the change came, and I saw my life in the light of Heaven. I realized that I had sinned not only against man but against God. As I lay upon what might have been my death-bed, I made a solemn vow that if I was spared I would go back to California, and give myself up to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for what I had done so many years ago. I determined to delay only long enough to get back my strength, and it was for this reason I decided to come to Sunbury, knowing the pureness of its air, and remembering too the happy days of our short honeymoon here, when we were young and knew not what life held of bitterness for us both."

Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she sat listening silently, trying to take in what her husband's words signified, and her parched lips almost refused to utter the question which she strove to ask.

"Do you mean to say you are going to leave me again, and to deliberately give yourself up to trial and perhaps even death? After all this time too? Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary? It is more than I can possibly bear. Surely there is some other way?"

"It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there is no other. I have not a shadow of doubt about it. But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to deal you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted this pain upon you is a worse punishment than any that can possibly come to me from the hands of the law."

Madelaine made no reply. She sat as if stunned by the terrible future which had opened out before her, following so closely upon the sudden joy. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she gazed out of the window as one who saw nothing.

"Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is it too great a sacrifice that I am asking you to share? Am I wrong in demanding it of you? We are one, my wife, and you have a right to speak on this matter which concerns us both so intimately. I put it to you--shall I stay so long as you need me, or do you agree that it is right for me to go? Help me to decide, only remember it must be a decision which is made in the presence of God."

Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned her eyes from the window, and fixed them mournfully upon her husband's face.

"It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said with a little choking sob. "I will not hold you back. God have you in His keeping, and may He in some way bring light into this black dark night which has settled down upon us all."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*Well-founded Fears*

One slight reprieve did Gerald and his wife allow themselves, as they talked over their future plans. It was decided that he should not disclose his identity until he had reached the district where the crime had been committed. Until then they would make the most of each other's companionship, Madelaine and Robin going with him to California, so that they might be together as long as possible before the final separation.

"I must find out about berths and the dates of sailing," said Gerald, "and in the meanwhile, we had better go to London or Liverpool, where we can easily lose ourselves in the crowd."

"Why not remain here?" asked his wife. "It is such a quiet little place, and people have got accustomed to look upon you as an ordinary lodger, who has been delayed by illness in Mrs. Potter's rooms. No one here would ever dream of associating you with what happened ten years ago on the other side of the world."

Gerald's brow clouded.

"Sunbury is one of the most dangerous spots on earth for me at the present time," he replied. "Two men only were witnesses of my deed, and one of them has lately come to live here. If he should happen to come across me, there is nothing to hinder him from handing me over at once to the nearest magistrate, in which case the few precious days that still remain to us would be lost. I heard about him at the inn when I first arrived, and it was because of this that I so hastily decided to leave the place. I was on my way to the station when I came upon Robin's castle, and falling asleep there from sheer exhaustion, was found by the boys next morning when they came to play. If it had not been for the illness brought on by exposure and drenching on the night of the storm, I should have been across the sea by this time, so as to place as many miles as possible between him and me. When I plead guilty at the bar, I wish to do so of my own free will, not because force has been brought to bear upon me from outside."

"Who can it be?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Surely no one would do you any harm after all these years."

"I should be utterly helpless in his hands if he chose to lodge an accusation against me," answered Gerald. "His name is Thomas Field. He was in Wattie's hut the night on which I killed the old man, and he saw the whole thing. He was with me when I took my mad plunge into the river, and therefore imagines me to be dead, but he would certainly recognize me if I stayed on here. You told me he fulfilled his promise of writing to tell you of my death. Did he not give you his name when he wrote?"

"I got a short letter from a man who signed himself, T.A.F.," said Madelaine. "He sent back your watch and chain at the same time. Why, of course those are Mr. Thomas Algernon Field's initials! How strange that I never connected them before! He gave me no address, so I was never able to write and ask for further details."

"Did he return nothing but the watch?" enquired her husband. "There were some papers I left for him to forward also."

"He enclosed your diary," replied Madelaine, "but he said your papers had been lost in the river when you were drowned."

"Surely I could not have been absent-minded enough to put them into my pocket again!" exclaimed Gerald. "I am certain that I handed them over to him in the hut, but the truth is that I was in such a state of mind at the time, that I may have picked them up again without knowing it. They were documents concerning a piece of land that I had staked out away up in the wilds as a sort of speculation, and I asked him to advise you about it. It wasn't worth very much, and probably would have turned out a failure as most of my ventures have done, but I wanted you to know it was there, in case you might have made a few pounds on it. I should like to ask Field about it, only that I dare not face him again."

"Oh, Gerald," rejoined Madelaine, "I would not trust that man! He looks as if he could be cruel as well as hard. Do not run the risk of putting your life into his power. Let us fly while we can, for you are liable to meet him at any moment, and you might be snatched from me almost before our little time together is begun."

"To tell you the truth, I have met him already," said her husband, "but he evidently took me for a spirit, believing that I had done away with myself so long before."

Gerald proceeded to give his wife an account of the unexpected meeting at the entrance of the little house in the wood, when the flash of lightning had suddenly revealed the two old acquaintances to each other, and Field had dashed the supposed apparition to the ground.

"I was barely able to crawl to good Mrs. Potter's," he continued, "but she took me in, and there I have been until to-day, when I ventured out for the first time, longing for another glimpse of the little angel-messenger who had tended me so lovingly in his leafy bower. No wonder that I loved the lad, seeing he was my own son!"

It was late according to the primitive habits of Sunbury when Gerald at last rose to leave.

"I must go back now to my worthy landlady," he remarked, "or she will wonder what has become of me. I will come over early in the morning, and we can make arrangements to leave for London to-morrow afternoon. Please God, Madelaine, we shall have some blessed days together, before we need to part again."

"I shall be thankful when we are off," said his trembling wife. "Do be careful, Gerald, and keep out of Mr. Field's way. I don't like to think of you showing your face at all while you are here."

"I'll take good care, dearest," he replied, "so don't you worry. Now I must just run up and take a peep at little Robin before I go. Oh, Madelaine, if you only knew how I have hungered for a sight of you and the child! I can't think how it was that my instinct did not tell me who he was, when he came to me in the wood. It was the name that put me off."

"I could not call him 'Gerald,' even though we christened him so," explained Madelaine, as she stood beside her husband, looking down at the sleeping boy. "It was too precious a word to be used for anyone but you, and I got to speak of him as 'Robin' that first winter after we came to England, because of his bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and the name has stuck to him ever since."

The interview next morning was satisfactorily concluded, and Gerald was on his way back to Mrs. Potter's house.

His heart was lighter than it had been for many a long day, as he walked through the wood. Although a terribly dark cloud loomed ahead, a rainbow seemed to have thrown itself across the grey and troubled sky, and rays of love and hope shone all around.

It was still early, not yet nine o'clock, and he was congratulating himself on having encountered no one either on his way to or from Sea View Cottage. One more bend in the woodland path, and Mrs. Potter's chimneys would be in sight.

He swung round the turn, and almost collided with a man who was walking briskly in the opposite direction to which he was himself going.

Words of apology rose to his lips, but they died away in dismay before they were uttered.

He was face to face with Thomas Field.

"So it was you after all, and no ghost!" exclaimed the squire. "How is it that you have turned up here, Barker? What do you want with me, dogging my footsteps like this?"

To Gerald's surprise Field's countenance had assumed an expression of the utmost fear and dislike, as he suddenly realized who it was that had thus encountered him.

"I must have given him an uncommonly bad shock that night when I came upon him during the storm," thought Gerald, as his mind took a rapid survey of the past. "He looks perfectly terrified at the mere sight of me, though it is I who have cause to be frightened of him, not he of me. I suppose it's because he has so long accustomed himself to think of me as dead."

"You were my friend once, Field," he added aloud, "and I must throw myself on your mercy again. I have no wish to intrude my presence upon you. Let me disappear, as you did before, to be lost in the waters of oblivion. I ask no more than to be left to go my way unquestioned and alone."

A look of relief overspread the millionaire's features, and his aggressively domineering manner reasserted itself.

"Well, Barker," he said roughly, "many a time have I wondered if I was right in letting you slip through the fingers of justice as I did that night. Death by drowning was too easy a way of escape for a man who had murdered another in the cold-blooded fashion in which you finished off old Wattie. My duty, no doubt, is to report you, now that I know you are again at large."

Gerald winced at the coarse cruelty of the words, and his thoughts flew to Madelaine and the boy. Would the cup be dashed from his lips, just when he was about to taste the sweetness of life for the last time?

"I have long ago repented of my sin," he replied humbly, "and strong drink has been put far from me since that day. It brought misery enough then to make me shun it for ever. I have suffered, Field, and I know I have been forgiven by my God. I can but ask man to have pity likewise."

"You don't deserve it," was the harsh reply, "but I suppose I can't hit a fellow when he's down, so I'll give you one more chance. I shall not hand you over to the law this time, but I tell you plainly if I find you loafing about here again, you'll have to pay for it. My conscience will not permit me to let you off so easily a third time, so you had better keep out of my way. I'll give you a friendly tip, though, before you go. You have more occasion perhaps than you know to avoid Sunbury. I'm not the only man here who holds the key to your past. Probably you have your own reasons for banishing from your mind the fact that you were ever acquainted with Blustering Ben, the hunter, but he will not so quickly forget you. He was a chum of old Wattie's too, so he would not be so lenient as I am, supposing he caught sight of you here. You know what he saw last time you met, so take my advice and don't run your neck into the noose sooner than is necessary. The faster you make yourself scarce the better for everyone."

"Thank you," said Gerald, though his spirit chafed at the insulting speech. "I had no idea Ben was in Sunbury. I have certainly no wish to meet him again."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*Judge Simmons Again*

Mr. Field turned to go, but he was arrested by a question from Gerald, which made him pause once more.

"There is one thing I should like to ask before we part," he said. "Did I not leave some papers with you that dreadful night? I remember speaking to you about them before I went down to the river."

"You babbled to me about some claim which you had patented," answered Mr. Field, "and told me what you meant to do with it, but I can't say your head was exactly clear that evening; and all papers, if there were any, went the same way as yourself, plump into the water. You left nothing with me. I took the trouble, however, to ask some fellows who came from that part of the country, and they told me you had been regularly taken in about it--the whole property was not worth a cent. So you need not cry over spilt milk. By the way, they know all about old Wattie up there, so it would be wiser not to make too many enquiries in that quarter."

It was on the tip of Gerald's tongue to ask why Mr. Field had not even mentioned the matter to Madelaine when he wrote, but he checked himself in time. If the land was really of no value, it was not worth bringing his wife's name into the conversation. Better to let the matter drop, and leave well alone.

"I have no wish to rake up old stories," he said. "Only I thought there was no harm in asking you about the papers, seeing I had mentioned them to you before. I pass now out of your life for ever."

So saying he turned abruptly and continued his interrupted course towards the edge of the wood.

Mr. Field watched him until he disappeared behind the trees, then, with knit brow and a preoccupied look he slowly made his way back to Farncourt. He was met by Julius at the lodge gates.

"You are late for breakfast, father," said the boy. "Why did you go out before you had had anything to eat?"

"I could not sleep last night," was the answer, "and I thought half an hour's stroll might give me an appetite, as I am not feeling very fit. I was longer than I meant to be."

"It seems a day for early walks," said Julius. "Robin has been up to see me already. Oh, father, isn't it dreadful? He and Mrs. Power are going away this afternoon by the four o'clock train. He said they had to meet someone in London, I think it was, so they were leaving a few days sooner than they meant to do. I shall miss them awfully, especially Robin. It will be just horrid without him."

The boy's lips quivered as he spoke, and he tried manfully to keep back the tears which would well up in his eyes. The last month or two had been the happiest that the lonely child had ever spent, in the companionship of his cheery little friend and the protecting tenderness with which Madelaine had welcomed him into her large and loving heart. Even in the midst of his own conflicting thoughts, Mr. Field felt touched by the lad's evident distress, and endeavoured to comfort him as best he could.

"Never mind, Julius," he said. "I'm going to make some changes before long, so perhaps you won't miss Robin so much as you think. This place doesn't seem to suit me very well. I believe it is too near the sea, so I am going to try how I get on further inland. I have seen a very good estate advertised for sale about which I intend to enquire, and you may find other friends there who may make up to you for your loss. Besides, I have quite made up my mind that it is full time to send you to school. I can't stand any more tutors, and it is not good for you going moping about here by yourself. How would you like to go to Eton or Harrow, or some other first-class place like that? I'll see that you don't want for pocket-money, my boy, so that you can foot it with the best of them, and lord it over the lords if so you will."

Mr. Field chuckled over his joke, but though for a moment a gleam of comfort lightened the gloomy horizon of the lad, the thought of losing Robin settled again upon him like a cloud.

"It would be simply ripping to go to school if only Robin could come too," he said. "I wish Mrs. Power would send him with me, but I'm afraid they're rather poor, so perhaps they couldn't afford it. They asked me to spend the morning with them at Sea View Cottage, father, that's why Robin came up so soon, in case I should be going out in the motor, and they would not be able to say good-bye."

"You may certainly go, Julius," replied Mr. Field. "Mrs. Power has been a good friend to us, and contrary to my custom I shall call on her myself to thank her for all her kindness to you."

"Robin is going to give Peter his liberty before he goes," remarked Julius. "You know he was only a baby wild rabbit that old Timothy caught in his garden, so he will be quite pleased to live a free life again. We are first going to give him a feast of everything that he likes best, and then we shall take him to our hut in the wood and let him loose there. Robin says that if we tunnel out a little hole in the wall, Peter may perhaps believe it is a real rabbit's burrow and make a home there. Of course the roof is all tumbled in now, so it is no use as a house for us, but it makes it all the better for Peter, as he can hide so easily under the fallen branches. Robin does think of such delightful things!"

Breakfast was over and Mr. Field had gone into his study to write some letters. He had not been there many minutes when the footman entered and informed him that two gentlemen were waiting to see him in the drawing-room.

"Who are they?" he asked impatiently.

"I don't know, sir," replied the man. "They did not give any names."

"As Julius said, this seems a day on which people are early astir," muttered Mr. Field to himself. "I wish callers would not come bothering round at this time of day. I wonder who they can be."

The visitors were admiring the view from the window when he entered the room, and he was almost at their side before they realized he was there.

"Judge Simmons and Elihu Pratt!" he exclaimed as they turned towards him. "Whatever brings you here together at this hour?"

"We should be glad of a little conversation with you, Mr. Field," replied the judge. "There is a certain matter about which my friend and I have been making enquiries, and we believe that you may be able to throw some light upon it."

"What is the subject under consideration?" asked Mr. Field, nervously requesting his guests to be seated. "Is it your young ward's speculations in Mexico? I remember you were doubtful as regards his ventures in the silver line last time you were here."

"I am glad to say he is doing well," replied Judge Simmons, "but it is not about him that we came. You may not perhaps have heard that Mr. Elihu Pratt has lately been appointed District Attorney for the locality in which the Good Hope mine lies. He is now engaged in investigating the titles of the various mining claims about there, and he finds some difficulty in connection with the deeds to your property. It so chanced that I was interesting myself concerning the bit of land acquired by my former acquaintance, Gerald Barker, and not being able to reconcile several conflicting facts, we determined to call upon you together, both of us happening to be over in England just now. No doubt you will be able to make it clear, but we shall be much obliged if you will kindly do so."

Mr. Field moistened his lips before he spoke, and hastily mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"I have my title deeds all right," he said. "I can show them to you if you like, but there is nothing conflicting about them, so far as I know."

"You remember, sir," continued the judge, "that when I called upon you before, you were at some pains to convince me that Gerald Barker's claim was in quite another valley to yours--a valley possessing the same strange geological features as that in which your mine is situated--although your little boy gave contrary evidence, much to your displeasure. Now, Mr. Field, I was with Barker when he staked his claim, and I have just returned from a visit to the 'Good Hope.'"

"Well, what of that?" was the blunt rejoinder.

"They are one and the self-same place," answered Judge Simmons gravely, casting a penetrating glance upon the man before him.

"I never said they were not," snapped Mr. Field. "I only told you there were lots of cliffs of that formation about there. It was simply my boy's rude way of contradicting that made me so angry with him."

"There is no rock anywhere in the countryside similar to that which overlooks the Good Hope mine," broke in Mr. Pratt, speaking for the first time. "I find, moreover, that the land on which you, as reputed owner, pay taxes, is identical with the claim patented some ten years back by Gerald Barker. The Registrar's books fail to record any transfer of the property. How did it happen to come into your possession?"

"Barker sold it to me, if you want to know," answered Mr. Field, indignantly. "It is really intolerable to be cross-questioned in this fashion. If you were not a government official I would kick you out of the house for daring to insult me by your dastardly insinuations. You may examine the patent for yourself, if that will satisfy you, and also the transfer which Barker signed with his own hand, in which he gave up all his rights to me."

"I should like to see them," was Mr. Pratt's only reply.

The millionaire hesitated for a moment and the colour fled from his cheeks, but recovering himself quickly he invited them to accompany him into the study, where he proceeded to unlock his safe and spread out some documents before them on the table.

"There is no doubt that this is Barker's patent," remarked Mr. Pratt. "Now for the transfer. I see we have here the signatures of two witnesses, Benjamin Green and Walter Long, as well as that of Gerald Barker. It is also signed by Caleb Denham, who describes himself as a Notary Public, and whose seal, according to custom, is appended here. Have you any idea where the witnesses are now?"

"Benjamin Green is a rolling stone, always knocking about the world," was the reply, "and old Walter or Wattie, as he was called, is dead."

Mr. Pratt glanced across at Judge Simmons.

"This transfer is dated the day after that on which Barker was drowned," he said quietly.

"How do you know so exactly when that took place?" questioned Mr. Field.

"His wife has supplied us with the information," answered the judge. "I have here a copy of your own letter to her."

"Ass that I was!" muttered Mr. Field under his breath. Aloud he added, "It is easy to make a mistake like that in the backwoods, where every day is alike."

"These little mistakes sometimes need to be enquired into," rejoined Judge Simmons. "We shall have to look up this same Benjamin Green and find out what he has to say about it. It is fortunate that we have an independent witness in this case, although it is unusual to have other names besides that of a lawyer subscribed to a similar deed."

Mr. Field bit his lip with vexation. "I have over-reached myself there," was the thought which passed rapidly through his mind. "I believed it would make it all the safer if I had those two signatures as well as Caleb's, but they may prove my undoing. All the same, I don't think I could have got the old shyster to put his seal to it if their names hadn't been there, so they served my turn after all."

In an injured voice he next addressed the judge.

"Surely," he exclaimed, "you can rely on the statement of a Notary Public without having to get proofs of his veracity."

"I happen to know that this particular Caleb Denham has just been convicted as an unprincipled and dishonest scoundrel," answered Judge Simmons. "He is now undergoing a well-merited term in jail because of his illicit practices. I would not give a button for his word."

"By the way," he added, turning again to the letter before him, "when I saw you last you gave me to understand that it was only a report of Barker's death which had reached you, but it is mentioned here that you yourself saw him swept away by the river. These statements seem rather conflicting. Was anyone else there at the time?"

"No," replied Mr. Field. "We were quite alone when the accident happened."

"Are you prepared to swear that you have given a strictly accurate account of the whole incident?" asked the judge, his keen eyes fixed on Mr. Field's agitated face. "I cannot deny that appearances are very much against you. It is a queer thing that Barker should have disappeared in this mysterious manner just at the very time that you became possessed of his papers. When we questioned Mrs. Power about it this morning, I thought she seemed rather to hesitate when I asked her if she had any reason to doubt the truth of your report."

"Mrs. Power!" ejaculated Mr. Field. "Whatever has she got to do with it?"

"You are evidently ignorant of the fact that she is Gerald Barker's widow, she having changed her name on account of some stipulation in a will," replied Judge Simmons. "We traced her by the information given to us by a servant of the old gentleman who left her the money. Finding that she was at present staying in Sunbury, we had an interview with her this morning before we came on to you."

"It is apparent that Mrs. Power has not let out to them that Barker is alive," was the thought that flashed across Mr. Field's mind. "She has evidently been in touch with her husband all along, but is terrified at the idea of him being taken up for the crime. I never should have believed that she could be so cunning as to hoodwink me like this. I suppose she has set these men to catch me out. I'll be even with her though, and with Barker too!"

"Look here," he said in a bullying tone, "this Mrs. Power, or Barker, or whatever she chooses to call herself--does she mean to make a fuss about these papers which there is no doubt her husband signed? Because, if so, will you please go back to her with a message. Tell her from me that silence is the price of silence. If she wants me to hold my tongue she had better not provoke me too far. I put myself unreservedly into her hands. If after giving her this message she still wants you to take up the cudgels for her, I confess I shall be surprised. She is more likely to go down on her knees, begging me not to disclose her secret to the world. You think perhaps you are doing her a service, but she may end by crying, 'Save me from my friends!'"

"This is a most extraordinary threat!" exclaimed the judge. "You had better explain yourself more fully."

"I shall have great pleasure in doing so," answered Mr. Field. "Doubtless you are not aware that her husband's last public act was to kill a defenceless old man in cold blood--this very same Walter Long whose signature is on this paper. It was a false report which got about concerning Barker's death. True he tried to drown himself in despair when he realized what he had done--I saw him leap into the river with my own eyes, and honestly believed him to have perished that day--but it seems he managed to reach the bank again some way further down the stream. He has been a fugitive from justice ever since. It was only this morning that I learnt he was still alive. I happen, moreover, to know where he is hiding at the present moment, and you may tell Mrs. Power that if she pesters me with questions about the property which I honourably came by, I shall know well enough how to be avenged!"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*Revelations*

It was with feelings of perplexity and foreboding that Madelaine had received her two visitors that morning.

Her heart died within her when Judge Simmons introduced himself as an acquaintance of her husband, with whom he had travelled during that momentous journey to the west. She wondered how much of the terrible past lay open to his gaze, and what new peril the future might have in store.

It was a relief when the strangers' conversation turned at once to the subject of the tract of land acquired by Gerald so many years before, the title deeds to which they told her they were desirous of investigating. What was the value of a few acres in the wilds of America compared with the well-being of the one she loved? True, he had spoken regretfully of it to her, but he had also mentioned it in connection with Mr. Field, the man of all others whom he sought to avoid, and she had no wish to stir up dangerous enquiries by seeking to establish a claim to that which had so long passed out of their hands.

Afraid of implicating her husband or doing anything of which he would not approve, she committed herself to nothing, merely assuring her callers that she would gladly give up all idea of the recovery of the property rather than involve herself in legal or other toils. Much against her will, she at length permitted Elihu Pratt to make a copy of the letter written to her by Mr. Field, which she produced at their request, comforting herself that it only afforded additional proof of Gerald's supposed death, and might thus be of advantage to him than otherwise.

"I am thankful to be leaving Sunbury to-day," she thought, "and that I shall be able to talk it over with my husband this evening. By to-morrow I trust we shall be lost to the world in the great whirlpool of London."

There was one thing only which Madelaine desired to do before she left. She could not depart without bidding farewell to the man whom she had so recently nursed back to life from the very borders of the grave.

"I wish you would run up to the village and ask Benjamin Green to come and see me, Robin," she said after the two visitors had left the house. "Tell him we are going away this afternoon, and that I want to say good-bye to him."

It was not long before Ben appeared, his arm still in a sling, but otherwise almost recovered from the effects of his late accident.

After a few moments' chat Madelaine excused herself, saying she must finish her packing, as the fly was coming for them soon after lunch. She shook hands cordially with her former patient, but Ben still lingered.

"Mrs. Power," he began, but words seemed to fail him, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly on the carpet, and half turned away his head. All at once he hastily put his hand into his coat pocket and took out a small parcel which he placed upon the table before her.

"That is yours," he said. "It was lying just there when I took it."

"What can it be?" asked Madelaine in surprise as she opened the packet. "My husband's watch!" she exclaimed in delight. "How did you get hold of it? I am truly pleased to have it back again."

With shame and contrition did Ben confess his misdeeds, telling how on the night of his first return to Sunbury, he had been tempted by the open window as he prowled round the house after his raid on Robin's ducks.

"I've got Mother Sheppard's bag of coin here also," he said, "and the three and ninepence that was for the missionaries, though I'm sorry the box is gone. It would be mighty kind of you if you would let me hand it all over to you, so that you might give it back to them as rightly owns it. I've got the promise of two nice fowls for you, which I'll just run over and fetch before you leave, if you won't mind taking them instead of the other birds that I pinched."

"It is very brave of you, Ben, and of course right to tell me this," remarked Madelaine, "for I had no suspicion of it."

"It's no use saying a fellow wants to be a Christian if he don't act like one," replied Ben. "If Christ is my Master, I must see to it that I don't do the Devil's bidding. It's the least I can do to give back what isn't mine, even if it lands me in the lock-up, where I ought of rights to be, if I got my deserts."

"Who am I that I should accuse him?" said Madelaine to herself as she listened to his confession. "Surely I of all others should deal mercifully with those who have gone astray, and who desire to return, remembering all my Gerald has gone through."

With gentle words she assured Ben of her forgiveness, and told him she would answer also for Mrs. Sheppard and Robin.

"You have begun well," she said at length, "for this has been a hard thing to do. May God help you to persevere."

"Would you mind me asking you one thing before I go?" said Ben. "There was some writing inside the watch, saying as it belonged to a Gerald Barker. I came across someone of that name out west about ten years ago, but he disappeared rather sudden, and the report got about that he was drowned. When you cried out just now, saying it was your husband's watch, I wondered could he have been the same Barker I'd known then. If so be as it was, I suppose you've married again, seeing you're Mrs. Power now."

Madelaine wished she had bitten her tongue out before she uttered the exclamation with which she greeted the sight of the watch.

"I have never married again," she faltered. "It was owing to a legacy that I was obliged to change my name."

Ben looked at her narrowly, surprised at the sudden alteration in her voice.

"Was Barker not drowned then, after all?" he asked. "It is very queer, but I could almost swear that I caught a glimpse of his face last night as I went back to the inn. I was rather late coming home from a friend's and someone was lighting his pipe at the corner of this road as I passed. The match flared up for a second, and I thought to myself at the time, 'How like Jerry,' as we used to call him. I sang out, 'Who goes there?' but the man had vanished before I got to the turn. If so be that your husband is still living as you give me to understand, I guess it was really he that I met, and that he's staying here with you now. By the way, I remember Barker used to be a chum of Field's. The last time we three were together was in Wattie Long's house in the backwoods. It's a night I couldn't well forget. It would be odd if we met again here in Sunbury after so many years."

"Oh, please don't say anything to Mr. Field about it!" cried Madelaine piteously. "Ben, I must throw myself on your mercy, as I believe you wish to be my friend. You must know all, if you were in the hut that night, so I need not hide anything from you. The kindest deed you can do both to my husband and me is to say nothing about this unexpected meeting. Gerald is dead to all intents and purposes, and you can do no good to anyone by publishing his existence to the world."

"You may be sure I wouldn't lift a finger to hurt you or any of yours, Mrs. Power," answered Ben earnestly. "I have too much cause to bless you for all you did for me. If Barker wants to lie low, I'm not the one to give him away."

"I trust you," replied Madelaine, "and I am sure you will not mention to anyone that you have seen him here. Only I would just like you to understand, Ben, before I leave, that my dear husband was not conscious of what he did that fatal night when you last met. It was from Mr. Field's lips that he learnt the consequences of his hasty blow. He must have been maddened by the strong liquor which had flowed so freely among you, for he had no spite against poor Mr. Long, and can recollect nothing of the quarrel which laid the old man dead at his feet. As you know, he tried to drown himself in despair, after he realized what he had done, but God in His mercy saved him and gave him another chance. Sorely has the terrible crime blighted both his life and mine, but he has sincerely repented, and indeed is now going to make amends, if he can, for his sin."

For a moment Ben stood as if meditating upon her words.

"And has Gerald Barker been in hiding all these years because of this?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Madelaine, "and I am in mortal dread lest Mr. Field should hear of him being in England, and give information which might lead to his immediate conviction. Until yesterday, I myself believed him to have perished in the waters, and we have only just been restored to one another again. Like yourself, Ben, he has lately come to see things differently, and has made up his mind to return to California at once, so as to give himself up voluntarily before a magistrate. I am counting more than I can say on the few precious days that remain for us to be together on the voyage, and I think I should break my heart if he was snatched away from me now."

"Never you fear," was the answer, as Ben took his departure. "I'm your friend to the backbone, Mrs. Power, and sorry should I be to harm you either by word or deed."

It would, however, have disturbed Madelaine greatly had she known that Green's first act on leaving her was to walk straight to the Vicarage, where he requested a few moments' conversation with the clergyman, who was also a Justice of the Peace. She would have been still more anxious had she seen the two men set out almost at once in the direction of Farncourt.

"Are the American gentlemen still with Mr. Field?" asked Ben, as the butler opened the door.

"That's lucky," he remarked to the vicar, on receiving an answer in the affirmative. "I thought I recognized Elihu Pratt as he motored past. He was pointed out to me one day in New York as one of the rising men. I'm glad he's still here, for he may be useful to us."

Thus it was, that as Mr. Field uttered the words recorded in the last chapter, the door of the study opened, and the vicar and Benjamin Green entered the room.

"Why, here is the very man we wanted," said Judge Simmons, as the servant announced the new-comers. "He may be able to throw light not only on the document before us, but on the astounding statement which Mr. Field has just made. Mr. Green, would you first kindly tell us whether you can identify this signature as yours?"

"Yes, that is my handwriting," replied Ben, as he laid down the paper, "and I see the other witness is Walter Long."

"Mr. Field has just informed us that this same Walter Long was murdered by Gerald Barker, the man in whose name the deed is made out, and that Barker threw himself into the river in dismay at having committed such a crime," continued the judge. "Discrepancies, however, seem to multiply as we proceed further. The document, which purports to be a transfer of Barker's land to Thomas Algernon Field, is dated the day after that which Field himself gave to Barker's wife as the one on which her husband was drowned. If Gerald Barker killed Walter Long, how then is his victim's signature found here also?"

"It is no great wonder that I made an error in writing to Mrs. Barker," blurted out Mr. Field impatiently, "but Ben acknowledges himself that he signed the transfer all right, so why should you keep on harping about it like this?"

As he spoke, the harassed man sought to catch Ben's eye, in a desperate endeavour to convey some signal of warning or appeal.

"I never knew what the paper contained till this moment," exclaimed Ben, ignoring the look. "It clears up a good deal that was difficult to understand. You remember, Field, you would not let me read it, being as you said, your own private will, and you told me to be sharp about it, as you were in such a hurry to be off. I know now what it was, and why you sat up writing half the night when you believed I was asleep. You considered it a good opportunity to get hold of Barker's claim, and, seeing he had already done away with himself, I suppose you thought you were safe."

"You dare to accuse me in this manner?" shouted Mr. Field, crimsoning with fury. "I challenge you to prove the truth of your words."

"I now also know why you wanted Wattie's letter," continued Ben, taking no notice of the interruption. "I saw you steal it out of the old man's coat. It was a rare chance for you to copy his name also, he lying powerless in the next room and unable to testify that it was forged."

"Can you tell us exactly under what circumstances this interview between you and Mr. Field took place?" asked Judge Simmons.

"When I put my name there, in Wattie's own hut in the backwoods," replied Ben, "he had already been felled by the cowardly blow, and Barker had been gone some hours."

"Did you see Barker knock the old man down?" questioned Mr. Pratt.

"Barker never lifted a finger against anyone," answered Ben bluntly.

"Why then, who struck him?" exclaimed Judge Simmons in surprise.

"There stands the man who did it!" said Ben, dramatically pointing with his finger at Mr. Field, as he stood livid and trembling before his accuser. "He evidently thought I was too drunk to notice it, but I had still enough sense to know what happened. Field and Wattie had been playing cards, and no doubt Field lost, for all of a sudden he got up in a towering rage, shouting out something about a cheat. I myself saw Field dash Wattie to the ground with his fist. The poor chap fell against a corner of the table, gashing his head horribly upon the edge. I watched Field go to him and bind up the wound, but the old man never spoke or moved. Field then carried him to the inner room where there was a bed, and shut the door.

"What had Barker to do with it then?" enquired Judge Simons.

"Gerald had no hand in it at all," answered Ben. "He was lying on the floor all the time, sleeping off his bout. Field had been egging him on to drink the whole evening, and he had had more than enough, being a tender-foot and not used to our liquor."

"What followed?" asked Mr. Pratt, as he jotted down something in his note-book.

"I went to sleep too after a time," continued Ben, "and when I woke, Barker was gone, and Field was sitting at the table writing for all he was worth. It was then I saw him steal old Wattie's letter. He got me to sign something when I was coming round, but I was too mixed to know what it was. That's the very paper you have there, with my signature at the foot. Next morning Field hurried me off with him at dawn, we having arranged beforehand to travel together to the south. I thought Wattie was still resting after the blow, and Field persuaded me not to disturb him, as he was asleep. We separated as soon as we reached the nearest station, and I never met him again until I found him here in Sunbury on my return home."

"You lie!" thundered Mr. Field. "Every statement you have made is false! You confess that you were drunk, so how can you give any reliable account of what took place? Surely Barker's deliberate attempt at suicide is enough to prove his acknowledgment of the crime. It is preposterous to try to lay it at my door. What witness can you bring to prove your accusation? It is only one man's word against another, and I have as good a right as you to be believed."

"There is a witness whom I can bring," answered Ben calmly, "and one whose evidence will be conclusive too."

"Who is it, pray?" asked Mr. Field with a mocking laugh.

"Old Wattie himself," was Ben's reply.

As he said the words, Mr. Field suddenly threw up his hands, and staggering to a chair, fell back unconscious upon the cushions.

*CHAPTER XX*

*Good Hope*

All was commotion and confusion at Farncourt as servants hurried hither and thither, and a message was sent off to the doctor to come without delay to the assistance of the master of the big house, who meanwhile lay so helpless within its walls.

"It was a stroke," said Ben to Mrs. Power, as he stood in her little parlour giving an account of the sudden seizure. "They say he may regain consciousness towards the end, but there is no hope that he can recover."

"How did it come on?" asked Madelaine. "He seemed quite well when I saw him yesterday."

"The two American gentlemen are coming to explain," answered Ben, "as it has something to do with you, Mrs. Power. They will be here in a few minutes."

"Something to do with me!" repeated Madelaine in astonishment. "I don't understand."

A motor drew up to the gate as she spoke, and she was soon listening to the strange tale. Clearly and concisely did Judge Simmons lay the whole case before her, dwelling as gently as he could upon the sick man's guilt, but demonstrating to her in no uncertain terms the cruel deception which had been practised upon her husband, blighting his life for so long.

"Do you mean to say that Gerald is entirely innocent?" she asked, hardly able to take in the wonderful news. "Am I right in believing that he did not even strike old Mr. Long--much less kill him?"

"There is absolutely nothing against him," replied the judge. "He is free to hold up his head with any man."

The chauffeur had by this time been sent off in the car to Mrs. Potter's, with instructions to bring Mr. Barker back with him at once to Sea View Cottage. Gerald had already started on his six-mile walk to the railway, but it was not long before the motor had overtaken the traveller, and a note from Madelaine put into her husband's hands, bidding him come to her without delay.