Chapter VII: Part 7

"Excuse!" he faltered, backing off down the corridor. "I giff you the letter!" And he hastily thrust his hand into the side pocket of his coat. But it was a pistol he poked under the other's nose--a shiny, lumpy weapon, clutched most unsteadily.

"Hands up and turn me once around your back!" whispered the man hoarsely. "Quick!--or I shoot you!"--as the other, astounded, merely gazed at him. The man had already begun to back away again, but as Barres moved he stopped and cursed him:

"Put them up your hands!" snarled the spectacled man, with a final oath. "Keep your distance or I kill you!"

Barres heard himself saying, in a voice not much like his own:

"You can't do this to me and get away with it! It's nonsense! This sort of thing doesn't go in New York!"

Suddenly his mind grew coldly, terrible clear:

"No, you _can't_ get away with it!" he concluded aloud, in the calm, natural voice of conviction. "Your stunt is scaring women! You try to keep clear of men--you dirty, blackmailing German crook! I've got your number! You're the 'Watcher'!--you murderous rat! You're afraid to shoot!"

It was plain that the spectacled man had not discounted anything of this sort--plain now, to Barres, that if, indeed, murder actually had been meant, it was not his own murder that had been planned with that big, blunt, silver-plated pistol, now wavering wildly before his eyes.

"I blow your face off!" whispered the stranger, beginning to back away again, and ghastly pale.

"Keep out of thiss! I am not looking for you. Get you back; step once again inside that door away!----"

But Barres had already jumped for him, had almost caught him, was reaching for him--when the man hurled the pistol straight at his face. The terrific impact of the heavy weapon striking him between the eyes dazed him; he stumbled sideways, colliding with the wall, and he reeled around there a second.

But that second's leeway was enough for the bespectacled stranger. He turned and ran like a deer. And when Barres reached the staircase the whitewashed hall below was still echoing with the slam of the street grille.

Nevertheless, he hurried down, but found the desk-chair empty and Soane nowhere visible, and continued on to the outer door, more or less confused by the terrific blow on the head.

Of course the bespectacled man had disappeared amid the noonday foot-farers now crowding both sidewalks east and west, on their way to lunch.

Barres walked slowly back to the desk, still dazed, but now thoroughly enraged and painfully conscious of a heavy swelling where the blow had fallen on his forehead.

In the superintendent's quarters he found Soane, evidently just awakened after a sodden night at Grogan's, trying to dress.

Barres said:

"There is nobody at the desk. Either you or Miss Kurtz should be on duty. That is the rule. Now, I'm going to tell you something: If I ever again find that desk without anybody behind it, I shall go to the owners of this building and tell them what sort of superintendent you are! And maybe I'll tell the police, also!"

"Arrah, then, Misther Barres----"

"That's all!" said Barres, turning on his heel. "Anything more from you and you'll find yourself in trouble!"

And he went up stairs.

The lumpy pistol still lay there in the corridor; he picked it up and took it into the studio. The weapon was fully loaded. It seemed to be of some foreign make--German or Austrian, he judged by the marking which had been almost erased, deliberately obliterated, it appeared to him.

He placed it in his desk, seated himself, explored his bruises gingerly with cautious finger-tips, concluded that the bridge of his nose was not broken, then threw himself back in his armchair for some grim and concentrated thinking.

XVII

A CONFERENCE

The elegantly modulated accents of Aristocrates, announcing the imminence of luncheon, aroused Barres from disconcerted but wrathful reflections.

As he sat up and tenderly caressed his battered head, Thessalie and Dulcie came slowly into the studio together, their arms interlaced.

Both exclaimed at the sight of the young man's swollen face, but he checked their sympathetic enquiries drily:

"Bumped into something. It's nothing. How are you, Dulcie? All right again?"

She nodded, evidently much concerned about his disfigured forehead; so to terminate sympathetic advice he went away to bathe his bruises in witch hazel, and presently returned smelling strongly of that time-honoured panacea, and with a saturated handkerchief adorning his brow.

At the same time, there came a considerable thumping and bumping from the corridor; the bell rang, and Westmore appeared with the trunks--five of them. These a pair of brawny expressmen rolled into the studio and carried thence to the storeroom which separated the bedroom and bath from the kitchen.

"Any trouble?" enquired Barres of Westmore, when the expressmen had gone.

"None at all. Nobody looked at me twice. What's happened to your noddle?"

"Bumped it. Lunch is ready."

Thessalie came over to him:

"I have included Dulcie among my confidants," she said in a low voice.

"You mean you've told her----"

"Everything. And I am glad I did."

Barres was silent; Thessalie passed her arm around Dulcie's waist; the two men walked behind together.

The table was a mass of flowers, over which netted sunlight played. Three cats assisted--the Prophet, always dignified, blinked pleasantly from a window ledge; the blond Houri, beside him, purred loudly. Only Strindberg was impossible, chasing her own tail under the patient feet of Aristocrates, or rolling over and over beneath the table in a mindless assault upon her own hind toes.

Seated there in the quiet peace and security of the pleasant room, amid familiar things, with Aristocrates moving noiselessly about, sunlight lacing wall and ceiling, and the air aromatic with the scent of brilliant flowers, Barres tried in vain to realise that murder could throw its shadow over such a place--that its terrible menace could have touched his threshold, even for an instant.

No, it was impossible. The fellow could not have intended murder. He was merely a blackmailer, suddenly detected and instantly frightened, pulling a gun in a panic, and even then failing in the courage to shoot.

It enraged Barres to even think about it, but he could not bring himself to attach any darker significance to the incident than just that--a blackmailer, ready to display a gun, but not to use it, had come to bully a woman; had found himself unexpectedly trapped, and had behaved according to his kind.

Barres had meant to catch him. But he admitted to himself that he had gone about it very unskilfully. This added disgust to his smouldering wrath, but he realised that he ought to tell the story.

And after the rather subdued luncheon was ended, and everybody had gone out to the studio, he did tell it, deliberately including Dulcie in his audience, because he felt that she also ought to know.

"And this is the present state of affairs," he concluded, lighting a cigarette and flinging one knee across the other, "----that my friend, Thessalie Dunois, who came here to escape the outrageous annoyance of a gang of blackmailers, is followed immediately and menaced with further insult on my very threshold.

"This thing must stop. It's going to be stopped. And I suggest that we discuss the matter now and decide how it ought to be handled."

After a silence, Westmore said:

"You had your nerve, Garry. I'm wondering what I might have done under the muzzle of that pistol."

Dulcie's grey eyes had never left Barres. He encountered her gaze now; smiled at its anxious intensity.

"I made a botch of it, Sweetness, didn't I?" he said lightly. And, to Westmore: "The moment I suspected him he was aware of it. Then, when I tried to figure out how to get him into the studio, it was too late. I made a mess of it, that's all. And it's too bad, Thessa, that I haven't more sense."

She gently shook her head:

"You haven't any sense, Garry. That man might easily have killed you, in spite of your coolness and courage----"

"No. He was just a rat----"

"In a corner! You couldn't tell what he'd do----"

"Yes, I could. He _didn't_ shoot. Moreover, he legged it, which was exactly what I was certain he meant to do. Don't worry about me, Thessa; if I didn't have brains enough to catch him, at least I was clever enough to know it was safe to try." He laughed. "There's nothing of the hero about me; don't think it!"

"I think that Dulcie and I know what to call your behaviour," she said quietly, taking the silent girl's hand in hers and resting it in her lap.

"Sure; it was bull-headed pluck," growled Westmore. "The drop is the drop, Garry, and you're no mind-reader."

But Barres persisted in taking it humorously:

"I read that gentleman's mind correctly, and his character, too." Then, to Thessalie: "You say you don't recognise him from my description?"

She shook her head thoughtfully.

"Garry," said Westmore impatiently, "if we're going to discuss various ways of putting an end to this business, what way do you suggest?"

Barres lighted another cigarette:

"I've been thinking. And I haven't a notion how to go about it, unless we turn over the matter to the police. But Thessa doesn't wish publicity," he added, "so whatever is to be done we must do by ourselves."

Thessalie leaned forward from her seat on the lounge by Dulcie:

"I don't ask that of you," she remonstrated earnestly. "I only wanted to stay here for a little while----"

"You shall do that too," said Westmore, "but this matter seems to involve something more than annoyance and danger to you. Those miserable rascals are Germans and they are carrying on their impudent intrigues, regardless of American laws and probably to the country's detriment. How do we know what they are about? What else may they be up to? It seems to me that somebody had better investigate their activities--this one-eyed man, Freund--this handy gunman in spectacles--and whoever it was who took a shot at you the other day----"

"Certainly," said Barres, "and you and I are going to investigate. But how?"

"What about Grogan's?"

"It's a German joint now," nodded Barres. "One of us might drop in there and look it over. Thessa, how do you think we ought to go about this affair?"

Thessalie, who sat on the sofa with Dulcie's hand clasped in both of hers--a new intimacy which still surprised and pleasantly perplexed Barres--said that she could not see that there was anything in particular for them to do, but that she herself intended to cease living alone for a while and refrain from going about town unaccompanied.

Then it suddenly occurred to Barres that if he and Dulcie went to Foreland Farms, Thessalie should be invited also; otherwise, she'd be alone again, except for the servants, and possibly Westmore. And he said so.

"This won't do," he insisted. "We four ought to remain in touch with one another for the present. If Dulcie and I go to Foreland Farms, you must come, too, Thessa; and you, Jim, ought to be there, too."

Nobody demurred; Barres, elated at the prospect, gave Thessalie a brief sketch of his family and their home.

"There's room for a regiment in the house," he added, "and you will feel welcome and entirely at home. I'll write my people to-night, if it's settled. Is it, Thessa?"

"I'd adore it, Garry. I haven't been in the country since I left France."

"And you, Jim?"

"You bet. I always have a wonderful time at Foreland."

"Now, this is splendid!" exclaimed Barres, delighted. "If you disappear, Thessa, those German rats may become discouraged and give up hounding you. Anyway, you'll have a quiet six weeks and a complete rest; and by that time Jim and I ought to devise some method of handling these vermin."

"Nobody," said Thessalie, smiling, "has asked Dulcie's opinion as to how this matter ought to be handled."

Barres turned to meet Dulcie's shy gaze.

"Tell us what to do, Sweetness!" he said gaily. "It was stupid of me not to ask for your views."

For a few moments the girl remained silent, then, the lovely tint deepening in her cheeks, she suggested diffidently that the people who were annoying Thessalie had been hired to do it by others more easy to handle, if discovered.

There was a moment's silence, then Barres struck his palm with doubled fist:

"_That_," he said with emphasis, "is the right way to approach this business! Hired thugs can be handled in only two ways--beat 'em up or call in the police. And we can do neither.

"But the men higher up--the men who inspire and hire these rats--they can be dealt with in other ways. You're right, Dulcie! You've started us on the only proper path!"

Considerably excited, now, as vague ideas crowded in upon him, he sat smiting his knees, his brows knit in concentrated thought, aware that they were on the right track, but that the track was but a blind trail so far.

Dulcie ventured to interrupt his frowning cogitation:

"People of position and influence who hire men to do unworthy things are cowards at heart. To discover them is to end the whole matter, I think."

"You're absolutely right, Sweetness! Wait! I begin to see--to see things--see something--interesting----"

He looked up at Thessalie:

"D'Eblis, Ferez Bey, Von-der-Goltz Pasha, Excellenz, Berlin--all these were mixed up with this German-American banker, Adolf Gerhardt, were they not?"

"It was Gerhardt's money, I am sure, that bought the _Mot d'Ordre_ from d'Eblis for Ferez--that is, for Berlin," she said.

"Do you mean," asked Westmore, "the New York banker, Adolf Gerhardt, of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer, who has that big show place at Northbrook?"

Barres smiled at him significantly:

"What do you know about that, Jim! If we go to Foreland we're certain to be asked to the Gerhardt's! They're part of the Northbrook set; they're received everywhere. They entertain the personnel of the German and Austrian Embassies. Probably their place, Hohenlinden, is a hotbed of German intrigue and propaganda! Thessa, how about you? Would you care to risk recognition in Gerhardt's drawing-room, and see what information you could pick up?"

Thessalie's cheeks grew bright pink, and her dark eyes were full of dancing light:

"Garry, I'd adore it! I told you I had never been a spy. And that is absolutely true. But if you think I am sufficiently intelligent to do anything to help my country, I'll try. And I don't care how I do it," she added, with her sweet, reckless little laugh, and squeezed Dulcie's hand tightly between her fingers.

"Do you suppose Gerhardt would remember you?" asked Westmore.

"I don't think so. I don't believe anybody would recollect me. If anybody there ever saw Nihla Quellen, it wouldn't worry me, because Nihla Quellen is merely a memory if anything, and only Ferez and d'Eblis know I am alive and here----"

"And their hired agents," added Westmore.

"Yes. But such people would not be guests of Adolf Gerhardt at Northbrook."

"Ferez Bey might be his guest."

"What of it!" she laughed. "I was never afraid of Ferez--never! He is a jackal always. A threatening gesture and he flees! No, I do not fear Ferez Bey, but I think he is horribly afraid of me.... I think, perhaps, he has orders to do me very serious harm--and dares not. No, Ferez Bey comes sniffing around after the fight is over. He does no fighting, not Ferez! He slinks outside the smoke. When it clears away and night comes he ventures forth to feed furtively on what is left. That is Ferez--my Ferez on whom I would not use a dog-whip--no!--merely a slight gesture--and he is gone like a swift shadow in the dark!"

Fascinated by the transformation in her, the other three sat gazing at Thessalie in silence. Her colour was high, her dark eyes sparkled, her lips glowed. And the superb young figure so celebrated in Europe, so straight and virile, seemed instinct with the reckless gaity and courage which rang out in her full-throated laughter as she ended with a gesture and a snap of her white fingers.

"For my country--for France, whose generous mind has been poisoned against me--I would do anything--anything!" she said. "If you think, Garry, that I have wit enough to balk d'Eblis, check Ferez, confuse the plotters in Berlin--well, then!--I shall try. If you say it is right, then I shall become what I never have been--a spy!"

She sat for a moment smiling in her flushed excitement. Nobody spoke. Then her expression altered, subtlely, and her dark eyes grew pensive.

"Perhaps," she said wistfully, "if I could serve my country in some little way, France might believe me loyal.... I have sometimes wished I might have a chance to prove it. There is nothing I would not risk if only France would come to believe in me.... But there seemed to be no chance for me. It is death for me to go there now, with that dossier in the secret archives and a Senator of France to swear my life away----"

"If you like," said Westmore, very red again, "I'll go into the business, too, and help you nail some of these Hun plotters. I've nothing better to do; I'd be delighted to help you land a Hun or two."

"I'm with you both, heart and soul!" said Barres. "The whole country is rotten with Boche intrigue. Who knows what we may uncover at Northbrook?"

Dulcie rose and came over to where Barres sat, and he reached up without turning around, and gave her hand a friendly little squeeze.

She bent over beside him:

"Could I help?" she asked in a low voice.

"You bet, Sweetness! Did you think you were being left out?" And he drew her closer and passed one arm absently around her as he began speaking again to Westmore:

"It seems to me that we ought to stumble on something at Northbrook worth following up, if we go about it circumspectly, Jim--with all that Austrian and German Embassy gang coming and going during the summer, and this picturesque fellow, Murtagh Skeel, being lionised by----"

Dulcie's sudden start checked him and he looked up at her.

"Murtagh Skeel, the Irish poet and patriot," he repeated, "who wants to lead a Clan-na-Gael raid into Canada or head a death-battalion to free Ireland. You've read about him in the papers, Dulcie?"

"Yes ... I want to talk to you alone----" She blushed and dropped a confused little curtsey to Thessalie: "Would you please pardon my rudeness----"

"You darling!" said Thessalie, blowing her a swift, gay kiss. "Go and talk to your best friend in peace!"

Barres rose and walked away slowly beside Dulcie. They stood still when out of earshot. She said:

"I have a few of my mother's letters.... She knew a young man whose name was Murtagh Skeel.... He was her dear friend. But only in secret. Because I think her father and mother disliked him.... It would seem so from her letters and his.... And she was--in love with him.... And he with mother.... Then--I don't know.... But she came to America with father. That is all I know. Do you believe he can be the same man?"

"Murtagh Skeel," repeated Barres. "It's an unusual name. Possibly he is the same man whom your mother knew. I should say he might have been about your mother's age, Dulcie. He is a romantic figure now--one of those dreamy, graceful, impractical patriots--an enthusiast with one idea and that an impossible one!--the freedom of Ireland wrenched by force from the traditional tyrant, England."

He thought a moment, then:

"Whatever the fault, and wherever lies the blame for Ireland's unrest to-day, this is no time to start rebellion. Who strikes at England now strikes at all Freedom in the world. Who conspires against England to-day conspires with barbarism against civilisation.

"My outspoken sympathy of yesterday must remain unspoken to-day. And if it be insisted on, then it will surely change and become hostility. No, Dulcie; the line of cleavage is clean: it is Light against Darkness, Right against Might, Truth against Falsehood, and Christ against Baal!

"This man, Murtagh Skeel, is a dreamer, a monomaniac, and a dangerous fanatic, for all his winning and cultivated personality and the personal purity of his character.... It is an odd coincidence if he was once your mother's friend--and her suitor, too."

Dulcie stood before him, her head a trifle lowered, listening to what he said. When he ended, she looked up at him, then across the studio where Westmore had taken her place on the sofa beside Thessalie. They both seemed to be absorbed in a conversation which interested them immensely.

Dulcie hesitated, then ventured to take possession of Barres' arm:

"Could you and I sit down over here by ourselves?" she asked.

He smiled, always amused by her increasing confidence and affection, and always a little touched by it, so plainly she revealed herself, so quaintly--sometimes very quietly and shyly, sometimes with an ardent impulse too swift for self-conscious second thoughts which might have checked her.

So they seated themselves in the carved compartments of an ancient choir-stall and she rested one elbow on the partition between them and set her rounded chin in her palm.

"You pretty thing," he said lightly.

At that she blushed and smiled in the confused way she had when teased. And at such times she never looked at him--never even pretended to sustain his laughing gaze or brave out her own embarrassment.

"I won't torment you, Sweetness," he said. "Only you ought not to let me, you know. It's a temptation to make you blush; you do it so prettily."

"Please----" she said, still smiling but vividly disconcerted again.

"There, dear! I won't. I'm a brute and a bully. But honestly, you ought not to let me."

"I don't know how to stop you," she admitted, laughing. "I could kill myself for being so silly. Why is it, do you suppose, that I blu----"

She checked herself, scarlet now, and sat motionless with her head bent over her clenched palm, and her lip bitten till it quivered. Perhaps a flash of sudden insight had answered her own question before she had even finished asking it. And the answer had left her silent, rigid, as though not daring to move. But her bitten lip trembled, and her breath, which had stopped, came swiftly now, desperately controlled. But there seemed to be no control for her violent little heart, which was racing away and setting every pulse a faster pace.

Barres, more uneasy than amused, now, and having before this very unwillingly suspected Dulcie of an exaggerated sentiment concerning him, inspected her furtively and sideways.

"I won't tease you any more," he repeated. "I'm sorry. But you understand, Sweetness; it's just a friendly tease--just because we're such good friends."

"Yes," she nodded breathlessly. "Don't notice me, please. I don't seem to know how to behave myself when I'm with you----"

"What nonsense, Dulcie! You're a wonderful comrade. We have bully times when we're together. Don't we?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, for the love of Mike! What's a little teasing between friends? Buck up, Sweetness, and don't ever let me upset you again."

"No." She turned and looked at him, laughed. But there was a wonderful beauty in her grey eyes and he noticed it.

"You little kiddie," he said, "your eyes are all starry like a baby's! You are not growing up as fast as you think you are!"

She laughed again deliciously:

"How wise you are," she said.

"Aha! So you're joshing me, now!"

"But aren't you very, very wise?" she asked demurely.

"You bet I am. And I'm going to prove it."

"How, please?"

"Listen, irreverent youngster! If you are going to Foreland Farms with me, you will require various species of clothes and accessories."

At that she was frankly dismayed:

"But I can't afford----"

"Piffle! I advance you sufficient salary. Thessalie had better advise you in your shopping----" He hesitated, then: "You and Thessa seem to have become excellent friends rather suddenly."

"She was so sweet to me," explained Dulcie. "I hadn't cared for her very much--that evening of the party--but to-day she came into your room, where I was lying on the bed, and she stood looking at me for a moment and then she said, 'Oh, you darling!' and dropped on her knees and drew me into her arms.... Wasn't that a curious thing to happen? I--I was too surprised to speak for a minute; then the loveliest shiver came over me and I--I cuddled up close to her--because I had never remembered being in mother's arms--and it seemed wonderful--I had wanted it so--dreamed sometimes--and awoke and cried myself to sleep again.... She was so sweet to me.... We talked.... She told me, finally, about the reason of her visit to you. Then she told me about herself.... So I became her friend very quickly. And I am sure that I am going to love her dearly.... And when I love"--she looked steadily away from him--"I would die to serve--my friend."

The girl's quiet ardour, her simplicity and candour, attracted and interested him. Always he had seemed to be aware, in her, of hidden forces--of something fresh and charmingly impetuous held in leash--of controlled impulses, restless, uneasy, bitted, curbed, and reined in.

Pride, perhaps, a natural reticence in the opposite sex--perhaps the habit of control in a girl whose childhood had had no outlet--some of these, he concluded, accounted for her subdued air, her restraint from demonstration. Save for the impulsive little hand on his arm at times, the slightest quiver of lip and voice, there was no sign of the high-strung, fresh young force that he vaguely divined within her.

"Dulcie," he said, "how much do you know about the romance of your mother?"

She lifted her grey eyes to his:

"What romance?"

"Why, her marriage."

"Was that a romance?"

"I gather, from your father, that your mother was very much above him in station."

"Yes. He was a gamekeeper for my grandfather."

"What was your mother's name?"

"Eileen."

"I mean her family name."

"Fane."

He was silent. She remained thoughtful, her chin resting between two fingers.

"Once," she murmured, as though speaking to herself, "when my father was intoxicated, he said that Fane is my name, not Soane.... Do you know what he meant?"

"No.... His name is Soane, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, what do you suppose he meant, if he meant anything?"

"I don't quite know."

"He _is_ your father, isn't he?"

She shook her head slowly:

"Sometimes, when he is intoxicated, he says that he isn't. And once he added that my name is not Soane but Fane."

"Did you question him?"

"No. He only cries when he is that way.... Or talks about Ireland's wrongs."

"Ask him some time."

"I have asked him when he was sober. But he denied ever saying it."

"Then ask him when he's the other way. I--well, to be frank, Dulcie, you haven't the slightest resemblance to your father--not the slightest--not in any mental or physical particular."

"He says I'm like mother."

"And her name was Eileen Fane," murmured Barres. "She must have been beautiful, Dulcie."

"She was----" A bright blush stained her face, but this time she looked steadily at Barres and neither of them smiled.

"She was in love with Murtagh Skeel," said Dulcie. "I wonder why she did not marry him."

"You say her family objected."

"Yes, but what of that, if she loved him?"

"But even in those days he may have been a troublemaker and revolutionist----"

"Does that matter if a girl is in love?"

In Dulcie's voice there was again that breathless tone through which something rang faintly--something curbed back, held in restraint.

"I suppose," he said, smiling, "that if one is in love nothing else matters."

"Nothing matters," she said, half to herself. And he looked askance at her, and looked again with increasing curiosity.

Westmore called across the room:

"Thessalie and I are going shopping! Any objections?"

A sudden and totally unexpected dart seemed to penetrate the heart region of Garret Barres. It was jealousy and it hurt.

"No objection at all," he said, wondering how the devil Westmore had become so familiar with her name in such a very brief encounter.

Thessalie rose and came over:

"Dulcie, will you come with us?" she asked gaily.

"That's a first rate idea," said Barres, cheering up. "Dulcie, tell her what things you have and she'll tell you what you need for Foreland Farms."

"Indeed I will," cried Thessalie. "We'll make her perfectly adorable in a most economical manner. Shall we, dear?"

And she held out her hand to Dulcie, and, smiling, turned her head and looked across the room at Westmore.

Which troubled Barres and left him rather silent there in the studio after they had gone away. For he had rather fancied himself as the romance in Thessalie's life, and, at times, was inclined to sentimentalise a little about her.

And now he permitted himself to wonder how much there really might be to that agreeable sentiment he entertained for, perhaps, the prettiest girl he had ever met in his life, and, possibly, the most delightful.

XVIII

THE BABBLER

The double apartment in Dragon Court, swept by such vagrant July breezes as wandered into the heated city, had become lively with preparations for departure.

Barres fussed about, collecting sketching paraphernalia, choosing brushes, colours, canvases, field kits, and costumes from his accumulated store, and boxing them for transportation to Foreland Farms, with the languid assistance of Aristocrates.

Westmore had only to ship a modelling stand, a handful of sculptors' tools, and a ton or two of Plasteline, an evil-smelling composite clay, very useful to work with.

But the storm centre of preparation revolved around Dulcie. And Thessalie, enchanted with her new role as adviser, bargainer, and purchaser, and always attaching either Westmore or Barres to her skirts when she and Dulcie sallied forth, was selecting and accumulating a charming and useful little impedimenta. For the young girl had never before owned a single pretty thing, except those first unpremeditated gifts of Barres', and her happiness in these expeditions was alloyed with trepidation at Thessalie's extravagance, and deep misgivings concerning her ultimate ability to repay out of the salary allowed her as a private model.

Intoxicated by ownership, she watched Thessalie and Selinda laying away in her brand-new trunk the lovely things which had been selected. And one day, thrilled but bewildered, she went into the studio, where Barres sat opening his mail, and confessed her fear that only lifelong devotion in his service could ever liquidate her overwhelming financial obligations to him.

He had begun to laugh when she opened the subject:

"Thessa is managing it," he said. "It looks like a lot of expense, but it isn't. Don't worry about it, Sweetness."

"I _do_ worry----"

"Now, what a ridiculous thing to do!" he interrupted. "It's merely advanced salary--your own money. I told you to blow it; I'm responsible. And I shall arrange it so you won't notice that you are repaying the loan. All I want you to do is to have a good time about it."

"I am having a good time--when it doesn't scare me to spend so much for----"

"Can't you trust Thessa and me?"

The girl dropped to her knees beside his chair in a swift passion of gratitude:

"Oh, I trust you--I do----" But she could not utter another word, and only pressed her face against his arm in the tense silence of emotions which were too powerful to express, too deep and keen to comprehend or to endure.

And she sprang to her feet, flushed, confused, turning from him as he retained one hand and drew her back:

"Dear child," he said, in his pleasant voice, "this is really a very little thing I do for you, compared to the help you have given me by hard, unremitting, uncomplaining physical labour and endurance. There is no harder work than holding a pose for painter or sculptor--nothing more cruelly fatiguing. Add to that your cheerfulness, your willingness, your quiet, loyal, unobtrusive companionship--and the freshness and inspiration and interest ever new which you always awake in me--tell me, Sweetness, are you really in my debt, or am I in yours?"

"I am in yours. You made me."

"You always say that. It's foolish. You made yourself, Dulcie. You are making yourself all the while. Why, good heavens!--if you hadn't had it in you, somehow, to ignore your surroundings--take the school opportunities offered you--close your eyes and ears to the sights and sounds and habits of what was supposed to be your home----"

He checked himself, thinking of Soane, and his brogue, and his ignorance and his habits.

"How the devil you escaped it all I can't understand," he muttered to himself. "Even when I first knew you, there was nothing resembling your--your father about you--even if you were almost in rags!"

"I had been with the Sisters until I went to high school," she murmured. "It makes a difference in a child's mind what is said and thought by those around her."

"Of course. But, Dulcie, it is usually the unfortunate rule that the lower subtly contaminates the higher, even in casual association--that the weaker gradually undermines the stronger until it sinks to lesser levels. It has not been so with you. Your clear mind remained untarnished, your aspiration uncontaminated. Somewhere within you had been born the quality of recognition; and when your eyes opened on better things you recognised them and did not forget after they disappeared----"

Again he ceased speaking, aware, suddenly, that for the first time he was making the effort to analyse this girl for his own information. Heretofore, he had accepted her, sometimes curious, sometimes amused, puzzled, doubtful, even uneasy as her mind revealed itself by degrees and her character glimmered through in little fitful gleams from that still hidden thing, herself.

He began to speak again, before he knew he was speaking--indeed, as though within him somewhere another man were using his lips and voice as vehicles:

"You know, Dulcie, it's not going to end--our companionship. Your real life is all ahead of you; it's already beginning--the life which is properly yours to shape and direct and make the most of.

"I don't know what kind of life yours is going to be; I know, merely, that your career doesn't lie down stairs in the superintendent's lodgings. And this life of ours here in the studio is only temporary, only a phase of your development toward clearer aims, higher aspiration, nobler effort.

"Tranquillity, self-respect, intelligent responsibility, the happiness of personal independence are the prizes: the path on which you have started leads to the only pleasure man has ever really known--labour."

He looked down at her hand lying within his own, stroked the slender fingers thoughtfully, noticing the whiteness and fineness of them, now that they had rested for three months from their patient martyrdom in Soane's service.

"I'll talk to my mother and sister about it," he concluded. "All you need is a start in whatever you're going to do in life. And you bet you're going to get it, Sweetness!"

He patted her hand, laughed, and released it. She couldn't speak just then--she tried to as she stood there, head averted and grey eyes brilliant with tears--but she could not utter a sound.

Perhaps aware that her overcharged heart was meddling with her voice, he merely smiled as he watched her moving slowly back to Thessalie's room, where the magic trunk was being packed. Then he turned to his letters again. One was from his mother:

"Garry darling, anybody you bring to Foreland is always welcome,
as you know. Your family never inquires of its members concerning
any guests they may see fit to invite. Bring Miss Dunois and
Dulcie Soane, your little model, if you like. There's a world of
room here; nobody ever interferes with anybody else. You and your
guests have two thousand acres to roam about in, ride over, fish
over, paint over. There's plenty for everybody to do, alone or in
company.

"Your father is well. He looks little older than you. He's fishing
most of the time, or busy reforesting that sandy region beyond the
Foreland hills.

"Your sister and I ride as usual and continue to improve the
breeds of the various domestic creatures in which we are
interested and you are not.

"The pheasants are doing well this year, and we're beginning to
turn them out with their foster-mothers.

"Your father wishes me to tell you and Jim Westmore that the trout
fishing is still fairly good, although it was better, of course,
in May and June.

"The usual parties and social amenities continue in Northbrook.
Everybody included in that colony seems to have arrived, also the
usual influx of guests, and there is much entertaining, tennis,
golf, dances--the invariable card always offered there.

"Claire and I go enough to keep from being too completely
forgotten. Your father seldom bothers himself.

"Also, the war in Europe has made us, at Foreland, disinclined to
frivolity. Others, too, of the older society in Northbrook are
more subdued than usual, devote themselves to quieter pursuits.
And those among us who have sons of military age are prone to
take life soberly in these strange, oppressive days when even
under sunny skies in this land aloof from war, all are conscious
of the tension, the vague foreboding, the brooding stillness that
sometimes heralds storms.

"But all north-country folk do not feel this way. The Gerhardts,
for example, are very gay with a house full of guests and
overflowing week-ends. The German Embassy, as always, is well
represented at Hohenlinden. Your father won't go there at all now.
As for Claire and myself, we await political ruptures before we
indulge in social ones. And it doesn't look like war, now that Von
Tirpitz has been sent to Coventry.

"This, Garry darling, is my budget of news. Bring your guests
whenever you please. You wouldn't bring anybody you oughtn't to;
your family is liberal, informal, pleasantly indifferent, and
always delightfully busy with its individual manias and fads; so
come as soon as you please--sooner, please--because, strange as it
may seem, your mother would like to see you."

The letter was what he had expected. But, as always, it made him very grateful.

"Wonderful mother I have," he murmured, opening another letter from his father:

"DEAR GARRET:

"Why the devil don't you come up? You've missed the cream of the
fishing. There's nothing doing in the streams now, but at sunrise
and toward evening they're breaking nicely in the lake.

"I've put in sixty thousand three-year transplants this year on
that sandy stretch. They are white, Scotch and Austrian. Your
children will enjoy them.

"The dogs are doing well. There's one youngster, the litter-tyrant
of Goldenrod's brood, who ought to make a field winner. But
there's no telling. You and I'll have 'em out on native woodcock.

"There are some grouse, but we ought to let them alone for the
next few years. As for the pheasants, they're everywhere now, in
the brake, silver-grass, and weeds, peeping, scurrying,
creeping--cunning little beggars and growing wild as quail.

"The horses are all right. The crops promise well. Labour is
devilish scarce, and unsatisfactory when induced to accept
preposterous wages. What we need are coolies, if these lazy,
native slackers continue to handicap the farmers who have to
employ them. The American 'hired man'! He makes me sick. With few
exceptions, he is incredibly stupid, ignorant, unwilling, lazy.

"He's sometimes a crook, too; he takes pay for what he doesn't do;
he steals your time; he cares absolutely nothing about your
interests or convenience; he will leave you stranded in harvest
time, without any notice at all; decent treatment he does not
appreciate; he'll go without a warning even, leaving your horses
unfed, your cattle unwatered, your crops rotting!

"He's a degenerate relic of those real men who broke up the
primaeval wilderness. He is the reason for high prices, the cause
of agricultural and industrial distress, the inert, sodden,
fermenting, indigestible mass in the belly of the body-politic!

"The American hired man! If the country doesn't spew him up, he'll
kill it!

"Perhaps you've heard me before on this subject, Garret. I'm
likely to air my views, you know.

"Well, my son, I look forward to your arrival. I am glad that
Westmore is coming with you. As for your other guests, they are
welcome, of course.

"Your father,

"REGINALD BARRES."

He laughed; this letter so perfectly revealed his father.

"Dad and his trout and his birds and his pines and his eternally accursed hired help," he said to himself, "Dad and his monocle and his immaculate attire--the finest man who ever fussed!" And he laughed tenderly to himself as he broke the seal of his sister's brief note:

"Garry dear, I've been so busy schooling horses and dancing that
I've had no time for letter writing. So glad you're coming at
last. Bring along any good novels you see. My best to Jim. Your
guests can be well mounted, if they ride. Father is wild because
there are more foxes than usual, but he's promised not to treat
them as vermin, and the Northbrook pack is to hunt our territory
this season, after all. Poor Dad! He is a brick, isn't he?"

"Affectionately,

"LEE."

Barres pocketed his sheaf of letters and began to stroll about the studio, whistling the air of some recent musical atrocity.

Westmore, in his own room, composing verses--a secret vice unsuspected by Barres--bade him "Shut up!"--the whistling no doubt ruining his metre.

But Barres, with politest intentions, forgot himself so many times that the other man locked up his "Lines to Thessalie when she was sewing on a button for me," and came into the studio.

"Where is she?" he inquired naively.

"Where's who?" demanded Barres, still sensitive over the increasing intimacy of this headlong young man and Thessalie Dunois.

"Thessa."

"In there fussing with Dulcie's togs. Go ahead in, if you care to."

"Is your stuff packed up?"

Barres nodded:

"Is yours?"

"Most of it. How many trunks is Thessa taking?"

"How do I know?" said Barres, with a trace of irritation. "She's at liberty to take as many as she likes."

Westmore didn't notice the irritation; his mind was entirely occupied by Thessalie--an intellectual condition which had recently become rather painfully apparent to Barres, and, doubtless, equally if not painfully apparent to Thessalie herself.

Probably Dulcie noticed it, too, but gave no sign, except when the serious grey eyes stole toward Barres at times, as though vaguely apprehensive that he might not be entirely in sympathy with Westmore's enchanted state of mind.

As for Thessalie, though Westmore's naive and increasing devotion could scarcely escape her notice, it was utterly impossible to tell how it affected her--whether, indeed, it made any impression at all.

For there seemed to be no difference in her attitude toward these two men; it was plain enough that she liked them both--that she believed in them implicitly, was happy with them, tranquil now in her new security, and deeply penetrated with gratitude for their kindness to her in her hour of need.

* * * * *

"Come on in," coaxed Westmore, linking his arm in Barres', and counting on the latter to give him countenance.

The arm of Barres remained rigid and unresponsive, but his legs were reluctantly obliging and carried him along with Westmore to what had been his own room before Thessalie had installed herself there.

And there she was on her knees, amid a riot of lingerie and feminine effects, while Dulcie lovingly smoothed out and folded object after object which Selinda placed between layers of pale blue tissue paper in the trunks.

"How are things going, Thessa?" inquired Westmore, in the hearty, cheerful voice of the intruder who hopes to be made welcome. But her attitude was discouraging.

"You know you are only in the way," she said. "Drive him out, Dulcie!"

Dulcie laughed and looked at them both with shyly friendly eyes:

"Is my trousseau not beautiful?" she asked. "If you'll step outside I'll put on a hat and gown for you----"

"Oh, Dulcie!" protested Thessalie, "I want you to dawn upon them, and a dress rehearsal would spoil it all!"

Westmore tiptoed around amid lovely, frail mounds of fabrics, until ordered to an empty chair and forbidden further motion. It was all the same to him, so long as his fascinated gaze could rest on Thessalie.

Which further annoyed Barres, and he backed out and walked to the studio, considerably disturbed in his mind.

"That man," he thought, "is making an ass of himself, hanging around Thessa like a half-witted child. She can't help noticing it, but she doesn't seem to do anything about it. I don't know why she doesn't squelch him--unless she likes it----" But the idea was so unpleasant to Barres that he instantly abandoned that train of thought and prepared for himself a comfortable nest on the lounge, a pipe, and an uncut volume of flimsy summer fiction.

In the middle of these somewhat sullen preparations, there came a ring at his studio door. Only the superintendent or strangers rang that bell as a rule, and Barres went to his desk, slipped his loaded pistol into his coat pocket, then walked to the door and opened it.

Soane stood there, his face a shiny-red from drink, his legs steady enough. As usual when drunk, he was inclined to be garrulous.

"What's the matter?" inquired Barres in a low voice.

"Wisha, Misther Barres, sorr, av ye're not too busy f'r to----"

"S-h-h! Don't bellow at the top of your voice. Wait a moment!"

He picked up his hat and came out into the corridor, closing the studio door behind him so that Dulcie, if she appeared on the scene, should not be humiliated before the others.

Soane began again, but the other cut him short:

"Don't start talking here," he said. "Come down to your own quarters if you're going to yell your head off!" And he led the way, impatiently, down the stairs, past the desk where Miss Kurtz sat stolid and mottled-faced as a lump of uncooked sausage, and into Soane's quarters.

"Now, you listen to me first!" he said when Soane had entered and he had closed the door behind them. "You keep out of my apartment and out of Dulcie's way, too, when you're drunk! You're not going to last very long on this job; I can see that plainly----"

"Faith, sorr, you're right! I'm fired out entirely this blessed minute!"

"You've been discharged?"

"I have that, sorr!"

"What for? Drunkenness?"

"Th' divil do I know phwat for! Wisha, then, Misther Barres, is there anny harrm av a man----"

"Yes, there is! I told you Grogan's would do the trick for you. Now you're discharged without a reference, I suppose."

Soane smiled airily:

"Misther Barres, dear, don't lave that worrit ye! I want no riference from anny landlord. Sure, landlords is tyrants, too! An' phwat the divil should I be wantin'----"

"What are you going to do then?"

Soane hooked both thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and swaggered about the room:

"God bless yer kind heart, sorr, I've a-plenty to do and more for good measure!" He came up to confront Barres, and laid a mysterious finger alongside his over-red nose and began to brag:

"There's thim in high places as looks afther the likes o' me, sorr. There's thim that thrusts me, thim that depinds on me----"

"Have you another job?"

Soane's scorn was superb:

"A job is ut? Misther Barres, dear, I was injuced f'r to accept a _position_ of grave importance!"

"Here in town?"

"Somewhere around tin thousand miles away or thereabouts," remarked Soane airily.

"Do you mean to take Dulcie with you?"

"Musha, then, Misther Barres, 'tis why I come to ye above f'r to ax ye will ye look afther Dulcie av I go away on me thravels?"

"Yes, I will!... Where are you going? What is all this stuff you're talking, anyway----"

"Shtuff? God be good to you, it's no shtuff I talk, Misther Barres! Sure, can't a decent man thravel f'r to see the wurruld as God made it an' no harrm in----"

"Be careful what company you travel in," said Barres, looking at him intently. "You have been travelling around New York in very suspicious company, Soane. I know more about it than you think I do. And it wouldn't surprise me if you have a run-in with the police some day."

"The po-lice, sorr! Arrah, then, me fut in me hand an' me tongue in me cheek to the likes o' thim! An' lave them go hoppin' afther me av they like. The po-lice is ut! Open y'r two ears, asthore, an' listen here!--there'll be nary po-lice, no nor constabulary, nor excise, nor landlords the day that Ireland flies her flag on Dublin Castle! Sure, that will be the grand sight, with all the rats a-runnin', an' all the hurryin' and scurryin' an' the futther and mutther----"

"_What_ are you gabbling about, Soane? What's all this boasting about?"

"Gabble is ut? Is it boastin' I am? Sorra the day! An' there do be grand gintlemen and gay ladies to-day that shall look for a roof an' a sup o' tay this day three weeks, when th' fut o' the tyrant is lifted from the neck of Ireland an' the landlords is runnin' for their lives----"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Barres, disgusted.

"An' phwat was ye thinkin', sorr?"

"That your German friends at Grogan's are stirring up trouble among the Irish. What's all this nonsense, anyway? Are they trying to persuade you to follow the old Fenian tactics and raid Canada? Or is it an armed expedition to the Irish coast? You'd better be careful; they'll only lock you up here, but it's a hanging matter over there!"

"Is it so?" grinned Soane.

"It surely is."

"Well, then, be aisy, Misther Barres, dear. Av there's hangin' to be done this time, 'twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!"

Barres slowly shook his head:

"This is German work. You're sticking your neck into the noose."

"Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an' 'twill shqueeze no Irish neck!"

"You're a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting such men as you. Where's your common sense? Can't you see you're playing a German game? What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?"

Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.

But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin's wrongs. And this tragic inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him the memory of the personal and pathetic.

The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged. And now he meant to make the world disgorge--pay up the living that it owed him.

Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly became a torrent.

Nobody knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked them for its own. As for himself--once a broth of a boy--he had been torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a loveless, unhappy marriage.

Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane became vague at that point. Veiled references to being "thrampled on," to "th' big house," to "thim that was high an' shtiff-necked," abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a servant at the fireside of his own wife--a footstool on the hearth of his own home--other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.

Then Barres said:

"Who is Dulcie, Soane?"

The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage as though he had not comprehended.

"Is Dulcie your daughter?" demanded Barres.

Soane's blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:

"Did I say she was _not_, sorr?" he faltered. "Av I told ye that, may the saints forgive me----"

"Is it true?"

"Ah, what was I afther sayin', Misther----"

"Never mind what you said or left unsaid! I want to ask you another question. Who was Eileen Fane?"

Soane bounded to his feet, his blue eyes ablaze:

"Holy Mother o' God! What have I said!"

"Was Eileen Fane your wife?"

"Did I say her blessed name!" shouted Soane. "Sorra the sup I tuk that loosed the tongue o' me this cursed day! 'Twas the dommed whishkey inside o' me that told ye that--not me--not Larry Soane! Wurra the day I said it! An' listen, now, f'r the love o' God! Take pride to yourself, sorr, for all the goodness ye done to Dulcie.