Project Gutenberg's The Brightener, by C.N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

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Title: The Brightener

Author: C. N. Williamson A. M. Williamson

Illustrator: Walter De Maris

Release Date: May 19, 2010 [EBook #32428][Last updated: January 26, 2014]

Language: English

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THEBRIGHTENER

BY C. N. & A. M.WILLIAMSON

FRONTISPIECEBY WALTER DE MARIS

GARDEN CITY, N. Y., ANDTORONTO

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE &COMPANY

1921

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY

C. N. & A. M.WILLIAMSON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED,INCLUDING THAT OF

TRANSLATIONINTO FOREIGN

LANGUAGES, INCLUDINGTHE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BYAINSLEE's MAGAZINECO., NEW YORK AND

GREAT BRITAIN.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"A SLIGHT SOUND

ATTRACTED OURATTENTION TO THE

HISTORIC STAIRWAY"

PREFACETo the Kind People Who Read OurBooks:

I want to explain to you, in case it mayinterest you a little, why it is that I want tokeep the "firm name" (as we used to callit) of "C. N. & A. M. Williamson,"although my husband has gone out of thisworld.

It is because I feel very strongly that hehelps me with the work even more than hewas able to do in this world. I always hadhis advice, and when we took motor tourshe gave me his notes to use as well as my

own. But now there is far more help thanthat. I cannot explain in words: I can onlyfeel. And because of that feeling, I couldnot bear to have the "C. N." disappearfrom the title page.

Dear People who may read this, I hopethat you will wish to see the initials "C.N." with those of

A. M. Williamson

CONTENTSBOOK I. THE YACHT

CHAPTER I. Down and outCHAPTER II. Up and inCHAPTER III. Thunderbolt SixCHAPTER IV. The Black Thing in the SeaCHAPTER V. What I Found in My CabinCHAPTER VI. The Woman of the PastCHAPTER VII. The Secret Behind theSilenceCHAPTER VIII. The Great SurpriseCHAPTER IX. The Game of Bluff

BOOK II. THE HOUSE WITH THETWISTED CHIMNEY

CHAPTER I. The Shell-Shock ManCHAPTER II. The AdvertisementCHAPTER III. The Letter with the PurpleSealCHAPTER IV. The Tangled WebCHAPTER V. The Knitting Woman of DunMoatCHAPTER VI. The Lightning StrokeCHAPTER VII. The Red Baize DoorCHAPTER VIII. "When in Doubt, Play aTrump"CHAPTER IX. The Rat Trap

BOOK III. THE DARK VEIL

CHAPTER I. The Girl With the LetterCHAPTER II. The HermitCHAPTER III. The Chair at the Savoy

CHAPTER IV. The Spirit of JuneCHAPTER V. The BargainCHAPTER VI. The Last Sance

BOOK IV. THE MYSTERY OF MRS.BRANDRETH

CHAPTER I. The Man in the CushionedChairCHAPTER II. Mrs. BrandrethCHAPTER III. The Condition She MadeCHAPTER IV. The Old Love StoryCHAPTER V. The Man with the BrilliantEyesCHAPTER VI. The PicturesCHAPTER VII. Sir Beverley'sImpressionsCHAPTER VIII. While We WaitedCHAPTER IX. The Good News

CHAPTER X. The ClimaxCHAPTER XI. What Gaby ToldCHAPTER XII. The Woman in the TheatreCHAPTER XIII. Mrs. Brandreth's Story

BOOKS BY C. N. & A. M.WILLIAMSON

THE BRIGHTENER

BOOK I

THE YACHT

CHAPTER I

DOWN AND OUT

"I wonder who will tell her," I heardsomebody say, just outside the arbour.

The somebody was a woman; and thesomebody else who answered was a man."Glad it won't be me!" he replied,ungrammatically.

I didn't know who these somebodies were,and I didn't much care. For the first instantthe one thing I did care about was, thatthey should remain outside my arbour,instead of finding their way in. Then, the

next words waked my interest. Theysounded mysterious, and I loved mysteriesthen.

"It's an awful thing to happena doubleblow, in the same moment!" exclaimed thewoman.

They had come to a standstill, close to thearbour; but there was hope that theymightn't discover it, because it wasn't anordinary arbour. It was really a deep,sweet-scented hollow scooped out of animmense arbor vit tree, camouflaged tolook like its sister trees in a group besidethe path. The hollow contained an oldmarble seat, on which I was sitting, but thelow entrance could only be reached byone who knew of its existence, passingbetween those other trees.

I felt suddenly rather curious about theperson struck by a "double blow," for a"fellow feeling makes one wondrouskind"; and at that moment I was a sort ofmodern, female Damocles myself. In fact,I had got the Marchese d'Ardini to bringme away from the ball-room to hide in thissecret arbour of his old Roman garden,because my mood was out of tune fordancing. I hadn't wished to come to theball, but Grandmother had insisted. Now Ihad made an excuse of wanting an ice, toget rid of my dear old friend the Marchesefor a few minutes.

"She couldn't have cared about the poorchap," said the man in a hard voice, with aslight American accent, "or she wouldn'tbe here to-night."

My heart missed a beat.

"They say," explained the woman, "thather grandmother practically forced her tomarry the prince, and arranged it at a timewhen he'd have to go back to the Front anhour after the wedding, so they shouldn'tbe really married, if anything happened tohim. I don't know whether that's true ornot!"

But I knew! I knew that it was true,because they were talking about me. In aninstantbefore I'd decided whether torush out or sit stillI knew somethingmore.

"You ought to be well informed, though,"the woman's voice continued. "You're adistant cousin, aren't you?"

"'Distant' is the word! About forty-fourthcousin, four times removed," the manlaughed with frank bitterness. (Nowonder, as he'd unsuccessfully claimedthe right to our family estate, to hitch on tohis silly old, dug-up title!) Not only did Iknow, now, of whom they were talking,but I knew one of those who talked: a red-headed giant of a man I'd seen to-night forthe first time, though he had annoyedGrandmother and me from a distance, foryears. In fact, we'd left home and taken upthe Red Cross industry in Rome, becauseof him. Indirectly it was his fault that Iwas married, since, if it hadn't been forhim, I shouldn't have come to Italy or metPrince di Miramare. I did not stop,however, to think of all this. It just flashedthrough my subconscious mind, while I

asked myself, "What has happened toPaolo? Has he been killed, or onlywounded? And what do the brutes meanby a 'double blow'?"

I had no longer the impulse to rush out. Iwaited, with hushed breath. I didn't carewhether it were nice or not to eavesdrop.All I thought of was my intense desire tohear what those two would say next.

"Like grandmother, like grand-daughter, Isuppose," went on the ex-cowboy baronet,James Courtenaye. "A hard-hearted lot myonly surviving female relatives seem tobe! Her husband at the Front, liable to dieat any minute; her grandmother dying athome, and our fair young Princess dancesgaily to celebrate a small Italian victory!"

"You forget what's happened to-night, SirJim, when you speak of your 'surviving'female relatives," said the woman.

"By George, yes! I've got but one left now.And I expect, from what I hear, I shall becalled upon to support her!"

Then Grandmother was dead!wonderful, indomitable Grandmother,who, only three hours ago, had said, "Youmust go to this dance, Elizabeth. I wishit!" Grandmother, whose last words hadbeen, "You are worthy to be what I'vemade you: a Princess. You are exactlywhat I was at your age."

Poor, magnificent Grandmother! She hadoften told me that she was the greatestbeauty of her day. She had sent me away

from her to-night, so that she might diealone. Orhad the news of the otherblow come while I was gone, and killedher?

Dazedly I stumbled to my feet, and in asecond I should have pushed past the pair;but, just at this moment, footsteps camehurrying along the path. Those two movedout of the way with some murmured wordsI didn't catch: and then, the Marchese waswith me again. I saw his plump figuresilhouetted on the silvered blue dusk ofmoonlight. He had brought no ice! Heflung out empty hands in a despairinggesture which told that he also knew.

"My dear childmy poor little Princess" he began in Italian; but I cut himshort.

"I've heard some people talking.Grandmother is dead. AndPaolo?"

"His plane crashed. It was instant deathnot painful. Alas, the telegram came toyour hotel, and the Signora, yourgrandmother, opened it. Her maid found itin her hand. The brave spirit had fled! Mr.Carstairs, her solicitor, and his kindAmerican wife came here at once. Howfortunate was the business which broughthim to Rome just now, looking after yourinterests! A search-party was seeking me,while I sought a mere ice! And now theCarstairs wait to take you to your hotel. Icannot leave our guests, or I would gowith you, too."

He got me back to the old palazzo by aside door, and guided me to a quiet room

where the Carstairs sat. They were notalone. An American friend of the ex-cowboy was with them(another self-made millionaire, but a much better madeone, of the name of Roger Fane)andwith him a school friend of mine he was inlove with, Lady Shelagh Leigh. Shelaghran to me with her arms out, but I pushedher aside. A darling girl, and I wouldn'thave done it for the world, if I had beenmyself!

She shrank away, hurt; and vaguely I wasconscious that the dark man with the tragiceyesRoger Fanewas coaxing her outof the room. Then I forgot them both as Iturned to the Carstairs for news. I littleguessed how soon and strangely my lifeand Shelagh's and Roger Fane's would

twine together in a Gordian knot oftrouble!

I don't remember much of what followed,except that a taxi rushed usthe Carstairsand meto the Grand Hotel, as fast as itcould go through streets filled withcrowds shouting over one of thoseOctober victories. Mrs. Carstairsamouse of a woman in person, a benevolentMachiavelli in brainheld my handgently, and said nothing, while her cleverold husband tried to cheer me with words.Afterward I learned that she spent thoseminutes in mapping out my whole future!

You see, she knew what I didn't know atthe time: that I hadn't enough money in theworld to pay for Grandmother's funeral,not to mention our hotel bills!

A clock, when you come to think of it, is afortunate animal.

When it runs down, it can just comfortablystop. No one expects it to do anythingelse. No one accuses it of weakness orlack of backbone because it doesn'tstruggle nobly to go on ticking andstriking. It is not sternly commanded towind itself. Unless somebody takes thattrouble off its hands, it stays stopped.Whereas, if a girl or a young, able-bodiedwoman runs down (that is, comessuddenly to the end of everything,including resources), she mayn't give upticking for a single second. She must windherself, and this is really quite as difficult

for her to do as for a clock, unless she isabnormally instructed and accomplished.

I am neither. The principal things I knowhow to do are, to look pretty, and be niceto people, so that when they are with methey feel purry and pleasant. With thisstock-in-trade I had a perfectly gorgeoustime in life, untilFate stuck a finger intomy mechanism and upset the working ofmy pendulum.

I ought to have realized that thegorgeousness would some time come to abad and sudden end. But I was trained toput off what wasn't delightful to do orthink of to-day, until to-morrow; becauseto-morrow could take care of itself anddroves of shorn lambs as well.

Grandmother and I had been pals since Iwas five, when my father (her son) and mymother quietly died of diphtheria, and leftmeher namesaketo her. We lived atadorable Courtenaye Abbey on theDevonshire Coast, where furniture,portraits, silver, and china fit for amuseum were common, every-day objectsto my childish eyes. None of these thingscould be soldor the Abbeyfor theywere all heirlooms (of our branch of theCourtenayes, not the Americanized ex-cowboy's insignificant branch, be itunderstood!). But the place could be let,with everything in it; and when Mr.Carstairs was first engaged to unravelGrandmother's financial tangles, heimplored her permission to find a tenant.That was before the war, when I was

seventeen; and Grandmother refused.

"What," she cried (I was in the room, allears), "would you have me advertise thefact that we're reduced to beggary, just asthe time has come to present Elizabeth?I'll do nothing of the kind. You must staveoff the smash. That's your business. ThenElizabeth will marry a title with money, oran American millionaire or someone, andprevent it from ever coming."

This thrilled me, and I felt like a Joan ofArc out to save her family, not bycapturing a foe, but a husband.

Mr. Carstairs did stave off the smash,Heaven or its opposite alone knows how,and Grandmother spent about half a futuremillionaire husband's possible income in

taking a town house, with a train ofservants; renting a Rolls-Royce, andbuying for us both the most divine clothesimaginable. I was long and leggy, and thinas a young colt; but my face was all right,because it was a replica of Grandmother'sat seventeen. My eyes and dimples weresaid to be Something to Dream About,even then (I often dreamed of them myself,after much flattery at balls!), and alreadymy yellow-brown braids measured off at ayard and a half. Besides, I hadGrandmother's Early Manner (as one saysof an artist: and really she was one), so,naturally, I received proposals: lots ofproposals. Butthey were the wrong lots!

All the good-looking young men whowanted to marry me had never a penny to

do it on. All the rich ones were so old andappalling that even Grandmother hadn't theheart to order me to the altar. So there itwas! Then Jim Courtenaye came overfrom America, where, after anadventurous life (or worse), he'd madepots of money by hook or by crook,probably the latter. He stirred up, from themud of the past, a trumpery baronetcybestowed by stodgy King George theThird upon an ancestor in that younger,less important branch of the Courtenayes.Also did he strive expensively to prove aright to Courtenaye Abbey as well, thoughnot one of his Courtenayes had ever put anose inside it and I was the next heir, afterGrandmother. He didn't fight (he kindlyexplained to Mr. Carstairs) to snatch theproperty out of our mouths. If he got it, we

might go on living there till the end of ourdays. All he wanted was to own the place,and have the right to keep it up decently,as we'd never been able to do.

Well, he had to be satisfied with his titleand without the Abbey; which was luckfor us. But there our luck ended. Not onlydid the war break out before I had a singleproposal worth accepting, but an awfulthing happened at the Abbey.

Grandmother had to keep on the rentedtown house, for patriotic motives, nomatter what the expense, because she hadturned it into an ouvroir for the making ofhospital supplies. She directed the workherself, and I and Shelagh Leigh (Shelaghwas just out of the schoolroom then) andlots of other girls slaved seven hours a

day. Suddenly, just when we'd had a big"hurry order" for pneumonia jackets, therewas a shortage of material. ButGrandmother wasn't a woman to beconquered by shortages! She remembereda hundred yards of bargain stuff she'dbought to be used for new dust-sheets atthe Abbey; and as all the servants but twowere discharged when we left for town,the sheets had never been made up.

She could not be spared for a day, but Icould. By this time I was nineteen, and feltfifty in wisdom, as all girls do, since thewar. Grandmother was old-fashioned insome ways, but new-fashioned in others,so she ordered me off to CourtenayeAbbey by myself to unlock the roomwhere the bundle had been put. Train

service was not good, and I would have tostay the night; but she wired to old Barlowand his wifeonce lodge-keepers, nowtrusted guardians of the house. She toldMrs. Barlow (a pretty old DevonshireThing, like peaches and cream, called byme "Barley") to get my old room ready;and Barlow was to meet me at the train.At the last moment, however, ShelaghLeigh decided to go with me; and if wehad guessed it, this was to turn out one ofthe most important decisions of her life.Barlow met us, of course; and how he hadchanged since last I'd seen his comfortableface! I expected him to be charmed withthe sight of me, if not of Shelagh, for I wasalways a favourite with Barl and Barley;but the poor man was absent-minded andqueer. When a stuffy station-cab from

Courtenaye Coombe had rattled us to theshut-up Abbey, I went at once to thehousekeeper's room and had a heart-to-heart talk with the Barlows. It seemed thatthe police had been to the house and "runall through it," because of reports thatlights had flashed from the upper windowsout to sea at night"signals tosubmarines!"

Nothing suspicious was found, however,and the police made it clear that theyconsidered the Barlows themselves abovereproach. Good people, they were, withtwin nephews from Australia fighting inthe war! Indeed, an inspector had actuallyapologized for the visit, saying that thepolice had pooh-poohed the reports atfirst. They had paid no attention until "the

story was all over the village"; and thereare not enough miles between CourtenayeAbbey and Plymouth Dockyard for eventhe rankest rumours to be disregardedlong.

Barley was convinced that one of ourghosts had been waked up by the wartheghost of a young girl burned to death, whonow and then rushes like a column of firethrough the front rooms of the second floorin the west wing; but the old pet hoped Iwouldn't let this idea of hers keep meawake. The ghost of a nice English younglady was preferable in her opinion to aGerman spy in the flesh! I agreed, but Iwas not keen on seeing either. My nerveshad been jumpy since the last air-raidover London, consequently I lay awake

hour after hour, though Shelagh was inGrandmother's room adjoining mine, withthe door ajar between.

When I did sleep, I must have sleptheavily. I dreamed that I was a prisoneron a German submarine, and that signalsfrom Courtenaye Abbey flashed straightinto my face. They flashed so brightly thatthey set me on fire; and with theknowledge that, if I couldn't escape atonce, I should become a Family Ghost, Iwrenched myself awake with a start.

Yes, I was awake; though what I saw wasso astonishing that I thought it must beanother nightmare. There really was astrong light pouring into my eyes. What itcame from I don't know to this day, butprobably an electric torch. Anyhow, the

ray was so powerful that, though directedupon my face, it faintly lit another faceclose to mine, as I suddenly sat up in bed.

Instantly that face drew back, and thenas if on a second thought, after a surpriseout went the light. By contrast, thedarkness was black as a bath of ink,though I'd pulled back the curtains beforegoing to bed, and the sky was sequinedwith stars. But on my retina wasphotographed a pale, illumined circle witha face looking out of itlooking straightat me. You know how quickly these light-pictures begin to fade, but, before thisdimmed I had time to verify my firstwaking impression.

The face was a woman's facebeautifuland hideous at the same time, like

Medusa. It was young, yet old. It haddeep-set, long eyes that slanted slightly upto the corners. It was thin and hollow-cheeked, with a pointed chin cleft in themiddle; and was framed with brightauburn hair of a curiously unreal colour.

When the blackness closed in, and I heardin the dark scrambling sounds like a ratrunning amok in the wainscot, I gave a cry.In my horror and bewilderment I wasn'tsure yet whether I were awake or asleep;but someone answered. Dazed as I was, Irecognized Shelagh's sweet young voice,and at the same instant her electric bed-lamp was switched on in the next room."Coming!coming!" she cried, andappeared in the doorway, her hair goldagainst the light.

By this time I had the sense to switch onmy own lamp, and, comforted by it and mypal's presence, I told Shelagh in a fewwords what had happened. "Why, howweird! I dreamed the same dream!" shebroke in. "At least, I dreamed about alight, and a face."

Hastily we compared notes, and realizedthat Shelagh had not dreamed: that thewoman of mystery had visited us both;only, she had gone to Shelagh first, andhad not been scared away as by me,because Shelagh hadn't thoroughly wakedup.

We decided that our vision was no ghost,but that, for once, rumour was right. Insome amazing way a spy had concealedherself in the rambling old Abbey (the

house has several secret rooms of whichwe know; and there might be others, longforgotten), and probably she had beensignalling until warned of danger by thatvisit from the police. We resolved to riseat daybreak, and walk to CourtenayCoombe to let the police know what hadhappened to us; but, as it turned out, agreat deal more was to happen beforedawn.

We felt pretty sure that the spy wouldcease her activities for the night, after theshock of finding our rooms occupied. Stillit would be cowardlywe thoughtto liein bed. We slipped on dressing-gowns,therefore, and with candles (only our wingwas furnished with electric light, forwhich dear Grandmother had never paid)

we descended fearsomely to the Barlows'quarters. Having roused the old coupleand got them to put on some clothes, asearch-party of four perambulated thehouse. So far as we could see, however,the place was innocent of spies; and atlength we crept into bed again.

We didn't mean or expect to sleep, ofcourse, but we must all have "droppedoff," otherwise we should have smelt thesmoke long before we did smell it. As itwas, the great hall slowly burned untilBarlow's usual getting-up hour. Shelaghand I knew nothing until Barl camepounding at my door. Then the stinging ofour nostrils and eyelids was a fire alarm!

It's wonderful how quickly you can dothings when you have to! Ten minutes later

I was running as fast as I could go to thevillage, and might have earned a prize fora two-mile sprint if I hadn't raced alone.By the time the fire-engines reached theAbbey it was too late to save a whole sideof the glorious old "linen fold" panellingof the hall. The celebrated staircase wasinjured, too, and several suits of historicarmour, as well as a number of antiqueweapons.

Fortunately the portraits were all in thepicture gallery, and the fire was stoppedbefore it had swept beyond the hall.Where it had started was soon learned, but"how" remained a mystery, for shavingsand oil-tins had apparently been stuffedbehind the panelling. The theory of thepolice was, that the spy (no one doubted

the spy's existence now!) had seen that the"game was up," since the place would bestrictly watched from that night on. Out ofsheer spite, the female Hun had attemptedto burn down the famous old house beforeshe lost her chance; or had perhapsalready made preparations to destroy itwhen her other work should be ended.

There was a hue and cry over the countyin pursuit of the fugitive, which echoed asfar as London; but the woman hadescaped, and not even a trace of her wasfound.

Grandmother openly claimed that herinspiration in sending for some dust-sheetshad not only saved the Abbey, butEngland. It was most agreeable to bask inself-respect and the praise of friends.

When, however, we were bombarded bynewspaper men, who took revenge forGrandmother's snubs by publishinginterviews with Sir "Jim" (by this timeMajor Courtenaye, D. S. O., M. C.,unluckily at home with a "Blighty"wound), the haughty lady lost her temper.

It was bad enough, she complained, tohave the Abbey turned prematurely into aruin, but for That Fellow to proclaim thatit wouldn't have happened had he been theowner was too much! The democratic andsocialist papers ("rags," according toGrandmother) stood up for the self-madecowboy baronet, and blamed the greatlady who had "thrown away in selfishextravagance" what should have paid theupkeep of an historic monument. This, to a

woman who directed the most patrioticouvroir in London! And to pile Ossa onPelion, our Grosvenor Square landlordwas cad enough to tell his friends (whotold theirs, etc., etc.) that he had neverreceived his rent! Which statement, by theway, was all the more of a libel because itwas true.

Now you understand how Sir JamesCourtenaye was responsible for driving usto Italy, and indirectly bringing about mymarriage; for Grandmother wiped the dustof Grosvenor Square from our feet withItalian passports, and swept me off to newactivities in Rome.

Here was Mr. Carstairs' moment to say, "Itold you so! If only you had left the Abbeywhen I advised you that it was best, all

would have been well. Now, with thecentral hall in ruins, nobody would befound dead in the place, not even amunition millionaire." But being aparticularly kind man he said nothing ofthe sort. He merely implored Grandmotherto live economically in Rome: and ofcourse (being Grandmother!) she didnothing of the sort.

We lived at the most expensive hotel, andwhenever we had any money, gave it tothe Croce Rossa, running up bills forourselves. But we mixed much joy with alittle charity, and my descriptive letters toShelagh were so attractive that shepersuaded Mr. and Mrs. Pollen, herguardians (uncle and aunt; sickeningsnobs!), to bring her to Rome; pretext, Red

Cross work, which covered so muchfrivolling in the war! Then, not long after,the cowboy's friend, Roger Fane,appeared on the scene, in the AmericanExpeditionary Force; a thrilling,handsome, and mysteriously tragic person.James Courtenaye also turned up, havingbeen ordered to the Italian Front; butGrandmother and I contrived never tomeet him. And when our financial affairsbegan to rumble like an earthquake, Mr.Carstairs decided to see Grandmother inperson.

It was when she received his telegram,"Coming at once," that she decided I mustaccept Prince di Miramare. She hadwanted an Englishman for me; but a Princeis a Prince, and though Paolo was far from

rich at the moment, he had the prospect ofan immediate millionliras, alas! notpounds. An enormously rich Greek offeredhim that sum for the fourteenth-centuryCastello di Miramare on a mountain all itsown, some miles from Rome. Inconsideration of a large sum paid toPaolo's younger brother Carlo, the twoMiramare princes would break the entail;and this quick solution of our difficultieswas to be a surprise for Mr. Carstairs.

Paolo and I were married as hastily assuch matters can be arranged abroad,between persons of different nations; andit was true (as those cynics outside thearbour said) that my soldier prince wentback to the Front an hour after thewedding. It was just after we were safely

spliced that Grandmother ceased to fight atemperature of a hundred and three, andgave up to an attack of 'flu. She gave upquite quietly, for she thought that,whatever happened, I would be rich,because she had browbeaten lazy,unbusinesslike Paolo into making a will inmy favour. The one flaw in thiscalculation was, his concealing from herthe fact that the entail was not yet legallybroken. No contract between him and theGreek could be signed while the entailexisted; therefore Paolo's will gave meonly his personal possessions. These werenot much; for I doubt if even the poorboy's uniforms were paid for. But I amthankful that Grandmother died withoutrealizing her failure; and I hope that herspirit was far away before the ex-cowboy

began making overtures.

If it had not been for Mrs. Carstairs'inspiration, I don't know what would havebecome of me!

CHAPTER II

UP AND IN

You may remember what Jim Courtenayesaid in the garden: that he would probablyhave to support me.

Well, he dared to offer, through Mr.Carstairs, to do that very thing, "for thefamily's sake." At least, he proposed topay off all our debts and allow me anincome of four hundred a year, if it turnedout that my inheritance from Paolo wasnil.

When Mr. Carstairs passed on the offer to

me, as he was bound to do, I said what Ifelt dear Grandmother would have wishedme to say: "I'll see him dd first!" And Iadded, "I hope you'll repeat that to thePerson."

I think from later developments that Mr.Carstairs cannot have repeated my replyverbatim. But I have not yet quite come tothe part about those developments. Afterthe funeral, when I knew the worst aboutthe entail, and that Paolo's brother Carlowas breaking it wholly for his ownbenefit, and not at all for mine, Mrs.Carstairs asked sympathetically if I hadthought what I should like to do.

"Like to do?" I echoed, bitterly. "I shouldlike to go home to the dear old Abbey, andrestore the place as it ought to be restored,

and have plenty of money, without lifting afinger to get it. What I must do is adifferent question."

"Well, then, my dear, supposing we put itin that brutal way. Have you thoughter"

"I've done nothing except think. But I'vebeen brought up with about as muchearning capacity as a mechanical doll. Theonly thing I have the slightest talent forbeing, isa detective!"

"Good gracious!" was Mrs. Carstairs'comment on that.

"I've felt ever since spy night at the Abbeythat I had it in me to make a gooddetective," I modestly explained.

"'Princess di Miramare, PrivateDetective,' would be a distinctly originalsign-board over an office door," the oldlady reflected. "But I believe I've evolvedsomething more practical, consideringyour nameand your age(twenty-one,isn't it?)and your looks. Not thatdetective talent mayn't come in handy evenin the profession I'm going to suggest.Very likely it willamong other things.It's a profession that'll call for all thetalents you can get hold of."

"Do you by chance mean marriage?" Iinquired, coldly. "I've never been a wife.But I suppose I am a sort of widow."

"If you weren't a sort of widow youcouldn't cope with the profession I'veerinvented. You wouldn't be independent

enough."

"Invented? Then you don't mean marriage!And not even the stage. I warn you that Isolemnly promised Grandmother never togo on the stage."

"I know, my child. She mentioned that toHenrymy husbandwhen they werediscussing your future, before you both leftLondon. My idea is much more originalthan marriage, or even the stage. It poppedinto my mind the night Mrs. Courtenayedied, while we were in a taxi between thePalazzo Ardini and this hotel. I said tomyself, 'Dear Elizabeth shall be aBrightener!'"

"A Brightener?" I repeated, with a vaguevision of polishing windows or brasses. "I

don't"

"You wouldn't! I told you I'd invented theprofession expressly for you. Now I'mgoing to tell you what it is. I felt that you'dnot care to be a tame companion, even tothe most gilded millionairess, or a socialsecretary to a"

"Horror!no, I couldn't be a tameanything."

"That's why brightening is your line. ABrightener couldn't be a Brightener andtame. She must be brilliantwingedsoaring above the plane of those shebrightens; expensive, to make herselfappreciated; capable of taking the lead insocial direction. Why, my dear, peoplewill fight to get youpay any price to

secure you! Now do you understand?"

I didn't. So she explained. After thatdazzling preface, the explanation seemedrather an anti-climax. Still, I saw thatthere might be something in the planif itcould be worked. And Mrs. Carstairsguaranteed to work it.

My widowhood (save the mark!) qualifiedme to become a chaperon. And myPrincesshood would make me a gildedone. Chaperonage, at its best, might beamusing. But chaperonage was far fromthe whole destiny of a Brightener. ABrightener need not confine herself tofemale society, as a mere Companionmust. A young woman, even though awidow and a Princess, could not"companion" a person of the opposite sex,

even if he were a hundred. But she might,from a discreet distance, be hisBrightener. That is, she might brighten alonely man's life without tarnishing herown reputation.

"After all," Mrs. Carstairs went on, "inspite of what's said against him, Man is aFellow Being. If a cat may look at a King,Man may look at a Princess. And unlesshe's in her set, he can be made to pay forthe privilege. Think of a lonely button orboot-maker! What would he give for thehonour of invitations to tea, withintroductions and social advice, from thepopular Princess di Miramare? He mighthave a wife or daughters, or both, whoneeded a leg up. They would come extra!He might be a widowerin fact, I've

caught the first widower for you already.But unluckily you can't use him yet."

"Ugh!" I shuddered. "Sounds as if he werea fishwriggling on a hook till I'm readyto tear it out of his gills!"

"He is a fisha big fish. In fact, I may aswell break it to you that he is RogerFane."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "It would takemore electricity than I'm fitted with tobrighten his tragic and mysterious gloom!"

"Not at all. In fact, you are the only onewho can brighten it."

"What are you driving at? He's dead inlove with Shelagh Leigh."

"That's just it. As things are, he has nohope of marrying Shelagh. She likes him,as you probably know better than I do, foryou're her best pal, although she's a yearor so younger than you"

"Two years."

"Well, as I was going to say, in manyways she's a child compared to you. She'sas beautiful as one of those cut-off cherubsin the prayer-books, and as old-fashionedas an early Victorian sampler. Theseblonde Dreams with naturally wavinggolden hair and rosebud mouths, and eyesbig as half-crowns, have that drawback,as I've discovered since I came to live inEngland. In my country we don't growearly Victorian buds. You know perfectlywell that those detestable snobs, the

Pollens, don't think Fane good enough forShelagh in spite of his money. Money's theone nice thing they've got themselves,which they can pass on to Shelagh.Probably they forced the wretched MissPollen, who was the male snob's sister, tomarry the old Marquis of Leigh just asthey wish to compel Shelagh to marrysome other wreck of his sortand dieyoung, as her mother did. The girl's a deara perfect lamb!but lambs can't standup against lions. They generally lie downinside them. But with you at the helm, thePollen lions could be forced"

"Not if they knew it!" I cut in.

"They wouldn't know it. Did you knowthat you were being forced to marry thatpoor young prince of yours?"

"I wasn't forced. I was persuaded."

"We won't argue the point! Anyhow, thesubject doesn't press. The scheme I havein my head for you to launch Fane on thesocial sea (the sea in every sense of theword, as you'll learn by and by) can'tcome off till you're out of your deepestmourning. I'll find you a quieter line ofgoods to begin on than the Fane-Leighbusiness if you agree to take upBrightening. The question is, do youagree?"

"I do," I said more earnestly than I hadsaid "I will" as I stood at Paolo's side inchurch. For life hadn't been very earnestthen. Now it was.

"Good!" exclaimed Mrs. Carstairs. "Then

that's that! The next thing is to furnish youa charming flat in the same house with us.You must have a background of yourown."

"You forgetI haven't a farthing!" Ifiercely reminded her. "But Mr. Carstairswon't forget! I've made him too muchtrouble. The best Brightening won't run tohalf a Background in Berkeley Square."

"Wait," Mrs. Carstairs calmed me. "Ihaven't finished the whole proposition yet.In America, when we run up a sky-scraper, we don't begin at the bottom, inany old, commonplace way. We stick afew steel girders into the earth; then westart at the top and work down. That'swhat I've been doing with my plan. It'sperfect. Only you've got to support it with

something."

"What is it you're trying to break to me?" Idemanded.

The dear old lady swallowed heavily. (Itmust be something pretty awful if itdaunted her!)

"You like Roger Fane," she began.

"Yes, I admire him. He's handsome andinteresting, though a little too mysteriousand tragic to live with for my taste."

"He's not mysterious at all!" she defendedFane. "His tragedyfor there was atragedy!is no secret in America. I oftenmet him before the war, when I ran over topay visits in New York, though he was farfrom being in the Four Hundred. But at the

moment I've no more to say about RogerFane. I've been using him for a handle tobrandish a friend of his in front of youreyes."

My blood grew hot. "Not the ex-cowboy?"

"That's no way to speak of Sir JamesCourtenaye."

"Then he's what you want to break tome?"

"I wantI mean, I'm requested!toinform you of a way he proposes out of thewoods for youat least, the darkest partof the woods."

"I told Mr. Carstairs I'd see JamesCourtenaye dd rather than"

"This is a different affair entirely. Youmust listen, my dear, unless I'm to washmy hands of you! What I have to describeis the foundation for the Brightening."

I swallowed some more of Grandmother'sexpressions which occurred to me, andlistened.

Sir James Courtenaye's secondproposition was not an offer of charity. Hesuggested that I let Courtenaye Abbey tohim for a term of years, for the sum of onethousand five hundred pounds per annum,the first three years to be paid in advance.(This clause, Mrs. Carstairs hinted, wouldenable me to dole out crumbs here andthere for the quieting of Grandmother'screditors.) Sir James's intention was, notto use the Abbey as a residence, but to

make of it a show place for the publicduring the term of his lease. In order to dothis, the hall must be restored and theonce-famous gardens beautified. Thisexpense he would undertake, carrying thework quickly to completion, and wouldreimburse himself by means of the feesashilling a headcharged for viewing thehouse and its historic treasures.

When I had heard all this, I hesitated whatto answer, thinking of Grandmother, andwondering what she would have said hadshe been in my shoes. But as this thoughtflitted into my mind, it was followed byanother. One of Grandmother's few old-fashioned fads was her style of shoe:pattern 1875. The shoes I stood in, at thismoment, were pattern 1918. In my shoes

Grandmother would simply scream! And Iwouldn't be at my best in hers. This wasthe parable which commonsense put tome, and Mrs. Carstairs cleverly offeringno word of advice, I paused no longerthan five minutes before I snapped out,"Yes! The horrid brute can have thedarling place till I get rich."

"How sweet of you to consent sograciously, darling!" purred Mrs.Carstairs. Then we both laughed. Afterwhich I fell into her arms, and cried.

For fear I might change my mind, Mr.Carstairs got me to sign some dull-lookingdocuments that very day, and the oddnessof their being all ready to hand didn'tstrike me till the ink was dry.

"Henry had them prepared because heknew how sensible you are at heartIm e a n at head," his wife explained."Indeed, it is a compliment to yourintelligence."

Anyhow, it gave me a wherewithal tothrow sops to a whole Zooful ofCerberuses, and still keep enough to takethat flat in the Carstairs' house in BerkeleySquare. Of course to do all this meantleaving Italy for good and going back toEngland. But there was little to hold me inRome. My inheritance from my husband-of-an-hour could be packed in a suitcase!Shelagh and her snobs travelled with us.And as soon as they were demobilized,Roger Fane and James Courtenayefollowed, if not us, at least in our

direction.

I don't think that Aladdin's Lamp builders"had anything on" Sir Jim's (as he himselfsaid), judging by the way the restorationssimply flew. From what I heard of thesums he spent, it would take the shillingsof all England and America as sightseersto put him in pocket. But as Mr. Carstairspointed out, that was his business.

Mine was to gird my loins at Lucille's andRedfern's, in order to become aBrightener. For my pendulum was tickingregularly now. I was no longer down andout. I was up and in. Elizabeth, Princess diMiramare, was spoiling for her first job.

CHAPTER III

THUNDERBOLT SIX

Looking back through my twenty-one-and-three-quarter years, I divide my life, up todate, into thunderbolts.

Thunderbolt One: Death of my Fatherand Mother.

Thunderbolt Two: Spy Night at theAbbey.

Thunderbolt Three: My Marriage toPaolo di Miramare.

Thunderbolt Four: The "DoubleBlow."

Thunderbolt Five: Beggary!

Which brings me along the road toThunderbolt Six.

Mrs. Percy-Hogge was, and is, exactlywhat you would think from her name;which is why I don't care to dwell atlength on the few months I spentbrightening her at Bath. It was bad enoughliving them!

Now, if I were a Hogge instead of aCourtenaye, plus Miramare, I would be

one, plain, unadulterated, and unadorned.She adulterated her Hogg with an "e," andadorned it with a "Percy," her latehusband's Christian name. He being inheaven or somewhere, the hyphen couldn'thurt him; and with it, and his money, andMe, she began at Bath the attempt to livedown the past of a mere margarine-makingHogg. Whole bunches of Grandmother'sfriends were in the Bath zone just then,which is why I chose it, and they were sotouched by my widow's weeds that theywere charming to Mrs. P.-H. in order toplease me. As most of themthough stuffywere titled, and there were twoMarchionesses and one Duchess, theresult for Mrs. Percy-Hogge was brilliant.She, who had never before known any oneabove a knight-ess, was in Paradise. She

had taken a fine old Georgian house,furnished from basement to attic byMallet, and had launched invitations for adinner-party "to meet the Dowager-Duchess of Stoke," whenbang fellThunderbolt Six!

Naturally it fell on me, not her, asthunderbolts have no affinity for Hoggs. Itfell in the shape of a telegram from Mrs.Carstairs.

She wired:

Come London immediately, forconsultation. Terrible theft at Abbey.Barlows drugged and bound byburglars. Both prostrated. Affairserious. Let me know train. Willmeet. Love.

Caroline Carstairs.

I wired in return that I would catch thefirst train, and caught it. The old lady kepther word also, and met me. Before her carhad whirled us to Berkeley Square I hadgot the whole story out of her; which waswell, as an ordeal awaited me, and Ineeded time to camouflage my feelings.

I had been sent for in haste because thenews of the burglary was not to leak intothe papers until, as Mrs. Carstairsexpressed it, "those most concerned hadcome to some sort of understanding.""You see," she added, "this isn't anordinary theft. There are wheels withinwheels, and the insurance people willkick up a row rather than pay. That's why

we must talk everything over; you, and SirJames, and Henryand Henry is neverquite complete without me, so I intend tobe in the offing."

I knew she wouldn't stay there; but thatwas a detail!

The robbery had taken place the nightbefore, and Sir James himself had beenthe one to discover it. Complicationnumber one (as you'll see in a minute).

He, being now "demobbed" and a man ofleisure, instead of reopening his flat intown, had taken up quarters at CourtenayeCoombe to superintend the repairs at theAbbey. His ex-cowboy habits beingenergetic, he usually walked the two milesfrom the village, and appeared on the

scene ahead of the workmen.

This morning he arrived before seveno'clock, and went, according to custom, tobeg a cup of coffee from Mrs. Barlow.She and her husband occupied thebedroom and sitting room which had beenthe housekeeper's; but at that hour the twowere invariably in the kitchen. Sir Jim lethimself in with his key, and marchedstraight to that part of the house. He wassurprised to find the kitchen shuttersclosed and the range fireless. Suspectingsomething wrong, he went to the bedroomdoor and knocked. He got no answer; but asecond, harder rap produced a muffledmoan. The door was not locked. Heopened it, and was horrified at what hesaw: Mrs. Barlow, on the bed, gagged and

bound; her husband in the same condition,but lying on the floor; and the atmosphereof the closed room heavy with the fumesof chloroform.

It was Mrs. Barlow who managed toanswer the knock with a moan. Barlowwas deeper under the spell of the drugthan she, andit appeared afterwardina more serious condition of collapse.

The old couple had no story to tell, forthey recalled nothing of what hadhappened. They had made the rounds ofthe house as usual at night, and had thengone to bed. Barlow did not wake fromhis stupor until the village doctor came torevive him with stimulants, and Mrs.Barlow's first gleam of consciousness waswhen she dimly heard Sir James knocking.

She strove to call out, felt aware ofillness, realized with terror that her mouthwas distended with a gag, and struggled toutter the faint groan which reached hisears.

As soon as Sir Jim had attended to thesufferers, he hurried out, and, finding thatthe workmen had arrived, rushed one ofthem back to Courtenaye Coombe for thedoctor and the village nurse. The momenthe (Sir Jim) was free to do so, he startedon a voyage of discovery round the house,and soon learned that a big haul had beenbrought off. The things taken were small insize but in value immense, andcircumstantial evidence suggested that thethief or thieves knew precisely what theywanted as well as where to get it.

In the picture gallery a portrait of KingCharles I (given by himself to a GeneralCourtenaye of the day) had been cleverlycut out of its frame, also a sketch of theLong Water at Hampton Court, paintedand signed by King Charles. The greendrawing room was deprived of its chieftreasure, a quaint sampler embroidered bythe hand of Mary Queen of Scots for her"faithful John Courtenaye." From theChinese boudoir a Buddha of the Mingperiod was gone, and a jewel box ofmarvellous red lacquer presented by LiHung Chang to my grandmother. Thesilver cabinet in the oak dining room hadbeen broken open, and a teapot, sugarbowl, and cream-jug, given by QueenAnne to an ancestress, were absent. TheChina cabinet in the same room was bared

of a set of green-and-gold coffee cupspresented by Napoleon I to a Frenchgreat-great-grandmother of mine; and fromthe big dining hall adjoining, a Gobelinpanel, woven for the Empress Josephine,after the wedding picture by David, hadvanished.

A few bibelots were missing also, hereand there; snuff boxes of Beau Nash andBeau Brummel; miniatures, old pastebrooches and buckles reminiscent ofCourtenaye beauties; and a fat watch thathad belonged to George IV.

"All my pet things!" I mourned.

"Don't say that to any one except me,"advised Mrs. Carstairs. "My dear, bits ofa letter torn into tiny piecesa letter

from youwere found in the ChineseRoom, and the Insurance people will behatefully inquisitive!"

"You don't mean to insinuate that they'llsuspect me?" I blazed at her.

"Not of stealing the things with your ownhands; and if they did, you could easilyprove an alibi, I suppose. Still, they'rebound to follow up every clue, and bits ofpaper with your writing on them,apparently dropped by the thieves, doform a tempting clue. You can't helpadmitting it."

I did not admit it in the least, for at firstglance I couldn't see where the"temptation" lay to steal one's ownbelongings. But Mrs. Carstairs soon made

me see. Though the things were mine in away, in another way they were not mine.Being heirlooms, I could not profit bythem financially, in the open. Yet if Icould cause them to disappear, withoutbeing detected, I should receive theinsurance money with one hand, and rakein with the other a large bribe from somesupposititious purchaser.

"On the contrary, why shouldn't our braveBart be suspected of precisely the samefraud, and more of it?" I inquired. "If Icould steal the things, so could he. Ifthey're my pets, they may be his. And hewas on the spot, with a lot of workmen inhis pay! Surely such circumstantialevidence against him weighs more heavilyin the scales than a mere scrap of paper

against me? I've written Sir Jim once ortwice, by the way, on business about theAbbey since I've been in Bath. All he'dhave to do would be to tear a letter upsmall enough, so it couldn't be piecedtogether and make sense"

"Nobody's weighing anything in scalesagainst either of youyet," soothed Mrs.Carstairs, "unless you're doing it againsteach other! But we don't know what mayhappen. That's why it seemed best for youand Sir James to come together andexchange blowsI mean, views!atonce. He called my husband up by long-distance telephone early this morning, toldhim what had happened, and had a pow-wow on ways and means. They decidednot to inform the police, but to save

publicity and engage a private detective.In fact, Sir J asked Henry to send agood man to the Abbey by the quickesttrain. He wentthe man, I mean, notHenry; and the head of his firm ought toarrive at our flat in a few minutes now, tomeet you and Sir James."

"Sir James! Even a galloping cowboycan't be in London and Devonshire at thesame moment."

"Oh, I forgot to mention, he must havetravelled up by your train. I suppose youdidn't see him?"

"I did not!"

"He was probably in a smoking carriage.Well, anyhow, he'll soon be with us."

"Stop the taxi!" I broke in; and stopped itmyself by tapping on the window behindthe chauffeur.

"Good heavens! what's the matter?"gasped my companion.

"Nothing. I want to inquire the name ofthat firm of private detectives Sir JamesCourtenaye got Mr. Carstairs to engage."

"Pemberton. You must have seen itadvertised. But why stop the taxi to askthat?"

"I stopped the taxi to get out, and let yourun home alone while I find another cab totake me to another detective. You see, Ididn't want to go to the same firm."

"Isn't one firm of detectives enough at one

time, on one job?"

"It isn't one job. You're the shrewdestwoman I know. You must see that JamesCourtenaye has engaged his detective tospy upon meto dog my footstepstodiscover if I suddenly blossom out intountold magnificence on ill-got gains. Iintend to turn the tables on him, and whenI come back to your flat, it will be in thecompany of my very own little petdetective."

Mrs. Carstairs broke into adjurations andarguments. According to her, I misjudgedmy cousin's motives; and if I brought adetective, it would be an insult. But Ichecked her by explaining that my manwould not give himself awayhe wouldpose as a friend of mine. I would select a

suitable person for the part. With that Ijumped out of the taxi, and the dear oldlady was too wise to argue. She drovesadly home, and I went into the nearestshop which looked likely to own adirectory. In that volume I found anotherfirm of detectives with an equallycelebrated name. I taxied to their office,explained something of my business, andpicked out a person who might pass for apal of a (socialist) princess. He and I thenrepaired to Berkeley Square, and SirJames and the Pemberton person (also Mr.Carstairs) had not been waiting muchmore than half an hour when we arrived.

I don't know what my "forty-fourth cousinfour times removed" thought about mydashing in with a strange Mr. Smith who

apparently had nothing to do with the case.And I didn't care. No, not even if heimagined the square-jawed bull-dogcreature to be a choice specimen of mycircle at Bath. In any case, my Mr. Smithwas a dream compared with hisPemberton. As to himself, howeverSirJimI had to acknowledge that he was farfrom insignificant in personality. If therewere to be any battle of wits or mannersbetween us, I couldn't afford to despisehim.

When I had met him before, I was tooutterly overwhelmed to study, or even tonotice him much, except to see that he wasa big, red-headed fellow, who loomedunnaturally large when viewed against thelight. Now I classified him as resembling

a more-than-life-size statuedone in palebronzeof a Red Indian, or a soldier ofAncient Rome. The only flaws in thestatue were the red hair and the fieryblackness of the eyes.

My Mr. Smith, as I have explained, wasn'tposing as a detective, but he was engagedto stop, look, listen, for all he was worth,and tell me his impressions afterwardjust as, no doubt, Mr. Pemberton was totell Sir James his.

We talked over the robbery in conclave;we amateurs suggesting theories, theprofessionals committing themselves tonothing so premature. Why, it was tooearly to form judgments, since thedetective on the spot had not yet been ableto report upon fingerprints or other clues!

The sole decision arrived at, and agreedto by all, was to keep the affair amongourselves for the present. This could bemanaged if none but private detectiveswere employed and the police not broughtinto the case. When the meeting broke upand I was able to question Mr. Smith, Iwas disappointed in him. I had hoped andexpected (having led up to it by hints) thathe would say: "Sir James Courtenaye is inthis." On the contrary, he tactlesslyadvised me to "put that idea out of myhead. There was nothing in it." (I hope hemeant the idea, not the head!)

"I should say, speaking in the air," heremarked, "that the caretakers are theguilty parties, or at least have had somehand in the business. Though of course I

might change my mind if I were on thespot."

I assured him fiercely that any onepossessed of a mind at all would change itat sight of dear old Barl and Barley.Nothing on earth would make me believeanything against them. Why, if they didn'thave Almost-Haloes and Wings, SirJames and the insurance people wouldhave objected to them as guardians. Thevery fact that they had been kept onwithout a word of protest from any one,when Courtenaye Abbey was let to SirJames was, I argued, the best oftestimonials to the Barlows' character.Nevertheless, my orders were that Mr.Smith should go to Devonshire and take aroom at the Courtenaye Arms, dressed and

painted to represent a landscape artist."The Abbey is to be opened to the publicin a few days, in spite of the best smallshow-things being lost," I reminded him,from what we had heard Sir Jim say. "Youcan see the Barlows, and judge of them.But what is much more important, you'llalso see Sir James Courtenaye, wholodges in the inn, and can judge of him. Inmy opinion he has revenged himself forlosing his suit to grab the Abbey andeverything in it, by taking what he couldlay his hands on without being suspected."

"But you do suspect him?" said Mr. Smith.

"For that matter, so does he suspect me," Iretorted.

"You think so," the detective amended.

"Don't you?"

"No, Princess, I do not."

"What do you think, then? Or don't youthink anything?"

"I do think something." He tried to justifyhis earning capacity.

"What, if I may ask?"

Hea Smith, a mere Smith!dared togrin.

"Of course you may ask, Princess," hereplied. "But it's too early yet for me toanswer your question in fairness tomyself. About the theft I have not formed afirm theory, but I have about Sir JamesCourtenaye. I would not have ventured

even to mention it, however, if you had notdrawn me out, for it is indirectlyconcerned with the case."

"Directly or indirectly, I wish to know it,"I insisted. "And as you're in my employ, Ithink I have the right."

"Very well, madam, you shall know itlater," he said.

CHAPTER IV

THE BLACK THING INTHE SEA

I went back to Bath, and Mrs. Percy-Hogge; but I no longer felt that I wasenjoying a rest cure. Right or wrong, I hadthe impression of being watched. I wassure that Sir James Courtenaye had putdetectives "on my track," in the hope that Imight be caught communicating with myhired bravos or the wicked receiver of mystolen goods. In other days when a manstared or turned to gaze after me, I hadattributed the attention to my looks; now I

jumped to the conviction that he was adetective. And in fact, I began to jump atanythingor nothing.

It was vain for Mrs. Carstairs (who randown to Bath, after I'd written her a wildletter) to guarantee that even an enemy(which she vowed Sir James wasn't!)could rake up no shred of evidence againstme, with the exception of the torn letter.She couldn't deny that, materiallyspeaking, it would be a "good haul" for meto sell the heirlooms, and obtain also theinsurance money. But then, I hadn't done it,and nobody could accuse me of doing it,because no one knew the things weregone. Oh, well, yes! Some detectivesknew; and the poor old Barlows had bittercause to know. A few others, too,

including Sir James Courtenaye. None ofthem counted, however, because none ofthem would talk.

Mrs. Carstairs said it was absurd of me toimagine that Sir James was having mewatched. But imagination and not advicehad the upper hand of my nerves; and,seeing this, she prescribed a change of air.

"I meant Mrs. Percy-Hogge only for astop-gap," she explained. "You'vesqueezed her into Society now; and foryourself, you've come to the time whenyou can lighten your mourning. I've waitedfor that, to start you on your new job.You'll go what my cook calls 'balmy onthe crumpet' if you keep fancying everyqueer human being you meet in MilsomStreet a detective on your track. The best

thing for you is, not to have a track! Andthe way to manage that, is to be at sea."

I was at seafigurativelytill Mrs.Carstairs explained more. She recalled tomy mind what she had said in our firstchat about Brightening: how she hadsuggested my "taking the helm," to steerRoger Fane into the Social Sea.

"I think I mentioned then that I referred tothe sea, in the literal sense of the word,"she went on. "I promised to tell you what Imeant, when the right moment came, andnow it has come. I haven't been idlemeanwhile, I assure you, for I like RogerFane as much as you like Shelagh Leigh.And between us two, we'll marry themover the Pollens' snobby heads."

In short, Mr. Carstairs had a client whohad a yacht at Plymouth. The client's namewas Lord Verrington. The yacht's namewas Naiad, and Lord Verrington wishedto let her for an absurdly large sum. RogerFane didn't mind paying this sum. It wasthe right time of year for a yachting trip. IfI would lend clat to such a trip byBrightening it, the Pollens would permittheir precious Shelagh to go. Mr. Pollen(whom Grandmother had refused to know)would even join the party himself. Indeed,no one would refuse if asked by me, andthe Pollens would be so dazzled by RogerFane's sudden social success that theirconsent to the engagement was a foregoneconclusion.

I snapped at the chance of escape. To be

sure, it was a temporary escape, as theguests were invited for a week only; still,lots of things may happen in a week. Whylook beyond seven perfectly good days?Besides, I was to be given a huge "bonus"for my services, enough to pay the rent ofmy expensive flat for a year. But I wasn'tentirely selfish in accepting. I've neverhalf described to you the odd, reservedcharm of that mysterious millionaire,Roger Fane, whose one fault was hisclose friendship with Sir JamesCourtenaye. And for his sake, as well asdear little Shelagh's, I would gladly havedone all I could to bring the two together.

Knowing that titles impressed the Pollens,I secured several: one earl with countessattached (legally, at all events), a pretty

sister of the latter; a bachelor marquis,and ditto viscount. These, with Shelagh,myself, Roger Fane, and Mr. Pollen,would constitute the party, should allaccept.

They all did, partly for me, perhaps, andpartly for each other, but largely fromcuriosity, as the Naiad had the reputationof being the most luxuriously appointedsmall steam yacht in British waters, (Shehad been "interned" in Spain during thewar!) Also, Roger had secured as chef afamous Frenchman, just demobilized.Altogether, the prospect offeredattractions. The start was to be made fromPlymouth on a summer afternoon. Wewere to cruise along the coast, andeventually make for Jersey and Guernsey,

where none of the party had ever been. Mythings were packed, and I was ready totake a morning train for Plymoutha trainby which all those of us in town wouldtravelwhen a letter arrived for me. Itwas from Mrs. Barlow, announcing thesudden death of her husband, from heartfailure. He had never recovered the shockof the robbery, or the heavy dose ofchloroform which the thieves hadadministered. And this, Barley added, asif in reproach, was not all Barlow hadbeen forced to endure. It had been a cruelblow to find himself supplanted asguardian at the Abbey. The excuse for thussuperseding him and his wife was, ofcourse, the state of their health after theordeal through which they had passed.Nevertheless, Barlow felt (said his wife)

that they were no longer trusted. They hadloved the lodge, which was home to themin old days; but they had been promotedfrom lodge-keeping to caretaking, and itwas humiliating to be sent back whilestrangers usurped their place at the Abbey.This grievance (in Barley's opinion) hadkilled her husband. As for her, she wouldfollow him into the grave, were it not forthe loving care of Barlow's nephews fromAustralia, the brave twin soldier boys shehad often mentioned to me. They werewith her now, and would take her to theold family home close to Dudworth Cove,which the boys had bought back from thelate owner. Barlow's body would go withthem, and be buried in the graveyardwhere generations of Barlows slept.

It was a blow to hear of the old man'sdeath, and to learn that I was blamed forheartlessness by Barley. Of course I hadnothing to do with the affair. The Barlowswere not really suspected, and had in truthbeen removed for their own health's saketo the lodge where their possessions were.The new caretakers had been engaged bySir James, in consultation, I believed,with the insurance people: and my secretconviction was, that they had beensupplied by Pemberton's Agency ofPrivate Detectives. My impulse was torush to the Abbey and comfort Mrs.Barlow, even at the risk of meeting mytenant engaged in the same task. But to dothis would have meant delaying the trip,and disappointing everyone, most of allShelagh and Roger Fane; so, advised by

Mrs. Carstairs, I sent a telegram instead,picked up Shelagh and her uncle, and tookthe Plymouth train. This was the easier todo, because the wonderful old ladyoffered to go herself to the Abbey on amission of consolation. She promised tosend a telegram to our first port, sayinghow Barley was, and everything else Iwished to know.

Shelagh was so happy, so excited, that Iwas glad I'd listened to reason and keptthe tryst. Never had I seen her as pretty asshe looked on that journey to Devon: hereyes blue stars, her cheeks pink roses. Butwhen the skies began to darken her eyesdarkened, too. Had she been a barometershe could not have responded moresensitively to the storm; for a storm we

had, cats and dogs pelting down on theroof of the train.

"I was sure something horrid wouldhappen!" she whispered. "It was too goodto be true that Roger and I should have awhole, heavenly week together on board ayacht. Now we shall have to wait till theweather clears. Or else be sea-sick. Idon't know which is worse!"

Roger met us, in torrents of rain and gustsof wind, at Plymouth. But things were notso black as they looked. He had engagedrooms for everyone, and a private salonfor us all, at the best hotel. We would staythe night and have a dance, with a band ofour own. By the next day the sea wouldhave calmed down enough to please theworst of sailors, and we would start.

Perhaps we could even get off in themorning.

This prophecy was rather too optimistic,for we didn't get off till afternoon; but bythat time the water was flat as a floor, andone was tempted to forget there had everbeen a storm. We were not to forget it forlong, alas! Brief as it had been, that stormwas to leave its lasting influence upon ourfate: Roger Fane's, Shelagh Leigh's, andmine.

By four-thirty, the day after the downpour,we had all come on board the lovelyNaiad, had "settled" into our cabins, andwere on deckthe girls in white serge orlinen, the men in flannelsready for tea.

If it had arrived, and we had been looking

into our tea cups instead of at theseascape, the whole of Roger Fane's andShelagh's life might have been differentmine, too, perhaps! But as it was, Shelaghand Roger were leaning on the railtogether, and her gaze was fixed upon theblue water, because somehow she couldn'tmeet Roger's just then. What he had saidto her I don't know; but more to avoidgiving an answer than because she waswildly interested, the girl exclaimed:"What can that dark thing be, driftingand bobbing up and down in the waves? Isuppose it couldn't be a dead shark?"

"Hardly in these waters," said RogerFane. "Besides, a dead shark floats wrongside up, and his wrong side is white. Thisthing looks black."

In ordinary circumstances I wouldn't havebroken in on a tte--tte, but others wereextricating themselves from their deckchairs, so I thought there was no harm inmy being the first.

"More like a coffin than a shark," I said,with my elbows beside Shelagh's on therail.

At that the whole party hurled itself in ourdirection, and the nearer the Naiadbrought us to the floating object, the morelike a coffin it became to our eyes. At lastit was so much like, that Roger decided tostop the yacht and examine the thing,which might even be an odd-shaped smallboat, overturned. He went off, therefore,to speak with the captain, leaving us inquite a state of excitement.

Almost before we'd thought the ordergiven, the Naiad slowed down, and cameto rest like a great Lohengrin swan in theclear azure wavelets. A boat was quicklylowered, and we saw that Roger himselfaccompanied the two rowers.

A few moments before he had looked sohappy, so at peace with the world, that thetragic shadow in his eyes had actuallyvanished. His whole expression andbearing had been different, and he hadseemed years youngeralmost boyish, inhis dark, shy, reserved way. But as hewent down in the boat, he was again theRoger Fane I had known and wonderedabout.

"If he's superstitious, this will seem a badomen," I thought. "That is, if the thing does

turn out to be a coffin."

None of us remembered the tea we'd beenpining for, though a white-clad stewardwas hovering with trays of cakes, cream,and strawberries. We could do nothing buthang over the rail and watch the Naiad'sboat. We saw it reach the Thing, in whoseneighbourhood it paused with lifted oars,while a discussion went on betweenRoger and the rowers. Apparently theyargued, with due respect, against thecarrying out of some order or suggestion.He was not a man to be disobeyed,however. After a moment or two, the workof taking the black thing in tow was begun.

We were very near now, and couldplainly see all that went on. Coffin or not,the mysterious object was a long, narrow

box of some sort (the men's reluctance topick it up pretty well proved what sort, tomy mind), and curiously enough a ropewas tied round it. There appeared to be alump of knots on top, and a loose endtrailing like seaweed, which made the taskof taking the derelict in tow an easy one.To this broken rope Roger deftly attachedthe rope carried in the boat, and it was notlong before the rescue party started toreturn.

"Is it a coffin or a treasure chest?" girlsand men eagerly called down to Roger.Everyone screamed some questionexcept Shelagh and me. We were silent,and Shelagh's colour had faded. She edgedcloser to me, until our shoulders touched.Hers felt cold to my warm flesh.

"Why, you're shivering, dear!" I said."You're not afraid of that wretched thingwhatever it is?"

"We both know what it is, without telling,don't we?" she replied, in a half whisper."I'm not afraid of it, of course. Butit'sawful that we should come across a coffinfloating in the sea, on our first day out. Ifeel as if it meant bad luck for Roger andme. How can they all squeal and chatterso? I suppose Roger is bound to bring thedreadful thing on board. It wouldn't bedecent not to. But I wish he needn't."

I rather wished the same, partly because Iknew how superstitious sailors wereabout such matters, and how they wouldhate to have a coffinpresumablycontaining a dead bodyon board the

Naiad. It really wasn't a gay yachtingcompanion! However, I tried to cheerShelagh. It would take more than this tobring her bad luck now, I said, whenthings had gone so far; and she might havemore trust in me, whom she had latelynamed her mascotte.

All the men frankly desired to see thetrouvaille at close quarters, and most ofthe women wanted a peep, though theyweren't brutally open about it. If there hadbeen any doubt, it would have vanished asthe Thing was being hauled on board bygrave-faced, suddenly sullen sailors. Itwas a "sure enough" coffin, anditseemedan unusually large one!

It had to be placed on deck, for themoment, but Roger had the dark shape

instantly covered with tarpaulins; and anappeal from his clouded eyes made mesuggest adjourning indoors for tea. Wecould have it in the saloon, which wasdecorated like a boudoir, and full of liliesand rosesShelagh's favourite flowers.

"Let's not talk any more about thebusiness!" Roger exclaimed, whenShelagh's uncle seemed inclined to mix thesubject with food. "I wish it hadn'thappened, as the men are foolishly upset.But it can't be helped, and we must do ourbest. Theerit sha'n't stop on deck.That would be to keep Jonah under oureyes. I've thought of a place where we canignore it till to-morrow, when we'll land itas early as we can at St. Heliers. I'mafraid the local authorities will want to tie

us up in a lot of red tape. But the worstwill be to catechize us as if we werewitnesses in court. Meanwhile, let's forgetthe whole affair."

"Righto!" promptly exclaimed all three ofthe younger guests; but Mr. Pollen was notthus to be deprived of his morbid morsel.

"Certainly," he agreed. "But before thesubject is shelved, where is the 'place' youspeak of? I mean, where is the coffin torest throughout the night?"

Roger gave a grim laugh, and lookedobstinate. "I'll tell you this much," he said."None of you'll have it for a nearneighbour, so none of you need worry."

After that, even Mr. Pollen could not

persist. We disposed of an enormous tea,after the excitement, and then some of usplayed bridge. When we separated,however, to pace the decktwo by two,for a "constitutional" before dinneronecould see by the absorbed expression onfaces, and guess by the low-toned voices,what each pair discussed.

My companion, Lord Glencathra, thoughtthat Somebody must have died on SomeShip, and been thrown overboard. But Iargued that this could hardly be, becausesurelybodies buried at sea were notput into coffins, were they? I had heardthat the custom was to sew them up insailcloth or something, and weight themwell. Besides, there was the broken ropetied round the coffin, which seemed to

show that it had been tethered, and gotloosein the storm, perhaps. How didLord Glencathra account for that fact? Hecouldn't account for it. Nor could any oneelse.

CHAPTER V

WHAT I FOUND IN MYCABIN

I did all I could to make dinner a livelymeal, and with iced Pommery of aparticularly good year as my aide-de-camp, superficially at least I succeeded.But whenever there was an instant's lull inthe conversation, I felt that everyone wasasking him or herself, "Where is thecoffin?"

The plan had been to have a littlemoonlight fox-trotting and jazzing on deck;

but with that Black Thing hiddensomewhere on board, we confinedourselves to more bridge and star-gazing,according to taste. I, as professionalBrightener, nobly kept Mr. Pollen out ofeverybody's way by annexing him for astroll. This deserved the name of a doublebrightening act, for I brightened the livesof his fellow guests by saving them fromhim; and I brightened his by encouraginghim to talk of Well-Connected People.

"Who was she before she married LordThingum-bob?" ... or, "Yes, she was MissSo-and-So, a cousin of the Duke ofDinkum," might have been heard issuingsapiently from our lips, had any one beenmentally destitute enough to eavesdrop.But I had my reward. Dear little Shelagh

Leigh and Roger Fane seemed to havecheered each other. I left them standingtogether, elbows on the rail, as they hadstood before the affair of the afternoon.The moonlight was shining full uponShelagh's bright hair and pearl-white face,as she looked up, eager-eyed, at Roger;and he lookedat least, his back looked!as if there were nobody on land or seaexcept one Girl.

Having lured Mr. Pollen to make a fourthat a bridge table where the players weretoo polite to kill him, I ventured to vanish.There being no one on board with whom Iwished to flirt, my one desire after twohard hours of Brightening was to curl upin my cabin with a nice book. I quitelooked forward to the moment for shutting

myself cosily in, for the cabin was adelicious pink-and-white nestthebiggest room on board, as a tribute to myprincesshood.

Hardly had I opened the door, however,when my dream-bubble broke. A very oddand repellent odour greeted me, andseemed almost to push me back across thethreshold. I held my ground, however, andsniffed with curiosity and disgust.

Somebody had been at my perfumemyexpensive pet perfume, made especiallyfor me in Rome (one drop exquisite; two,oppressive), and must have spilt the lot.But worse than this, the heavy fragrancewas mingled with a reek of stale brandy.

Anger flashed in me, like a match set to

gun-cotton. Some impertinent person hadsneaked into my stateroom and played astupid practical joke. Or, if not that, one ofthe pleasantly prim, immaculate women (across between the stewardess and ladies'-maid type) engaged to hook up our frocksand make up our cabins, was secretly aconfirmedROTTER!

I switched on the light, shut the doorsmartly without locking it, and flung afurious glance around. The creature hadactually dared to place a brandy bottleconspicuously upon my dressing table,among gold-handled brushes and silvergilt boxes, and, as a crowningimpertinence, had left a tumbler beside thebottle, a quarter full of strong-smellingbrown stuff. Close by lay my lovely

crystal flask of "Campagna Violets,"empty. I could get no more anywhere, andit had cost five pounds! I could hardlybreathe in the room. Oh, evidently astewardess must have gone stark mad, orelse some practical joker had waited toplay the coup until the stewardesses werein bed!

As I thought this, my eyes as well as mynostrils warned me of something strange.The rose-coloured silk curtains which,when I went to dinner, had been gracefullylooped back at head and foot of my prettybed (a real bed, not a mere berth!) werenow closely drawn with a secretive air.This made me imagine that it was apractical joke I had to deal with, and myfancy flew to all sorts of weird surprises,

any one of which I might find hiddenbehind the draperies.

I trust that I have a sense of humour, and Ican laugh at a jest against myself as wellas any woman, perhaps better than most.But to-night I was in no mood to laugh atjests, and I wondered how anybody hadthe heart (not to mention the cheek!) toperpetrate one after the shock we hadexperienced. Besides, I couldn't think of aperson likely to play a trick on me.Certainly my host wouldn't do so. Shelagh,my best and most intimate pal, was far toogentle and sensitive-minded. As for theother guests, none were of the noisy,bounding type who take liberties evenwith distant acquaintances, for fun.

All this ran through my mind, as a cinema

"cut-in" flashes across the screen; and itwasn't until I'd passed in review thecharacters of my fellow guests that Isummoned courage to pull back the bed-curtains. When I did so, I gave a jerk thatslipped them along the rod as far as theywould go. And thenI saw the last thingin the world I could have pictured.

A woman, fully dressed, was stretched onthe pink silk coverlet fast asleep, her headdeep sunk in the embroidered pillow.

It was all I could do to keep back a cryfor this was no woman I had seen onboard, not even a drunken or sleep-walking stewardess. Yet her face was notstrange to me. That was the most horrible,the most mysterious part! There was nomistake, for the face was impossible to

forget. As I stared, almost believing that Idreamed, another scene rose between myeyes and the dainty little cabin of theNaiad.

It also was a scene in a dream. I knew itwas a dream, but it was torturingly vivid.I was a prisoner on a German submarine,in war-time, and signals from my own oldhomeCourtenaye Abbeyflashed intomy eyes. They flashed so brightly that theyset me on fire. I wakened from thenightmare with a start. A strong lightdazzled me, and, striking my face, lit upanother face as well. Just for an instant Isaw it; then the revealing ray died intodarkness. But on my retina wasphotographed those features, in a pale,illumined circle.

A second sufficed to bring back to mybrain this old dream and the wakingreality which followed, that night at theAbbey, long agothe night which Shelaghand I called "Spy Night." For here, in mycabin on the yacht Naiad, on the crushedpillow of my bed, was that face.

As I realized this, without benefit of anydoubt, a faint sickness swept over me. Itwas partly horror of the past; partlyphysical disgust of the brandy-reekstronger than ever nowhanging like anunseen canopy over the bed; and partlycold fear of a terrifying Presence.

There she lay, sunk in drugged anddrunken sleep, the Woman of Mystery, inwhose existence no one but Shelagh and Ihad ever quite believed: the woman who

had visited us in our sleep, and whoalmost certainlyhad fired the Abbey,hoping that we and the Barlows mightsuffocate in our beds.

The face was just the same as it had beenthen: "beautiful and hideous at the sametime, like Medusa," I had described it;only now it was older, and though stillbeautiful, somehow ravaged. The hairstill glowed with the vivid auburn colourwhich I had thought "unreal looking"; butnow it was tumbled and unkempt. Looselocks strayed over the dainty pillow, andat the bottom of the bed, pushed tightlyagainst the footboard by a pair of untidy,high-heeled shoes, was a dusty blacktoque half covered with a very thickmotor-veil of gray tissue. There was a

gray cloak, too, in a tumbled mass on thepink coverlet, and a pair of soiled gloves.Everything about the sleeper was sordidand repulsive, a shuddering contrast to theexquisite freshness of the bed and roomeverything, that is, except the face. Itshalf-wrecked beauty was still supreme,and even in the ruin drink or drugs hadwrought, it forced admiration.

"A German spyhere in my cabinonboard Roger Fane's yacht!" I said thewords slowly in my mind, not with mytongue. Not a sound, not the faintestwhisper, passed my lips. Yet suddenly thelong, dark lashes on bruise-blue lidsbegan to quiver. It was as if my thoughthad shaken the woman by the shoulder,and roused what was left of her soul.

I should have liked to dash out of the roomand with a shriek bring everyone on boardto my cabin. But I stood motionless,concentrating my gaze on those tremblingeyelids. Something inside me seemed tosay: "Don't be a coward, ElizabethCourtenaye!" It was exactly likeGrandmother's voice. I had a convictiontha t she wanted me to see this thingthrough as a Courtenaye should, shirkingno responsibility, and solving the mysteryof past and present without bleating forhelp.

The fringed lids parted, shut, quiveredagain, and flashed wide open. A pair ofpale eyes stared into minewicked eyes,cruel eyes, green as a cat's. Like a cat, too,the creature gathered herself together as if

for a spring. Her muscles rippled andjerked. She sat up, and in chilled surpriseI thought I saw recognition in her stare.

CHAPTER VI

THE WOMAN OF THEPAST

"Oh, you've come at last!" she rasped, in aharsh, throaty voice roughened by drink. "Iknow you. I"

"And I know you!" I cut her short, to showthat I was not cowed.

Sitting up in bed, hugging her knees, shestarted at my words so that the springsshook. Whatever it was she had meant tosay, she forgot it for the moment, andchallenged me: "That's a lie!" she

snapped. "You don't know me yetbutyou soon will."

"I've known you since you came into myroom at Courtenaye Abbey the night youtried to burn down the house," I said."You were spying for the Germans in thewar. Heaven knows all the harm you mayhave done. I can't imagine for whomyou're spying now. Anyhow, you can'tfrighten me again. The war's over, but I'llhave you arrested for what you did whenit was on."

The woman scowled and laughed, moreMedusa-like than ever. I really felt as ifshe might turn me to stone. But sheshouldn't guess her power.

"Pooh!" she said, showing tobacco-

stained teeth. "You won't want to arrestme when you hear who I am, Lady ShelaghLeigh!"

"Lady Shelagh Leigh!" It was on my lipsto cry, "I'm not Shelagh Leigh!" But Istopped in time. The less I let her find outabout me, and the more I could find outabout her before rousing the yacht, thebetter. I spoke not a word, but waited forher to go onwhich she did in a fewseconds.

"That makes you sit up, doesn't it?" shesneered. "That hits you where you live!Why did you think I chose your cabin? Ididn't select it by chance. I confess I wastaken back at your remembering. I thoughtI hadn't given you time for much study ofmy features that other night. But it doesn't

matter. You can't do anything to me. I'llsoon prove that! But I had a good look atyou, there in your friend's old Devonshirerat-trap. I knew who you both were. It waseasy to find out! And the other day, when Iheard that Lady Shelagh Leigh was likelyto marry Roger Fane, I said to myself,'Gosh! One of the girls I saw at the darnedold Abbey!'"

"Oh, you said that to yourself!" I echoed.And, though my knees failed, I kept to myfeet. To stand towering above thesquatting figure on the bed seemed to giveme moral as well as physical advantage."How did you know, pray, which girl Iwas?"

"I knew, 'pray,'" she mocked, "becauseyou've got the best room on this yacht.

Roger'd be sure to give that to his bestgirl. Which is how I'm sure you're notElizabeth Courtenaye."

"How clever you are!" I said.

"YesI'm cleverwhen I'm not a fool.Don't think, anyhow, that you can beat mein a battle of brains. I've come on boardthis boat to succeed, and I will succeed inone of two ways, I don't care a hangwhich. But nothing on God's earth canhold me back from one or the otherleastof all, can you. Why, you can ask anyquestion you please, and I'll answer. I'lltell the truth, toofor the more I say, andthe more you're shocked, the morehelpless you aredo you see?"

"No, I don't see," I drew her on.

"Don't you guess yet who I am?"

"I've guessed what you werea Germanspy."

"That's ancient history. One must liveand one must have moneyplenty ofmoney. I must! And I've had it. But it'sgone from melike most good things.Now I must have morea lot more. Orelse I must die. I don't care which. Butothers will care. I'll make them."

Looking at her, I doubted if she had thepower; though she must have had it in lostdays of gorgeous youth. Yet again Iremained silent. I saw that she wasleading up to something in particular, andI let her go on.

"You're not much of a guesser," she said,"so I'll introduce myself. Lady-who-thinks-she's-going-to-marry Roger Fane,let me make known to you the lady whohas married himMrs. Fane, ne LindaLehmann. I've changed my name since,more than once. At present I'm KatherineNelson. But Linda Lehmann is the namethat matters to Roger. You're nothing inlooks, by the by, to what I was at yourage. Nothing!"

If my knees had been weak before, theynow felt as if struck with a mallet! Shemight be lying, but something within mewas horribly sure that she spoke the truth.I'd never heard full details of RogerFane's "tragedy," but Mrs. Carstairs haddropped a few hints which, without asking

questions, I'd patched together. I hadgleaned that he'd married (when almost aboy) an actress much older than himself;and that, till her sudden and violent deathafter many yearsnine or ten at leasthislife had been a martyrdom. How thewoman contrived to be alive I couldn'tsee. But such things happenedto peopleone didn't know! The worst of it was that Idid know Roger Fane, and liked him.Besides, I loved Shelagh, whosehappiness was bound up with Roger's. Itseemed as if I couldn't bear to have thosetwo torn apart by this cruel creaturethisdrunkardthis spy! Yetwhat could Ido?

At the moment I could think of nothinguseful, because, if she was Roger's wife,

her boast was justified: for his sake andShelagh's she mustn't be handed over tothe police, to answer for any politicalcrime I might prove against heror evenfor trying to burn down the Abbey. Oh,this business was beyond what I bargainedfor when I engaged to "brighten" the tripon board the Naiad! Still, all the spirit inme rallied to work for Roger Faneevento work out his salvation if that could be.And I was glad I'd let the woman believe Iwas Shelagh Leigh.

"Roger's wife died five years ago, justbefore the war began," I said. "She waskilled in a railway accidentan awfulone, where she and a company of actorsshe was travelling with were burned todeath."

The creature laughed. "Have you neverbeen to a movie show, and seen how easyit is to die in a railway accident?to staydead to those you're tired of, and to bealive in some other part of this old world,where you think there's more fun going on?It's been done on the screen a hundredtimesand off it, too. I was sick to deathof Roger. I'd never have married a sticklike himalways preaching!if I hadn'tbeen down and out. When I met him, itwas in a beastly one-horse town where Iwas stranded. The show had chucked megone off and left me without a cent. Iwas sicktoo big a dose of dope, if youwant to know. But Roger didn't knowyou can bet. Not then! I took jolly goodcare to toe the mark, till he'd married meall right. He was a sucker! I suppose he

was twenty-two and over, but Peter Panwasn't in it with him in some ways. Hekept me off the stageand tried to keepme off everything else worth doing forfive years. Then I left him, for my healthand looks had come back, and I got a fairpart in a play on tour. There I met acountryman of mineoh! don't beencouraged to hope! I never gave Rogerany cause to divorce me; and if I had, I'dhave done it so he couldn't prove a thing!"

"When you say the man was yourcountryman, I suppose you mean aGerman," I said.

"Well, yes," she replied, with the flauntingfrankness she affected in these revelations."German-American he was. I'm Germanby birth, and grew up in America. I've

been back often and long since then. Butthis man had a scheme. He wanted me togo into it with him. I didn't see my way atfirst though there was big money, so heleft the show before the accident. When Ifound myself alive and kicking among thedead that day, however, I saw my chance.I left a ring and a few things to identify mewith a woman who was killed, and I litout. It was in the dead of nig