"I feel like myself," said Lambert to his host, a few days after the encounter above recorded. "I'll go down to Denham to-morrow, and get my interview with Deering over."

"I am not at all sure you are equal to it, Lambert; you are feverish and excited. Why not wait till he comes up to town?"

"Because I'd feel safer in the country. That fellow is just traitor enough to keep me in talk while he sent for a constable, and made a charge of murder against me. Constables are not so near at hand in the country."

"I think you are mistaken; I don't fancy Deering will cut off his nose to spite his face."

"It's hard to tell. Anyhow I'll try him. I suppose there is some village or town near where a man could put up?"

"There is a village at Denham, I believe, but the railway-station is five or six miles off, I am told, at a town called Earlshall, where no doubt you will find accommodation. I wish you would leave the matter in my hands, Lambert."

"That I cannot; but I think I am sufficiently backed up now to make terms with him."

"I wish you could carry the war into the enemy's country, but that without witnesses would be impossible," returned Glynn. "Make the best terms you can. I agree with you in thinking that no amount of wealth could atone for shocking and grieving Elsie."

"Nothing could!" ejaculated Lambert. "And suppose I am hanged, will you be true to my darling?"

"Yes, even if I believed you guilty of murder, I would stick to her!"

Lambert seized and pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence resumed:

"I'll go and sleep at my own place to-night; it's nearer the Great Northern, and I'll start off to-morrow morning. Maybe I'll be lucky, hey?" He pulled out Elsie's last letter and read it through in silence. "She is happy anyway, but she's wearying for her old dad! God bless her! God bless her, and watch over her!"—with a burst of feeling. "The blessing of a vagabond like myself isn't worth much, but there it is. Maybe but for me she'd be a great lady now, and holding her own in the sight of all men."

"And perhaps but for you she would be in her grave, or struggling in poverty and degradation," said Glynn.

"Who can tell?" rejoined the other, and he left the room to prepare for his return to his own abode.

"I'll not write to you, Glynn," were his last words at starting; "I'll just come straight back and tell you everything."

"Do; and remember that the bolder front you can show, the greater the chance of his yielding. Speak as if you had a cloud of witnesses to back you."

"Ay, that's the plan! I'll try it, if only my nerves keep as steady as they feel to-day."

The chief inn of Earlshall, a small town on the borders of Northshire, was full and busy one morning in May, more than twelve months from the opening of this true history. It was market-day, and the coffee-room resounded with the loud voices and creaking boots of the neighboring farmers, who had looked in for a mouthful and "a drop of drink" somewhat stronger than coffee.

The stables were full of strong, serviceable nags, worthy of the shire which bred them, and the busy hostlers had scarce time to attend to the demand of a stranger, who had been staying for the last two days at the inn, that one or other of them should saddle the horse he had ridden each day since he arrived.

"Hand it over to me, and I'll saddle him myself," he said at length. "I am no fool about a horse, and can generally manage all I want with my own hands." So saying, he proceeded to saddle the steed he had selected, and soon trotted out of the yard.

A stranger was a novelty at Earlshall, and several inquiries were addressed to "mine host," who mixed on pleasant, easy terms with his guests. "The visitor was from 'Lunnon' or from furrin parts." But he knew a horse when he saw one; he had been over to Denham all day long; the landlord's opinion was that likely he came from a newspaper, and he hoped as how he would write up the 'Black Horse.' There was a letter for him that morning from Denham. "I know the paper and the crest stamped outside," added the host; "I dare say he's an electioneering chap."

Unconscious of these comments Lambert rode on, with a grey, set face, and firmly-closed mouth. The letter he had received that morning had been brief:—"I will hear what you have to say, but I do not wish a criminal to cross my threshold. You must meet me by the Deer's Barn in the Beech Wood, about a mile from the village. Any one will direct you." This had no signature, and was addressed to "Mr. Smith." Lambert took it out and read it, gnashing his teeth as he did so.

"The insolent, daring villain," he muttered; "can I do nothing to turn his flank? If he had a gleam of conscience he would be less daringly unscrupulous, but he hasn't enough to make a coward of him. Glynn is my best card, but Deering knows his strength; he has only to lie boldly, and I am at his mercy. But he'll never get hold of her: she is safe from him." Then his thoughts wandered away to a bit of country near Mrs. Kellett's home, where in some of his many visits to his darling daughter, he had led her little Welsh pony, while she talked to him of her own simple fancies—of her dearly loved pets, of the wild flowers, and birds, and insects, all of which were so familiar to the country-bred child. What a foretaste of heaven it all was! No soiled sinner purified by purgatorial fires and admitted into the divine calm of celestial joy could have felt more keenly the sense of regeneration and revival than the poor battered wanderer who had devoted himself to the care of his enemy's orphan; and now, as he reflected that he had brought misfortune to the creature he so fondly loved, that he had unconsciously put her and himself into the power of a bold scoundrel, his heart throbbed with fury so wild, so overpowering, that he was almost alarmed at himself.

"I must keep my brain clear," he muttered. "I wish I could get quit of this mad desire to shoot Deering,—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't do. I could never stroll through cool country lanes with my Elsie again; I never could stroke her bright hair with this right hand if it had committed murder. That I have never done. No, Deering, you infernal liar, never!—only in fair fight have I killed my man."

He stopped with an odd sense of confusion, finding that he spoke aloud. His horse stumbling at the same time, the current of his thoughts changed. He began to look forward. Elsie and Glynn were married; they had a beautiful home in London, and he (Lambert) a snug little apartment in Paris—he was more at home in Paris—and they visited each other. Then as years stole on, and he didn't care to move about much, he would sit in his chair, and Elsie would soothe him with her heavenly songs, her delicious voice. Ah well, he might bring Deering to reason; if not, well, he could never meet Elsie's eyes when opened to the knowledge of deeds hidden away in his past life. Anyhow he must commit no act of violence; this 'must not' but thinly veiled a strange kind of conviction that something beyond himself would compel him to do a desperate deed.

When he reached the very humble little hostelry distinguished by the sign of the 'Saracen's Head,' the crest of the Deerings, which stood beside the village green of Denham, Lambert was cool and collected enough. He dismounted, and desired that his horse should be given a feed of oats, that the girths should be loosened, but the saddle was not to be removed, "for," said he very deliberately, "I want to finish a sketch of the Deer's Barn, and get back to catch the up-train at Earlshall about six, so I may want the horse all in a hurry."

So saying, he walked quietly through the great old wrought-iron gates, and up the stately avenue for a few hundred yards. Then striking to the left, he quickened his pace, and plunged into the beautiful woods all flushed with the first tender green of spring, trampling down the great feathery fronds of the fern, the variously-tinted leafage of the undergrowth, till he reached an open space, from which a heath and gorse-grown upland sloped gently towards some distant hills. And all these grand woods, this beautiful sweep of hills, these groups of dappled deer, that murmuring brown stream, the solemn, stately beeches that clustered round the barn which stood at the verge of the deer-park,—all these were Elsie's; and as he thought, Travers Deering came out from the shadow of the rough, picturesque edifice and advanced to meet him.

The two men came face to face, a little in the rear of the barn, and stood in silence for a few seconds, eyeing each other with deadly hatred; nor was the gaze of the unscrupulous villain a shade less steady or unflinching than that of the man he intended to make his victim.

"Pray why have you taken the trouble to come down here, when you might have seen me in town next week?" asked Deering coolly.

"For various reasons, chiefly because I could not wait."

"Then you have something important, something favorable for yourself to propose. First, where is Elsie? You know?"

"I do."

"Is she in England?"

"No."

"Will you tell me where she is?"

"I will further on."

"Very good. Let me hear what you have to say," taking out a cigar, and striking a fusee he lit it with elaborate composure.

"I succeeded in hiding myself and my child from you and your devilish designs," began Lambert in a voice that vibrated with the anger he could hardly control; "and if I had not been struck down by illness, my girl and I would have been out of your reach at the other side of the world. However, I couldn't carry out my plans, and I know one cannot keep out of sight forever, so I made up my mind to see if we can't come to an agreement. Let us go, and I'll never say a word against you, or meddle in any way."

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" returned Deering contemptuously. "I thought you had something new."

"So I have! I have found a man who believes my story, and he is a backer not to be despised."

"And he is?" asked Deering, without taking his cigar from his lips.

"Glynn! You know him."

"Ha! and he believes your little romance?"—a look of concentrated fury contracting his brow. "Satisfactory to you; but unfortunately men's beliefs are not evidence. Now I have positive evidence."

"Deering!—you are the most accursed scoundrel that ever disgraced God's earth! Were it not for my child, I'd gladly pay forfeit with my life for the pleasure of killing you."

"I dare say! Knowing my man, I am not such a blockhead as to come here unarmed," and he made a motion with his hand to his breast-pocket.

"Good," cried Lambert, and he laughed a peculiar wild laugh. "But this is nonsense," he resumed; "let us talk like reasonable beings. Just see what folly it is to throw away fortune, and all this"—waving his hand towards the trees and upland—"for what?—a whim, a bit of revenge! When you have destroyed me, and planted a thorn in Elsie's heart that'll pierce her through her life long—for you can do that, though she's beyond your power to harm more—how will you like to turn out of this grand place, and count every penny in your pocket?"

"I don't intend to do either; I shall be rewarded for my disinterested honesty by keeping the estate for my life. My son, a mere helpless cripple, can exist on a trifle; my lady wife is only half alive as it is, and probably may resign the frail half she possesses before long, then I may marry my sweet cousin, and all will go well and happily when we have hung you, you blundering blackguard"—with a sudden flash of rage and hatred.

"Gently," said Lambert, thinking the moment was come to play his trump card. "You'll not be able to carry out your neat little scheme. My Elsie is engaged to Glynn, and will be his wife before three weeks are over. She is staying with Lady Gethin until the wedding takes place!"

Deering was moved at last; he started back.

"What! has Glynn known your secret during——"

"The last month, and more," interrupted Lambert.

"And Lady Gethin?—is she equally well informed?"

"She is."

Deering grew deadly white; his sharp, cruel-looking teeth pressed his under lip for a moment of silence before he burst out:—"Infernal idiot! you have driven the last nail into your own coffin. Elsie, Glynn's wife! I'd strangle her with my own hands first! You have left me no alternative. I must in mere self-defence attack you. You have shattered your own safeguard! If you have told Glynn and that sharp-tongued old woman, I must not keep quiet any longer. Their credulity does not weaken my position; it is impregnable, if I have pluck enough to stand to my guns, which I have! You have left me nothing but revenge, and I'll have that. Who will believe a word you utter? I'll make your visit here the starting-point of my accusation. You have come to extract money! and threaten me with the claims of Gilbert Deering's daughter. I, having always suspected you, and having recently met Vincent and heard his story, I lay the matter before a magistrate, both to obtain and bestow justice. Then let Glynn marry the protÉgÉe of a disgraced, detected criminal if he will, nothing shall save you from appearing in Elsie's eyes as the murderer of her own father, the destroyer of her life. There! I tell you my plan; repeat it or not as you choose. Your words, your story, your very existence are in vain. I have but to be firm, and you go to a dishonored grave, followed by the horror and disgust of the creature on whom you spent your life!—ay! who, rejected by Glynn, will yet be mine."

Lambert had listened with a wild mingling of fury and despair. He gazed at Deering to see if there was any sign of faltering, of hesitation, but the leader of the rebel angels himself could not have looked more determined to "make evil his good." Contempt as well as hatred gleamed from his fierce light eyes, a sudden sense that all hope was over, that a dark cloud streaked with blood was already rising between him and his darling, his jewel, pressed with maddening force upon Lambert.

Deering misunderstood his momentary stunned silence, and added with a sneer: "I am master of your fate. Find a way out of the dilemma if you can."

"There is one way left," cried Lambert hoarsely; and snatching a revolver from his breast-pocket, he fired almost before he ceased to speak.

The ball pierced Deering's right temple. With a groan he fell to the ground, dead, helpless, harmless!

Lambert stood quite still for an instant, his pistol still held out, waiting lest Deering might rise and attack him, but his enemy was quieted forever. Lambert then put up his own weapon carefully, and bending over the prostrate form, took out the pocket-revolver to which Deering had alluded. Examining it he found the six chambers loaded, then aiming low into the brushwood, he discharged one of them, and laid the pistol at a short distance from the dead man's outstretched right arm, as though it had fallen from his hand: all this with singular mechanical deliberateness. Then he turned and walked briskly, not hurriedly, back to the little inn.

A great deadly calm had fallen upon him. There was no more danger from Deering, nothing to fear from his vile projects; but he, Lambert, had died too, he had done that of which he dreaded being falsely accused. He had done with life, but at least he had cleared a venomous beast out of his darling's path; nothing now remained but to efface himself.

"None will ever know the exact truth, and my jewel will always believe the best of me; time will heal up her wounds, ay, soon, soon." He paused and looked round him. How beautiful the country looked; how sweet the air, laden with the odor of violets and fresh grass! He had loved life, and enjoyed it, and done his best in his own rough way, and now he firmly believed he was doing his best still. No horror at his own act thrilled him; he had but executed wild justice. His thoughts grew strangely confused. He fancied at intervals he was going back to Paris to his little home there, and that he would find Elsie at the piano, and Madame Weber knitting. Then he would pull himself together, and think hard of a certain plan he was trying to mature.

Reaching the little inn he called for his horse, and asked for a glass of ale.

"You'll have to ride sharp," said the landlord, as Lambert paid his bill. "I thought you wouldn't be back in time; that's what you artist gentlemen don't think of. We've lots of 'em sketching about Denham woods in summer-time."

"Ah! few have done so complete a bit of work as I have," returned Lambert grimly, as he started at a quick trot.

His horse was fresh and free, and did the distance to Earlshall within the time allowed by his rider. The hostler remarked that the gentleman must have been took ill or summat, he had such a ghastly, dazed look in his face. "Anyway, he did not forget to tip me handsome afore he ran off to catch the train."

Meantime the first and second dressing-bells rang in Denham House, but the master did not come in from the walk he had evidently prolonged. Weldon had come over to dine and discuss business with his employer, and endeavored to keep up a conversation with Lady Frances, sitting in state in the grand solemn drawing-room. The dinner-hour was long past, and Lady Frances grew uneasy. Deering's valet was called, but could give no explanation of his master's absence. Night closed in while search was being made, and then a cold and rigid figure, that a few hours ago was the lord and master of Denham, was brought reverently back, carried by the gamekeepers and gardeners, and followed by the awe-struck men who had assisted in the search. The revolver, which had apparently fallen from his hand, was recognized by the valet as belonging to his master; indeed he saw it in its accustomed place that very morning. Yet neither Lady Frances or Weldon could accept the idea of suicide. He was so active, so full of schemes, so instinct with life. But there was the incontrovertible fact—Deering of Denham was no more, and Bertie his son reigned in his stead.

Away by the beautiful shores of Lake Leman Elsie Lambert enjoyed a growing sense of security. Lady Gethin was a strong protectress. Lambert wrote cheerfully, and seemed to enjoy his visit to Glynn; and the latter's frequent letters were an ever-increasing source of delight, while it was an ennobling education, in Elsie's estimation, to answer them. With Lady Gethin she grew in favor day by day; her thoughtful softness, her delight in learning, and her delicious voice charmed the somewhat exigeant dowager. Again and again she vowed to herself that she would never rest till she had won back that dear girl's rights, and exposed Deering. "I believe every word that good soul Lambert says," was the general climax of her meditations.

Lady Gethin was pondering these things one day as she sat, after luncheon, on the delightful balcony of their hotel overlooking the lake.

She had begun to speculate when Glynn would join them, and what preliminary arrangements would be necessary previous to the wedding, which she hoped would soon take place. The approach of a waiter disturbed her. He brought a telegram. It was from Glynn. "Keep all newspapers, especially English ones, from Elsie; will be with you on Wednesday."

"There is something dreadfully wrong," said Lady Gethin to herself, "and the wrong is with Lambert. I trust the poor man's head hasn't turned with all his troubles. I hope Hugh will write. This is Saturday: one, two, three days to wait and hold my tongue. Why, it is more than human nature can endure."

But though carefully keeping the papers from her young protÉgÉe, no very difficult task, Lady Gethin searched them diligently herself, and soon found the word of the riddle, first in a column headed "Mysterious Death of Mr. Deering of Denham," followed by all particulars, and an account of the stranger artist, who had been sketching in Denham woods, and had, according to the evidence of the hotel-keeper at Earlshall, received a letter with the Deering crest the day previous to the fatal event.

In another column was an account of a robbery and murder in a railway-carriage between York and London. On reaching an intermediate station, one of the carriages of the up-train was found open and empty, the door swinging to and fro, while the cushion beside it was smeared as if something bleeding had knocked against it. The carpet was displaced, and some sovereigns and loose silver scattered about.

On search being made, the body of a middle-aged man, well dressed, and apparently in good circumstances, was found lying beside the rails some miles back, his head and face shattered, his pockets turned inside out, and at a little distance lay an American revolver. His purse was gone, but a valuable watch was still in his pocket, and an old envelope, with an American stamp, addressed, "M. Lambert, Rue de L'EvÊque, Paris," was the only clue to his identity.

After reading these ghastly details, Lady Gethin spent an anxious and miserable time until Glynn appeared. He had sent a hasty line to Elsie, to say he was trying to clear away an accumulation of business in order to be with her on Wednesday.

"I suppose my father will come with him? It is strange he does not mention him. Nor has my father written for several days," said Elsie.

"Oh! Hugh will explain everything when he comes," replied Lady Gethin; who immediately after declared she had a sick headache, and retired to bed, to avoid the distressing sight of Elsie's unconscious content.

Lady Gethin contrived to impress Elsie with the idea that Glynn would not arrive till late in the evening, and so managed to secure a short interview with him before he went in to break his sad news to the orphan.

He looked ill and worn.

"Oh, Hugh! what an awful business," exclaimed Lady Gethin.

"A profound tragedy," he returned. "To you I may venture to confess my belief that Lambert first shot Deering and then blew his own brains out. He couldn't have been recognized, poor fellow! His head was so shattered, and the curious thing is, he had on different clothes from any I had ever seen him in. I suspect he bought them somewhere between Earlshall and London. It was the day after Deering's murder Lambert destroyed himself. I have been expecting every day to find that he has been identified in some way with the artist who spent a couple of days sketching at Denham. Of course the watch and a ring, and the man's figure generally, were enough for me. I knew who he was fast enough. I attended the examination, and gave my evidence frankly. Nothing was said about Deering. Now let me go to Elsie! I both long and dread to see her."

Lady Gethin led him up-stairs to their private sitting-room, and said, "Elsie dear, here is Hugh sooner than we expected him," and discreetly closed the door.

Glynn paused just within it, and gave himself one moment of delighted contemplation, as Elsie sprang forward to greet him. She wore a dress of soft grey, and a deep red rose, with its green leaves, at her throat. The evening sun lit up the golden sheen of her hair; she had color in her cheek; the light of joy in her eyes; and he had come to darken all.

"Oh! you have come at last!" she cried, forgetting for one brief moment even her father.

"My Elsie, my love, my life!" he exclaimed, clasping her closely to him, while his heart throbbed with sympathy and sorrow. At the sound of his voice she drew back and looked intently in his face. "Ah! you have brought bad news. My father—he is ill?—he is dead?" A short, breathless pause between each question.

"He is," returned Glynn, solemnly gathering her again to his heart. "He is at peace, and I must be husband and father both to you, my darling."

"Oh, no, no! not dead!" she cried piteously. "I may see him once more. He will speak to me again. Take me to him, dear Hugh!" Breaking away from him: "Let us go at once."

"It would be of no avail, dearest!—you could not even recognize him!"

"How! why! Why did you not send for me when he was ill?"

"But he was not ill, darling! He was killed on the railway; he must have leant against the door of the carriage, and it probably flew open. He fell, and it is supposed was instantaneously killed."

"Shall I never, never see him again? It is too cruel!" She wrung her hands and looked despairingly round her; then with a sharp cry threw herself into his arms, and an agony of tears came to her relief.

With infinite care and tenderness Glynn soothed the poignancy of her first grief, and soon persuaded her she could show no better respect for the dear dead than by fulfilling engagements to which he had agreed. Some months later, therefore, a very quiet wedding took place at Lady Gethin's residence. Glynn's clerical cousin from Clapham and the faithful Mrs. Kellett were the only guests, and gradually time and tranquillity healed the wound which death had inflicted.

But Lambert lived ever tenderly cherished in his daughter's memory, and Glynn found that the best comfort he could give his young wife was by describing the cheerfulness and returning sense of enjoyment displayed by her father during the time he spent with his intended son-in-law. The mortal agony that darkened his last hours she never knew. Even when in the course of time she was obliged to believe she was not his daughter, her sense of loving gratitude was only deepened and exalted.

Ten years later. Scene: a reception at Lady Frances Verner's. Speakers: a well-known dowager and a nephew just returned from India, whom she is lionizing.

"Yes; Lady Frances is very handsome, and has a good deal of quiet animation. She was the widow of that poor Deering of Denham, who shot himself some years ago. That stout, broad-shouldered man with the blue ribbon is Admiral Verner, and the pale, delicate-looking lad—talking to Madame Ronika, the great violinist—is young Deering, who writes such beautiful poetry."

"Who is that distinguished-looking woman—the smaller of the two talking to Admiral Verner? She has such a sweet, pensive face, and great blue eyes."

"Oh, you mean Mrs. Glynn. She is greatly admired by artists and those sort of people, and has such a romantic history. Her father was murdered by the Indians or the Kaffirs; she was saved by a Yankee gold-digger. He brought her up in the Rocky Mountains among an awfully lawless set of men. Then he took her to Paris, and I believe she was to come out as the daughter of the Incas, in a ballet or some such thing, when Glynn saw her and married her, which seemed rather idiotic. However, old Lady Gethin recognized her remarkable likeness to a dear friend who married Gilbert Deering, and whose daughter she proved to be. Then they found the nurse to whom the Yankee had given her, so the Deerings thought it better to come to an amicable settlement. Lady Frances keeps her dower, and young Deering the estates for his life; but this charming Mrs. Glynn, or her son, will succeed him. They are great friends. What splendid diamonds she has!"

"Well!" exclaimed the Indian nephew, "truth really is stranger than fiction."