Would our mother have wished it?

These words, uttered in a tone of grave, sad questioning, were followed by a hush among the group which sat under the trees in the orchard that same afternoon. The two mares belonging to Mr. Craig, and Juana’s strawberry roan, were feeding close by, the summer flies their sole trouble. The group consisted of Raphael Craig, the two girls who, as he had said, were his daughters by right of all he had done for them, and Richard. Old Craig had, without any reservation, told Juana and Teresa the history of their mother, and the history of his vengeance on the man who had so cruelly wronged their mother. He explained to them, with a satisfaction which he took no trouble to hide, how Simon Lock, after a career of splendour, was now inevitably doomed to ruin. He told them how for twenty years he had lived solely for the achievement of that moment, and that, now it had come, he was content.

But Juana had said, ‘Would our mother have wished it?’ And her phrase reminded Richard of the old man’s phrase to Simon Lock in the morning—‘Hers was a gentle heart.’ The sisters looked at each other, unquiet, irresolute.

‘This Simon Lock is our real father, then?’ said Teresa.

‘Have I not just told you so?’ said the old man.

‘Let him off, father,’ Juana murmured; and Teresa’s eyes, though she said nothing, supported her sister.

‘Why?’ asked Raphael Craig.

‘Surely you despise him too much to notice him. Is not the best punishment for him his own conscience and your silent contempt?’

‘No,’ cried the old man, suddenly starting up. ‘No, I will never let him go free! After all these years of labour and sleepless watching, shall I take my hands! off his throat now? You don’t know what you ask, Juana. But you were always against me, Juana, ever since you were a little child—you who bear your mother’s name, too!’

‘Nay, father,’ said Juana; ‘I admire your defence of my mother. I love you for it. I think you are the noblest man alive. But you will be nobler if you let this man go free. He is beneath your notice.’

‘Never!’ repeated the old man, and walked quickly out of the orchard.

The three young people, left together, scarcely knew what to say to each other. The girls were, very naturally, excited and perturbed by the recital to which they had just listened. As for Richard, he was still in a state of suspense, of apprehension, almost of fear. To him the very atmosphere of Queen’s Farm seemed to be charged with the messages of fate. Raphael Craig’s profound self-satisfaction struck Richard as quite child-like. Did this man, so experienced in the world, really think that Simon Lock would quietly allow himself to be ruined? Did he really think that the struggle was over? And if, on the other hand, he thought that Simon Lock would procure his arrest, was he actually prepared to go to prison, and to die there? Richard pictured Simon Lock as planning all sorts of deep-laid schemes against Raphael Craig. He felt that Simon Lock would never be ‘at the end of his tether,’ as the old man had termed it, until Simon Lock was dead. He felt just a little bit for Simon Lock on account of the humiliations which that proud personage had been made to suffer that morning, and he felt so, despite his detestation of Lock’s past career and of his general methods. He found it impossible to get very angry about a sin committed twenty years ago.

That night Nolan, the detective, though better than on the previous day, was suffering from a slight temporary relapse. Richard volunteered to sit up with him, as the man could only sleep at intervals. Both Bridget and Juana were exhausted with the nursing, and Juana would not hear of Teresa sitting up. So it came about that Richard insisted on performing the duty himself.

It was a warm summer night, rather too warm for comfort, and for a little space the two men talked on miscellaneous subjects. Then Nolan asked for something to drink, and having drunk, went off into a sound sleep. So far as Richard could see, the patient was better again. Richard occupied an easy-chair by the window. There was twilight all through the night. For a long time Richard gazed idly out of the window into the western arch of the sky. As hour after hour passed the temperature grew chilly. He closed the window. Nolan still slept peacefully. Richard drew down the blind, and said to himself that he would have a doze in the easy-chair.

The next thing of which he was conscious was a knocking at the door.

‘Yes, yes,’ he answered sleepily, and Mrs. Bridget burst in.

‘Mr. Redgrave!’ she cried, ‘an’ have ye heard nothing? Surely the ould master’s not in his bed, and something’s happened. May the Virgin protect us all this night?’

Richard saw wild terror in the woman’s eyes. He sprang up. He was fully and acutely awake, but the sick man slept on. He went quietly and quickly out of the room. Juana and Teresa stood in the passage, alarmed and dishevelled.

‘He is gone!’ Teresa exclaimed. ‘I wonder you heard nothing, as his was the next room. It was Bridget who heard a sort of shout, she says, outside, and then looked out of her window, and she thinks she heard a motorcar.’

‘Which way was it going?’ asked Richard.

‘Sure and it’s meself that can’t tell ye, sir,’ said Mrs. Bridget.

Richard reflected a moment.

‘Why has he gone off like this in the night?’ questioned Juana.

‘Suppose that he has been captured—abducted—what then?’ said Richard. ‘Teresa,’ he added, ‘put your things on. You and I will go after him. Juana and Bridget must see to the nursing. Let there be no delay.’

His words were authoritative, and both girls departed. Richard proceeded to examine the bedroom of the vanished Raphael Craig. It was in a state of wild confusion. The bed had not been slept in; the bed was, indeed, almost the sole undisturbed article in the room. A writing bureau stood in the corner between the window and the fireplace, and apparently Mr. Craig had been sitting at this. The ink-bottle was overturned, the rows of small drawers had all been forced open, and papers, blown by the wind from the open window, were scattered round the room. The window was wide open from the bottom, and on the sill Richard noticed a minute streak of blood, quite wet. The wall-paper beneath the window was damaged, as though by feet. The window-curtains were torn. Richard judged that Raphael Craig must have been surprised while writing, gagged, and removed forcibly from the room by the window. He turned again within the room, but he observed nothing further of interest except that the drawers and cupboards of a large mahogany wardrobe had been forced, and their contents flung on the floor.

Richard went downstairs and out of the house by the front-door. He travelled round the house by the garden-path, till he came under the window of Raphael’s bedroom, and there he found the soil trodden down and some flowers broken off their stalks; but there were no traces of footsteps on the hard gravelled path. He returned to the house.

‘Mr. Craig has certainly been carried off,’ he said to Teresa, who was just coming down the stairs, candle in hand.

She wore over her dress a coat, and a small hat was on her head.

‘Carried off!’ she exclaimed, and the candle shook. ‘By whom?’

‘Need we ask? Your father thought he had done with Simon Lock, but Simon Lock is not so easily done with.’

‘But what can Simon Lock do with father?’

‘Anything that a villain dares,’ said Richard.

‘Come along; don’t wait. We will take one of the motor-cars and follow.’

They ran forth from the house to the sheds. The DÉcauville car stood in the first shed.

‘Is it ready for action, do you know?’ asked Richard.

‘Perfectly. I had it out the day before yesterday.’

But when they came to start it they discovered that the pipe which led the petrol to the cylinder had been neatly severed. It was the simplest operation, but quite effective to disable the car. Nothing could be done without a new pipe.

‘Where is the electric car?’ Richard demanded, almost gruffly. ‘They may have missed that.’

‘I don’t know. It ought to be here,’ Teresa replied.

‘They have taken him off in his own car,’ was Richard’s comment ‘We can do nothing.’

‘The horses,’ said Teresa.

‘No horses that were ever bred could overtake that car, or even keep up with it for a couple of miles.’

They walked back to the house, and met Bridget.

‘Is it the illictric car ye’re wanting?’ she asked, with the intuition of an Irishwoman.

‘It’s in the far shed.’

With one accord Richard and Teresa ran back to the far end of the range of buildings. There stood the car, in what had once been the famous silver shed.

‘I saw the master put it there this very morning as ever is,’ said Mrs. Bridget, who had followed them, as Richard jumped on to the driving-seat.

In two minutes they were off, sped by the whispered blessing of Mrs. Bridget. At the end of the boreen Richard stopped the car.

‘Which way?’ he murmured, half to himself and half to Teresa, as if seeking inspiration.

‘To London or to the North?’

‘To London, of course,’ said Teresa promptly.

He hesitated.

‘I wonder——’ he said.

‘What is that?’ Teresa asked sharply, pointing to something which glinted on the road. She sprang down and picked it up. ‘Father’s spectacles,’ she said—‘cracked.’ The spectacles had lain about a yard south of the boreen; they therefore pointed to London. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Teresa.

Richard shot the car forward in silence.

‘Do you think dad threw out these specs, to guide us?’ questioned Teresa.

‘Perhaps,’ answered Richard absently.

In this mysterious nocturnal disappearance of Raphael Craig he saw the hand of the real Simon Lock. During the whole of that strange interview which had taken place in the morning it had seemed to Richard that Simon Lock had been acting a part—had, at any rate, not conducted himself with that overbearing and arrogant masterfulness and unscrupulousness for which he had a reputation. Richard decided in his own mind that Simon Lock had arranged for this abduction, in case of necessity, before his visit to Raphael Craig. It was more than possible that he might have urged his visit chiefly as a visit of observation, to enable him to complete his plans for exercising force to compel Raphael Craig to agree to his wishes. With painful clearness Richard now perceived that Simon Lock was, in fact, fighting for all that he held most dear—perhaps for his very life and liberty, in addition to the whole of his fortune, for Richard knew that when these colossal financiers do happen to topple over into ruin the subsequent investigation of their affairs often leads to criminal prosecution, a process disagreeable to the financier, but pleasant enough to the public. A man such as Simon Lock had, therefore, a double, or, at least, a highly intensified, motive in avoiding financial failure. Yes, thought Richard, Simon Lock would stop at nothing to compel Raphael Craig to give way. His mind wandered curiously to tales of the Spanish Inquisition, and to the great torture scene in Balzac’s ‘Catherine de Medici.’ He involuntarily shuddered, and then with an effort he drew his mind back again to the management of the car. This vehicle, new and in beautiful order, and charged for a journey of a hundred and twenty miles, travelled in the most unexceptionable manner. The two and a half miles to the North-Western station at Dunstable were traversed in precisely five minutes, in spite of the fact that the distance included a full mile of climbing.

The electric lights flashed along the deserted main streets of ancient Dunstable, which is only a little more sleepy at night than in the daytime. As they passed the Old Sugar-Loaf Inn a man jumped out of the stable archway and hailed them frantically. His voice echoed strangely in the wide thoroughfare.

‘What is it?’ demanded Richard, unwillingly drawing up.

‘You after a motor-car?’ the man inquired. He looked like an ostler.

‘Yes,’ said Richard.

‘Mr. Craig?’

‘Yes,’ said Richard.

‘They stopped here,’ said the man, ‘and they told me to tell you if you came by that they’d gone to Luton, and was a-going on to Hitchin.’

‘They! Who?’ asked Teresa.

‘The gents in the car.’

‘Who was in the car?’

‘Four gents.’

‘How long since?’

‘About half an hour, or hardly.’

‘And was it Mr. Craig who told you they’d gone to Luton and Hitchin?’

‘How do I know his blooming name as told me?’ exclaimed the man. ‘They gave me a shilling to stop here and tell ye, and I’ve told ye, and so good-night.’

‘Thanks,’ said Richard, and he started the car. In another moment they were at the crossing of the two great Roman high-roads, Watling Street and the Icknield Way. The route to Luton and Hitchin lay to the left; the route to London was straight ahead.

‘Now, was that a fake of Lock’s, or are we all wrong about Lock? and has your father got still another mystery up his sleeve?’

He gazed intently at the macadam, but the hard road showed no traces of wheels anywhere, not even their own.

‘We will go straight ahead,’ said Teresa earnestly.

Richard obeyed her instinct and his. Everything pointed to the probability that Simon Lock, anticipating pursuit, had laid a trap at the Old Sugar-Loaf to divert such pursuit. Then Raphael Craig must surely have been drugged, or he would have protested to the ostler.

Before they had got quite clear of the last houses of Dunstable they picked up Mr. Craig’s gold watch, which lay battered in their track. If Craig had been drugged he must have quickly recovered! Teresa was now extremely excited, anxious, and nervous. Previously she had talked, but she fell into silence, and there was no sound save the monotonous, rather high-pitched drone of the motor-car. They passed through Markyate, four miles, and through Redbourne, another four miles, in quick succession. The road lies absolutely straight, and the gradients are few and easy.

‘Surely,’ said Teresa at length, ‘if they are on this road we should soon overtake them at this speed?’

‘Fifty miles an hour,’ he said.

They were descending the last part of the hill half-way down which lies Redbourne. It was a terrible, perilous speed for night travelling, but happily the night was far from being quite dark. Though there was no moon, there were innumerable multitudes of stars, and the dusty road showed white and clear.

‘Some cars can do up to seventy an hour. And if Simon Lock got a car he would be certain to get the best.’

As he spoke they both simultaneously descried a moving light at the bottom of the hill. In a few seconds the car was within a hundred yards of the light, and they could see the forms of men moving and hear voices.

‘It is the other car broken down,’ exclaimed Teresa. ‘Put out our lights, quick!’

Richard realized in a flash that he ought to have taken that simple precaution before, and to have approached with every circumspection. The men in front had perceived the second car, and Richard’s extinction of his lights came too late. He heard a sharp word of command, and then three men left the disabled car and ran in a body to the other one. Their forms were distinctly visible.

‘Three to one!’ Richard said softly. ‘It looks like being a bit stiff.’

‘No! Three to two,’ Teresa corrected him. ‘Here! Take this.’ She handed him a revolver which she had carried under her coat. ‘I just thought of it as I was leaving the house, and took it out of the clock in the drawing-room.’

His appreciation of her thoughtfulness was unspoken, but nevertheless sincere.

The three men were within fifty yards.

‘Slip off behind and into the hedge,’ he ordered. ‘We shall do better from that shelter if there is to be a row.’

She obeyed, and they cowered under the hedge side by side.

‘Get further away from me,’ he said imperatively. ‘You may be in danger just here.’

But she would not move.

‘Whose car is this?’ cried a voice out of the gloom—a rough, bullying voice that Richard did not recognise.

‘Never mind whose car it is!’ Richard sang out. ‘Keep away from it. That’s my advice to you, whoever you are. I can see you perfectly well, and I will shoot the first man that advances another step.’

‘Why?’ returned the same voice. ‘What’s all this bluster for? We only want a bit of indiarubber for a ripped tyre.’

‘It doesn’t take three of you to fetch a bit of indiarubber. Let two of you get back, and then I’ll talk to the third.’

‘Get on, my lads,’ another voice cried, and this time Richard knew the voice.

It was Simon Lock’s; the financier was covered with a long overcoat; he was the rearmost of the three.

Richard, without the least hesitation, aimed at Simon’s legs and fired. He missed. At the same instant the middle figure of the three flung some object sharply towards the hedge in the direction whence the revolver-shot had proceeded, and Richard felt a smashing blow on the head, after which he felt nothing else whatever. He had vague visions, and then there was a blank, an absolute and complete blank.

The next thing of which he was conscious was a sense of moisture on his head. He opened his eyes and saw in the sky the earliest inkling of dawn. He also saw Teresa bending over him with a handkerchief.

‘You are better,’ she said to him softly.

‘You’ll soon be all right.’

Richard shook his head feebly, as he felt a lump over his eye. He had a dizzy sensation.

‘Yes, you will,’ Teresa insisted. ‘It was very unfortunate, your being hit with that stone. You gave an awful groan, and those men thought you were dead; they certainly thought you were alone. I would have shot them, every one, but you dropped the revolver in the grass by this bit of a gutter here, and I couldn’t find it till they’d gone. D’you know, they’ve gone off with our car? There was a man among them who seemed to understand it perfectly. I’m awfully glad now I didn’t show myself, because I couldn’t have done anything, and I can do something now. Oh, Dick! I saw them pull father out of their car—it’s a big Panhard—and put him into ours. He was all tied with ropes. It will be a heavy load for that little car, and they can’t go so very fast. We must mend their car, Dick, and go on as quickly as possible.’

‘Can we mend it?’ Richard asked, amazed at this coolness, courage, and enterprise.

‘Yes, of course. Look, you can see from here; it’s only a puncture.’

‘But didn’t one of them say they’d got no indiarubber?’

Teresa laughed.

‘You aren’t yourself yet,’ she said. ‘You’re only a goose yet. That was only an excuse for attacking us.’

Richard got up, and speedily discovered that he could walk. They proceeded to the abandoned car. It was a 40 h.-p. concern, fully equipped and stored. The travellers by it had already begun to mend their puncture when the pursuing car surprised them. They had evidently judged it easier to change cars than to finish the mending. Speed was their sole object, and in the carrying out of the schemes of a man like Simon Lock a 40 h.-p. Panhard left by the roadside was a trifle.

In twenty minutes the puncture was successfully mended, both Richard and Teresa being experts at the operation. The effect of the blow on Richard’s head had by this time quite passed away, save for a bruise.

‘And now for Manchester Square,’ said Teresa, as they moved off.

‘Why Manchester Square?’ Richard asked.

‘That is where they were going; I heard them talking.’

‘It will be Simon Lock’s house,’ said Richard. ‘I must go there alone.’

From Redbourne to London, with a clear road and a 40 h.-p. Panhard beneath you, is not a far cry. In a shade under the hour the motor-car was running down Edgware Road to the Marble Arch. Richard kept straight on to Adelphi Terrace, put up the car at a stable-yard close by without leave, and, having aroused his landlady, gave Teresa into her charge until breakfast-time. It was just turned four o’clock, and a beautiful morning.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Teresa.

‘I don’t exactly know. I’ll take a cab and the revolver to Manchester Square, and see what happens. You can rely upon me to take care of myself.’

He could see that she wished to accompany him, and without more words he vanished. In ten minutes, having discovered a cab, he was in the vast silence of Manchester Square. He stopped the cab at the corner, and walked to Simon Lock’s house, whose number he knew. A policeman stood at the other side of the square, evidently curious as to the strange proceedings within the well-known residence of the financier. The double outer doors were slightly ajar. Richard walked nonchalantly up the broad marble steps and pushed these doors open and went in. A second pair of doors, glazed, now fronted him. Behind these stood a man in evening dress, but whether or not he was a servant Richard could not determine.

‘Open,’ said Richard. The man seemed not to hear him.

He lifted up the revolver. The man perceived it, and opened the doors.

‘Where is Mr. Lock?’ Richard demanded in a firm, cold voice. ‘I am a detective. I don’t want you to come with me. Stay where you are. Simply tell me where he is.’

The man hesitated.

‘Quick,’ said Richard, fingering the revolver..

‘He was in the library, sir,’ the man faltered.

‘Anyone with him?’

‘Yes, sir; some gentlemen.’

‘How long have they been here?’

‘Not long. They came unexpected, sir.’

‘Well, see that you don’t mix yourself up in anything that may occur. Which is the library door?’

The man pointed to a mahogany door at the end of the long, lofty hall. Richard opened it, and found himself, not in a library, but in a small rectangular windowless apartment, clearly intended for the reception of hats and coats. Suspecting a ruse, he stepped quickly into the hall.

‘Not that door, the next one,’ said the man, quietly enough. Richard followed the man’s instructions, and very silently opened the next door. A large room disclosed itself, with a long table down the centre of it. The place did not bear much resemblance to a library. It was, in fact, the breakfast-room, and the library lay beyond it. At the furthest corner, opposite another door, a man was seated on a chair. His eyes seemed to be glued on to the door which he watched.

‘Come along, Terrell,’ this man whispered, without moving his head, as Richard entered.

Richard accordingly came along, and was upon the man in the chair before the latter had perceived that another than Terrell—whoever Terrell might be—had thrust himself into the plot.

‘Silence!’ said Richard; ‘I am a detective. Come out.’

The revolver and Richard’s unflinching eye did the rest. Richard led the astonished and unresisting man into the hall, and then locked him up in the hat and coat room, and put the key of the door in his pocket. He returned to the other room, locked its door on the inside, so as to preclude the approach of the expected Terrell, and took the empty chair in front of the far door. He guessed that Simon Lock, and perhaps Raphael Craig, were on the other side of that door.

‘Up to now,’ he reflected, ‘it’s been fairly simple.’

There was absolute silence. It was as though the great house had hushed itself in anticipation of a great climax.

Then Richard heard a voice in the room beyond. It was Simon Lock’s voice. Richard instantly tried the door, turning the handle very softly and slowly. It was latched, but not locked. Using infinite precautions, he contrived to leave the door open about half an inch. Through this half-inch of space he peered into the library. He saw part of a large square desk and an armchair. In this armchair sat Raphael Craig, and Raphael Craig was tied firmly to the chair with ropes. He could not see Simon Lock, and he dared not yet push the door further open.

‘Now, Craig,’ the voice of Simon Lock was saying, ‘don’t drive me to extreme measures.’

For answer Raphael Craig closed his eyes, as if bored. His face had a disgusted, haughty expression.

‘You’ve got no chance,’ said Simon Lock.

‘Redgrave is caught, and won’t be let loose in a hurry. These two girls of yours are also in safe hands. Nothing has been omitted. I have here a list of the firms who have been acting for you in the Princesse shares. I have also written out certain instructions to them which you will sign. I have also prepared a power of attorney, authorizing me to act in your name in the matter of these shares. You will sign these documents. I will have them sent to the City and put into operation this morning, and as soon as I have satisfied myself that all has been done that might be done you will be set free—perhaps in a couple of days.’

Richard saw that Raphael Craig made no sign of any sort.

Simon Lock continued: ‘You did not expect that I should proceed to extreme measures of this kind. You thought that the law of England would be sufficient to protect you from physical compulsion. You thought I should never dare. How foolish of you! As if I should permit myself to be ruined by an old man with a bee in his bonnet; an old man whose desire is not to make money—I could have excused that—but to work a melodramatic revenge. If you want melodrama you shall have it, Craig, and more of it than you think for.’

‘Why don’t you give me up to the police?’ said Raphael Craig, opening his eyes and yawning. ‘You’ve got Featherstone’s confession, as you call it. Surely that would be simpler than all this rigmarole.’

The manager’s voice was pregnant with sarcasm.

‘I will tell you,’ said Lock frankly; ‘there is no reason why I should not: I have lost the confounded thing, or it has been stolen.’ He laughed harshly. ‘However, that’s no matter. I can dispense with that—now.’

‘You can’t do anything,’ returned Craig. ‘You’ve got me here—you and your gang between you. But you can’t do anything. In three days your ruin will be complete.’

‘Not do anything!’ said Simon Lock; ‘there are ways and means of compulsion. There are worse things than death, Craig. You decline to sign?’

Raphael closed his eyes again, coldly smiling.

‘Terrell,’ called Simon Lock sharply, ‘bring the——’

But what horrible, unmentionable things Terrell was to bring in will never be known, for at that instant Richard rushed madly into the room. He saw a revolver lying on the desk in front of Simon Lock. He frantically snatched it up, and stood fronting Simon Lock.

‘Well done, Redgrave!’ said the old man.

Simon’s face went like white paper.

‘So “Redgrave is caught,” is he?’ said Richard to Lock. Without taking his eye off the financier, he stepped backwards and secured the door. ‘Now, Mr. Lock, we are together once more, we three. Don’t utter a word, but go and cut those ropes from Mr. Craig’s arms. Go, I say.’ Richard had a revolver in each hand. He put one down, and took a penknife from his pocket. ‘Stay; here is a knife,’ he added. ‘Now cut.’

As Simon Lock moved to obey the revolver followed his head at a distance of about three inches. Never in his life had Richard been so happy. In a minute Raphael Craig was free.

‘Take his place,’ Richard commanded.

In another two minutes Simon Lock was bound as Raphael Craig had been.

‘Come with me, dear old man. We will leave him. Mr. Lock, your motor-car is in a stable-yard off Adelphi Street. You can have it in exchange for the car which you stole from me a few hours ago.’

He took Raphael Craig’s arm, and the old man suffered himself to be led out like a child.

Within a quarter of an hour father and adopted daughter were in each other’s arms at Adelphi Terrace. The drama was over.

Two days later the evening papers had a brilliantly successful afternoon, for their contents bills bore the legend: ‘Suicide of Simon Lock.’ It was a great event for London. Simon Lock’s estate was found to be in an extremely involved condition, but it realized over a million pounds, which was just about a tenth of what the British public expected. The money, in the absence of a will, went to the heir-at-law, a cousin of the deceased, who was an army contractor, and already very rich. The name of this man and what he did with his million will be familiar to all readers. The heir-at-law never heard anything of the Princesse shares, for Raphael Craig, immediately on the death of his colossal enemy, destroyed the contracts, and made no claim whatever. This act cost him a hundred thousand pounds in loss of actual cash outlay, but he preferred to do it. Raphael Craig died peacefully six months later. Both the girls who had called him father were by that time married—Teresa to Richard and Juana to Nolan, the detective. It was indeed curious that, by the accident of fate, Raphael should have been saved from the consequences of the crime of uttering false coin by the spell exercised by those girls over two separate and distinct detectives. The two detectives—one professional, the other amateur—subsequently went into partnership, Nolan having retired from Scotland Yard. They practise their vocation under the name of ———— ———— But you will have guessed that name, since they are the most famous firm in their own line in England at the present day.

And Richard says to his wife: ‘I should never have saved him. Everything might have been different if your courage had not kindled mine that morning after I swooned by the roadside in Watling Street.’

THE END