DELIRIUM—A RECOGNITION—A DEPARTURE AND A RETURN.

Many times during Murkard's illness Ellison found cause to bless Merton's coming. Not only was his cheerful nature calculated to counteract the horrors of the patient's delirium, but without being asked he took upon himself the invalid's work and made himself invaluable in the store. He was a clever fellow, able to turn his hand to anything; and before he had been a week in the house he had brought himself to be looked upon as quite a member of the family. His singing was a great source of delight to both his host and hostess. Esther, in particular, seemed never tired of listening to him, and it was noticeable that when she was in his audience he sang his best. But he was more than a talented musician, he was a clever talker, had read everything that was worth reading, and boasted a most capacious memory. He could recite, conjure, and ventriloquise better than most professionals, and however hard he might have been working during the day, when evening came he always exerted his talents to please. Once or twice he had volunteered to sit with Murkard, but Ellison could not be brought to permit it. He was afraid to leave them alone together, lest by any chance Murkard should let slip something which it would be inadvisable the other should know. He need not have worried himself, however, for even in his worst delirium Murkard was singularly reticent about the station affairs. Once or twice he spoke of his own past history, but only in the vaguest fashion. His main delusion seemed to be that he had done somebody a grievous wrong by not speaking out on a certain subject, and on this he harped continually.

"You must tell him!" he would reiterate times out of number. "He will never find it out otherwise. You must tell him!" A pause. "Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"

Ellison racked his brains to discover the meaning of this constant self-accusation, but in vain. At times he thought it referred to himself, but what had Murkard to tell him that could cause him so much pain. Then he would ascribe it to some detail of his past, but it was too real and recent for that. In the silence of the night, with only the moan of the waves on the beach, the monotonous voice would cry:

"You must tell him! He is suffering so. He will never find out otherwise. Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"

Once or twice Ellison tried to question him. But it was of little or no use. Only on one occasion could he get anything approaching a clear response from him.

"What is it, old man," he asked, directly the sick man had completed his customary speech, "that you must tell? Can I help you?"

Murkard leaned out of his bed and took his friend by the wrist. His eyes were still strangely bright, and his face was hard set as flint.

"Tell him," he almost hissed, "tell him at once and save his soul. D'you think I haven't watched—aye, watched day and night. The man must be saved, I tell you, and for her sake! For her sake, don't you hear, you fool, you dolt, you ninny? Can't you understand Queen's English when you hear it?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The man must be saved for the woman's sake, and the woman for the man's, and both for the child's. Three in one, and one in three. Isn't that plain enough? God help you if you can't see it as plainly as I can!"

Ellison put the next question with almost a tremble in his voice:

"Who is the man, old friend? Tell me, and let me help you with your trouble."

Murkard picked at the counterpane with quivering fingers.

"In the Hebrew he is called Abaddon, but the Greek hath it Apollyon, ribbed with chains of fire and hung about with chains of gold, silver, and ivory. I wish you could see it as I see it.

It's a pity that you don't understand Queen's English. I don't know exactly that I do myself, because you see my head's a little queer. When I want to think I have to pull my brains round from the back of my head, so to speak. And that's very painful,"—a pause,—"painful for you, dear love, but total extinction for me. I must go away for your honour's sake, don't you see, out into the lonely world. But it really can make no possible difference. Ich hab' Dich geliebt und liebe Dich noch.

'Chaos, crash, and thunder!' Cuthbert, you fool, why didn't you trust me from the very beginning?"

"Trust you about what, old friend?"

Murkard lay back on the pillows again with a sigh.

"You'll excuse me, sir, but I don't think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance.... My lord, I grant you circumstances are against me, but I give you my word——Bah, what's my word worth? I tell you I am not a thief. Guilty, or not guilty? If I plead not guilty it must all come out, and her reputation will be gone forever." He sat up in bed and called with a loud voice: "Guilty, my lord!"

From across the road, in the dead silence that followed, Ellison could hear Merton singing. The song he had chosen was, "Come, live with me and be my love." Evidently Murkard was listening too.

"That voice!" he said slowly. "Now, where the devil have I heard that voice?"

"Lie down, old chap, and try and get some sleep. That'll do you more good than any singing."

Like a little child Murkard did as he was ordered, and in five minutes was fast asleep again. Ellison made everything safe in the hut, and then went quietly back to his own house. Merton had stopped singing, and was now holding a skein of wool for Esther to wind. There was a look on her face that Ellison could not quite understand. It troubled him, and yet he could not exactly tell why.

"Thanks for your music, Merton," he said, as he seated himself in a chair; "I could hear it across the way."

"How is your patient to-night?"

"Asleep now, but he's been very restless."

Merton removed one of his hands to disentangle the wool.

"I suppose you will get rid of the man when he's well enough to go? In my opinion it's hardly safe for Mrs. Ellison to have such a fellow about the place."

Ellison frowned. It was a curious speech for a stranger to make. But then, of course, the other was unaware of the position in which the two men stood to each other. He was about to reply in sharp terms, in spite of the look of fear in Esther's face, when Merton broke in again:

"Forgive me. I know it's like my impertinence to intrude on your affairs. I was only thinking of Mrs. Ellison's safety."

"You may be sure I will take good care of that. I can quite understand your feelings, but you see the trouble is that you don't know all about us. There is a tie between that man and myself that nothing can ever loose."

"I beg your pardon, then, for speaking about it at all."

Esther had risen, and now said "Good-night." She did not look at Merton, merely gave him her hand and then passed from the room. A few moments later Merton wished his host good-night and in his turn departed. Ellison lit his pipe at the lamp, and went into the veranda, preparatory to crossing to the hut, where he had been sleeping of late. Esther was waiting there to say good-night to him. She was leaning against the veranda rails gazing down on the star-lit sea. Ellison stationed himself beside her.

"I thought you had gone to bed, dearie."

"I intended to go, but the house is so hot. I thought I would come out and get cool first."

"I'm afraid you're not very well to-night, little woman?"

"What makes you think that? Yes, I am quite well, thank you. A little tired, perhaps, but quite well."

He passed his arm round her waist. She started as if with surprise.

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously.

"I did not know what it was," she answered. "You frightened me."

"That makes me certain you're not very well. I must have the doctor over to see you to-morrow morning, if you don't feel better."

"I shall be all right in the morning. I think I am over-tired to-night."

"Perhaps Merton's music has given you a headache. I think he thumps a little hard for my taste."

This was scarcely the truth. He had never really thought so, but he wanted to find some reason for her downcast demeanour. She did not answer. Then suddenly, and without any apparent reason, she turned to him, and throwing her arms round his neck, sobbed upon his shoulder as if her heart were breaking.

"Why, Esther, my darling," he cried, this time in real alarm, "what on earth does this all mean? You frighten me, dearest. Try and tell me what is the matter with you." He led her to a chair, placed her in it, and seated himself beside her. "Come, try and tell me what it is, and let me help you. You frighten me dreadfully."

"It is nothing, nothing, nothing; Oh, Cuthbert, my husband, bear with me to-night. Don't be angry with me, I beseech you. You don't know how the memory of this night will always remain with me."

"You are very mysterious to-night. I can't think what you mean."

"Don't ask to be told. Indeed, I could not tell you. I don't know myself. I only know that I am more miserable to-night than I have ever been in my life before."

"And you can't tell me why? Esther, that puts us such a long way apart. I thought we were to be everything to each other, in sorrow as well as happiness!"

"It is ungenerous of you to taunt me with that now, just because I will not gratify your curiosity."

She rose with an offended air, and made as if she would go to her room. He caught her by the wrist and held her. She turned on him almost fiercely!

"You are hurting me! Let me go!"

"Esther, you are very cruel to me to-night. Do you know that?"

"Have you been so kind that you can bring that accusation against me? But there, I won't quarrel with you, even though you seem to want to make me."

"I want to make you quarrel with me, Esther? You know that is not true. You wrong me, on my soul, you do!"

She began to cry again, and fell back into the chair.

"I know I do, I know I do! I cannot do anything right to-night. I can't even think, my brain seems asleep. Oh, forgive me, forgive me!"

He smoothed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead.

"There is nothing to forgive, darling. It was altogether my fault. I wanted to sympathise with you, and I did it in my usual clumsy fashion. It is you who must forgive me."

She still hung her head. Suddenly she raised it and looked him in the face.

"Some day you will hate and despise me, I know. You will curse my name. But before God to-night I swear that—that—that——No, I can't say it. It must go through eternity unsaid, one little word unspoken."

"Dear girl, do you know what you are saying? Don't you think you had better go to bed?"

Without another word she rose and went down the veranda to her room. He sat like a man dazed, turning and twisting her behaviour this way and that in an endeavour to pierce the cloud that seemed to be settling on him. What did she mean by her last speech? What was to be the upshot of all these vague allusions? What was it she had intended to say, and then thought better of? He racked his brains for a solution of the problem, but without success. He could hit on nothing feasible. In a state of perfect bewilderment he went across to the hut and spent a miserable night, only to find at breakfast next morning that she had quite recovered and was her old self once more.

After that night Murkard might be considered convalescent. Like a shadow of the man he used to be, he managed to creep out into the sunshine of the beach, to sit there for hours every day. The bout had been a severe one, and it would be some time before he could be himself again. All this time Ellison allowed no word of reproach to fall from his lips, nor did Murkard offer any apology. But there was a wistfulness in his eyes when they lighted on the other that told a tale of gratitude and of devotion that was plainer than anything words could have uttered. On the third morning of his convalescence he was sitting in his usual spot just below the headland, looking across the blue straits dotted here and there with the sails of luggers, and at the white roofs of the township, when he heard steps approaching. The pedestrian, whoever he might be, was evidently in merry pin, for he was whistling a gay chanson, and seemed to be in the best conceit, not only with himself, but with all the world. Turning the corner, he came directly upon Murkard, who looked up full and fair into his face. It was Merton. If the latter seemed surprised, the effect upon Murkard was doubly so. His eyes almost started from his head, his mouth opened, and his jaw dropped, his colour became ashen in its pallor.

"You—you here!" he cried. "Oh, my God! Is this a horrible dream? I thought you were dead long since."

The other was also a little pale, but he managed to laugh with a pretence of merriment.

"My dear boy, this is the most delightful surprise I have ever experienced. I hope you're not sorry to see me. May I sit down? Well, what a funny thing this is, to be sure. To think that we should meet like this, and here of all places in the world. You've been seriously ill, I'm sorry to hear."

"How long have you been in this place?"

"Nearly a fortnight now. I've seen you a good many times, but you never knew me!"

"I wish I could say that I don't know you now. And what devil's business are you up to here?"

"Amusing myself, as usual. Studying men and manners. Your friends here are very entertaining, the woman particularly so."

"Do they know who you are?"

"George Merton of Brankforth Manor, near Exeter, County Devon, at your service."

He threw himself down on the sands with another merry laugh.

"It's extraordinary, isn't it? our meeting like this. I've often laughed over it. And so your name's Murkard? Silas too, if I'm not mistaken. What a rum beggar you are, to be sure. Do you still take life as seriously as you used to in the old days?"

"You're evidently as cold-blooded a devil as when I last found you out."

"Found me out? My dear fellow, aren't you rather confusing things? Wasn't it the other way round? But seriously, Bur——"

"Silence! My name is Murkard."

"What did I say? Oh, I forgot; pray forgive me. It shan't occur again. Seriously, Murkard, I want you to believe that I have never ceased to regret that terrible business. You must remember you put me in such a position that, though it cut me to the heart to do it, I had no option but to expose you."

"If you had told all you knew you might have saved me. As it was, I had to take the course I did. I could not help myself."

"'Pon my honour, I knew nothing more. The stones were lost. I happened to stumble quite by accident on the baggage and found them there. The baggage was yours—what could I do?"

"Very well. I have at least paid the penalty; we need not discuss the subject further. But one thing must be settled now and forever. What are you going to do?"

"When? Now, do you mean? Well, I think I shall stay here for a month or so longer; and then—well, then I don't quite know what I shall do."

"You will leave here at once—in an hour's time."

"My dear fellow, impossible. Not to be thought of, I assure you."

"Either you or I must go. We cannot both remain."

"Still taking life seriously, I see. Well, I fear in that case it will have to be you. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. I have reasons for staying on. A holiday will do you no harm."

"Supposing I tell Ellison all I know of you."

"He might believe you, but I should think it extremely doubtful. On the other hand, what if I tell him all I know about you? Who you are, for instance, and what drove you out of England?"

Murkard turned, if possible, even paler than before.

"You could not, surely, blackguard as you are, be villain enough for that!"

"My dear fellow, I would do it in an instant if it suited me—and I rather think it would. You see, I have a game to play here, and, by Jove! come what may, I intend to play it. Your presence is detrimental to my interests. I may have to rid myself of you."

"I shall go to Ellison at once, and tell him all."

"You will spike your own guns then, I promise you, and without doing yourself a hap'orth of good. Besides, you will in all probability be putting me to the unpleasant necessity of—but there, you won't—you can't do it."

"Have you let him suspect who I am?"

"Not by one single word or deed. As far as I am concerned, he knows nothing."

"On your honour?—but there, I forget; you have no honour."

"What an extraordinary little chap it is, to be sure! Of course I've no honour. In this commercial age nobody outside the covers of books has. But all the same, I am not in the humour just now to be trifled with. As I say, he knows nothing, and he shall know nothing if you do as I wish. Why not go away for a holiday? you need a change. Come back in a month; I shall be gone then. There's a compact for you. Give me a clear field for a month, and I'll give you my promise not to reveal the fact that I know anything of your past. Will you agree?"

"I must think it over. But what devilry are you up to here? I must know that before I decide. Do you think I'm going to leave him to your mercy? If you do, you're mistaken."

"I am up to no devilry, as you term it. I've got a speculation on hand, and I must watch it. I see a chance of doing a big stroke of business in the pearl market, that was what brought me out here; if you don't interfere I shall make my fortune; if you do I shall take steps to rid myself of you, as I have said. Can't you see you haven't a card in your hand worth playing. If you're a sensible man you'll adopt my suggestion and go away for a day or two, regain your health, then come back, take up your old life again, and everything will go on as before. It's not a very difficult course to steer, surely?"

"If I could only be certain that you are speaking the truth."

"I can't give you my word, because as I am a man without honour you wouldn't accept it as evidence. But if you want proof as to my business—see here."

He took from his pocket a number of letters. Selecting one that bore an English postage stamp, he tossed it across to Murkard. It was from a well-known firm of London pearl merchants, and notified the fact, to whom it might concern, that the bearer, Mr. Merton, was authorised to conduct certain negotiations on their behalf.

"Well," said Murkard, when he had perused the document, "this looks genuine enough. But I don't see that it makes your position here any plainer."

"You surely don't expect me to enter into particulars, do you? At any rate, that's my offer, and consider it well, for it's the last I'll make. If you don't decide to-night, I must tell your employer everything I know about you to-morrow morning. Make no mistake about that."

"I will give you my decision by sundown."

"Very good. In the meantime, let me offer you a cigarette. No? Don't you smoke? A pity! Well, I have the honour to wish you a very good-day."

He raised his hat with ironical politeness, and resumed his walk along the beach, humming as before.

Murkard lay where he was, trying to pull his thoughts together. This was the last straw. He saw all the plans he had formed, all the honourable future he had built up for himself, shattered at one blow. His past had risen and struck him in the face. What was to be done now? Could he trust this man whom he had always known to be unfaithful? He had no option—no option at all. He must go away, or Ellison would discover everything, and then all would be irretrievably lost.

And so the afternoon wore on. The sun sank lower and lower, until he disappeared entirely beneath the horizon. As he sank from view, Murkard made up his mind and rose to his feet. Merton was coming back along the beach. He signalled to him, and they passed together into the shelter of the trees that ran down to the shore. Once there, Murkard turned on him.

"I have been thinking over what you said to me just now."

The other bowed and smiled.

"And with what result?"

"I don't quite know. First and foremost I want you to tell me, in the event of my declining to leave the island, what you will tell my friend about me?"

"Shall I really tell you? You mean it? Very well, then, I will. I'm not going to let you know how I became aware of things—you must guess that for yourself."

"Not so many words. Answer my question."

"In the first place, answer me this: Who is your friend? He calls himself Cuthbert Ellison, but who is he?"

Murkard looked away. This was what he had dreaded.

"How should I know?"

"Well, I'll tell you at least who he is not. He is not the Marquis of St. Burden. When he told his wife that he was he lied to her, as he has lied before, and as he will probably lie again."

"How do you know that he told his wife he was? At least, she has not told you."

"Very probably not. But still I know. Perhaps I learned it from you in your delirium."

Murkard groaned. The man's possession of this secret was the very thing he had feared.

"Now, supposing in addition to telling Ellison who you are, I tell her who he is not—what would you say?"

"I should say you were the most inhuman wretch that ever trod God's earth, and it would be the truth. Don't you know—haven't you seen that that woman worships the very ground he treads on, that she believes every word that falls from his lips? Would you shatter her happiness and trust forever, at one blow, and only to gratify your own miserable ends?"

"Yes, do you know, now I think of it, I even believe I should. But you seem to forget that it would be you who had driven me to it. If you go away it will be to my interest not to tell her. I wish to remain on good terms with both of them until my business here is accomplished. Will you go?"

"Yes; I will go."

"When?"

"To-night. At once. You need have no fear."

"I have none, I assure you. I thought just now you were going to make a fool of yourself. I'm glad you can see reason. And look here, my——Oh, very well, if you would rather not, I won't say it. I shall be at home in three months. If I chance upon any members of your family, shall I tell them where they can find you?"

"You need not trouble yourself. They know."

"Very good. Then our business is accomplished. Now let us part."

"Go on. I will follow you. I decline to be seen in your company."

"My dear boy, that is rude, for you will not have another opportunity."

Without going back to his hut, Murkard walked down to the beach, and asked one of the Kanakas he found there to row him across to the settlement. The man did so, and on his return to the station reported the fact to Ellison, who marvelled, but said nothing. He was expecting that night an important visitor in the shape of a globe-trotting pearl dealer, to whom he had written regarding the black pearl, and he had, therefore, small concern for Murkard's doings. The mail boat had arrived that afternoon, and as she was to go on the same night, their appointment was for six o'clock. Even as the fact of Murkard's absence was reported to him by the native, the dealer's boat was to be seen making its way across the straits. He went down to the beach to receive him.

The newcomer was a tall, gray-haired man, with quick, penetrating eyes, and a general air of shrewdness that his business capabilities did not belie. He greeted Ellison with considerable cordiality, and they walked up to the house together. Merton was lying in the hammock in the veranda, smoking and reading an ancient English newspaper. He got up as the men approached, and Ellison introduced him to the stranger. They then entered the house together. After a little refreshment and conversation Ellison proposed going down to the store. This they accordingly did, leaving Merton to resume his literary studies. He looked after them and smiled, then throwing the paper down he went into the house, where Esther joined him.

When they were alone in the store, Ellison unlocked the safe, and took out the box containing the pearl.

"Your ventures seem to have prospered, Mr. Ellison," said the stranger, as he watched him undo the box containing his treasure. "A black pearl of the size you describe yours to be is indeed a gem worth having."

"Yes, and it could not have come at a better time," replied Ellison. "Things have been very bad here, I can assure you, within the last twelve or fourteen months."

The first box undone, he came upon a second; this was full of cotton wool, but in the centre of it, carefully wrapped up, was the treasure he sought. With obvious care and pride he took it out, and placed it on a sheet of white note-paper upon the counter. It lay there full and black, staring them in the face, as large a pearl as had ever been found in those seas. The dealer was enchanted.

"A wonder—a monster—a marvel!" was all he could say. He took it up, and looked at it from every light; put it down again, and stood off to test its beauty from another standpoint. Then taking it in his hands, he carried it to the door, the better to appraise its value. The light was failing inside the building, but Ellison watched him with an eager face. So much depended on the sale of this pearl. Suddenly the dealer coughed in a peculiar manner, took off, dusted, and put on his glasses again. His mouth went down at one corner, and he scratched his right cheek with the forefinger of his right hand. Still Ellison watched him. He was growing anxious. Was there a flaw in it that he had failed to notice? Finally the stranger walked back to the counter, and put the pearl in its box.

"Well?" said Ellison at last, unable to contain himself any longer, "what do you think is its value?"

The stranger paused before replying. Then he spoke; his tone made Ellison stare harder than before.

"As a jewel or as a curiosity?"

"As a jewel, of course."

"Nothing; absolutely nothing! As a curiosity, possibly half a crown. Mr. Ellison, you will, I hope, forgive a little natural irritation on my part, but I cannot help feeling sorry that one of our most trusted customers should play us such a trick."

"What do you mean? Good God, man! what are you insinuating?"

"I am not insinuating anything. If you wish me to state my meaning in a clearer way, I can only say that I marvel at your impudence in trying to palm off an imitation on us—a good imitation, I'll grant you, for it deceived me for a moment, but nevertheless an imitation."

Ellison fell back against the counter ashen to the lips. "An imitation!" he, cried. "You tell me that that pearl is an imitation? Why I opened the oyster with my own hands!"

The dealer smiled incredulously.

"I'm afraid I must be getting back to the settlement. My boat sails to-night, you know."

"D—— your boat! Oh, my gracious! can it be possible that you are right?"

His breath came from him in great jerks, the veins on his temples stood out like whipcord. The dealer glanced at him curiously. His did not look like the face of a guilty man.

"Mr. Ellison, either you have attempted to deceive us or you have been the victim of a heartless swindle. I cannot say which, but by the look of your face I incline to the latter belief. That pearl—at least that imitation—is remarkably clever. If the gem you found was anything like it in size, shape, and colour, I would willingly have given you a very large sum for it. As it is, that is worthless. But I must really be going now."

Ellison was too stunned to reply. The dealer walked back to his boat alone. He did not quite know what to make of it.

"At any rate," he said to himself, "if he's the guilty party he won't try that game on us again."

Meanwhile, Ellison sat in the store too dazed and sick to be conscious of anything but his loss. He had been grossly and cruelly swindled by somebody. He had yet to find out who that somebody was. As it was, he was now unable to pay off that loan, that guilt had come back upon his soul to roost. And every day the time was coming closer. He was——But there, he could not think of it now. He must try and pull himself together, or his reason would go as well. He had no thought of time, no thought of anything but his loss. He began to pace the hut with feverish impatience. What should he do first? To whom should he turn for advice and help? Why had Murkard not been there to assist him? As he thought this, he heard steps on the path outside. It was Merton. As usual, he was in the best of spirits.

"My dear old fellow, are you in here in the dark? Mrs. Ellison and I have been wondering what on earth had become of you. Dinner has been on the table this half hour. Where's your mysterious friend? Wouldn't he like to come to my room to wash his hands?"

"He's gone, Merton. And I'm in awful trouble."

"I'm sorry to hear it. I began to fancy something was up when you didn't make your appearance. Here, let's have a light on the scene."

He struck a match and lit the office lamp. Having done so, he looked at Ellison. His surprise found vent in a little cry.

"My dear chap, you do looked hipped indeed. Hold on a second."

He fled the scene, to return two minutes later with the whiskey bottle and a glass. Having given him a strong dose of the spirit, he said:

"Sit yourself down and try and tell me all about it. Who knows but what I may be in a position to help you?"

Thereupon Ellison told him everything.

"By Jove!" was the rejoinder, "I don't like the look of things at all. It's a bad business—a very bad business. Somebody has evidently found out about the pearl, got a duplicate made, and palmed it off on you. Is it possible to have one made here, d'you think?"

"Nothing easier. Any of the Cinghalese over the way could make one."

"Then he must have got one there, taken the real one, and substituted this in place of it. Now whom have you told about it? Think well."

"Nobody—bar Murkard, and of course he does not count. Why, I have never even told you."

"I'm precious glad you haven't, or you might have fancied I had purloined it. Well, we must dismiss Murkard from our minds; he is like CÆsar's wife, above suspicion. Now who had admittance to that safe? Any duplicate keys?"

"Only one."

"And who has that?"

"Murkard. It is necessary that he should have one, as I am so often away."

"Humph! This is certainly a tangled skein. Has anyone been away from the island within the last few days?"

"Not a soul."

"Well, we must roust out Murkard, and see if he can help us."

"He's not here."

"Not here—what d'ye mean? I saw him here this afternoon."

"He went across to the township at sundown, just before the dealer came."

Merton whistled.

"Look here, Ellison, you believe, though I've only known you a short time, that I'm a firm friend of yours, don't you?"

"Of course I do. You need not ask that."

"Well, I'm going to hit you pretty hard on a soft spot. You'll hate me for it, but as things are now I can't help that. This is not a time for half measures."

"What are you driving at?"

"Hold on, and you'll see. How long have you known Murkard?"

"No, no! it won't do, Merton. That dog won't fight. You needn't bring Murkard into the business at all. He knows nothing of it, I'll stake my life."

"Don't be foolish. I only ask you how long you've known him?"

"About three years."

"What was he when you knew him first?"

"Well, to tell the truth, he was in very much the same condition as myself."

"A dead-beat—beach-comber?"

"Well, if you put it like that—yes!"

"You know nothing of his history?"

"Nothing. He's not the sort of man to talk of his past."

"I believe you. Well, look here, Ellison, I'm going to tell you his past."

"How do you know it?"

"Never mind, it is enough that I do know it."

"Well, I don't want to hear it. You'll never make me think him guilty, so don't waste your breath trying."

"Perhaps not, but you must know his career. You owe it to yourself, and, pardon my saying so, you owe it to your wife to hear it."

"We'll leave my wife out of the question, thank you."

"Very good. That is of course your own affair. I will be as brief as I can. You must put two and two together yourself. In the first place, Murkard is not his name—what it is, does not matter. I'm an old friend of his family, so I dare not tell you. He started life with everything in his favour, consequently his fall was the greater."

"How did he fall?"

"He was deeply in debt. To get out of his difficulties he appropriated—I won't use a stronger term—some diamonds belonging to a lady in whose house he was staying. She was reluctantly compelled to prosecute, and he received a sentence of five years' penal servitude. He served his time, and then vanished from England and the ken of all those who knew him."

"Is this true, or are you lying to me?"

"Ellison, if you were not a little off your balance, I should resent that question. I am a man of honour, and I don't tell lies."

"I beg your pardon. I am not myself by a great deal to-night. Forgive me. Poor Murkard!"

"Poor devil! Yes, you may well say that. But don't you see, Ellison, if that happened once it might happen again. What is the evidence? You would not cheat yourself out of a valuable pearl, would you? What else could get at the safe? Only Murkard. He has been ill—delirious. Perhaps the value of the thing preyed upon his mind, and he may have taken it out of the safe while off his head. That is the charitable conclusion to come to. At any rate, his disappearance to-day is a point against him, you must admit that. If I were you I would certainly not believe him guilty till I had proved it, but just as certainly I should try to find him and see if he knows anything about it. D'you know, I rather think you owe as much, in common fairness, to him. If he denies any knowledge of the affair—well, in that case you must decide for yourself whether you know him well enough to believe him. Don't you think I'm right?"

"I do. Honestly, I do."

"Very well then. Pack your traps, pull yourself together, and go across and see if you can find him. You'll know the truth the sooner—or, perhaps, what would be better, let me go."

"No, no! that's not to be thought of. I'll go at once. But may I be forgiven for entertaining a doubt of him."

He picked up his hat, which had fallen from his head in his excitement, and went out of the store and down the hill towards the boats. Springing into one he shoved off and set to work to pull himself across to the settlement. It was quite dark, but the lights from the houses guided him, and before he had made up his mind where first to look for Murkard he was alongside the jetty. His thoughts flew back across the year to the night when he had waited there at those self-same steps for Esther. How his life had changed since then!

Tying up the boat, he set off for the Hotel of All Nations, expecting to find Murkard there. But he had left the place, and it was said had gone along the beach in the direction of the Pearlers' Rest. He followed and inquired in the bar, but again without success. He had not been seen there. From that hostelry he passed on to another and yet another, but with no greater result. Murkard was not to be found. At last, on the sea-front again, he chanced upon a pearler who had met him heading round the hill-side. This was a clue, and throwing new energy into his walk he set off after him. It was the same road they had followed together the evening of the famous fight, and it looked as if he should find Murkard at the self-same spot where they had camped that night. Nor was he disappointed. As he turned the bend of the hill he caught sight of a figure outlined against the starlight. There was no mistaking that angular back. He pushed on the faster, calling "Murkard!" As he came towards it, the figure turned and said:

"What do you want with me?"

"My dear old fellow, what a chase you have given me. What is the matter with you? What on earth made you leave us as you did? I can tell you I have been quite anxious about you."

Murkard came towards him and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

"That is not the reason you are here, Ellison. You cannot deceive me. There is something behind it all. What is the matter? Nothing wrong with your wife?"

He spoke with feverish eagerness.

"No, there is nothing the matter with my wife. But, my gracious, something else is terribly wrong!"

Murkard clutched him by the arm and looked into his face.

"Well—well—why don't you go on? Why don't you tell me all?"

"Because I can't, old friend, I can't. I despise myself enough as it is for having listened to such a thing."

"I can see something pretty bad has happened, and Merton has suggested to you that I am the guilty party. Good! Now tell me with what I am charged? Don't be afraid. I shall not think the worse of you."

"The Black Pearl!"

"Gone? Yes, gone! I can read it in your face. The thief, oh, the infernal, lying, traitorous thief! I see it all now. Oh, Ellison! you have been trapped—cruelly, heartlessly trapped! But, please God, it is not too late to set it right, whatever the cost may be."

"How? Speak out. What do you mean? What fresh villainy am I to discover now?"

"Listen to me. Has that man told you my history?"

"Yes."

"Who I really am?"

"No. But he told me that you were convicted of a theft in England, and received five years' penal servitude. Forgive me, Murkard, for listening to him—but I could not help it."

"You were right to listen, and he told the truth. I was convicted, and I served the sentence, but now you shall know everything. I ought to have warned you months ago, but I thought you would never find it out. For pity's sake, don't think too harshly of me—but—but—well, I am the man you pretended to be. I—am—the—Marquis of St. Burdan!"

Ellison did not speak, but he made a noise as if he were choking. Murkard again put his hand on his shoulder.

"You were a true friend to me. I heard you tell the lie, and I saw how the woman who is now your wife worshipped and trusted you. I knew it would kill her faith in you if she found you out, so I resolved not to betray myself or you. When you wanted money I forgot the pride that had made me swear never to take anything from my family's hands again, and cabled through the Government Resident for assistance. Why I made you take that step I cannot tell you—you must only guess, at any rate! That money I placed to your credit in the bank, and day by day, knowing your secret, I have watched and loved you for your repentance and for the brave way you slaved to repay it. Then this man came and somehow learned your secret. He ordered me to leave the station, or he would tell your wife that you had—had lied to her, and were not the man she believed you to be. To-night, for your sake, I came away, and walked here to think out what course I should pursue. Enlightenment has come. I see everything now. While I was ill that man, who must have found out about the pearl, stole my key, unlocked the safe, had a counterfeit made, and intends to bolt with the real one. Are you aware that he has been making love to your wife?"

"I know that now. While you have been speaking I, too, have had my eyes opened. It is not necessary to say I believe what you have told me, Murkard; but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. I will go back now and deal with him."

"You forgive me, Cuthbert?"

"Forgive you? No, no! It must be the other way about, it is for you to forgive me!"

"Freely, freely, if I have anything to forgive. Now what do you intend to do?"

"Go home and turn him off the place. That's what I shall do."

"No! You must do nothing of the kind. Somebody must watch him, and I will do it. Possibly we may find out what he has done with the pearl. Then we shall catch him in his own toils, and I shall be even with him for his treachery to me."

"What did he once do to you?"

"I cannot tell you the real shame, but it was on his evidence that I was condemned. He was staying in the house at the time."

"Murkard, I could give my oath you were not guilty."

"And you would be right. I was not. But I had to plead guilty all the same to save what a worthless woman miscalled her honour. That man knew my secret, and traded on it to my ruin."

"Come, let us get back to the station. I cannot breathe freely until I have rid myself of him."

"When we get there—you must not let my presence be known. I shall hide and watch him."

"I agree. Let us be going."

They went back round the hill and by a circuitous track to the jetty. In less than a quarter of an hour they were back at the station and walking up the path towards the house.