F. Marion Crawford

The wind was fresh from the south-west, with rain, and the night was dark. The balloon was driving along at a dangerous rate, considering the low altitude.

“I give it up,” said Bob Trevelyan, who had not spoken for a long time. “We’ve been travelling five hours, and I haven’t the vaguest idea where we are.”

“Does it matter much?” inquired Jocelyn lazily.

For he was comfortable where he was, and hoped that it would go on a long time, since he was pleasantly close to Anne Trevelyan in the bottom of the car. No one who has not been up in a gale can have any idea of the profound quiet which seems to enfold the balloon as it is borne noiselessly along in the arms of the wind, perhaps at thirty or forty miles an hour. If it rains, you hear the drops pattering on the envelope overhead; if you are near the ground at night, the howling of the wind through the unseen trees comes up to you in a rather dismal way; but no matter how hard it blows, there is peace and tranquillity in the car.

Anne Trevelyan and her friend Lady Dorothy Wynne were poring over a map, by the light of an electric lamp which Jocelyn held for them.

“It might matter a little,” Anne said, looking up with a laugh as she spoke; “for the only thing that is quite certain is that we are bound to get to the sea pretty soon. I think I’ll have a look.”

She got up, and all three scrambled to their feet and peered over the edge of the car.

“It really is rather a dirty night,” observed Lady Dorothy, with great calm.

“Distinctly,” said Anne, admitting what could not be denied.

Jocelyn said nothing, for he knew that a woman who is inaccessible to physical fear is much more reckless than any brave and sensible man has a right to be, and he was beginning to wonder what the end would be like, and how many arms and legs, or even necks, would be broken before morning. For it was his first ascent, and though he was not scared he realised that there was danger.

There had been a good deal of delay at the start, and the breeze had been light from the south during most of the afternoon, though the sky had been threatening. The wind had strengthened, however, as it hauled to the south-west, and at dusk it had freshened to a gale. Then the darkness had come on quickly, almost suddenly, as it does even on land, when the sky blackens with heavy clouds just at sunset. It was now quite impossible to distinguish anything on the face of the earth below, but all around the horizon there was a faint belt of grey, which was not light, but was not quite pitch darkness. The ominous moaning of the wind amongst the trees began to make itself heard.

“It’s not wildly gay here,” said Lady Dorothy. “Can’t you manage to get above the clouds?”

Bob pointed to the inky sky overhead. “Those clouds are half a mile thick,” he said quietly. “There you are! We’re in another!”

“How are we off for ballast?” inquired Anne, as the chilly fog filled the car.

“Six bags gone already, and only two left,” Bob answered with grim calm.

“Not really?” cried Dorothy in some dismay.

“Yes. How can you expect any balloon to keep up in this rain? She’s being battered down by it. We are getting lower every minute.”

At that moment the balloon shivered like a live thing, and flapped her loose sides. Bob shovelled some sand overboard.

“We’ll keep the last bag,” he said; “but to-morrow’s breakfast must go. Pass me the bottle of milk—that’s heavy.”

Jocelyn got a big stoneware bottle from the basket by the light of the electric lamp, and gave it to Trevelyan.

“Don’t murder anybody below,” he said.

Bob dropped the thing overboard, and almost immediately a dull thud was heard out of the darkness as it struck the earth. But there was no sound of breaking; they were over a meadow or a ploughed field.

“Give me that pie,” said Bob. “Wasn’t there a magnum of champagne somewhere? It’s got to go too.”

“Hullo! What’s that?” cried Anne joyfully. “I believe it’s the moon, and we’re out of the clouds!”

“By Jove!” ejaculated Jocelyn, who was not easily surprised, and was not at all enthusiastic about the beauties of nature.

The inky cloud had not been so deep as Bob had supposed, and the balloon, responding the instant her ballast was lightened, had struck upwards to the clear outer air; the moon had risen, and was still almost full, and in the far sky, beyond her radiance, the stars twinkled softly as on a summer night.

The four young people almost held their

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“The huge black shadow of the balloon ran swiftly over it.”

breath while they were silently borne along in a vision of transcendent beauty. Beneath them, the dark clouds had been whirling in the gale that tore and churned and wrung them with its unseen airy hands; above, there was the peace of heaven itself and the loveliness of earth’s first moonlight on the evening after the first day. The moving mass of cloud below looked suddenly motionless, vast and solid as grey rock, and the huge black shadow of the balloon and the car ran swiftly over it, clear and sharply outlined.

It only lasted a few minutes, for the heavy rain had soaked everything and a descent was inevitable. Soon the wet fog rose and closed overhead again, the moon took strange opalescent colours, and was dimmed and then disappeared, as the balloon sank steadily into the storm.

“If we had only had a fine night, we could have got to Scotland,” said Dorothy Wynne, in a tone of profound regret.

“Don’t you be too sure!” answered Bob. “With this wind it looks more like the North Sea!”

“Then if our ballast had held out we could have got across to Norway,” retorted the young lady, who was not to be daunted by trifles.

But at this moment the car jerked violently, throwing all its four occupants against one side of itself. It turned and rolled and jumped like a skiff in a breaking sea.

“Hang on, girls!” cried Bob Trevelyan. “We’re on our trial rope already!”

The two young women were already hanging on by the rigging for dear life; and Jocelyn was making it especially easy for Anne to hang on. Indeed, she had a sensation which was very like being carried along in his arms—which surprised her, for she knew she was not particularly light in spite of her slim waist. A slender ash sapling can be as heavy as a common pine nearly twice its size.

Presently the jerking was varied by a violent wrench, which laid the car on its side, and almost upset it.

“Bad for that tree-top,” observed Bob, as the balloon sailed away again. “What next, I wonder? Does any one see anything? One ought to, with that moon up there; but it’s as dark as Erebus.”

“It’s the blackest moonlight night I’ve ever known,” laughed Anne.

Possibly she found it more amusing than the other did, and she certainly felt more safe than Lady Dorothy possibly could. Jocelyn was a surprisingly strong young man, and may have exaggerated her danger a little.

“I believe we are over a desert island,” said her friend cheerfully. “I’ve not seen any lights for an age.”

The conversation was interrupted by a tremendous wrench, and the car was wrestling with another tree-top.

“That was a rather thrilling moment!” laughed Anne Trevelyan.

“I tell you what,” said Bob, not laughing at all, “at the first open space we come to, down we go! We’re sinking every minute, and I don’t want to stop her with my nose against the next oak we strike.”

He spoke quietly, but the others understood their danger, and all four peered down over the edge of the car in breathless silence, while the balloon moved on in a series of irregular bounds, as the trail-rope encountered more or less resistance. A faint grey line now became visible ahead, where the belt of trees ended.

“If we clear the trees, I’ll pop the valve,” said Bob quietly. “There must be open ground beyond. Be ready with the anchor, Anne; Jocelyn will help you. It’s a night for the ripping line, and I’ll manage that myself.”

All four clung to the rigging in silence for some moments. Then the report of the suddenly opened valve rang through the air like a muffled gunshot. Two seconds passed, not more, and Bob ripped.

“Look out for the bump, girls!”

The fast sinking car descended, slanting on the wind, till it struck the ground with considerable force and was instantly overturned. The four clung on with all their might, almost where they were, while Trevelyan ripped again; the balloon swayed wildly, darted forward a couple of yards, wrenching the car along after it, and then collapsed like a dying game-cock.

Bob crawled out of the wreck first, and then helped the others, and in the gloom the two young girls silently straightened their hats; for that is the first impulse of feminine humanity after an accident. If a woman could be raised from the dead by radium, which begins to look possible, she would straighten her hat before doing anything else.

“This is all very well, but where are we?” asked Lady Dorothy, as soon as that was done.

“In a meadow,” answered Jocelyn. “Lucky it’s not a ploughed field.”

“What a night!” groaned the young girl.

For they had been dry and comfortable under the vast shelter of the inflated balloon, but they were now almost instantly soaked through and through by the lashing rain, and the two girls staggered as they stood up and faced the raging gale. Again Jocelyn’s arm was very useful to Miss Anne.

“We must make for shelter at once,” her brother said. “After all, we are in England, and we can’t be very far from civilisation. No one will steal the balloon on a night like this.”

“The old thing looks comfortable enough,” observed Jocelyn. “Rather done, though!”

He and Anne followed her brother and Dorothy, who led the way, linking arms and bending their heads to the storm, while they waded through what felt like a field of wet bathing sponges. Against the dim grey light they could see the trees over which they had lately passed, writhing and twisting in the gale.

“If this is a meadow, it’s a pretty big one,” said Anne.

At that moment Bob uttered an exclamation: he and his companion had struck a narrow path covered with fine white gravel that gleamed in the uncertain light.

“We’re in a park!” cried Trevelyan. “What luck! That means a good-sized house, at all events.”

“And a possible dinner,” added Lady Dorothy cheerfully.

But Jocelyn and Anne said nothing, because they were so busy in helping each other to walk. All four tramped steadily along the path for a couple of hundred yards or more, till they brought up short before an insurmountable obstacle that suddenly loomed up out of the dark; it was nothing less than a stone wall, at least fifteen feet high, which evidently enclosed the grounds, and seemed to be topped by a row of murderous-looking split spikes. The path turned aside some twenty feet from it, and seemed to wander away aimlessly towards the trees.

“This is an odd sort of place we’ve dropped into!” said Lady Dorothy; and all four stood in a row and stared at the forbidding wall.

“They evidently don’t encourage trespassers,” observed Trevelyan.

“Only an idiot would waste all that money,” said Jocelyn, who was still hard up, and momentarily looked at everything from the financial point of view.

“I rather wish we were on the other side of it,” Anne said.

“You’ll be left waiting, dear,” answered Lady Dorothy, who adored American slang.

“Follow the path,” Jocelyn advised. “It must lead to the house in the end.”

There was clearly nothing else to be done, and for some minutes no sound was heard but the regular tread of four pairs of strong shoes crunching the fine gravel, and the swish of the driving rain, and the howling of the wind in the trees not far off. They could still see the wall stretching away into the gloom.

Suddenly, there were lights in the distance, and a big house loomed against the stormy sky; an ugly, square, uninviting house, as they saw in a few minutes, for the sight had revived their spirits, and they walked faster. Before long they struck the drive, towards which the path led, and across the gravelled space to the front door. Trevelyan rang, and the others huddled round him on the steps, to get shelter from the rain.

A footman in a quiet brown livery opened in a few moments, and they did not notice that he seemed exceedingly surprised when he saw them; indeed, his astonishment was altogether out of proportion to the circumstances, for his jaw dropped, and he gasped audibly. All the four were dazzled by the blaze of light from the vestibule, after having been so long out of doors in the dark, and did not notice the man’s manner. Trevelyan at once explained what brought them; and as soon as the footman understood, he let them in, shut and locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went off, muttering something about the master of the house.

A few moments later the latter appeared in person, in evening dress, and carrying his napkin in his hand, having evidently left his dinner in the utmost haste. Though tired and half stupefied by the storm, the four aËronauts were strongly impressed by his personality. He was by no means an ill-looking man, yet there was something extraordinary and almost terrifying in his appearance. He was tall, lean, strongly made, and of a dark complexion, with smooth iron-grey hair; his jaw was broad and square, his lips thin and determined. One sees many such men in England, but not with eyes like his. They were round, but deep-set, and they were at once luminous and hard, like those of the nobler birds of prey. I know a tamer of wild beasts who has just such eyes as those; one would almost say that he could not shut the lids if he tried, even for sleep, and it is easy to

“‘We are awfully sorry to intrude on your privacy in this way,’ he said.”

understand why the big tigers slink down and crouch under them, watching him cautiously, as if his look would kill.

Trevelyan spoke first. “We are awfully sorry to intrude on your privacy in this way,” he said, remembering the spiked wall of the park, and reflecting that it looked as forbidding as its owner. “We are balloonists, and were caught in the storm, and had to come down where we could, for fear of being blown out to sea—and it happened to be in your grounds. Is the sea far off?”

“A quarter of a mile,” answered the master of the house, in a deep, quiet voice, much as a tamer speaks to his lions.

Anne and Dorothy exchanged glances.

“Then, considering what a narrow escape we’ve had,” Trevelyan continued, “I hope you won’t mind our having trespassed.”

At the last word a smile dawned on the grim face of the master of the house. “I fancy you are the first people who have ever succeeded in trespassing here,” he said.

“I should think so!” cried Lady Dorothy. “We saw your wall.”

They were beginning to think it strange that they were not asked to come in, and Trevelyan was a trifle impatient. “Should you mind very much if we came in and dried ourselves a bit?” he asked. “The ladies are soaking.”

“And I am very sorry to bother you,” added Dorothy, “but really we are starving. We had to throw all our eatables overboard as ballast, you see.”

The master of the house did not answer at once, and seemed absorbed in his reflections. He thoughtfully stroked his long upper lip. “By all means,” he said at last, very slowly. “Of course! Come in, and make yourselves as comfortable as you can.”

The vestibule in which this conversation had taken place opened upon a hall of moderate size and plainly furnished, where a coal fire was burning brightly. The host drew aside to let them pass in, and they began to warm themselves. He looked up, apparently in some inexplicable perplexity.

“Where have you come from?” he asked.

“From London,” Trevelyan answered. “Is there any way of going back to-night? By-the-bye, where are we?”

“You’re in Yorkshire, and the nearest station is Hamley, six miles from here.”

“By Jove!” ejaculated Jocelyn, on learning that he was not forty miles from King’s Follitt. “What’s the last train to York?”

“Eight thirty-seven,” answered the host, and he looked at his watch. “It’s almost that now. No train before to-morrow morning, I’m sorry to say. You’re nearly five miles from any other house, too.”

Then Lady Dorothy Wynne, who had a sweet low voice, turned it to its most persuasive tone. “I’m very, very sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid we shall have to trespass on your kindness still further, and ask shelter for the night.”

Again the master of the house stroked his upper lip with a thoughtful expression before answering. His reluctance to offer any hospitality to the dripping party was quite apparent, and he looked at the waiting footman, who looked at him.

From far away the sound of voices, talking and laughing, reached the hall in the silence that followed Dorothy’s speech. Clearly there was a large party at dinner.

“By all means! Of course!” The host used the very words he had used before. “I can certainly put you up, though I’ve rather a large party in the house. Never mind; there is always room for more. John, call Mrs. Williams.”

During the footman’s absence Trevelyan thought it was at last time to introduce the party. “My name is Trevelyan,” he said. “This is Lady Dorothy Wynne, and this is my sister.”

“My name is Follitt,” said Jocelyn, speaking for himself.

The man’s peculiar eyes turned from one face to the other as he heard the names, and nodded slightly. A tamer might inspect a new set of wild beasts with much the same look while making up his mind how to treat each. “My name is Steele,” he answered. “I hope you will soon be none the worse for your wetting.”

The arrival of Mrs. Williams at this juncture rendered an answer unnecessary. She looked half a governess and half a housekeeper; she was a quiet, superior sort of person, with a stiff starched collar and gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and she wore a black silk dress, with a large bunch of keys at her side.

Mr. Steele spoke to her very slowly and distinctly. “These ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “have descended in the grounds with their balloon. There is no train to-night, as you know, and there is no other place to which they can go, so they must tarry here till to-morrow morning. There are still some empty bedrooms, I think?”

“Three, sir. There are Five, Six, and Seven in the new wing unoccupied.”

Mr. Steele nodded, and looked at Mrs. Williams, and then at the footman. Trevelyan was sure that they exchanged a glance of intelligence.

“You may find my house-party rather mixed,” said the host, almost with geniality, now that he had at last made up his mind. “The fact is, I have a sort of gathering of relations and distant connections. I like to see many people about me, of all ages. You won’t mind dining with us? We had just sat down when you came, so that there is plenty of time. I daresay you will be glad to go to bed directly afterwards. You must be very tired, I’m sure.”

He said a few words to Mrs. Williams in an undertone, leading the way with her to the stairs, and she answered by a quick succession of nods. The others followed, and went up after her, while Mr. Steele went back to his guests.

The bedrooms to which the housekeeper showed the party lacked individuality, and though they were thoroughly comfortable, there was not the least attempt at luxury, or even good taste. The furniture was new, but very plain, and the chintz was fresh, but utterly uninteresting, if not quite hideous. A few cheap prints hung on the walls.

“I’m sure there’s no lady of the house,” said Anne to Dorothy, and she proceeded to extract information from the housekeeper.

Mr. Steele was not married. He had no near relations—at least, not in the house; but he liked to be surrounded by many people, and the place was generally full. Mrs. Williams would say no more, or possibly there was nothing more to be said; but she did her best to make the newcomers comfortable, and produced dry skirts and shoes for the ladies.

A few minutes later they were all ushered into the dining-room, where at least five-and-twenty men were seated at a big table. All turned their heads and looked curiously at the newly-arrived guests.

Mr. Steele rose to meet the latter as they entered. There were four vacant places on his left.

“Will you and Miss Trevelyan sit together by me,” he said, speaking to Lady Dorothy, “and the two gentlemen beyond?”

The arrangement seemed a singular one; but the four took their seats, and as Jocelyn slipped in next to Anne, her brother was the only one who found himself beside a stranger.

He glanced at his neighbour, who was a mild-eyed, benevolent old gentleman, whose smooth grey hair was neatly parted and brushed over his ears. He wore a single stud with a large carbuncle set in it, and he had black silk mittens on his bony little hands. He returned Trevelyan’s glance pleasantly, and then went on eating his fish with a faint smile.

Mr. Steele began to talk with Lady Dorothy, and though his voice was not loud, it seemed to dominate the conversation as far as she was concerned, so that she heard no one else.

“May I ask if Mr. and Miss Trevelyan are connected with the Dorsetshire family of that name?” he inquired, after a few preliminary phrases.

“They are the Dorsetshire Trevelyans themselves,” answered Lady Dorothy. “He is the eldest son.”

“Oh, indeed—indeed,” repeated Mr. Steele, thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he added quietly; “it was mere curiosity. Do you go in for any sport besides ballooning? Golf, for instance? We have excellent links here, and we play a good deal.” He spoke louder, and looked down the table. “Mr. Weede over there is one of our crack players.”

At this remark a pale young clergyman in spectacles, who sat at the other end of the table, looked up with a deprecatory smile.

“You will make me vain of my poor accomplishment, if you say such things,” he said humbly. “Remember the Preacher, Mr. Steele: ‘Vanity of vanities, all is not vanity that glitters!’”

Lady Dorothy laughed kindly in an encouraging way, because he seemed so humble. But every one at once began to talk of golf, almost excitedly.

“My friends are almost all very fond of out-of-door games,” said Mr. Steele to Lady Dorothy, as if in explanation.

“Do you mind telling me who that good-looking man is?” she asked. “The third from the other end on the left? The one with the grey moustache and a tired face, who looks like an old soldier.”

“Trevelyan is his name, and he is an old army man. But do tell me something about your trip,” Mr. Steele went on quickly: “you must have had a terrible time of it in such a storm.”

“It wasn’t very successful,” the young girl answered carelessly; “but we get used to all sorts of weather in balloons, you know. The last time I was up, we came down rather suddenly in a cricket field where there was a match going on. I remember that I got some most extraordinary bruises! I can’t help looking at that man—Mr. Trevelyan, you say he is. I see why you asked about my friend here—they may be connections. Where does this one belong?”

“He’s a Lincolnshire man,” answered the host briefly, and as if he did not care about him.

“Oh, the ‘mad’ Trevelyans, we call them! Then he is really a connection of my friend. Their grandfathers were cousins, I believe. What is this one’s first name?”

“Randolph, I believe. I’ve never made an ascent in a balloon. I should really like to know whether it’s a new sensation worth trying. Do you mind telling me how it struck you, the first time you rose above a cloud?”

“Cosy,” Lady Dorothy answered without hesitation—“distinctly cosy! There’s never any tiresome wind in a balloon, you know, as there is on a yacht, to blow you about. It goes along with you, and it’s so amusing to travel very fast and yet not feel that you are moving at all. And there’s always some excitement when you come down, for it’s never twice alike, and of course bones are only bones after all, and you always may break one or two. I suppose that’s where the sport comes in.”

At this moment a distant peal of thunder was heard above the general conversation. Lady Dorothy looked at her host, as if expecting him to say something in answer to her explanations; but his expression had changed, and he seemed suddenly preoccupied.

“I’m glad we’re not in the balloon now,” she said. “The gale is going to end in a regular thunderstorm!”

Mr. Steele was speaking to the butler in a low voice. “Have those curtains drawn closer,” Lady Dorothy heard him say, “and be quick as you can with the rest of the dinner!”

It was clear that either he, or some of his guests, were nervous about thunder and lightning. A second peal, much nearer than the first, made the windows rattle. The conversation, which had already dropped to a lower key, now ceased altogether, and a sort of embarrassed silence followed, while most of the diners glanced nervously round the room and towards the tall windows. Mr. Steele looked as if he were bracing himself to meet an unexpected danger; his brows were knitted, his stern mouth was tightly shut, and he was evidently scanning the faces of his guests with anxiety.

“Do you often have bad thunderstorms here?” Lady Dorothy asked, to attract his attention and break the silence.

“Seldom,” he answered abstractedly, and not looking at her. “Most of my guests dislike them very much.”

“How very odd!”

She glanced down the table, and saw the nice-looking Mr. Trevelyan leaning far back in his chair, his eyes half closed and his face very white.

Mr. Steele made an attempt to revive the conversation, talking in loud tones to the whole table about a lawn tennis tournament, for which he said there would be a number of pretty prizes.

Bob Trevelyan was eating steadily, and took no interest in what was going on. Suddenly he felt that the benevolent old gentleman was plucking at his sleeve very quietly. He turned, and saw that his neighbour was earnestly gazing at him. At that moment a third peal rang out, and the glasses on the table trembled.

“Did he tell you who I am?” asked the old gentleman in an undertone, and bending his head towards the master of the house.

“I beg your pardon: no—I don’t think I was introduced,” Bob answered.

“He would have told you that I am Mr. Simpson; and so I was,” said the grey-haired man. “But that,” he added in low and tragic tones, “was by another mother. I am the Dowager Empress of China, and I am here incognito, disguised as a man.”

“What in the world do you mean?” asked Trevelyan, very much taken aback.

“It is a sad story, and a long one.” The old gentleman shook his head mysteriously. “They thought I took too active a part in politics. Possibly I did, but at the time of the Boxer riots many outrageous doings were unjustly traced to me. I give you my solemn assurance, on the word of an empress, that I did not order the attack on the Legations! Do you believe me, or not?”

He gazed at Bob with fixed eyes, but Trevelyan could only stare back in blank surprise.

“They brought me here in tea chests,” he continued earnestly, “disguised as a Chinese idol. It was a terrible humiliation. The Empress-mother in Pekin, who gives audiences, is a painted doll with a gramophone inside her, which quite accounts for her remarkably accurate memory.”

Mr. Steele overheard this singular statement. “Really, Mr. Simpson,” he said in stern tones, “I must beg you not to poke fun at Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Trevelyan!” cried the nice-looking man at the other end, bending forward in his chair to see Bob’s face. “Did you say Trevelyan?”

“Yes,” Bob answered, also leaning forward—“that’s my name. Why?”

“It’s mine too,” answered the other excitedly. “Are you Dorset or Lincolnshire?”

“Dorsetshire,” Bob answered promptly.

Every one was listening now, and Mr. Steele seemed very anxious, to judge by his face.

“If you were a Lincolnshire Trevelyan I’d break your neck directly after dinner,” observed the nice-looking man, and he suddenly grew calm again, and seemed to take no further interest in Bob.

The latter began to understand; and when the Empress of China suddenly dissolved in tears and repeated that hers was a very, very sad story, he had no doubts left as to where he and his friends were.

At this point the Rev. Mr. Weede pointed a thin finger at Lady Dorothy, and addressed the company in pulpit tones. “Providence,” he said, “in its inscrutable wisdom, has been pleased to afflict our dear sister with the delusion that she entered these consecrated precincts in a balloon. The prayers of the congregation are requested for—”

“Mr. Weede,” cried Mr. Steele in ringing tones, “I must insist that you do not indulge in jests unworthy of a gentleman and not befitting your cloth!”

The young golfing clergyman smiled blandly, quite unabashed, and answered in a single syllable, sharp and clear—“Fore!”

At this wholly unexpected and irrelevant retort, Anne Trevelyan broke into a laugh.

“One to the parson!” observed Jocelyn in an undertone.

Things might have ended then, but at this moment an old gentleman with a very beautiful white beard and smooth snowy hair began to sing to himself a music-hall song of forty years ago in a thin and quavering tenor voice:

“Silence!” roared Mr. Steele from the head of the table.

The old gentleman broke down under the rebuke, and began to weep piteously.

“I know my voice isn’t what it was,” he whined, between his sobs—“when I used to sing the late Mr. Gladstone to sleep, after his great speeches—‘Lullaby baby, on the tree-top.’”

He began to sing again, through his tears.

Mr. Steele struck the table with his fist.

“Stop that immediately!” he shouted. “Lady Dorothy—Miss Trevelyan,” he continued, in the silence that followed, “I don’t know what you must think! The thunderstorm is to blame——”

At that moment the howling squall broke open the window at the other end of the room, and a clap of thunder followed instantly. The shaded candles on the table were almost all out, and only a few electric lights illuminated the scene of indescribable panic and confusion that followed a second later.

“Fire! Fire! Save the child!” yelled old Randolph Trevelyan above the noise.

Chairs were overturned, shrieks of laughter and wailing sobs filled the air, men rushed wildly hither and thither, falling over each other and rolling on the floor; the dismal, long-drawn howl of a famished wolf pierced the babel of sounds, and a heavy man, running round the room on all fours, stumbled against Lady Dorothy’s feet, and lay there in a heap, suddenly silent. But still above all the rest rang Randolph Trevelyan’s despairing yells: “Save the child! Save the child! I’ll give you ten thousand pounds if you can save the child!”

Bob Trevelyan had Lady Dorothy fast by the wrist. Jocelyn held Anne Trevelyan by the waist close against him, and she did not feel at all frightened; but it is true that she was naturally courageous.

“I believe we’re in a mad-house!” cried Lady Dorothy; but only Bob heard her through the noise, and she laughed rather nervously.

“Come along!” Trevelyan called out to Jocelyn.

They made for the nearest door at once. Mr. Steele had picked up the young man who thought he was a wolf, and was holding him firmly. The numerous servants, who were trained men, were already leading the most noisy of the party towards another door. Old Trevelyan’s wild yells rent the air as he was carried off: “The child! The child!”

None of the four aËronauts ever forgot the cry, repeated in heart-rending tones, almost without a break. They heard it after they had left the dining-room, but when they had got to the foot of the staircase it ceased suddenly.

They reached their rooms, high up in the new wing. Each of the young girls had one to herself, and the two men were to sleep in the third. But in their haste they all four rushed into the last; Bob turned up the electric light and Jocelyn locked the door.

“A lunatic asylum!” laughed Anne. “Of all places to come down in! You told me it was,” she added, speaking to Jocelyn, “but it seemed so absurd that I couldn’t believe it.”

“And our cousin Randolph is the showpiece, poor chap,” said Bob.

Lady Dorothy and Jocelyn looked at him, expecting more.

“What happened to his child?” asked Dorothy.

“I was going to ask the same question,” said Jocelyn.

“It was burnt to death. It’s rather an awful story, and I don’t wonder he went mad. I believe he had only been married two or three years when it happened. He was in the Carabineers, I believe; at all events they went to India as soon as they were married, and it was while they were there that his father died and he came into the estate. But he did not mean to leave the service, and he sent his wife to England with the little baby, six months before the regiment was ordered home. Half an hour before he got to his place, when he came home himself, the house took fire, and his wife and child were burnt to death. He went mad then and there, and there was nothing to be done but to lock him up.”

“How awful!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I shall never forget his voice.”

The four were silent, and as nothing happened Jocelyn unlocked the door and opened it a little. In the distance sounds of footsteps could still be heard in the passages, and the opening and shutting of a door now and then, and voices from different directions, but that was all. The patients who occupied the nearest rooms were either already locked in, or were of a quieter sort and had been allowed to stay downstairs.

Jocelyn was just going to shut the door again, when Mrs. Williams appeared. He admitted her, and she looked round quietly before speaking.

“Of course, you must have understood where you are,” she said gravely. “This is a private asylum—Dr. Steele’s Sanatorium. The patients who are considered harmless play games and dine together, and the Doctor takes none who are already violent or have shown homicidal or suicidal tendencies. It is a very exclusive establishment, especially for gentlemen of position and means. I may say that I was housekeeper at the late Duke of Barchester’s before I came here. The Doctor wishes me to say how sorry he is that there was trouble just this evening. Lunatics don’t mind anything so much as a thunderstorm, and thunder and lightning just drive them out of their poor senses, such as they are, which isn’t much to boast of. There’s that poor Mr. Weede, for instance, such a quiet gentleman, and a Christian soul if ever there was one. They never knew he was at all queer till one day, while he was preaching, he just stopped a minute and called out ‘Fore!’ as the gentlemen do when they play; and then he went on preaching about golf being the only salvation for sinners’ souls, till the congregation all ran out and the sexton and policeman got him into a cab, still preaching.”

“Something like a sermon, that,” observed Jocelyn stolidly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Williams gravely; “they say he was at it for more than half an hour, and hadn’t half finished when they took him away. But I came to say,” she went on, speaking to Bob Trevelyan, “that the Doctor would like to speak to you alone, sir, if you don’t mind. He will come to your room, or see you in his study, as you prefer, but he is very anxious to see you.”

“It must be about cousin Randolph,” Bob said, glancing at his sister. “I’ll go to the Doctor’s study, Mrs. Williams, if you’ll show me the way.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be back directly,” she added, “to see that the ladies have everything quite comfortable for the night.”

Trevelyan followed the housekeeper through many passages and down a good many stairs, till she brought him to the door of Dr. Steele’s study and knocked, and then opened the door for him to go in.

The Doctor was standing before the fire; when he saw Bob he came forward and moved a comfortable chair into position while he spoke.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I am so placed that I think it is my duty to ask your advice in a very important matter.”

Trevelyan smiled pleasantly, and sat down.

“If it’s my advice you want, I warn you that I’m not thought clever,” he said. “Unless it’s about balloons.”

Dr. Steele’s face was very grave, and he paid no attention to what Bob said.

“I understood at dinner that you were a distant cousin of Sir Randolph Trevelyan’s,” he said. “I am sorry to say that he is just dead.”

“Dead! How awfully sudden!”

The poor man’s despairing cry still rang in Bob’s ears.

“He had an aneurism of the heart,” Dr. Steele explained, “and this last attack killed him. He fell dead as he reached the door of his room. I have two good physicians in residence here, and they came at once. He was quite dead.”

“I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it,” Bob said gravely; “but I don’t quite see how I can be of use. I’m not his heir. There are several of the Lincolnshire people alive.”

“Precisely. But do you know his story?”

“Of course. His wife and child were burnt to death, and he went mad.”

“That is not the point,” answered Dr. Steele. “They found the mother’s body, or what was left of it, but they found no trace of the child.”

“Poor little thing! It was probably burnt to ashes. There was nothing to find!”

“I’m not sure. There is a possibility that it may have been kidnapped, for you may remember that the house was found to have been set on fire by thieves, who got away with a large quantity of valuables in the confusion, and afterwards wrote to the family, offering to produce the child for a ransom of five thousand pounds. Sir Randolph had been in India and had not seen the baby for many months, and he was already in an asylum, and much worse than when you saw him this evening, before the thunderstorm. Babies a year old are very much alike, he could not have recognised his daughter, a large estate was involved, and a lunatic’s evidence is worth nothing, of course. The relations declared that none of them had ever seen the infant, and as a recognition was out of the question, their counsel advised them to pay no attention to the blackmailers. Thieves would be quite capable of producing a child as the heir, and of keeping some hold on it, in order to extract more blackmail when it grew up. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. I’m inclined to think that the heirs did right, though it was to their own future advantage.”

“No doubt. But within the last few weeks the situation has changed. I am morally persuaded that Sir Randolph’s daughter is alive and well, and that at the present moment, since her father is dead, she is the sole heir to the great Lincolnshire estate.”

“By Jove!” cried Bob. “That’s interesting. Of course I’ll help her to get her own in any way I can! Where is she? And how are you sure she’s the right baby?”

“It’s just a common criminal story. The baby had a nurse, of course, and she was no better than she should be. The leader of the gang that burnt and robbed the house had begun operations by establishing himself in the village as a travelling photographer with a van. He had a proper license for the van, and took very good photographs, and he got permission from Lady Trevelyan to make a series of views of the park and the house. By way of strengthening his position he made love to the nurse, and she became his accomplice, and shared the profits afterwards. But she was soft-hearted about children, and insisted that the baby should not run any risk. She handed it over to the photographer-burglar just before the house was set on fire. That’s the story.”

“How do you know it’s true?”

“Simple enough. Being a born criminal, she afterwards committed other crimes, and was at last caught and sent to penal servitude. And now she is dying of cancer, and has ‘experienced religion,’ as those people call it, and has confessed the whole story to the chaplain, who has written about it to me. For she had always kept track of Sir Randolph, and knew that he had been brought here some years ago.”

“But what proof is there that she is telling the truth?”

“This. Before she parted with the baby, she broke a sixpence in two, sewed half of it into the baby’s clothes and kept the other half.”

“But the clothes must have disappeared long ago!”

“No: they didn’t. When the thieves found that they could not get any ransom, they left the baby on the doorstep of an old bachelor in Kensington, who took care of it and ultimately adopted it. I suppose he is a sentimental person, for he kept the clothes in which he found the child, and, what is more, he has now discovered the half-sixpence sewn up in the little frock, just where the dying woman says it was.”

“Jolly good luck for the girl! Where is she?”

“She goes by the name of Ellen Scott, and is governess in Colonel Follitt’s family here in Yorkshire.”

“Miss Scott! Why, I saw her at King’s

Follitt a month ago! And young Follitt, who is with us, is one of the Colonel’s younger sons. He can tell you all about her.”

“It’s a singular coincidence, to say the least,” answered Dr. Steele, “but I know more about Miss Scott at present than she knows herself. In communicating with her adoptive father I have begged him not to let her know anything till all is quite certain; but it will be impossible to conceal the facts from her any longer, since Sir Randolph is dead. The relations, who believe themselves the heirs, must be informed that his daughter has been found and will claim the estate. They must know that as soon as they know of his death, and I cannot put off writing to them.”

“What can I do?” inquired Bob.

“Do you know any of your Lincolnshire relations?”

“Yes, I fancy I know most of them. They’ll show fight, you may be sure.”

“Perhaps, if you explained the case to them, and showed them these copies of the more important documents, they would change their minds. Sir Randolph’s solicitors have been very active. We have the sworn evidence of the woman, who is still alive, and of Mr. Herbert Scott as to the date when the infant was left on his doorstep, and he has produced the baby’s frock, with the half-sixpence sewn up in the hem, and the woman has sworn to that also. Besides, the handwriting of the letters written to the family after the fire, offering to give up the child for a ransom, has been declared by experts to be that of the travelling photographer, of whose writing several specimens have been found in the village, on the backs of photographs he sold. There is also evidence that he disappeared on the night of the fire, leaving his van and all his belongings. In fact, everything was ready, and Sir Randolph’s solicitors were about to begin proceedings to establish Miss Ellen Scott’s identity as Diana Trevelyan.”

“Nice name,” observed Bob.

“Very. Are you inclined, as a member of the family, to run over to Lincolnshire and lay the case before your cousins? If they can be persuaded to give up their claim without a suit, a vast amount of money will be saved—and it can only end in one way, I can assure you. There’s not a link missing.”

“All right,” answered Trevelyan. “Who are poor Randolph’s solicitors? I shall have to know the name and address.”

Dr. Steele handed him the neat package of copies that lay tied up on the desk. The lawyer’s name was stamped on the outside of the first paper.

“I suppose I had better say nothing to my sister and our friends?” said Bob in a tone of interrogation.

“I think not. Miss Scott should be informed by the solicitors.”

“She’ll have a surprise,” observed Bob, thinking of the blotched face and red nose of the pimping governess he had seen at King’s Follitt. “I’ll just tell my party that you wanted to inform me of poor Randolph’s death.”

“Precisely. That will explain our interview.”

So that was the end of the ballooning adventure. After thanking Dr. Steele very warmly for his hospitality the party left on the following morning, the balloon having been duly packed and carted to the station and put on the London train.

It will be clear to the most simple-minded reader that the descent of the party in the grounds of the asylum was not the grand incident which really led to the identification of Miss Scott by establishing the long-sought link in the evidence. That would have been thrilling, of course; but such things do not happen in real life, and when they do people do not believe they do. The simple result of the coincidence was that Bob Trevelyan took the affair in hand, and managed it so that it was all settled very quickly and out of court, which saved ever so much time and money, to the great disappointment of several solicitors.