The suicide of that brilliant and cultured man, Dr. Bardolph Just, caused, as you will remember, a very great sensation at the time, and there was much wonder expressed as to why the man had hanged himself at all. But there was no doubt about the question of suicide, because the whole thing had been so deliberately and carefully planned.

He had taken care to send everyone away from him—even an old and trusted friend like Mr. Harvey Scoffold—and had left himself absolutely alone in that great house. Various theories were put forward as to how he had managed to tie the knot so successfully, in making that running noose for his neck; but it was universally agreed that that had been a matter of teeth and his one uninjured hand. Shuddering accounts, wholly imaginary, were given of what the man's last hours must have been, and in what determined fashion he must have hacked away the rails, in order to make a space through which he could push his way. Everyone seemed to be perfectly agreed on that matter, and there it ended.

For the rest, let me say that I waited in that house until, in due course, William Capper woke up. He went about what he had to do after that in the most methodical way, restoring all the keys to the doors, and putting in order such things as had been disturbed during those long, weary hours when he had followed the other man round the house. He said but little to me, and at last we came out of the place, and stood together, with the doors of the house closed upon us. Only when we had gone through the grounds, and had come out upon the high road did he speak again, and then without looking at me.

"This is where we part, sir," he said quietly. "You will be making for London, and I——"

"Where will you go?" I asked him as he hesitated.

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," he replied, looking out over the landscape that stretched before him. "I'm an old man, and there may not be many years for me. It does not matter much where or how I spend them. If," he added whimsically, "I could be sure that they would send me to that prison from which you came"—for I had told him that part of the story—"I would do something that would cause me to be sent there; but it might be another prison, and that wouldn't do. I should like to be near him."

I stretched out my hand to him, on an impulse, in farewell, but he shook his head. "You might not like to think afterwards that you took my hand, after what I have done," he said quietly. Then, with a quick nod, this singular creature turned away and walked off down the road. I lost him at a turn of it, and I saw him no more.

I went back to London that night, and at my old lodging found Andrew Ferkoe awaiting me. I had the task before me of writing to Debora, and that task, as you may suppose, was not an easy one. Nevertheless I contrived to put my case before her clearly and without brutality.

I told her that I should love her all my life; I blessed her for all she had unconsciously done for me; I told her I was grateful for the sweet memory of herself that she had left with me. But I reminded her that I had no name, and no position, and no hopes, and if by any unfortunate chance my real name was thrust upon me in the future, it would only be to bring shame and degradation upon me and upon any one with whom I was associated. And I added that she would have news very soon concerning the doctor, and I thought it improbable that he would ever trouble her again.

I sealed the letter and directed it, and gave it to Andrew Ferkoe. "Run out and post that," I said. "And never speak to me about the matter again. You and I are alone together in the world, Andrew, and we shall have to be sufficient for each other."

The lad weighed the letter in his hand, studying the address, and looking from it to me and back again. "I know what you've done," he said; "you've had a row with the young lady—that's what you've done."

"You simpleton!" I laughed; "what do you know about such matters? I've had no row with the young lady, as you express it. I'm only trying to do the right thing."

"Isn't she fond of you?" he asked wistfully.

"I believe she's very fond of me," I replied. "Only there are such things in this world as honour, and justice, and truth, and it is written among the laws that men should obey, but do not, that you mustn't take advantage of a woman's fondness for you. In other words, Andrew, you must play the game. So that it happens that, as I'm a rank outsider and a bad lot, and as I have the stain of the prison on me, I've got to steer clear of a young girl who is as high above me as the stars. In a little time she will come to think of me with friendly feelings, but no more than that. So off with you, my boy, and post that important letter."

Andrew hesitated a moment or two longer, and shook his head, but at last he sallied forth on his errand. I had lighted a cigar, and was on the point of sitting down to enjoy it, and to ruminate luxuriously over my miseries, when there came a knock at the door, and my landlady put her head in to announce that a gentleman had come to see me. I was rapidly running over the names of the extremely few people who even knew of my whereabouts as the man entered, and disclosed himself as an utter stranger. He was a little man, dressed in black, and of a precise manner of speech and action. The landlady withdrew, and the visitor stood looking at me, as though taking stock of me generally, while he removed his gloves.

"Haven't you made a mistake, sir?" I asked.

"I think not," he replied. "You are Mr. John New, are you not?"

I told him that I was, and I began to have an unpleasant sensation that he must be connected with the police in some way. However, he smiled with satisfaction at this proof that he was right, and took from his breast pocket a little bundle of papers.

"You were, I believe, a friend of the late Mr. Zabdiel Blowfield, who was brutally murdered a short time ago?" he asked, looking up at me.

"Yes," I said, in some amazement. "I knew him slightly."

"As you are doubtless aware, Mr. New, the old gentleman was very eccentric, and took very sudden likes and dislikes. He had no one in the world belonging to him, his one nephew, after a somewhat disgraceful career, having died shamefully. It seems, however, that, slight as your acquaintance with him was, he took a decided liking for you."

"He never displayed it in life," I said grimly.

"Then he has made up for any lack in that respect now," said the man. "Perhaps I should introduce myself, Mr. New. My name is Tipping—James Tipping—and I was Mr. Blowfield's solicitor for many years. I should like, Mr. New, to congratulate you; your poor old friend has left you everything he possessed in the world."

For a moment or two I gaped at him, not understanding. I tried to frame words in which to answer, tried to get some grasp of his meaning. While I stood there, staring stupidly, he smiled indulgently, and went on speaking.

"The will in which he left everything to you, and which was duly witnessed at my office, was prepared only a few days—a few hours almost—before his death. It was prepared under curious circumstances. He seemed to have an idea that he had not treated his dead nephew very well, and he wanted to make amends in some way. He told me that was the reason that he wanted to leave the money to you, a young man, with his way to make in the world."

I own I felt bitterly ashamed. I seemed to see this strange old man doing what he thought was some tardy act of justice at the very end, and doing it in such a fashion that my identity should not be revealed. True, I remembered that in sheer panic he had tried to destroy me afterwards, but he had not revoked the will.

"How much is it?" I contrived to ask.

"Considerably over eighty thousand pounds," said Mr. Tipping unctuously. "Mr. Blowfield lived very simply, as you are aware, and was extremely successful in his investments generally. I congratulate you, Mr. New, with all my heart; I regret if I have been somewhat abrupt, and so have startled you."

"It is a little staggering, certainly," I said weakly.

The man made an appointment for me to see him at his office on the following day, but meanwhile left a substantial sum in my hands. When Andrew Ferkoe came back, as he did presently, I told him the great news.

"Now, look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "I regard this money as belonging almost as much to you as it does to me. There's not the slightest doubt that my Uncle Zabdiel made your father poor, and you know well enough that he ground you pretty hard afterwards. You toiled, just as I toiled before you; and now we've got our great reward. You shall join forces with me; we'll start life together, in a better fashion than any we have yet enjoyed. Come down with me to see the lawyer to-morrow, and I'll settle a certain amount on you, and tie it up tight, so that you can get at it only in instalments; because money's a dreadful temptation. After that we'll decide what we shall do with our lives."

"I wish my poor father had been alive to know you," said the boy tearfully.

I slept but little that night; my brain was awhirl with many thoughts. Now, more than ever, there entered into me the temptation to remember only that I was a rich man, and by that right, at least, I might approach Debora. I weighed that aspect of the case carefully through the long hours of the night—almost making up my mind at times that I would throw everything else to the winds, and would go to the girl and beg her now to start life with me in a newer and a better fashion than any she or I had known. But with the cold light of the dawn hard facts asserted themselves; and I knew that the brand of my prison was on me, and could not well be washed out. I rose from my bed, determined that for the future love or thoughts of love was not for me.

In due course we called upon Mr. James Tipping, and I listened with what patience I might to a lecture from that gentleman on the sin of mistaken generosity. In the end, of course, I had my way, and Andrew Ferkoe found himself with an income, and with Mr. James Tipping as his legal guardian. I will not tell you the amount, lest you should regard me either as too generous or not generous enough; suffice it that Andrew could look forward to the prospect of passing his days in comfort, no matter what might happen to me.

A few days of splendid idleness supervened on that, and I saw London under a new aspect, and with a heart almost at peace—almost, because it was utterly impossible for me to shut out of my mind what might have been and what never could be. So difficult was it, indeed, that at last my resolution broke down; and one evening I drove straight to the little hotel near the Charterhouse where I had left Debora. I rehearsed speeches as I went along, telling myself that she should understand clearly what the position was, and what she risked, and all the rest of it; I was very full of the matter by the time the cab stopped outside the hotel.

But she was gone. So little had I expected that, that I stared in blank amazement at the porter, and asked him if he was quite sure. Yes, he was quite sure; the lady had left two days before, and had not stated where she was going.

That was a knock-down blow, and one from which I found it difficult to recover. My pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; I had never expected that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very forcible arguments I had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter to her. I had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; I had pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very different view of the matter before me. This calm acceptance of my ideas was not what in my heart I had really anticipated.

Foolishly enough, I went back again and again to the hotel; but there was no news of her. I did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom I had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or to the doctor. I began to see with bitterness that this young lady regarded me merely as an episode—merely as a highly undesirable escaped convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done with.

For my part, I had done with London, and I had done with England. I made up my mind that I would go abroad, and would start again in a new country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable existence. So set was I upon the idea that in a matter of days I had decided everything, and was buying my outfit. I put the matter before Andrew Ferkoe; I expected that he would raise objections to our parting.

He seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the question. He had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view to training. I applauded the idea, for I had not liked to think that the lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income.

Judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up our quarters, and announced quite another decision. He announced it firmly, too, and with more daring than I should have given him credit for.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

"You're making a great mistake if you think of doing that," I assured him. "Here in London you can settle down, and become a great and clever man; with me you'll probably lead a useless, wandering sort of existence, and accomplish nothing. Be wise, and stay where you are."

"I'm coming with you," said Andrew obstinately. "You've been awfully good to me, and I should be a beast to let you go on alone, to knock about the world. I've been selfish even to think of it."

Nor could I shake his determination. I had booked my passage, and I now had to take another for him. He was nervous of going, he told me, and would greatly prefer to have a cabin to himself, if that could be secured. As there were not many passengers by that particular boat, I was able to arrange that he should be alone in a small cabin. I settled the matter then and there, and paid his passage money. And so we came to the last night we were to spend in England.

"I want to have a run round to-morrow," he said, as we were about to retire to our rooms. "It'll be the last time I shall see London, I expect, and I want to make the most of every hour. The vessel doesn't sail until quite late, and I shall go on board and turn in at once. I'm dreadfully afraid I shall be ill, and I don't want to wake up until I'm miles away from the shore; then perhaps I can face it better."

Having settled that point, the boy prepared to go to bed. When he got to the door of the room, however, he turned back, and slowly retraced his steps to where I stood. He seemed bashful and nervous; he did not look into my eyes.

"There's never been anyone in the world that's behaved as well to me as you have," he said. "I shall never be able to thank you enough."

"Shut up, Andrew, and go to bed!" I broke in.

"I don't intend to speak about it again, but I must, just this last time. God bless you, Jack"—I had taught him to call me that—"and may you be the happiest man in the world, wherever you are."

Before I could prevent him he had caught my hand in both of his, and had kissed it passionately; then, with a sound suspiciously like a sob, he turned and bolted from the room. I had known him always for an odd, strange creature, but I confess I was moved more strongly then than perhaps I had ever been moved before.

Evidently he had made up his mind to make the most of the day; he was gone from the hotel when I came down in the morning. I took my last look at London on my own account, feeling not too cheerful at the prospect of going so far away. Then, towards the hour for sailing, I started for the ship. My luggage had gone on, and I had nothing to do but to put myself on board.

"The young gentleman came on board, and turned in about half an hour ago, sir," the steward told me. "Dreadful afraid of being seasick, sir; said he wasn't to be disturbed on any account."

"Let him alone by all means," I said laughing. I felt relieved to know that Andrew had got safely out of his adventures of the day. I turned in, and slept until the morning, by which time we were well out to sea.

Andrew did not put in an appearance all that day. He sent messages to me by the steward, to say that he was very ill, and did not want to see anyone; a little later, that he was getting better. It was quite late in the evening when I put the steward aside and insisted on seeing the boy. I was anxious about him.

The cabin was not particularly well lighted as I stumbled into it. I saw the boy sitting on the side of his bunk, with his face partly turned from me. Curiously enough, he was wearing his hat, a soft felt I had noticed him with the day before we left London.

"Well, Andrew," I said cheerily, "I'm sorry to see you like this. Much better for you to put a good face on it, and come on deck."

"Won't this face do?"

I started, and stared at the figure of the boy.

In a moment the boy rose to his feet and tossed aside the felt hat; a great mass of curls came tumbling down on to his shoulders. I uttered a cry of amazement.

It was Debora!

"Andrew knew all about it all the time," she whispered to me, when presently we were coherent, and when she had blushingly apologised for her boy's dress. "He came to me after he had posted the letter you sent me; then, when I knew that you were going to sail, I made up my mind to come with you. You foolish fellow! you would only have run away from me again if I had tried to meet you in any other way; and I wanted to follow you all over the world."

"All my world is here!" I whispered, as I kissed her.

THE END.

Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, London.