It was Jabez. The prodigal had returned, though by no means in the rags of his Biblical prototype. Rather was he like the rich man in the parable—clothed in purple and fine linen. In modern parlance there was about him the look of a man with a balance at his bank. A vastly different person from the scarecrow who had met Miriam under the wall of Lesser Thorpe church.

"Jabez," she repeated—her voice was hoarse and low—"what are you doing here?"

"Not much yet; thought I just drop in and look you up, dear," replied the man, tossing his hat and gloves on to the sofa and making himself comfortable. "You don't seem overjoyed to see me though."

"No, I am not. Can you expect me to be? I thought you had passed out of my life for ever. How did you find me out here?"

"Shorty! There you have it. I looked in at the old shop where Mother M. still hangs out, and sure enough there the rascal was."

"And how did Shorty know?"

"Ah, that's more than I can tell you. You'd better ask him if you're curious on the point. For some reason of his own—and you may bet your bottom dollar it's a good one—he seems to have been keeping his wicked eye on you and your husband ever since you joined forces. It was Shorty told me you were married." He looked round the little room with a sneer which well became his Mephistophelian countenance. "But I say, Miriam, I should have thought you might have done a bit better than this! West Kensington, and cheap at that, isn't it?"

"I must ask you if you have anything of importance to say, Jabez, to say it and go. My husband will be home directly. He must not find you here."

"And why not, pray? You can introduce me as your old friend, Harry Maxwell—that's my name now. Thank the Lord Jabez is dead and buried for ever."

"You think so?" said Miriam, with a searching look and dropping her voice. "I should not advise you to be too sure about that. There is always the possibility of his being dug up, and then all the fine clothes in the world won't disguise him."

The man drew his hand across his throat with a significant expression.

"Not much fear of that," he replied, "especially with this beard. I flatter myself it's rather a neat growth." He stroked his chin complacently.

She pointed to his high bald forehead, on which was scarred a purple cicatrice—evidently the result of some terrible blow.

"That alone is always enough to betray you," she said in a whisper. "Jabez, it was sheer madness for you to return to this country. Remember Mother Mandarin knows everything."

"Oh, the old girl's right enough. I always take jolly good care to keep her in good tune. Besides, if it comes to that, I know enough about her to make it pretty hot for her. But you don't ask me what I've been doing, Miriam—I should have thought you'd have taken a bit of interest in a chap, especially when he's done as well as I have. The Cape's treated me pretty well all round, and I've come home with a tidy sum, I can tell you."

"Honestly, Jabez?"

"Rather—led a dog's life though to get it. I went shares in a claim with a pal. We struck gold, and struck it pretty rich, in no time—in fact, my luck changed as soon as ever I turned my back on this old country. I left my pal out there to look after our little patch; he's a good sort, and I shall be off out again to join him in a couple of months. Perhaps it is a bit risky my knocking about in a free and easy way like this; but to tell you the truth, Miriam, I got such a twist on me for the old place, that I had to pack up my traps and come just for a mouch round. I'm not really afraid. That old affair of mine is pretty stale now—shouldn't wonder even if they'd forgotten all about it by this time."

"That business—perhaps, Jabez, though I don't think so. But they are after you for another now!"

The man stopped twisting his red moustache, and stared at her in genuine consternation.

"What do you mean? What other? There's no other that I know of! 'Pon my soul, Miriam, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mr. Barton was strangled in his house at Lesser Thorpe the night after I met you by the church and gave you twenty pounds!"

"Yes; I heard that. It was in the papers a few days after. But what has that to do with me?"

"Can't you guess?" cried Miriam vehemently. "They suspect you of the murder!"

He jumped from the sofa, and looked round wildly.

"Is—is my—do they know my name?" he asked harshly.

"No; that is, they know your first name, not your other. They think it's 'Tracey'—Jabez Tracey. I told them so."

"Go on; what description have they?"

"Small and dark, in fact in every respect the opposite of what you are. About to leave, I said, for New York, via Liverpool. Oh, Jabez, you don't know how hard it was to do it, but I did it to screen you—to keep you safe!"

"How on earth did you get at them?—how did they come to suspect me?"

"We were followed, and our conversation overheard that night in the churchyard. I knew it was dangerous, Jabez, I told you so. Mrs. Darrow hated me. It was she who did it. She listened to everything hidden away somewhere. She taxed me to my face with being implicated in the murder of Mr. Barton and the theft of his will. So I thought it best to go straight to Inspector Prince at Southampton, and put the whole thing before him. I told him how I had met you, and even what you had said—that you would kill Mr. Barton if he interfered with you. I knew she would make capital out of that. But I made it quite clear to him that you had had no provocation from Mr. Barton, and of course from the description I gave of you I knew they were not very likely to find you."

"You don't believe I killed him, Miriam?"

"No, dear, I never did. But that woman heard you say you would."

"Yes; if he had interfered with me I believe I would, but he didn't. I never thought any more about him till I saw the account of the affair in the papers."

"You did go back to London, then?"

"Yes; you got the letter I wrote you from the Docks?"

"I did; but a day or two afterwards I saw you on the platform at Southampton Station. Don't deny it, Jabez; I know it was you!"

"Why should I deny it? As a matter of fact, I missed the boat I intended working my way out in. She swung out on the early morning tide, after they had told me she wouldn't be leaving till the evening. So I got back to Southampton as sharp as I could, and booked a steerage berth on one of the Union boats. But about the murder of that old man, Miriam, I swear to you I know absolutely nothing."

"I believe you, Jabez. Nevertheless, in the face of the evidence, and your—your past history, it might go badly with you for all that if they were to catch you. Oh dear, I am perfectly terrified when I think of it! Good Heavens, what's that? I'm so nervous I can hardly contain myself this morning." They could hear the front door open and someone enter the hall.

"Quick, it's Gerald, I expect—my husband. What is it you call yourself?—Harry Maxwell? Very well, remember we are old friends."

He nodded, and took a seat with his back to the window. The door opened to admit not Gerald Arkel but Major Dundas. Smart and well-groomed as ever, he came forward and shook Miriam by the hand.

"My wife and I are up in town for a few days with Dicky," he said, "so I just dropped in to ask you when she might bring the boy round, Mrs. Arkel; he is so anxious to see you again."

"Dear little fellow—I shall love to see him. But let me introduce Mr. Maxwell—my friend, Major Dundas."

The two men turned towards each other. As their eyes met Jabez winced, and a puzzled expression came across the Major's face.

"Surely," he said, "I can't help thinking we have met before, Mr. Maxwell, I seem to know your face, I——"

"If so, you have the advantage of me, sir; I cannot say yours is familiar to me. It's quite possible, though, we may have come across each other at the Cape."

"I was never at the Cape," replied Major Dundas bluntly.

"Then I fear our acquaintance must date from to-day, Major, for I've been out there for about fifteen years, and have only just got back. I'm sorry." Then he turned towards Miriam. "Good-bye, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I'm afraid I must be going now. I have to lunch with some people a little way out, and I have not much more than time to get there. I'll wish you good-day, Major Dundas."

"I must let you out, Mr. Maxwell; my maid-of-all-work is hardly presentable, I——"

"Oh, please don't trouble——"

In the passage she whispered hurriedly in his ear,

"Do you know him?"

"No, not to my knowledge—seems to know me though!"

"Where can I find you if necessary?"

"Mother Mandarin's."

"Still at that loathsome place? Do go to a decent hotel!"

"I am at one, thank you; but Mother M.'s will be sufficient address for you. I shan't come here again. Good-bye."

In the drawing-room the Major, looking out of the window and twisting his moustache, was indulging in a brown study.

"I've met that man before, or I'm a Dutchman," he mumbled. "'Tisn't a face I should be likely to forget—that red hair and moustache, and those shifty, ferrety eyes; and that scar on the forehead too—that fixes it. Where the deuce was it? Strange I can't place the man for the moment."

His soliloquy was interrupted by the return of Miriam. He did not think it necessary to make any mention to her of what was in his mind. She took her seat beside him and settled down for a chat. It was the first time he had been to see her since her marriage. But he felt in nowise embarrassed, and the pleasure he had always taken in her society came back strongly upon him. It had not taken him many months of married life to discover that he had drawn blank in the matrimonial lottery. And he wondered whether she had been more fortunate. He rather fancied not. He was well aware that he had been caught on the rebound by Mistress Hilda—in fact, that he had let himself go, caring but little with what result. As lord of the manor it was in every way more convenient that he should be married, and although he was by no manner of means a selfish man, his own convenience counted for a good deal with the Major. He had always been accustomed to take life easily. The Manor House and everything with it had come to him most unexpectedly, and more or less it had forced him into matrimony. Since he could not have the wife of his choice, the next best thing he thought was to be the man of his wife's choice. And there was no denying that Hilda was an attractive and in many respects an engaging little lady. So it came to pass.

But with her—Miriam—it had been different. She had married Gerald in preference to himself. To her lot had fallen that which every woman craves—the ability to marry the man of her choice. Yet surely those were lines of care and trouble upon her beautiful face! She did not look happy.

"Now I really think I ought to scold you, Major," she said, "for having kept yourself away so long. Do you know this is the first time you have called upon us since—since we came here? However, now you are here you will stop to luncheon. Gerald will be in directly. He will be so glad to see you and have a chat."

"I don't know so much about that, Mrs. Arkel. You must not misunderstand what I am going to say, but in a manner I took some responsibility in introducing Gerald to his firm. It was not, therefore, very pleasant for me to hear complaints of him when I called there the other day. I had intended dropping in to see you alone one day during the week, but something turned up to prevent me. You know, this sort of thing won't do. Can't you put it to him pretty strongly? You are the only person I know who ever had any influence with him; and they gave me to understand pretty clearly that if it went on Mr. Gerald would have to go."

"My dear Major, I have tried; if you only knew how I have tried. But he is getting beyond me altogether again. I can do nothing with him lately."

"Is he really drinking hard?"

"What he takes would, as he says himself, be nothing to some men. But the least drop makes him like a lunatic. You know what an excitable brain he has."

"I know; I know. I am more than sorry for you, for if you cannot hold him, no one can. What a big mistake it all is. If only——" He checked himself and looked at her, and saw the tears were in her eyes. That was too much for him. "At all events, you know whatever happens I will never see you in any trouble. We are always friends. More than that we might have been if you had——"

She stopped him. "My husband and I are one, and must stand or fall together, Major. I took his life on my shoulders of my own free will. You are more than good; but——" she broke off, and withdrew her hand which he had taken in his. "But come, tell me about Dicky. How is he?—a tremendous boy, I hope. When will you bring him?"

"I shall not bring him at all," replied the Major a trifle resentfully. "Hilda hopes to come with him if it is quite convenient to you to-morrow afternoon."

"Hilda!—well, I shall be delighted to see her, of course. I didn't think for one moment she would care to come——" She stopped suddenly, for the Major had risen abruptly to his feet. "Good gracious, Major, whatever is the matter?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, looking a trifle abashed, "but the fact is—I—I have just remembered where I saw that man. My mind has been running upon him ever since he left the room."

"Man?—what man?"

"Your friend Mr. Maxwell—that is, I hope he is not your friend, Mrs. Arkel, because I feel it is my duty to tell you he is a thorough-paced scoundrel!"

"Major—why, what do you know of him?"

"This, for one thing—he deserted from my regiment six years ago. It will be my duty now to have the scamp arrested."

"No; no—don't do that. I beg of you—I implore you; don't do that!"

"Why, Mrs. Arkel, who—what is this man to you?"

She shook her head, and buried her face in her hands.

"I must tell you; yes, I must tell you," she moaned. "Don't have him arrested, Major, for he is my brother—my unhappy brother!"