It was with unfeigned amazement that Major Dundas heard Miriam's revelation. He recalled now the man's military career, and he marvelled at her relationship with him only the more as he did so. She would have confided in him further he knew, but at that moment her husband's key grated in the lock, and it was all the distraught woman could do to compose herself.

"Not a word about him to Gerald," she whispered hurriedly. "I can trust you—he knows nothing. I will tell you everything later on." How much later on it was to be Miriam little thought then.

For two years she had enjoyed comparative immunity from trouble—trouble, that is of the kind with which she had for so long been beset. But, heralded by this reappearance of Jabez, there was to come upon her a long list of disasters, following so close one upon the other, that in comparison Jabez and his misdeeds dwindled into insignificance.

"Hullo, Dundas; is it you in the flesh?" said Gerald, shaking the Major by the hand. "How are you?—all right, I hope. And your wife?" Before the Major could answer he had seen Miriam's face in the light. "Why, hullo, old girl, what's up? you've been crying!"

The Major felt a trifle embarrassed, and Miriam flushed as her husband glanced suspiciously from one to the other of them.

"Yes, Gerald, I have been crying about poor little Dicky. Major Dundas seems to fear he will go into a decline. I was so fond of the dear little child. I can't bear to think of his being ill."

"'Gad, you take it to heart a good deal more than his mother does, I'll bet. What's wrong with him, Major?"

"Oh, the child's constitutionally weak. I'm going to take him to Briggs to-morrow—got the greatest faith in Briggs. If he can't put him right none of 'em can. After he's seen him, I'll bring the boy along—in fact, I dropped in to ask your wife if she would be at home. The little chap's dying to see her again."

Advisedly the Major made no mention of Hilda's coming. He knew that if he did so, the office would most certainly not see Gerald all day. And from what he had heard, there had been quite enough of that kind of thing with Mr. Gerald already.

At luncheon they fell to talking of Lesser Thorpe and its shining lights.

"And how is Julia—amiable as ever?" asked Arkel.

"Yes, if anything, rather more so," replied Dundas smiling. "She has, of course, been horribly badly treated according to her own account. It's an extraordinary thing how Julia always is badly treated, and more extraordinary how she not only manages to survive, but actually fattens on it!"

"Jove! I wish I had one half as good a time," grumbled Gerald. "She gets her three hundred a year without doing a hand's turn for it. I've got to slave like a nigger for mine."

"'A judgment on you' says Julia, 'for all your wickedness.'"

"Wickedness?—well, upon my soul, I like that. She's evidently lost none of her feline and back-biting propensities. I wish everyone had done as little in the way of wickedness, as she calls it, as I have—what do you say, Miriam?"

"Well, Gerald; I agree it is not quite the word I should use to describe your shortcomings. Wickedness implies deliberation. No, I don't think your worst enemy could call you deliberately wicked."

"Enemy? I haven't got any, my dear—your husband is the most popular of men."

Miriam made no reply.

"Tell me, Major," she said, "how is Mrs. Parsley? I haven't heard from her for ages. She and I used to be such good friends—she was always kind to me."

"Another old cat," interpolated Gerald.

"Oh, she's much the same," replied the Major; "meddlesome and well-meaning and good-hearted as ever. She's always most happy, you know, when she's got some philanthropic scheme in hand. Her last fad is really funny. She's got hold of a young street Arab, and has taken him in tow. Her idea is, I believe, to educate him and then send him amuck amongst his fellow-Arabs, in the hope that he may exude the Gospel—sort of spreading by contagion idea, you know."

"Lord, that's just like her. Where did she get hold of the urchin?"

"Well, they say she found him begging in the village. Little devil ought to be in a reformatory. I gave him some weeding to do round my place to oblige her, of course, but I couldn't stand the sight of him—preferred the weeds, so I sent him off. But he seems to have got round the old lady properly; and what's more, he's pocketing a good deal of her money, unless I'm very much mistaken. Oh, he's a sharp young beggar!"

"But you don't mean to say she trusts him with money?" asked Miriam. It was not like Mrs. Parsley, as she remembered her, to do that.

"Oh, I suppose the whole affair's a mere trifle. I only mentioned it to show how wrong-headed she is. This sort of indiscriminate charity does such a lot of harm."

"She's as obstinate as a mule," put in Gerald. He hated the vicar's wife, she having snubbed him somewhat severely on one or two occasions. Indeed, it was only to the fact of her having married Gerald that Miriam could put down Mrs. Parsley's neglect of her since she had been in London.

"And what is this precious brat's name?" he asked.

Dundas looked puzzled.

"Upon my word, I don't believe he had a proper name in the first instance. Anyway, if he had, the vicar suppressed it. You know how cracked he is on Hebrew symbolism. Well, I suppose he saw a good chance here of indulging in it, so what do you think he christened the chap? Gideon Anab! Upon my soul he did! Gideon Anab! for a gutter whelp like that!"

"Construe, Major."

"Well, I believe it means 'one who breaks asunder'—so the old man says. I told him to look out for himself, or the chap might try and live up to it. No, by the way, that's the meaning of 'Gideon' only. Anab means thick, round. Well, he is thick and round now—thanks to plenty to eat and nothing to do. Of course the whole thing is perfectly crazy."

Miriam was becoming very nervous. An idea had flashed across her mind which she could in no way get rid of.

"But surely, Major," she said, "the boy had some sort of name when Mrs. Parsley came across him?"

"Yes, I believe he had. Shorty or Snorty, or something like that. However, that's nowhere now. Gideon Anab he is, and Gideon Anab I suppose he will——My dear Mrs. Arkel, are you ill?"

Miriam, her worst suspicions confirmed, had turned deathly pale. It was Shorty then—Shorty at Lesser Thorpe—with Mrs. Parsley. Fate was indeed relentless. He was an iniquitous young scoundrel she knew, and cunning beyond words. And he knew the whole of that black page of her life in London. She wondered had he betrayed her to Mrs. Parsley. Perhaps that was the reason she had not come to see her. She pulled herself together, and put as brave a face on it as she could.

"It is nothing, Major, thank you. The room is a little close, I think. I have been feeling out of sorts all the morning. I think, if you don't mind, I'll go and lie down for a bit."

Gerald glanced sharply at her, and then at Dundas. Like most weak natures he was an easy prey to suspicion. It came strongly upon him now. His wife was much agitated—there was no doubt about that. But the Major seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. He rose and opened the door for Miriam, and expressed his wish that she would soon be better. Then he returned to the table.

Gerald had it in his mind to remark upon the strangeness of his wife's behaviour. He felt convinced that the Major had something to do with it. And he would not have hesitated to tell him so but for the very weighty reason that he had every intention of getting a cheque out of him before he returned to the country.

"Is your wife with you in town?" he asked.

"Yes, she is with me," replied the Major finitely.

"Are you in rooms?"

"We are at the Soudan Hotel in Guelph Street."

"Ah, it's well to be you. You couldn't do much better than the Soudan. I know it—one of the best tables in town. What the deuce did Providence give me a palate for without the means to satisfy it?"

"Gerald, you've no business to talk like that—it's paltry, not to say the worst of bad form."

"Oh, it's all very well for you from your eminence of five thousand a year; but I tell you what it is, John, I was treated beastly badly by the old man. He always gave me to understand I was to be his heir."

"Well; and he acted up to his promise. It was not his fault that his will was stolen. In that will he did make you his heir."

"If you believe that, you ought to allow me anyhow a thousand a year."

"I don't agree that I ought to allow you anything, strictly speaking. But I certainly would do so if you were a different sort of man. Unfortunately you are not; and to allow you an independent income would simply be to encourage you to drink, and degrade yourself and your unhappy wife."

"It would be nothing of the kind. I won't allow you to speak to me like that, John—even to salve your own conscience. And let me tell you straight, if the day ever comes when that will turns up, I'll have my rights—every penny of them. So you know."

"In such circumstances I would not attempt to deprive you of them. You would be dead within the year—or locked up. Look here, Gerald, you know I'm not a man to mince my words. When you married Miriam Crane, you married a woman in a thousand. What have you been to her? Have you made her a decent husband? For a time, I grant, you kept pretty straight, and did your work well, but now you are drifting back to your old tricks as fast as you jolly well can. Only the other day, when I was in the city and dropped in to see Crichton at the office, he was complaining to me about you——"

"It's like his damned impudence," retorted Gerald at white heat. "For two pins I'd chuck him and his beastly office, and clear out."

"And live on your wits, I suppose, or on your wife. You're quite capable of it."

Things were not going to Gerald's liking at all. The cheque he had promised himself was vanishing rapidly. So he made no retort to the Major's last remark, and submitted with the best grace he could muster, to the lecture that warrior did not hesitate to administer to him. Then, having promised and vowed everything that was demanded of him in the future, he made so bold as to ask for a trifle of fifty pounds, and was straightway refused.

The Major had been subject to discipline all his life, and was not one to relax it, more especially in the case of such a man as his cousin. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a precept upon which he had always laid the greatest stress. Gerald had been spared—and spoiled.

From the bottom of his heart he pitied Miriam. "How awfully things have gone askew," he said to himself, as he spun east in a quick-going hansom. What would he not give to be in that young rascal's shoes—yes, even without the Manor House and its five thousand a year.

By the time he reached the Soudan Hotel he was getting horribly sentimental. But he looked with confidence to his wife to dispel all weakness of that sort. Where Hilda was, he knew, sentiment could not be.

He dismissed his cab, and inquired if his wife was at home. He was somewhat surprised to hear that she was not. He presumed she must have gone to pay a call. But the porter informed him that a boy was waiting to see him—a boy, who it appeared, had called already once or twice during the week when he had been out. He had not the least idea who it could be, the genus puer being one in nowise affected by the Major. However, he would seem to be a youth of no little pertinacity, so he gave orders for him to be shown in.

A few moments later the lad appeared—a short, squat, leering creature, somewhere in his teens, and clothed in a tweed suit of aggressively severe design. There was upon his face an expression of extreme sanctimony, which was horribly repellent to the Major. He recognised him at once as Gideon Anab, alias Shorty.

"Well, what is it?" he asked sharply. "What can I do for you, lad?"

"I ain't arter you're doin' nuffin' fur me, sir; but I ken do a 'eap fur you!"

"What the deuce do you mean, you——?"

Shorty glanced at the door to make sure that it was fast closed. Then he shifted nervously from one leg to the other, and finally his facial muscles began to describe what he evidently intended for a smile. It was a very weird achievement, and for the moment quite disturbed the Major.

"Well, I ken put yer on a lay as you'll be glad to get a 'old of, Mister Major!"

"Go on, explain yourself—out with it, or I'll out with you; quick! if you've anything to say."

"Guess I 'ave, if I'm treated proper. P'r'aps yer don't know as I was down at that there village when the old 'un was scragged that time? Well, I wos, guvnor, and wot's more, I wus round 'bout the 'ouse on that night, 'cos it wos Chris'mus time, and I wos bloomin' 'ungry, and yer see there's of'en times some pickin's to be 'ad about big 'ouses at them times——"

"Go on, go on!" urged the Major, getting excited. "You know who did it?"

"No I don't, guvnor; but I know who cobbed that there will!"

The Major sat back in his chair. This was not what he had expected. In a flash he saw his position.

"Who was it?" he demanded harshly of the boy.

"No yer don't, sir, yer not goin' to git it that way. It's worth summat, my little bit o' noos!"

"You young devil you! here take this." He took from his pocket a five-pound note and held it out The boy clutched at it eagerly. Then he leaned forward and whispered hoarsely in the Major's ear a name, the mention of which secured for him as thorough a shaking as he had ever experienced in his eventful life.

"You young liar!" cried the enraged soldier; "say that again, and I'll break every bone in your wretched body!"

"S'elp me, it's true, guvnor," gasped Shorty when he could get his breath, "I seed 'er grab it!"