The name whispered by the unhappy Shorty into the Major's ear was that of Mrs. Dacre Darrow—or, to use his peculiar phonetic variation of it—"Mrs. Darrer." As has been related its effect upon the Major was immediate, and fraught with, to Shorty, very tangible consequences. The sound of his cousin's name in the boy's mouth had upset his equanimity altogether for the moment. But the expenditure of his indignation physically, upon that very ample frame, soon brought the Major into a calmer state of mind, and resulted eventually in recourse to less forcible methods on his part. He came to the conclusion that for a time at least verbal tactics might prove of vastly more advantage to himself. So he released the boy, and submitted him instead to the fire of cross-examination. And from the look of relief on Shorty's face, he was quick to appreciate the change.

Not for one moment did the Major believe there was any truth in the accusation brought against his cousin. He had no high opinion of her, to be sure, but he felt quite certain that she would never stoop to an act of this kind. Besides, even granting that her sense of moral rectitude were sufficiently flexible to allow of such a lapse on her part, he failed to see what motive she could have had. She must be aware that even to suppress the existence of this will would be to put herself within reach of the law.

But Shorty held firmly to his story of that night. Seeing a light in the library he had gone on to the terrace, and the blind being up, he had been able to see into the room without himself being seen.

"And you say Mr. Barton was alive then?" queried the Major.

"Oh, the ole cove wer' alive right enough then—I seed 'im go out o' the room an' leave a long paper—that wer' the will—on the table."

"And how, pray, do you come to know a will when you see one?"

"I didn't know wot it was then, but a'rterwards Mrs. Parsley, she told me as 'ow a will 'ad been nabbed, an' it didn't take me long to twig as 'ow it must ha' been that paper wot I saw Mrs. Darrer bone. She slipped into the room jest as the ole cove 'ad gone out—then 'er eye catches the paper on the table, an' she gives a kind o' jump, an' begins a-readin' of it. An' lorksy, didn't she look mad when she'd read a bit! Then she slips it somewhere in the stern of 'er, an' clears out. I thought then as 'ow it were about time I cleared out too, so I hooked it down the steps, and back through the medder that way."

"What time was this?"

"Oh, arter supper—leastways I s'pose it wer' supper. I'd seen yer all eatin' an' drinkin' 'bout 'alf a hour before, an' it dudn't make me feel no better, I kin tell yer!"

Dundas reflected. It was just possible the boy was speaking truth. He remembered how Barton had shut himself up in the library while he and the other men had had their smoke in the dining-room. It was quite possible that Julia should have dropped into the room just as he had described. But what could there be in the will to cause her to purloin it?—a revocation of the clause relating to her income? Surely not. He continued to question Shorty.

"Did the old gentleman enter the room again after that?"

"Well, as I tell yer, I cleared out, sir. I never thought no more about it till I 'eard as 'ow a will had been prigged, and as 'ow you 'ad got the tin wot t'other cove ought to 'ave 'ad. Then o' course I seed 'ow it was, so I thought I'd just come 'ere an'——"

"Do a little blackmailing, eh?"

"No, sir, only I thought as 'ow 'twould be worth a tip to 'ave yer mind made easy like. 'Tain't much of a tip though as yer've parted with—strikes me I'd do better to go now to t'other cove, an' see what 'e's got to say!"

"Look here, you young blackguard, not another penny do you get from me, do you understand? And I'll take very good care that Mrs. Parsley knows the sort of scamp you are. Now clear out of this!" thundered the Major, bringing down his cane on the table, "or I'll give you as sweet a hiding as you ever had in your life."

At this Gideon Anab made a hasty exit. He had no fancy for any further chastisement at the hands of the irate Major. After all a fiver with a whole skin was better than nothing with a damaged one, and he had a very shrewd idea that that was how it would be with him if he remained. So he left the Major to reflect on his position.

It was not a pleasant one which ever way he looked at it. On the one hand he was liable at any moment to lose everything by the production of the lost will; on the other he was placed in the position of compounding a felony, or at least of retaining and enjoying what he knew was not his to enjoy. If he took what he held to be the only right course open to him the result would be very far reaching. For himself he did not care so much, although he was in nowise insensible to the difference between some five hundred—which was the amount of his private means—and five thousand a year. But he really did not like to think what the effect would be upon Hilda, when that young lady was called upon to give up all that she had schemed for—he knew well by this time that she had schemed for it. And upon Miriam too this reversal of fortune would fall hardly, since it would mean the speedy and inevitable degradation of her husband. As he turned all this over in his mind, he was sorely tempted for her sake and for his wife's to leave things as they were.

There was just one loop-hole of escape!—that Mrs. Darrow might have destroyed the will. In that case no possible good was to be achieved by exposing her. He would let her see that he knew her for what she was. But a scandal was a thing he had a loathing of, and would never be the one to bring about. Of course all this was based upon the hypothesis that Shorty had told the truth. There was always the possibility that he had not.

Hilda arrived home for dinner in the best of tempers. Her visit had been to her thoroughly successful, since not only had she been the best looking and best dressed woman in the room, but had been told so, which was infinitely more important. Her husband told her of the arrangement he had made for her to take Dicky to Rosary Mansions the following afternoon. She was pleased to express herself delighted. It, too, was likely to be a highly successful visit from her point of view. She, the mistress of Thorpe Manor, conferring her presence upon Dicky's quondam governess now married to the man whom she had jilted, and resident in one of the meaner tenements of West Kensington, was a picture in which she could see herself quite plainly. Still she was prepared to be cordial.

When Miriam came to welcome her she was surprised at the warmth of her manner. Dicky of course was embraced and made much of.

"And how is the doctor, Hilda, and your mother?" asked Miriam.

"Oh, they are pretty well, thank you—they are better off now, of course, and the children are at school. But the house is much the same, dirty as ever. Sometimes when I drive round to see them, I wonder how I ever managed to support existence in that poky place. I hate small rooms, don't you?"

Miriam did not reply.

"And Mrs. Darrow—how is she?" was all she said.

"Oh, I believe much the same. I don't see much of her, you know. In fact, I was obliged to give her clearly to understand that I was mistress in my own house. As a result she has no great love for me, you may imagine. However, she keeps out of the way, and that's the great thing."

"I wonder she entrusted Dicky to you!"

"Oh, she knew Dicky would be all right; besides, the arrangement was that my husband was to bring him up to see Dr. Briggs. She didn't know anything about my coming. I expect when she hears he's been with me, there'll be a nice old row. However, I don't care. Nothing can make me dislike the woman more than I do. I think she's the most detestable——"

"Hush, Hilda, the boy will hear you! Run along, Dicky, and have a prowl round the house."

"But this is a flat, Miss Crane, isn't it, not a house?" said Dicky dubiously.

"Well then, the flat, dear, since you are so particular."

He looked terribly fragile Miriam thought. And the flush on his cheek and the bright light in his eyes indicated only too surely the road upon which he was travelling.

"May I go into all the rooms, Miss Crane?—even into the kitchen?"

"Yes, dear, anywhere you like—we have no blue-beard's chamber here."

"I suppose you are very happy," continued Miriam, taking in the various details of Hilda's splendour.

"Yes, I suppose so. As happy as I can hope to be. He gives me everything I want. But I wish he would leave the Army altogether. For most of this year we have been living in a horrible little garrison town, and the society there consisted solely of the wives and relations of the other officers. They were all so jealous of me that it really was quite unpleasant."

"I suppose you would rather live at Lesser Thorpe altogether?"

"No, I hate Lesser Thorpe. I want to live in London, and go abroad, with now and then a week or two in Scotland."

"In fact, you like a regular society life."

"Well, I suppose you would call it that, yes; at least, I say, when one has the means let one live, not vegetate in some little hole and corner place. Of course John doesn't mind. One place is as good as another to him. I never saw such an extraordinary man; he never seems dull. He'll tramp for miles over the country—dirty, muddy, ploughed fields—and come back as hungry as a hunter, and say how much he has enjoyed himself. I can't stand that dead alive sort of existence. I must have my shops, and I love the theatre, and the ballad concerts, and the heaps of jolly things one can do in London. Don't you?"

"Well, you see," said Miriam, "I haven't quite so much time on my hands as you have. For instance, we cannot afford more than one servant, and that means that there is a good deal for me to do at home, if the house is to be kept as I like it—that reminds me, I must just go and see about tea, if you'll excuse me a few minutes."

Hilda made no attempt to conceal what she felt.

"Really. I think I should kick at that if I were you; it must be awful to have only one servant—in London of all places! Why don't you make your husband do without something? He'd appreciate you all the more."

"I don't think he could appreciate me more—he is everything that is good to me. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, you know, and—well, we prefer to do with one servant. Will you just see where Dicky is while I go into the kitchen?"

As she left the room Hilda went in search of Master Dicky, and found him stretched out on the floor of the bedroom. He was very busily occupied with a heap of treasures he had found in an old ivory work-box which Miriam had managed to keep possession of in spite of her many vicissitudes. It was true it had for a few months reposed on the shelf of a pawnbroker in the Strand, to whom she had confided it during that terrible time just before she met with Barton. But it had been the first thing she had redeemed. It was a very old piece of Indian work, wondrously carved, and had always been a favourite of Dicky's at Pine Cottage. The boy welcomed it now as an old playfellow.

"Dicky, whatever are you doing?" exclaimed Hilda, when she saw him. "You'll catch it from Miriam, upsetting her things like that!"

"No, I won't," replied the boy calmly. "She always let me play with this; there's such a funny little place in the lid she used to show me, I can't find it now—ah, here it is, I've got it."

Hilda bent over him curiously. His little fingers had touched a spring, which, when pressed, caused the lining of the lid—a plain sheet of ivory—to fall inwards. As it opened an oblong sheet of bluish paper, folded—a typical legal document—fell out.

"Now, Dicky, see what you've been doing; you've——"

She stopped short, for she had read the writing on the paper: "The Will of George Barton. Dated December the 20th, 189-."