"Do you mean to tell me you are actually engaged to that penniless scamp," raged Dr. Marsh, bringing his fist down on the table.

"For Heaven's sake, George, take care of the china," implored his wife; "four cups already are broken, and it's so difficult to match this——"

"Answer me, Hilda!"

The young girl raised her head, in no wise daunted by the paternal wrath.

"If Gerald were not poor, he would not be so much of a scamp in your eyes, father," she said bitterly. "Engaged?—I am not so much engaged but that I can be quickly disengaged. I have only to tell Gerald you refuse your consent and the reason, play the part of a dutiful daughter generally, and the thing's settled, or rather unsettled."

"You should not have engaged yourself to the fellow without being certain of what you were doing," fumed Marsh.

"I couldn't be more certain," retorted Hilda. "When an old man goes the length of announcing a nephew as his heir, and actually makes a will in his favour, you naturally think that nephew will get the money. It isn't my fault that the will disappeared. I wasn't to know that."

"Of course not, dear," put in Mrs. Marsh; "but as it is now you must give up Gerald."

"And marry the Major, I suppose? What do you think I'm made of, I wonder, to turn like this from one man to another? I love Gerald as much as I could love any man. Why should I give him up now?"

"Because he can't keep you," retorted her father. "Marry Arkel without a penny; why, child, you must be mad!"

"I am sure Major Dundas is a very nice man, Hilda," put in her mother.

"Very nice," assented the girl with irony—"altogether too nice to buy me. I am for sale to the highest bidder, I know, but it doesn't say because I am for sale that Major Dundas is going to buy me. He's got his own little fish to fry. He's in love with Miriam Crane!"

"What! the governess?" scoffed the doctor, holding out his cup for another cup of tea. "You needn't trouble yourself about her. From what Mrs. Darrow hinted that young lady is no better than she should be. I couldn't quite get at the facts, but there's a good deal that's queer about her, and Dundas is not the man to marry a woman with a doubtful past."

"And he most certainly is not the man to marry a girl who jilts another man because he happens to be poor."

"There will be no jilting about the matter," replied Dr. Marsh irritably. "You engaged yourself to Gerald Arkel without my knowledge. Now that it has come to my knowledge I refuse to sanction it, that's all."

"And unless I obey you'll cut me off with a shilling, I suppose," sneered Miss Hilda.

"Don't be insolent, girl!" shouted the doctor, colouring with rage. "I won't have it. I've been more than a good father to you. Haven't I given you a first-class education, dressed you like a princess, and allowed you to do absolutely nothing, as if you had a thousand a year of your own?"

"Oh, you've done all in your power to make your Circassian a saleable article, I admit."

"Circassian! what does the girl mean?"

"Simply that I have been fed and dressed and pampered just like a Circassian for the Sultan's harem."

"Harem!" shrieked Mrs. Marsh. "Hilda, you positively shock me! Where do you learn such language?"

"I shock myself when I think of myself, mother. They sell Circassians in Turkey, and what do you and father intend to do with me—what have you always intended to do with me—but sell me to the highest bidder? Simply because it turns out now that Major Dundas has this money I am to be put on the market for his inspection. A little while ago I should not have minded—I did not mind; but now, oh!"—she was on her feet by this time and white with anger—"it is too degrading to be treated like a bale of goods. You think nothing of my heart—of my feelings. I believe you would throw me gladly into the arms of the Prince of Darkness himself if he was rich enough. I hate you both for it, and I hate myself, and—and I won't stand it! I won't!" And the wretched girl, unable to contain herself, ran out of the room. For she had discovered for the first time that she could feel, and her feelings had been touched, and all the training of past years was powerless to prevent a little outburst of nature.

The parents looked significantly at one another. This their first taste of Hilda, the matured woman, did not augur well. If rendered obstinate and driven into a corner, she was quite capable of destroying all their fine aerial edifices, and of marrying Gerald in spite of them. The doctor looked round at the untidy room, at the ill-appointed table, and thought of his many debts and small income, and incessant endeavours to make two refractory ends meet. And his brow grew dark at the thought, and he struck the table again.

"She shall not marry that pauper," he cried fiercely, "she shall marry Dundas. He'll turn to her right enough now that the Crane woman is out of the way. Cheer up, Amelia, we shall see Hilda at the Manor House yet."

But the wife of his bosom was not thus to be comforted.

"Any day the will might be found," she suggested, rather timidly.

"It won't be found. Search has been made in every hole and corner. There isn't a doubt but the blackguard who murdered the old man carried it off. And he daren't produce it again, you see, even as a means of blackmail, without risk of putting his head in a noose."

"Oh, George, you don't think the man is at large—you don't think he's about here, do you?"

"How the devil do I know where he is. There's not much doubt about his being at large I should say, seeing it's now three weeks since the funeral, and the police haven't progressed an inch. Prince told me they had a clue, and traced it to Liverpool, but there it ended. The man's got away safe enough."

"Perhaps it wasn't a man, George!"

"Of course it was. You don't suppose a woman would have had the strength to strangle Barton, do you? The thing was done deliberately, I tell you—by his friend, most likely."

Mrs. Marsh squeaked again.

"His friend, George?"

The doctor nodded.

"I was talking over the matter with Prince," he said, "and he agrees with me that the assassin was known to Barton. If you remember the window was open. Well, Barton must have opened it to admit his visitor, whoever he was. They talked about the will, no doubt, and Barton probably produced it. While he was reading it, or some clause from it, his good friend must have slipped a scarf or a rope or something of the kind round his neck, and the thing was done. I don't suppose he uttered as much as a cry."

"But what could anyone want with the will, George?"

"Ah! that's more than I can tell you. There's nothing in the will itself to help us there, although Dundas let me read the original draft: the lawyer brought it down to show him. You see, Barton," here the doctor shook his head and looked exceeding wise, "Barton was a queer customer, and what's more, he knew all manner of other customers a good deal more queer even than himself. Those journeys of his to London brought him into contact with a heap of rascality. I shouldn't be surprised if some of his slum friends had polished him off. But, as I say, whoever he is, the assassin can never produce the will. It is gone, Amelia, and you can take my word for it, it will never turn up again. Dundas will remain in possession of the Manor House for his time. So Hilda will be perfectly safe in marrying him."

"But Hilda says he is in love with Miss Crane!"

"Stuff and nonsense. Don't I tell you she's gone away? Besides, Mrs. Darrow'll soon stop anything in that direction. She's only got to tell Dundas a little of what she knows about this precious Miriam creature."

Mrs. Marsh was alive with curiosity.

"Oh, George, what does she know?"

"Can't say; but I gather it's something by no means to Miss Crane's credit. More than that I couldn't get out of her. But I can tell you that if Dundas shapes that way, Mrs. Darrow will make him open his eyes pretty wide, though I don't believe myself Dundas even knows where the woman is. She seems to have vanished like a drop of water in the ocean of London. Take my word for it, he'll stay here, my dear, and helped by Mrs. Darrow our little girl will before long be occupying her proper place at the Manor House."

"And Gerald?"

"I'll settle him. He's coming here to see me this morning. I sent for him directly I heard of this affair. It's got to be cut root and branch, Amelia, for I tell you what it is, if we don't get money soon from somewhere, the bailiffs'll be in the house; so now you know!"

Indeed, poor Mrs. Marsh had cause to know; she had already quite a bowing acquaintance with the shabby personality of the man in possession. With terror in her heart at the mention of him, she hurried upstairs to her daughter, whilst the doctor, in his character of Roman father, remained behind. The dining-room was not only untidy, but peculiarly shabby, and for that reason he had decided that it was especially well adapted for his interview with Gerald. Surrounded thus by the undeniable evidences of his poverty, he hoped the better to drive his very trenchant remarks well home. Indeed, he was anticipating his lecture with no little pleasure, for if there was one thing upon which Doctor Marsh prided himself more than another, it was his oratorical powers, and the present he judged an admirable opportunity for exhibiting them.

Gerald made his appearance with the air of a man about to be hanged. He guessed well enough why Marsh wished to see him, but even in his dejection he was resolved upon making a fight of it. He had lost his inheritance, but he was determined, in his weak, mulish way, that he would not lose Hilda. And he was depending no little upon the girl herself helping him, if indeed she had not done so already. But in this he was destined to disappointment. Miss Marsh, in spite of her recent little outburst, was not the young lady to defy the world and console herself with love in a cottage. By no means; the tree must grow as the twig is bent, and although at first she had been a good deal disturbed at finding out the nature of her own feelings, it was not long before she returned to her old self, and the conclusion that in the existing circumstances Gerald Arkel was not for her, nor she for Gerald Arkel. Poor fond lover—his very moustache drooped with melancholy!

"Sir," began the Roman father, for the younger man left him to open the ball, "I am astonished and pained to learn that without my consent, that utterly unknown to me, you have had the audacity to engage yourself to my child; under such provocation I have no hesitation in saying that many a father would break off such a connection, root and branch, without vouchsafing reason of any kind. But I condemn no man unheard. You will therefore perhaps grasp the opportunity I hold out to you to explain your—your part of this affair."

"I love her," said Gerald, sitting miserably on his chair, "and she loves me, and what's more, I shan't give her up."

"Sir! I need hardly say you astound me. But once again in justice I ask you if you are in a position to support my child?"

Gerald cast a cynical glance round the shabby room.

"I can give her a better home than this," he said sullenly.

At this the Roman father threw off his classic yoke and took refuge in a more vehement and less stately method of expression.

"Confound you and your damned impudence, Mr. Arkel. What the devil do you mean by calling my house names? We are poor if you like, but honest—and that is more, yes, a damned deal more than you are."

"I am poor enough, I know, but——"

"I know that; you are a pauper—an absolute pauper, yet you have the brazen impudence to want my daughter to marry you!"

"I can work for her, I suppose?"

"No, sir, that's just what you can't do. Idle and dissipated you have always been, and idle and dissipated you always will be. Oh, I have heard of your goings-on in London, Mr. Arkel. You spent Barton's money freely while you had it, now you haven't got it, you are certainly not likely to make any for yourself."

"If the will is found——"

"Will!—found!—stuff and nonsense! Do you think the man who murdered your uncle for the sole purpose of stealing it is going to emerge from his hiding and make you a present of it? Don't be a fool, sir! Go and ask Dundas to give you a leg up, and try and do something to earn a pound a week. As to Hilda, put her out of your head."

By this time Gerald was almost beside himself.

"Mind your own business, Marsh," he shouted, jumping up. "I will not touch a penny of Dundas' money. But how I make my living, and what I decide to do, has nothing to do with you."

"Right! it hasn't. If I gave my consent to your marrying Hilda, it would have; as I decline to let my child throw herself away on a pauper, it hasn't. The best thing you can do is to quit this house and try and preserve your few scattered wits."

"You are beastly rude. But allow me to say that before I go I must hear what Hilda says," and with a very dogged look upon his face Master Gerald sat down.

"You will find that although Hilda has lapsed so far as to engage herself to you, she has still sufficient regard for the wishes of those in authority over her to obey them." The doctor was becoming classic again. "However, you shall see her."

Again Gerald cast an ironical glance round the room, as though mutely inquiring if he could possibly take Hilda into surroundings more impoverished than those amid which she was at present. But Marsh ignored the look entirely, for the very good reason that its contention was irrefutable even by him. So he stalked away, leaving Gerald to gnaw his moustache, and curse the fate which had robbed him of his money and now threatened to rob him of "the only girl he ever loved."

"But Hilda will be true," he thought. "She is too fond of me to lose me!"

She entered the room alone, red-eyed and pale, but with a look of determination on her face which sent a chill through Arkel's heart the moment he saw it. He rose to meet her, holding out his arms in welcome. Her name sprang to his lips. But she waved him back.

"No, no, Gerald! I cannot! I cannot! We must part."

"We will not part!" cried the man furiously. "You love me and I love you—no one has the right to part us."

"I must obey my parents."

"Not if they counsel you wrongly."

"Do they counsel me wrongly?" asked Hilda. "Gerald, do be reasonable—you are poor; I am poor. How can we marry?"

"I will work for you, Hilda—with you I can do anything!"

The girl shook her head sadly.

"If you were any other sort of man than what you are, perhaps," she said with relentless common-sense. "But I know you better than you do yourself. You love pleasure and you hate work. You have always pursued the one and avoided the other. I hate poverty with all the loathing of a lifetime. We should soon tire of each other. Believe me, Gerald, love in a cottage would not suit either of us. It would be madness to attempt it. Fond as I am of you I cannot contemplate it. It isn't to be thought of."

"So you really give me up?" cried he in anger.

She bowed her head.

"For both our sakes I give you up."

"You never really cared for me!"

"I did—I do. You are the only man I ever loved; but I cannot blind myself even so. If you had only a small income I would marry you; or if you had a strong will or a clever brain I would marry you. But, Gerald, dear Gerald, you know you have neither. You are the dearest fellow in the world; yes, and the handsomest, and the nicest, but—but without an income! No, dear, it would never do. We should grow to hate each other in no time. Take my advice: marry a rich woman, and you will be happy."

He looked at her for a moment, and tried to speak. Then his fury overcame him, and he grew scarlet in the face and inarticulate. Alarmed at his violence Hilda ran out of the room. As she opened the door her father appeared.

"Arkel, Arkel, what is this?" he said. "Control yourself, man, control yourself."

Gerald staggered forward and clutched the doctor's arm. Again he tried to speak, but failed to articulate a word. Then, with a pitiable cry, he fell senseless to the floor.

"Ah," said the doctor, bending over him with professional calm, "even were you rich as Croesus, you are not the husband for my child."

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Marsh coming on the scene.

"Nothing—don't alarm yourself. Just a little exhibition of the Barton family nerves, my dear, that's all. Neurosis, neurosis: that ever tabooed word! It came out queerly enough in the uncle, goodness knows! I wonder what shape it's going to take now in the nephew?"

"Has he given up Hilda?"

"Well, no; but she's given him up. Wait here, Amelia. I must get something from the surgery."