Mrs. Perks received her quondam lodger with much show of heartiness. During those few weeks' stay at the Pitt Hotel, while she had been recruiting her shattered health prior to taking up the engagement at Lesser Thorpe, Miriam had endeared herself to the little woman. And Mrs. Perks, although snappish, distrustful, and burdened by the many cares and hardened by the experience of sordid London life, was, nevertheless—as she said herself—not slow to recognise a good woman when she saw one, and she had long since admitted Miriam in her own mind to that category. She had regretted Miss Crane's departure sincerely, and now welcomed her even more so.

"You shall 'ave your own bed and sitting-room," she said, drawing her shawl tightly round her spare form, "and that for as long as you likes. Don't offer me money, or I shall refuse it with scorn; so don't offer it, I begs."

"But I can't live on you for nothing, Mrs. Perks."

"If it's pride which sticks in your throat," said the landlady rubbing her nose, "there is the 'ouse accounts which I can't do nowise, not 'aving an intelligent 'ead for figures. Do them for me, Miss Cranes, and you'll be paying me 'andsome."

"I'll do the accounts with pleasure," replied Miriam, thankful for the opportunity of thus paying her way; "and if you accept payment for my board and lodging like that, I shall be only too pleased."

So the bargain was struck, and Miriam undertook to balance the finances of the Pitt Hotel, which, to speak truly, were in a sad muddle. Mrs. Perks was a good landlady, an excellent housekeeper, but when it came to figures, Mrs. Perks was not in the first flight. The hotel, though by no means a high class one, paid well enough. Those who patronised it were of the shabby-genteel order. Would-be authors, frowsy foreigners, shabby ne'er-do-weels, came here for bed and board; and Mrs. Perks, as hard as a diamond if not so brilliant, screwed money out of them somehow. But the fact that they generally came again argued that even pertinacious and dogged as she was, Mrs. Perks had something on the other side which more than counterbalanced her capabilities in this direction. There were those who could speak very feelingly of the natural kindness within Mrs. Perks, and of her invariable readiness to hold out a helping hand to the unfortunate. A hard woman, a sordid woman, yet a true woman withal, and therefore capable of a great tenderness. There were many worse people than Mrs. Perks.

As the days went by and Miriam grew in favour, the landlady contracted the habit of taking tea with her in the bed-sitting room which was her abode for the time. And on these occasions, softened by the tea and mellowed by the toast, the old lady was wont to wax confidential, and talk a great deal about the late Mr. Barton. But what had been the true state of affairs between them Miriam never learned. Mrs. Perks was quite able, and evidently intended, to keep that to herself. For the rest she spoke both good and ill of the Squire, though on the whole she seemed in nowise to grieve that he was no more.

"Ah, Miss Cranes," she sighed on one of these occasions, "he was a bad 'un, was Mr. Barton; in fact, I don't think I ever knowed a wuss. Yet he 'ad 'is good points too. You couldn't call 'im 'oly and you couldn't call 'im wicious; he was betwixt and between like—a Moses and a Judas—and where he's gone to is more than I can tell."

"I suppose you know all about his life in London?"

"I do and I don't, Miss Cranes. He 'elps me to take this 'otel, and I paid off the money 'e advanced, so 'im and me was quits. But although I was 'ouse-keeper at the Manor House some time, and 'e put me 'ere in the way of earnin' my own livin', it wasn't a good 'eart as made 'im do it—oh dear no, not at all. He wanted a home 'ere where 'e could go and come without bein' talked about."

"Why, where did he use to go?"

"Ah!"—Mrs. Perks sniffed significantly—"where didn't he go? Slums was pleasures to 'im and criminals delights. Lor', Miss Cranes, if you only knowed the awful people as called 'ere to see Mr. Bartons, your blood would freeze in your veins!"

"Did you ever happen to notice a tall dark man, wearing a black cloak?"

"Wot, with a white face and a scar on it? Ah, that I did. What 'is name was, I didn't rightly know. The Shadder Mr. Barton called 'im, and shadder 'e was in his comin's and goin's, an' no mistake. 'E was a bad 'un, that Shadder, and I believe 'e did all Mr. Barton's wicked work for 'im. I never looked in the noospapers, Miss Cranes, but I expected to see a 'orrid murder by the Shadder and Mr. Bartons, but some'ow they managed to keep clear of the gallers."

"It was extraordinary his connection with that man," assented Miriam. "I can't think what he kept him for—there's no doubt he employed him regularly."

Mrs. Perks tossed her head, rose and tightened her shawl again.

"Oh, I don't know. I never saw anything wrong except that Mr. Bartons came 'ome at all hours, and let all kinds of 'orrid creatures call on 'im; but I'm sure there was some devilment goin' on. Not that I ought to be surprised," cackled Mrs. Perks, "for the Bartons family was all of 'em mad as March 'ares."

"Mad?"

"Yes, Miss Cranes. His father drank 'orrid, and he was fond of low company for some wickedness I couldn't rightly make out. Mrs. Arkel, his sister, 'ad the temper of a demon, and Mrs. Darrow, his niece, 'as the same, as no doubts you know well. As for young Mr. Arkel, 'e's on 'is way to die of strong drink."

Miriam felt a thrill.

"You don't mean to say that Mr. Arkel drinks to excess?"

"I should jus' say 'e do. 'E comes 'ere at times and is drunk for days! Can't 'elp it, 'e sez—I'd 'elp 'im if I'd my way. There was another of 'em in an asylum; she was always stealin', couldn't 'elp it, it seemed no'ow. As for the morals of 'em, I blushes to think of the way they used to carry on. It's a blessin', I'm sure, that some of 'em's committed suicide."

"Major Dundas seems to be perfectly normal in every way."

"Oh, 'e's the proud and 'aughty sort, 'e is. I never 'eard anything worse than that about 'im. But 'e'll break out some day, Miss Cranes, never you fear. What's born in the Barton bones'll come out in the Barton flesh, mark my words if it don't."

Apparently Major Dundas was the only member of the house of Barton for whom Mrs. Perks had even comparative approval. And Miriam had little doubt but that she was correct in her judgment, if not in her prognostications. At least she had had a lengthy experience of the family. An hereditary weakness had undoubtedly exhibited itself in various manners, none of which was either trivial or attractive. Theft, or to give it the more scientific name, kleptomania, uncontrollable rage, alcoholism, and—in the Squire—distinct and avowed homicidal mania, which characteristics left little ground for doubt as to there being decided mental aberration in the Barton family. But of the last, and more serious failing on the part of the late Squire, Mrs. Perks seemed to be wholly in ignorance. To her he was an eccentric, and a dilettante in crime—a seeker after the lower strata of humanity, but nothing more.

As soon as she arrived in town Miriam had at once proceeded to investigate the fact of Jabez' being in England. Her first visit was to the hovel of Mother Mandarin, for there she knew he was wont to take refuge when in London. But to her surprise Mother Mandarin knew nothing of his present whereabouts. She had not seen him indeed since he had left for Lesser Thorpe. Shorty, too, although he looked knowingly at her and seemed once or twice on the point of being confidential, denied all knowledge of him. For Jabez' own sake she inserted a cypher advertisement in several of the daily papers, warning him of the great danger he was running by remaining in England. But he made no sign of any kind, and Miriam gave up in despair.

She heard from Inspector Prince that in spite of the thorough search of all outgoing steamers for America, both at Southampton and at Liverpool, no trace had been found of the man she had described. And from the mere fact of the inspector writing to her thus ex-officio, she gathered—and rightly—that she had not failed so far as he was concerned. So she was forced to rest content with the knowledge that for the present, at least, Jabez, wherever he was, was safe.

Then one morning Gerald Arkel made his appearance at the Pitt Hotel. He was very much changed. His former expression of light-hearted gaiety had given way to one of dejection, even sullenness. His dress, usually so irreproachable, was conspicuous now by his untidy carelessness; and the springy gait, which had always been so characteristic of him, was gone. It was almost as if the breath of old age had passed over him, and in the passing had roughed the outlines of his youth.

"My! you do look bad, Mr. Arkel!" was Mrs. Perks' greeting. "Wot 'ave you been doin'?"

"Mourning for my uncle," retorted Gerald with a discordant laugh. "Having lost my benefactor, Mrs. Perks, you can't expect me to be very sprightly, eh? Is Miss Crane in?"

"Yes, sir, she is—you'll find 'er first door on the right there. I wonder what 'e wants with 'er," she mumbled, as Gerald made his way along the passage. "No good, I'll be bound. You've been drinkin' 'ard, young man, and wot's more, you'll come to no 'appy end, unless I'm much mistaken."

A knock at the door of the room in which Miriam was occupied at her morning's work caused her to bid her visitor to enter. She did not raise her eyes from her work. She was accustomed to be thus disturbed for some trivial matter or other in the morning. For half a minute Gerald stood there looking at her. How beautiful and composed her expression was! He faltered out her name. She paled at the sound of his voice, and rose slowly to her feet, repeating his name in a tone hardly less faltering. In silence their eyes met.

"You are surprised to see me?" said Gerald, throwing his hat on a chair and sitting down. "I got your address from Dundas. I thought you would not mind if I came and saw you."

A more serious expression came over her face as she looked at him.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Arkel," she said; "but you look to me terribly ill. Is anything the matter? I am afraid——" She hesitated.

"That I've been making a fool of myself?" he finished bitterly. "Well, you're right as usual—I have. And what's more, I'm afraid I shall go on making a fool of myself until I can find someone to give me a helping hand."

"But is not Hilda——?"

"Hilda!" His face crimsoned, and he bit his lip. "Hilda has given me up. That's all over now!"

"Given you up?" She did not know whether she felt glad or sorry.

"Yes; given me up. When through the theft of that will I lost everything, she flatly declined to marry me. Her father forbade her to. I saw him—I saw her—and the whole thing was too much for me. I had a kind of fit, I believe."

"Poor Mr. Arkel!"

"Still Mr. Arkel?—you used to take an interest in me. You used to be my friend."

"That I am still; but surely Major Dundas is your friend. Surely he——?"

"Oh yes; in a cold-blooded sort of way," replied Gerald listlessly. "He has helped me. He gave me three hundred pounds, and said he would try and get me something to do. Considering that he has all that I should have had, that is not a great deal."

"It is very good, I think," replied Miriam. "And what do you think of doing?"

"Blessed if I know." He spoke fretfully and with discontent. "The thing is, what am I fit for?"

"What are you fit for?—what any man worthy of the name is fit for—work—hard work. Do you remember how I always told you it would be your salvation. Well, now it has come—no longer is it a matter of choice with you, but one of necessity. Will you be angry with me if I say that I am glad it is all over between Hilda Marsh and you? She was not the woman for you. She was not fit to be any poor man's wife. You have everything before you now. In robbing you of what you had come to think of as your inheritance, Providence befriended you—not the opposite. Your uncle's money would have been your ruin, Gerald." His face brightened at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, you know it would. You know how weak you are, how you love pleasure, self-indulgence—how already you have indulged your love of it far too much. Oh, do try now, I beg of you. Let me help you if I can. I will do anything if it will help to put you on your feet again. Who is there you can go and see? Tell me you will try."

She had risen from her seat and was standing by his side. He looked so dull, so heavy-eyed, so despairing.

"Gerald, this chance is thrown right in your way. Don't neglect it."

"You put new life in me, Miriam—and indeed I have tried. I have vowed that I would overcome my weakness. And when I am with you I feel as if I really could. But somehow, when I am alone, the feeling goes, and I can't go on. You know I am not religious, but I tell you I have prayed for help to do what you would have me do. But it hasn't come to me. Life is too much for me alone. If I had you to help me——"

"I will help you!"

"Oh, Miriam, if only you would—if I could think that I should have you by me, that you would not leave me, I believe I could succeed, Miriam." He looked at her, and took her hand and grasped it hard. "I know I am a wreck compared to what I was, that I am weak, and poor, and helpless. You know how I am handicapped. But I feel that with you—if you would take me—life would all be different. I could work for you. With you I should feel safe, without you I am doomed. Will you take pity on me?—will you marry me, Miriam?"

She looked at him and smiled so sadly.

"I will help you, Gerald. I will stay beside you—always. Your life shall be my life—but not because I pity you, Gerald—because I love you!"