The White Heather swung quietly at her moorings in the harbor of Genoa the Superb. The lively company on board, tired after a day’s sight-seeing, had left the marble streets and palace cafÉs to the Genoese, and sought the pleasant seclusion of the yacht’s airy promenade deck.

“Dinner on board, followed by a dance,” said Phyllis, as arbiter of the procedure. A few hasty invitations sent out to British residents in Genoa met with general acceptance, and the lull between afternoon tea and the more formal meal was a grateful interlude.

Genoa is so shut in by its amphitheatre of hills that unless a gale blows from the west its bay is unruffled, and its atmosphere oppressively hot during the day, even in the winter months.

Sir William Browne’s excursion had proved so attractive to those invited that the White Heather was taken farther along the coast than was originally intended. When all the best known resorts of the Riviera itself were exploited, some one, probably prompted thereto by Phyllis or Mensmore, suggested a run to Genoa.

They had been in the port three days, and on the morrow would hand the yacht over to the owner’s agents, those on board separating on their different routes. The Brownes went to Florence and Rome, and Mensmore was pretending to hold out against a pressing request to accompany them, cordially given by his prospective father-in-law.

This afternoon Phyllis and he were leaning over the taffrail and discussing the point.

The young lady was slightly inclined to be angry. Her eyes roamed over the magnificent panorama of church-crowned hills and verdant valleys, with the white city in front and the picturesque quays looking as though they had been specially decked for a painting by Clara Montalba. But Phyllis paid heed to none of these things. She wanted her lover to come with her, and not to fly away to smoke-covered London.

“Business!” she cried, “it is always business that men think of. Of course I know that affairs must be attended to, but now that everything is settled and we are quite happy, it is too bad of you to run away immediately.”

“But, dearest—”

“There! Take your hand off my arm. You are not going to coax me into agreement. Just because you receive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all the arrangements.”

“Phyllis, listen to me. I—”

“You shan’t go. I think it is mean of you to insist upon it when I am so urgent.”

“I am not insisting. You might at least help me to settle matters; otherwise they will get terribly mixed.”

“And you will stay?”

“What else can I do when you ask me?”

“Oh, you darling!”

This little quarrel was very delightful, and made them feel ever so much more in love than before; but it did not help Mensmore out of his difficulty.

“Let us see what Corbett really says,” he remarked, ruefully taking a letter from his pocket.

“Am I to look, too?”

“Of course. I have no secrets from you, little woman.”

Phyllis nestled up close to him. This time she did not object to his hand resting on her shoulder, and together they read the following letter:

Both gazed thoughtfully at the document for a few moments before Phyllis said:

“Does that mean we shall be rich, Bertie?”

Her companion emphasized the gratification of the plural pronoun by a squeeze.

“I hope so, sweet.”

“That will be very nice, won’t it? I will marry you even if you have to take a place in father’s office; but it will be so much better if we haven’t to explain to him that we are poor after all.”

Mensmore laughed. “It is not so bad as that in any case,” he said. “This Springbok Mine speculation will probably turn out well, but I look to Wyoming to yield the best and most permanent results.”

“Why is Mr. Corbett coming to London?”

“Because it is only in London that capital can be obtained for large undertakings, and if the Wyoming Goldfield is really a valuable one we may be able to realize some portion of our interests for a considerable sum. Anyhow, he wants to consult me.”

“Do you both own the ranch?”

“Yes; it was a joint transaction, but I found the money.”

“And why did you come away?”

“Well, we made very little out of it, Phil. As Corbett has two sisters, I thought it best to leave what there was for him. He was absurdly grateful about what he called my generosity in the matter, but now that the land has proved valuable, of course all that nonsense is at an end, and we go half-shares in the deal.”

“Two sisters! They pretty?”

“What! Jealous already! They are very nice, but much older than their brother, and he is my senior by two years.”

Miss Browne was graciously pleased to accept this explanation. She knitted her smooth brow into a reflective frown as she said:

“Mr. Corbett arrives on the 4th. It is now January 30th. You really ought to go home, Bertie.”

“Now my dear, sensible little woman is talking like her own self.”

“I see I must give you permission. But I did hope we would see Florence together.”

“So we shall. I’ll tell you what I can do. I shall write to Corbett to-day, care of the steamer at Liverpool, tell him to go to my flat, and stay there a few days until I arrive, and go home myself at the end of next week. He is sure to spend some time seeing the sights before tackling business, and he can do that as well without me as if I were there. A line to my old housekeeper, who has a spare key, will make the place habitable for him. Happy thought, I’ll do it.”

“And another happy thought! I’ll come and watch you do it.”

She did not notice that Mensmore’s face clouded at this otherwise pleasant intimation. Nevertheless, he raced off with her to the saloon and seated himself at the writing-table. But before he placed pen to paper, Phyllis bending over him meanwhile, he suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance:

“Now, what a bore this is. I don’t know how to address the letter to make sure of reaching him at once, and it is very important that it should not miss him.”

“Father will know. Let us ask him.”

“No,” said Mensmore judicially, “I will row across the harbor to the Florio-Rubattino office, find out the exact thing, and send off the letter. Back in half-an-hour. Be good!”

And before Phyllis could argue the matter he was at the gangway shouting for a boat.

She blew a kiss to him as he shot over the narrow strip of water inside the mole, and little realized that Mensmore was saying to himself:

“That was a narrow squeak. Never again, as long as I live, will I take another man’s name. It causes no end of bother, and at the most unexpected moments.”

He did not trouble the Florio-Rubattino people, as he well knew that a letter addressed to the White Star offices would insure any communication reaching his friend.

The context of the missive, as finally indited at the post-office, explains his hesitancy to write it in the presence of his fiancÉe.

This, with a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robinson, and another to the hall-porter of the Universities Club, lest by any chance the Liverpool letter missed his friend, completed his task.

He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the harbor.

“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won’t old Robinson be surprised when she gets my letter telling her that another Mr. Corbett is coming from America, and that my name, concealed for family reasons, is Mensmore. I guess that Sydney will feel a bit mixed up, too, until I tell him the whole yarn.”

No wonder his housekeeper would fail to understand him.

Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little suspected, were already puzzled by the circumstances. Bruce, for instance, and White would be very glad if some occult power enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters posted that day in Genoa.

Every person known to the reader, and not the least the visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a mad whirl of events, the outcome of which no man could prophesy. As yet, one man only, Claude Bruce, had the slightest suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.

When Mensmore reached the White Heather he found Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive before dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to cross-examine his daughter’s suitor as to his means. Phyllis was an only child, and her father did not propose that she should live in penury, whatever the financial position of her husband might be. He liked Mensmore, and had ascertained by private inquiries that his social position was good.

“His father was a Major-General,” said his informant, “who lost his savings by speculation, and was unable to maintain his son in a crack cavalry corps, so the youngster resigned and went to America to try to better himself. There was a daughter, too, by the first wife, a very charming woman, who, when the crash came, was supposed to have gone on the stage. But I have never heard of her since.”

So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir William thought it his duty to ascertain definite particulars.

Mensmore was quite candid with him.

“I have been somewhat of a rolling stone,” he said, “but I am glad to believe that people have never had cause to think ill of me. At times, my affairs have been at a desperate stage, but I hope such periods have passed forever. I have already spoken to you about the Springbok Mine—”

The old gentleman nodded.

“Well, this morning I have received very satisfactory news from America,” and he handed over Corbett’s letter for perusal.

“Yes,” agreed Sir William, “these things promise well. We will look into them when we reach England. Meanwhile, I give my provisional sanction to my daughter’s engagement. She is a good girl, Mensmore. She will be a true and excellent wife. I think you are worthy of her, and I hope that whatever clouds may have darkened your life will now pass away. You two ought to be happy.”

“We will, sir,” said Mensmore fervently.

“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in England or abroad?”

Mensmore had been expecting this question. He was prepared for it.

“Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I have not seen much of her since—since an unhappy marriage she contracted some years ago.”

“Indeed. Is her husband alive?”

“I can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does not live with him. She is well provided for, but it was partly on account of this matter that I came to the Riviera for the winter. To tell the truth, I quarrelled with her about it.”

“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and you, except to give you warning. And take my advice. Never interfere between husband and wife. However good your motive, ill is sure to come of it.”

In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not note his companion’s embarrassment in discussing this topic. Mensmore was essentially an honorable man, and he detested the necessity which forced him to permit false inferences to be drawn from his words. Yet there was no help for it. He was compelled to suffer for the faults of another.

It was relief when the dressing-bell for dinner allowed him to escape to his cabin.

There was quite a large gathering for dinner. Places like Genoa contain a number of highly interesting personages if the visitor discovers them. The British race produces a richer variety of human flotsam and jetsam than any other. These derelicts come to anchor in out-of-the-way parts of the earth. They seem to have been everywhere and have done everything, while the whole world is an open book to them.

Thus there was no lack of variety in the conversation, and, as usual in such assemblies, it dealt more with persons than with incidents.

Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken for granted that her lover was near her—in fact, he sat exactly opposite. The lady he took in to dinner was the wife of an English doctor, and the British consul at the port was Miss Browne’s table companion.

The consul was a chatty man, who kept himself well informed concerning society events.

“By the way,” he said to Phyllis, “did you ever meet Lady Dyke?”

“No, her name is not familiar to me.”

“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dyke?” said Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced caused Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.

“Yes, that is she.”

“I know Sir Charles well. What is there new about his wife?”

“She is dead.”

“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how?”

Mensmore was so obviously agitated that others present noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled much that in all their confidence the name of Dyke had never escaped his lips.

The consul, too, was a little nonplussed by the sensation caused by his words.

“I fear,” he said, “that I have blurted out the fact rather unguardedly. The Dykes are friends of yours?”

“No, no, not in that sense. Sir Charles I have known for many years. But are you sure his wife is dead?”

“My authority is an announcement in the Times to hand by to-day’s post. I should not have mentioned it were not her ladyship so well known in society, and the affair is peculiar, to say the least.”

“Peculiar—how?”

In his all-absorbing interest in the consul’s statement, Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks directed at him; he had become very pale, and was more excited in manner than the circumstances appeared to warrant.

“In this sense: The paper is the issue of January 28, yet the notice says that Lady Dyke died on November 6. This is odd, is it not? A woman of her position could hardly have quitted life so quietly that no one would trouble to publish the fact until nearly three months after the event.”

“It is extraordinary—inexplicable!”

“Did you know Lady Dyke personally, Bertie?” put in Phyllis timorously.

The question restored Mensmore to some sense of his surroundings.

“I have never even seen her,” he said, trying desperately to be commonplace; “but her husband is an old schoolfellow of mine, and I have heard much of both of them since their marriage. I am quite shocked by the news.”

“I can only repeat my regret for having spoken of it so carelessly,” said the polite consul.

“Oh, I am glad to know of it since it has happened. Poor Lady Dyke! How strange that she should die!”

Phyllis had the tact to change the conversation, and Mensmore gradually recovered his self-possession. A woman’s eyes are keener than a man often gives her credit for; and Phyllis saw quite plainly that after the first effect of the news had passed it, in some indefinable way, seemed to have a good effect on her lover. But if a woman’s intuition is seldom at fault her reasoning faculties are narrow.

Trying to arrive at a solution of the mystery attending Mensmore’s behavior, Phyllis suddenly became hot all over.

She felt furiously and inordinately jealous of a woman she did not know, and who was admittedly dead before Mensmore and she herself had met.

Hence her nose went high in the air when Bertie claimed her for the first dance.

“Who is this Lady Dyke in whom you are so deeply interested?” she said, drawing him beneath a sheltering awning.

“As I said,” replied Mensmore, “she is the wife of an old acquaintance of mine.”

“But you must have been very fond of her to feel so keenly when you heard of her death?”

“Fond of her! I have never, to my knowledge, laid eyes on her.”

“Oh!” And the tone was somewhat mollified. “Then why did you look so worried during dinner?”

“Simply because I know Sir Charles.”

“What a dear, sympathetic little boy you are! When I die, Bertie, I suppose you will drop down stiff from grief at once.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. We are missing all this delightful music.”

And they whirled away down the snowy deck, forgetful of all things save one, that they were in love.

Now, what a pity it was that Bruce was not on board the White Heather that night. Many complications, and not a little misery, would have been avoided thereby.

CHAPTER XIX