Violet entered the drawing-room with the air of one who rejoices in good news. Consider that she had just learned the certainty of her sister’s fair fame, and that, in the same breath, she was freed from Van Hupfeldt’s pestering: was it to be wondered at if, since the dread day she received a letter from a loved one already dead, she had never once looked so light-hearted, so full of the wine of life, as when she danced into the house after her interview with David. And this quickening of her pulses boded no good to Van Hupfeldt.

A lawyer-like man was arranging parchments on a table—a large, square table which had evidently been brought from a library for the purpose, as the day was chill indoors and the drawing-room was cozy with a log fire. Van Hupfeldt, who had turned from the window before Violet appeared, affected to be examining the great red seals on the green ribbons laced into the vellum. That weak heart of his was knocking hard at his ribs; but his lips were tight set: he was fighting with his back to the wall, for that interloper, David Harcourt, must have told Violet everything. So, really, Van Hupfeldt deserved some consideration for his splendid nonchalance.

Mrs. Mordaunt sat in an easy-chair, stroking her toy Pom. She was anxious for these preliminaries to be done with. Dale Manor was an expensive place to keep up; Van Hupfeldt’s millions would restore the Falerian order. So she hailed her daughter pleasantly, after one critical glance.

“Your little walk did, indeed, bring out the roses, Vi. But you were rather beyond the ten minutes, and Mr. Sharpe is a business man, dear; we must not detain him unduly.”

Mr. Sharpe coughed with deference. He was open to be detained or retained for the rest of his life, at the price per diem.

“Ah, yes,” said Violet, softly, giving Van Hupfeldt a queer look which he alone understood. “There are things to be signed, something about some one of the first part and some other person of the second part. Why do you use such odd terms, Mr. Sharpe?”

“It is the jargon of the law, Miss Mordaunt. Every line adds a mite to the small incomes of us poor lawyers.”

“But who are these people?”

Sharpe looked puzzled. “The first deed recites the marriage contract between you and Mr. Van Hupfeldt,” he began to explain.

But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of ice in a glass: “Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt?”

“Vi!” This from Mrs. Mordaunt.

“Mother, better not interfere. You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Sharpe. You spoke of a Mr. Henry Van Hupfeldt. Who is he?”

The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed to the man standing by the table. “Of course, that is he,” he said.

“Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who married and, it may be found, killed my sister. You must look further into your papers, Mr. Sharpe. There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went on your knees and prayed to God for guidance in your work, it might be better!”

“Vi!” shrieked her mother again, and the dog in her lap sprang off in alarm.

The solicitor stood dumfounded, still thinking that some bizarre piece of humor was toward.

It was Van Hupfeldt who saved Mrs. Mordaunt from imminent hysteria. “Violet has been talking to that fellow Harcourt, of whom I told you,” he said coolly. “She is, unfortunately, only too ready to believe him, and a further wall of distrust is built between us at a most inopportune moment. I am sorry, Mrs. Mordaunt; it is not my fault. And I would have saved you from this, Violet. I knew he had left London, so I wired precautions. But he is a scamp of unparalleled audacity and resource. Surely you have given him no money?”

Violet, scarce trusting her ears, listened to the calm, smooth sentences with rising indignation. But she mastered herself sufficiently to say: “He has told me everything—about the certificates, the diary, all. The time of lies has passed. Did you, then, kill my sister?”

“Why condense the tale? Of course he assured you that Dibbin, the agent who let the flat to your sister’s husband, will readily identify me as Strauss; that Sarah Gissing, her servant, will hail me as her former master?”

“Yes. He did say that.”

“Why did he not bring them here?”

“He will bring them to-morrow.”

Van Hupfeldt smiled wearily. It seemed as though he could not help himself. “Forgive me, Violet,” he said. “It is I who will bring them—not Harcourt. He dare not. His bubble bursts the moment you ask for proof. Indeed, I am beginning to think the man is mad. He must have conceived an insane affection for you, and you are committing a great wrong in giving him these clandestine meetings.”

This was too much. Violet advanced toward him with eyes aflame. “There were days in the history of the world when men were struck dead from Heaven!” she cried.

“That is yet possible,” he answered with a strange humility.

“Do you deny all, all?” she almost screamed.

“Not only do I deny, but I affirm, and I have my proofs. I have known for some time, not very long, it is true, that a man named Johann Strauss did assume my name when he married your sister. There is nothing remarkable in that. I am a rich man, known to many. The adoption of a pseudonym is a common device of actors. There was no real resemblance between this person Strauss and myself. Of that fact those who were well acquainted with him—Dibbin and Sarah Gissing—will assure you to-morrow in this house. I have your sister’s marriage certificate, and the birth registration of her child. I know where the child is. I will bring the foster-mother to tell you that I was not the man who intrusted the infant to her care. I have your sister’s diary, which this Harcourt did really secure. I got it from him by a trick, I admit, but only to save you from becoming his dupe. Now I have placed all my cards on the table, by the side of your marriage settlement. Can David Harcourt do as much?”

The girl’s lips quivered a little. What was she to believe? In whom was she to trust? She wanted to cry, but she dug her nails into her white hands; for the encircling clasp of David’s arms still tingled on her shoulders. “Why do you tell me all this only when I force it from you?” she asked.

“You answer your own question. You force it from me. Exactly I would prefer that my promised wife should have trust in me. I wished to spare you certain sordid revelations; but because some American adventurer happens upon a family tragedy and uses it for his own purposes—whether base or not I do not stop to inquire—you treat me as the one quite unworthy of belief. Violet, you hurt me more than you know.” The man’s voice broke. Tears stood in his eyes.

The girl was nearly distraught under the stress of the struggle going on with her. “Henry Van Hupfeldt,” she said solemnly, looking him straight in the face, “may the Lord judge between me and you if I have wronged you!”

“No, sweet girl, you cannot wrong me; for my conscience is clear, but it is a hard thing that you should incline rather to this blackmailer than to me.”

“Blackmailer!” The ugly word came from her lips in sheer protest; the lash of a whip could not have stung as cruelly.

“Yes, most certainly. Did he not demand a hundred pounds from you? Let me go to him and offer five hundred, and you will never see or hear of him again.”

“Oh, if that is so, there is no faith or honesty in the world.”

“Is he your world, then?” demanded Van Hupfeldt, bitterly, and even Mrs. Mordaunt broke in with her moan:

“Oh, Vi!”

“Let us end this distressing scene,” went on Van Hupfeldt with a repressed indignation that was exceedingly convincing. “Mr. Sharpe, you see, of course, that Miss Mordaunt cannot be expected to complete these agreements to-day. Please be here to-morrow at the same time. Before that hour I shall be back from London with all the witnesses and documents which shall prove to Miss Mordaunt’s complete satisfaction that she has been grossly misled by a cleverly concocted story. Indeed, I would be glad if, subsequently, you interviewed this David Harcourt. It seems to me almost credible now that he himself believed the extraordinary tale he has made up.”

“Whatever you please shall be done, sir,” said the lawyer. “And may I add, for the benefit of these two ladies, that—er—my own knowledge of your position and—er—career completely excludes such a preposterous—er—”

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” broke in Van Hupfeldt. “You mean that kindly, I know; but this is a matter between Miss Mordaunt and myself at the moment.”

The solicitor gathered up his papers and withdrew. For a little while there was no sound in the room except the mother’s sobbing and the daughter’s labored breathing; for unhappy Violet was so torn with doubt that her breast appeared to be unable to harbor its agitation. A few minutes ago she deemed herself free from a compact hateful to her soul; yet, here was Van Hupfeldt more convincing, more compelling, than ever. To her terrified eyes the man assumed the shape and properties of a python, a monstrous snake from which there was no escape.

And then the sibilant hiss of his voice reached her dulled ears. “Mrs. Mordaunt, may I appeal to your authority? Surely this Harcourt will not be admitted here in my absence? I do not ask much, only a respite of twenty-four hours. Then I return, with all the proofs.”

“Why have they been withheld so long?” came Violet’s agonized protest.

“I do declare, Vi,” broke in her mother, “that you would try the patience of Job! Have you lost all your fine sense of honor and fairness? What more can Mr. Van Hupfeldt do to please you? And where do you meet this young man who so unwarrantably thrusts himself into our affairs, I should like to know?”

Poor Violet knew that the British matron instinct was fighting against her now. And there never was a girl more bound up in her family ties than this one. “Forgive me, mother,” she said wearily. “The long struggle is at an end, now. Let Mr. Van Hupfeldt keep his promise, and I shall not cause further difficulty.”

“Well said!” cried Van Hupfeldt, eagerly. “That is a brave resolve. I accept it implicitly. Mrs. Mordaunt, I trust you will not be angry with my Violet while I am away. I know how she has suffered. It is for me to make amends for all that. And I promise her happiness, a full cup. And, meanwhile, Violet—”

“I agree. I neither see nor speak to nor send any message to David Harcourt, as far as lies in my power, until your return to-morrow.”

“I kiss my hand to you both!” cried Van Hupfeldt with the gallant air which came natural to him, and he went out. His preparations were soon made. A carriage took him to the station; but before he quitted the manor, he sent for the gamekeeper.

“You were remiss in your duty,” he said sternly to the man. “The person of whom I warned you has been in the park and has spoken to Miss Violet. Now, listen carefully to what I say. Obtain any help you require and guard this house and its grounds so that not a bird can fly over it nor a rabbit scamper among the bushes without your knowledge. Do this until I return to-morrow and I give you fifty pounds, but fail in the least particular and you will be dismissed instantly.” He was gone, with a rush of whipped horses.

Velveteens took thought. “Twiced in one day!” he growled. “A licking or the sack, an’ fifty quid or the sack—which is it to be?”

It might be one, or all, or none. Of such firsts, seconds, and thirds is the acrostic of life made up. But the promise of money stirred the man’s dull wits. No watch-dog could have been more faithful to his trust, and, by lavish offers of silver and beer—deferred luxuries, of course—he secured the aid of certain local poachers, his lasting enemies, but his friends for the night. In a word, if David had crept again into the park, he would probably have been beaten to a jelly.

But David attempted nothing of the sort. He was loyal to his pact with Violet, never dreaming of the ordeal to which the girl had submitted. Nevertheless, having no sort of occupation, he kept his eyes and ears open. He saw Sharpe drive through the village, and was told that the lawyer was head of a trusted firm in the county town. He saw Van Hupfeldt pass toward the station, and the ostler learned from a railway porter that the “gentleman from the manor” had gone to “Lunnon.”

This gave David cause to think, seeing that there was no news from Violet. But he waited, with much hope and some spasms of miserableness, through the long dull evening; heard nothing from her; went to bed; tossed restlessly until the sun rose; met the village postman at the door of the inn; and still received no tidings. He breakfasted, hung about, watched the road, sauntered as far as the lodge, nodded affably to velveteens behind the bars, and caught no glimpse of Violet. Then he determined to break the spell of silence. He returned to the inn and wrote a letter, which he intrusted to His Majesty’s Postmaster-General for express delivery.

Sure enough, the postmistress’s young sister refused to be turned back by the Cerberus at the gate, nor would she tell her business. The man knew her, suspected her errand, but dared not interfere, having a wholesome regard for the law; so all he could do was to note her coming and going, and report to his briber, for he was Mrs. Mordaunt’s servant.

And this is what David wrote:

The messenger tripped back. “No answer, sir,” she said, and the words smote David such a blow that his cheek blanched, while the girl wondered.

“To whom did you hand my note?” he managed to ask.

“To Miss Violet, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Gave it to her myself.”

“And she read it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Just that, sir; no answer.”

Then David, in a mighty wrath and fume, dashed off another note.

Back went the postmistress’s sister, marveling at the strangeness of these one-sided missives between the young woman of the manor and a handsome young man at the Feathers. Being seventeen, she took David’s side as against Violet. So she added, on her own account, when she saw the white-faced aristocrat in the house, the explanatory statement that “the young gentleman seemed to be very much upset at receiving no reply.”

Poor Violet, in whom loyalty was hereditary, could not break her word. But she did say: “I have no message to-day; but I know Mr. Harcourt’s address.”

That was the only crumb of comfort vouchsafed to David. Away he went at quarter-past one, nor did the volcano in him show any sign of subsidence when he reached the gloom and shadows of No. 7 Eddystone Mansions.

For a little drop of acutest poison had been poured into his ear by the gossip of the village. In the bar overnight he heard yokels talking of the need of money at the big house, how Van Hupfeldt’s wealth would make the flowers grow again in Rigsworth. He smiled at the conceit then; now he knew that deadly nightshade was sown in the garden of his hopes, for he imagined that money had proved more potent than love.

It was a remarkable thing that of all the pictures in the flat he had left untouched the portrait in chalk which hung over the dining-room fireplace. It savored too much of sacrilege to disturb that ethereal face; but David was in far too savage a mood to check at sentiment during those dark hours. He surveyed the portrait almost vindictively, though had he been less bitter he might have seen a reassuring smile in the parted lips. So it came to pass that, after eating some dry bread, which was the only food he found in the larder, he lit a pipe, looked at the picture again, and yielded to the impulse to examine it.

Strong as were his nerves, he had to force himself to apply a knife to its brown-papered back. And then, with a queer vindictive howl of triumph, he drew forth a curiously insipid portrait of Van Hupfeldt, inscribed “To Gwen,” with a date, and, folded behind it, a terrible little note, merely dated “Paris; Tuesday,” which read:

“Ah!” There was something sadly animal in David’s triumph. He felt like a dog which has seized the rat after which it has been straining, and, in a minute or two, he had the grace to be ashamed of himself. Then he thought of Violet, and he broke down, crying like a child. Those tears were good for him; they brought him back to sanity and garnished the dark places of his heart.

But what to do? That was more than ever the problem. He bolted and barred his door that night, and the photograph and letter lay beside his revolver under his pillow. Not forty Van Hupfeldts nor a legion of ghosts should reave him of those telling pieces of evidence!