“If Aunt Jenkins were the shrewd woman she used to be, I’d lay the whole case before her, and have it out; but she is not,” contended Dan Jenkins, tilting the tongs in his hand, as we sat round the dying embers of the surgery fire.

His brother Sam and I had walked home together from Mrs. Knox’s soirÉe, and we overtook Dan in the town. Another soirÉe had been held in Lefford that night, which Dan had promised himself to before knowing Mrs. Knox would have one. We all three turned into the surgery. Dr. Knox was out with a patient, and Sam had to wait up for him. Sam had been telling his brother what we witnessed up at Rose Villa—the promenade round the laurels that Captain Collinson and Mina had stolen in the moonlight. As for me, though I heard what Sam said, and put in a confirming word here and there, I was thinking my own thoughts. In a small way, nothing had ever puzzled me much more than the letter Charlotte Knox had seen. Who was Madame St. Vincent? and who was her sister, that I, Johnny Ludlow, might not meet her?

“You see,” continued Dan, “one reason why I can’t help suspecting the fellow, is this—he does not address Mina openly. If he were honest and above board, he would go in for her before all the world. He wouldn’t do it in secret.”

“What do you suspect him of?” cried Sam.

“I don’t know. I do suspect him—that he is somehow not on the square. It’s not altogether about Mina; but I have no confidence in the man.”

Sam laughed. “Of course you have not, Dan. You want to keep Mina for yourself.”

Dan pitched his soft hat at Sam’s head, and let fall the tongs with a clatter.

“Collinson seems to be all right,” I put in. “He is going up to London to a levÉe, and he is going to buy an estate. At least, he told me so to-night in the supper-room.”

“Oh, in one sense of the word the fellow is all right,” acknowledged Dan. “He is what he pretends to be; he is in the army list; and, for all I know to the contrary, he may have enough gold to float an argosy of ships. What I ask is, why he should go sneaking after Mina when he does not care for her.”

“That may be just a fallacy of ours, Dan,” said his brother.

“No, it’s not. Collinson is in love with Madame St. Vincent; not with Mina.”

“Then why does he spoon after Mina?”

“That’s just it—why?”

“Any way, I don’t think madame is in love with him, Dan. It was proposed that he should take aunt home to-night, and madame was as tart as you please over it, letting all the room know that she did not want him.”

“Put it down so,” agreed Dan, stooping to pick up the tongs. “Say that he is not fond of madame, but of Mina, and would like to make her his wife: why does he not go about it in a proper manner; court her openly, speak to her mother; instead of pursuing her covertly like a sneak?”

“It may be his way of courting.”

“May it! It is anything but a right way. He is for ever seeking to meet her on the sly. I know it. He got her out in the garden to-night to a meeting, you say: you and Johnny Ludlow saw it.”

“Dicky saw it too, and Charlotte got the truth out of him. There may be something in what you say, Dan.”

“There’s a great deal in what I say,” contended Dan, his honest face full of earnestness. “Look here. Here’s an officer and a gentleman; a rich man, as we are given to believe, and we’ve no reason to doubt it. He seems to spend enough—Carter saw him lose five pounds last night, betting at billiards. If he is in love with a young lady, there’s nothing to hinder a man like that from going in for her openly——”

“Except her age,” struck in Sam. “He may think they’ll refuse Mina to him on that score.”

“Stuff! I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Sam. Every day will help to remedy that—and he might undertake to wait a year or two. But I feel sure and certain he does not really care for Mina; I feel sure that, if he is seeking in this underhand way to get her to promise to marry him, he has some ulterior motive in view. My own belief is he would like to kidnap her.”

Sam laughed. “You mean, kidnap her money?”

“Well, I don’t see what else it can be. The fellow may have outrun the constable, and need some ready money to put him straight. Rely upon this much, Sam—that his habits are as fast as they can well be. I have been learning a little about him lately.”

Sam made no answer. He began to look grave.

“Not at all the sort of man who ought to marry Mina, or any other tender young girl. He’d break her heart in a twelvemonth.”

Sam spoke up. “I said to Johnny Ludlow, just now, that it might be better to tell Dr. Knox. Perhaps——”

“What about?” interrupted the doctor himself, pouncing in upon us, and catching the words as he opened the door. “What have you to tell Dr. Knox about, Sam? And why are all you young men sitting up here? You’d be better in bed.”

The last straw, you know, breaks the camel’s back. Whether Sam would really have disclosed the matter to Dr. Knox, I can’t say; the doctor’s presence and the doctor’s question decided it.

Sam spoke in a low tone, standing behind the drug-counter with the doctor, who had gone round to look at some entry in what they called the day-book, and had lighted a gas-burner to do it by. Dr. Knox made no remark of any kind while he listened, his eyes fixed on the book: one might have thought he did not hear, but his lips were compressed.

“If she were not so young, sir—a child, as may be said—I should not have presumed to speak,” concluded Sam. “I don’t know whether I have done wrong or right.”

“Right,” emphatically pronounced the doctor.

But the word had hardly left his lips when there occurred a startling interruption. The outer door of the surgery, the one he had come in by, was violently drummed at, and then thrown open. Charlotte Knox, Miss Mack the governess, and Sally the maid—the same Sally who had been at Rose Villa when the trouble occurred about Janet Carey, and the same Miss Mack who had replaced Janet—came flocking in.

“Dicky’s lost, Arnold,” exclaimed Charlotte.

“Dicky lost!” repeated Dr. Knox. “How can he be lost at this time of night?”

“He is lost. And we had nearly gone to bed without finding it out. The people had all left, and the doors were locked, when some one—Gerty, I think—began to complain of Dicky——”

“It was I who spoke,” interposed the governess; and though she was fat enough for two people she had the meekest little voice in the world, and allowed herself to be made a perfect tool of at Rose Villa. “Dicky did behave very ill at supper, eating rudely of everything, and——”

“Yes, yes,” broke in Charlotte, “I remember now, Macky. You said Dicky ought to be restrained, and you wondered he was not ill; and then mamma called out, ‘But where is Dicky?’ ‘Gone to bed to sleep off his supper,’ we all told her: and she sent Sally up to see that he had put his candle out.”

“And of course,” interrupted Sally, thinking it was her turn to begin, “when I found the room empty, and saw by the moonlight that Master Dicky had not come to bed at all, I ran down to say so. And his mamma got angry, accusing us servants of having carelessly locked him out-of-doors. And he can’t be found, sir—as Miss Lotty says.”

“No, he cannot be found anywhere,” added Lotty. “We have searched the house and the gardens, and been in to inquire at Lady Jenkins’s; and he is gone. And mamma is frantic, and said we were to come to you, Arnold.”

“Master Dicky’s playing truant: he has gone off with some of the guests,” observed Dr. Knox.

“Well, mamma is putting herself into a frightful fever over him, Arnold. That old well in the field at the back was opened the day before yesterday; she says Dicky may have strayed there and fallen in.”

“Dicky’s after more mischief than that,” said the doctor, sagely. “A well in a solitary field would have no charms for Dicky. I tell you, Lotty, he must have marched home with some one or other. Had you any lads up there to-night?”

“No, not any. You know mamma never will have them. Lads, and Dicky, would be too much.”

“If Master Dicky have really gone off, as the doctor thinks, I’d lay my next quarter’s wages that it’s with Captain Collinson,” cried Sally. “He is always wanting to be after the captain.”

Lotty lifted her face, a gleam of intelligence flashing across it. “Perhaps that’s it,” she said; “I should not wonder if it is. He has strayed off after, or with, Captain Collinson. What is to be done, Arnold?”

“Not strayed with him, I should think,” observed the doctor. “Captain Collinson, if he possesses any sense or consideration, would order Dicky back at once.”

“Won’t you come with us to the captain’s lodgings, Arnold, and see?” cried Charlotte. “It would not do, would it, for us to go there alone at this time of night? The captain may be in bed.”

Arnold Knox looked at his sister; looked at the three of them, as if he thought they were enough without him. He was nearly done up with his long day’s work.

“I suppose I had better go with you, Lotty,” he said. “Though I don’t think Captain Collinson would kidnap any one of you if you went alone.”

“Oh dear, no; it is Mina he wants to kidnap, not us,” answered Lotty, freely. And Arnold glanced at her keenly as he heard the words.

Did you ever know a fellow in the hey-dey of his health and restlessness who was not ready for any night expedition—especially if it were to search after something lost? Dr. Knox took up his hat to accompany the visitors, and we three took up ours.

We proceeded in a body through the moonlit streets to Collinson’s lodgings; the few stragglers we met no doubt taking us all for benighted wayfarers, trudging home from some one or other of the noted Lefford soirÉes. Collinson had the rooms at the hairdresser’s—good rooms, famed as the best lodgings in the town. The gas was alight in his sitting-room over the shop; a pretty fair proof that the captain was yet up.

“Stay, Lotty,” said Dr. Knox, arresting her impatient hand, that was lifted to pull the bell. “No need to arouse the house: I dare say Pink and his family are in bed. I will go up to Collinson.”

It was easy to say so, but difficult to do it. Dr. Knox turned the handle of the door to enter, and found it fastened. He had to ring, after all.

Nobody answered it. Another ring and another shared the same fate. Dr. Knox then searched for some small loose stones, and flung them up at the window. It brought forth no more than the bell had.

“Dicky can’t be there, or that gravel would have brought him to the window,” decided Lotty. “I should say Captain Collinson is not there, either.”

“He may be in his room at the back,” observed Dr. Knox. And he rang again.

Presently, after a spell of at least ten minutes’ waiting, and no end of ringing, an upper window was opened and a head appeared—that of the hairdresser.

“Whatever’s the matter?” called out he, seeing us all below. “It’s not fire, is it?”

“I am sorry to disturb you, Pink,” called back Dr. Knox. “It is Captain Collinson I want. Is he in, do you know?”

“Yes, sir; he came in about twenty minutes ago, and somebody with him, for I heard him talking,” answered Pink. “He must be in his sitting-room, if he is not gone to bed.”

“There is a light in the room, but I don’t think he can be in. I have thrown up some gravel, and he does not answer.”

“I’ll come down and see, sir.”

Pink, the most obliging little man in the world, descended to the captain’s room and thence to us at the door. Captain Collinson was not in. He had gone out again, and left his gas alight.

“You say some one came in with him, Pink. Was it a young lad?”

“I can’t tell, sir. I heard the captain’s latch-key, and I heard him come on upstairs, talking to somebody; but I was just dropping off to sleep, so did not take much notice.”

That the somebody was young Dick, and that Captain Collinson had gone out to march Dick home again, seemed only probable. There was nothing for it but to go on to Rose Villa and ascertain; and we started for it, after a short consultation.

“I shall not have the remotest idea where to look for Dick if he is not there,” remarked Dr. Knox.

“And in that case, I do believe mamma will have a fit,” added Charlotte. “A real fit, I mean, Arnold. I wish something could be done with Dicky! The house is always in a commotion.”

Captain Collinson was at Rose Villa, whether Dicky was or not. At the garden-gate, talking to Mina in the moonlight, stood he, apparently saying good-night to her.

“Dicky? oh dear, yes; I have just brought Dicky back,” laughed the captain, before Dr. Knox had well spoken his young half-brother’s name, while Mina ran indoors like a frightened hare. “Upon getting home to my rooms just now I found some small mortal stealing in after me, and it proved to be Dicky. He followed me home to get a top I had promised him, and which I forgot to bring up here when I came to-night.”

“I hope you did not give it him,” said Dr. Knox.

“Yes, I did. I should never have got him back without,” added the captain. “Good-night.”

He laughed again as he went away. Dicky’s vagaries seemed to be rare fun for him.

Dicky was spinning the top on the kitchen table when we went in—for that’s where they had all gathered: Mrs. Knox, Gerty, Kate, and the cook. A big humming-top, nearly as large and as noisy as Dick. Dr. Knox caught up the top and caught Dicky by the hand, and took both into the parlour.

“Now then, sir!” he sternly asked. “What did you mean by this night’s escapade?”

“Oh, Arnold, don’t scold him,” implored Mrs. Knox, following them in with her hands held up. “It was naughty of him, of course, and it gave me a dreadful fright; but it was perhaps excusable, and he is safe at home again. The captain was to bring the top, and did not, and poor Dicky ran after him to get it.”

“You be quiet, Arnold; I am not to be scolded,” put in cunning Dicky. “You just give me my top.”

“As to scolding you, I don’t know that it would be of any further use: the time seems to have gone by for it, and I must take other measures,” spoke Dr. Knox. “Come up to bed now, sir. I shall see you in it before I leave.”

“But I want my top.”

“Which you will not have,” said the doctor: and he marched off Dicky.

“How cross you are with him, Arnold!” spoke his step-mother when the doctor came down again, leaving Dicky howling on his pillow for the top.

“It needs some one to be cross with him,” observed Dr. Knox.

“He is only a little boy, remember.”

“He is big enough and old enough to be checked and corrected—if it ever is to be done at all. I will see you to-morrow: I wish to have some conversation with you.”

“About Dicky?” she hastily asked.

“About him and other things. Mina,” he added in a low tone, as he passed her on his way out, but I, being next to him, caught the words, “I did not like to see you at the gate with Captain Collinson at this hour. Do not let it occur again. Young maidens cannot be too modest.”

And, at the reproof, Miss Mina coloured to the very roots of her hair.

II.

They sat in the small garden-room, its glass-doors open to the warm spring air. Mrs. Knox wore an untidy cotton gown, of a flaming crimson-and-white pattern, and her dark face looked hot and angry. Dr. Knox, sitting behind the table, was being annoyed as much as he could be annoyed—and no one ever annoyed him but his step-mother—as the lines in his patient brow betrayed.

“It is for his own good that I suggest this; his welfare,” urged Dr. Knox. “Left to his own will much longer, he must not be. Therefore I say that he must be placed at school.”

“You only propose it to thwart me,” cried Mrs. Knox. “A fine expense it will be!”

“It will not be your expense. I pay his schooling now, and I shall pay it then. My father left me, young though I was, Dicky’s guardian, and I must do this. I wonder you do not see that it will be the very best thing for Dicky. Every one but yourself sees that, as things are, the boy is being ruined.”

Mrs. Knox looked sullenly through the open doors near which she sat; she tapped her foot impatiently upon the worn mat, lying on the threshold.

“I know you won’t rest until you have carried your point and separated us, Arnold; it has been in your mind to do it this long while. And my boy is the only thing I care for in life.”

“It is for Dicky’s own best interest,” reiterated Dr. Knox. “Of course he is dear to you; it would be unnatural if he were not; but you surely must wish to see him grow up a good and self-reliant man: not an idle and self-indulgent one.”

“Why don’t you say outright that your resolve is taken and nothing can alter it; that you are going to banish him to school to-morrow?”

“Not to-morrow, but he shall go at the half-quarter. The child will be ten times happier for it; believe that.”

“Do you really mean it?” she questioned, her black eyes flashing fury at Arnold. “Will nothing deter you?”

“Nothing,” he replied, in a low, firm tone. “I—bear with me a moment, mother—I cannot let Dicky run riot any longer. He is growing up the very incarnation of selfishness; he thinks the world was made for him alone; you and his sisters are only regarded by him as so many ministers to his pleasure. See how he treats you all. See how he treats the servants. Were I to allow this state of things to continue, how should I be fulfilling my obligation to my dead father?—my father and Dicky’s.”

“I will hear no more,” spoke Mrs. Knox, possibly thinking the argument was getting too strong for her. “I have wanted to speak to you, Arnold, and I may as well do it now. Things must be put on a different footing up here.”

“What things?”

“Money matters. I cannot continue to do upon my small income.”

Arnold Knox passed his hand across his troubled brow, almost in despair. Oh, what a weary subject this was! Not for long together did she ever give him rest from it.

“Your income is sufficient, mother; I am tired of saying it. It is between three and four hundred a-year; and you are free from house-rent.”

“Why don’t you remind me that the house is yours, and have done with it!” she cried, her voice harsh and croaking as a raven’s.

“Well, it is mine,” he said good-humouredly.

“Yes; and instead of settling it upon me when you married, you must needs settle it on your wife! Don’t you talk of selfishness, Arnold.”

“My wife does not derive any benefit from it. It has made no difference to you.”

“She would derive it, though, if you died. Where should I be then?”

“I am not going to die, I hope. Oh, mother, if you only knew how these discussions vex me!”

“Then you should show yourself generous.”

“Generous!” he exclaimed, in a pained tone. And, goaded to it by his remembrance of what he had done for her in the present and in the past, he went on to speak more plainly than he had ever spoken yet. “Do you forget that a great portion of what you enjoy should, by right, be mine? Is mine!”

“Yours!” she scornfully said.

“Yes: mine. Not by legal right, but by moral. When my father died he left the whole of his property to you. Considerably more than the half of that property had been brought to him by my mother: some people might have thought that much should have descended to her son.”

“He did not leave me the whole. You had a share of it.”

“Not of the income. I had a sum of five hundred pounds left me, for a specific purpose—to complete my medical education. Mother, I have never grumbled at this; never. It was my father’s will and pleasure that the whole should be yours, and that it should go to your children after you; and I am content to think that he did for the best; the house was obliged to come to me; it had been so settled at my mother’s marriage; but you have continued to live in it, and I have not said you nay.”

“It is like you to remind me of all this!”

“I could remind you of more,” he rejoined, chafing at her unjust words, her resentful manner. “That for years I impoverished myself to help you to augment this income. Three parts of what I earned, before my partnership with Mr. Tamlyn, I gave to you.”

“Well, I needed it. Do, for goodness’ sake, let the past alone, if you can: where’s the use of recalling it? Would you have us starve? Would you see me taken off to prison? And that’s what it will come to, unless I can get some money to pay up with. That table-drawer that you’ve got your elbow on, is full of bills. I’ve not paid one for these six months.”

“I cannot think what it is you do with your money!”

“Do with my money! Why, it goes in a hundred ways. How very ignorant you are, Arnold. Look at what dress costs, for myself and four girls! Look at what the soirÉes cost! We have to give all sorts of dishes now; lobster salads and raspberry creams, and all kinds of expensive things. Madame St. Vincent introduced that.”

“You must put down the soirÉes and the dress—if you cannot keep them within the bounds of your income.”

“Thank you. Just as I had to put down the pony-carriage and James. How cruel you are, Arnold!”

“I hope I am not. I do not wish to be so.”

“It will take two hundred pounds to set me straight; and I must have it from you, or from somebody else,” avowed Mrs. Knox.

“You certainly cannot have it, or any portion of it, from me. My expenses are heavy now, and I have my own children coming on.”

His tone was unmistakably decisive, and Mrs. Knox saw that it was so. For many years she had been in the habit of regarding Arnold as something like a bucket in a well, which brings up water every time it is let down. Just so had he brought up money for her from his pocket every time she worried for it. But that was over now: and he had to bear these reproaches periodically.

“You know that you can let me have it, Arnold. You can lend it me from Mina’s money.”

His face flushed slightly, he pushed his fair hair back with a gesture of annoyance.

“The last time you spoke of that I begged you never to mention it again,” he said in a low tone. “Why, what do you take me for, mother?”

“Take you for?”

“You must know that I could not touch Mina’s money without becoming a false trustee. Men have been brought to the criminal bar to answer for a less crime than that would be.”

“If Mina married, you would have to hand over the whole of it.”

“Of course I should. First of all taking care that it was settled upon her.”

“I don’t see the necessity of that. Mina could let me have what she pleased of it.”

“Talking of Mina,” resumed Dr. Knox, passing by her remark, “I think you must look a little closely after her. She is more intimate, I fancy, with Captain Collinson than is desirable, and——”

“Suppose Captain Collinson wants to marry her?” interrupted Mrs. Knox.

“Has he told you that he wants to do so?”

“No; not in so many words. But he evidently likes her. What a good match it would be!”

“Mina is too young to be married yet. And Captain Collinson cannot, I should suppose, have any intention of the sort. If he had, he would speak out: when it would be time enough to consider and discuss his proposal. Unless he does speak, I must beg of you not to allow Mina to be alone with him.”

“She never is alone with him.”

“I think she is, at odd moments. Only last night I saw her with him at the gate. Before that, while your soirÉe was going on, Dicky—I believe he could tell you so, if you asked him—saw them walking together in the garden, the captain’s arm round her waist.”

“Girls are so fond of flirting! And young men think no harm of a little passing familiarity.”

“Just so. But for remembering this, I should speak to Captain Collinson. The thought that there may be nothing serious in it prevents me. At any rate, I beg of you to take care of Mina.”

“And the money I want?” she asked, as he took up his hat to go.

But Dr. Knox, shortly repeating that he had no money to give her, made his escape. He had been ruffled enough already. One thing was certain: that if some beneficent sprite from fairyland increased Mrs. Knox’s annual income cent. per cent. she would still, and ever, be in embarrassment. Arnold knew this.

Mrs. Knox sat on, revolving difficulties. How many similar interviews she had held with her step-son, and how often he had been brought round to pay her bills, she could but remember. Would he do it now? A most unpleasant doubt, that he would not, lay upon her.

Presently the entrance was darkened by some tall form interposing itself between herself and the sunlight. She glanced up and saw Captain Collinson. He stood there smiling, his tasselled cane jauntily swayed in his left hand.

“My dear madam, you looked troubled. Is anything wrong?”

“Troubled! the world’s full of trouble, I think,” spoke Mrs. Knox, in a pettish kind of way. “Dr. Knox has been here to vex me.”

Captain Collinson stepped airily in, and sat down near Mrs. Knox, his eyes expressing proper concern: indignation blended with sympathy.

“Very inconsiderate of Dr. Knox: very wrong! Can I help you in any way, my dear lady?”

“Arnold is always inconsiderate. First, he begins upon me about Dicky, threatening to put him altogether away at school, poor ill-used child! Next, he——”

“Sweet little angel?” interlarded the captain.

“Next, he refuses to lend me a trifling sum of money—and he knows how badly I want it!”

“Paltry!” ejaculated the captain. “When he must be making so much of it!”

“Rolling in it, so to say,” confirmed Mrs. Knox. “Look at the practice he has! But if he did not give me any of his, he might advance me a trifle of Mina’s.”

“Of course he might,” warmly acquiesced Captain Collinson.

What with the warmth and the sympathy, Mrs. Knox rather lost her head. Many of us are betrayed on occasion into doing the same. That is, she said more than she should have said.

“You see, if Mina married, as I pointed out to Arnold, the money would no longer be under his control at all. It would be hers to do as she pleased with. She is a dear, good, generous girl, and would not scruple to let me have one or two hundred pounds. What would such a trifle be out of the whole seven thousand?”

“Very true; nothing at all,” cried the captain, toying with his handsome beard.

“But no; Arnold will not hear of it: he answered me in a way that I should not like to repeat. He also said he should take care, if Mina did marry before she was of age, that her money was settled upon her; said it on purpose to thwart me.”

“Cruel!” aspirated the captain.

“Some girls might be tempted to marry off-hand, and say nothing to him, if only to get her fortune out of his control. I don’t say Mina would.”

“Miser! My dear madam, rely upon it that whenever Miss Mina does marry, her husband will join with her in letting you have as much money as you wish. I am sure it would be his pride and pleasure to do so.”

Was it an implied promise? meant to be so understood? Mrs. Knox took it for one. She came out of her dumps, and felt exalted to the seventh heaven.

Meanwhile, Arnold Knox was with Lady Jenkins, to whom he had gone on quitting his step-mother. The old lady, up and dressed, sat in her dining-room. There appeared to be no change in her condition: drowsy, lethargic, gentle, yielding; imbecile, or not many shades removed from it. And yet, neither Dr. Knox nor his fellow-practitioner could see any cause to account for this. Of bodily illness she had none: except that she seemed feeble.

“I wish you would tell me what it is you are taking,” said Dr. Knox, bending over her and speaking in low, persuasive tones. “I fear that you are taking something that does you harm.”

Lady Jenkins looked up at him, apparently trying to consider. “I’ve not had anything since I took the physic,” she said.

“What physic?”

“The bottles that Mr. Tamlyn sent me.”

“But that was when you were ill. Are you sure you have not taken anything else?—that you are not taking anything? Any”—he dropped his voice to a still lower key—“opiates? Laudanum, for instance?”

Lady Jenkins shook her head. “I never took any sort of opiate in my life.”

“Then it is being given to her without her knowledge,” mentally decided the doctor. “I hear you were at the next door last night, as gay as the best of them,” he resumed aloud, changing his tone to a light one.

“Ay. I put on my new bronze satin gown: Patty said I was to. Janet sang her pretty songs.”

“Did she? When are you coming to spend an evening with us? She will sing them again for you.”

“I should like to come—if I may.”

“If you may! There’s nothing to prevent it. You are quite well enough.”

“There’s Patty. We shall have to ask her whether I may.”

Anything Arnold Knox might have rejoined to this was stopped by the entrance of Patty herself, a light blue shawl on her shoulders. A momentary surprise crossed her face at sight of the doctor.

“Oh, Dr. Knox! I did not know you were here,” she said, as she threw off the shawl. “I was running about the garden for a few minutes. What a lovely day it is!—the sun so warm.”

“It is that. Lady Jenkins ought to be out in it. Should you not like to take a run in the garden?” he laughingly added to her.

“Should I, Patty?”

The utter abnegation of will, both of tone and look, as she cast an appealing glance at her companion, struck Dr. Knox forcibly. He looked at both of them from under his rather overhanging eyebrows. Did Madame St. Vincent extort this obedience?—or was it simply the old lady’s imbecility? Surely it must be the latter.

“I think,” said madame, “a walk in the garden will be very pleasant for you, dear Lady Jenkins. Lettice shall bring down your things. The may-tree is budding beautifully.”

“Already!” said the doctor: “I should like to see it. Will you go with me, madame? I have two minutes to spare.”

Madame St. Vincent, showing no surprise, though she may have felt it, put the blue shawl on her shoulders again and followed Dr. Knox. The may-tree was nearly at the end of the garden, down by the shrubbery.

“Mr. Tamlyn mentioned to you, I believe, that we suspected something improper, in the shape of opiates, was being given to Lady Jenkins,” began Dr. Knox, never as much as lifting his eyes to the budding may-tree.

“Yes; I remember that he did,” replied Madame St. Vincent. “I hardly gave it a second thought.”

“Tamlyn said you had a difficulty in believing it. Nevertheless, I feel assured that it is so.”

“Impossible, Dr. Knox.”

“It seems impossible to you, I dare say. But that it is being done, I would stake my head upon. Lady Jenkins is being stupefied in some way: and I have brought you out here to tell you so, and to ask your co-operation in tracing the culprit.”

“But—I beg your pardon, Dr. Knox—who would give her anything of the kind? You don’t suspect me, I hope?”

“If I suspected you, my dear lady, I should not be talking to you as I am. The person we must suspect is Lettice Lane.”

“Lettice Lane!”

“I have reason to think it. Lettice Lane’s antecedents are not, I fear, quite so clear as they might be: though it is only recently I have known this. At any rate, she is the personal attendant of Lady Jenkins; the only one of them who has the opportunity of being alone with her. I must beg of you to watch Lettice Lane.”

Madame St. Vincent looked a little bewildered; perhaps felt so. Stretching up her hand, she plucked one of the budding may-blossoms.

“Mr. Tamlyn hinted at Lettice also. I have always felt confidence in Lettice. As to drugs—Dr. Knox, I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Lady Jenkins is being drugged,” emphatically pronounced Dr. Knox. “And you must watch Lettice Lane. If Lettice is innocent, we must look elsewhere.”

“Shall I tax Lettice with it?”

“Certainly not. You would make a good detective,” he added, with a laugh; “showing your hand to the enemy. Surely, Madame St. Vincent, you must yourself see that Lady Jenkins is being tampered with. Look at her state this morning: though she is not quite as bad as she is sometimes.”

“I have known some old people sleep almost constantly.”

“So have I. But theirs is simply natural sleep, induced by exhausted nature: hers is not natural. She is stupefied.”

“Stupefied with the natural decay of her powers,” dissented madame. “But—to drug her! No, I cannot believe it. And where would be the motive?”

“That I know not. But I am sure I am not mistaken,” he added decisively. “You will watch Lettice Lane?”

“I will,” she answered, after a pause. “Of course it may be as you say; I now see it. I will watch her to the very utmost of my ability from this hour.”

III.

“Dear Johnny,

“I expect your stay at Lefford is drawing towards a close; mine is, here. It might be pleasant if we travelled home together. I could take Lefford on my way—starting by an early train—and pick you up. You need some one to take care of you, you know. Let me hear when you intend to be ready. I will arrange my departure accordingly.

“Hope you have enjoyed yourself, old fellow.”

“Ever yours,
“J. T.”