In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"Quite likely. What do you want me to do?"

"Wait until to-morrow evening, when you return from town. Then tell
her that some stock-broking friend of yours in the city saw her near
Richmond station."

"That is the best plan," assented Stephen Foster. "I will take your
advice."

"Of course you will forbid her to have anything more to do with Vernon,
and will see that your wishes are enforced?"

"Decidedly. The man has behaved badly, and I can't believe that he has
any honorable intentions. He has been simply amusing himself with the
girl."

"That's like him," Nevill said carelessly. "Jack Vernon was always a
rake and a _roue_; though, as I am a friend of his, I ought not to tell
you this. But for your daughter's sake--"

"I understand. The warning is timely, and I will see that the girl's
eyes are opened."

"And you will give Madge to me if I can win her consent."

"She shall marry the man she loves--the man of her choice," replied
Stephen Foster, "provided he is worthy of her. But I won't compel her
to do anything against her wishes."

"I am not asking you to do that. I have your permission, then, to visit
here as a suitor?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to see you a couple of times a week."

Stephen Foster did not speak very cordially, and his expression was not
that of a father who has found a suitable husband for his daughter; but
Victor Nevill had gained his point, and was satisfied with what he had
so far accomplished. He was a vain man, and possessed an overweening
amount of self-confidence, especially where women were concerned.

The two had other subjects to discuss. For a couple of hours--long after
Madge had forsaken the piano and gone to bed--a whispered conversation
was carried on that had no reference to the girl. It was nearly eleven
o'clock when Nevill left the house, and bade Stephen Foster good-night
on the step. He knew the way in spite of the darkness and the paucity
of street lamps. Having lighted a cigar, he walked briskly toward
Gunnersbury.

"It was a narrow squeak yesterday," he reflected. "Until I met the girl
to-night, I was doubtful as to her having failed to see me on the coach.
It would have been most unfortunate had both of them recognized me; they
would have compared notes in that case, and discovered that Victor
Nevill and Mr. Royle were one and the same. I must be more careful in
future. Foster was rather inclined to be ugly, but he promised certain
things, and he knows that he can't play fast and loose with me. I am
afraid some harm has been done already, but it will blow over if he
keeps a tight rein on his daughter. As for Vernon, he must be forced to
decamp. Curse the fate that brought him across my path! There's not much
I would stop at if he became a dangerous rival. But there is no danger
of that. I have the inner track, and by perseverance I will win the
girl in the end. She is not a bit like other women--that's her
charm--but it ought to count for something when she learns that I am Sir
Lucius Chesney's heir. I've been going to the devil pretty fast, but I
meant what I told Foster. I love Madge with all my better nature, and
for her sake I would run as straight as a die. A look from her pretty
eyes makes me feel like a blackguard."

Thus Nevill communed with himself until he neared Gunnersbury station,
when the distant rumble of a train quickened his steps. He had just time
to buy his ticket, dash down the steps, and jump into a first-class
carriage. Getting out at Portland road, he took a cab to Regent street,
and dropped in at the Cafe Royal for a few minutes. Then he started
toward his lodgings on foot. It was that witching hour when West End
London, before it goes to sleep, foams and froths like a glass of
champagne that will soon be flat and flavorless. Men and women, inclined
to be hilarious, thronged the pavements under the strong lights. Birds
of prey, male and female, prowled alertly.

A jingling hansom swung from Piccadilly Circus into the Quadrant. Its
occupants were a short, Jewish-looking man with a big diamond in his
shirt-front, and a woman who leaned forward more prominently than her
companion. She was richly dressed, and--at least by gaslight--strikingly
beautiful, with great eyes of a purplish hue, and a mass of golden-red
hair that might or might not have been natural; only at close range
could one have detected the ravages of an unfortunate and unbridled
life--the tell-tale marks that the lavish use of powder and rouge could
not utterly hide.

The vehicle very nearly ran Victor Nevill down--he had been about to
cross the street--and as he dodged back to the sidewalk his face was
for an instant close to the woman's, and he saw her distinctly. He
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and started as though an unseen hand
had dealt him a blow. He hesitated briefly, seemingly dazed, and then
started in pursuit. But he ran into a couple of men at the outset, and
by the time he had stammered an apology, and was free to look about him
again, the swift-moving hansom was lost to sight in a maze of similar
vehicles.

"It's no use to follow in a cab," muttered Nevill. "And I must be
mistaken, anyway. It can't be she whom I saw--she is dead."

He stood at the edge of the pavement, staring undecidedly up the curve
of the street. When a brace of painted women, emboldened by his
attitude, shot covert remarks at him, he turned on them sharply. But,
seeing a policeman approaching, he walked on.

"By heavens, I was _not_ mistaken!" he said to himself. "The papers must
have blundered--such things often happen. She is much altered, but they
were her eyes, her lips. To think that her peerless beauty should have
brought her so low! She is nothing to me now, though I nearly broke my
heart over her once. But she may serve as a useful tool. She will be a
trump card to play, if need be. She has probably come to London recently,
and if she stays any time it would not be a difficult matter for me to
find her. I daresay she drained the Russian's purse, and then served
him as she served me. The heartless vampire! But I am glad I saw her
to-night. With her aid it will be easier than I hoped, perhaps, to win
Madge."

* * * * *

Since ten o'clock an unexpected visitor had been waiting in Victor
Nevill's rooms on Jermyn street. In a big basket-chair, drawn close to
the light, sat Sir Lucius Chesney. He had helped himself to cigars and
brandy-and-soda, and had dipped into half a dozen late novels that were
scattered about the table, but without finding any to interest him. It
was long past twelve now, and he was beginning to feel drowsy and out of
temper. He wished he had remained in the smoking-room of his hotel, or
hunted up some old acquaintances at the Country Club.

Sir Lucius was a medium-sized, slightly portly gentleman of fifty-eight,
though he did not look his age, thanks to the correct life he led. He
had a military carriage, a rubicund face, a heavy mustache, keen,
twinkling eyes, and a head of iron-gray hair. He was a childless
widower, and Victor Nevill, the son of his dead sister Elizabeth, was
his nephew, and presumably his heir. He had had another sister--his
favorite one--but many years ago he had cast her out of his life. He
lived alone at his fine old place in Sussex, Priory Court, near to the
sea and the downs. When he was at home he found occupation in shooting
and fishing, riding, cultivating hot-house fruits, and breeding horses
and cattle. These things he did to perfection, but his knowledge of art
was not beyond criticism. He was particularly fond of old masters, but
he bought all sorts of pictures, and had a gallery full of them. He made
bad bargains sometimes, and was imposed upon by unscrupulous dealers.
That, however, was nobody's business, as long as he himself was
satisfied.

He cared nothing for London or for society, and seldom came up to town;
but he liked to travel, and a portion of each year he invariably spent
on the Continent or in more remote places. He smoked Indian cheroots
from choice--he had once filled a civil position in Bombay for eighteen
months--and his favorite wine was port. He was generous and
kind-hearted, and believed that every young man must sow his crop of
wild oats, and that he would be the better for it. But there was another
and a deeper side to his character. In his sense of honor he was a
counterpart of Colonel Newcome, and he had a vast amount of family
pride; a sin against that he could neither forget nor forgive, and he
was relentless to the offender.

It was twenty minutes to one when Victor Nevill mounted the stairs and
opened his door, surprised to see that the gas was lighted in his rooms.
If he was unpleasantly startled by the sight of his visitor, he masked
his feelings successfully.

"My dear uncle," he cried, "I am delighted to see you!"

"You dog!" exclaimed Sir Lucius, with a beaming countenance. "You
night-bird! Do you know that I have been here since ten o'clock?"

"I am awfully sorry, I assure you, sir. If you had only dropped me a
line or wired. I have been dining with a friend in the suburbs, and the
best train I could catch took me to Portland road."

Possibly Sir Lucius did not believe this explanation. He glanced keenly
at his nephew, noting his flushed face and rumpled shirt-bosom, and a
shadow of displeasure crossed his features.

"I hoped to spend a few quiet hours with you," he said. "I came to town
this evening, and put up at Morley's. I am off to Norway in the morning,
by a steamer that sails from the Thames, and from there I shall probably
go to the Continent. I have been feeling a little run down--livery--and
my physician has advised a complete change of air."

"You are a regular globe-trotter," replied Victor, laughing to hide his
sudden look of relief. "I wish I could induce you to spend the season in
London."

"That's well enough for an idle young dog like yourself--you can't exist
out of London. What are you doing?"

"Nothing in particular. I read a good bit--"

"Yes, trashy novels. Does your income hold out?"

"I manage to get along, with economy."

"Economy? Humph! I have taken the liberty to look about your rooms.
The landlady remembered me and let me in. You have a snug nest--more
luxurious than the last time I was here. It is fit for a Sybarite. Your
brandy is old liquor, and must have cost you a pretty penny. Your cigars
are too good for _me_, sir, and I'll warrant you don't pay less than ten
pounds a hundred for them. As for your clothing, you have enough to
start a shop."

"I must keep up appearances, my dear uncle."

"Yes, I suppose so. I don't blame you for wanting to stand well with
your friends, if you can afford it. Your father and mother spoiled you.
You should have gone to the bar, or into the army or the church.
However, it is too late to talk about that now. But, to be frank with
you, my boy, it has come to my ears that you are leading a fast life."

"It is false!" Victor cried, indignantly.

"I sincerely trust so. I have heard only rumors, and I do not care to
attach any credence to them. But a word of warning--of advice--may not
be out of place. Young men must have their fling, and I think none the
worse of them for it. But you are not young, in your knowledge of the
world. It is six or seven years since you were thrown on the Continent
with a full purse. You have been able to indulge every whim and fancy.
You have had enough of wild oats. Fill your niche in Society and
Clubdom, if you like. Be a butterfly and an ornament, if you feel no
inclination for anything better. But be a gentleman--be honorable. If
you ever forget yourself, and bring a shadow of shame upon the unsullied
names of Chesney or Nevill, by gad, sir, you shall never touch a penny
of my money. I will leave it all to charities, and turn Priory Court
into a hospital. Mark that! If you go wrong, I'll hear of it. I'm good
for twenty years yet, if I'm good for a day."

"You seem to have a very bad opinion of me, Uncle Lucius. I never give
your fortune a thought. As for the honor of the family, it is as dear to
me as it is to you."

"Glad to hear you say it, my boy," replied Sir Lucius, breathlessly. "It
shows spirit. Well, I hope you'll overlook my sharp words. I meant them
for your good. And if you want a check--"

"Thanks, awfully, but I don't need it," Victor interrupted, with a
stroke of inspiration. "My income keeps me going all right. It is only
in trifles that I am extravagant. I have inherited a taste, sir, for
good cigars and old brandy."

"You dog, of course you have. Your maternal grandfather was noted for
his wine cellar, and he bought his Havanas by the thousand from Fribourg
and Treyer. That I should prefer cheroots is rank degeneracy. But I must
be off, or I shall get no sleep. I won't ask you to come down to the
dock in the morning--"

"But I insist upon coming, sir."

"Then breakfast with me at Morley's--nine o'clock sharp."

Uncle and nephew parted on the best of terms, but Sir Lucius was not
altogether easy in mind as he walked down Regent street, tapping the
now deserted pavement with his stick.

"I hope the boy is trustworthy," he thought. "He has some excuse for
recklessness and extravagance, but none for dishonor. I told him the
name of Chesney was unsullied--I forgot for a moment. It is strange that
Mary should be so much in my mind lately. Poor girl! Perhaps I was too
harsh with her. I wonder if she is still alive--if she has a son. But if
she came to me this moment, I could not forgive her. Nearly thirty years
have not softened me."

He sighed heavily as he entered Trafalgar Square, and to a wretched
woman with an infant in her arms, crouching under the shadow of the
Nelson Column, he tossed a silver piece.

CHAPTER X.

A LONDON SENSATION.

It had rained most of the afternoon, and then cleared off beautifully
just before twilight. Strand-on-the-Green, ever changeful of mood, was
this evening as fresh and sweet-smelling as a bit of the upper
Thames--as picturesque as any waterside village a hundred miles from
London.

By the grassy margin of the river, between Maynard's boat-house and the
elm trees, Jack Vernon strolled impatiently up and down. He was in low
spirits, and the beauty of the evening was wasted on him. He had been
here for fifteen minutes, and he told himself that he had been a fool to
come at all, at such an hour. He waited a little longer, and then, as he
was on the point of leaving, he heard light footsteps approaching, and
recognized them with a lover's keen perception. He hurried to meet the
slim, girlish figure, with a light cloak fluttering from her shoulders,
and Madge's little cry of pleasure was stifled on her lips as he kissed
them again and again.

"My darling!" he whispered eagerly. "I scarcely dared to hope that you
would come to-night, but I could not stay away. Do you know that you
have treated me cruelly? I have not seen you for two days--since
Wednesday afternoon. And I have been here twice."

"I am sorry, Jack, but I could not help it. I missed you ever so much."

"Where is your father?"

"He is not at home--that is why I came. He is dining in town with an
old friend, and won't be back until the last train, at the very
earliest."

"I am indebted to him. I was hungry for a sight of you, dearest."

"And I longed to see you, Jack. But I am afraid we shall not be able to
meet as often as before."

"Madge, what do you mean? Has anything gone wrong?"

The girl linked her arm in his, and drew him to a darker and lonelier
spot by the water. In a few words, tremulously spoken, she told him what
he had already surmised--that her father had discovered her secret, and
had taxed her with it when he came home on the previous evening.

"By Jove, it was my fault," Jack said, contritely. "I should not have
tempted you to go on that unlucky trip last Tuesday. So you were seen
near Richmond station by some meddlesome individual--probably when you
got out of the trap! But it may turn out for the best; your father could
not have been kept in ignorance much longer. Was he angry?"

"Yes, Jack; but he seemed more hurt and grieved. Oh, it was such a
wretched time!"

"My poor girl! Does--does he want you to give me up?"

"He forbade me to see you again."

"And you are here!"

"Did you expect me to obey him?"

"What did you tell him, dearest?"

"All--everything. I spoke up bravely, Jack. I told him I was a woman
now, and that I loved you with all my heart, and intended to marry you!"

"My own plucky Madge! And I suppose that made him the more angry?"

"No; my defiance surprised him--he thought I would yield. He talked
about ingratitude, and called me a foolish girl who did not know her own
mind. He looked awfully sad and stern, Jack, but when I kissed him and
begged him not to be angry, he melted a little."

"And gave in?"

"No, neither of us yielded; we agreed to a sort of a tacit truce. Father
did not speak of the matter again, and he went to town very early this
morning, before I was up. He left word with Mrs. Sedgewick that he would
not be back until late. I was sure he would go to your studio."

"I have not seen him," replied Jack; "but I hope he will come. If he
doesn't I shall call on him and ask for your hand, and without delay. It
is the only honorable course. Until I set things right with him, and
satisfy him of my intentions, I can't blame him for thinking all sorts
of evil of me."

"If he knew you as I know you, dear!"

"But he doesn't," Jack said, bitterly. "Is it likely that he will consent
to let you marry a poor artist? No. But I can't--I won't--give you up,
Madge!"

The girl rested her hands on his shoulders, and looked trustfully into
his face.

"Dear Jack, don't worry," she whispered. "It will all come right in the
end. We love each other, and we will be true. Nothing shall part us. I
am yours always, and some day I will be your wife. Promise that you will
believe me--that you will never be afraid of losing me!"

"I _do_ believe you, darling," Jack said, fervently. "You have made me
happy again--your words have driven the clouds away. I could not live
without you, Madge. Since I have known you the whole world seems
brighter and better. For your sake I am going to make a name and a
fortune."

He kissed her passionately, and for a few moments they stood watching
the incoming tide, and talking in a lighter vein. Then they parted, and
Madge slipped away toward the old house with its guardian elm trees. The
memory of her last words cheered Jack as he walked to the high-road and
thence to his studio. Alphonse had prepared him a tempting little
supper, and he did not go to town that night.

The next morning London awoke to a new sensation, which quite eclipsed
the week-old theft of the Duchess of Hightower's jewels and the recent
mysterious murder at Hoxton. The news was at first meager and
unsatisfactory, and contained little more in substance than was found
in the big headlines and on the posters of the leading papers:

DARING ROBBERY AT LAMB AND DRUMMOND'S.

THE FAMOUS REMBRANDT CARRIED OFF--WATCHMAN BRUTALLY HANDLED.

The early journals had gone to press before a full report of the affair
could reach them, but a detailed account appeared between ten and eleven
o'clock in the first edition of the afternoon papers. The Rembrandt was
gone--there was no doubt of it--and the story of its disappearance
contained many dramatic elements. A curious crowd gathered about the
premises of Lamb and Drummond on Pall Mall, to gaze at the now vacant
window, and the services of a policeman were required to keep the
sidewalk clear. Many persons recalled the similar case, some years
before, of the Gainsborough portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire.

Mr. Lamb, it appeared, had been detained at his place of business until
long after the closing hour, writing important letters. He left at nine
o'clock, and Raper, the night watchman, fastened the street door behind
him. During the night the policeman on duty in Pall Mall saw or heard
nothing suspicious about the premises. The Rembrandt was on an easel in
a large room back of the shop proper, and from it a rear door opened on
a narrow paved passage leading to Crown Court; the inmates heard no
noise in the night. At four o'clock in the morning a policeman, flashing
his lantern in Crown Court, found a window open at the back of Lamb and
Drummond's premises. He entered at once. Inside the gas was burning
dimly, and the watchman lay bound and gagged in a corner, with a strong
odor of drugs mingling with his breath. The Rembrandt had been cut out
of its frame and carried away.

"The robbery was evidently well-planned, and is enveloped in mystery,"
said the _St. James' Gazette_, "and the thieves left not the slightest
clew. It is difficult to conceive their motive. They cannot hope at
present to dispose of the picture, which is known by reputation in
Europe and America, nor is it certain that they could safely realize
on it after the lapse of years. The watchman, who has recovered
consciousness, declared that he has no knowledge of how the thieves
entered the building. It was about midnight, he states, when he was
knocked down from behind. He remembers nothing after that."

The _Globe's_ account was more sensational. "It has come to light,"
wrote the enterprising reporter, "that Raper, the watchman, was in the
habit of slipping out to the Leather Bottle, on Crown Court, for a
drink at ten o'clock every evening, and leaving the back door of the
shop unlocked. He came into the private bar at the usual time last
night, and remained for twenty minutes. He drank a pint of ale, and was
seen conversing with a shabbily dressed stranger, whose face was
unfamiliar to the publican and the barmaid. This incident suggests two
theories. Did the affable stranger drug Raper's beer, and, at a later
hour of the night, while the watchman was in a stupor, force the window
with one or more companions and carry off the Rembrandt? Or was the
watchman in the plot? Did the thieves slip into the building while he
was in the Leather Bottle, and subsequently bind, gag and drug him, and
force open the window from the outside, in order to screen him from the
suspicions of his employers? We learn that Raper has been suspended from
his position, pending an investigation. Mr. Lamb informs us that the
Rembrandt was insured against fire and burglary for the sum of ten
thousand guineas. The company is the Mutual, and they are sure to do all
in their power to apprehend the thieves and save themselves from such a
heavy loss."

Such was the gist of the newspaper accounts of the puzzling affair. And
now to see how they affected certain individuals who are not strangers
to the reader.

CHAPTER XI.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY.

Stephen Foster sat in his office at No. 320 Wardour street, with half a
dozen of the morning and afternoon papers scattered about his desk. It
was two o'clock, but he had not gone out to lunch, and it had not
occurred to him that the usual hour for it was past. Footsteps came down
the length of the shop, and Victor Nevill opened the door. He closed it
quickly behind him as he entered the room; his face expressed extreme
agitation, and he looked like a man who has spent a sleepless night.

"You have seen them?" he exclaimed, pointing to the papers. "You have
read the different accounts?"

"Yes, I have read them--that is all. They tell me nothing. You could
have knocked me down with a feather when I bought a _Telegraph_ at
Gunnersbury station this morning, and saw the headlines."

"And I first heard of it at breakfast--I got up rather late. I opened
the _Globe_ and there it was, staring me in the eyes. It knocked my
appetite, I can assure you. What do you make of it?"

"It's a mystery," replied Stephen Foster, "and I am all in the dark
about it. Devilish unfortunate, I call it."

"Right you are! And it's more than that. You have seen the _Globe_?"

"Yes; here it is."

"Did you know that the picture was insured?"

"I judged that it was, but the fact was quite unimportant."

"The Mutual people won't regard it in that light."

"Hardly. Will you have a drink, my dear fellow? You are looking seedy."

A stiff brandy-and-soda pulled Victor Nevill together, and for nearly an
hour the two men spoke in low and serious tones, occasionally referring
to the heap of papers.

"Not the slightest clew," said Stephen Foster. "It is absurd to suspect
Raper of collusion with the thieves--his only fault was carelessness.
Leave the affair to the police. I shan't give it another thought."

"That's easier said than done," Nevill replied. He rose and put on his
hat. "I must be off now. Oh, about the other matter--have you said
anything further to your daughter?"

"Not a word."

"She still defies you?"

"She refuses to give the fellow up." Stephen Foster sighed. "The girl
has lots of spirit."

"You won't let her have her own way?"

"Not if I can prevent it."

"Prevent it?" echoed Nevill, sneeringly. "What measures will you take?"

"I shall see the artist."

"Much good that will do," said Nevill. "Better begin by enforcing your
authority over your daughter."

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