Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

people may be they are sometimes in need of ready money, and that, I suppose, is where gentlemen of your profession come in. Having now, in a manner of speaking, cleared the ground, we can go on easily. There are bills coming due."

      "There are, my lady."

      "I asked you in a letter what they amounted to; you answered, twelve thousand pounds. Now, Mr. Boyd, I should not like you to think that I want to take advantage of you."

      "Thank you, my lady. I have been taken in so often that I am almost beginning to despair of human nature."

      "Don't, Mr. Boyd, don't. There is a great deal of good in human nature, and we can get a lot of fun out of life if we set about it the right way. I have consulted another person in this business, and he has advised me. My brother, Lord Fairfax. You have heard of him, perhaps. Yes? I thought you must; he is almost a celebrity, with his indolent and easy ways. It is in our blood; we object to be troubled. All we ask is that the world should go round as usual, and that our little wishes should be gratified. Lord Fairfax suggested that I should put the business into the hands of a lawyer." Mr. Boyd, with a scarcely perceptible motion, lifted his eyebrows. "I said, no. We have a rooted objection to lawyers in our family; they make your head ache. 'Quite right,' said Lord Fairfax. 'Have nothing to do with lawyers.' He never disputes, Mr. Boyd. The moment you say a thing he agrees to it. Then he said, 'Find out how much it amounts to.' I wrote to you, and you told me. You also sent me some bills, for the purpose of doing away with the old obligations, and putting the whole of the business on a new footing. These bills were to be accepted by Lord Wharton, and you strongly urged me to get another responsible name at the back of them. Lord Wharton signed the bills when I put them before him. The dear man hardly as much as looked at them. Then I went to Lord Fairfax, and he put his name on the back. He hardly as much as looked at them. And to cut a long matter short, Mr. Boyd, I have brought them with me."

      She took them from her satchel, and handed them to Mr. Boyd, who examined them carefully, and jotted down figures on a piece of paper. Satisfactory as the transaction was to him no sign of satisfaction escaped him.

      "Are they in order, Mr. Boyd?"

      "Yes, they appear to be in order. I am making a great sacrifice for you, my lady."

      "We are under a great obligation to you. And now, Mr. Boyd, for a little piece of business on my own account. I want a thousand pounds for my private purse."

      "A thousand pounds, my lady, a thousand pounds!" murmured Mr. Boyd.

      "I will not worry Lord Wharton with my dressmaker's bill, and she has begged me to let her have something on account. There are also one or two other little bills I wish to pay. Don't be alarmed; I am going to give you security. I have been looking through my jewellery, and I found some things that have gone out of fashion. I will not sell them, but I am willing to deposit them with you. Here they are. Oblige me by looking over them. Some of the cases would not go into my satchel, so I took them all out, and wrapped them in paper. I hope you won't mind."

      "Not at all, my lady," said Mr. Boyd, opening the papers, which contained jewels of various kinds, bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings, brooches, and other gewgaws. Many of the precious stones were in old settings, and he saw at a glance that they were worth considerably more than the thousand pounds which this reckless lady of fashion wished to raise upon them. Among them were two ornaments of conspicuous beauty-a pearl necklace, and a device for the hair in the shape of a peacock's tail.

      "I am reposing a great confidence in you," said Lady Wharton. "The pearl necklace and the peacock's tail were presents from my father-they cost a great price, I believe-and I would not part with them for any consideration. In a few months I shall-shall-what is the word for it? Oh, yes, redeem them."

      "You don't want the thousand pounds immediately, my lady?" said Mr. Boyd.

      "My good man, I want it now, this minute."

      "Impossible, my lady. I could not get it together in less than five or six days. If that will suit you-"

      Lady Wharton beat an impatient tattoo on the table with the tips of her fingers. "Are you sure you could not get it earlier?"

      "Quite sure, my lady."

      "It must suit me, then, but it is really very provoking. Lord Wharton is ordered into the country, and we are going to-morrow."

      "I can send you a cheque through the post."

      "I should prefer to receive it personally from you, and in bank notes. You can bring it to me in the country, I suppose?"

      "There will be no difficulty, my lady. To what part of the country?"

      "We are going to our place in Bournemouth, The Gables. We give a ball there every year on the 7th of March. Of course I may rely upon having the money before that date."

      "Pardon me a moment, my lady," said Mr. Boyd, pretending to make certain calculations on paper, and presently adding, "I can't positively promise, but you shall be sure to have it on that date."

      "Oh, very well, very well," said Lady Wharton, "I see that I am expected to agree to everything. And now, Mr. Boyd, our business is over, I think. Bless my soul, how dismally the wind sounds in this house! If I don't get out of it quickly John will think I've been spirited away. Don't trouble to come down; one of your servants can see me to the door."

      "I keep no servants, my lady," he replied. "A charwoman comes when I send for her. That is my life."

      "Do you mean to tell me that you live here quite alone?"

      "Quite alone, my lady, quite alone, and safer and more secure than if my house was full of servants."

      "Mr. Boyd," said Lady Wharton, tapping him lightly on the arm, "you should marry."

      "What did your ladyship say yourself about women when you entered the house," he answered slyly.

      She laughed heartily at this retort, and following him down the stairs as he led the way with a light, bade him good night at the street door.

      "John," she said to her confidential man as he conducted her to her carriage, "the house is like a grave."

      "I was thinking that myself, my lady," said John.

      CHAPTER IV

      SILENCE REIGNS

      Was it indeed a grave, and were the phantom shapes thrown upon the walls and ceiling by the flickering light the phantoms of the dead that were buried there? How easy to imagine this-how easy to imagine that, animated by a spirit of revenge for past wrongs and injuries, they moved and shifted, and glided hither and thither, and took fantastic and monstrous form, for the purpose of striking terror into the heart of the enemy who had filled their lives with suffering and brought them to an untimely end!

      Silence reigned.

      Were those shapes and forms the only phantoms in the lonely house? Or, in the spaces that were unlighted-say in the passages and on the stairs leading to the room in which its owner transacted his business, and into another room in which he slept-were other phantoms moving, as dumb as they, as silent as they, with thoughts as murderous and with power more sure? This phantom, now, unseen by reason of the darkness, pausing with finger at its lips, all its senses merged in the sense of hearing as it listened for a sound to warn it that the time was not yet ripe? Had this phantom escaped from the lighted room in fear lest, were it visible to mortal eyes, its dread purpose would be frustrated, and that a frenzied cry ringing out upon the air, might reach some chance and aimless wanderer, and thus mar the murderous design lurking in its breast? Even of this the risk was small, for rarely indeed did any such wanderer find himself in Catchpole Square, or any man, who, being there without design, did not gladly and quickly grope his way out of it. The very guardians of the night avoided it, and contented themselves with the slightest and swiftest scrutiny, as of a place which bore an evil reputation and had best be left alone. It happened at odd times that some houseless and homeless vagrant, slinking in, curled himself up in a dark corner and dozed till daylight came, creeping away then with no feeling of gratitude for the shelter it had afforded him. Once a hapless child, sleeping there during a fierce snowstorm, had been found dead in the morning, covered with a white shroud. But that was long ago.

      But