The Indian Bangle. Fergus Hume

suppose you will marry Mr. Carson?" he inquired anxiously.

      "I suppose I shall," replied Miss Bellairs, with a coolness she was far from feeling.

      "Is it absolutely certain?"

      Olive felt a quiver pass through her frame, and it was with difficulty she prevented her emotion from overcoming her. She thought of the man who was coming to claim her, the man she had never even seen; of the undeclared lover who was by her side dreading the answer which she should give. Finally the memory of the sealed letter, with its menace of coming evil passed through her mind, and dictated the reply--

      "It is absolutely certain--absolutely."

      "In that case there is nothing for me to do but to offer you the customary congratulations on your--your good fortune."

      "My good fortune!" she burst out. "My good--oh yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Mallow. I congratulate you, in my turn, on your penetration." And before he could recover from his amazement at this attack, she flitted across the lawn, swept past the astonished couple on the steps, and vanished into the house.

      This incident brought the visit to a close, for as Olive did not reappear to explain her sudden anger, Mallow said good-bye to Miss Ostergaard, and departed with the reluctant Aldean. The young lord, guessing that his friend and Olive had come to words, more than expected to have a peevish companion for his homeward walk, instead of which Mallow was quite uproariously merry. By this time he had fathomed the cause of Olive's wrath, and he cursed himself for a fool not to have seen and known that she was not the woman to wear her heart upon her sleeve. Her sudden retreat after her foolish speech had been the result of fear at having betrayed her real feelings. These were not for Carson, he was sure of that now, but for himself--Olive loved him; and whether the pre-arranged marriage took place or not, nothing could alter that fact. As the thought became conviction, Mallow found it impossible to suppress the joy he felt, and he forthwith indulged in antics which would have shamed a schoolboy.

      "What is it?" asked Aldean, amazed at this conduct in so grave a man.

      "What do you think it is, Jim?"

      "Lunacy, I should say, on the face of it."

      "No, my boy; but a word much the same in meaning, which begins with the same letter."

      "Larking?" guessed the obtuse Jim, with a grin.

      "I can't say much for your penetration, Lord Aldean," said Mallow, with a laugh. "Love is the word I mean--love is the feeling which thrills me, for 'to-day the birthday of my life is come.'"

      "One would think you had been celebrating the occasion with strong drink," retorted Jim, soberly. "Have you spoken to Miss Bellairs?"

      "No, sir; I have done nothing so foolish."

      "Then has she perhaps given you to understand----"

      "Of course not; do you think for one moment she is the woman to do such a thing?"

      "I don't know; once or twice girls have pretty near proposed to me. I've had some trouble with them, I can tell you. Then how do you know it is all right?"

      "Because I do know."

      "That isn't an answer; it's a statement."

      "Then you will have to take the statement for your answer, my dear old thickhead. Olive loves me, the angel that she is."

      "She ran away from you."

      "I know she did, but she loves me."

      "She was in a pelting rage; I saw her face."

      "I know she was, but she loves me."

      "Oh, come home," growled Aldean, putting his arm within that of his enigmatic friend. "You're a human cuckoo."

      Mallow laughed, and went back to Kingsholme with an excellent appetite, which went to prove that he was no lover out of a sickly romance. For the next two or three days he made no attempt to see Olive, but lived on the memory of her self-betrayal. In spite of Jim's insidious hints that the pleasantest walks tended towards the Manor House, Laurence kept away. With his host he rode and drove and played golf. He spun over the country on his Humber, and fought Jim valiantly in singles on the tennis-lawn.

      Then the news came that Angus Carson and his friend Major Semberry had arrived, and were in possession of the garden of flowers, and presumably of the nymphs who haunted it. Mallow's spirits suddenly went down to zero, and, in a moping mood, he worried Aldean for two whole days. On the third he resolved to meet his rival face to face; so, taking advantage of Aldean's absence at Reading, he walked over to the Manor House, and was duly shown into the drawing-room.

      Remembering their last meeting, Olive blushed as she gave Mallow her hand. Then, to cover her confusion, she presented Mallow to a tall, slender young man in a grey tweed suit, with his right hand in a black silk sling.

      "Mr. Mallow, this is Mr. Carson."

      Laurence bowed, and as he did so he became aware of a faint drowsy odour.

      It was the perfume of sandal-wood.

       CHAPTER V.

      THE SUSPICIONS OF LAURENCE MALLOW.

      O all things odours are the most powerful to stimulate a dormant memory; to bring back in a flash an especial scene, a peculiar face, a particular conversation. Nothing was further from Mallow's mind than the mysterious murder of Athelstane Place, yet the moment that whiff of sandal-wood titillated his nostrils, he recalled at once the theory of the newspapers and the wild suggestion of Lord Aldean.

      For the moment he was so bewildered that he stood tongue-tied before Mr. Carson. That young gentleman, on his part, appeared to be amused, if a trifle astonished.

      "You have seen me before," he asked in a pleasant voice, with a slight and agreeable accent. "No? Is there anything strange about me then that you----"

      "I--I--I really beg your pardon," stammered Mallow, scrambling out of his unpleasant position as best he could; "but I--that is--I fancied I did know your face."

      "You have been in India, then?"

      "Yes, Mr. Carson; I was in India some months ago."

      "Then it is quite possible that we met there, Mr. Mallow, although I cannot recall having seen you. This is the first time I have visited England. Forgive me if I am somewhat lax in the observance of your social customs--one always shakes hands here, I believe, when presented; you must let me then give you my left hand."

      "Is your right disabled?" asked Mallow, shaking the hand this affable young man extended.

      "I am sorry to say it is, Mr. Mallow. I hurt it some months back, shooting in India; the bones are diseased, and, since my arrival, I have been having it attended to by one of your clever London surgeons. I am relieved to say that he did not consider amputation to be necessary."

      Here, again, was another circumstance which immediately struck Mallow as peculiar. The right hand of the dead man in Athelstane Place had been cutoff; the right hand of Mr. Carson was diseased, and had narrowly escaped amputation. This was a strange coincidence.

      "I am charmed with your country, Mr. Mallow," continued Carson, who seemed bent upon making himself agreeable. "After the arid plains of India, these green fields are very refreshing to the eye."

      "Yet I have seen marvellous verdure in the Himalayas," replied Mallow.

      Carson shrugged his shoulders. "Oh yes; every land has its season of greenness, you know, but India is undeniably dry."

      "How do you do, Mr. Mallow," said a voice at the young man's elbow, and he turned to see the lean form of Miss Slarge. "We have quite a large gathering to-day, have we not?--Major Semberry, Dr. Drabble, and Mr. Carson."

      "Last and least," smiled that gentleman.

      Mallow laughed also, seemingly