Between the Dark and the Daylight. Marsh Richard

bystanders commenced to withdraw with some little show of awkwardness, as if, since the whole business had so far been public, they rather resented the element of secrecy. The gong sounding, Miss Angel was moved to proffer a suggestion.

      "Come dine with me. We can talk when we are eating."

      He shrank back with what was almost a gesture of horror.

      "Excuse me-you are very kind-I really couldn't. If you prefer it, I will wait here until you have dined."

      "Do you imagine that I could wait to hear what you have to say till after dinner? You don't know me if you do. The people are going. We shall have the room all to ourselves. My dinner can wait."

      The people went. They did have the room to themselves. She began to overwhelm him with her thanks, which, conscience-striken, he endeavoured to parry.

      "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming in this spontaneous fashion-at this moment, too, of my utmost need."

      "Just so."

      "If you only knew how I have searched for you high and low, and now, after all, you appear in the very nick of time."

      "Exactly."

      "It would almost seem as if you had chosen the dramatic moment; for this is the time of all times when your presence on the scene was most desired."

      "It's very good of you to say so; – but if you will allow me to interrupt you-I am afraid I am not entitled to your thanks. The fact is, I-I haven't the bag."

      "You haven't the bag?"

      Although he did not dare to look at her he was conscious that the fashion of her countenance had changed. At the knowledge a chill seemed to penetrate to the very marrow in his bones.

      "I-I fear I haven't."

      "You had it-I left it in your charge!"

      "Unfortunately, that is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair."

      "What do you mean?"

      He explained. For the second time that night he told his tale. It had not rolled easily off his tongue at the first time of telling. He found the repetition a task of exquisite difficulty. In the presence of that young lady it seemed so poor a story. Especially in the mood in which she was. She continually interrupted him with question and comment-always of the most awkward kind. By the time he had made an end of telling he felt as if most of the vitality had gone out of him. She was silent for some seconds-dreadful seconds; Then she drew a long breath, and she said: -

      "So I am to understand, am I, that your sister has lost the bag-my bag?"

      "I fear that it would seem so, for the present."

      "For the present? What do you mean by for the present? Are you suggesting that she will be able to find it during the next few hours? Because after that it will be too late."

      "I-I should hardly like to go so far as that, knowing my sister."

      "Knowing your sister? I see. Of course I am perfectly aware that I had no right to intrust the bag to your charge even for a single instant: to you, an entire stranger; though I had no notion that you were the kind of stranger you seem to be. Nor had I any right to slip, and fall, and become unconscious and so allow that train to leave me behind. Still-it does seems a little hard. Don't you think it does?"

      "I can only hope that the loss was not of such serious importance as you would seem to infer."

      "It depends on what you call serious. It probably means the difference between affluence and beggary. That's all."

      "On one point you must allow me to make an observation. The will was not in the bag."

      "The will was not in the bag!"

      There was a quality in the lady's voice which made Mr. Roland quail. He hastened to proceed.

      "I have here all which it contained."

      He produced a neat packet, in which were discovered four keys, two handkerchiefs, scraps of what might be chocolate, a piece of pencil, a pair of brown shoe-laces. She regarded the various objects with unsympathetic eyes.

      "It also contained the will."

      "I can only assure you that I saw nothing of it; nor my sister either. Surely a thing of that kind could hardly have escaped our observation."

      "In that bag, Mr. Roland, is a secret pocket; intended to hold-secure from observation-banknotes, letters, or private papers. The will was there. Did you or your sister, in the course of your investigations, light upon the secret of that pocket?"

      Something of the sort he had feared. He rubbed his hands together, almost as if he were wringing them.

      "Miss Angel, I can only hint at my sense of shame; at my consciousness of my own deficiencies; and can only reiterate my sincere hope that the consequences of your loss may still be less serious than you suppose."

      "I imagine that nothing worse than my ruin will result."

      "I will do my best to guard against that."

      "You! – what can you do-now?"

      "I am at least a juryman."

      "A juryman?"

      "I am one of the jury which is trying the case."

      "You!" Her eyes opened wider. "Of course! I thought I had seen you somewhere before today! That's where it was! How stupid I am! Is it possible?" Exactly what she meant by her disjointed remarks was not clear. He did not suspect her of an intention to flatter. "And you propose to influence your colleagues to give a decision in my favour?"

      "You may smile, but since unanimity is necessary I can, at any rate, make sure that it is not given against you."

      "I see. Your idea is original. And perhaps a little daring. But before we repose our trust on such an eventuality I should like to do something. First of all, I should like to interview your sister."

      "If you please."

      "I do please. I think it possible that when I explain to her how the matter is with me her memory may be moved to the recollection of what she did with my poor bag. Do you think I could see her if I went to her at once?"

      "Quite probably."

      "Then you and I will go together. If you will wait for me to put a hat on, in two minutes I will return to you here."

      CHAPTER IV

      TWO CABMEN ARE STARTLED

      Hats are uncertain quantities. Sometimes they represent ten minutes, sometimes twenty, sometimes sixty. It is hardly likely that any woman ever "put a hat on" in two. Miss Angel was quick. Still, before she reappeared Mr. Roland had arrived at something which resembled a mental resolution. He hurled it at her as soon as she was through the doorway.

      "Miss Angel, before we start upon our errand I should like to make myself clear to you at least upon one point. I am aware that I am responsible for the destruction of your hopes-morally and actually. I should like you therefore to understand that, should the case go against you, you will find me personally prepared to make good your loss so far as in my power lies. I should, of course, regard it as my simple duty."

      She smiled at him, really nicely.

      "You are Quixotic, Mr. Roland. Though it is very good of you all the same. But before we talk about such things I should like to see your sister, if you don't mind."

      At this hint he moved to the door. As they went towards the hall he said: -

      "I hope you are building no high hopes upon your interview with my sister. I know my sister, you understand; and though she is the best woman in the world, I fear that she attached so little importance to the bag that she has allowed its fate to escape her memory altogether."

      "One does allow unimportant matters to escape one's memory, doesn't one?"

      Her words were ambiguous. He wondered what she meant. It was she who started the conversation when they were in the cab.

      "Would it be very improper to ask what you think of the case so far as it has