The Long Arm of Mannister. E. Phillips Oppenheim

you to Genoa," Mannister said, "my intentions were perfectly simple, and I may add absolutely primitive. I meant to kill you both on sight. I lost time just at first, and the chase became a long one. Lately I have had advices from England—and I begin to understand the game. It was a little more complex than I thought at first. It was a little more complex, I think, than you fully understood."

      "I was a fool!" Sinclair groaned, "a hopeless, miserable fool!"

      "You were the tool of clever men," Mannister continued. "So was I. It was part of a conspiracy. I can see that now. And while I have been away our friends over there have proceeded to strip me bare and divide the plunder. What was your share, my dear friend?"

      "I cannot tell you anything about it," Sinclair groaned. "You know very well that I cannot. You know the penalty."

      Mannister smiled.

      "You will never," he remarked suavely, "be nearer death than you are just now."

      There was silence for several moments between the two men. The little wood was singularly free from all animal noises, not even a breath of wind was stirring in the trees. Mannister spoke again.

      "You will probably," he said, "never come back to England. In that case you are safe from our friends. You have at least a chance of escape. From me, unless you obey, you have none."

      "I thought you said that you were not going to kill me," Sinclair declared sullenly.

      "Under reasonable conditions, no!" Mannister said. "Such desire as I had for vengeance is—well, shall we say gratified. You will never be the man you were again, Sinclair."

      "Curse you!" Sinclair answered bitterly.

      "Curse those others—and your own vanity—not me," Mannister replied. "I wish you no further harm now than has already come to you. But the truth I mean to know, and as surely as you refuse to tell me, so surely do you die!"

      There was a moment's silence. Sinclair was thinking of all the things from which he must cut himself off for ever, the clubs, the restaurants, the city haunts and friends—all these things must go. And yet it was something to live! Only an hour ago, life itself would have seemed a priceless and wonderful gift. It was no time to bargain.

      "It was Colin Stevens who planned it," he said slowly. "There were seven of the others who were in it."

      "The names of the other seven?" Mannister demanded.

      "Colin Stevens was the leader," Sinclair repeated, unwillingly.

      "The names of the other seven," Mannister said calmly, "or I shall wring your neck. It is not a pleasant death."

      "Phil Rundermere."

      "The blackguard! I saved him from ruin once!" Mannister whispered softly. "Go on!"

      "John Dykes."

      "Of course! Well?"

      "Sophy de la Mere,"

      "Ladies, too!" Mannister murmured. "Well, she had no cause to love me. Go on."

      "Fred Hambledon."

      "Good! Who else?"

      "Benjamin Traske."

      "Poor boy! He went where he was led, of course. That makes five."

      "Ernest Jacobs."

      "False little brute!" Mannister murmured. "I judged he must have been in it. One more, Sinclair."

      "You know enough," Sinclair muttered. "Let the other one go. He was led into it, as I was. He never did you any real injury.

      "Perhaps not, Sinclair," Mannister answered smoothly, "but nevertheless a bargain is a bargain, if you please. I must know his name. Or shall I guess it? Dick Polsover, eh? Ah, I thought so! Your own particular friend, Sinclair. Well, it's hard to have to give him away, isn't it?"

      "You know their names now," Sinclair said, with a sudden gleam of curiosity. "What are you going to do? You cannot go back to England! You would never face it!"

      "I am not quite so sure about that, my over sanguine friend," Mannister answered. "If ever I do, you may go down on your knees and pray for those eight men—if you think it will do them any good. By-the-bye, you, I suppose, were the decoy to get me out of England. It was for that purpose that you made love to my wife. What did you get out of it?"

      "Five thousand pounds!" Sinclair answered. "I was to have had more, but it has never come."

      "A bad bargain," Mannister declared. "Why, you must have spent nearly that running away from me."

      "We have spent it all," Sinclair answered. "We have not enough to live on for a month."

      "I am afraid," Mannister declared, swinging his riding boot against the trunk of the tree, "that in making you a present of the gift of life, I am not doing you a very great service—you or the woman who is now dependent upon you. You will have to work, Sinclair, I am afraid. You never liked work, did you? "

      "Haven't you nearly finished with me?" Sinclair answered. "I must look after—her. We need food."

      "You will find plenty in the wagon outside," Mannister answered. "The lady whom you tactfully allude to as 'her,' is already being attended to. I have a fancy for travelling comfortably, and notwithstanding this attack upon my fortunes, I am not quite a pauper. Do you know, Sinclair, I fancy that our eight friends may have been just a little disappointed. I never believed in keeping all my eggs in one basket. They looked upon me as a sort of Monte Cristo, but there were more treasure caves than one. Come, Sinclair, we will go. I have learned from you all that I required to know. Come to the edge of the wood. There is one thing more which I have to say to you. Come to the entrance of the wood there, and stand by my side."

      Sinclair staggered up, a weak, broken-spirited creature of a man; he was bent almost double, and he reached scarcely to the other's shoulder. Mannister showed no signs of fatigue. His white linen riding suit was unsoiled, his tie and collar immaculate. His hands, though brown, were unblistered, and his nails well cared for. He might very well have been riding through the hills on a Simla picnic. If he had suffered through that tireless chase, his hard bronzed face showed little signs of it. Compared with him, the creature by his side was negligible.

      His left hand he laid upon Sinclair's drooping shoulder, with his right forefinger he pointed to where they had left the woman. A covered wagon was there now, and a fire smoking. The woman herself was just visible, reclining in a camp chair. Mannister's voice was slower and more deliberate.

      "Sinclair," he said, "you see there your life. You have done me, as a man, the greatest injury which one man has learnt in nineteen hundred years to inflict upon another. In leaving you alive upon the earth, I make no pretence at forgiving you. To kick you into eternity would be, however, only the caprice of a child. The vengeance of God and man strikes deeper. The woman is yours by right of theft. I leave you together, and I leave you the care of her a charge upon your life. Only remember that my arm is long, and as you deal with her, so shall you be dealt with by me.

      "She loves me no more! She is weary already!" the man muttered. "There is no path in life which we could tread together."

      "Too late," Mannister answered. "You must hew one axe in hand, even if it be through the wilderness. And for the rest, the love of a woman is to be won by the man on whom she leans. You must win hers, Sinclair. You played the lover well enough, no doubt, when you took her from my home. See that you play it again, and to good purpose."

      "I lied to her! I worked upon her jealousy!" Sinclair muttered.

      "My common sense has already assured me of that," Mannister answered, "else she would never have left me for you. Never mind. You must do your best. There is but one royal road through life for you—and along that road you must go hand in hand or alone to your grave. For the smaller matters, you will find that there is money enough in her name to keep you from starvation, and I shall require to hear of your marriage within two months. My divorce decree is before the courts."

      "She