"Yes, but it was wrong, Wilfred; and it was foolish," said the Marquess. His eyes went to his son. "I am sorry, Percy. I believed that he was dead; but I should have told you the moment I discovered the truth. Yes, I see now that it was my duty to have done so."

Heyton had stood staring at the two old men dully; his sodden brain did not realize at first the importance of the avowal; then the blood rushed to his face and he stammered:

"What's all this? What's the meaning of this cock-and-bull story? I—I don't understand. You don't suppose I'm going to cave in, accept this fairytale? I'm your son—I'm the next in succession——"

"Yes," said the Marquess, with a deep sigh, and a look at his son which Heyton understood and quailed from. "My brother is not married; you are his heir—after me."

"I did not say I was not married, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, almost inaudibly. "I said that I had no son. But we will not dwell on that. If I could have had my desire, the truth, my identity, would have been buried with me."

"No, no," panted the Marquess; "even if you had not come to-day, I should have told the truth, Wilfred. Would to God I had told it before!"

"Here, but look here!" Heyton broke out, with a kind of impatient insolence. "This is all very well. This old man comes here, makes a statement—gets you to make a statement—when, as everybody knows, you're not in your right mind—Oh, I'm not going to accept it!"

"There are proofs. You know, Wilfred," said the Marquess. "But I can talk no longer. Leave me with my brother."

They went, the doctor and nurse only remaining: the Marquess's little strength had been sorely tried, and the doctor was watching him closely. With a defiant air, Heyton swaggered down the steps. As he reached the bottom, a hand fell on his shoulder; lightly enough, but Heyton started and winced.

"Will you give me a minute or two in the sitting-room, my lord?" said Mr. Jacobs, blandly.

"Eh, what is it?" said Heyton, with an oath. "What do you want? I don't want to be bothered just now; got plenty of my own affairs on my mind."

But he followed the detective. Mr. Jacobs closed the door and stood, on one side of the table, looking at Heyton on the other.

"Yes, this has been a most upsetting business for you, my lord," he said. "You have had, and are having, a most trying time; this is the kind of thing which will break down the strongest man; and I'm about to take the liberty of offering you a word of advice." As he spoke, he took up a Continental Bradshaw which was lying open on the table. "In cases of your kind, there's nothing like a change of scene and air. You want to go right away: I mean, a long way.—I've been looking up one or two places where a man could hide himself—I beg your pardon!—I mean, seclude himself without fear of interruption or—interference."

Heyton stared at him; and as he stared, with a puzzled frown, his swollen face grew mottled, livid in places, red in others.

"I don't know what the devil you mean!" he blurted out. "Why should I go anywhere?"

"For the sake of your health, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, his innocent blue eyes fixed on Heyton. "You want a change—and at once; in fact, it is absolutely imperative." He leant forward across the table, patted the Bradshaw and dropped his voice as he went on incisively, "You can catch the night mail from Charing Cross. Book straight through by the Trans-Siberian, by way of Moscow and Pekin. When you reach Harbin, go right into the interior. There are mines there—anyhow, you can lose yourself. You understand, my lord?"

The sweat stood out in great drops on Heyton's face; he tried to meet the detective's eye with an insolent, indignant stare; but his eyes wavered and fell and he sank into a chair.

"I—I don't know what you mean?" he stammered thickly.

"But you will go?" inquired Mr. Jacobs. "In fact, I am sure you will."

Cur as he was, Heyton made a last stand; he threw up his head, swore a vile oath and struck the table.

"I'm hanged if I do!" he said.

"You'll be hanged, if you don't, my lord!" said Mr. Jacobs. Then, after a pause, he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "I thought you'd have been sensible, that you'd have taken my tip without forcing me into particulars; but if you must have them—well, Lord Heyton, if you are here to-morrow morning, I shall arrest you for the robbery of the jewels and the attempted murder of Lord Sutcombe."

Heyton sprang to his feet; then sank back again with a hoarse attempt at a laugh.

"You must be a fool!"

"Well, one of us is a fool, but it's not me, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, imperturbably. "I knew the truth ten minutes after I had examined the dressing-room. You see, the burglar who understands his business works in kid gloves; they leave no finger-prints. There were prints on the door of the safe, inside, on the poker—oh, well, everywhere; because, you see, when a man's engaged in this kind of work, he's naturally nervous, his hands are sweaty. And these finger-prints were those of a gentleman's hands. Do you want me to go on, Lord Heyton?"

Heyton could not speak; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; he felt as if his spine were giving way, as if all his strength of mind and body were ebbing from him.

"It's—it's ridiculous!" he stammered.

"No, my lord, it's quite simple, quite elementary. There were the finger-prints, on the safe, on the walls, on the poker. I could read them quite easily with a magnifying glass; and they never lie. 'Pon my word, Lord Heyton!" he broke off musingly, his mouth twisting into a smile, "I'm inclined to think they're the only things in this world one can rely on. Now, you'll see why I upset the ink over your hand." He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and laid them on the table; and beside them he placed a silver print of the finger-prints in the room.

Heyton stared at them as if they were live things that could sting him.

"Another thing, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "I was in the dressing-room just after the Marquess recovered consciousness, and heard him charge you with the robbery. The evidence is quite conclusive. But there is, of course, what we call collateral proof. I found these two keys under the bed in your dressing-room. Of course, you intended throwing them in the lake, when you went down with the jewel-case; but you dropped the keys and didn't find them; there is always a little hitch like that—it's the hitch in the rope. I know you took the jewel-case the morning you went down to bathe, because I traced your footprints into the middle of the wood, where you need not have gone, if you had been going merely for a bath. I knew I should find the jewel-case just where you stopped; but I didn't want to discover it. I was waiting for you to go for it, which you would have done presently. Unfortunately for him, another man was in the wood that morning and saw you; and he went for the jewel-case. The Inspector has arrested him, worse luck. I say 'worse luck,' because now we can't hush up the affair—and, you'll have to go."

Heyton wiped the sweat from his face, his head sank on his breast; he was in a condition of coma; so stupefied, indeed, that it was only by an effort he could follow the detective's next words,

"There is only one other person—well, say, two—who suspect you, Lord Heyton. But she will keep her lips shut. She is your wife—fortunately for you."

He went to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and pushed the glass towards the wretched man.

"Drink that, my lord, and pull yourself together," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "That's right," as Heyton stretched out a shaking hand and poured some of the spirit down his throat and some over his waistcoat. "Now, you'll want some money. Oh, I know! You wanted it badly or you wouldn't have played this idiotic game. In this bag is some gold. When you get to Harbin, you will find some more waiting for you. I'll take it upon myself to arrange all that. Don't take much luggage: just a change and a tooth-brush. Say you're going to town on business, any business you can think of that requires your immediate presence. And, mind! don't stop on the way; go straight through: you'll find the trains fit in. I won't add, 'Keep your mouth shut'; you'll do that; unless"—he nodded significantly at the empty glass—"you take too much of that. That's rather a weakness of yours, Lord Heyton: master it, or it'll master you. Now, there's no time to lose. I'll order a brougham for you. Come, pull yourself together. Man!"—his disgust, impatience broke out, for the first time—"try to think what you're running away from! It's a long rope, and it'll take you all your time and wits to get beyond its reach. And think of the risk I'm running; I'm compounding a felony. I—Harry Jacobs!"

Heyton rose, clutching at the table, chair; his quivering lips opened and shut; at last he cried hoarsely,

"Damn you!"

"That's all right, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "I'm glad I've roused your spirit. Here, pull yourself together—your face is giving you away. Upstairs and pack! The carriage will be waiting."

He held open the door; and Heyton, with a glance at him which meant murder, passed out.

Half an hour later, Celia saw Lord Heyton enter the brougham.

"Is Lord Heyton going away?" she asked, with surprise, as she saw the footman place a small portmanteau on the box. She hurried into the hall as she spoke, and it was Mr. Jacobs, who was standing there with Mrs. Dexter, who answered her.

"Yes, Miss Grant," he said. "Lord Heyton has been called away on most important business. Most unfortunate! But there was no help for it."

He waited until Mrs. Dexter had gone, then, with his eyes fixed on Celia's face, he said to her,

"Will you please tell the Marquess that Lord Heyton has gone? And you might say that his return is quite uncertain; in fact—er—he has gone abroad."

Celia's ingenuous countenance expressed her surprise, which seemed to satisfy Mr. Jacobs.

"Now," he said, briskly, "I'm going to see the prisoner, Mr. Sydney Green." The colour rose to Celia's face; but her eyes met Mr. Jacobs' steadily. "Have you any message for him, Miss Grant?"

"Yes," said Celia in a low voice and after a pause. "Will you tell him, please, that I will come to him, if—if I am allowed to do so?"

"You may go and see Mr. Green whenever you please, my dear Miss Grant," said Mr. Jacobs. As he turned away, he added, "By the way, perhaps you'd like to know I'm going to take Mr. Clendon with me. I beg his lordship's pardon—I mean, the Marquess."

Celia looked bewildered for a moment; then she sighed.

"Yes. I am rather confused. I am glad you are going to take him with you; very glad."

"So am I," said Mr. Jacobs, with his bland, innocent smile.



CHAPTER XXX

In the circumstances, Derrick was not uncomfortably lodged. The lock-up was an ancient, knock-down affair, and the Inspector had arranged that Derrick should occupy one of the rooms in the adjoining police-station. Here, Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Clendon found him, if not altogether resigned to the situation, at any rate not cast down or despondent.

"Well, here we are," said Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "I hope they've made you as comfortable as possible, Mr.—Green. I've brought a friend of yours with me, and I have a message from another friend of yours, Miss Grant. She says she will pay you a visit whenever you like to see her."

Derrick shook his head. "I don't want her to come here," he said. "But I'm very glad to see Mr. Clendon."

"By the way," cut in Mr. Jacobs, "I ought to introduce this gentleman by his right name, or, rather, title. You will be very much surprised to hear, Mr. Green, that Mr. Clendon is the Marquess of Sutcombe. It's a long story, but, with your permission, I will put it into a sentence. His lordship is the elder brother, who was thought to be dead, but has turned up—if his lordship will allow me the phrase."

"It is true," said Mr. Clendon, as we must still call him; and he made the admission with an air of resignation and a gesture of regret. "But we have come to talk of your affairs."

"Quite so, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "Now, Mr. Sydney Green—or shall I call you, Mr. Derrick Dene?"

Mr. Clendon started slightly and bent his piercing eyes on Derrick, who coloured and bit his lip.

"Yes, that's my name," he said; "but I don't know how you know it."

"My dear Mr. Dene," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly, "we people in Scotland Yard know a great many things. Just as an instance, let me tell you what I know about you. You were placed at an early age in the care of a worthy couple named Jackson, who brought you up and started you in the profession which I am sure you will adorn. Owing to a—well, let us say, a misunderstanding—you left England—er—somewhat abruptly, and went with a travelling circus to South America; in South America you left the circus and found employment on a ranch, owned by a lady named Donna Elvira——"

Derrick, frowning, stared at him and did not notice that Mr. Clendon had quietly sunk into a chair and, with his hands leaning on his stick, was looking fixedly at Derrick.

"You want to know how we came to know all this?" said Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Well, we had the little affair of the forged cheque placed in our hands, and were following it up when a Mr. Brown, the Sutcombe family solicitor, stepped in and stopped us. You see, the bank refused to prosecute and we couldn't move without it. But, in the course of our inquiries into the business of the forged cheque, we naturally traced your antecedents, and it seemed to us—well, to put it shortly, that your history was so interesting it was worth following. I have all the notes here." He tapped a little book he had taken from his pocket. "You will want to know why I brought it down with me, when I was engaged upon another case and had little reason to expect that you would be arrested on this charge?"

"The question was in my mind," said Derrick, gravely. "Perhaps you'll explain."

"With pleasure," replied Mr. Jacobs, and his tone corroborated his words. "But perhaps this packet which we have, in the discharge of our duty, taken from you, will explain better than I can."

He took the packet from his pocket and laid it on the table. As he did so, he glanced for the first time at the old man, who was sitting so quietly, so immovably.

"Will you allow me to open it—or perhaps we will ask his lordship to do so?"

Derrick looked from one to the other and bit his lip.

"That packet is a confidential one," he said; "but"—moved by an impulse he could not understand—"I am willing that Mr. Clendon shall open it. It has passed out of my hands. I suppose I have no right to it," he added, rather bitterly.

"I made the proposition to save time," said Mr. Jacobs. "There is the packet, your lordship."

With a glance at Derrick, the old man took it and broke the seals slowly. There was no surprise on his face as he read the enclosures. Perhaps he had foreseen that which the packet contained. He read, in absolute silence, the two men watching him; Mr. Jacobs with a cheerful countenance, Derrick with an anxious regard; then presently, Mr. Clendon looked up. Now his face was working, his eyes were moist as he breathed, "My God!" and there was remorse, as well as a kind of solemn joy in the cry.

"You do not guess the truth contained in these papers?" he asked, in a very low voice, as his gaze met Derrick's.

"No, sir," said Derrick.

Mr. Clendon turned his eyes to Mr. Jacobs, but Derrick felt that the old man was addressing him.

"The lady who writes this letter, Mr. Jacobs, the Donna Elvira of whom you have spoken, is—my wife. We have been separated for years. The cause? Nothing that can cast a shadow of dishonour on her. I was wandering in South America when I met her; we fell in love, were married in haste. I was then a headstrong, hot-tempered, unreasonable youth; she—well, she was Spanish, and with a temper and disposition that matched mine. After many quarrels, we parted in anger. I went my way, a wild, desperate way; needless to tell you whither such a way leads. Wrecked in character and prospects, I decided to be quit of the world. I had thought of suicide—but God held my hand. Suffice it that I disappeared, that I concocted a false report of my death, and so made room for my younger brother, Talbot, to take the place in the world which I had rendered myself unfit to fill."

There was a pause, during which the old man strove for composure. Derrick began to tremble. He remembered Donna Elvira's strange tenderness to him, his strange tenderness towards her; and something vague and nebulous was growing out of the Marquess's words, a hope that, in its intensity, was more painful than joyous.

"I did not know," went on the Marquess in a lower voice, and with obvious difficulty, "that, when I left my wife, she was about to become a mother. I did not know that a child was born to me—a son. If I had known—well, the whole course of my life would have been altered from that moment. I should have gone back to her, should have claimed my child; perhaps it is because she knew that I should have done so that she concealed the fact from me. Be that as it may, I was kept in ignorance until this moment; and even now, she does not tell me, but—her son."

He raised his eyes to Derrick with something in them that made Derrick's heart leap, the tears spring to his eyes.

"Yes; you are my son," said Mr. Clendon, and he held out his hand.

Derrick, moving as if in a dream, took the thin hand and grasped it in both of his.

"Oh, is it true?" was all he could say, huskily.

"It is quite true," said Mr. Clendon. "The certificates are enclosed; there is a minute account of the way in which your mother placed you in the charge of these people; there are even periodical receipts for the sums she paid for your maintenance. As to your identity——"

"No doubts about that," murmured Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Proved up to the hilt. Marquess, I congratulate you—and you, too, Lord Heyton."

Now, indeed, Derrick started.

"Do you mean that I——?" he stammered, overwhelmed by the significance of the title by which Mr. Jacobs had addressed him.

Mr. Jacobs nodded, as cheerfully as before. "Quite so," he said. "Your father being the Marquess of Sutcombe, you are, of course, Lord Heyton."

Derrick sank on to a chair, still holding his father's hand; and he was silent for a moment or two; then he looked up.

"This charge?" he said, almost in a whisper. "You—both of you—know that I am innocent?"

Mr. Jacobs nodded, and the father's hand closed tightly on his son's.

"Then," said Derrick hoarsely, "who—who is guilty?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Jacobs, with a shake of the head, his eyes fixed on the carpet. "Very difficult to say. I'm afraid it will turn out to be one of those undiscovered crimes with which the newspapers are always taunting poor Scotland Yard." He rose as he spoke, and reached for his hat. "Now I'll leave you two gentlemen together. By the way, Mr.—I beg your pardon, Lord Heyton!—I'm afraid you'll have to remain here for another hour or two; there are certain formalities which must be endured. For instance"—he smiled—"I shall have to take you before a local magistrate. Of course, we shall produce no evidence, throw any quantity of ashes on our heads, and apologize for the cruel mistake we have made; and the local magistrate, if he knows his business, will read me a severe lecture on my stupidity and set you free with an apology from all concerned. Now I'll leave you. You two gentlemen must have a great deal to say to each other. And I beg you to believe"—he spoke with deep feeling—"that I should not have intruded on this interview, if I had not considered my presence necessary."

He opened the door, but closed it again, holding the handle, and said, in a casual fashion,

"By the way, I am sorry to say that Lord Heyton—tut, tut!—the gentleman who was Lord Heyton—has been called away on important business. I am afraid he will be away some time; in fact, I have advised him to go on a long tour, when his business is finished. He requires change of air, a long change; in fact, I don't think England will ever suit him."

He spoke the last words over his shoulder and disappeared.

The father and son were engaged in a conversation that moved them both deeply; and a knock had been repeated on the door twice, before they heard it and Derrick said, "Come in!"

A policeman stood on the threshold.

"A lady and gentleman to see you, sir."

"I can see no one," said Derrick, trying to keep his voice steady; but his father made a gesture with his hand and Derrick nodded reluctantly.

There entered Lady Gridborough and Reggie Rex, who had obtained permission from Mr. Jacobs. Lady Gridborough was much agitated, and she was going with outstretched hand, straight to Derrick, but stopped at sight of the old man who had risen from his chair.

"Oh, I came at once!" she said, tremulously. "I couldn't stay away. Oh, Derrick, I am so sorry, so sorry. I might have known that you couldn't be so bad, so wicked as they all said! Will you forgive me? Oh, do say you'll forgive me for so cruelly misjudging you."

Derrick took the fat hand and looked, with a grave smile of more than forgiveness, at the good-natured, agitated face.

"Don't say any more, Lady Gridborough," he said. "It was my fault. I ought to have spoken—I see now what a fool I have been! My mistaken sense of honour has caused all this trouble; and grieved you very much, I see, dear Lady Gridborough. But how did you learn the truth—I mean discover that I had not wronged poor Susie?"

"It was Mr. Rex here," said Lady Gridborough, her face all smiles now. "He's an extraordinary young man, and has succeeded in doing that at which we had all failed—opening Susie's lips. How he managed it, I do not know! Perhaps he can tell you."

Derrick had got hold of Reggie's hand by this time, and was regarding him with a half-smiling interrogation; and Reggie was also smiling with that air of omniscience and supreme acuteness which sat so curiously on his boyish face.

"A future wife should have no secrets from her future husband, as you will be the first to admit, dear Lady Gridborough."

"'Future husband!'" echoed Derrick, with a surprise that was only momentary.

"Yes," said Reggie, quietly. "I have won my angel. I don't deny that it was difficult; but this last business of yours settled it. You see, Susie felt that, if she told the truth, and showed up the right man—or, rather, the wrong one; for, if there was ever a 'wrong un,' it is——; but we won't mention names—Susie knew that she would be doing Celia a service; besides, Susie felt that she could face the world much more easily, if she had a great, hulking man beside her. And," he added modestly, "there were—ahem—other reasons."

"I am sure there were," said Derrick, warmly; and he wrung Reggie's hand. "I congratulate you—both."

"But how about this dreadful business of the robbery at the Hall?" said Lady Gridborough, suddenly growing pale.

"So far as my son is concerned, madam," said Mr. Clendon, in his grave voice which had grown very gentle, "you will be glad to hear that it has ended satisfactorily; he has been proved innocent of the crime laid to his charge."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Lady Gridborough, delightedly. "But"—suddenly—"your son? You are his father? I didn't know—I thought his father was dead."

"So I was, madam; to the world; but I have returned from the grave to find my son," said Mr. Clendon.

"Well, I am glad!" cried Lady Gridborough. "You must both come and stay with me. Now, you won't refuse, Mr. Dene, will you?" She looked at Mr. Clendon pleadingly, and then with confusion and embarrassment, as they both remained silent.

"My father's name is not 'Dene,'" said Derrick, who felt that the explanation would have to come sooner or later. "He is Lord Sutcombe."

Reggie did not start; but, for the first time in his life, the young man looked nonplussed and discomfited; he regarded the father and son with a puzzled stare, then, with an exclamation, he cried,

"Of course, the elder brother! Then—then you, Green, are Lord Heyton?" He smiled as if he himself had conferred the title of nobility on Derrick. "Well, this knocks me out. No more detective novels for me! Realism is my line for the future. And yet, what a novel it would make!"

"You shall write it some day, Reggie," said Derrick, with a smile.

"Some day?" retorted Reggie. "I'm going to write it at once! Come away, Lady Gridborough! This is no place for us," he added tactfully, and, taking her hand, he led the bewildered old lady out of the room, nodding, with a smile of intense gratification, over his shoulder at Derrick.



CHAPTER XXXI

The following afternoon, as the London evening papers were publishing what they were pleased to call "A Romance in High Life," Derrick and his father made their way through an excited crowd, which had gathered about the Court House. Affairs there had proceeded as Mr. Jacobs had prophesied; the magistrates had listened with amazement, not only to Mr. Jacobs' statement, but to the announcement which Mr. Clendon had made of his identity and his relationship to Derrick; and the worthy chairman, Sir Courtenay Comber, using almost the identical words Mr. Jacobs had attributed to him, had congratulated Derrick and informed him that he left the Court "without a stain on his character." Notwithstanding its satisfactory conclusion, the ordeal had been a trying one for father and son, and Derrick looked pale and somewhat worn as he grasped the hand of Reggie, who had been in Court, and had hurried after him to congratulate him.

"I've got a carriage here for you, round the corner," he said; "and I've succeeded in stopping them ringing the bells."

"I'm glad," said Derrick; "but why should they want to ring the bells?"

"Well, you see," explained Reggie, as he led them to the carriage, "Lord Heyton—I mean the other man—is not a great favourite; whereas, somehow or other, you have caught the popular imagination; besides, it has leaked out that you are going to marry Miss Grant; and she is tremendously popular. She has been very kind, in the do-good-and-blush-to-find-it-known way, to the poor people about her; and Susie has told a good many of Miss Grant's angelic kindnesses to her. Hence these tears," he added, as the people crowded about them and cheered heartily. "Where shall I tell the man to drive, my lord?"

"To the Hall," replied Mr. Clendon gravely. "Yes," he said to Derrick, as the carriage drove off, "the Marquess—I mean your uncle, Talbot, wants to see you, naturally."

"You have told him?" said Derrick. "Poor man!"

"Yes, I have told him; and, strangely enough, he welcomed the news. And yet it is not strange; for, alas! he knew the character of his son, knew that he was not worthy to bear the title. There is something more on my brother's mind than I am cognisant of. Some secret which worries him," he added.

Derrick remained silent. He dared not probe the mystery of the hidden jewel-case, of Heyton's sudden flight; but it was evident to him that Mr. Jacobs intended to conceal any knowledge he might have, and Derrick was only too thankful to concur in that concealment.

On their way to the Hall, Derrick and his father spoke of many things of the past and the future; and presently the old man said in a low voice,

"You will be married soon, Derrick?"

"The first moment Celia will have me," replied Derrick, promptly.

"I would like you to spend your honeymoon in South America," said his father.

Derrick understood, and he nodded and laid his hand on the old man's.

"And you, sir? Shall you go there—soon?"

Mr. Clendon shook his head. "No," he responded. "The chasm between us is too wide, has divided us for too long a time. But it shall be as your mother wishes. You will talk to her——We will leave her future and mine on the knees of the gods. But yours, thank God! is assured. How strangely Fate works! How little I thought, when I helped Celia to come to the Hall, that I was lending a guiding hand to the future of my son's wife. Derrick, that same fate has been very good to you."

"Don't I know it, sir!" said Derrick in a low voice.

They reached the Hall; and as they entered, they could not but be conscious of the stir of excitement there; the old butler and the other servants looked at them with an intense interest. As the two men stood in the hall, waiting the summons to the sick-room, Derrick looked round him eagerly; but it was not at the subdued splendour surrounding him; he scarcely noted the indications of luxury and wealth, the wealth and state to which he was heir; he was looking and listening for some sign of Celia; and he was so absorbed that he started when his father touched his arm and directed his gaze to a portrait.

"That is mine, Derrick," he said. "Do you see any resemblance to yourself?"

"Yes; I think—yes, I do," replied Derrick.

"I noticed it yesterday, directly I entered the hall, for the first time for many years."

The footman came down to say that they might go up, and they ascended the broad stairs, Derrick still looking about him and listening; but Celia did not appear. They were ushered into the sick-room, and the door closed on them; and they remained there for nearly half an hour; for the injured man had recovered something of his old strength, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and he was able to hear the story of Derrick's identity and to speak a few words of relief and satisfaction. When they left the room both Derrick and his father were much moved, and they went down the stairs in silence. Derrick stopped as they reached the hall, and again looked round him.

"You will find her in there," said his father, nodding towards the library; and Derrick, with a sudden flush and a brightening of the eyes, knocked at the door.

The voice that said, "Come in," made his heart leap. He turned the handle of the door and entered. Celia had heard his voice in the hall, was expecting him; she was standing by the table, her hand pressed on it, her face pale but her eyes glowing with the ineffable light of love.

"Sydney!" she murmured, all her heart in her voice.

He took her in his arms and, for a moment, there was silence; then she raised her head and whispered,

"It is all right, Sydney?"

"It is all right," he responded. "I am here, as you see; I am acquitted; all is well. But, dearest," he hesitated apologetically, "you must not call me 'Sydney.'"

She looked up at him, her brows knit slightly; and he gathered her to him still more closely, as he went on.

"I've got the strangest news to tell you, Celia. You will think that you are dreaming, as I have been dreaming ever since I myself heard it."

"They have been talking, saying strange things—the servants, I mean—and Mrs. Dexter came in just now and tried to tell me—something; but she was too excited and checked herself; she said I should hear it from you! What is it, Syd——But I'm not to call you that? What am I to call you?"

"Derrick," he said; "it is the name that you shall always call me by; but the world will know me as Lord Heyton."

She started in his arms and, drawing back her head, gazed up at him in amazement; and she listened as he told her the wonderful news; at first with bewilderment and then with a gravity and a lack of enthusiasm which surprised him.

"You are glad, dearest?" he asked. "You are surprised, astonished, of course? It takes some time to realize. You are glad?"

"Are you?" she asked in a low voice.

Derrick shrugged his shoulders; then, as if he were ashamed of the gesture, he said quickly,

"That I have found a father—and such a father—yes. And I have found a mother too. Have you guessed that it is the Donna Elvira I have told you so much about? You are surprised; and no wonder. It is part of the strange story. I will tell you all about her presently. Of course, I am glad. I was all alone in the world—but for you—but for you, Celia! and the loneliness was hard sometimes to bear. But for the rest, the title and the estates and the other things, I welcome them only because you will share them with me. Celia, I'm not such an idiot as not to realize that I am coming to you as something more than a penniless adventurer, well-nigh nameless, a man of no account. If I had all the world at my command, the highest title a man could bear, I should only value them because I could lay them at your feet."

The tears welled to her eyes and, of her own accord, she drew his head down to her and laid her sweet lips on his.

"You are too good to me; I am not worth it," she said, brokenly. Then, with something like a start, she whispered, with a dawning fear and horror in her eyes, "And the other—Lord Heyton? And his wife! Oh, poor, poor woman! And she has borne so much already! She is lying there, upstairs, prostrated. Who is to tell her? Oh, Derrick, dearest, who is to tell her?"

"You," he said, gently. "No one can break it to her better than you can."

"Oh, must I? Oh, it will be hard for her."

"It will be hard, Celia; but no one can do it better than you. You will soften the blow. She will realise her debt to you, through me. Tell her that her future shall be cared for—but you know that I shall look after that. Celia, you, who are so quick, so acute, have divined the truth. It was for Miriam that I took on myself the forged cheque. I—cared for her once; I thought I was in love with her. I thought so until that night you came to me and stood like an angel of rescue between me and a shameful death. As to Miriam's husband——"

Derrick paused and, looking down at her steadily, laid his hand on her shoulder with an almost masterful pressure.

"—There must be nothing more said about him between us two, Celia," he continued, with solemnity in his voice and manner. "He is gone; let him go and take the past with him. But one word: Celia, it was Heyton who wronged Susie, it was Heyton who forged the cheque; it was because Lady Gridborough thought me guilty of wrecking Susie's life, that she cut me that morning when she passed us at the gate by the wood. She knows the truth now; for Reggie has got Susie to reveal it——"

"Reggie!" murmured Celia.

"Yes; he fell in love with Susie the first time he saw her; he has been telling me all about it."

"And Susie yielded! I can scarcely believe it," said Celia, with a note of delight in her voice.

"She yielded," said Derrick, with a smile. "Reggie is a wonderful young man; and has a way with him, as the saying is. He must have laid hard siege to Susie's heart—perhaps he won her through the child. Anyway, he has done so; and, in doing so, has cleared my name."

"I am glad, glad!" Celia murmured, giving him a little hug. "Yes; he is a wonderful young man; I saw that the first time I met him." She told him of that meeting in the British Museum Reading Room. "Oh, I can quite understand, now I come to think of it; with all her seeming coldness, Susie has a tender heart. I've found that out——"

"By the surest way, the revelation of your own," said Derrick. He looked round the room, as if everything in it were precious to him. "And this is where you have worked," he said.

"Yes," she nodded, also looking round; "and I have been very happy here—or should have been," she went on softly, her eyes on his, "if I had been able to keep a certain man out of my thoughts. But he was there all the time; I could close my eyes and be back at 'The Jail,' looking over the rails at his upturned face and hearing his voice. What a wonderful thing love is!"

"And yet so easy to understand," he said with a smile, as he caught her to him again. There was silence for a while; then he said, "We'll be married soon, Celia?"

She blushed and her eyes fell for a moment; then she raised them to his and whispered,

"Yes."

"My father wants us to spend our honeymoon in South America; wants us to go to my mother. You will go; you will not mind the long journey?"

She was silent for a moment; then, almost solemnly, but with an infinite love in her eyes and her voice, she murmured,

"'Whither thou goest, I will go ... thy people shall be my people.'"

* * * * *

As Celia went to Miriam's room, can it be wondered that her step grew slower and, notwithstanding her own happiness, that her heart waxed heavy with sorrow for the wretched young wife? She found Miriam lying back in her chair, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, her face almost vacant of any expression; she seemed weighed down by the apathy resulting from utter hopelessness, from a knowledge of some evil from which she could not escape. She turned her eyes to Celia, and Celia's heart was made to ache by the look of dumb suffering in them, that look which the weak always wear when the world is going wrong with them.

Celia knelt down beside the chair, and took one of the nerveless hands.

"Are you better, getting stronger, Lady Heyton?" she asked, gently.

Miriam shook her head listlessly, and gazed out of the window; then she turned her eyes again slowly to Celia, and said, in a toneless voice,

"Is it true, what the servants are saying, that the Marquess's elder brother has been discovered, and that the Marquess, our Marquess, is no longer the master here? Marie came and told me something about it; but she was confused and rambled, and I could make very little of it."

"It is true," said Celia. "The elder brother is alive, is here in the house. He had been living in seclusion for years; the Marquess discovered a little while ago that his brother was alive; but the real Marquess did not wish to displace his younger brother. He was living in poverty, working for his living. I knew him at that time."

Miriam looked only slightly interested. "You knew him? That's strange."

"Yes; it is all very strange," Celia agreed. "It was Mr. Clendon—we still call him that; it is so difficult to remember that he is the Marquess—and I lived in the same building; we called it 'The Jail'; it was so prison-like." Her voice grew dreamy, as she spoke. "He played the violin in the orchestra of a theatre; I used to hear him practising; the music floated up to my room; how long ago it seems! It was he who persuaded Lord Sutcombe to engage me as librarian, here at the Hall."

"It sounds like a novel," commented Miriam, absently.

"Yes," assented Celia; "but it isn't any more wonderful and astounding than the occurrences one reads of in the newspapers almost every day."

"And there is no doubt? I mean, it is all settled; he is the Marquess?" said Miriam, still apathetically, as if no change, however revolutionary, could affect her.

"Yes, it is all settled, or will be very soon," said Celia. "The lawyers are coming down to-morrow; the evidence is quite complete." There was silence for a minute or two; then Celia, with her heart beating fast and heavily, said, in a still lower voice, "There is something else I must tell you, Lady Heyton. Mr. Clendon, the real Marquess, has—has a son."

She stopped to let this sink in, and Miriam's brows knit slightly; then she said, almost inaudibly,

"You mean that—that Heyton, my husband, is not the heir, is not Lord Heyton?"

"Yes," said Celia in a whisper. It seemed to her that Miriam drew a long breath of relief; but she made no comment and Celia went on, with still greater difficulty, "I must tell you who he is, Lady Heyton. I want to prepare you for a shock, and I don't know how to do it. You—you know him."

"I know him?" repeated Miriam, with dull surprise. "You mean I have met him. What is his name? Heyton, of course."

"That is his name, his title," said Celia; "but he has borne several names, has had a strange history. You knew him by the name of Derrick Dene."

Miriam did not start; but the pallor of her face increased, and her tear-swollen eyes fixed themselves with a kind of wan wonder and shame on Celia.

"Derrick Dene!" she echoed, faintly.

"Yes," murmured Celia; and, as briefly and gently as she could, she told Miriam of Derrick's recent experiences. Miriam's hands went up to her face; but they dropped into her lap again and she looked before her and said, in a stricken voice,

"I see you know everything. Yes, it was Heyton, my husband, who forged the cheque; I know it now: he is capable of—anything." She shuddered. "It was to save me from the shame and unhappiness of being a felon's wife that Derrick sacrificed himself. Yes; it was just what he would do." She glanced at Celia. "You know, of course, that I—I once cared for him; that we were to be married; I jilted him for a title, for money——"

"Don't say any more," pleaded Celia; but Miriam went on ruthlessly.

"I was a weak fool; I might have known that no good would come of such treachery—oh, yes, I knew in my heart; I knew that Derrick was worth a hundred of him. I sinned with my eyes open; no, I shut them; I was blinded by the thought, the prospect of being—what I am," she added bitterly; then, suddenly, she fixed her eyes on Celia's downcast face. "Derrick told you this? Then he knows you very well; you are a close friend of his; you are——?"

"Yes," murmured Celia. "I am going to be his wife—very soon. We met in 'The Jail.'" She did not, she could not tell how that meeting had been brought about; she wanted to spare Miriam all she could; but, notwithstanding her resolution, the next words slipped out unconsciously. "He was accused of the robbery of the jewels——" She bit her lip; but it was too late for remorse.

Miriam dropped back in the chair, her eyes closed and her lips became livid.

"He did not do it!" she gasped.

"No, no!" said Celia, quickly; "he has been proved innocent."

There was silence for a moment; while Miriam evidently made an effort to control her agitation.

"Who—who——? Have they found out who did it?"

"No," broke in Celia, swiftly and tremulously. "No one has been discovered. Mr. Jacobs, the detective, said that no one will be discovered. The jewels have been found."

"I know," murmured Miriam.

"There will be no more trouble," whispered Celia, soothingly.

Again there was a pause, then Miriam asked brokenly,

"Heyton—my husband?"

"He has gone abroad," said Celia, hanging her head; "he will be away some time."

Miriam's lips moved; she whispered, at last,

"I understand!—I must leave here—at once. I will go back to my people or hide myself somewhere in London."

"Oh, go back to your people," said Celia. "I—I want to tell you how sorry the Marquess, all of us, are for you, how deeply we sympathise with your loss; it weighs upon us all."

"It need not do," said Miriam, with a touch of bitterness. "I have always been a stranger and an alien here. Strangely enough, Celia, I have felt as if I—I have been walking on quicksand that might swallow me up at any moment. Oh, I have been as unhappy as I deserve. All the time, I have felt a sense of—of—oh, I can't explain; but it seemed to me as if my treachery to Derrick would come back on me. And it has! If you knew"—she shuddered—"but I can't tell you. I shall never open my lips—I want to go at once. Yes; I am quite strong enough. I want to go away from here—from you all. I want to be at rest, somewhere where I can try to forget. What a downfall! What a downfall!"

Celia, with the tears in her eyes, put her arm round the trembling form.

"Dear Lady Heyton," she murmured, "you must not give way. It may not be all as black as you think. And—and Derrick wishes me to tell you that your future—oh, how am I to put it!—that you will be well cared for; that you will have no need for anxiety about the future."

"Derrick!" breathed Miriam, ashamedly. "Yes, it is what he would do. It is like him to think of me, even in the moment of his own happiness. Oh, God, how ashamed I am!"

"You will not refuse—to let them help you, to let them look after you?" pleaded Celia.

"No," replied Miriam, with a bitter laugh. "I'll take their charity thankfully enough. It's part of my punishment, I suppose. But I want to go at once. You seem to pity me——"

"Oh, Lady Heyton!"

"Then help me to get away. Send a telegram to my people to say that I am coming; tell Marie to pack——"

"Yes," said Celia, feeling that Miriam had decided on the best course. "I will see to everything. Will you lie down and rest, while I get everything ready?"

"Rest!" echoed Miriam, bitterly. "There cannot be a moment's rest for me while I am in this house. I have lain awake listening, listening——" She shuddered. "Go now. I'd try to thank you, if I could. You've been kind to me—Derrick's wife!" She pushed Celia from her and rose unsteadily. "Oh, go; I'm grateful, but the sight of you reminds me——"

With the tears running down her cheeks, Celia left her, to find Marie and send off the telegram.



CHAPTER XXXII

In the matter of an early marriage, both Derrick's father and he whom we have known as the Marquess, were on Derrick's side; indeed, the sick man was, if possible, more anxious than the others that the wedding should take place without delay.

"I want everything settled before—before I go, Wilfred," he said. "Something of the burden on my mind—not all! Ah, not all—will be lifted, if I can know that I shall, under Providence, leave the succession settled. You and I are old men, Wilfred—I am very near the grave. It is our duty to see, as far as lies within our power, that the future of the house is set upon a sound foundation. Your son, Derrick, will be a worthy successor; Celia—I need say nothing in her praise; she has won all our hearts, and she will lend a lustre to the title that will come to her."

A fortnight is not a long time in which to prepare the trousseau of a future Marchioness; but, with Lady Gridborough's enthusiastic assistance, Celia did her best; though, it must be confessed, she did not attach so much importance to this matter of the trousseau as it usually demands and receives from the bride elect; in fact, though Lady Gridborough has been described as an assistant, she bore the lion's share of the business, while Celia, as Lady Gridborough expressed it, in homely language, "gadded about, and mooned" with her lover.

She wanted a quiet wedding, but the church was full, and some ardent spirits had insisted upon decorating it, and an avenue of children, clothed in white and armed with flower blossoms to throw upon the pathway of the bride. Reggie was best man; and, consciously or unconsciously, had the air of one who had brought about the whole affair.

"If you had fixed the date a day later," he confided to Derrick, as he helped him into the regulation frock coat, and impressed upon him the solemn fact that the wedding ring was in the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, "you'd have had to find another best man; for Susie and I are going to be married to-morrow at a quiet little church not a hundred miles from here. Ours is going to be really a quiet wedding: bride and bridegroom; parson, pew-opener and perhaps two sniffling children. We are going straight to France; address uncertain. And we're going to live there—that's one of the advantages of my profession, one of the precious few advantages; you can carry it on anywhere."

"I'm glad," said Derrick, as he wrung Reggie's hand. "No wonder you look so happy to-day: and I thought it was on my account!"

"So it is—partly," said Reggie. "You see, you're filling the bill so eminently satisfactorily. Between you and me, it isn't often that the hero in real life—in real life and out of fiction, mind you!—finishes up the last chapter looking absurdly happy in a frock coat and lavender trousers. You're the most satisfying 'hero' I've ever met with. And as to the bride—well, you wouldn't be married this morning, old chap, if I sat down right here and told you what I think of her."

"But you've told me already," said Derrick, laying his hand on Reggie's shoulder and shaking him affectionately.

To Lady Gridborough's intense satisfaction and delight, the sun shone brightly on Celia who, as the oldest inhabitant declared, was the most beautiful bride that had ever stood before the altar of the old church. One wedding is monotonously similar to another; and on this occasion there was nothing to distinguish Derrick's and Celia's, save the fact that the bridegroom had only just been acquitted of a criminal charge and had been discovered to be the heir to a marquisate; but the crowd which filled the church and gathered outside, felt these facts to be important ones, and they cheered the bride and bridegroom as they emerged from the church, husband and wife.

In the circumstances, it was not possible that there should be any festivities at the Hall—they would come later, all felt, when the happy couple returned from their honeymoon. There was an affecting scene when Derrick and Celia stood beside the bed of the injured man. But as he took Derrick's hand, and signed to Celia to bend down that he might kiss her, there was, plainly, an expression of relief in the dying man's wasted face. The great wrong had been set right; the elder brother restored to his own, his son, this handsome, erect young fellow, with the frank and honest eyes, established, or on the way to being established, as the heir.

The old man, lying there, a statesman and an aristocrat, recognized the responsibilities of his position, all that was due to the great family of which he had supposed himself the head; and that due was now being paid. As he blessed them both, his hand sought that of his elder brother, whom he had put in his proper place, and his eyes turned affectionately, restfully, to his.

Of course, Lady Gridborough and Reggie had been invited to the breakfast, which was disposed of somewhat hurriedly; for there was a train to catch. There were no speeches; they were not necessary; Lady Gridborough did most of the talking, breaking off now and then, sometimes to smile happily at Derrick and Celia, at others to wipe her eyes; for Lady Gridborough, at a wedding, was always hovering between smiles and tears.

They gathered in the hall, waiting for Celia to appear in her travelling dress; and presently she came down, radiant, blushing; but, before she went to her husband, she drew Reggie aside.

"I want to ask you to take a message from me to Susie," she whispered. "Tell her that I saw her in the church this morning; tell her that I shall always love her, and that some time—before long, I hope—we shall meet." Reggie, very red, and looking very happy, nodded. "And will you give her this as a wedding present?"

He opened the small case she slipped into his hand, and saw a pendant in the form of a ruby heart set round with diamonds. It was not a very costly gift, though doubtless it would seem so in Susie's eyes. But Reggie understood all it meant; the emblem of affection, warm and glowing; and again he could only nod.

Derrick's last word was with his father. The two men stood, with hands enclasped, looking at each other in a mute exchange of affection and trust.

"You will not be away too long?" said the father. "You are needed here." He glanced upwards towards his brother's room. "And I need you too, Derrick—my son that was lost and is found." He paused, then he added, "Tell her that it shall rest with her."

Derrick gave the hand a pressure of comprehension.

As the carriage was starting, Celia's eyes wandered over the group gathered to see them off: Mrs. Dexter, as well as Lady Gridborough, between tears and smiles. Mr. Douglas, holding back Roddy, who was making frantic efforts to follow the carriage; but Derrick's eyes were fixed on his father.

* * * * *

In due course—how ecstatically happy was that course!—Derrick and Celia reached the ranch. On the steps stood Donna Elvira, his mother, awaiting them, with a kind of proud patience. She had drawn herself up to her full height, was evidently fighting for self-composure; but, at the sight of her son, her hauteur melted, and, with a cry, she clasped him in her arms; but, the next moment, with a Spanish courtesy which swiftly melted to tenderness, she turned to the rather pale and trembling girl, and embraced her. With a hand of each in hers, she drew them into the house. There are moments too sacred for intrusion; such moments were those which passed between these three. At first sight, the Donna's heart had gone out to her son's beautiful young wife; and it was with a sigh that she said, after much talk had passed between them,

"Yes, you must not forget, dearest child, that you have a mother, and another home, here in the South. You will come sometimes? And for a long visit? The journey is so short nowadays, is it not? You will not forget altogether the lonely woman who has found a son—and a daughter?"

It was not until he and his mother were alone together that Derrick delivered his father's message; and he did so gently, tenderly, with his hand laid in hers. Donna Elvira was silent for a long time; then she said, in a low voice,

"We will leave it to time, Derrick. You say, in your language, that Time heals all things. And the wound is now almost healed. We will wait——Yes, we will leave it to time."

And with that Derrick had to be satisfied.

It was towards the close of their stay at the ranch that Derrick received a letter from his father containing the news of the death of him who had been known so long to the world as the Marquess of Sutcombe. The last days of the stricken man had passed in peacefulness and forgetfulness. He had never spoken of his son, had seemed to remember nothing of the terrible tragedy which had cast its shadow over all their lives; all his conscious thought had been of the brother whose place he had usurped, at first innocently, but whom now he had restored to his own. The letter closed with a hint that Derrick's father found the responsibility of his titles and honours somewhat hard to bear; and Derrick knew that the old man needed him.

This letter brought their visit—already a long one—to an end, and Derrick and Celia started for home. Nothing shall be said of their reception; indeed, the most eloquent pen could not attempt to vie with the glowing periods in which the great event was enshrined in the columns of the local paper; suffice it that, after a progress through many triumphal arches, much cheering; some speechifying on the part of Derrick—which was by no means particularly happy but was received with delirious enthusiasm—the carriage conveyed them to the Hall, where Derrick's father and Celia's old friend stood, leaning on his stick, and awaited them.

"Thank God you've come back, Derrick!" said his father, fervently. "You and Celia are wanted here, very badly. You see," he added, with a touch of pathos, "I have been away from all this so long, I am so unused to everything——My dear, will you believe me"—he turned to Celia with a smile that had not a little pathos in it—"I sometimes long for the quietude, the—the bareness of 'The Jail'!"

"I know," said Celia in a low voice, and with a glance at Derrick beside her.

For she and Derrick, on their way home, had stopped for a night in London and had gone back to "The Jail." They had slept in her old room, and they had stood, hand in hand, in his, where first they had met, where she had come to him, an angel of rescue.

There were festivities enough now and to spare. The whole place seemed permeated by their happiness, and Derrick was wondering how long the rollicking would last and when he should be able to take up the duties which devolved upon him. One evening it chanced that he and Celia were walking through the village, on their way from Lady Gridborough's, engaged in earnest converse about those same duties; and, in the middle of a sentence, Celia broke off, and, catching at his arm, exclaimed,

"Derrick! Oh, Derrick, look!"

Derrick followed the direction of her eyes, and saw a huge tent with a number of persons bustling about it. It was a circus tent; and, moreover, it was Bloxford's Mammoth Circus itself. He stopped and stared; then he laughed.

"Why, it's old Bloxford!" he cried, brightly. "Celia, this is a piece of luck. Think of his coming here—here, of all places! By George! how glad I shall be to see him; and I've an idea he'll be glad to see me! We'll go—no, not now"—stopping short—"I'll go to the show to-night."

"You'll take me, Derrick?" she said, eagerly. "I want to see him so badly."

Restraining the desire to go there and then, they had an early dinner and, on foot, made their way to the circus. The tent was crammed; the performance had just begun; Derrick and Celia got seats in the best part, and, exchanging glances of pleasure, they looked on. The whole company was there in force; and when Isabel rode into the ring on her black charger, Celia pressed Derrick's arm and whispered enthusiastically,

"What a splendid woman, Derrick! Oh, she's really grand! And how she rides!"

"Yes," responded Derrick, a trifle confusedly; for—well, while recounting his adventures to Celia, he had omitted any mention of the Isabel episode. "She is a great friend of mine. And so is that fine-looking chap who is going to do the trapeze act presently. There he is, standing by the entrance, where they come into the arena. His name is Sidcup: splendid fellow, isn't he?"

"Splendid," murmured Celia, admiringly. "How clever they all are!"

"Here, come, let's go round at once, now," said Derrick, as the performance came to an end and the band played "God save the King." He led her round to the performers' tent, and almost ran against Mr. Bloxford. Needless to say, he wore his fur coat. At sight of Derrick's smiling face and outstretched hand, Mr. Bloxford started and stared, in a bewildered fashion, then he recognised Derrick and, grasping the hand, shook it heartily.

"Why, dash my stars and stripes, if it isn't Sydney Green!" he exclaimed, with so evident a pleasure that Celia's eyes glowed and she smiled upon him; and Mr. Bloxford, as if drawn by the smile, turned to her, and, sweeping off his hat, said,

"And I take it you're his young lady, miss?"

"I'm his wife," said Celia, with unabashed pride.

"You don't say!" commented Mr. Bloxford, his admiration eloquently expressed in his staring, Simian eyes. "Well, Mr. Green, you've taken the cake! Lor' bless my soul, what a picture you'd make in the high-stepping act! And you're well, and doing well, I should say, by the look of you, Mr. Green," he said to Derrick, who, indeed, looked absurdly happy and proud at that moment. "Well, you deserve it. Look here, ma'am, I could tell you a sight about this big gentleman of yours. You take it from me that he's a topper, a tip-topper. Here, just step in here, and I'll tell you how he saved the whole show from a wrecking out there in that darned dingo-land, Buenos Aires."

"I should like to hear it very much, Mr. Bloxford," said Celia, still glowing on him; "though my husband has already told me about it."

"Oh, well, you don't want to hear it from me; though, mind you, it was one of the coolest things I've ever seen done. Oh, he's grit all through, is that good man of yours."

"I know he is," said Celia, her face radiant, her smile fascinating and bewildering.

"But, look here!" he said. "The company will want to see you. Here, come along! I tell you, ma'am"—over his shoulder to Celia, as he led the way to the "Green Room"—"he is the most popular man we've ever had. And got a head as well as a heart; the best head I ever saw. Here, ladies and gentlemen," he cried to the medley group in the performers' tent, "here's an old friend come to pay you a visit. Here's Mr. Sydney Green, and his missis!"

They all turned and stared for a moment in silence. Isabel's face went pale, but not so pale as Alice's. Isabel was the first to recover. With a flush on her face now, she came forward with her graceful swing and held out her hand, first to Derrick and then, after a momentary pause, to Celia; her hand was grasped warmly by both. An excited interchange of talk ensued; and presently, in the midst of it, Derrick felt a hand on his arm, and Sidcup, to whom he had spoken already, signed to him. Derrick went out of the tent with him.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Sidcup," he began; but Sidcup interrupted him with a nod and a smile.

"I wanted to get you away for a moment, to tell you that it's—all right," said Sidcup, colouring a little and looking just a trifle embarrassed, and yet with a tone of pride in his voice. "Isabel and I have fixed it up. Yes; we were spliced before we left South America. It's all right, old boy! Congratulate me!"

Derrick shook his hand until Sidcup winced, and they both laughed like a couple of boys.

"Congratulate you! I should think I do!" said Derrick. "I wish you could have heard my wife just now, expressing her admiration for yours. She is more beautiful than ever."

"Oh, well," said Sidcup, with a modest pride; "come to that, you've got a beauty too. Tell you what, Green, we're both of us deuced lucky men."

"You never spoke a truer word in your life," said Derrick; "and you, at any rate, deserve your luck."

They returned to the tent, talking as they went; and there, lo and behold! they found the future Marchioness of Sutcombe the centre of a laughing and talking group, the hearts of all of which she had conquered at first sight. For, consider: she was now a future Marchioness, but not long since she had been Celia Grant, living on a pound a week in Brown's Buildings—as she told them. Derrick tore her away at last, leaving the circus company ignorant of the exalted position of their guests; but, half an hour afterwards, they were astounded beyond words to receive an invitation to dine next night at Thexford Hall; an invitation from Sydney Green and his wife, otherwise, Lord and Lady Heyton.

That dinner is marked with a white stone in the history of Derrick and Celia.

* * * * *

One is reluctant to strike a discordant note, a note of squalid tragedy, in the harmony to which the lives of Celia and Derrick moved; but this record would not be complete without an account of the ending of the man who was known as Lord Heyton. Such an ending as his was inevitable. He died in a drunken brawl in a Chinese doss-house in Manchuria. For months before his death he had been a cause of trouble and anxiety to the authorities of the district; in such a place villainy and roguery have full scope; but poor Heyton never rose to the height of either. Small and petty offences only were those which came within his capacity.

For some time he had been connected with a gang of card-sharpers, living under an alias, and depending for his food and drink upon the small wits which Providence had vouchsafed him. It was during a dispute in one of the lowest doss-houses in the place that he met his death. There had been a quarrel, a scuffle, a death-thrust with a knife by a cold-blooded Chinaman, and it was not until the authorities had searched the body, that his identity had been discovered.

Derrick received the news of the death of Miriam's husband, the one-time recognised heir to the title and estate, from the British Consul; and he received the grim tidings with something like relief. His was the task to convey the tragic information to Miriam. Of that interview nothing shall be said. She also had received the account of her husband's death with something like relief; for, to her, he had been dead long since. At one point only did she shed tears; it was when she tried, in faltering accents, to express to Derrick her gratitude for all that he and Celia had done, and were doing, to render her life free from care.

The interview, painful as it necessarily had been, saddened Derrick; but his face cleared as, on his return to the Hall, he met Celia and took her in his arms; and, as her lips clung to his, he asked himself, as he had often asked himself in odd moments of his happiness, "What have I done to deserve my luck?"

THE END