"Of course, I've got it," she stammered. "Look! Five hundred pounds. I've brought fifty in gold. I thought, perhaps, it would be more useful than-than notes."

He staggered to her side and looked at the two little bags of gold she had placed on the table. She showed him a roll of notes. He pushed them aside, and pouring the gold out on the table he commenced to count it. It fascinated him. He could not speak.

Presently he began to laugh hysterically. "You are sure there's no mistake?"

"Count it again."

Again he laughed. "I didn't mean that-I mean, it's all right-I can't believe it-that this is ours-all ours." He dropped on to his knees beside her and put his arms around her waist. "Oh, my dear!" he cried, "my dear!"

Ruby smiled. She sat staring at the money with hard, dry eyes. "It was rather stupid to bring so much gold perhaps," she said in an unsteady voice. "But I thought you could pay some of your bills with it. And-you are so careless. You might lose notes just as you lost that cheque yesterday."

She picked up the crisp bundle of notes on the table. "I'm going to take charge of these, and later on pay them into your bank. So that when you return from Devonshire, you'll find quite a nice little nest-egg.... Now, give me a cup of tea, and then I'll pack for you. You've only got about three hours."

It did not take Ruby long to pack. Rupert watched her and gave instructions as to what he would take, but to which, woman like, she paid no attention.

"I've got lots of old clothes at the farm," Rupert said. "We shall spend all our time fishing and shooting. Gad! I'll take old Despard down our tin-mine. Probably, it's little better than a swimming-bath now!"

Rupert was in high spirits. Ruby encouraged him to talk, and smiled as she listened.

"Is Mr. Despard going down with you?" she asked.

Rupert nodded.

"Then you won't mind if I don't see you off at Paddington?" She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "I've got an appointment at half-past one, so it would be difficult anyway."

"You don't like Despard, do you?" Rupert said; "yet he's very fond of you."

"Yes, I know he is. I wish he wasn't."

But Rupert only pinched her cheek playfully. He did not understand. Ruby wanted to tell him that Despard had made love to her, to put him on his guard, but she was afraid to speak more clearly. She did not want to make him jealous, and she was afraid lest the two men should quarrel. So no more was said. They bade one another good-bye in the little sitting-room where so many happy hours had been spent-and where such great events had happened.

"I shall not be away more than a week or two," Rupert said as he kissed her. "I suppose you will be in town all the summer?"

"Probably," she answered evasively. "Anyway, I shall be here when you return. Enjoy yourself and don't worry."

She kissed him again and again, clinging tightly to him, unable to tear herself away now that the hour had come.

"Why, there are tears on your cheek!" Rupert whispered, brushing them away. "You mustn't be sad: our future never looked so rosy. Look here, I shall tell my father I'm engaged to be married. I didn't mean to do so until I'd passed my examination, but it's only fair to you. And we can afford to get married now! You've got those notes safely?"

She nodded, and smiled through her tears. "I can pay them into the bank to-morrow."

And then, giving him a final embrace, she hurried away. Rupert stood at the front door and watched her out of sight. He wondered why she did not turn round and wave him farewell again as she always had when they parted.

A few hours later as he was borne rapidly in the direction of Devonshire with his friend, Robert Despard, he had temporarily forgotten Ruby Strode. When the train on the branch line from Newton Abbott stopped at Moreton he saw his sister waiting for him on the platform. A wave of boyish pride swept over him as he introduced Marjorie to Robert Despard. Two years had changed her considerably. She was a woman now, and beautiful. At the same time he was conscious of the humble dress she wore, the thick cotton stockings, and rather ungainly boots. Conscience pricked him again, and he felt a touch of remorse.

The money she should have spent in pretty clothes he had been wasting in London! He felt he wanted to apologise, too, for the old-fashioned dog-cart waiting outside and the sturdy, rough-haired Dartmoor pony harnessed to the shafts. But Despard had no eyes for anything but Marjorie Dale's beauty. He was unable to take his eyes off her, and Rupert noticed the colour rushing to her cheeks as they drove along.

Despard had a certain way with women. He treated them with a queer mixture of deference and gallantry. He knew how to pay a compliment with subtlety. For the first time Rupert realised there were two distinct sides to his character. And before the long drive across the moorland was over-still blazing with yellow gorse and bloom-he again wished he had not asked Despard to stay with them.

Old John Allen Dale was waiting at the door of the queer, tumble-down, thatched-roofed building which had been the home of the Dales for generations. He took Rupert in his arms and held him closely, then, with an apology, turned to greet Robert Despard. His manner had all the old-world courtesy of the yeoman farmer.

"By Jove, you live off the map, and no mistake!" Despard cried looking round him.

He gazed at the strange, almost forbidding-looking farmhouse, at the great tors surrounding it on all sides. He listened to the river Dart as it sang its wild way to the sea, the only song among those rugged hills.

"Don't you feel jolly lonely sometimes?" he said to Marjorie.

She shook her head. "I haven't time. And I've known nothing better."

She took his kit-bag from the dog-cart, and before he could stop her she had carried it upstairs to his room.

"There is nothing better," John Dale said dreamily. And he linked his arm affectionately through Rupert's. "Well, my boy, you needn't say anything, I see by your face that you've passed your examination. The world is at your feet now to conquer. You're going to do great things, eh?"

Rupert gave a quick glance at Despard. But the latter merely winked, then, turning on his heel, entered the farm. Rupert heard him mount the stairs in search of Marjorie.

Rupert squared his shoulders and looked his father full in the face. "I'm sorry, guv'nor, but you must have the truth. I've failed again."

John Allen Dale winced as if some one had struck him a blow. The strong, determined jaws met tightly, but he said nothing.

"I'm going up again in November," Rupert continued. "And I know I shall pass. It's not an idle boast, guv'nor. I can, and I will."

The old man laid his hands on the young man's shoulders. He spoke bravely and proudly, yet there was a tremor in his voice:

"Rupert, lad, I know you've done your best, and I'm not blaming you. It's a severe blow because-well, you'd better know now-the money's come to an end! I've pinched and screwed, gladly; but the savings of the last fifty years have all gone. They were little enough. The farm doesn't raise enough to keep us in food and clothes. I've even had to raise money and mortgage the old place. I couldn't pay your fees for the examination again, much less your board and lodging in London."

"I know," Rupert replied gently, though he had not dreamed it was as bad as that. And once again remorse seized him. Once again he wondered what he would have done if it had not been for Ruby Strode.

He would have died a coward's death and left his father and sister to suffer shame and dishonour.

It was some little time before he could find his voice and tell his father that he need not worry about the money.

"I don't want you to question me, guv'nor, but I've had a bit of luck and made enough to keep myself for another year or two in London. I can let you have plenty to go on with, too."

"Not borrowed money, not made by gambling?" John Dale asked. "But I needn't ask you, Rupert. It was money honestly earned, I know."

Rupert dared not confess how he had obtained it. "It came through a friend," he said unsteadily. "I can't tell you more now, father, but I will one day. I only want you to know that you needn't worry. I shan't fail you. I promise."

Dale took his son's hand in his great, horny fist and pressed it tightly. "I know that, I know that, my boy."

The first thing Rupert did with the money Ruby had given him was to repay Despard the twenty-five pounds he owed him. The second was to hand Marjorie fifteen pounds-ten for housekeeping expenses, and five for herself. She was overwhelmed, and at first refused to take it. To her it seemed like a fortune.

"You needn't tell the guv'nor," Rupert said, "though he knows I've made a bit. But if he's in want of anything just buy it for him-say it's a present from me. Get yourself a nice frock and some pretty shoes."

Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble life at Blackthorn Farm would bore or disgust his friend, but he soon found that he was wrong. Despard settled down to the new mode of life as if he had been thoroughly used to it. He was up soon after daybreak helping Marjorie to milk the cows; watching her scald the cream and make the butter, and he insisted on being taught how to do these things himself. He made himself useful about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale's heart. He proved himself nearly as good a shot at the rabbits as Rupert, though he quite failed to catch the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly admitted that it bored him to throw a fly.

"I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours," he announced one day; and he asked Dale for particulars about it, as to how long it had been worked, why it had failed, and the state it was now in.

"It has failed because there wasn't enough tin to make it worth while working," Dale told him. "We thought we were going to make a fortune out of it, but it turned out the other way."

Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache thoughtfully. "I know something about the Cornish mines, and I've got a bit of money in one or two of them. As you know, they restarted working a year or two ago, and they're doing well now. There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale."

"You're welcome to all you can find," the old man laughed.

Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of one afternoon exploring the mine. The examination was not made without danger and difficulty. To Rupert's surprise very little water had penetrated the main shaft, and Despard pointed out that the river and the surrounding bog-land probably acted as drainage. It was easy to find traces of tin in the tunnel right up to where the working had ceased.

"It ought to have paid to follow this up," Despard said thoughtfully. "A case of too much capital or too little. Or else the engineer was a duffer."

"You don't think it would pay to erect a new plant and start operations again, do you?" Rupert said eagerly.

Despard shrugged his shoulders. "The risk would be too great. If it were a gold mine, now, people would fall over one another to put money into it. Or the magic word, radium!"

Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light he carried glanced into Rupert's face. He had been scraping and poking about in the bed of the tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like instrument he had commandeered from the farm.

He held out a small piece of black substance having something of the colour and consistency of tar. He told Rupert to examine it closely. The latter did so.

"Well?" Despard cried sharply. There was a trace of nervous excitement in his voice which Rupert had never heard before.

"Well?" the latter said.

"Good Lord! no wonder you've been plucked three times!" Despard cried. "Don't you know what this stuff is?"

Rupert examined it again. "Rather like pitch-blende."

"Yes-something," Despard sneered.

A sharp cry escaped Rupert's lips. He bent down and examined the black, sticky substance more carefully.

"It is pitch-blende!"

"Extinguish the light," Despard said sharply.

Rupert obeyed. A long time they stood in the darkness. Presently Despard commenced to dig and scrape the surface and sides of the tunnel. After a little while he struck a match and re-lit the lantern.

"That was expecting rather too much," he whispered.

They collected the pitch-blende they had found, and putting it into his handkerchief Despard dropped it into his pocket.

"I'll examine this and test it to-night. But don't say anything about it, not even to your father. Just because we've found pitch-blende it doesn't mean there's radium. But-they have found traces in some of the Cornish mines, you know."

Marjorie was waiting for them at the surface of the mine. She gave a shriek as she saw them, for their clothes were torn and discoloured, and they were wet through.

"Well, how much tin did you find?" she asked jokingly. "Are you going to make our fortunes?"

Despard looked at her. "Supposing I were to make a fortune for you, what reward should I get?"

"Oh, fifty per cent. of the profits," she laughed, lowering her eyes.

"I shouldn't ask that," he whispered. "I should want something money couldn't buy."

When they reached the farmhouse supper was waiting. It was growing dark, and work was over for the day. John Dale had not returned home.

"We had better wait," Marjorie suggested, "He's never late. Probably he has gone up to Post Bridge Hall to see Sir Reginald Crichton on business."

The mention of Reginald Crichton's name reminded Rupert of what his father had told him about having to mortgage the property. Supposing there was anything in their discovery that afternoon the mortgage would have to be paid off before anything else was done. He went up to Despard's room and suggested that while they were waiting for supper they should examine the sample of pitch-blende they had taken from the mine.

Despard locked the door and laid the mass of putty-like substance on the table. "To get a proper test we ought to take or send it up to town," he said. "But there's one simple method--"

He was interrupted by Marjorie calling to Rupert. "You're wanted at Post Bridge Hall at once," she told him. "Father is there, and they've sent a servant over to ask you to go up."

Rupert swore under his breath. "What on earth can the matter be? You don't think anything has happened to-the old man?"

Marjorie shook her head. "I don't think so. The message is simply that you're wanted."

Rupert put on his hat and hurried down the path which led to the main road. Crossing Post Bridge he turned to the right and soon found himself in the avenue that led to the Hall. It was situated fairly high up under the shadow of the tors and surrounded by trees. Lights shone cheerfully from all the windows. Before he could ring the front-door bell Sir Reginald Crichton stepped out and met him.

"Sorry to trouble you," he said curtly; "but the matter is rather important. Do you mind coming up to my study?"

Rupert followed, wondering what had happened. To his relief he saw his father standing with his back to the fireplace.

Sir Reginald shut the door, then sitting down an old oak bureau motioned Rupert to a seat. But the latter remained standing.

"Perhaps you will explain," said Sir Reginald, looking at John Dale.

Rupert looked from one man to the other, and he noticed that his father's face was pale, the features drawn. Before speaking Dale cleared his throat nervously.

"It's about that cheque I sent you eight days ago. Just before you left London. A cheque for five pounds which Sir Reginald drew and made payable to me. It wasn't crossed, so I endorsed it and sent it to you."

Rupert nodded. "Yes, I received it."

"And cashed it?" Sir Reginald spoke.

Rupert started. "No, I--" Again he looked from one man to the other. He felt suddenly guilty. "As a matter of fact, I'm sorry to say I lost it."

"Lost it? You never told me." Dale spoke. "Of course you wrote to the bank?"

Rupert bit his lip. "I forgot all about it-in the excitement of packing up and coming home."

John Dale was about to speak, but Crichton held up his hand. "Did the loss of five pounds mean so little to you, then?" he asked Rupert.

The latter moistened his lips. His sense of guilt increased, though he had only been guilty of gross carelessness. Yet, how could he explain the situation?

"I was fearfully rushed and worried at the time," he said, fumbling for words. "As a matter of fact, the morning I received it I went to the races, and I only discovered the loss when I got back. I must have pulled it out of my bag with some letters and papers. I hope-nothing is wrong?"

Sir Reginald leant forward and stretched out his hand. "Look at this, sir."

Rupert took the slip of paper he held out. It was a cheque. He saw written across the back of it his father's name. He looked at the face of the cheque.

"Pay John Allen Dale or bearer the sum of five hundred pounds." Then underneath in figures "￡500 0s. 0d."

"Exactly," Crichton said. Rising to his feet he stood in front of Rupert and looked at him searchingly. "Your father sent you a cheque for five pounds. Since it left your possession the pounds have been changed to five hundred. That sum was paid out by my bankers. Naturally, I want an explanation. Your father sent it to you. You admit having received it, and say you lost it. I'm afraid that explanation doesn't satisfy me."

"You don't mean to say you think--"

Rupert flared up, then stopped.

Five hundred pounds! The significance of the amount suddenly struck him. The amount Ruby Strode had won for him over Ambuscade. Once again he saw himself sitting in his rooms in Westminster facing ruin; he saw himself take his revolver from the drawer and hold it to his breast. Then he felt the arms of the woman he loved round him; he heard her voice telling him it was a coward's way. And when he told her it was the only way, she confessed that she had secretly backed the outsider and won him five hundred pounds.

He began to tremble. His body became wet with perspiration. He heard his father's voice raised apprehensively.

"Rupert, my boy. Speak, for God's sake, speak! Say you know nothing about it."

Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his father. He did not see him; he only saw the face of the woman he loved. She had confessed she loved him better than life itself.

"Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising. "Speak!"

"Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed. "Confess that you are either guilty-or not guilty."

Download Book