LITMIR.BIZ

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said the same thing before."

      "You have! May I ask whether the Syndicate has asked you to pay the debt?"

      He looked away, then downwards. "The Syndicate," he said slowly, "has not asked me to pay the debt, for the simple reason that the Syndicate does not know of it—yet." His breath caught, and he added huskily, "I have wanted to tell you this for some time, Carlotta."

      "You mean—?" But she knew what he meant, had suspected it for months. Also, she knew why he had borrowed, or made free, with the money. Simply to give her what she asked for in cars, furs, and jewels. The thing had been done at a time when a certain mine was promising brilliantly. The mine was still promising, but not so brilliantly.

      The incident, along with Lancaster's mental suffering and futile efforts to right himself, would make a story by itself.

      "You are shocked, Carlotta?" he murmured shamefacedly, appealingly.

      "Naturally!" But anger was the emotion she strove to suppress.

      "I have paid bitterly in worry," he said, and there was a pause.

      "You can hold on yet awhile?" she asked at last.

      "Oh, yes, I think so. The danger is always there, but I'm not greatly pressed for money otherwise." Not "greatly" pressed, poor soul! "It's a case of conscience, you know," he stammered. "The thought of discovery is always with me, too."

      "No thought, I presume, of your wife and daughter!"

      "Carlotta!"

      "Oh, Robert, what a blind fool you are! Why not have asked Christopher for the money, even if it had involved a confession? He would not see us ruined—Doris, at all events."

      "No; I don't think he would. He sent his love to Doris. But Bullard was there yesterday, all the time, and I would not have him guess—"

      "You may be sure Mr. Bullard has guessed long ago."

      "My God! do you think so?"

      "Well, it doesn't much matter, does it? But I am certain if you had told Christopher and made the debt a hundred thousand you would have got the money."

      "I don't know," he sighed, shaking his head. "Christopher was different yesterday, kind enough but different from the man I used to know—"

      "Of course he was different. He's dying, isn't he?"

      "Don't be so heartless."

      "Don't be silly, my dear man!" Mrs. Lancaster said sharply. "Now, look here, Robert," she went on, "there is only one thing to be done. Say nothing to Mr. Bullard, but take the Scotch express to-night and go and see Christopher privately. I don't care what you tell him, but a public scandal—public disgrace—I will not have! Get the horrid thing settled, and let us go on as if nothing had happened until some of your shares go up and put you safely on your feet again."

      He sat up as if trying to shake off the horror. "Carlotta," he said, "can't we contrive to—to live on less?" It was no new question.

      "No, we can't," she answered in a tone of finality. "You will go to-night? Fortunately the people coming to dinner are a set of crocks. No bridge, and leave early. You can easily catch the midnight train."

      "I will go," he said at last, "for your sake and Doris's."

      "Good man!" she returned with sudden good humour, her eyes bright. "It will all come right—you'll see! Tell old Christopher that his little sweetheart of the old days—Doris, I mean; he never loved me!—is in danger of the workhouse and so forth, and ask for fifty thousand at least."

      "It will end any chance we have of a share in the di—"

      "'Sh!"

      Doris came in. She was a tall girl with something of her mother's darkness, but she had the blue-grey eyes of her father and his finely-cut features. Of late a sadness foreign to youth had dwelt in her eyes, and her smile had seemed dutiful rather than voluntary. Otherwise she had not betrayed her sorry heart and uneasy mind. She carried herself splendidly, and she had good right to be called lovely.

      "Mother," she exclaimed, and kissed her father, "why didn't you tell me he was to be home for breakfast?"

      "Because I did not know, my dear"—which was untrue—"and, besides, you were very late last night. Better to have your rest out." Mrs. Lancaster rose. "Persuade your father to have a fresh cup of coffee while you take your own breakfast, I must 'phone Wilders about the flowers for to-night." She left the room.

      Doris poured the coffee and milk and placed the cup at his hand, saying—

      "You must be tired, dear, after two nights in the train."

      "A little, Doris," he answered, endeavouring to make his voice sound cheerful.

      "And worried, I'm afraid," she added tenderly.

      "A little that way, too, perhaps. But one must hope that there's a good time coming, my dear."

      The girl hesitated before she returned: "I want to say something, and it's difficult. I've wanted to say it for a long time." She paused.

      "Say on," he said. "A horrid bill—eh?" He knew it was not. Doris had never asked him for money beyond her big allowance.

      "Don't! It's just this: Is there anything in the world I could do, father, just to make it a little easier for you?"

      It was unexpected, and yet it was like Doris. Tears came into his eyes.

      "Forgive me," she went on quickly, "but sometimes I can't bear to see you suffering. I'd give up anything—"

      Mrs. Lancaster entered quickly.

      "Robert, Mr. Bullard is in the library—"

      "Bullard!—now?"

      "He must see you at once. He has been to the office, and there was a wire—"

      Lancaster, who had risen, caught at the back of his chair. "Alan

       Craig—safe?" he said in a husky whisper.

      Neither noticed the girl's sudden pallor, the light in her eyes.

      "Nonsense!" the woman rapped out. "Christopher Craig—died last night!"

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      Mrs. Lancaster would have accompanied her husband to the library, but for once, and despite the shock he had just suffered, he showed some firmness.

      "I will see Bullard alone," he said, and left her in the hall.

      He entered the library, closed and locked the door, and drew the heavy curtain across it. But there his spirit failed him, and he seemed to grope his way to his familiar chair.

      Without a word Bullard put the telegram into his hands. It had been sent off at 8 a.m., the hour of opening for the local post office. It was addressed to both men, and was brief:

      Mr. Craig died nine last night. Funeral private.—Caw.

      "Caw must have had instructions," remarked Bullard presently. "One wonders how much Caw knows about his master's affairs."

      Possibly Lancaster did not hear. He kept on staring at the message that had closed the door on his last hope. Carlotta's suggestion, or rather command, had been far from grateful to his inclinations, yet it had forced him towards the less of two evils, and for a few minutes he had imagined himself with Christopher's cheque in his pocket, immediate salvation and peace assured whatever it might cost him eventually. And now this telegram!

      Impatiently Bullard touched him on the arm.

      "Look here, Lancaster!—there is a train from St. Pancras at eleven, and it's now past ten. Pull yourself together."

      "St.

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