LITMIR.BIZ

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she would remark. “Let sleeping dogs lie. And if anything happens, you’ve got a friend in me. It would be different if we had Mr. Hugh back again, poor innocent dear!”

      Ah, if Hugh Grenfell were only here once more! Alice’s heart throbbed with pain as she thought of him. It was the full weight of her own hopeless misery. She was thinking of nothing else as she finished her toilet and went down to dinner. The cold, white fog that lay over Rawmouth enshrouded Hugh Grenfell’s quarters, too. The truth as to that sad story would be told some day, if there were any justice left; it must——

      Alice always dressed early, especially at this time of year, when the weather was warm and it was possible to go into the gardens before the others came down. There were happy occasions when Draycott and Moler were absent from the meal altogether, but Alice did not very often have such a lucky interlude, which mostly happened only when Draycott was ill. Still, his attacks did not grow less frequent. Indeed, Alice thought that they were more regular now than they had been before Moler arrived. What was Moler doing here? Why had he come? The girl asked herself these questions over and over again. Alice remembered his arrival quite well. He had not been expected. Draycott had been moody all through dinner; had changed his mind a dozen times whether he would drink or not. He passed for a teetotaller, and boasted that he drank little or nothing save under the doctor’s orders. Sometimes when attacks of fever were imminent he indulged himself, but then he professed to take the liquor as a medicine and against his will.

      He had been very moody and shaky that night. Anybody but Alice would have refused to believe Draycott’s protestations; a man of the world would have said bluntly that he was suffering from the very thing that he affected to despise. The bloodshot, watery eyes, shaking lips, and trembling hand proclaimed it as if from the housetops. It was Draycott’s fancy to call it ague, and Alice was constrained to humor him. He had passed many years in foreign parts, and it might have been malaria.

      Still, it was very unfortunate, the girl concluded, to have to live under the same roof with him after her experience with Martin Faber, whose drinking having recurred at intervals of about six weeks, and lasted for a few days. At such times he was more or less dangerous and one of the men servants had to keep a close eye on him. Then the fit would pass away. Faber would come down sullen and shaky, and in a short time be himself again.

      Was history repeating itself? It mattered little what Draycott called it, seeing that the effect was practically the same. How strange that Martin Faber should have gone out of his way to make this man rich! Poor as he was, he had insured his life for a prodigious sum, only that Draycott might have a good time of it. It must have cost him a serious struggle to pay the premium, and he must have known that it would be impossible to discharge a second premium, in which case the policy would have been forfeited, and Faber have literally wasted his money. Perhaps he had committed suicide in the most cold-blooded and deliberate manner? Had Draycott compelled him to do it? Alice had read of diabolical crimes of that kind.

      But Faber’s will was dated some years before. For a long time he had meant, it was clear, to leave everything to Draycott. Alice wondered what the relationship between them was. They were alike, and yet there was a wonderful difference. Though Draycott was much stouter, and his features and expression were different, there was a queer, subtle likeness. Draycott vaguely gave Alice the impression that he was afraid of something, that he expected something to happen. The sight of a stranger made him restless and uneasy. He was just like that the day Moler came.

      They were seated at lunch, and Draycott was unusually amiable. A servant brought in a visiting-card, which he laid by Draycott’s plate. The latter glanced at it and started instantly. His face paled, his lips trembled, and Alice could see that his eyes had a wicked gleam in them. Whoever the newcomer was, Draycott had no liking for him. Alice never forgot the singular sense that overtook her of a spirit of tragedy in the air. A second later Draycott burst into a torrent of profanity. He pulled himself up suddenly.

      “I beg your pardon, my dear,” he stammered. “An old friend of mine. I—I never expected to meet him again. He reminded me of a most unpleasant time in my earlier career. But I am glad to see him, though I wish he had given me notice he was coming.”

      Alice felt that Draycott meant this by the expression in his eyes. He wished this man had arrived quietly, without anybody knowing; in which case—Alice fairly shuddered at the suspicions that crowded her mind.

      “Don’t you think you had better ask the gentleman in?” she suggested.

      “Oh, yes, of course,” Draycott said with feigned ease. “Ask Mr. Moler in. My dear fellow, I am delighted to see you again. It was a shock at the moment——”

      “I guessed it would be,” the other said drily. “There was not time to write. Pray present me.”

      He bowed low to Alice and held out his hand. He was not a big man, though he gave a suggestion of strength; he was not handsome, yet his face was attractive in a way. It was a fine, intellectual head, with high forehead and flowing hair, and clear eyes, set a little too closely together. Nevertheless, this man was a mental force, beyond question, a being born to have his own way. The glance of open admiration which he turned on Alice made her hot and uncomfortable.

      “I am pleased to meet you,” she said coldly. “Are you staying here?”

      “I have come for a few days,” Moler explained, “on business. Quite by accident, I discovered that my dear old friend Raymond Draycott was living in the neighborhood. I am a doctor, Miss Kearns. I have a series of most delicate experiments going on, and I want quiet for them. I am going to ask Mr. Draycott to put me up for a while.”

      Once more the singular gleam lit up Draycott’s eyes.

      “Miss Kearns is mistress here?” he suggested.

      “I—I am sure there can be no possible objection,” Alice stammered. “We have plenty of spare room.”

      Alice fancied that Draycott expected her to make a reply like this. It seemed to her that Moler took the answer as a matter of course. He laughed quietly.

      “Then that is settled,” he said. “A light luncheon, if you please; a little of that delicious fruit. I rarely touch meat. After luncheon I shall enjoy a talk with Draycott. My dear friend, you will give me an hour or so?” It was not a question, it was a command. With a sullen air, Draycott rose and followed Moler into the library. Alice sat at the table with a curious sinking at her heart.

      How long had this state of things lasted? She asked herself the question as she came down to dinner. Had Moler been dominating the house for months or years, making covert love to her? He was going to marry her one of these days—he had told her that plainly and calmly. He had fallen in love with her; and hoped to use her money in completing his wonderful experiments. He had Draycott under his thumb absolutely.

      What would it all mean, and where would it end? How much longer would this menacing air of mystery hang like a cloud over Rawmouth? Did onlookers notice, or were they blind to what was going on?

      There was no suggestion of mystery or crime.

      The great hall was flooded with electric light under pink shades. There were ferns and flowers, pictures, and carpets, everywhere a fine combination of good taste and refinement. In the dining-room, dinner had been laid for three. A flood of light fell on the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. A feathery spray of pink orchids adorned the centre, and piles of the famous Rawmouth peaches were ranged on either side. Draycott and Moler were already seated. The latter smiled and rose as Alice entered. His glittering eyes gloated over her figure; the fair hair was brushed back from her forehead, and her white arms gleamed between the meshs of her black dress. The man always made her uncomfortable.

      “You are rather late, my dear,” Draycott said.

      Alice almost started. There were times when Draycott’s voice reminded her of Martin Faber. It was only now and then, but to-night the resemblance was marked. It gave her a strange, odd feeling that she had been through all this before. It is a sensation that comes to everyone at times. Draycott had a little gesture with his hands, too, that Faber had also used. Strange she

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