LITMIR.BIZ

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he was and noted the suggestion of fear and terror in his eyes as he came slowly along the drive, leaning on Moler’s arm. The moody look left his face and a fierce spasm of anger filled him, as his glance encountered the stranger.

      “Look at that, Moler,” he rasped out. “Look at yonder scoundrel sitting there as if the place belonged to him. He’s one of those confounded spies.”

      “Leave him alone,” Moler said. “It’s only an artist. What harm is he doing?”

      But Draycott was not to be appeased. He strode angrily forward and grasped the unconscious painter by the shoulder. The latter looked up in mild surprise.

      “Get out of this,” Draycott roared. “Be off, you trespasser. I don’t allow any tramps in my woods. Go, or I’ll set the dogs on you. Here, give me that.”

      He made a grab at the wet canvas, but the artist anticipated him. Draycott’s rage had over-taxed his strength, for he stood helpless and trembling. He urged Moler to take the canvas and pitch it over the hedge. In a few curt words the stranger defied Moler to do anything of the kind. The challenge was not to be evaded. With a gleam in his eyes, Moler took up the canvas and threw it on the ground. A moment later he lay on his back by the side of it, gasping for breath. The painter laughed.

      “You have gone too far, my friend,” he said pleasantly. “I am doing no harm here. If you want any satisfaction there is my card.”

      Moler took the card sullenly, but as he glanced at it his face changed and he forced a smile.

      “Draycott, this is a hideous blunder,” he said. “This gentleman is Mr. Russell Bassett, whom I have been expecting for two days. Mr. Bassett, my most humble apologies. Mr. Draycott is far from well, or this would not have happened. I’ll take my patient back to the house and rejoin you in a few minutes. Where are you staying? At the village hotel? My dear sir, we must have your traps brought up to the house at once.”

      Moler hurriedly shuffled off with Draycott. Mr. Bassett sat down to the easel again, as if nothing had happened to disturb his serenity. When he was alone he took from his pocket a strong magnifying glass and examined his picture. With a pair of scissors he cut out a small square of canvas and carefully placed it in a tin case. As Alice was strolling by he took off his cap and held out his hand.

      “I imagine you are looking for me, Miss Kearns,” he said.

      “I hardly know,” Alice stammered. “But I think there is a mistake here. I am looking for a Mr. Russell Clench. I heard you say that your name was Bassett——”

      “My nom de guerre,” the stranger said gaily. “I will explain it in due course. In the meantime, I really am Russell Clench, very much at your service.”

      The stranger spoke with an air of lightness and gaiety that nevertheless carried conviction with it. A man so cool and yet so fertile of resource was the kind of ally Alice had longed for. Alice had expected—she knew not why—to meet a staid and middle-aged man. Perhaps when the disguise was removed Russell Clench might appear older. But his voice sounded clear and resolute, and the mould of the chin spoke of power and determination.

      “This is quite romantic,” Alice remarked. “I never thought of meeting you under an alias.”

      “My dear young lady,” Clench retorted. “I have two exceedingly clever and absolutely reckless criminals to deal with. Whether I shall have to fight the two of them is a point I cannot decide at the moment. I know already that Moler does not love Draycott. That Draycott hates the other man is certain. I understand that Moler came for a few days originally, and has remained ever since. There are black secrets here that we have to solve. It is fair to assume that Moler is aware of these secrets. He is blackmailing Draycott. That, I may say, is a point in our favor. We must try to separate the two.”

      Alice listened intently. It was a wonderful relief to her to have such an adviser.

      “Have you formed any plan yet?” she asked.

      “Not one,” Clench confessed. “I purposely refrained from drawing up anything in the nature of a programme. In the first place, I desired to see how the land lay. Is Draycott still having his attacks? Does he hide himself for days at a time?”

      “As usual,” Alice explained. “Strange that he and Martin Faber should both——”

      “Yes, yes; I know what you are going to say. Perhaps before I have finished it will not look so strange as it appears to be on the face of it. Have you any theory?”

      “Oh, a dozen a day,” Alice replied wearily. “Mr. Clench, ours is a dreadful house to live in. I am not timid or frightened, but the place is getting on my nerves. I feel as if something horrible were going to happen. There are days when Draycott is dangerous. I am sure he will kill somebody in one of his fits. He has done something wrong, and is afraid of being found out. He declares he came from South America, that he is a stranger in England, and yet he knows the gossip of years, is familiar with the principal law cases, scandals, and other things that come from a careful study of the daily papers. Every now and then he betrays a close and intimate knowledge of local affairs, incidents that happened years ago. When he makes a slip like that he is mad with himself. Sometimes I fancy he found out that Faber made a will in his favor, and came secretly here and murdered his benefactor. I dare say you will laugh at me——”

      “My dear young lady, I shall do nothing of the kind,” Clench answered grimly. “From inquiries I have made, I believe there is much to be said for your theory. Probably Faber was induced to take out that huge, non-forfeitable life policy on false pretences. After he had paid one premium, the chief conspirator had a year in which to act. I should not wonder if you were right. It is to ascertain that definitely that I am here.”

      “Well, I am more than glad to meet you,” Alice said, sincerely. “Why did you put that scrap of canvas so carefully away?”

      Clench shook his head gravely.

      “Ah! we shall see in due course. That was a little trap of mine, and the mouse walked into it. I should not be surprised if that bit of painted rag hanged Raymond Draycott.”

      V. — FLESH AND BLOOD

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      Though Alice expressed no surprise, she was trying to feel easy in her mind, for, to some extent, she had to take this man on trust. For all she knew to the contrary, he might be an impostor, a creature of Draycott’s introduced to blind her. But after his last assertion she put any fugitive suspicions aside as unworthy and absurd. Clench met her gaze frankly; there was a friendly gleam in his brown eyes, a suggestion of strength and fearlessness in his square jaw and firm lips. He might make a good enemy, but assuredly he would make as good a friend.

      “It is odd we should meet in this dramatic manner,” she said gravely. “I was looking for you—I wanted to warn you that Mr. Draycott was coming here this afternoon. It is a most unusual thing for him to do, and I began to fear he had discovered something.”

      “I don’t think so,” Clench replied. “He is clever and, far-seeing, but not so acute as that. Depend upon it, this woodland scenery has no charm for him; but he must have exercise—his peculiar complaint requires it.”

      “But how do you know?” Alice exclaimed. “How could you guess that Mr. Draycott’s malady——”

      “My dear young lady, you forget that you have already discussed the matter with me. In my profession, not to know such things would inevitably lead to disaster. I am a solicitor, you understand. We do a confidential business, and the handling of delicate family matters is our strong point. With scarcely an exception, we are responsible for more legal diplomacy than any firm in London. It may surprise you to learn that I have spent several days making inquiries. I know perfectly well what is the matter with Draycott. He is a dipsomaniac of the worst type—the sort of man who keeps clear of drink for weeks, and then breaks out like a

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