The Man Who Made Gold

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

To

Professor ANDRADE

(who taught me how to make Gold)

PROLOGUE

IN THE NEW great Stockham wing of the Examination Halls, still called (in spite of his subsequent imprisonment) by the name of the Empire Maker who had paid for it, there was gathered a great audience, most of it from the University, the rest from the ignorant lay world outside.

They had come to listen to one of the most distinguished scientists in the world. His name was already familiar in America, and had been mentioned in two or three technical reviews upon the Continent: I mean Mr. Charles Lexington, the Reader to the University in Electro-Chemistry, a Fellow of St. Olaf’s.

He was delivering the first of the Railby Lectures of that season, so-called (in spite of his subsequent imprisonment) from the generous Founder of thirty years before.

By the terms of the Trust, the lecturer, who received the sum of a pound a minute, was required “to speak for one hour on some subject connected with physical science in its relation to the human society.” It was a wide field. But there was a general understanding, based upon a clause of the Trust, that the subject chosen should as far as possible be taken from the later developments of research and especially from those upon which no conclusions could be drawn. The lecturers were to be chosen from the nationals of the more progressive countries (scheduled as Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Iceland, Holland, the German Reich, Finland, Esthonia and Latvia, and, of course the United States; and from the associated free nations of the British Empire save the West Indies, British Guiana, the Seychelles Islands, Malta and Cyprus). It was further laid down by the Trust that the same lecturer should not deliver more than one lecture in three years — which was only fair, when you consider what the fee was and how poor most lecturers are.

The subject which had drawn so large an audience was “The Transmutation of Metals,” and while the subject itself was an attraction, the fame of the lecturer a greater attraction still, the chief attraction was the Chairman; for Lord Taylor himself, though on the point of starting for the Lido, had found time to snatch a Saturday afternoon from his crushing labours in the great group of Banks which he directed.

The old gentleman had excellent reasons for such condescension. He had read on that very subject all that an educated man could and should read. He was more inclined than many a younger man to believe that science might achieve the transmutation of metals on a large scale at any moment. He had considered — indeed, it had taken up most of his thoughts of late — what the results would be if some cheaper metal could as a commercial proposition be transformed into gold.

The word “transformed” was inaccurate. Lord Taylor was well abreast of the times. He knew as well as you and I and the leader writers and the politicians — pretty well everyone except the racing men — that what would really happen was the taking away of one or more electrons from an element-group, with the result that the so-called element acted upon ceased to be and another element — in this case called gold — took its place. It was no mere changing of, say, mercury into gold, any more than washing out the bone dust and chalk from a patent salt is changing patent salt into real salt.

Yes, he knew all that all right. He had a clear picture of the modern atom — so different from its dead grandfather, the Victorian atom! He could see the dignified proton sitting in the middle and all the little electrons dancing round it in rings like so many billiard balls round the dome of St. Paul’s.

It is true that this picture itself was a little old-fashioned; for since he had framed it science had advanced yet another step and electrons were doing something else. Still, the essentials of the new scientific dogma remained firmly fixed in his mind.

It was no joke! The scientists were on the threshold of something enormous : no less than the production of gold at will.

If it caught the bankers unprepared there’d be a crash — and he would be in the middle of it.

Therefore was Lord Taylor there that day. The man put up to talk was the best authority, and Lord Taylor must be in touch. He could not be content to read the printed report of the lecture. He wanted to get a physical impression, to listen to the voice and its intonations; to watch the gestures; to mark hesitation or certitude. He wanted to be really informed.

I am afraid he was a little disappointed. Mr. Lexington had all the qualities required for his task. He was gentlemanly, tall and thin, wore a pinch-nose (or Nasen-Knipper, as we say in the University), his pale hair was rather long, and his moustache duly drooped. His collar also was soft.

In one respect only was Mr. Charles Lexington not perfectly true to type. His voice was too deep. But his manner was so learned that this defect was corrected by an occasional squeak or rush up the octave after the most approved models.

No, it was not in the lecturer that Lord Taylor was disappointed — for he had known the man from boyhood, and his father before him. There was even a close intimacy between the two families. What disappointed him as the lecture proceeded was the quality of the information he derived from it. It was abundantly clear from all that Mr. Lexington had to say that transmutation demanded nothing but the knocking out of a few paltry electrons, yet it was apparently the painful duty of the lecturer to confess that the electrons had stood their ground.

“There is, indeed, Pomphaftigzeiter’s famous experiment, which, had it succeeded, would have been conclusive,” he said, peering at his notes, “and when vapour of mercury was subjected some years ago by another pioneer to a high electrical charge it may have left behind it certain minute granules of pure gold.” But with the caution of a true scientist (how different from the untrue ones, who lay down the law!) Charles Lexington would not commit himself. Indeed, he was too much aware of the cold boiled eye of his colleague the Regius Professor fixed on him from the second row of the stalls to give himself away on anything.

He concluded, however, after plenty of safe-guarding, with the suggestion that the whole thing was only a question of time. We had got the electron out from its lurking-place behind the gross veils of the senses; we knew him; we could count him, we could tell him off as a shepherd tells his sheep; and who shall set boundaries to our powers of worrying one sheep and another from out the flock?

Mr. Charles Lexington ended with a passage of rhetoric after his kind, in which he sang the Psalm of Hope, and sat down having spoken for exactly fifty-nine minutes and a half, and earned his cheque like a man.

It might seem strange that such an hour spent in the Chair by Lord Taylor should have had any further effect on his mind. He had certainly learned nothing, he was as wise as when he had come into the room, and so was every member of the audience; for I hope there is no one, lay or professional, who at this time of day does not know the now very simple doctrine of atomic structure. But a thing spoken is very different from a thing read, the action, the emphasis and the rest of it, working on the mind of an old man who had been turning over the subject a good deal too much in his head for rather a long time past, did their work. And when Lord Taylor climbed into his motor to drive back to London it was with a sort of feeling that at any moment they might do the trick after all — and what would the robin do then, poor thing?

Humph! Gold to be manufactured on a commercial basis! Gold at a cost of production of, say, five shillings the ounce. My word! When the news came it would be too late to act! Could one persuade the authorities to act before the news came?

And with that I leave him for a little, to turn from the glories of Modern Science to the puerilities of the Alchemists.

CHAPTER I

HENRY BOLTER WAS an undergraduate in his fourth year. His college was St. Olaf’s, founded long ago in honour of that great saint and king who distinguished himself by fastening his captives to rocks at low tide and watching the water rise.

The reason Henry Bolter was at St. Olaf’s was that his father, generally known as Old Bolter, had been at St. Olaf’s before him : as also had his elder brother, senior to him by four years, an athlete who had just gone down after getting his Blue. Henry Bolter differed, I regret to say, not a little from Old Bolter the Worthy, and Elder Brother Bolter the Blue. He differed from them within and without, in shape and in colour, in texture, manner and creed. He differed from them so much that anyone who had not known Mother Bolter during the Bolters’ Indian years might have suspected her virtue. For Old Bolter — who had also been a Blue in his time — had featured under Queen Victoria a Viking lad, very worthy of St. Olaf’s. And his eldest son, born before the Indian episode, had proved a second Viking Bolter. After an interval of thirty years, with George V on the throne of his grandmother, Old Bolter, rich by birth and much richer after the Indian stunt, had given his old college a new library, while Bolter the Blue, already engaged to an heiress, was game to give a large subscription for the new barge on the river. Both Old Bolter and Bolter the Blue supported and did honour to the established church at large, and to the parish church inside the Park in particular. Both the Father and the Son kept their minds informed upon Europe and the Empire (which, in their eyes, included the United States) by reading The Times; kept their sense of humour lively and clean by reading Punch; and also had the sense to read the excellent verse of Mr. Kipling, the Poet Laureate, and half a dozen other of our leading poets.

I am sorry to have wasted so much of your time and my space with the Bolters, because we shall soon have to drop them. They play but. an initial part in the very interesting story you are about to read. The truth is that I was led on, desiring as I did to make clear the unique and isolated case of Henry, the young Bolter, now still up at the University.

For, oh, see! How different was Harry! Observe him in his rooms out of College in his last year of University sufferings. Mark him and his surroundings. Though he rents the plain sitting-room of a licensed lodgings at 24 Brecon Street, near the Cathedral, he has made his room something as odd as his own dark self. He lies in that state of exhaustion too common to him after his opiate, stretched limply upon a long divan, covered with stuffs of the Levant. You find him under a subdued light that filters through the carven oriental framework fitted on the single window; the dim atmosphere is full of strange scents and with such ornaments upon the walls as ill befit a Bolter.

On sombre hangings, which hide the paper, you may discern as your eyes grow accustomed to the glimmer certain drawings in black and white which represent things not of this world — evil flowers, beasts half human, and leering eyes. Heavy curtains at the casement hold permanently the memory of stale incense. From the ceiling there hangs an inverted alabaster bowl wherein floats, on its little bath of olive oil, a little sacerdotal wick always alight and shedding a subdued halo through the darkened air of the room.

In the darkest corner between the window and the wall, opposite the sofa and its two luxurious Eastern rugs, stood the strangest part of all this furniture. Upon a coffer of the Italian fifteenth century, deeply carved and marked with old gold, stood as upon a pedestal a head, very grotesque, too living and even to the most robust a little startling. It had been fashioned by one whom Henry Bolter had unfortunately sought out in a dead, silent and half-ruined city of Apulia a year before; someone of whose talent or inspiration he had heard, and whom he had been at infinite pains to discover.

The head was that of a not too dignified devil. It was made of composition, but had been treated so as to have a surface like old wood and covered, as a wooden carving might have been, with paint. The face leered and was thrust forward. There bulged from it eyes of I know not what bright material, but intense for such a face. From no position in that curtained room could one avoid the gaze, nor did Henry Bolter, stretched at his loose length along the sofa, avoid it; he rather dwelt on it in a trance he would not break.

The young man gave an impression not only of listlessness, but of physical disease, so far had the misuse of some drug undermined him. His long, delicate hands hung nerveless, his dark, olive face was on the boundary between expressionless despair and useless wisdom, and his eyes burned therein, or rather smouldered, open, over wide, and permanently mournful. His long, black hair, all lank, was in an arranged disorder which he had once thought out, but which had now become a habit.

So he lay in what those very few of his contemporaries who had been allowed to peer into the place had called, some of them The Harem, others the Cave of Baphomet. His drug-clouded ears heard noon booming solemnly from the cathedral, with a sound mellowed by three hundred years.

At that same hour of noon the less profound but more direct timepiece of St. Olaf’s, stuck up in the modern front, of the new library, gave out from its sham fourteenth-century carvings a most inadequate imitation of medieval things; it struck twelve with a sharpness which would stand no nonsense. It was the signal for Mr. Charles Lexington, Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s, Reader in Electro-Chemistry to the University, author of The Flowering of the Atom in the popular “What Things Are” series, and Railby Lecturer of the year, to step down from the platform where he had been lecturing, and make for his rooms on the other side of the Quad.

The unfortunate reader — unless he has been so foolish as to skip the Prologue of this masterpiece — has already met Charles Lexington. Meet him again, for you will have a good deal to do with him.

He was a man typical of his profession and a good hand at his trade : atheist, industrious, clearheaded, very conscientious about his work, trying hard to keep up the standard of his pupils and to give St. Olaf’s the same name in his own branch of Science as it had already gained in Classics and Philosophy, Sophistry, and History.

To-day as he walked smartly across the Quad. to his rooms he was disturbed and he was knitting his brows. Bolter had cut his lecture again! It was the third time in ten days! He had marked the empty place at the beginning of his lecture, made a pretext for waiting a moment in the hope that the lad would come in, and then had gone on with his demonstration. Bolter had become a problem. This kind of thing would not do. Something must be done. But the solution was not easy, for the Bolters counted at St. Olaf’s. He had not solved it by the time he had reached his room, put down his pile of books, and sat down to think it over.

Normally Henry Bolter should have been sent down. The College would have been well rid of him. Half a dozen times in the last year that issue had been proposed, and half a dozen times, either by Lexington’s own advice or by the President’s, it had been decided to do nothing. It was necessary to go slow with Old Bolter; and apart from that there was a genuine feeling of loyalty and affection towards the Bolter name. It had become part of the structure of the place.

Moreover, against Harry Bolter there was nothing sufficiently definite. He was slack in his work, but he never failed in the terminal examinations. His essays were eccentric, they verged on the absurd, and sometimes read as though he were ridiculing his superiors; they dragged in allusions to alchemy and used an archaic wording; but they never showed insufficient knowledge. From the day when at his own choice his father had allowed him to begin to read for his Degree in Electro-Chemistry he had kept up to the required standard, he had read the minimum amount in the required books, he had understood what he had read. But there was in his conduct, in his slackness of attendance, in his solemn pretence at occult knowledge, in his reverence for the Cabala and hints at the Philosopher’s Stone, something which was not laziness but contempt of court. It was this also which appeared in his written work, and which, in the case of any other man, would have finished his career at the University. But a Bolter was a Bolter. Therein the problem lay.

Lexington fished out from the pile of weekly essays that one in the characteristic hand of the exasperating youth (a hand carefully modelled upon a Venetian script of the late fifteenth), and read it through once again.

It was an extraordinary production, fantastic and yet disturbing. It dealt straightforwardly enough with the theme that had been set. It showed a sufficient knowledge of the text-books, but it introduced in strange little asides turns meaningless and metaphors drawn from the mystical nonsense which has been dead these two hundred years. It spoke with respect in one place of some charlatan, seer or other, who followed Wallenstein three hundred years ago, and it quoted, as one might quote from some great modern authority, the formula of Brozius upon the “governance of the base elements by the noble.” It treated with perfect assurance as historical fact the famous description of Helvetius which tells us how he made gold from lead.

In five minutes Henry Bolter’s tutor had finished this last and most exasperating of the young man’s vagaries and his mind was made up. He must see the boy; he must talk to him thoroughly and tell him that it lay between a complete reformation and the end of his career. There must be a general clean-up. It wouldn’t do, and something must be done.

The conscientious Lexington was a man of action. He took a sheet of the College note-paper and wrote : —

Dear Mr. Bolter,

This kind of thing won’t do, and something must be done. This morning, for the third time since the beginning of term, I noticed you were not in your place at my lecture. I am ready to make every allowance, but this kind of thing is becoming serious. Moreover, the weekly essay you sent me, I must frankly say, passes the limits of what is tolerable in the way of extravagance. You can hardly have meant it seriously, and if you did not it is a piece of unpardonable impertinence to send such a thing to your tutor and a Fellow of your College.

I do not want to write more strongly, nor even to write further. It is better that I should see you and that we should have it out once and for all. I shall send this down by hand, and I must beg you to be here in my rooms at four o’clock precisely, when you will find me waiting for you.

There. That was decisive. Lexington felt relieved, as do all honest men when they have banged the table. He sent for Williams, and Williams took the letter round.

Mr. Lexington took a light lunch in his room, during which he re-read for his own satisfaction an essay of his own which had recently appeared in a foreign review, wherein he demolished his opposite number in Leipsic. Then he went off for a brisk grind with Halibut, of St. Barbara’s. It was a most refreshing piece of exercise aided by a cheerful discussion upon the last proposal to change Rule 134. He came back in a mood of vigour, health and sanity. He ran up the stone steps to his rooms, two at a time, some ten minutes before the appointed hour of four. His lungs were filled with fresh air, his blood was circulating well, he was prepared to give the young blighter what for or to know the reason why.

His eye caught upon the table a little roll of parchment tied around with faded pink silk, slight and ancient. It was delicately sealed. His heart misgave him, and his anger began to rise. He broke the seal, and found within, inscribed upon the delicate surface in that singular, careful, Venetian script and in a glossy ink which certainly had never known a shop, an epistle far too brief and far too characteristic. There was no “Dear Mr. Lexington” at the beginning. There was no “24 Brecon Street” at the top. The only date was the Sign of Libra, and the signature a curious hieroglyphic. In between were these words :

“I may not leave my watch before the Thrice Holy. Rather do thou come hither, at the fourth hour.”

This was too much! The Reader in Electrochemistry to the University set his teeth, leapt downstairs like a cataract, and strode from the side–door of the College towards the cathedral quarter and Brecon Street with a flush upon him and at a pace that made the passers–by turn round and watch him as he went.

CHAPTER II

AS THE DEEP-TONED strokes of the old Cathedral bell had announced noon through the trembling air, Henry Bolter lifted without energy that lanky form of his, and, kneeling before the pedestal and the head it bore, kneeling with drooping head, lax shoulders and hands clasped before him, told his Master that the Hour had come, and implored guidance and protection.

This done, he threw into the little brazier a pinch of incense, rose, bowed, deeply genuflected, rose again, lit two tapers which stood in two dragon candlesticks upon the oaken table, and, standing there, put in order the materials of his task and worship. There was the pile of sulphur, the casket filled with secret fragments, there the formula on its cracked parchment, open and held down at either edge with the two carven weights of jade, there the very large, old, black letter book already opened at its decisive page, and, to the right, the crucible with its little intense furnace ready to be lit from the flex : for the room was plugged for power.

Even as he so arranged all in the dim light, that filtered through the carven woodwork screen at the one window he was interrupted.

The landlady at 24 Brecon Street had seen undergraduate lodgers of every kind : black men and yellow, for that matter, and the young white sort that kept it up at the top of their voices, broke glass and drew the Proctors like a magnet. But she knew not whether to be more worried or less by this last specimen. On the one hand he gave no trouble at all. He had bargained with her to pay exactly double her regular terms if he might be free to furnish at his will, to keep his own hours and the rest of it. On the other hand it was all very odd and there was not enough fresh air. On the whole she would be glad enough when, at the opening of the next autumn term, she could see something more native and normal than Harry Bolter occupying the bedroom and sitting-room on the first floor at No. 24 Brecon Street.

She had knocked in that little fear which she always felt. She had been answered in a tone so solemn that it did not diminish her hesitation. She had half peeped in through the artificial, taper–lit darkness and presented Lexington’s note on a tray. Bolter had opened it, read it, begged her to wait a moment, took from a pile one of his thin vellum sheets, and with his reed pen dipped in the saucer of illuminator’s black, traced the two lines : “I may not leave my watch before the Thrice Holy. Rather do thou come hither, at the fourth hour.”

He dried them with a pinch of sand, blew on them, tied the little roll with pink silk, sealed it and gave it to her.

There was no inscription on it. Only she was to see that it could get within an hour or so to Mr. Lexington’s rooms at St. Olaf’s, and she was to put 2s. 6d. for the messenger upon his bill.

The landlady shut the door noiselessly, as she might have done the door to a chapel. The young man, instead of returning to the study of his formula and to the renewal of the task which had absorbed him for now some days, moved again to his place in front of the pedestal, knelt down and prayed with fervour.

“Master,” he prayed, “I have asked you whether a sign might not be given to end these blasphemies. Grant me to lift the veil lest fools blaspheme for ever the Wisdom of Wisdoms.”

He wrestled with that demand. He presented it with all that was left of concentration in his mind, and after the long exhaustion of such an effort he looked up towards the face. There was no sign.

Once more, still kneeling, swaying a little (for his last dose of the drug was still affecting him), he prayed more fervently than ever. He prayed on till he felt some incoherence in his mind and the floor on which he kneeled seemed unstable. He looked up again, but there was no sign.

For the third time he bent his head, murmuring continually the word “Master!” then, inwardly imploring, he looked up a third time…. And now the curtains were swaying or somehow moving, surely, and the little squares of light in the carven screen surely trembled? And was not the head grown greater or nearer? Was not its life more immediate? He was sure that the eyes were looking straight into his own, and on the full, coarse, grinning lips he was sure that there came a very slight, a very subtle change of acquiescence. He closed his eyes, dazed and dizzy; then with an effort rose, sighed profoundly, bowed again and murmured that all was well.

First standing before that great black letter book as it lay between the two tapers in the dragon candlesticks, he read out to himself in a monotone, upon that exact note which he had learned to be the true chord of invocation, the Words of Power : MARA, TAMITHA, DATHEL.

Then he murmured to himself rapidly the lines on the black letter page over which his eye shot from side to side.

“Let the Lion encounter the Virgin and, having been taken captive, fetter him with fetters to the Sun and the Moon. So shall he rise from sleep and shall take on the Form of Mastery, leaving concealment : for in simplicity all shall be accomplished and he shall be given the glory.”

This done, he pulled the curtains over the screen, blew out the tapers so that all should be in darkness save for the tiny light that floated overhead and the dull glow in the brazier. In that darkness where all was shadows he dealt with the materials before him, taking from the casket and making of the sulphur a new thing, under the heat of the crucible; leaving it to cool, rolling the material, still plastic, in his long hands. All the while, and at the just intervals, he murmured the awful title of each advancing step in the Scala Sacra at the summit of which shines the Perfect Thing.

The work was accomplished; he was free to admit the light.

The curtains were pulled back, the last embers of incense in the brazier were extinguished. He threw the carven screen well back upon its hinges, threw the casement wide open and let in the clean air, which he abhorred — but he would have as open as could be the setting for what was to be done, so that the scoffers might be confounded in the very light of the sun. That light of the sun of a clear February day flooded the room and rendered all its ornament tawdry.

But one object there was now present on the table which no one would have seen when first he left the worship of the head, something which had not met the eye under the taper light before that was extinguished; something which now lay conspicuous and new beyond the book upon the hard surface of the old oaken table. Of sulphur none remained. In its place was a short length, roughly cylindrical in shape, of a texture which I will attempt to describe; for although I have not myself even seen that famous Thing, I have read of it.

It was a roll about nine inches long by two inches thick, as it were of glass, but of a cloudy glass, brown in colour, not smooth but granulated in structure, so that a man might with some effort break small crystalline fragments from it as from sugar. Yet in spite of this granulation it was half transparent. On this his closing eyes lay with a glint of triumph in them, and he lay back to sleep and to await the moment when he would have to act. It struck one in the cathedral tower.

He slept, if it was sleep, for rather visions passed before his mind — for all the intervening hours till four.

Again came that discreet knock at the door, and the landlady had just time to say: “Mr. Lexington, sir,” when that eminent man strode in and occupied the little place.

Henry Bolter rose with difficulty from the couch, and put forward the oaken chair for his visitor, who took it without grace and looked angrily round at the absurdity of the fittings — ridiculous antiques like that absurd head, the oriental hangings, all the abracadabra and the smell of stale incense offending his nose, the dragon candlesticks out of some pawnshop in the Chinese quarter of the docks.

Sharply he faced the owner of the room and began at once with the formula which he had found best suited to the occasion.

“Look here, Mr. Bolter, this won’t do. Something will have to be done.”

So the two men, the elder and the younger, sat one in front of the other, the younger man limp, stooping, remarkable only for his burning eyes which were fixed upon the new-comer; the elder flustered and hurried, but ready, and having his common duty to do. Lexington sank back in his chair (its archaic arms offended him and its high carving got in the way).

“Something has got to be done,” he said again, as Henry Bolter sank back nervelessly on to the sofa, but still fixing on him those burning eyes….

“I don’t know whether I have got a right to ask you to get rid of all this tomfoolery. I don’t suppose I have; but it does you harm and you know it. Why can’t you live like an ordinary fellow with the men of your college and your year? Anyhow, you’ll have to come regularly to lectures. Next time you miss it will be the end. I want you to do well. And you mustn’t play the fool with your essays. It’s all very well for you to bring in all this affected rigmarole into the essays you do for me. I don’t mind. I don’t suppose you mean to be insolent.” (Bolter slowly shook his head.) “There’s nothing serious about it, anyhow. But in an examination upon which your career depends it would be fatal. They might understand humour of that kind in the other schools. But it doesn’t go down in Science. If you remember the duty you owe to your father….” Bolter nodded.

“Then,” Lexington went on in a rather slower tone and punctuating his words, “there is just one more point, Mr. Bolter, which I want you to lay to heart. All this taking for granted that our best modern scientific work is charlatan. It won’t do. It’s affected and offensive. It’s silly and will ruin you. Frankly it will. I understand the spirit of opposition. I have been through it myself as a young man.” (Lexington talked as though he was a Methuselah : he was thirty-five. But thirty-five is high above the early twenties.) “I do not even say,” he added graciously, “that a man cannot argue against the latest theories. They are only theories after all. But this way of taking for granted that all you are taught is negligible is mere vanity. And as I have told you, if you don’t get rid of it, it will ruin you. Now take what you wrote about Sir William Matheson’s essay on the ‘Transmutation of Metals.’”

Bolter sat more upright with an effort, then he sank back again.

“You were quite right to distinguish between mere hypothesis and solidly proved fact. You were quite right to dispute the mercury deposit. I don’t deny,” he went on kindly, “that you have got a good deal of reasoning to back you — certainly you can reason — but dragging in Alchemy and the Philosopher’s Stone, and Helvetius …”

Henry Bolter summoned the trifle of energy he had left — he dared not strengthen himself artificially with his drug in the presence of another — and he interrupted. He stretched out a long, disjointed arm, picked up with his fine, delicate, pointed fingers a greyish lump from the little what-not near the head of the divan where he lay, and then, leaning forward as on a hinge, he laid it out on his palm before Lexington’s eyes.

“Mr. Lexington, what is that?” he said, as abruptly as so grave and weakened a voice could speak. And as he so spoke he still kept his glowing eyes fixed firmly upon the man who professed to teach him.

Lexington felt he knew not what. He had a contempt for all this talk of influence; he had the profound conviction of your widely–read physical scientist that the whole thing was subjective and could be resisted by a healthy will. Still he was uncomfortable. Bolter’s gesture had not been abrupt, but his interruption had been. And those eyes troubled him. He saw no way out of answering.

“What’s what?” he said a little petulantly. “Oh, this?”

He had picked the grey lump up rather gingerly out of the young man’s hand.

There was nothing to be frightened of. It was pretty heavy. It seemed familiar enough; it was uncommonly like lead; but he did not want to commit himself. That is a thing they do not like doing in universities, especially before their juniors.

“Well, I don’t know.” He went on with a sort of little empty laugh. “It looks like lead.” He weighed it in his hand. “It’s about as heavy. What about it?”

“It is lead,” said Henry Bolter simply, still keeping his eyes directed upon the other. If staring at a man were like hitting him, Lexington would have protested; but there is a difference. And instead of protesting he turned his head a little away.

“Very well. I don’t know what you’re driving at, really. If you think you are putting me off….”

“No,” said Henry Bolter, “I am not putting you off. I am going to show you something that will interest you, Mr. Lexington. Really it will. It’s what you said about the latest theories and Matheson on the transmutation of metals that put it into my own mind.”

Lexington was off again.

“I don’t want you to begin an argument,” he answered solidly but brightly. “We’ve all heard it from plenty of other young men besides yourself. I grant the modern theory of the atom is only a theory, but the theory is there, and it holds the field. And though theories are only theories, they lead to truths. Now no one denies that if one could bombard that extra electron out of the mercury …”

Henry Bolter was shaking his head.

“Mr. Lexington, let us leave all that aside for a moment. I have told you I want to show you something, and I promise you you won’t be disappointed. It won’t take many minutes. I have a crucible here, and a little furnace, Bower’s Patent that you told us to use, and I have only got to put the power — plug in and set it at work to show you something well worth your while. Do bear with me.”

So much courtesy disarmed Mr. Lexington, but the eyes were still on him and he was more uncomfortable than ever. Henry Bolter got up from the sofa, turned on the current, and the furnace glowed. He dropped the lump of lead into the crucible. The two men waited without a word and watched it melt.

Then Henry Bolter put out a hand towards that strange, brown, glass-like, granulated, half — transparent piece of stuff which had lain so carelessly on the oak table before the old black letter book (now clasped) and between the two extinguished tapers. He carefully broke off from its rough end a tiny particle, the size perhaps of a B. shot or a little larger. He ground it between his finger and thumb and dropped it into the molten lead that turned and heaved in the violent heat of the little furnace. Then he turned to Lexington and said :

“There is one thing you must allow me.” He smiled wanly. “It is the only artifice in my conjuring trick. But you must allow it me.” He covered the fire-ware crucible for a moment with a lid of the same substance. And still the two men sat saying nothing one before the other.

Henry Bolter looked at his watch a moment. Then Lexington spoke.

“Mr. Bolter,” he said, “I don’t want to say anything that could offend you, but you must understand that my time is valuable.”

Again Henry Bolter smiled.

“It will be more so,” he said.

With the pincers he lifted the lid he had lately put on and said : “Look in there.” And as he said it he himself peered into the turning molten metal.

What the two men saw was a liquid, no longer silver — grey, nor whitish, but passing through many colours, as do the whorls of oil spilt on water. The colours eddied one into the other, making wonderful patterns and combinations of hues which gradually and somewhat rapidly melted into one delicate green. The green began to grow yellow. As that change was perceived, Bolter leant forward and touched the switch upon the wall: the furnace went out and rapidly the heated stoneware lost its glow.

“Look!” he said. “Look!” And Lexington looked.

The green was now much more yellow than green; now was it wholly yellow with a touch of red in it; and what was more, as the crucible cooled the liquid mass grew viscous, its movings halted, its flat surface became a film which was growing solid, and now it was of that hue which has led mankind to half its sins and more than half its follies. It was Gold.

Henry Bolter stared at the crucible as might a man at a dead and conquered enemy.

Lexington was a little shaken, but still he did not believe — for there was as yet nothing to believe.

He looked sideways at his pupil to see whether those eyes had been turned upon him once again. They had not, and he was relieved. Nor did Bolter use them further in this fashion, if indeed he had so used them consciously at all. Lexington felt, in spite of himself (and he was ashamed of it), that shackles had fallen from him and that he was a freer man. He sank back in his chair and said rather ineptly : “We must let it cool.”

He looked round again at the tawdry fittings and the grotesque and futile Head out of the antiquaries shop. But, after all, was it so futile? He told himself that his nerves had been shaken, too much tested, that those eyes of Bolter’s had an unpleasant power which took an unfair advantage of a man. Bolter was still standing watching the crucible. He turned half round with no stare this time, and said, gently enough :

“I asked you just now, Mr. Lexington, what it was that I had put into that crucible. I think you said it was lead?”

“Aye. I certainly should have said so,” answered Lexington bluffly : “but I had no way of testing it. I don’t believe in miracles, you know,” he added, with a nervous laugh, and a little defiantly.

“What do you think there is in it now?”

“I can’t tell,” said Lexington, more defiantly and even sullenly. Then he reproached himself for such a mood before a very young man, and said, more brightly, “You might say it looked like gold, or brass, or something. But I don’t know what you have been cooking.”

“Well,” said Bolter, after a little pause, “the thing is easy enough to test. I wanted to show you something, Mr. Lexington, and I think you will agree that I have shown you something. You can take it away with you and test it as and when you will.”

“How do you mean — test?” said Lexington, nervously, but eager in his heart. By this time he had completely forgotten the object of his visit and all else. The thirst of a problem was upon him. He had not spent fifteen years of famous and fruitful experiment for nothing.

“What I mean, Mr. Lexington,” said Bolter, still quite gently, “is this. Shall I be insulting you if I ask you to take this — whatever it is — —” (he picked up the little roll of brown crystalline granulated substance and wrapped it in a silk cloth)— “then in full liberty — but, I trust you, in full privacy — do as I have done and discover whether there be not something in the wisdom of old?”

Once again he turned those smouldering eyes full upon the chemist. And Lexington answered :

“Really, Mr. Bolter … it’s very good of you. I don’t see why I shouldn’t … it’s very interesting, what you have just shown me. Have you any theory or …?”

“No, Mr. Lexington,” said Bolter, still with that glance of his, and shaking his head deliberately. “All I ask you is to follow the one rule of knowledge, which is experience. Then perhaps you, with your great science, can help me also to understand.”

“Oh, it is to help you to understand!” said Lexington, genuinely relieved — and he could see no irony on the other’s lips. “Well, I think we shall get to the bottom of it, whatever it is.”

“Try first, Mr. Lexington, what I have done before your eyes. Take lead as I did. Cast in a fragment of the cylinder. Heat and melt the whole. Test the result. Then, when I call upon you, I shall be eager to know what your conclusions are.”

There was no question now of funny furniture, attendance at lectures, incense, or any other undergraduate folly. Lexington went off with the strange stuff in his coat pocket carefully protected by its silk; and all the way back to college he kept his hand clapped upon the outside of that coat pocket as a rustic might upon a wad of notes. Luckily there was no one to pick a pocket of such a substance.

He reached his rooms. He opened the drawer in which he kept his valuables. He put the mysterious gift therein, after a long look at it under the electric light. That look taught him nothing he had not known before. There lay the cylinder, brown, translucent, crystalline, yet granulated: rather like a stick of dark sugar–candy. Small pieces could be broken off with some effort of the fingers, but it was not friable. Nothing of it had come off during the short journey from its home to his. He looked at his watch and was startled. Nearly two hours had passed. He had little more than an hour before Hall. His mind was curiously confused and fagged. He felt like a man who has done much more than he knew himself to be doing at the time, and who suffers the reaction thereafter.

CHAPTER III

AT 24 BRECON Street, Henry Bolter lay back in a profound and dangerous exhaustion. He would have told you that virtue had gone out of him in that new and awful piece of creation, in the realization of the Thing which had been revealed to him. A doctor would have told you that it was the drug. I shall tell you that I do not know whether it was the one or the other, and it might well have been neither.

At any rate, there he lay back, breathing heavily and, for intervals which were much too long, half swooning.

As he came out of his torpor, the clock of the Cathedral tolled eight through the darkness. He staggered to his feet, and slouched towards the pedestal that bore the Image, then suddenly sank back to where he had lain, and for a quarter of an hour remained prostrated, but now lucid again.

He felt no hunger. He hardly ever felt hungry nowadays. It was one of the mysteries his landlady could never solve. But he did feel coming upon him, insistent, abominable, the craving: stricken though he was, and a slave bound to this dreadful Master, he had attempted to make rules. He knew — under that brilliant light of intelligence which burns so much more fiercely in those thus miserably chained to drugs, which burns so much more brilliantly in the few moments of extreme lucidity before they fall again — he knew, under that beam of perception, that he was near to the limit of what even the accustomed can dare. He made such efforts at resistance as his poor remaining will could make; but the mastery was too strong. He poured out the fatal stuff into the little glass. He noted the divisions graven on the side. He stopped pouring. He drank it off. He sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, his head bent. The necessity was stronger than ever. It would not be denied. He staggered to his feet. Once more he poured out half as much again into the sickly-smelling glass. He must; he would be filled.

He drank off that second dose. Then, at last, indeed, a fulfilment of the spirit and a complete repose fell upon him. Those fatal moments which are paid for in the coin of hell and despair but which are a sort of slumbering paradise while yet they reign, were upon him; it was not sleep, it was not forgetfulness; it was fulfilment … Oh, blessed, blessed opiate. Worthy of whatever price a man must pay … Nor was any price he had paid in the past remembered, nor was any dread of penalty in the future any longer present to his failing and more than contented, his beatified, his final mood.

His eyes closed. His chin sank upon his breast. His arms lay dead at his sides; and in the place of sleep was a dim, omnipresent, dark felicity, through which he heard, after what seemed years or aeons of such supreme content, the long, dull, booming of some bell. It was the Cathedral clock again, tolling nine. But he could count no longer. His mind no longer counted or measured. It had risen above, or sunk below, such faculties; nor did he hear any later striking of the hours.

Charles Lexington, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s, and what is more, Reader to the University, etc., etc., was nervous, as many of his profession commonly are.

He flattered himself that he was not a man of impulse. He did everything in its right place, and in its right moment. His business, when he got back to College a little before six, was to read a few more of his pupils’ papers (he regretted the time he had wasted in Bolter’s room), to run through his notes for the next day, and then to dress for Hall at seven. That was the top stratum of his mind. Immediately under that stratum was another, wherein lay a driving force more powerful than routine, and a good rival even to duty : the great curiosity of the scientist. He could not get that little bundle, that little brown cylinder, out of his head. Sometimes, as he remembered those smouldering eyes, he had a feeling which he resolutely refused to face, and would not put into words, that he had been deceived as by hypnotism. He pushed the thought aside at once, with violence : got rid of it for the moment altogether, and decided that the silly young fellow had played a sort of conjuring trick.

Besides which, was it gold? He might have been tricked by a conjuring trick, or the gold might have been substituted for the lead in that long wait in the gathering darkness. Anything might explain it.

Then he remembered the gradual change in the molten metal, the greenish look of it, the dissolving rings of colour, the final settling down. He had seen it, or thought he had seen it … he had seen it….

The wretched new clock over the new library struck six. He could bear the strain no longer. And he yielded.

In the laboratory, which was across the passage from his rooms, there was a quantity of lead already cut fine for a demonstration which he had proposed to make the next day on a much more hackneyed matter. He could use a portion of that. He could put a few ounces into a crucible, have ready a grain of the brown, translucent, granulated cylinder, switch on the heat, and see what followed.

He had but to turn on the power, melt the lead, drop in the magic stuff, and try his chance.

He was angry with himself for doing it. At least, he was angry with one half of his mind — the stupider, the more instructed half; but the other, the more rational, imaginative half, was saying to him all the time : “Why not? Who can affirm the negative? Who can say that this reagent may not effect the change? Why should we have relied so far, in our efforts at transmutation, upon electricity alone?”

He had turned on every light in the big bare room with its mass of glass-ware and brass, porcelain sinks and taps, and clean-washed deal tables. He would not have any miracles. It should have a fierce inspection.

While the lead was melting he fetched Bolter’s strange gift from the drawer in his room, broke off from it — his hand trembled a little — a tiny fragment, as much as he thought proportionate to the small bulk of metal in the crucible above the furnace, rubbed the little grain between his fingers as he had seen young Bolter do, and powdered it over the surface of the molten stuff. Even as he did so he felt a little ashamed. He walked half–way to the door to bolt it, and then, more ashamed of being caught with locked doors, went back again to his fascination.

The metal continued to move, unchanged, save in its passage from the solid to the liquid. It was but molten lead after all. Secretly Lexington felt a sort of relief. He was still in the familiar world, and that silly business in Brecon Street had been a cheat and a folly. He already blamed himself for having allowed himself to be impressed.

But even as he looked he seemed now to detect some change. The grey–white mass might be deceiving him under the artificial light, but it had surely, already, some greenish tint about it? The moments passed,’ the change became indubitable, and then those whorls and eddies reappeared which he had seen but an hour before. He could not take his eyes from the sight. The iridescence took on the purples, then the lighter yellows were beginning to master them; the whole mass was rapidly transformed. Its colour settled down to a reddish yellow, homogeneous and even, the burning sun of that metal which drives the world.

He did not know whether or not it was necessary to halt the furnace at that moment; he did mechanically what he had seen Bolter do and switched off the heat. Then he stood back to let the crucible and its amazing contents grow cool.

The clock in the library struck the half hour. He started at the sound. He did not know how engrossed he had been. He must dress for Hall. Again that doubt took him, that hesitation between one shame and another. He could not bear to carry the apparatus furtively back into his own room like a thief; he would be in agony if he left it there for anyone to find. But he preferred the agony to the shame.

He went back and dressed. But as he dressed he was in a fever lest he should hear some step in the passage and the laboratory door open. Just as seven struck and the bell tolled for Hall, he changed his mind. He detached the wire and bore the crucible, now cool, bodily on its stand into his room, opened a private cupboard there, and locked it in.

During Hall he had enough mastery of himself to hear what was said to him and to reply consecutively. He was much more silent, however, than usual, and Perkins, the Metaphysician, whom he hated the most of his colleagues, dug little sneers into him while the intolerable food was consumed. The President sheltered Lexington, for he thought him ill, and Lexington was glad to jump at that chance. He said he was afraid he could not come into Common Room; he had to go straight back to his room; he had overworked, he said. And Perkins, when the President hinted a rebuke at his ragging of his colleague, answered, as they strolled towards Common Room, with a ready phrase; the alchemists (he said) always admitted that they were in danger of going mad. It was a judgment of heaven. Perhaps Lexington had found the Philosopher’s Stone. The President was not amused. Lexington was senior to Perkins, and metaphysicians ought not to torture their colleagues.

In his room, the first thing Lexington did was to summon his scout, the wealthy Williams, and tell him that he was going to sport his oak. He had a racking headache and must be alone.

“Very good, sir,” said Williams — a phrase which your modern scout has abominably adopted, a phrase unknown to his father’s time when scouts were scouts indeed, and said, “Yessir,” like honest men.

The oak clanged, and Lexington was so exalted that he actually locked and bolted the door. Like the hero of the melodrama, he would be alone. He was going to make a thorough test: to make certain once for all.

The tests left no room for doubt. The metal he had turned out from the crucible was gold. Gold, gold, gold.

Lexington rose and paced up and down the room, his hands in his trousers pockets, his head bent forward. Had it really happened? Yes, apparently …. Nay, without doubt. There it was, certainly assayed. And it was gold.

He went back and looked at the dull, inanimate thing, his nerves so shaken by the experience that he oddly felt as though that half-egg of heavy, yellow metal had life hidden within it — as though it might speak and mock him.

Then suddenly a whole flood of consequence rushed into his mind. This was a revolution! It was a new date in the history of mankind! What would follow on it who could tell?

One idea overmastered all others. He must seek out at once the only one who understood why that reagent had such power attached to it: Henry Bolter. If the boy could not or would not tell that, at any rate it was he and he alone, who knew whence that reagent came and how it might be found or made.

He had already delayed too long with his experiment and his tests. He regretted that hour wasted in Hall. Who knew what the young madman might have done in between? He might have made another confidant…. He might …

But he could discuss the thing no more! He must go round to Brecon Street at once and have it out! “Having it out” meant a very different thing now from what it had meant that afternoon in the last of the daylight. But he was right in his sense of action. Action was necessary, and something must be done.

The street doors of lodgings at the University are not kept shut. One does not ring, one walks in. Lexington walked in and went up the short flight of stairs. He would open the door into the sitting-room at once. Bolter might be out. He hoped he was in. He would see.

He opened the door into complete darkness. There was complete silence as well — strong with that disgusting scent of stale incense and a slight stink of the burnt-out wick in the exhausted oil of the inverted ceiling lamp and of candles extinguished. All remained very still.

Had Bolter gone out? Lexington groped for the switch of the electric light, but he could find none. Then he seemed to remember how, in that odd furnishing, there was an electric plug for power in the wall, but no electric light. He had matches upon him, and he struck one. By the light he saw, as he held it above his head and peered before him, the long, emaciated body which lay at full length along the couch, the eyes closed and the whole form motionless. The match burned his fingers. He dropped it. He lit another and bethought him of the tapers. He lit them, and by their gleam, as their flames flickered up, he could see the grotesque Head wavering in the shadows until the tapers burned at last bright and clear with their small light. He turned again to the motionless form, and took it gently by the shoulder.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried. There was no response and no movement. He shook the shoulder gently. The head, with its long confused hair, fell back oddly to the left on the cushions, with its face towards the back of the couch.

“Mr. Bolter!” said Mr. Lexington, more loudly; and again, “Mr. Bolter! Wake up! I have come on very important business. Something must be done!”

There was no answer.

Then he shook more roughly. The head only waggled somewhat with the shaking; but not of itself.

Lexington was growing alarmed. He took the hand that lay dangling. It was warm, but not too warm. He looked closely at the face.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried again, almost shouting. He went down on one knee, and as he did so there came a discreet knock at the door, and light flooded in from the passage. It was the landlady.

“I heard you calling, sir. I hope nothing’s the matter? He does sleep like that sometimes, poor gentleman. He’s had nothing to eat. I’m afraid he takes things.”

Lexington stood up. He was frightened now. Very frightened.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried again, still louder. The landlady came forward.

“He wouldn’t have the electric light, sir. He cut it off, and he covered the switch with that curtain stuff.”

Between them they took the young man by the armpits, lifted his body up farther, till it was half sitting. The head still lay back limply.

An awful suspicion arose in Mr. Lexington.

“Have you a lamp?” he said.

“There’s an old one in the kitchen, sir. I’ll go and get it.”

“Yes, bring it. Leave the door open.”

For a few unpleasant moments he stood there alone, mastering himself. The landlady came back with the light. She had known death more than once in her life. Lexington had never known it. She had the courage to turn back an eyelid. She took one of the tapers from the table and held it near the lips. The flame did not move.

“Do you think he’s fainted?” said the tutor. His voice cracked.

She shook her head.

“It’s worse than that, sir.”

The drug had done its work. Henry Bolter had passed while its beneficence was still upon him, and without paying the price in this world.

CHAPTER IV

EVERYTHING WAS DONE as it should be done in these distressing cases which do happen now and then in our ancient Universities. The Press was arranged in due course. Old Bolter saw to that. The inquest was favourable enough. The death had been due to heart failure. The drugs in the cupboard had been discreetly spirited away in proper time, and the coroner understood his duty. The family preferred that the young man should be buried in the town : and I am not sure that they did not feel — certainly the Eldest son felt it — some relief and some comfort in the decent pomp which followed — and the disappearance of an eccentric.

The President of St. Olaf’s, himself, preached the funeral sermon. It was duly laudatory, lingered on Henry Bolter’s genial good fellowship, and mourned a great chemical genius so early blasted by intense application to his studies. The College made a point of concluding everything agreeably and with ceremonial.

The odd Alchemic room was dismantled and refitted as a room should be with naked electric lights, steel engravings of royalty, photographs of the Parthenon, and chintz curtains. There could be no question of reletting it for the rest of that term; but after the Easter vacation some new tenant would come, or at the worst, after the Long. And old Bolter was very generous.

Everything was over and settled. The dead ride fast. In a few days the misfortune had become a memory and all were at rest — except Lexington.

He managed to get through his lectures after an interval of about a week, during which it was only decent to interrupt them. He said a few words on the first occasion that he met his pupils again; words decently sad and sober, recalling the loss of their colleague and praising him as was due.

It was on the evening of the eighth day, towards ten o’clock, that the chemistry tutor recovered the resolution to wrestle with the business which must henceforward occupy his life. He said to himself that it was his duty — it was certainly his craving necessity — to test the thing once more.

This time he ran no risks. He waited till all was still, till midnight was passed. Using the power–plug in his own room, and bringing the supply of lead which he had been at pains to fetch privately from town, well tested and from a dealer who knew nothing of him, he once more followed with exactitude the process with which he was now fearfully if proudly familiar.

Once more all passed in exactly the same order. By half–past one that night he had again tested and was handling, balancing it in his hand, detached from the crucible, the little half-egg of pure gold. A trifling detail ran through his head in estimating its value. He put it on the scales and weighed it. It did not exactly correspond to the weight of the lead. It was lighter by a trifling amount. It just turned the scale at 25 ounces. He was possessed by his experiment of about £100 — a little more. And if a hundred, why not a thousand? And if a thousand, why not a million?

He had purchased, during his visit to town, a little steel safe, disguised in a wooden case, wherein he put the cylinder of brown, translucent crystalline, granulated stuff of which he now perhaps would never know the secret, the quality, or the formula for its production.

But there was time enough to wait for that. There was material here for many and many another bout. He made a rough estimate, and was staggered at the possibilities that lay to his hand. A few crumbs detached and powdered between the finger and thumb had sufficed to give him his first and his second dollops of gold, locked away safely with their mysterious reagent in his safe. A few grains, powdered between the finger and thumb! There was material for hundreds and hundreds of such tiny doses! And a hundred times a hundred is ten thousand. Ten thousand repeated over and over again runs into a series of millions. He thought of all that.

But, believe me or not (I know it from experience to be true, and I think that many who read this will know it to be true from their own experience), there is in the mind of your scientist a simplicity and a virtue very greatly to be praised, and to be admired unreservedly — until it is corrupted. Discovery, and truth based upon discovery, occupy him in his pristine candour far more than any other appetite; and that, I suppose, is why the greatest of his kind die poor — which is as it should be.

Lexington, in the midst of all that was occupying his spirit in a sort of storm and chaos of conjecture and fear and wonder, was still more mastered by the sense of achievement in his own great, modern, triumphant trade of physics. He thought of glory; but he thought more of the glory and triumph of his craft. At last man had attained the great thing! One of the greatest things! A thing which of recent years men had approached; a thing which men of his own guild and profession had guessed at and had said might be done. There was no limit to what man could do with his environment.

Yet he felt in the long midnight — for that night he did not sleep — two anxieties. In the first place, he must, without delay, put down briefly but clearly upon paper exactly what he had done. It would be for his own eye alone at the moment; but he owed it to the race and to science to publish the discovery. Next he must rely upon another man’s advice for the first steps to be taken.

The simplicity and straightforwardness of this scientific temper — while it is yet virgin to business — is also in its way humble. He knew that in a hundred things he might blunder in worldly wisdom. Only one man need be a confidant, but one confidant there must be; and that confidant, obviously indicated, indeed in Lexington’s case the only one conceivable, was William Bowring.

William Bowring was a man some ten years older than Lexington, a friend to whom he had been closely bound ever since his first days at the University. Bowring’s father, long dead, had been a friend of Lexington’s father, also dead : Lexington’s father had practised as a surgeon in London; Charles was the only child. Lexington and Bowring had met afterwards in Bowring’s own rooms. The strength and general intelligence, travel, culture and good judgment of the older man had strongly influenced the younger. Lexington had had occasion to ask his advice on half a dozen occasions of his simple academic career, and had never found that advice fail him. Bowring had sent him to the right publisher for his first book, had given him sound rules for the drawing up of his contracts, had advised on a couple of patents which were already bringing in a small revenue.

They saw each other often enough. Sometimes in the vacations Lexington would stop in the house of his wealthier friend — for Bowring was well-established in an excellent house of the late seventeenth century on the river–side at Hammersmith. And when Bowring (a year or two after Lexington had got his Fellowship) amused himself by starting a shop in Percy Street for dealing in old furniture and glass and plate, he had prospered steadily and solidly, as he did in everything he touched.

Lexington would sometimes go with Bowring to his place of business in Percy Street and interest himself in the details of what is an absorbing and multiple trade.

This place of business was an interesting little house, untouched since the late eighteenth century, with two bow windows and a door opening right into the small shop, and no hall between. The room was rather crowded, its windows filled with old silver; gold and gilt on the shelves within; a large mahogany table; two or three old chairs, and a big chest against the wall. A door at the back opened into a shed which Bowring had built on to the courtyard and in which he kept spare stuff and a bench and tools for the few men he employed on metal–work and repairs.

There was good taste as well as good judgment in all this side of Bowring’s activities, and it was characteristic of him that among all the things he might have sold there were many he did not sell, because he, personally, desired them and retained them. He was now nearer fifty than forty, and was unmarried.

Bowring would understand the passion of the discoverer for his discovery. He would sympathize, he would help. Bowring must be sought. And Lexington sought Bowring.

The next week–end after that long vigil in his rooms and the locking-up of the second lump of gold he was dining alone with Bowring in the old house at Hammersmith, with the comfortable Georgian panelling soberly reflecting the candlelight. The meal was over. Lexington had, at some effort, refrained from saying anything on the subject which filled his heart until the dinner was finished. He was waiting till he could bring it forward with due effect and at complete leisure, with no chance of interruption from the servants.

They were at their Madeira (Bowring hated port) when the moment came. The younger man, with that candour of which I have spoken, thought that so solemn a moment demanded something of a shock. He had read that pronouncements of the kind he had to make should startle with dramatic simplicity.

He said suddenly, leaning back and looking at the ceiling :

“Bowring, I can make gold!”

“The devil you can!” said Bowring, without emphasis. He took a little gulp of Madeira, and in his turn looked at the ceiling.

“I can turn lead into gold,” continued Lexington, leaning forward, a little more emphatically.

“Profit in that!” said Bowring.

“Bowring,” went on Lexington, really earnestly this time, “I want you to listen to me. It’s important — and I want your advice.”

“Trundle on,” said Bowring. “Trundle on.” He was quite nice and quiet about it, and quite willing to hear.

“You know the elements of the thing?” went on Lexington.

“Well,” said Bowring, “I know what you chemists call elements, though I don’t see what right ….”

Lexington shook his head impatiently.

“No, no, no, I don’t mean elements in that sense. I mean in the problem of the transmutation of metals.”

“Then I confess I don’t,” said Bowring politely. And then, less politely, “Nor does anybody else.”

“You’re wrong,” said Lexington emphatically. “The elements of the problem are known, and they are quite clear. I thought every educated man knew them. You’ve heard of the modern theory of the atom?”

“Oh, bless you, yes!” said Bowring, getting up from his chair a little heavily and getting hold of the Madeira from the other side of the table, so as to pass it round with the sun. “Yes, I’ve heard of the theory.”

“You know what I mean by an electron?”

“I know what you mean all right,” said Bowring, as he sat down again and poured himself out some wine, and pushed the decanter up to his neighbour. “But if you ask me whether I believe in all that rubbish — I don’t. You scientists will get tired of your electrons in a year or two, and then you’ll be giving us some other stunt.”

Lexington waved him away impatiently with his hand. He had had that sort of thing before.

“We can’t go into all that, Bowring,” he said, with a slight touch of temper. “Call it a theory, if you like. But anyhow, on that theory you know that if you could knock one of the electrons out of a mercury atom you would produce a gold atom?”

“I drink to it,” said Bowring solemnly.

“You know,” Lexington continued rapidly, “that you can make a mercury atom out of a lithium atom if you knock one electron out of that. And you know” (he was talking still more quickly, so as not to be interrupted) “you can make a lithium atom out of a lead atom if you knock one atom out of the lead.”

“Child’s play,” said Bowring. “It all lies in the If.”

“Well, now,” said Lexington, sorely tempted to draw a diagram on the cloth, but refraining, “supposing that with one stroke you could get rid of three of the electrons in the lead atom, you would, as the common phrase goes, change the lead into gold, wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say,” said Bowring. “It’s a shame to smoke with this Madeira, but still I can’t do without it any longer. Will you have a cigar?”

Lexington shook his head. Bowring lit his cigar and then nodded.

“Go on,” he said.

“Of course, you don’t really change the lead into gold. All you do is to produce gold where lead had been before, just as ….”

“Oh, yes,” said Bowring, “never mind what you call it. That’s all right. The man in the street, and the Bobby and I, will call it changing lead into gold, and we can take that as read. Is that what you’ve done?”

“Yes,” said Lexington solemnly, after a due pause, and lowering his voice by an octave.

“Humph!” said Bowring. “Well! What’re you going to do about it?”

Lexington sprang from his chair. He was wound up. He stood before the fire with his hands in his trouser pockets, as he always did when his eagerness was strong upon him, either of speech or of thought.

“I’ll tell you what I mean to do about it, Bowring,” he cried in a louder tone. “First of all I’m going to write to Nature.”

The change in Mr. William Bowring, antiquary and private gentleman, was startling.

“What!” he shouted, jumping up in his turn.

“You’re going to write about it to Nature?” He sank back on his chair like one stricken with sudden despair. “Oh, you poor mutt!” he said.

“What’s the matter with writing about it to Nature?” said Lexington, sitting down again, rather bewildered.

“Great God! The man asks me what’s the matter with telling the world!”

He got up again, took a step backward, extended a warning arm and lifted finger and cried : “Halt! I don’t know whether you have made gold. You scientists usually tell the truth, at any rate about straightforward things like that, though you do live in the moon. If you have done it, don’t you see what’s going to happen?”

“That’s what I’ve come to ask you about,” said Lexington, his voice beginning to falter, and already at sixes and sevens.

“My good friend, what is going to happen is this. If any mortal being knows you can do it — and already one mortal knows, for I am fairly sure I’m mortal — you are in peril … If it gets round to two or three, you are done!”

“Why–hy?” gasped and stammered Lexington.

(Bolter’s “Elements of Modern Applied Psychology”)

“Because — oh, grant me patience, Heaven! — because you would have it in your power to rock and ruin the whole of our civilization. Because you would become a doomed target for those few powerful men who govern the modern world. Because you would find yourself caught in a net of tyrannical masters, each of whom would be hesitating between killing you lest they should be ruined and compelling you to share the swag. Because at the very least it would be the business of the State to stop you; and because, at the worst, it would be imperatively necessary for those who are omnipotent to–day to get rid of you at a short delay … Now, do you understand?”

There was a long pause. Bowring had spoken more passionately than Lexington had ever heard him speak before; and the older man was himself a little afraid that he had said more than he should have done. He went back to his chair and continued:

“I don’t know … I don’t want to scold you … But really I must make this plain to you. So far you have only told me … If you can do it … If you can do it, Lexington — and I don’t disbelieve you — if you have managed to do it, you can change the world … and the world won’t allow itself to be changed; at least, the rich won’t allow it to be changed … not in that way. Banking, currency, international complications — oh, my word!” He put his elbows on the table and stared fixedly into Lexington’s face. “You are sitting on a ton of dynamite — here and now!”

There was another long pause. Then Bowring went on, in a more subdued tone, recovering himself again.

“Let me ask you one or two questions. I ought to begin by thanking you for having made me your confidant … it’s a great honour … It’s a great responsibility … You won’t find me ungrateful, and you won’t find me treasonable.”

“I should hope not!” said Lexington warmly.

“Well,” answered Bowring, still more composedly, “sooner or later I suppose you will see what a risk you were running in telling me. But you have done it, and now I want to ask you one or two questions, if you don’t mind. But, of course, you won’t answer them unless you want to.”

Lexington nodded.

“In the first place, does your cost of production approach the cost of gold? — the cost of gold is, roughly, £4 an ounce. Can you turn out an ounce of gold from an ounce of lead …

“Slightly less than an ounce of gold,” corrected Lexington.

“Tut, tut! An ounce of gold, I say, for appreciably less than £4?”

“At present,” answered Lexington, emphasizing the words with slight precision, “it costs me nothing. Later on, after the first few hundredweight” — (“The man talks in hundredweights,” murmured Bowring)— “it may cost something, I don’t quite know how much. I shall have to go into that. But I imagine — I won’t say more — I imagine, from what we know of the cost of certain materials I have in mind, that the reagent ….”

“What’s that?” said Bowring.

“Oh, I suppose you’d call it’ the stuff one makes the gold with.’ Well, unless the reagent needs some very expensive element, which is unlikely, its value would be only a small fraction of the value of the gold produced. I can tell you that, in mere weight, the reagent is much less than a hundredth — I’ve not measured it accurately yet — I should say one - five - hundredth at the most of the original weight of lead. And unless I find in further research that some very expensive element or process is necessary ….” Then he stopped dead. He saw that if he went farther he would be saying plainly that he had not an indefinite amount of the reagent at his command; and already — such is the power of gold over the minds of men — he was beginning to lose his candour.

“I shall know in a day or two,” he said, more airily. “But anyhow, for the moment I know exactly where I am. And I can go on to the tune of a very great weight indeed. I have already said hundredweights …. I don’t know how many; but many.”

“Well, I don’t want to cross-examine you on that. It’s your business,” said Bowring. “And you assure me that it’s as cheap as all that? That was the first point. With lead at £20 a ton, and gold at £4 an ounce, there’s what we call in business a safe margin.” He smiled — a large, firm smile.

“Now, I want to ask you a second question. Have you tested the result, so that it’s beyond all doubt?”

Lexington nodded. “I’ve done it twice. The conditions were identical. I’m certain it could be done any number of times.”

“Now I must ask you a third question. Don’t answer in a hurry. It’s the most important of all. Are you willing to satisfy me by making the transmutation from lead into gold before my eyes? Wait a moment!” he said, holding up his hand to check Lexington’s reply. “Be careful how you answer! So far I have only your word for it. But I believe you. Not only because I know you, but because I know the men in your kind of occupation. You scientists, well I’ve known them say a thousand fantastic and foolish things, but I’ve never known one of them say anything false with regard to actual experiments.”

“Thank you,” said Lexington, a little dryly.

“No, I’m not complimenting you. I’m talking straight business. On that point you are the most truthful people in the world. The reason I have asked you whether you care to do it before my eyes and to my satisfaction — but, mind you, I don’t claim it for one moment — is a good practical business reason. It is this. You have already told me you can do it. I possess the secret of the fact that you can do it, and I have told you how perilous that knowledge is. I understand trade, and I am fairly successful in it. I have a trade with which this sort of thing would well fit in. I sell gold plate and ornaments daily, cups, statuettes, dishes; and I’m going to make you a proposition.”

There was another pause, during which both men shuffled their feet a little, as men will when they are about to consider bargains.

Bowring continued:

“My proposition is this. When I have had ocular demonstration that you can do this, I propose that we should enter into a strict alliance. I won’t call it a partnership, because it would be madness to put down a single word of it on paper. Indeed, if I was not certain of my servants, and if I thought that a third person … that a word of ours had been overheard through someone listening at the door, I should say that we were both of us done for already. That is, supposing we were believed … I propose, I say, that we should enter into a strict alliance. Each will be bound to the other anyhow, by the common knowledge each possesses, and its potential danger to each and to both. You shall make the gold privately, at first in small amounts. I have occasion to buy the precious metals occasionally, and, of course, I am always buying and selling gold and silver objects. Also, I have to deal with gold and with silver for making up and for mounting and for copying, so there would be nothing odd or noticeable in small parcels of gold passing through my hands — small to begin with. We could gradually expand, using our discretion. As the establishment grows and as we sell on a larger and larger scale, we could use more and more gold. The time will come when I shall be buying openly in the market, large bulks of bullion — large for the matter concerned, which is gold … then it will be a matter of course, and not subject to notice, if we handle what I buy and a good deal more which you will supply…. The thing can be shoe–horned and guided…. We must let circumstances guide us in detail … but that’s the outline of the process. As far as I can see, there’s no flaw.”

He ceased to speak.

It is astonishing with what rapidity business enters the consciousness of a man who has never, hitherto, engaged in it, and who for the first time comes across its fascinating game. Lexington, while Bowring was speaking, had already regretted those words of his into which might have been read the fact that he knew nothing of the manufacture of that strange, dangerous stuff, that crystalline, brown, translucent stuff, that cylinder which lay locked in his safe in his rooms at St. Olaf’s.

He spoke in his turn, slowly and emphatically.

“Yes, Bowring, I’ll agree; but I want to make one condition. I shall show you the process, of course, It shall pass before your eyes, and that as often as you like. But my condition is that I keep to myself the nature of the reagent whereby I get rid of those superfluous electrons.”

Bowring paused and hesitated. He had hitherto been a good friend; but business is business. He turned the situation rapidly over in his mind. If he were himself master of the key he would become as a god. But he could not compel Lexington to hand it over. He could destroy Lexington, but then he would destroy himself as well. It is a situation which arises a hundred times a day in the delightful world of commerce : whether it is better worth while to yield or. to threaten, to cringe or to blackmail. Bowring made up his mind in much less time than it would have taken him to define in spoken words the process of his thought.

“Certainly I agree,” he said kindly. “It’s only reasonable. It’s your asset, isn’t it? I’ll not ask one question as to how you get your talisman or what it is. I only stipulate that I must see it work at least once.”

“Thank you!” answered Lexington. And he felt a great relief.

Bowring looked at his watch.

“It’s late,” he said. “I’ve to go to bed early, as I think you know. I need a lot of sleep. We have had a rather exciting time during the last half hour. Do you want any more wine?”

“No,” said Lexington.

“When shall we have that test,” said Bowring again, “and where?”

Lexington consulted the little note–book which he carried on him.

“I’ve got a free day next Wednesday,” he said. Then he hesitated. He was wondering which was the safer of two courses : to bring Bowring up to St. Olaf’s, which meant his partner’s knowing where things were kept, and the rest of it, or his bringing the precious stuff to town himself. Bowring waited patiently till he had decided.

“I’ll come up here, to your house next Wednesday. I’ll come down by the morning train, and lunch with you, and well do it after lunch, in plenty of good daylight, right under your windows. You’re plugged for power?”

Bowring nodded. “Don’t you see the electric heater?”

“It was out, so I didn’t notice it.”

“I always prefer the open grate, and I use it, but I keep that stove in the corner as a second string. It’s been foully cold this winter.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Lexington, putting back his pocket–book. “That’s settled. Ill be here before lunch on Wednesday, and after lunch we’ll do it here by that window, where no one will overlook us except the birds in your little garden.”

“I’m your man,” said Bowring. He stretched and yawned. They went off to sleep. Nor was a word put down in writing by either of them, when each was alone, save the one word “London” under the date of Wednesday, 20th February, in Lexington’s little note–book, and the two words “fifty-fifty” on Bowring’s cuff.

CHAPTER V

WEDNESDAY HAD COME round.

The coffee-cups were still on the table and the little decanter of brandy standing by; the cigars were half smoked, and Bowring had said to the servant who came in to clear away : “Mr. Lexington and I have to talk business together, so would you mind waiting until I ring? It may be an hour hence.”

Bowring had deliberately locked the door. Lexington had opened the small cubical leather case which he had kept beside him all during the meal. Bowring, who forgot nothing, drew from a drawer a piece of thick felt which he had put there a little before lunch for the purpose. He spread it on a small strong table right under the light of the window. The garden beyond was empty, and unapproachable save from the door of his study. The back windows of the distant houses were nothing to trouble about.

Upon that piece of thick felt upon the table Lexington placed the crucible with its tail of flexible wire, and the plug at its end. He waited the next move.

Bowring in his turn drew from his pocket a paper of shredded lead, no more than four or live ounces in weight.

“I am not going to worry,” he said. “I think the thing is straightforward enough. I am assured it’s lead, and pure, by a very good dealer, from whom I got it yesterday, and who doesn’t know me from Adam. I took his word, as I take yours. And we need not bother about exact weights. Now let us go ahead. I suppose the first thing is to put the lead into the crucible, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” said Lexington.

Bowring put it in. Lexington put in the plug, the furnace glowed, and became intense. The two watched what followed without a word, till Bowring half said : “When do you …” and then checked himself. Lexington answered by shaking his head and saying : “What a moment; you’ll see.”

The little blob of shredded lead was already viscous; now it was fully molten. The glare of its heat came up in their faces as they peered into the small hollow.

Then Lexington took from a buttoned waistcoat pocket with the utmost care a small purse, whence he drew a twist of tissue paper. He opened the twist, and Bowring saw within a tiny brown grain. It might be the size of a very small stud head, but not globular nor of any regular shape — a fragment. This Lexington picked up with the utmost caution between a finger and thumb, and as he held it over the molten mass, gradually rubbed it into fine powder, which dropped into the lead below. That done, he rubbed his empty fingers together half a dozen times, to make sure that not a grain of dust remained; then dropped his hand and watched. And Bowring watched beside him.

Slowly the transformation began. First — and it was the longest part of the process — the gradual hint of purple in the brilliant grey–white; then the interweaving whorls of various colours, such as oil makes upon the surface of water; then this in turn coalescing into larger eddies of a green that grew gradually lighter, until at last it was absorbed into the brilliant reddish yellow of the whole compost. Just at the moment when the colour was homogeneous and full, the colour of a bright sun shining through a veil of mist, Lexington thrust out an arm, rapidly clicked off the switch, leant back with a sigh, and said :

“There! It’s done!”

Bowring answered not a word.

“Shall we drink a glass together while it cools?” said Lexington.

Bowring shook his head.

“Well wait,” he said. “I want to watch it.”

It was a long affair, waiting in that warm room for this strange new product of theirs to cool, and during the wait neither of them said a word. It was a strain on both. But business is business. Bowring was determined to be assured, and a mixture of common sense and pride made his companion equally determine that he should be assured.

At last Bowring, putting forth his left hand to a cupboard which he could reach, brought forward a little thermometer and with it a small case containing what he needed for the next step. When he had assured himself by two or three contacts that this little yellow metal was cooled enough to handle, and the crucible as well, he proceeded to the tests. They were conclusive. He was glad.

“Well,” he said, rising, “that’s that. I told you I believed you. But it had to be done, didn’t it.?”

“You’re quite right,” said Lexington.

“We are the richer by twenty pounds.”

“You are the richer,” said Lexington. “It was your lead.”

“Yes, but it was your stuff,” said Bowring. After a pause he added : “Shall we call it fifty-fifty? Half shares in whatever we make?”

Lexington would be most happy. It didn’t matter to him. There was inexhaustible wealth ahead.

And thus with mutual generosity of a genial sort did the transaction end.

The two men were free to lay their further plans. These were simple enough. Only one point remained to be determined. Where should future work of the kind be undertaken? In what amounts? Under what safeguards?

As to the amount, it was simple enough. At first not more than two pounds or so a week. Then after some few weeks they could discuss the rate of increase.

As to the place, Bowring was quite clear on that, though he did not care to give all his reasons. It should be left to Lexington’s discretion, and preferably should be at Lexington’s rooms, at any rate during the earlier part of the affair. After all, an hour or two one night a week would be enough. Lexington had done it privately at St. Olaf’s before : he could do so again. There would be no risk then of anyone asking too many questions at the antiquary’s shop. And running up to town once a week to see a friend would be normal enough — or Bowring could drive up to St. Olaf’s occasionally so that it shouldn’t look too regular. Or they could meet occasionally during a walk, and not in college. So long as the gold was delivered at first in these small and handy amounts all would be well. There was plenty of time to see what should be done later when the production was due to expand.

Would Lexington, by the way, as the crucible was here in town, come back in a day or two and make the first good solid amount? No. Lexington thought it would be better on the whole for him to go back, where he had all his things about him. After all, so long as he gave Bowring the gold, that was all that was wanted, wasn’t it?

Yes, that was all that was wanted. And thus with mutual politeness and with the best of good feelings did these careful partners start upon the great career.

Next week, twenty-four ounces, the shape of half a duck’s egg, travelled down in the express to London, tightly clasped in the left hand overcoat pocket of the Fellow and Tutor, whom his fellow-passengers suspected of paralysis, or perhaps of hiding the end of a limb shattered in the war : for that left hand never left the pocket all the way. The right hand did double work until the taxi drew up at the house in Hammersmith.

A week later Mr. Bowring and his younger friend met at an inn a few miles out from the University, where one was lunching and where the other happened to be stopping, on his way to the provinces in his motor. A week later again the older partner had the pleasure of visiting St. Olaf’s. The week after that, the last week before the end of term, there was occasion for the younger to journey to town. And with the beginning of the vacation Mr. Lexington, with whom everybody sympathized for the dreadful shock he had suffered at his favourite pupil’s death early in the term, and whose fortitude in carrying on his regular routine uninterrupted had earned the highest praise, was persuaded by the President to take a good holiday. Indeed, Mr. Bowring had spoken to the President on the matter in his capacity of older friend and adviser of the Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s; and the President had warmly agreed.

“Don’t suggest to him,” said Mr. Bowring respectfully enough, but in the tone of a man who knows his way about, “don’t suggest his stopping in one place. He’s still young, and he likes walking. I know he hasn’t a motor, but he’s fond of using his legs, and that’s better for him. Let him have a good tramp over Easter.”

“I shall certainly put it to him,” said the President warmly. “He’s used to carrying plenty of weight. It was only last year he was off on a long tramp of the kind in Germany, in the Ruhr district, which he so wisely prefers to Italy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have him go abroad,” said Mr. Bowring hastily. “I don’t think going abroad’s at all wise when one’s nerves are a bit strained. No, not even to Germany, which he would naturally prefer. We must wait till he’s better set up, Mr. President. He might go down into the West Country, and just wander about….”

“I’ll put it to him,” said the Head of the College, as he shook hands warmly and gratefully with Mr. Bowring. “I’m sure he will fall in with our views. You seem to be like an elder brother to him.”

The elder brother modestly disclaimed anything but natural affection for an old friend; and off went Mr. Lexington on a bright March morning, setting his face towards the west, with Somerset, or perhaps Wiltshire, as his goal — it mattered not where. But what about plugging for power? Very discreetly, where none could hear, he put this dilemma to the elder partner, and the elder partner solved it with characteristic rapidity and sense.

“Say you cannot take a bedroom in an inn unless they’ve got an electric fire. Say that coal fires give you asthma. You’ll find plenty of rooms like that.”

Mr. Bowring was right. Mr. Lexington found one on the main Great Western line on the third day of his little jaunt. He was glad to put up there, for his big ruck–sack was unusually heavy; but then he was a precise man and had provided himself with plenty of change of clothing, and slippers for the evening, and the rest of it … also a crucible, flex and plug, and quite a little sack of shredded lead.

On the third day after he was settled in this inn Mr. Lexington hired a car — he could afford it these days — drove to the big junction ten miles away, and got into the morning non-stop for London with a day ticket. He went first — he could afford that too, these days. And since he could afford it these days, he gave the guard a comfortable tip for no apparent reason. And his left hand was still permanently in his greatcoat pocket. He was at Hammersmith in time for lunch. He found Bowring in excellent humour, lovingly handling a very pretty piece, the copy of a little gold cup of Dutch seventeenth-century design. He prided himself on the skill of his workmen. Peering into every corner of the chasing, and moving a gentle finger over the embossed figures, he begged Lexington to admire it with him — which Lexington duly did, though he had not yet taken off his greatcoat and still had his left hand in the left–hand pocket.

“Isn’t that a triumph?” murmured Bowring. “You wouldn’t get that done anywhere else in London. Pelletier could have done it,” he continued musingly, “but Pelletier’s difficult to deal with. And my man Nowell is as straight and simple as you please : at copying, that is. It’s a funny thing, these fellows — they’ll take a perfect cast and make the least touches on it, with genius, so that you couldn’t tell the difference from the original; yet if you asked them to make a design, it’s worthless…. And you can buy talent like that at eight pounds a week!”

Lexington took the copy up in his hands. It was certainly very well done. He did not pretend to judge these things, but he had seen enough Dutch work of the period to see the faithfulness of the reproduction. Bowring took it back almost jealously.

“I don’t lie about these things,” he said, laughing a little, “any more than you lie about your science. It’s not worth it, and it’s a strain on the conscience, let alone the law. I shan’t tell them it’s an original. I shall sell it as a copy. But even as a copy it’s surprising what you can get for these things.” He weighed it in his hands. “It’s an exact copy of the Nassau Baby Mug — as the Yanks call it in their catalogues” — and he laughed again cheerfully at the name.

Lexington asked to hold it again for a moment, and weighed it in his hands.

“Under twenty ounces,” he said. He was getting accustomed to close guesses of the kind by this time.

“You’re very close,” said Bowring. He took it back and balanced it in his turn in his hands. “As a matter of fact it just turns the scale at nineteen. I shall ask five hundred for it — and I shall get it.”

Lexington made a rapid calculation in his head. “19 oz.= £76. 76 goes into 500 six times and something over. Bowring got over £6 for £1 worth of gold. He, Lexington, only got 10s. — Humph!”

“By the way,” he said aloud, “before we go any farther,” and he fished the tightly–gripped lump from his pocket. He unwrapped the tissue paper, and there was the half-egg.

“It’s just over twenty-four ounces,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Bowring. And he went through the routine that was becoming familiar with them. He bolted the door, brought out scales from the cupboard, weighed the metal carefully, and said : “Thank you, Lexington. You’ll verify it, won’t you?”

“That’s all right,” Said Lexington, nodding. “Twenty-four ounces four pennyweights — barely.”

“Well, we’ll call it four pennyweights,” said Bowring carelessly. “Twenty-four ounces, four pennyweights.” He made another rapid little calculation on paper, and then counted out a number of notes, deliberately nondescript, not consecutive. Forty pounds of them in one pound notes, a few ten shilling notes. Then he fished in his trouser pocket and brought out some loose change, and carefully put three shillings and eightpence in silver and bronze on the top of the paper.

“There,” he said. “You saw the price of bullion this morning?”

“No,” said Lexington carelessly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, here it is,” said Bowring meticulously, reaching for the paper and pointing at the line. “Won’t you verify it for yourself?”

“No. It’s all right,” said Lexington. “I know it’s roughly four pounds four shillings the ounce. That’s my half share, fair enough.”

“You brought a little more this time,” said Bowring.

“That was an accident. I happened to put in a little more material. But I think we can begin to increase, can’t we?” There was rather an anxious look in his eye as he said it. He wanted to increase. This new source of income was becoming familiar to him, and was breeding new small needs. He liked to have plenty of elbow-room, He wanted more.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Bowring. “Make it thirty ounces next time if you like — but not more.”

Lexington nodded.

They gave no receipts. That was understood between them. And what was more, Bowring lit a match, burned the tiny scrap of paper on which he had made his calculation, crushed the ashes a little and threw them into the grate.

“You’ll stop to lunch?” he said. “Won’t you? Will you come round to the shop after?”

“No thanks,” said Lexington. “I think I’ll take the early train back.” Then he picked up the cup again and looked at it more closely. “It’s certainly a nice piece of work. But do you really get five hundred pounds for that, only nineteen ounces of gold?”

“Not a doubt of it, whatsoever,” said Bowring decisively. “I shall get it this week. There are at least three men who will be after it. I shall put it where it can be seen. I shall put a good clear label on it, stating that it’s a copy, as I said.”

“Well, I suppose it’s worth it,” sighed Lexington.

“Oh, of course!” answered the other. “One has to count the knowledge that goes into it — I suppose it took Nowell a good ten days — he’s a painstaking man, I shall count him a fortnight for it, anyway — and that’s sixteen pounds.”

There was a silence. They went into the next room to lunch and talked of other things, and Lexington went back with sundry thoughts sprouting in his mind. All the two hours down in the train these thoughts branched out, blossomed and flourished. And they had thorns upon them.

Allowing for the overhead expenses, that five hundred for less than eighty pounds worth of gold was a whacking fine sum. He wished he was in the antiquary trade himself — even in the imitation antiquary trade. There was a feeling of ill-ease and complaint in his mind, not fully conscious. It was bound to come to the surface. It had come to the surface before he got to the junction. By the time the car had got him back to his inn he was a man with a grievance.

He, Lexington, had just pocketed close on fifty pounds. Not bad for a week’s work, or rather, for an hour’s work in the week. But he also had to take trouble and he also had taken risks. Into that cup, for all he knew, had gone the very gold he had handed over three weeks before in the beginning of the new partnership. What would happen to the gold he had taken up that very day? He did not know. Bowring had told him nothing of these things. He would probably have it alloyed. It would certainly have to be. He had forgotten that. That would make it go farther. It might appear as spoons, or a plate — he thought next time he saw Bowring he would ask a few questions on these things. After all, fifty-fifty was absurd. Why should Bowring have fifty per cent, of the material free, anyway? He didn’t make it! And where did he, Lexington, come in?

Next week he brought the full thirty ounces weight. The routine was gone through as before. But this time, when Bowring asked him to stay to lunch, as usual, he refused more markedly.

“I’ve things to do in town,” he said, rather shortly. “By the way, Bowring, do you mind telling me what you think of doing with that particular gold I brought up to-day? I’ve no right to ask, I know, of course,” he added, diffidently — he didn’t like to face his companion’s eyes and looked a little aside, but he went on : “I’ve no right to ask, I know.” (He tittered.) “But you see, I’m only interested. I provide the raw material, don’t I? “(He tittered again.)

“Really I don’t know,” said Bowring, shortly in his turn. “I’ve not thought about it yet. I mix it, of course, and there’s the alloy to be considered, and all that business. And I don’t profess to trace exactly where each ounce of the stuff goes to. It all works in. I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone, “if some of it were not used for the chain that they’re ordering from Saltminster. It’s not a copy this time; it’s to be done to a pattern which the Corporation are sending me.”

“Oh,” said Lexington.

“It’s got no antique value,” continued Bowring. He had counted out Lexington’s money and put his wallet back into his pocket. “But of course, there’s the workmanship. I really couldn’t tell what proportion this particular lump will make of it. I’ll tell you later, if you like.”

“Yes, do. I’ve no doubt you’ll make a good thing of it. And you’re lucky to have such a knowledge of the trade.”

“Why not? It’s taken years to build up.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” And with that they parted.

But all the way home in the train that day once more and much more clearly his grievance rose up before him. Why should he be playing second fiddle? Why should he be in the background all the time, and getting only half what was the produce of his own monopoly? He wondered ignorantly but angrily what added value there would be when it appeared in that chain — two hundred, three hundred per cent.? At any rate, he would get none of that profit.

His mind turned so repeatedly in this distressing circle that he slept ill. Twice in his wakeful moments of the night he had determined to write and begin an explanation; twice he had thought better of it. With the morning he was jaded. There were only two weeks of the vacation left. He would not be so free to give his whole time to the new great affair when term had begun, and when he had his pupils and his lectures and the rest. It would be some time, say a year, before he could resign, and it seemed to lie absolutely with Bowring and not with himself at what pace he should increase his output and expand his income — that income ought to be larger … much larger.

All that jaded day he brooded over it. During all the next a plan began slowly maturing in his mind — not a very subtle one, heaven knows, for Lexington was not a very subtle man. But his, grievance had taken root. On the third day he put his plan into action. That same night he filled the little crucible right up with the lead, much fuller than it had yet been, and shredded in a larger pinch of the precious brown powder. In the morning he concealed, treasured upon his person, nearly fifty ounces of gold.

He telephoned through, not to Bowring’s private house, but to his place of business, in the early afternoon.

“Bowring, I want to tell you. … I am coming up this week rather later. In fact, I’m coming up by the four o’clock train, and I shall be at your place just after six. You’ll be there, won’t you? I’m bringing up the crucible and some lead, too. I don’t want to find the door shut.”

“Yes, of course,” came the thin telephoned voice, talking over a hundred miles. “I don’t know why, but of course if you want to come to the shop … Yes, of course, by all means. Can’t you tell me your reason?”

“No, not now” — abruptly. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“You wouldn’t like to sleep at my place?”

“No . . No thank you. I can run back by car to St. Olaf’s or even right down here. So long. Just after six — don’t forget. I’ll explain when I come.”

At the other end of the wire Bowring was coming to conclusion upon conclusion; and every conclusion was right. His younger associate was feeling the weight of new wealth. His younger associate thought nothing of hiring a motor-car for a hundred miles. The voice of his younger associate was troubled and annoyed. The annoyance of his younger associate was personal. The annoyance was with him, Bowring. His younger associate was about to make some foolish demand.

It took him perhaps five minutes to clinch down that new certitude. Then he put it away in the back of his mind to be produced at the right time and went off to stroll through the dark to his Club, change his clothes there, dine early and go to the play.

CHAPTER VI

MR. LEXINGTON’S TAXI had turned into that narrow lane, Percy Street, in Mayfair, which was always worth I don’t know how much a square yard, and is now worth double because it is turning into shops. But the shop which started the vogue and which had been there for years was one which had nothing more than the name Bowring — for fashion and pride combined to make him disdain a fancy title for the trade he drove so well, and in which he had become a master, famous to all whose custom counted.

Lexington had brought up his crucible and his little furnace in the bag as he had suggested and quite a provision of lead as well — with a pinch of the magic stuff wrapped up in his purse in case still more gold were allowed. All that made his bag heavy. He was glad to find the door open as he had asked for it to be. He walked in. He found the owner of the place sauntering about among his treasures awaiting him. They shook hands, cordially on Bowring’s part, and politely enough on Lexington’s. Then the master of the shop shut and bolted the door, saying, “I mustn’t break the law, you know.”

They sat down opposite each other at the old table and Lexington set down the bag. He had often been in that shop before, but not since all this revolution in his life. It flashed across him how odd it was that his old friend should not have asked him into the familiar place during these many weeks of an acquaintance much closer than of old. He looked about him at the few excellent pictures on the wall, at the excellent furniture of the room; nor did anything catch his eye germane to what he was about to say save a little statuette, standing on the shelf above the old coffer; the thing was of copper gilt, much worn, rather grimy, dainty enough, but nothing remarkable. It might be French of the eighteenth century; a cupid shooting from his bow, in all about six inches high.

That glance at the statuette, the unquiet frown, the mouth drooping at the corners, and all the open discontent of a face which had never been trained to hide emotions within, could be read as plainly as a book. Bowring read it and spoke first. He spoke simply and even heartily, looking steadily at his friend :

“Lexington, there’s some trouble and you must tell me what it is. Tell me frankly and we’ll see if we can’t adjust it.”

“Well, I really don’t know where to begin. What I want to say is … I have had it in my mind some little time … you see, Bowring, it’s like this ….”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” said Bowring, “like what?” He fixed his strong, steady eyes upon the other man, who avoided his gaze.

“I say it’s like this …” (another pause). “Like this. Look here, Bowring, what’s that little Cupid worth?”

Bowring laughed unaffectedly.

“You’ve come all this way to ask me that?” he said. “Well, I tried to get £21 for it yesterday from that old cad Bickers, but he wouldn’t rise. I won’t let it go for less. I like it, and I think I shall keep it.”

“What does it weigh?” said Lexington doggedly. He still kept his eyes nervously away.

Bowring got up, took the thing down, and handling it in connoisseur fashion, balanced it on his right palm.

“Oh, about three to four ounces,” he said. “Perhaps a little more, But I don’t see where that comes in. It’s hollow you know, and copper gilt, and very little of the gilding left. It’s worth nothing, save that it may be by Cousson. But I found no sort of mark.”

He turned it upside down, to look once more for the trace of a signature, and then put it right way up and set it back.

“Well, what about it?” he added. “It’s a long journey to take and a lot of money and a good deal of fatigue, my dear Lexington, to find out about that Cupid. I had no idea you knew anything about it.” And he laughed again.

“Oh, it’s not the Cupid,” broke out Lexington, with rising colour. “It isn’t this and it isn’t that, but it’s this…. The fact is Bowring, you make a lot out of this sort of thing.”

“Yes, I do pretty well,” said Bowring, half yawning. “I don’t complain. What about it?”

“You’ve a fine gold centrepiece in the window — and I shouldn’t wonder if that coffer were full of more such things.”

“Oh, no! It’s just there for oddments and a bottle or two — and sometimes I put in a parcel.”

Bowring lifted the lid as he spoke, and sure enough the fine old coffer was empty save for one bottle of wine, a plate and two glasses in a corner of it.

But Lexington was not mollified. He continued his allusions.

“Then there’s that ship on wheels — which you told me was a copy of the Hampton Court one. That’s not gilt.”

“No. That’s gold all right.”

“Worth some hundreds?”

“Say £2,000 odd. Why, its weight alone — —”

“Never mind its weight! You’ll sell it all right.”

“I hope so!”

“Well, it’s I who provide the stuff, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” said Bowring, with pleasing surprise. “You and I between us know how to get hold of a certain amount of gold free.”

Lexington nodded.

“Yes, you and I between us,” he said, biting his lip. “And more you than I.”

“Look here, Lexington,” came now in much firmer tones from Bowring, “it seems to me that you’ve come here to quarrel. I don’t know what on earth you can be quarrelling about. Is somebody running me down to you?”

“No,” said Lexington. He was struck again with timidity. But his timidity was mastered by his smouldering anger, his sense of injustice, his determination — without a plan behind it — that things must be brought to a head. “But you do get all that stuff free, don’t you? And but for me you wouldn’t get it at all.”

“Oh, yes, I should,” answered Bowring quietly, rising and sauntering up and down the room. “I’ve been getting it for years. Four guineas an ounce plus — with very slight fluctuations up and down.”

“I mean that, but for me you wouldn’t get it for nothing,” said Lexington bitterly …”Look here, it’s only fair … I won’t ask you for a share in your profits …”

“Thank you,” put in Bowring.

“No, honestly. I don’t say I’ve no right to them …”

“Indeed,” said Bowring.

“No! I won’t ask you for any share, because I don’t understand your business. I don’t pretend to.”

“No,” answered Bowring quietly, “you’re right there.”

“I don’t pretend to, and I don’t want to.” (The younger man’s voice rose.) “But what I do say” — and he rather feebly hit the table as he emphasized the word— “is that at least I might have a larger share in the raw material. It’s time I had it.” And with these words he pulled out the big new lump, so large that it came with difficulty out of the coat pocket, and put it down on the table. “I want more of that,” he said.

“You needn’t talk so loud!” said Bowring — the first rough words he had used. “If you want more of that, make more. I don’t mind. We can absorb more now. I’ve bought the place next door, and I’m going to arrange a room for exhibits there.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” cried Lexington, now out of control. “You are, are you? And suppose I was to tell you that you wouldn’t get any more of the stuff free unless you give me my fair share?”

There was nothing from Bowring but an inquiring look. The opportunity seemed a good one. Lexington lowered his tone and said with less violence: “Why not make it two-thirds?”

“Because, my dear young man,” said Bowring firmly, “we have an agreement, and there is no reason why we should modify our agreement. Because your attempt to modify our agreement is quite illegitimate, and a bit of very unpleasant sharp practice. Because I am not the sort of man who yields to threats, and because….”

“Very well,” cried out the other passionately, half rising.

Bowring put a hand on his shoulder and firmly pushed him back on to the chair.

“Wait a moment. Hear me out. I suspect you of treachery. If I catch you keeping anything back, I warn you 111 put an end to the whole thing. There’s no record. I can tell the authorities. You are known to have talked folly about this business of transmutation of metals, and some metals are dangerous things to tamper with in these days of banker government.” He raised his voice very slowly and put a stronger fibre into it as he ended. “If you kick, Lexington, 111 break you. Have you got that clear?”

“Very well then,” screamed the other, now entirely out of control, and seizing the heavy lump of gold as though to hurl it at his partner’s head. His voice stuck in the extremity of his anger, and what he would have said ended in an incoherent sound like a yelp.

Bowring did not flinch. He looked at him something as a fancier might look at an angry puppy, hesitating between drowning the beast and selling him. Lexington hammered the flat of the golden half–dome down on to the table with a bang.

“Very well, then! Keep it!” He snatched up his bag and made for the door, snarling over his shoulder as he went.

“By all means, Lexington. Thank you for the gift. Come back to-morrow … or next week … whenever you’ve recovered. But remember, I know where you are, and I shall know where you’re going … and I shall know what you’re doing. Good night.”

But even as he spoke, the outer door slammed and his discomfited, defeated antagonist was striding down the street, swinging his bag furiously, with the blood hammering at his temples, and in such a state that the passers-by turned round to stare at him in the half darkness.

He had hardly got a hundred yards : he was turning into the square : corners are dangerous to men in such a state : he ran full-tilt into an excellently dressed, excellently groomed, hale, hearty, very big old gentleman who, upon receiving the cannon, half reeled and said, very audibly: “God damn!” Then he caught sight of the face of his distracted assailant and said : “Hullo, young Charlie!”

Lexington pulled himself together.

“Really, I’m very sorry — very sorry indeed, Lord Taylor!”

“So you ought to be,” said old Taylor happily. “I didn’t know you had so much life in you! What’s the matter? Have you been proposing?”

If there was one man whom Lexington would have desired not to offend, it was Lord Taylor. The Banker was one of his father’s oldest friends, and upon his death he had helped to clear up the few debts. He had kept in touch with Lexington. Lexington would dine at the Banker’s house, two or three times in a year. He never went there without feeling not only a solidity of wealth, but a solidity of judgment as well, and now, in his flushed but rapidly calming mood, it was like fresh air to come across this powerful friend.

“I owe you every apology,” he said.

Old Taylor took him by the arm.

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s right. You do honour to your College. It was always famous for manners. I hope you didn’t break my watch glass. No, it’s all right.” Still leading the younger man by the arm and bantering genially, he walked him away.

“What are you doing to-night? My doctor tells me that everything is due to blood pressure. He also says that blood pressure is made worse by good dinners. I don’t believe it. I’ll cure your blood pressure in no time. Come and dine at home. I’m alone.”

Lexington desired nothing better. He was eager for essential advice, and no one in the world could he trust more.

“But I’m not dressed,” he said, apologetically, “and I’m all at sixes and sevens after this row.”

“What row?” said Old Taylor. “You’ve been in a row all right, I can see that. I hope you won.”

“No,” said Lexington. “At least … I don’t know. Yes, perhaps I did. I don’t know … in a way I did. In a way I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s clear as mud. You shall tell me all about it and who he was. And by the time we get to the joint, seeing the wine I have in mind, you will be quite certain that you’ve won … twice over.”

“I do owe you an apology, Lord Taylor. I do and I know it. And now that I’m cooler I’m ashamed of going on like a madman in a public street. It wasn’t my fault — it was Bowring’s.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, the man I’m in business with.”

“But you said Bowring — what Bowring are you in business with? And what have you got to do with business anyhow, eh? Isn’t your Fellowship enough for you?”

“Well, you see, chemistry’s my line.”

“Ho! Yes!” said Lord Taylor, recovering his louder tone again and digging a thumb into the neighbouring ribs. “Transmutation of metals, eh?” and he laughed again. “But you don’t mean Bowring the curiosity shop man that’s been going in for gold plate lately?”

Lord Taylor felt a sudden jerk on his arm, and looked round surprised. Mr. Lexington had jumped.

“Did I say Bowring?”

“Yes, you did. Was it indiscreet?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lexington recklessly. “I hardly know what I’m saying to-night.”

Lord Taylor lowered his voice and walked rather more slowly.

“You ought not to get mixed up with Bowring, my dear boy. I’ve nothing against Bowring, of course; we mustn’t say anything without evidence, eh? … But still, you learned men don’t go in for sharp practice, and you have to be pretty careful, you know. We bankers hear things.”

“What have you heard?” almost whispered Mr. Lexington, thickly. He was so moved that he had checked the old man’s stride, but Lord Taylor kept his arm firmly linked.

“We’ll talk about it when we’ve washed and begun eating,” he said. “Come in.”

It was barely eight when they sat down to table. There was no one but they two at the large handsome board. During dinner, with the servants in and out, they talked of indifferent things. But when coffee had been served and they were alone, Lord Taylor unburdened his mind.

“Don’t have anything to do with Bowring, my boy,” he said, shaking his head. “I say again, I’ve got nothing against him. But you see, St. Olaf’s is not the place for hearing about such things. Remember what Cecil Rhodes said — not that I ever thought anything of Cecil Rhodes — but if he did say it he said one true thing in his life. You Dons, he said, are children in these matters” — and he wagged his head again.

“What have you heard against Bowring, Lord Taylor?” asked Lexington again.

“Nothing, I tell you, nothing,” grumbled the solid peer. “Or rather, we bankers do hear things. But we don’t believe anything we hear, and only half what we see.”

“Lord Taylor, now I’ve gone so far I might as well tell you everything frankly and fully. I’m working as a partner of Bowring’s. And the reason I ask you is because I fear I have reason to … not quite … not quite to …” (he looked over his shoulder) “not quite to trust him.”

There was a genial but subdued laugh from the man of millions.

“Not quite to trust him, eh? Well, that’s good! Now,” clasping his hands on the table and leaning forward and lowering his voice in his turn, “I’ll tell you, my boy, because there’s no one to hear us and I’m not going to let you be fleeced.” (How grateful was Lexington for this tone of considerate advice!) “Well, Bowring’s expanding. And it does look as though more stuff came out of that shop than went in.” The large old head wagged. “You see, there’s a check kept on bullion” (a sinking dread crept into Lexington’s heart) …”You and your transmutation of metals, eh?” If Lexington had been next to him instead of round the corner of the big table, he would have dug him in the ribs once more. “Well, there’s a rough check kept on bullion, and there’s such a thing as private inquiry, too. I ought to know something about it, since I put them on to getting back that collection of Saxon coins. And I tell you, there’s more coming out of that place than goes in. Some say it’s a back door business, some say it’s the smashers.”

“The what?”

“The receivers.” (A word whispered behind Lord Taylor’s hand.)

“Receivers — of what?”

“Oh, you young ass — stolen goods!”

“Oh, I swear it’s not that!” cried out Charles Lexington in agony. “Don’t believe it! Who could have told you so?”

“Hullo. You’re taking it very tragically, my dear boy! I didn’t say anything of the sort. God forbid I should traduce your partner. Bowring had nothing to do with those coins anyhow. I got them back in a week. They caught the man. He still had ’em. Common burglar. But, by the way, how come you to be a partner of Bowring’s, eh?”

A crux arose in the innocent mind of Charles Lexington. He had confessed to working with a man who was already in some way under suspicion. Now he could do this one thing — he could cut the knot. It was always better to do these things simply and straightforwardly. This very wealthy, powerful old friend was a worthy confidant, and a tower of strength in his trouble.

“You remember my lecture on the Transmutation of Metals?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Lord Taylor. “Wasn’t I in the Chair? It was all about knocking out the electron. Knock out the electron — or two or three of them, I forget how many — and there you are. Much easier than spending a lifetime watching the markets.”

There was silence while Lexington gathered his courage. Then he said, looking down at his plate:

“Well, I have made gold. Now do you understand?”

Lord Taylor ought to have gasped. Instead of that he choked, for he was no longer young.

“I have made gold,” repeated Lexington quietly. “Everybody in my profession will tell you that modern science possesses the elements of the problem; it is perfectly simple and perfectly clear. One man probably did actually do it, on a small scale, with the vapour of mercury. It has for some time been clear that at any moment someone might hit on the way to do it on a large scale, either with mercury or with one of the neighbouring metals in the list. And you see — I’ve done it. Yes; but I’ve kept it to myself — now do you understand why I am partner with Bowring?”

A change of mood passed over all the atmosphere of that grand room. The two men had passed into another world. Through the mind of the older one confused streams of apprehension and doubt mingled furiously. In the mind of the younger was an immense relief, as of one who has laid down a burden.

“There,” said Lexington, after the long silence that followed, “you have heard the whole truth.”

“My dear Lexington ….” The old man’s voice was thick and jerky. “My dear Charles … you cannot expect me …”

“Will you wait a moment whilst I get some things from my bag? I think I can convince you.”

Lord Taylor nodded; his face had set oddly. Lexington returned.

“Have you the gold with you there?” jerked out old Taylor with difficulty.

“No. Only lead” (opening a little sack of shredded metal) “and this crucible here; and … Where’s the plug for power?”

“Behind you, Charles; just behind you; near the sideboard, Charles; below that electric heater. Bless my soul …!”

The lead was dropped into the crucible where it stood upon an upturned plate with its guarded small furnace attached. The heat was turned on. The lead melted. There came a rattle at the handle of the door.

“Wait a moment!” (from the master of the house). “Wait, till I ring! Bolt it, Charles!”

There was no further interruption. Lexington took out his purse, took a wisp of paper from it, unscrewed it and showed a pinch of brown powder, which looked to Lord Taylor like so much snuff. Lexington shook it into the now liquid mass of the metal — and all the while the old Banker watched in fascination.

The swift metamorphosis proceeded. The colours whorled and changed; the purple green passed subtly to a more yellowish green — then to a pure deep yellow; then to yellow touched with red. Lord Taylor heard the switch clicking as the current was turned off.

“Gold!” said Lexington.

But his old host hardly heard him. He had half risen from his chair. His aged hands dangled oddly before him in the air as though paralysed by some supernatural fear. His eyes stared out of a face turned quite white. Then he sank back, and stared at the younger man and the cooling liquid yellow mass alternately.

“Is it …? Is it …?” he said at last.

“Yes,” answered Lexington. “It is gold.”

The gold, now quite cold and turned out of the crucible, was safely locked away in the safe behind the panelling in Lord Taylor’s study at the back of the house.

The two men had sat talking for an hour. The elder had recovered his control — with an effort. The younger had easily been led on to talk and had told all: the arrangement with Bowring, the inadequacy of the terms. Yet how he was caught, because he had no means of marketing the gold. He asked for advice. As he talked Lord Taylor was attempting to arrange the chaos of his shaken mind. He was clear on the first step.

“I must put you up,” he said. “You’ve got your bag : what train do you catch in the morning?”

“9.10 at Paddington.”

“Don’t expect me to be down. I mustn’t get up too early these days. They’ll give you breakfast.” He rang the bell and ordered the Spanish room to be got ready. “What day do you come up again to see Bowring?”

“Tuesday, to-day week … if I see him at all.”

“Oh! Yes. You must see him. Come here first. I’ll have arranged something by that time. Come here at noon. Eh? Not a word to anyone in between … you understand?” He peered anxiously into Lexington’s candid, disturbed face. “That’s essential. Eh? These things are very delicate!”

Yes. Lexington understood. He affirmed, quite truly, that, except to this one old friend, he wouldn’t have spoken a word to a soul. He had only done so because he was in vital need of help and support. Yes. He understood the peril. But he knew where he was safe.

Lord Taylor, almost reverently, led the way upstairs and showed his guest his room. He shook hands to say good night, and as he did so Lexington noticed that the old hand still trembled.

CHAPTER VII

LEXINGTON WENT BACK westwards by the morning express. He found travelling first class was less luxurious, for some reason, than it had been the day before. He had read in books that when a man’s income rises he gets sadly familiar with the new glories of his state and takes them as much for granted as the old discomfort. It seemed a pity. Perhaps by the time he had bought a really good motor-car and a man to run it, he might take a more permanent pleasure in wealth.

He was out of sorts. These violent scenes never did suit him. He had not had more than a couple of others in his life, and each time they had made him ill. Perhaps he had drunk a little too much champagne the night before at Lord Taylor’s. Anyhow, he was not himself. He kept mixing up the days of the week as he made his plans. He could not concentrate on his paper. And when he got back to his hotel he felt unaccountably fatigued. Yet he had done no work. It was the first vacation in which he had ever taken a complete rest from work. He had not even brought a textbook with him. He had drafted no notes for the lectures of the next term.

Without so much as taking off his overcoat, the first thing he did was to verify that everything was all right. He turned the key in the little padlocked sack and groped within for the crystalline cylindrical shape upon which his fortunes depended. He did not seem to find it. It had not got in among the two soft shirts. He plunged in farther. Nothing harder than linen met him except his account book, which he knew was there, which none the less he pulled out, with no particular object except to make sure of it. He rummaged round thoroughly.

He felt himself taken with an odd faint feeling; the cylinder had gone! … Ye gods!

He sank back into a chair to try to collect his thoughts.

The first thing to do was to follow step by step backwards — to-day was Thursday … No, Wednesday … It seemed such a long time since he had left that room, but it was not yet twenty-four hours … Yes, certainly. There was only that one night in between, at Lord Taylor’s … It was Wednesday … Not Thursday … He had had that trouble before in the train … He carried his mind back through every moment … not too distinctly … breakfast, his going to bed in Taylor’s house, even the pyjamas he had been lent, and the tip he had given the man… The crucible … dinner … the meeting before in the street … the violent scene with Bowring. Yes … that was it! He must have slipped the cylinder for greater security into the inner breast-pocket of his greatcoat pocket, and forgotten he had done so. He gave a nervous clutch at it, for he was still wearing it.

There was nothing there. He felt rapidly in the other pockets. There was nothing.

Then he tried to piece together carefully everything he had done from the moment of his beginning his manufacture the day before. He remembered very vividly the extra weight of material, the determination to produce the maximum his crucible would take; he remembered the angry mood in which he had done it, his telephoning, how he had ordered the motor to take him to the junction; but of any gesture, instinctive or deliberate, for the putting away of the cylinder he could remember nothing. It had gone.

Fool that he was not to have analysed the stuff the first day it had been put into his hand! Fool that he was not to have discovered for himself, if it were possible, how that substance had been brought into being. Any material could be analysed at last, and if you can analyse the chances are that you can put together again. As it was, he was in the dark, with nothing to guide him. And if the cylinder were really lost … Yes, he had been a fool!

And he had been a fool in another thing. All this would never have happened if he had not let his temper get the better of him and his anger against Bowring fill the whole of his mind when he was setting out on that journey to London the day before. He had let himself get so flustered that he had not known what he was doing. He might have put the stuff down anywhere. He might have held it in his hand as he went out. He might have left it in the motor — well, that was a chance : it was likely enough.

He clattered down the stairs to the telephone box in the hall, looked up the number of the garage, and had just taken off the receiver to make the call when, shifting a foot, he felt something under it. There was no light in the box. It stood in an inconvenient dark corner. Still holding the receiver he stooped down, felt with his hand on the dusty oilcloth, and came on an object there was no mistaking, even in that half light. The feel was too familiar. It was the missing cylinder. He must have had it in his hand and dropped it when he was telephoning the day before.

No more question of telephoning now! He brought it out into the light with trembling hands. It was upon this he had trodden! He struck a match, and carefully wrapped the sacred thing in his handkerchief, grasped the corners of the handkerchief closely together, and went back almost stealthily to his room. No one could have known what he had found, but secrecy had made a sort of guilt of it.

He breathed again as he sank (this time with relief) into his chair — but he locked the door before he did so.

He realized for the first time into what a physical crisis this adventure had thrown him. His heart was still beating violently. He could look now at his leisure upon the cylinder, and see if there had been any damage done.

The stuff lay there still unbroken.

When he had calmed down his thoughts took shape, and he flattered himself that they were the height of good sense. He had had his warning. He might have lost the irreplaceable magic thing for ever, and who knows that in the future it might not be lost again, and that time not be recovered? He had been too greedy. In his haste to make the metal he had postponed experiment. He must proceed at once to what he ought to have done all those weeks before; he must analyse the stuff and make certain what it was. All that was needed was to know the elements and their proportion.

He would take a walk and think matters over. It would clear his brain. But one thing was certain. He would never leave that treasure out of his sight again. He would sleep with it; he would have it on his person; it should be under his hand every hour of his waking day — until he was sure of the formula for reconstructing the material at will.

Wait a moment! Since he was for walking, why not use the solitude? One never knew what might happen; and it was a risk to do the thing indoors. He would take the first step — Barlow’s test — in the open; in some place where there was plenty of elbow-room and no one about. Barlow’s test applied to most things, and it was simple. That was why it had come into a dozen domestic uses since it was put upon the market. It needed no more than a bit of flex which he could buy, with a switch, at the shop in the High Street, a little pocket battery and a Barlow Dial, always supposing they had a Barlow Set with the clips and the retainer. Most shops kept all that since the use of it for testing drinking water supply.

He was not disappointed. The little shop had a Barlow Set all right. He bought it, pocketed it and set forth.

The day was still fine., though there were distant wisps of rain cloud, and there was thunder in the air, for it was already April. He hesitated whether he should take his umbrella, or not; he decided to leave it behind. Even if rain did fall, it would only be a shower.

He made his way towards a large wood in which he had often walked during these lonely days of his seclusion. There was a place he knew where he could meditate freely. It was on the edge of the undergrowth, looking south over an empty ploughed field.

There he sat him down on the grass of the bank and bringing out the Mystery Cylinder, laid it carefully in the open handkerchief upon the soil at his feet. He brought out his pipe, lit it, and meditated on his problem.

He had read enough of the rigmarole in the old books to know that they always hinted at sulphur as the basis of their mysterious reagent. But it was not to be sulphur such as “our sulphur”; it was to be what they called “nobler” or “purer.” What did that mean?

There it lay, holding its secret, dumb. How familiar he was with it! Yet how should he unlock its secret — with what key? He would have to go carefully. The combination might be unstable — perhaps that was why no trace of such a thing had remained from the discoveries of the ancients — for that they had made such discoveries he now knew sure enough.

He took out the apparatus which would give him his first test. He kneeled down to clamp the two clips of Barlow’s Set on either side of the brown crystalline cylinder above the retainer. He screwed the two wires to the pocket battery. He stood up, allowing a good length of flex, and held the metre in one hand, with his finger on the switch to complete the circuit while he watched the dial. Now!

The switch clicked : but no man heard that click. For in the same instant there was an explosion so violent that the world seemed ended. The universe was filled with thunders and the unfortunate Lexington was hurled into darkness, with his very inmost being blasted and stunned into nothingness.

How long he lay there unconscious he never knew, and there was none to tell. When he groped back to consciousness he gradually discovered that he had been blown backwards, badly bruised, against the bole of the tree behind him, and he found himself sitting and staring there, his head still ringing with the tremendous noise.

He had wondered whether the combination were unstable. He had had his answer.

A very faint yellow cloud, drifting away and upwards rapidly under the light wind, was all that remained : that, and, on the ground, the charred ashes of a handkerchief, the smashed battery, and the blackened and twisted plates at the end of the flex of the cylinder not even a dust remained.

Yes, the combination of the old alchemists had been in unstable equilibrium. No doubt at all. And, meanwhile, its lack of balance had nearly destroyed a valuable scientist, and had altogether destroyed his prospects of fortune once and for all.

The consequences of the disaster very slowly filtered into the dazed mind of the unhappy man. He was still suffering so much from that formidable jar that his thoughts were in a jumble, and inconsequent portions of them thrust out in zigzags. Had that enormous noise been heard? Would they take him for a poacher? Would they put it down to a farmer’s gun after rooks? Yes, please God! That would prevent any questions being asked. He must not leave the fragments of the handkerchief there. He stooped painfully down and picked them up, coiled the flex round the remains of the battery, and thrust the whole, with the little dial, into his pocket.

He was relieved to note as he straightened himself, slowly — for he had been badly bruised and his ears were singing — that the catastrophe had left no very marked effect upon the ground. A scrap or two of ash where his handkerchief had burned, and a little blackened grass, as though someone had made a small fire there a week or two before, but nothing more. Then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps some poor fragment might remain. He was on his knees groaning at the difficulty of it and peering every-where. There was not a sign. The thing had gone utterly, and for ever. All had utterly disappeared.

Whereupon there rushed into his mind like a river flood what, had he been less shaken, would have come first — he was utterly, irretrievably, finally ruined. Of that there could be no doubt. All that he had made so sure of in his life, and all that he had come to take for granted had vanished with that tenuous, half perceptible yellow smoke, and there he was once more, no longer the Master of Gold, but the distinguished Mr. Lexington of St. Olaf’s, carrying on at about £1,200 a year; enough for one but hardly enough for two. Such he would remain, until, under the new regulations, he was superannuated into a red brick villa suburban to the University. It was all up.

In any other occasion whatsoever, I think he, being still so well on the right side of forty, would have summoned his reserves of energy and told himself that this would never do and that something must be done. But the case was peculiar. There was nothing to be done. And so far from the situation not doing, it had a completeness rarely rivalled and never equalled.

As he limped back towards the path and began to recover something of his flexibility of limb, another appalling thing which had not yet reached his consciousness began to come to the surface of it and flood him for the second time with dismay.

How should he deal with Bowring? He had just provoked a quarrel. He had made any explanation even more difficult than it would have been anyhow : yet an explanation there would have to be.

It was Wednesday. He had six days before him. Next Tuesday he was due back again in London with his half-egg … but there — it would not bear thinking of! The other golden half-eggs were lost for ever, but the goose remained alive to drag out the weary years : for he was the goose.

Then came a third wave of discovery. He would have some pretty big bills to meet. It was a minor point, but minor points stand out very distinctly in these tragedies, as everyone knows who has suffered acutely.

Since his good fortune, Lexington had lived, as the newly-enriched very naturally do, to the limit of his pleasantly expanded resources; there would be no nugget next week, and no corresponding notes! He had increased his balance, but he had also picked up in his weekly visits to London a few charming little articles of the sort he favoured, notably some beautiful china and some old furniture which he had fancied; much had already been sent on to his rooms in College. He had got himself — it was, after all, something to show for the dead past — as good a chronometer as money could buy. As for the motor he had been going to set up and on which he had half engaged himself, he hoped to be able to get out of that. And damn! There was that new flat he had looked at in Mayfair for whenever he might run up to town, Entry fell due a short two months hence, and the premium was £200 — oh, triple damn!

He began a brief calculation in his head as he reached the edge of the wood, and turned into the high road to the little town. Counting the probable hotel bill, roughly estimating the bill of the local garage, considering the nice old furniture, washing out the possibly escapable motor, allowing for coming out handsomely out of breach of contract over the flat, he still saw about £400 on the wrong side of the account, and a reserve of less than £200 on the right side. He might still humble himself to claim his half of the last lump which he had so contemptuously banged down on Bowring’s table as a trifle. But even if he sank to that, it was not enough.

He entered his rooms, he solemnly brought out his little crucible, to gaze on it as on the relic of a dead past. He could have wept. He sighed deeply and considered what letter he should write to the man of whom he had made an enemy.

He wrote six drafts of letters, and tore them up one after the other. He put it off till the morrow. On the morrow, the Thursday, he wrote two more, tore them up more slowly, and put it off till Friday. On Friday he took the week-end to think it over. And he recklessly snatched £10 out of his little hoard to pass the time by the sea. On Monday he would return, on Monday he would have to get back his courage and his thoughts would be clearer, and he would write the letter. Perhaps something could be saved from the wreck. After all, Bowring need never know. He might be kept in expectation; he might be led to let him into partnership. His plans were still vague, but at any rate he had the relief of postponement. And with that he went off to the coast.

And, meanwhile, in London the wheels he had set moving began to revolve.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEN LORD TAYLOR had sent young Mr. Lexington off to sleep in the carved Spanish sixteenth-century four-post bedstead, on that memorable night, he himself in his plain middle twentieth-century German bedstead (but with the Belgian sommeillier) did not sleep. He lay awake hour after hour, his old brain suddenly compelled to an unnatural alertness by the violence of the shock it had received : the enormity of the problem proposed to it.

They could make gold! … They could make gold! … They could make gold! He had there next door, in his power, the Man who could make Gold! What if that power were used?

Once more, but in a less confused sequence, the results of this revolution passed before him … all the markets of the world rocking … the scream for a universal moratorium … chaos … fiat money at a moment’s notice everywhere … more chaos…. The world shipwrecked… How could they catch the wild animal that had escaped? … Ruin, Ruin, Ruin everywhere … and, my God! what a chance for Moscow!

He was broad awake in a fever.

He switched on the electric light beside his bed, and took up the pencil and pad always kept by him and made a list of policies. For a moment he hesitated; he pulled out his watch from beneath his pillow; it was already two o’clock.

The man who could make gold was there, asleep, down that passage. The only man who could make gold…. He could be put out of action : checked any hour. Time would be gained.

He put out his hand for the alarm that rang in the room of his secretary, his bounden agent. He could give orders for Lexington to be locked into his room.

Now! Now, at once!

But his hand never touched the button, and it was as well.

No! All that was dangerous. He must go slow. He couldn’t keep the young man locked up for ever. And Lexington only had to deny the whole thing. Bowring would trace his partner. There’d be an action even after he’d let Lexington go: so there would be if he kidnapped him. The moment you had the possibility of an action in a Court of Law you could not completely control the consequences — not even nowadays.

In the third hour his tortured mind cooled a little and there stood out prominently in it one immediate necessity: he must see the Home Secretary privately on the morrow and have the first steps taken. An Order in Council forbidding movement of gold in any form … a return of all coined gold in the country to be made at once and an inventory of gold objects.

Then a new thought came to him. Was it safe to see the Home Secretary? A thing of that magnitude! If there was the slightest leakage! A servant coming into the room and hearing even a few words, a politician talking in his most intimate circle … one never knew : and one word — one single word — would set the ball rolling!

No, to see the Home Secretary should not be his first step.

Should he first tell his principal colleague at the bank? No! That was a worse danger of publicity still.

Sleep was coming upon him just as four o’clock struck from Big Ben, clearly heard through the complete silence over the intervening mile. His belated sleep was coming upon him because he had reached a solution. There was a means by which he could keep the great secret still concealed as ever, and at the same time not let it run to waste in the hands of those who surely could not know how to use it. He, his drowsy mind assured him, he himself had all the organization needed for handling gold and for concealing its origin, even though it were produced on a serious scale. He must go to Bowring, he must insist on partnership.

By the time he had reached that sensible and honourable conclusion he was asleep; and he dreamed a good dream of riches increasing tenfold, and of such power over the bullion market as no man had ever had before.

The next day (just as Lexington, far off in the west, having reached his hotel, had first missed and then found the invaluable cylinder), Lord Taylor was waking, very tardily. He dressed; he had breakfast at the hour at which he usually took his lunch, and he gave time for Bowring, who might be lunching at his club, to return to his place of business. About three o’clock (at the same hour in which Lexington was walking to the wood for his first experiment), Lord Taylor came to the antiquary’s famous little shop with its bow windows and its lovely pieces of art behind the slightly coloured curved panes.

Bowring and he were fairly well known to each other, not only from purchases the banker had made, but from meeting once or twice in the houses of common friends. Lord Taylor was cordially greeted. He acted as a man of leisure should act in such a place, handling and praising a few of the finer things before him.

He took up the little statuette which had been the beginning of Lexington’s quarrel the day before, admired it, guessed its age aright; he touched the sail of the little model ship apparently of pure gold, and asked its age.

“It’s just been made,” said Bowring.

Lord Taylor looked at it curiously, and still felt that little sail.

“Take care you don’t bend it,” said Bowring.

“It feels like fine gold,” said Lord Taylor. “Has it got the regular proportion of alloy?”

“I think so,” said Bowring shortly. “But it’s very thin, of course.”

Lord Taylor took up the delicate model and began to turn it upside down to look for the hallmark.

“Take care,” said Bowring. He tried to show no anxiety in his voice, and somehow succeeded.

“In your business,” said Lord Taylor, putting down the little ship (whose hall-mark he had verified) “one has to use gold of different degrees of fineness, I suppose?”

“Not as a rule,” said Bowring, still more shortly. He was trying to make it clear that he did not propose to be catechized.

Lord Taylor sat down, without being asked, said it was a fine spring day, and then began the main business abruptly. He flattered himself he had got his host in an alert mood and prepared the way for what was to come. He was mistaken.

“Bowring,” he said suddenly to the short, strong, obstinate figure before him, “I’ve come to talk to you about Lexington.”

Bowring nodded.

“He’s a sort of partner of yours, isn’t he?”

“No. Why should he be?”

“Well, I mean, he comes in here.”

“So do you, Lord Taylor.”

“Yes, but you’ve known him many years, haven’t you?”

“If you mean, is he a younger friend of mine of long standing, and was my father a great friend of his father, you are right. But you knew all that, Lord Taylor. You didn’t come here to tell me that.”

Lord Taylor put on the expression which he used in earlier days as manager of the Manchester Branch, when he had to speak gravely about an important client’s overdraft, and yet arrange for making it larger still lest he should lose it all.

“Oh, yes, I knew all that,” he said, “But I want to talk to you about something very grave. I feel myself a sort of guardian to Lexington. It’s more or less my duty to look after him, you know. I had to look after the little insurance, the debts, after his father died. And really, Bowring, to make a long story short, the point is this. I think I ought to be in with both of you on this business.”

“What business?” said Bowring.

“I should only want a small proportion,” went on the banker, as though Bowring had not spoken. “Quite small — say a third. And pretty well on any terms you like. But I have facilities for dealing with the stuff on a large scale, you know: such as you will never have — and I think, for Lexington’s sake, I ought to be in with you both. I took the Chair,” he added, rather pompously, “at that lecture — you remember his lecture?”

“No,” said Bowring, lying. “What lecture?”

“Transmutation of metals.”

Bowring smiled, with a slight sneer.

“Oh,” he said. “And do you think Lexington is going to transmute metals? What metals?”

But even as he talked his mind was racing, and had reached its conclusions. This silly old fool Taylor had been impressed by that lecture, and had some vague idea that some day it might come to something. He had heard about Lexington coming to his shop, and to his house. The banks know everything. Old Taylor wanted to forestall some possible discovery. Well, Bowring had only to stand pat and admit nothing.

“I put it to you again,” said Lord Taylor, rising, as though to go out — a gesture he had found successful enough under other conditions of bargaining. “I put it to you for the last time. Any reasonable proportion — say a third — only I do think it’s my duty to be in with you both — for Lexington’s sake.”

Bowring spoke in a new tone of voice, quietly and more courteously.

“Sit down again, Lord Taylor, I beg of you,” he said. And Lord Taylor sat down, but impatiently.

“When I started this business,” continued Bowring, “I was jealous of my independence. I happen to be one of those men who can’t bear complications and the mixing up of other people in their private affairs. I never made more of this shop than a hobby — though it’s a pleasing one; I want to be good at my hobby, of course, everybody does. Maybe I’ve expanded the business a little more than I meant to. Anyhow, it’ll never be much of a thing. I certainly should never take a young man like Lexington into it. You may set your mind at rest on that score. But you must excuse me if I can’t even consider a flattering proposal for new capital coming from a man like yourself.”

“I said nothing about new capital,” broke in Lord Taylor. For forty years he had been on guard against such cool assumptions, and he butted them away the moment they nuzzled in the tips of their noses.

“No! No! Of course not,” went on Bowring courteously. “I didn’t mean to say you had. I should rather have said that even if you proposed new capital it would be of no use to me. You understand me? It’s quite plain. This is a one man show, and it’s got to remain a one man show. Otherwise all my pleasure in the little affair of buying and selling these toys” — he made a little gesture towards his wares— “would be gone. You mustn’t be angry with me. Now I’ve told you exactly what’s in my mind.”

But Lord Taylor was angry, and he could not conceal his anger.

“Very well,” he said, rising for the second time, and taking up his hat and gloves and stick from the table where he had laid them. “Very well, Mr. Bowring! Very well! You think you can bluff me? You’re not the first man who’s thought that! You think I don’t know what Lexington provides you with!”

Mr. Bowring shrugged his shoulders slightly and smiled pityingly. His visitor was trembling with passion.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” he cried. He hesitated a moment at the door as though to add a threat. But he said no more than “Good morning,” and he walked out.

The brilliant sun of that April afternoon and its keen north — eastern air was on the London streets. Far off in the west the object of that little conversation was recovering, half stunned by the woodside, staring at the smoke of the explosion which had ended the new glories of his life.

The Home Secretary lived in a modest flat of the cheaper kind, part of a large and very ugly block of red brick buildings recently put up in one of the new quadrants of Westminster. His name, John Huggerley Mills, had been reduced through the exigencies of public life to Jack Mills, for he was a Communist of the more orthodox sort and had served the party faithfully for now twenty years : a Communist of the right wing. He had risen through his Trade Union by the regular steps, first as Secretary organizing the two great Strikes, then as unquestioned dictator of that great body of men who trusted him so thoroughly and whose trust he so thoroughly deserved. He was unmarried with no one dependent upon him but a nephew whom he had befriended, and who had just finished his course at the London University.

Jack Mills was as much respected by the larger world into which he had entered since his first election to Parliament as by the men of the great Trade Union of which he was the acknowledged head. He was worth, perhaps, £300,000 at the most — not very much for one of such ability to accumulate during full twenty years of active Parliamentary life. In character he had all that the great office he occupied demanded. Reticent, well balanced, with a good knowledge of men, he was the very type which our new political conditions are producing, to the permanent advantage of the country. In build he was a large man, with a flat, broad, rather pale face, full of self-control, small eyes set therein, and an expression that only an enemy would call cunning.

Of his origins he had kept no more than what decency demanded: the flat collar, the ready-made clothes, and, for use on popular occasions, the dialect of his native town. In private he had long talked ordinary English. Courtesy he had had from the first, and knowledge of the world he had acquired. He had also maintained, since each of our public men must have some distinguishing feature by which they shall be represented in the Press, the very thin but long pointed wax moustache on which he had been so unmercifully chaffed by his comrades in the workshop before his name had been known outside it.

Such was plain Jack Mills, of the maternal name of Huggerley (kept decently in the background). He was a man of whom we may be proud.

To his door, painfully toiling up the stone stairs (there was no lift) Lord Taylor came, within half an hour of leaving Bowring’s shop. He had walked there through Mayfair and down St. James’s, and across the Park, full of his purpose — a simple one. Since Bowring would not take the hint that had been given him, Lord Taylor’s duty was plain : he must inform the authorities; but he must do it with the discretion the occasion demanded.

In the natural course of things he knew Mills better than he knew Bowring. It was his business to be in touch with the administration. And Mills, whether in office or in opposition, had been an acquaintance of his, and almost a friend, from the first years in which the statesman’s public life had begun.

He was shown into a well-appointed sitting-room filled with books, where, at a great mahogany desk covered with papers and having a handbell upon it, a telephone and the rest, Mills was working. He rose to greet the old banker as he entered. Taylor noted the double doors with approval; waited till he heard both the inner arid the outer door shut, and then, in a voice which he carefully kept to a low tone, told him at once the reason for which he had called.

“Mills,” he said, “you’re a busy man and so am I, and I won’t beat about the bush. But you must prepare yourself for something rather startling.” He made a deliberate pause. Mills’ large face and receptive little eyes were trained full and unmovedly upon the banker.

“Yes?” he said. And as he said it he put his hands with their fingers together upon the table and listened for what was to come.

“You know all the talk there’s been for years about the changing of metals one into another, and all that sort of scientific palaver?”

Mills nodded. He was well abreast of the times.

“Electrons and all that,” said Taylor vaguely.

Mills nodded again. “Electrons,” he murmured.

“Well, Mills,” said Taylor, sinking back in his chair rather easily, to be the more impressive, and lowering his voice by yet another note. “They’ve done it!”

“Done what?” said Mills, with no emphasis. “Some chemical drug or other?”

“They have made gold.”

There was a silence that lasted a good minute. Mills was careful not to break it, and Taylor was compelled to resume.

“You know what that means?”

Mills nodded. “More or less,” he said.

“It’s the duty of the Government” (and as he said the word “duty” the old man leaned forward and struck upon the table slightly with his fist), “it’s the duty of the Government to act — at once!”

Mills waited again a long time before replying; but Taylor was determined he should speak next. At last he did so, very slowly.

“Taylor,” he said, “excuse my sending for my secretary. I won’t say anything before him — you needn’t be afraid of that. You’ll have to see him a good deal perhaps in the future, I don’t know … but I may as well tell you who he is. Perhaps you know him.”

“I know who he is, of course,” said Taylor. “Young Hammersham, old Lord Hammersham’s grandson. We both remember old Lord Hammersham, when you were young and I wasn’t so old as I am now, don’t we? The Hammersham who was at the Foreign Office.”

Mills nodded again.

“That’s him,” he said. “He hasn’t got anything yet. I won’t let him go into the House. Maybe that will come later. I don’t know. But he’s wonderfully useful. It will be time enough to see about getting him on later.”

He rang the handbell.

“Would you ask Mr. Hammersham to step in,” he said.

The two doors were shut again one after the other after a ritual which Lord Taylor was pleased to see so regularly observed. They opened again in a moment, and were shut again as carefully as before, when Hammersham entered.

“Mr. Hammersham,” said Mills — and Lord Taylor noted the Mr.— “would you be kind enough to bring me that folder marked LL/2 — the one on Lexington’s Lecture, you know.”

Hammersham went out and returned with it in a few minutes.

“Thank you, Mr. Hammersham, that will do,” said his Chief; and the young man disappeared again. Hammersham had said nothing; the whole thing had been automatic, businesslike, rapid.

“I’ve got it here,” said Mills, opening the folder and turning one page after another. “After that lecture was given on the transmutation of metals I had all the notes made and all the inquiries. I’ve got the full dossier here.” Lord Taylor noted the word “dossier.”

“You can act at once?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Mills, shutting the cover of the folder. “But wait a moment. I want to explain matters to you. I have thought of all this a good deal. Ever since that lecture was given, when you took the Chair. I was not there, but I read it myself fully, and I heard all the talk about it, and I’ve got all the material together here. Hammersham arranged it for me. Now … wait a moment” (for Lord Taylor was about to speak) “I’ll tell you what the arguments are against any immediate action, and perhaps against any action at all. We could legislate for this country. We can’t legislate for anyone else.” Taylor admitted the truism with a nod. “We can’t legislate for the Dominions; and they produce gold, mind you, and we don’t. We can’t legislate for the United States. We can’t legislate for any of the countries of Europe. It would need very careful and very secret negotiations before any common action could be taken, and in that negotiation there would be the danger of leakage.” He spoke as unconcernedly as though he were dealing with some petty business of detective work at Scotland Yard. He didn’t allow the tremendous news to alter a muscle of his big, pallid face. He was looking full at Lord Taylor again.

“I don’t see what else you can do except issue an order immediately,” the banker said stolidly. “They may begin putting their gold on the market any minute. They may be doing it now.” He had come with an object; to get something done and checkmate Bowring. He did not like to be put off.

“The first thing to be done,” went on Mills unperturbed, “is to get hold of … shall we call him the culprit? It’s Lexington, I take it, of course?”

“Now, look here, Mills,” broke in Taylor with decision, “you may as well know the whole truth. It is Lexington, of course. He has done the trick. But what is worse is, that he’s negotiating the stuff. He’s already found his market. Shall I tell you who he’s working with … Bowring — the man with the little shop in Mayfair. You know?”

“I ought to have guessed it. Thank you for telling me,” and Mills wrote the name in pencil on a slip of paper and thrust it into the folder.

“What do you propose to do?” asked Taylor.

“What I said,” said Mills. “Get hold of the culprit — who is, as you have told me and as I suspected, Lexington. There are ways,” he added, with slightly rising voice, full of determination, “of making a man do what he’s told. There’s no man about whom enough is not known to make sure of that.” And with the last words he pressed his lips firmly together.

“I know of nothing Lexington has ever done …” began Lord Taylor helplessly.

“No, neither do I,” answered Mills. “But the Department will know. We’ve got everybody card-indexed. And if there’s nothing, the Department can produce something just the same. It’s what they are there for. We can make that young man keep his mouth shut, or put him where they’ll keep it shut for twenty years.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Lord Taylor, anxiously.

“Quite sure,” replied Mills.

“You don’t propose to do anything then?”

“You mean, anything public? No. It would be a mistake. You won’t notice anything, Taylor,” he said, almost kindly, “and the public won’t notice anything. That’s my whole object. But you can be sure of one thing. You can test the result, negatively, and you’ll find that no one knows, except us two — and Bowring — and you’ll find there’s no sort of movement in markets. I’ll see to that. Do you trust me?”

“Oh, yes, I trust you,” said Lord Taylor. But he was disappointed. He wanted his Order in Council.

He rose to go. “I suppose you know best, Mills!” he said. He had longed for the pleasure of putting pressure upon Bowring and for letting Bowring know that he had done it. It was only a personal point, and in his heart he felt a little ashamed of it. But after all, Mills had all the official power in this particular matter. It passed through Lord Taylor’s mind that four human beings possessed of such a secret was too great a number. He almost wished he had taken more time to think it over and had not been moved to such haste in his anger at Bowring’s refusal — but it was too late now.

“Very well, Mills,” he said. “I leave it to you.”

“I think you do right,” said Mills. “Honestly I do. Watch the result, and as I’ve said, you won’t be disappointed.”

He showed the banker through the double doors and took him to the landing of the stair; they talked for a moment of indifferent things, each in a voice calculated for any servant who might be listening to hear; and the interview was at an end.

CHAPTER IX

THE HOME SECRETARY was a man of method. He walked to his window, stood back a little from it, waited till he saw old Taylor pass out of the street door of the flats, noticed that he was on foot and that he turned to the left as though making for the Houses of Parliament. The Cotton Bill was on, and he had heard that Taylor would speak on it. He looked at his watch. His late guest was safe within the walls of the House till dinner time at least. Taylor would miss nothing of the Cotton debate, he was sure of that. It had been his main interest hitherto for weeks. He gave time for the coast to be clear, then walked out himself, took a taxi, and drove straight to Bowring’s shop. There would still be an hour before it shut.

At the moment when Mills was passing out of the front door of the flats into the street Hammersham, in his turn, was watching at the window. He went down to the door at once. He saw Mills take the taxi. He took another himself and bade the driver follow Mills; but when the Home Secretary’s taxi turned down Percy Street he had his own taxi driven not to Bowring’s shop, but to the corner, one hundred yards on this side of it, whence anyone going in or out of the shop could be seen.

Jack Mills had had no occasion in his life to buy plate, whether of gold or silver. It was not consistent with his position to buy plate. He could have afforded a little collection, and being a man of taste he would, no doubt, put together a collection later on. But he had never had anything on his table as yet or in his surroundings anywhere which could cause the enemy to blaspheme. So long as he was plain Jack Mills, the spokesman of his toiling fellows in the Trade Union which he was still proud to govern, he must remain what he had been.

The more surprised ought Bowring to have been to see him coming in at that late hour — for certainly Mills would not have come to buy.

But surprised Bowring was not. Ever since the banker had left him in that strained atmosphere of suppressed anger he had known what to expect. Taylor would go to the Home Office. He did not think the intervention of the Home Office would take quite this form; he had thought to get a message, possibly, summoning him to the Home Secretary’s private room in the House of Commons, where great things happen; more likely he might be asked to dine with him somewhere. Things had turned out otherwise; they were moving more rapidly than he had imagined. At any rate, here was the man whom he knew he would have to face sooner or later, and for facing whom he had prepared himself since his plain and open refusal of Taylor’s proposal an hour or two before. Taylor had carried out his implied threat.

“Mr. Bowring,” said the Home Secretary, with a smile, as his large frame occupied the entry to the little shop, “I ought perhaps to have written to you first, before coming; but the truth is, I have had a great many things to do to-day, and I didn’t know when I could get away. I found just this half hour free, so I took a taxi and came to see you on two things I have had in my mind for some time — things it is easier to discuss by word of mouth than to write about. May I put them before you now?”

“By all means,” said Bowring heartily. “I’m quite free. Tell me whether I can be of service. Is it anything you want me to do? It’s a long time since we met — at dinner at Mrs. Guntry’s last, wasn’t it? — more than a month ago. I remember you told me then that story of the Taylor case, and how they traced the man who had taken the collection of coins from the house. It was very interesting. Is it something of that sort you’ve come to see me about? Oh, won’t you sit down?”

“No,” said Mills. “It isn’t anything of that sort” (leaning familiarly over the table as towards a friend). “No, it’s just two things I’ve had in mind, on both of which you really could be most useful to me; only I don’t want to trouble you; I only want to suggest them, and see what you may have to say.”

“Pray tell me,” said Bowring. “Pray tell me,” and he leaned back.

“Well,” said Mills, with a slight laugh, as little restrained as he could manage, “they are quite different things. One is quite private, and a mere family point, and I’ll come to that first. You know my nephew?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve met him,” said Bowring. “I saw him only last week, when I went down for a week-end to Laversham. I hope you won’t think me familiar if I congratulate you upon him. He told me he’d just taken his degree. And I told him how sensible he was to have done his work in London.”

“So I thought,” said Mills, “when I sent him there. If he is going in for any particular branch which really interests him he gets a better chance in Gower Street than he would at Oxford or Cambridge, and I like them to begin young. I began young myself,” he added, with that slight laugh again. He loved to make these allusions to his career.

“And you have gone far,” said Bowring.

“Well, now, look here, Mr. Bowring, this is the point. I thought to myself that it would be an excellent opening for my nephew if by any chance you could make a place for him in your business. I know it’s sudden of me to be breaking out like this, but then I’m afraid I’m like that. I do things when they occur to me; and when the lad was talking to me this morning, before I went down to the House, about what he wanted to do, he showed such interest in all that kind of thing, and it was so mixed up with what I had intended him to go in for that I could not help thinking there was something in his ideas. He might, of course, now that he’s got a good degree and plenty of backing, have taken the Civil Service side; but he’s young for that, Mr. Bowring, he’s young for that, if you take me. He’s got the idea of making his own way; I suppose it’s inheriting my blood does it,” and he laughed a third time.

Bowring sighed, but said nothing.

“It’s a lad that won’t be content with a safe berth and a salary slightly rising and perhaps a knighthood” (another laugh) “at fifty. He might do anything. Some lads with no father and an uncle in my position would just do nothing. But he’s not like that.”

“No,” said Bowring.

“And if he does go into business, I really do think you are the very man to help him. We both trust you. And you know how entirely I trust and respect you, Mr. Bowring. We all do. There’s no man in England who would make more difference to my nephew. I mean to start him. We should not quarrel about terms. You have a right to ask a good premium, or, if you like, I could bring in some new capital.”

He saw the strong head opposed to him shake a negative.

“Well! Well! It’s not a question of figures, is it? Something would have to be named. And if you don’t want capital put in, or a premium — why, anything you like. I might just put business in your way. But I would like to see the boy here.” He looked round the shop. “It’s only an idea, Mr. Bowring. But I’ve had this in mind for some time.” He paused and looked straight into the other’s eyes, who returned the gaze as steadfastly but without challenge. “Do you know what put it into my head, Mr. Bowring.”

“No,” said Mr. Bowring.

“Why” (the laugh came a fifth time, rather nervously), “why, it was that young Don, Mr. Lexington. I call him young, because he is young compared with you and me, eh?” And there was a sixth laugh.

“Yes, he is young, compared with you and me,” admitted Bowring. “I like him. His father was a very old friend of my family.”

“Yes, exactly. I like him too.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Oh, only once or twice” (seventh slight laugh). “When they gave me the Honorary Degree last summer — and I was proud of that, you may believe! — and then after that, at the University match. And once or twice since then. Yes, he’s a good fellow, is Lexington. Of course, I know how much you are together. The fact is, Mr. Bowring, I thought that you and he were some sort of partners?”

A strong head shake again in denial.

“Well, well, I know nothing of that, but of course, he comes here a good deal, and to your house too. That’s why I thought so…. By the way, Mr. Bowring, did you read that really remarkable lecture of his, that very remarkable lecture … I mean the one on the Transmutation of Metals?”

“No,” said Bowring, “I did not. But he told me about it. He’s rather fond of that nonsense.”

“You think it’s nonsense, do you, Mr. Bowring?” said the Home Secretary in a musing tone.

“Yes,” said Bowring sturdily. “It seems to me pure nonsense.”

“You don’t believe in electrons, Mr. Bowring?” (eighth slight laugh).

“I don’t believe and I don’t disbelieve, and I don’t care. But I am quite sure that in practice, whatever the theory may be, metals will go on as they have always done. Metals will be metals, you know. Stubborn things!”

“Well, I am not so sure.” Mr. Mills was now talking quite loudly, and in so cheerful a manner that it was most impressive to hear him. “I am not, Mr. Bowring. Not at all sure…. Modern science is a wonderful thing. I have always said it, and I always shall. You never know what will come next. No, I am not at all sure” and he wagged his head, “not at all sure. In fact, I have talked to a good many people about it, Mr. Bowring. You deal in the precious metals …” he said, and he toyed for a moment with the statuette on the table. “No one knows more about it than you. We can all come to you in this matter, Mr. Bowring … and that brings me to my second point … nothing to do with my first, of course, but I am a busy man, as you know, and I’ve only got this time. It’s a public matter this time … and you’re just the man whose opinion I want. I tell you, Mr. Bowring, I believe there is something in that scientific talk of theirs, and I am wondering whether we — the Government I mean — ought to forestall it? I have been wondering whether it would not be wise to have a short Bill which would give the Government full control over any attempt at this changing of metals and all the rest of it. Why, you know” (ninth pale politician’s laugh) “they talk of making gold … at least, Lexington did … in that lecture. One man actually seems to have made a little; out of mercury, wasn’t it?”

“Some such rubbish,” said Mr. Bowring without interest.

“Only, of course, it was only a tiny bit of dust, and it’s doubtful, anyhow. And enormously more costly than would be worth while. But you never know. And that’s what I have come to ask your opinion about. It seems to me that it really would be wise to have more control altogether. We should not hamper people like yourself in the legitimate trade, But still, we ought to know what amount of gold there is in the country, and when the stock is added to” … he paused … “or taken from.”

Mr. Bowring said nothing.

The Home Secretary continued with a rather acid smile :

“There’s a good deal of control as it is, isn’t there? But what I mean is, an Act to make it illegal to deal with stuff other than known and certified weights of metal; to make it a felony to make gold; and negotiate it if manufactured…. Of course, it all sounds very fantastic to-day, but we never know about to-morrow…. These things come in a night, nowadays.”

Bowring broke in :

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Mills, but just to come back to that first point, if you don’t mind, because I think we ought to be clear about it, and I don’t want to offend you in any way. I’ll do anything for your sake, of course, and for your nephew as for yourself. I regard you as one person. I’ll recommend him to anyone you like, and I am quite sure he will do very well. There’s Burly’s, for instance — a very good business indeed; made the gold set for the trophy; and I know they are looking for someone. The old man’s going to retire.”

“But, Mr. Bowring,” said the Home Secretary, looming over the table and smiling with a meaning smile, “I do assure you my nephew’s heart is set … you know what boys are … and how strongly they get these ideas … my nephew’s heart is set on coming here with you.… He has begged so hard! …”

“I can’t do it! My dear sir! I can’t do it! “said Bowring. “I am really very sorry, but I can’t. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you. I’m a one-man man. This shop is my pleasure and my occupation, and my amusement in life. I don’t pretend to make much out of it. But I really must go on as I have gone on all these years. I put it plainly … I can’t take in a partner — not even your nephew — whom I regard as one with yourself. You know how much I’d like to….”

“Is that final?” said Mr. Mills, his eyes still beaming mechanically, but rather insufficiently, and his tight lips rather ironically menacing.

“Yes,” said Bowring firmly, “it’s final.” And there was something in his tone which seemed almost to threaten. The face of Jack Mills changed. It was no very dramatic or violent change, but it was sufficient. His eyes hardened, and his mouth grew less ironical and more decided.

“Very well, Mr. Bowring,” he said, drawing himself up. “Very well. If you can’t, you can’t.” He sighed : then, in a different tone : “So now about the other matter…. Do you know, since we began this conversation my mind has been working, and now I think it’s made up. I shall bring in that legislation. I shall bring it in at once. Now you, Mr. Bowring “ — and here he fixed him and attempted to smile again, “you may have special reasons — mark what I say — special reasons for telling me what you think of the proposals I have in mind.”

“I cannot conceive what you mean,” said Bowring.

“Then I’ll tell you, more plainly, Mr. Bowring.” His voice rose again. “I’ll tell you quite plainly, and I don’t think you’ll forget it. I fancy it will sink into your mind. We are going to make it a felony, Mr. Bowring, to make gold.”

Mr. Bowring was so bold as to laugh.

The Home Secretary continued :

“A felony, mind you. And we are going to cast the net very wide — not only a felony for the maker, but a felony to conceal any knowledge of the making, a felony to receive any gold so made knowing it to be so made. And there’s another novel thing we’re going to do, Mr. Bowring. And that’ll interest you, too, I think. It sounds a little revolutionary, doesn’t it? We’re going to have an oath administered to any such person or persons as the authorities may designate, and of course, to all in the bullion trade, and to all dealing in the precious metals, that they know nothing of any such process, that they have not received any of its products,” he paused …”in the past, and that they have no knowledge of any third parties similarly producing or receiving…. Is that clear, Mr. Bowring. Is that quite clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” said Bowring, “and, if you will allow me to say so, very silly. You might as well make it a felony to travel to the moon.”

“Well, Mr. Bowring, you have heard me, haven’t you? The consequences will be on your own head.”

Bowring rose.

“It’s my turn to speak now, Mr. Mills, and I am going to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. You come into my shop and you make me this proposal that your nephew shall enter into partnership with me — that is, know all about my private affairs in connection with this business. You believe that this young fool Lexington can make gold. You know what I think of your belief — but no matter. You have come here believing that, and to put it in a nut-shell, you want him — and incidentally yourself — to share the results which you think I am enjoying.”

Mr. Mills did not look over his shoulder; he did not even cast a side glance with his eyes. He was a politician, with plenty of experience; he knew they were alone, that he was safe from witnesses. He knew what he was doing.

“Go on,” he said.

“When you heard me refuse you threatened me — for it comes to that — with bringing in legislation which, as you foolishly believe, might frighten me into giving way and giving you — under the screen of your nephew — a share in this manufactured gold. You want my final answer, whether I will put that young fellow (and that means you) into the business…. Well, Mr. Mills, if I name a premium, for — for, let us say, your nephew’s apprenticeship — tell me frankly whether you think it too high?”

Mr. Mills did not waste energy in protesting that Bowring had already refused a premium. His political experience served him here also. He was quite willing that men should change their minds, especially on a point of honour.

“Name your figure, Mr. Bowring,” he said simply.

“Shall I be asking too much, Mr. Mills, if I said that I would take £20,000?”

“No,” said Mr. Mills, with equal simplicity. “I am prepared to put in £20,000.”

“You, John Huggerly Mills,” repeated Bowring slowly, “think it worth your while to pay me £20,000 down for the right to share in this new, secretly made gold?”

“I do,” answered Mills simply.

“Very well, Mr. Mills,” said Bowring. “Then you can have my answer again, and quite plainly, and for the last time. I won’t touch the proposition at the end of a barge pole. And now you can go — you’ll excuse my not showing you to the door? It is quite close to you.”

The Home Secretary was a politician of vast experience. He knew well enough what insults were — he had swallowed dozens in his time, and was ready to swallow dozens more. An everyday thing like that could not disturb his judgment or quicken his pulse. He gave another little laugh, slightly less pale than before, and took his big frame out through the door.

From the corner, where he had kept his taxi waiting all this time Hammersham saw his chief come out. He told the man to drive back to Westminster at top speed for double fare, and as he did so he noted the hour. When the Home Secretary returned Hammersham had been safely back five minutes ahead.

Mr. Bowring looked at his watch. He ought to have locked up before — it was after hours. He closed the shutters and barred them. He shut the door with a bang and locked it. Then he stood for a moment irresolute and silent in the empty, dark room. It was his habit so to stand when he was deep in thought for some minutes at a time, immovable, his beard upon his chest, considering the pros and cons in a problem. So he stood now. He made not a sound or a movement as he stood there in the dark. He was fathom deep in thought.

What did they suspect? He knew what they suspected. What did they know? He wondered how much they knew!

Taylor had at least imagined something — perhaps half guessed. Taylor had wanted to share the swag. When he’d been sent about his business he had gone in a rage to the Home Secretary to make him take public action, and the Home Secretary — being a Parliamentarian true to type — had double crossed Taylor. All that was obvious. But how much did they know?

Even as he pondered a slight sound of muffled stirring woke him from his reverie.

It was the sound as of an animal, a big animal; maybe a dog, but a large dog. There was the scrape of something hard. It was pitch dark, he could only hear the noises. He could locate the sound. Something had got into the old Italian coffer — but how the devil did it get there?

The lid creaked on its hinges, two boots touched the floor, but not so stealthily but that they could be heard. Mr. Bowring was standing near the electric light switch by the door. He turned it on, and this is what he saw.

A little cowering figure, a lad barely at the end of his teens, desperately frightened, with drooping arms, bent knees, deplorable ragged clothes, staring at him in a mixture of terror and despair, who quavered:

“Oh, sir, for Gawd’s sake, don’t!”

“Don’t what?” said Mr. Bowring — then recognizing the absurdity of the remark, added, “Good God, where did you come from?”

The miserable Waif pointed to the Italian coffer.

“You couldn’t have got into that?” queried the merchant in gold.

“S’elp me Gawd and ’is truth. I did.”

“Great God!” said Mr. Bowring again. It was the fourth time that the Creator had entered into the conversation.

“You must have been very cramped?” said Mr. Bowring.

“Crool!” said the Waif.

Mr. Bowring peered into the coffer.

“I would have sworn you couldn’t have got a dog into it!” he said.

“It bent me up crool,” said the Waif, beginning to whimper, “an’ me knees and me feet — all dead, they are. Oh, Gawd!”

“Don’t swear,” said Mr. Bowring. “Sit down.”

The Waif sat down, but he was fairly crying now. “Have a drink,” said Bowring. “It’ll do you good.”

He poured out some very excellent wine into an exquisite little goblet of the Renaissance.

“Drink that,” he said.

The Waif, still weeping bitterly, had no taste in wines; in freedom he would have thought it sour stuff, but he would take anything to revive him now, and he gulped down the Chambertin at one swallow. He felt better. He slowly drew his ragged sleeve across his weak eyes. “Crool!” he said again. “Strewth!”

“Tell me all about it,” said Mr. Bowring kindly. “By the way, you haven’t got a gun on you?”

“Search me!” sobbed the other.

“I’ll take your word,” said Mr. Bowring. “Tell me all about it.”

“It came on me sudden,” said the Waif. “I seen you went off to tea, and then I see your man go off, and I ses to myself,’ Now’s me time!’ Never done it afore— ‘cept once in a small way in a Woolworth’s. Truth, I haven’t.” And he began to cry again.

“Don’t cry,” said Mr. Bowring kindly. “We all have to learn. When I see that man of mine I’ll tell him exactly what I think about leaving the shop like this.”

“He was back in a shot,” said the poor Waif. “That’s why I made for the box. I ‘eard him come to that back door again.”

“Then you heard everything?” said Mr. Bowring.

“Yus.”

“You heard me come back from tea?”

“Yus.”

“You heard that gentleman come in and talk to me?”

“Yus.”

“Can you remember what he said?”

The Waif detailed the main parts of the conversation : —

How a gentleman had come in and what he had asked for and how the said gentleman was going to make some laws or other, and how Mr. Bowring had turned him out.

“He wasn’t a gentleman,” put in Mr. Bowring, “he was a politician.”

“Talked like a gentleman, sir!”

“Yes, he’s been washed. But no matter.”

“We must make this all a little more precise,” went on Mr. Bowring, still more kindly than before. “Have another drink!”

The Waif did not refuse. With the second divine Burgundian draught he almost turned into the semblance of a man.

“Now I’ll put it all for you quite clearly,” said Bowring, “and I’ll set it down in black and white.” He took out his fountain pen and a pad, detailed the main parts of what had passed between Mills and himself, and then read the manuscript to the object before him. Sentence by sentence he made the waif get the thing by heart: “At or about 6.30 of Wednesday the 25th of April of this year,” etc., etc. It was a short but full and clear piece of testimony by an aural witness to the proposition Mills had made and to Bowring’s refusal of it.

Bowring made him recite it more than once, till he had got it word perfect, got him a third drink, carefully detached the slip from the pad, put it into his note — book, and then spoke decisively:

“You understand that I could send for a policeman?”

“Oh, sir …” began the Waif.

“Waste no words,” said Mr. Bowring. “I’m not going to do so unless you make me.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said the Waif fervently. “Oh, thank yer!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Mr. Bowring. “First listen to what I have to say to you. It may surprise you to hear it, but I know all about you.”

“Yussir,” said the Waif. The poor devil was used to that.

“I know where you live,” continued the masterful voice, lying freely. “I have had reports of you. They told me this might happen.”

“Don’t see,” began the Waif.

“Be quiet!” said Mr. Bowring. “They told me this might happen. I could have had you arrested already. But I’ve got a use for you. Do you understand?”

“Thenk ye’, sir,” said the Waif simply.

“Remember this address. I am going to take you to my house in Hammersmith, and show you where it is. Then I am going to turn you loose. You will then be traced. You will be watched all the way from my door : I have made arrangements for that. And those who watch you will report to me and keep you under their eye. You are going to come back there, to my house, every day at seven o’clock in the evening, just before I go to dress, and I am going to give you ten shillings — ten shillings every day, mind you — ten shillings! But you shall not have it on any day until you have repeated to me in that day what you have repeated to me to-night, so that I know you have got it by heart. The first day you fail you’ll find yourself arrested before ten o’clock that night. Is that clear?”

The Waif with his bewildered idea in the mysterious powers exercised over waifs believed with a firm faith.

“Then come with me,” said Mr. Bowring.

He went outside and called a taxi, put his own overcoat over the wasted dwarfish ragamuffin’s rags lest their incongruity should be noted even in the dark street, and when he had got the taxi round to the door be bundled the lad in, got in himself, and they drove to Hammersmith.

“Now you see where this is,” he said, “you see the name of this street and the number? I have got it all down here for you on a bit of paper” (he tore off the heading from a sheet on his desk). “Here’s ten shillings to go on with, and you’ll get ten shillings every day, mind you, at seven, beginning with to-morrow. But, so help me the Great Dinausaurus, if you aren’t here to-morrow, or any other day, you’re in the cells that night. Do you follow?”

“Yus, sir,” said the Waif, humbly and gratefully. And he made the ritual gesture of touching his forehead. He was a good waif.

“Well, that’s all,” said Bowring. “Now get yourself something to eat and drink. Be off.”

All great generals take risks. He thought the risk was worth while.

He turned out to be right. The Waif regularly returned, night after night, and came to get his lesson as pat as a Parson has the Doxology.

CHAPTER X

WHEN CHARLES LEXINGTON returned from the sea on the Monday he braced himself to do what he had shirked so long. The morrow, Tuesday, was the day he should, by agreement, reappear in town with his parcel for Bowring. In spite of the quarrel he had written nothing to put off the visit, and the contract held. No. He must write. He couldn’t explain on paper, but he must at least postpone things till they could meet.

At last he jibbed at another bout of hesitation and tearing up of drafts. He sat down and said the thing in half a dozen lines, making it as businesslike as possible: —

My Dear Bowring,

I am afraid that to-morrow, Tuesday, when I come up, I cannot bring the usual consignment [he was sure consignment was the right word]. There has been a hitch. I will explain when we meet.

Yours,

C. L.

That was quite enough. He had got the thing off his mind, and made friends. It wasn’t a quarrelsome note — and it gave nothing away.

He felt more contented now. A great shock often does that; after the worst hours a man can stand no more, and without any good news to raise the spirits the spirits rise all the same. He was back again in his old career, and after all, there are worse things than that.

He dined gloomily after posting his letter to London. He went to bed early — as he lay awake he ruminated on two immediate troubles. In the first place, he would have to have his explanation with Bowring the next day; Bowring would be annoyed, of course, but the younger man thought in the simplicity of his heart that the truth would certainly be believed. He had only to say quite frankly what had happened. They were both in the same boat, and they must both make the best of it.

The other thing, which was a little more disturbing, was the memory of Bowring’s warnings of those weeks ago when he first spoke of the making of the gold. One ugly phrase ran in his head : “You will be a doomed target, my boy.”

The threats of death were pale compared with it. Like everybody who knows England and nothing but England, with its perfect order and huge police machine, he did not believe in assassination and kidnapping. These things were more in keeping with the criminal Mediterranean races or our nobler cousins of the New World, who must be excused the liveliness of a young nation.

But he did believe very firmly in the extreme and permanent unpleasantness of being a wanted man, and he detested the prospect. Marked men disappeared. They weren’t killed, of course — but they did disappear. And another thing that happened to them was getting into prison for a very long time on charges which had nothing to do with their being marked. And when they got out of prison they were usually put back there again or made into coppers’ narks. Anyhow, they were done for.

He worried himself a little over all that; then he quieted down as he got drowsy. All such fears are exaggerated. It would be better by daylight.

With that he went to sleep.

The next morning when they woke him he sent down word to the manager that he would be leaving on Wednesday, after his weekly visit to town, and would settle his bill then, as he had to go back home. They brought him his breakfast in his room, and with it a copy of the Drum. He took in the Drum because it was more sober than the Trumpet, although it was not the thing at the University nowadays to have party politics. The Drum reminded him of his youth, while the Trumpet reminded him of certain flashy relatives he would rather forget — as for the Trombone, he held the severe opinion that no gentleman should have it in his house.

The Drum, therefore, did he open at the leader page and propped it up before him, while he poured out his tea, spilling a little on the cloth, as was his wont; then mechanically, while he topped his egg, he ran his eye down the first principal column.

What he saw there made him forget all about tea and eggs. It took away his appetite as effectively as a slap on the stomach with a dead fish.

“The news which appeared in our last edition of yesterday, too late for comment, is of such gravity that every thinking man and woman in these islands whom it has reached will by this time have appreciated in some degree at least what it may mean for the future of these islands, and indeed for the future of the whole world.”

I pause here to assure you that the chief leader–writer of the Drum, whom I know well, and who is a very good fellow, was not paid, as you might imagine, by the number of words he could spin out, but by a yearly salary (and a good one, too). But if this page should fall under the eye of someone who has not yet written for the papers, or even a book (for many such still remain) let me tell him something which sounds a paradox, but which is perfectly true. When you are writing against time you use too many words.

To continue the leader in the Drum :

“… If the rumour be true that the vexed problem of the transmutation of metals and the transmutation of one of the baser metals into gold could be substantiated …” (here I presume that the leader-writer of the Drum took a draught from his tankard, which is the approved way of putting the caesura into a journalistic sentence)…. “An horizon or vista of possibilities arises before the mind, of which, with …” etc., etc. Every sentence comes to an end at last, and this sentence came to an end. But the three–quarters of a column had to be filled up, and the end was worse than the beginning. “We may deplore the extravagant headlines of the London evening newspapers yesterday, some of which seem to have been suggested by panic, which is unworthy of our Race and our Press, which yield to none in the world for their….” here the tankard must have come into play again … “superiority, good judgment, yet all must acknowledge that …” etc., etc.

And then the final blow:

“… We hear that steps will immediately be taken, perhaps by an Order in Council, shortly to be followed by drastic legislation, which …” etc., etc. (Tankard.) “Meanwhile, if the name which is on everybody’s lips, but which the honourable traditions of this paper forbid us to print in this column.” (All that’s humbug, my boy! You’re keeping it back because the Home Office when they released the news gave orders against mentioning the name.) “Happily the arrest of the individual in question is only a matter of hours. Unusual as the practice is, and reluctant as the Government must have been to exercise such powers, the new Order in Council acts retrospectively and applies to attempts at the manufacture of gold as well as to its actual production. Ours is not a written constitution. It is blessed with indefinite elasticity; and under such urgency as now obtains,” etc., etc. (Tankard.) “Happily the Purity of our Public Life …”

At this point in the official peroration Lexington’s horrified reading was interrupted.

There was a knock at the door; he was wanted on the telephone.

He staggered out, dressing–gown and all. It was Scotland Yard It was Scotland Yard!

No, thank heaven, it was not Scotland Yard; it was the voice which he would have dreaded sufficiently the day before, but which, now that he had read this awful news, he felt to be almost friendly in contrast. It was the voice of Bowring. The voice was controlled, but there was a cold anger in it which Lexington did not miss. Bowring was telling him in carefully–chosen words that he had received the letter, that he would await his explanation, and that meanwhile he also had seen the papers, and he presumed Lexington had seen them too. He was within the radius of the London dailies. He had seen the Trombone … had he seen the Trumpet?

In a rather lowered tone (for men at the telephone usually talk as they would talk to a man face to face) he added : “You’ve been opening your mouth too wide. There’s only one thing for you to do, and you must do it at once. Otherwise God knows what will happen to you. The one thing for you to do is …”

Then came silence. Lexington tapped the machine up and down in a frenzy. The silence continued. They had been cut off. He appealed to the Exchange in an agony. He heard a sweet voice telling him that if he would replace the receiver he would be called again. He waited ten minutes. Nothing happened. It was not warm in his dressing–gown. He went back to his room.

The news columns of the Drum leapt out at him : it was still propped up beside his untouched breakfast, and the news column was much worse than the leader.

“Steps were being taken” — awful phrase — prelude to all the terrors of the law!

He looked at his watch. There was just time for him to catch the 9.57, if he bribed the motor to race to the junction. He ordered the car at once, and was grateful for its promptitude, it was purring below his window before he had done more than hurry on his clothes anyhow, take a gulp of tea, and jump downstairs. Wild in eye, dishevelled in looks, sideways in tie, the knot of the lace on one boot undone and half tripping him up, and grasped in his left hand with a grip of iron a piece of toast — all that stood between him and starvation.

’Tis ever thus. When he got to the junction there were five minutes to spare. However, that was on the right side. He bought all the papers, to the pleased astonishment of the youth who sold them. Habit was still strong upon him, and he was in a first class carriage when he began to open sheet after sheet as the express bowled up to town. Each paper as he opened it told him the same tale.

Academic men with their just distaste for violence in print keep the worst journals to the last, and, therefore, as may be imagined, he suffered a damnably cumulative effect as, beginning with the solemn boiled — owl leader in The Times, he ended with the huge splash headings of the Trombone. And the Trombone did not mince matters. It did not hint. It expressed itself in letters half an inch high. It shouted for immediate attention, stern action; it told the world what monstrous ruin the Man who made Gold would cause; it denounced him as an enemy to the human race; it praised the Government to the skies for taking action; and it had a nice little picture of Dartmoor to raise the highest expectations in its readers. But one of these readers it struck to the heart.

When you strike a man to the heart you affect his circulation. Mr. Lexington felt himself first as cold as ice, and then in a sudden fever. He shut his eyes and lay back. His thoughts were without order, in a turmoil, suggesting a thousand incompatible courses. They drove at last to one compelling command almost as though some voice were issuing it. He must fly. He must hide. He must be lost. He must cease to be Charles Lexington.

The meeting with Bowring, the purpose of his journey, had been blasted from his mind under the shock of those repeated printed words rising in crescendo from the depths of the more reputable to the heights of the gutter Press. All England was looking for Charles Lexington; for Charles Lexington, the Man who made Gold. Men in such moods plot rapidly and already he knew what he would do. It was not very subtle, it was a great deal too obvious, but it succeeded.

Only once in his life had Charles Lexington acted in private theatricals. It was in that enormous place, Rabley Abbey, in Rutlandshire, where he, being then a man of no consequence and only too proud to be a visitor under such a roof, had been compelled to buffoonery by the powerful Mrs. Meyer. He remembered the part. He would play it again. At the time it had perhaps a little wounded his pride, for it was a mean part — the part of a match-seller, very subordinate and only containing three words, “Thank you, sir.” He remembered the rehearsals in which he had been carefully coached in the accents of poverty, and what an expense of energy it had seemed to be painted all over and have a horrible great beard glued on his face and to put on the disgusting broken boots and stand in them all the evening for so thin a rôle. It had been a bitter memory for years — but it was a godsend now.

His taxi stopped before the theatrical costumiers whom he had learned to know in those old days. It looked unchanged, almost friendly. He asked the taxi to wait, and went in.

Had they the things he needed? He detailed them one after another in his best university manner. There was a play of which they were going to have the last rehearsals, and he would want them for a few days. The broken property boots, the unpleasant, ragged clothes, patches and all, the dirty tray, and the strap by which to hang it round his neck, even the match-boxes, and the wig — they had them all.

He wondered, as he waited while they made up the parcel, whether he had been watched when he entered. He had read in detective books that the Police kept a special eye on such places. He had also read in detective fiction that taxi drivers were often high officials of Scotland Yard, and his soul sweated inwardly at the thought. It made him look narrowly at the driver as he came out; and the fact that the driver had a face like a good-natured apple only increased his suspicions.

“Drive me,” he said, “to … ah — drive me to Wimbledon Common.”

“Wot part?” said Appleface.

“Oh, any part — I mean, the pond — the windmill — where you like.” Then it occurred to him that his choice of words was not calculated to allay suspicion. “I mean,” he added quickly, “… what am I saying? I mean, I’ve got to meet a man there, and if you drive along the road just by where the pond is, and the windmill beyond, I shall spot him. What?”

Appleface had carried every kind of fare, and was used to every kind of journey. It was a good long drive, and meant a good long fare, and would give him leverage for insisting on the return fare. All that suited Appleface nicely.

It is said that danger produces cunning, even in readers to the University. At any rate, as they reached Wimbledon Common the fugitive had taken his first step in the new wisdom which he must learn if he would save himself from perdition.

A harmless man, presumably possessed of private means (for he was well dressed and sauntering by the edge of the grass with an expression of complete inanity upon his face) appeared three hundred yards ahead on the port bow. Lexington tapped sharply on the glass and popped his head out of the taxi window.

“There’s my man,” he said mysteriously. “What have you got on your clock?”

Appleface made good. He pointed out that what was on the clock was only half his due : you couldn’t pick up fares in Wimbledon, on the Common, for the asking. He was prepared to maintain his claims with more violence, when he was delighted to observe his adversary capitulating. He drove off a happy man, with a double fare in his pocket.

The gentleman with private means had passed. Charles Lexington crept after him quickly, overhauled him, and took the second step in his upward career of constructive intrigue, in his downward career of morals. He saw Appleface glancing at him as the taxi passed by, and he addressed the stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in the same excellent academic voice which had so charmed the costumiers’ shop. “Are you Sir Edward Barrington?”

The gentleman with private means was not of that social standing. He was correspondingly pleased.

“No,” he said, “I am sorry to say I am not. My name is Booter.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” said Charles Lexington, covered with confusion. “I am very short — sighted, and it is altogether my mistake.” Even as he said it he watched with one eye the distant taxi turning round the corner and plunging towards invisibility down Putney Hill. He poured out apologies a little too profusely, and then was free.

Wimbledon Common is bosky. The season was early and the day was fine. He wandered along and leisurely chose his spinney. He came at last upon one that would exactly suit his purpose. He plunged into its depths.

It was a large and convenient bosquet. I am not good at the names of shrubs, but the shrubs which shrouded its exterior were nicely tangled. He found a sort of clearing in the midst, and there, with infinite precautions, laying down the costumiers’ parcel beside him, he began to take off his clothes. He was a modest man, but he managed it well enough. He kept his shirt on (in the literal, not the metaphorical, sense); he also kept on his socks. His collar he held in hand, far it was marked; he must keep it to destroy it. He put on the ragged trousers, a still more ragged sort of jersey, and the disreputable coat. He fitted the tangled grey wig on his head. He licked the disgusting glue sufficiently to make the still more disgusting matted long beard hold on to his face. He thrust his unfortunate feet into the deplorable broken boots. He slung the tray of matches by its strap round his neck, found one pocket in the trousers that would hold and thrust the collar into it. Then, with infinite precaution, he edged his way through the farther bushes, pushing the tray before him like a ram, peering anxiously when he came to the edge of the thicket to see if the coast was clear, till he came out again upon a cross-road.

Heavens! What boots! They had already begun to hurt him, and he doubted if he could cover a mile. But, alas! those delicately–nurtured feet were destined to tramp many a mile in such cruel bondage. He had taken to that bondage as needs must, without considering what the next step might be. He was disguised, and that was enough. He shambled on towards the first houses near at hand, and as he did so. Nature reminded him of food.

Now where did itinerant match — venders eat? It seemed to him that he had shuffled in increasing pain of the feet for a thousand miles — he had certainly covered nearly one — when he found the streets growing more dingy and noticed with pleasure what a few hours ago would have given him nothing but disgust, the squalor of the less fortunate of this world; nasty little grimy houses which ought to have been ashamed of themselves in a wealthy London suburb; dirty little sweet-shops, and — goal of his anxious heart — an eating-house of sordid face. It looked the sort of eating-house where such as he would raise no comment.

He entered it with that assurance which is bred by years of a sheltered life. He was the more astonished to find a stout lady, her bare arms still wet and red from washing up, confronting him at the door and asking him what he wanted. He said he wanted food. She replied that she could have told that without his troubling, but there was none for such as he. She added that it was not the time for it, either, being nearly three; that he had better be off; that she had known his kind before. Charles Lexington met her with that which is always victorious over human reluctance.

“I can pay what you like,” he said.

“Let’s see your money!” Her arms were akimbo. She was not convinced. His way of speaking made it all the worse. It was funny-like.

Charles Lexington mechanically put his right hand to where his breast-pocket ought to be and where the nice little morocco wallet ought to be nestling with the remains of its sixteen pounds. He found he had no breast-pocket. All his hand discovered was the other side of the coat, for it had no lining. Then it flashed on him. The wallet and all his loose change were in the clothes of his former and higher life.

Such things do happen to the learned. It is the price they pay for their concentration of thought. It is admired by their class and many lively tales are told of it in Common Rooms. How absent-minded had been the great Doctor Markham, and how, when he was a Fellow of his College and before he was made Bishop, Archibald Gregson had come into Hall without a tie.

The lady with her arms akimbo told him just what she thought of him; it was nothing to what Charles Lexington thought of himself. He shambled off with bent head, more conscious of his wounded feet than I can say, and the whole long mile back he shuffled and shuffled on till the bosquet came into sight.

This time it was not so easy to manœuvre. There were cars passing and one or two pedestrians upon the gravel path. The waiting got on his nerves, for his hunger was increasing.

At last there came an opportunity. The coast was clear. Only one distant figure moved at the town end of the road. He slunk into the bushes and made straight for the clearing. There was no mistaking it. A tall young tree marked it. He worked his way through the undergrowth. When he reached the open place he made at once for the spot where he had changed under the tree.

His clothes were gone.

He was as yet so unused to the class into which he had deliberately thrust himself that he could conceive no cause for their disappearance. It seemed to him miraculous. He had not been away an hour, yet somehow or other these clothes (which nobody could have wanted, for they were not particularly good clothes, it was quite an old suit) — had disappeared.

Then the consequence of the disappearance struck him for the first time. He had no money.

CHAPTER XI

TO BE UP against it is for much more than half the human race the commonest of experiences. With the lesser half it is the rarest. In the world to which Charles Lexington belonged it is almost unknown.

He ought to have rejoiced to have found so comparatively early in life so interesting an emotion. On the contrary, it made him despair. He had no conception what to do. He did, therefore, what all men do when they have no conception what to do. He went straight before him into the unknown. The poor fellow shuffled along mechanically, dazed, utterly miserable, hundred yards after hundred yards off the common, down West Hill with its comfortable houses on either side, which not so long ago he would have sneered at as suburban.

He had thus compelled himself to the agony of his progress for perhaps a mile and a half, when he found himself utterly exhausted. He sat down upon the coping of some railings, with his tray still before him; and in his face such hopeless abandonment to misery as your true itinerant vender of matches, by God’s mercy, never feels.

At the gate of the villa upon the coping of whose rails he sat a great motor-car was drawn up, shining like the chariots of the sun, driven by a haughty mechanic, grandly liveried and wearing a mask instead of a face; and towards that motor-car from the gate of the house came a woman of benevolent aspect, considerable age, and excellent clothing. She stopped, and turned, with her hand on the door of the car.

“You seem quite tired out, my poor man!” she said.

Lexington wearily rose from his seat.

“I am afraid I am, Madam,” he said, in something of the tone in which he would have addressed the President’s wife, had she asked him whether he were fatigued after a journey. The benefactress, for so I will call her — it was almost her trade, it was certainly her temperament — was moved beyond expression,

“You speak like an educated man!” she said, rather shocked, but more intrigued.

“No, no, I assure you, Madam, I am nothing of the sort. Far from it.” There was alarm in his voice. “Believe me, you are under a misapprehension, if I may say so without discourtesy.”

“But you do talk like an educated man,” insisted the lady.

If it be possible for chauffeurs to feel as do mortal men, one might say that upon the chauffeur’s face there had appeared a hint of contempt. The benefactress saw it. She was even more terrified of the gentleman who presided over her car than are most of her kind, and that is saying a good deal. She gave a hurried glance towards him, stood for a moment between him and the object of her sympathy, furtively rummaged in her bag, and as furtively dropped a whole clutch of silver on to his tray. Then, as though she had done a bad deed, the benefactress (who, to tell the truth, had been calling on her social inferiors), hurriedly said “Home” to the rigid figure who condescended to hold the car door open for her entry.

With a relief much greater than his gratitude Lexington saw the red triangle on the mud-guard disappear at forty miles an hour. He was rested, and the adventure had put a little heart into him. Now at least he could eat. It was downhill, too, to the degraded parts which survive in the valley below, and this time they could see the colour of his money. Also he had learned enough to know not to ask for food in the manner of those to whom food is a commonplace.

They served him without question, and he ate ravenously. He had the wherewithal to take a room if need be, but instinct told him that poor devils who sell matches would not take a room. It was running a risk to do anything so eccentric. However, he was no longer able to shamble much farther. He would take it easy, till the friendly dark should cover him, and then he would try and find what he had heard was called “a common lodging-house”; listening to the conversation there he might overhear from those who were now his equals something to guide him for the morrow.

It was between daylight and dusk when he sat down again to rest himself and wait for the advantage of the night. He could, at a pinch, put off eating for another hour.

He found himself near a bridge over the Thames from the height of which down to the embankment of the river stood a flight of stone steps with an iron railing dating from George III’s time. A cannon pillar with the monogram of that monarch guarded the descent from the roadway above.

He had already been there some time, and it was now quite dark, when he heard steps upon the stairs, and turned to see whose they might be. Before he knew it, a strong hand was rudely thrust upon his shoulder, and the peremptory voice of a policeman was ordering him in a tone he had never heard before. He was asked what he thought he was doing there : he was told it was not his pitch,

“I was not aware …” began Mr. Lexington, with a frightened look in his eyes.

“Ho! You were not awa-ha-re! You talk like a book, don’t you? Well, look here, where’ve you come from?”

“Putney,” said Charles Lexington, for the moment petrified into a George Washington.

“Ho! Putney, is it?” said the great bureaucrat with unconcealed scorn. “Putney, this time, is it? Well, now you can go to Putney — d’you hear? What’re you doing on this pitch? This ain’t your pitch. It’s old Charlie’s pitch.”

“I had no conception …” began Mr. Lexington again — when he saw that, for some reason he could not grasp, his enemy was roused to fury.

“No conception!” he said, giving no bad imitation of the accent peculiar to St. Olaf’s. “Nah? … Oh! My Aunt! Now, then, another tick and you’re pinched. Hop it!”

The word “hop” unsuitably describes the gait with which poor Mr. Lexington managed to put one bruised foot before the other along the deserted pavement of that London night. He cared not where he was wandering, and he knew not. He wondered what refuge itinerant match-sellers, with elderly long tangled beards and wigs to match, could betake themselves to in peace. If only he had been born to the position! But he was new to it, and felt the isolation and misery we all feel when we move in social ranks which are not our own. Within a stone’s throw of the embankment all around there might be a dozen doss-houses, eating places, thieves’ kitchens, receivers’ lairs, dens of the underworld — all the things which he had read of in detective stories as the natural haunt of those below the income tax and trade unions level: the people without collars. Yet there he was, perhaps within an inch of safety, and out, deserted, under the night. At any moment some other powerful member of the New Bureaucracy might heave in sight and put him through the third degree.

The psychological–research people whom, as Reader in Electro — Chemistry, it was his duty to despise, could have told him that his intense anxiety to find refuge would in itself make the refuge appear; and immediately round the first corner he turned he came upon a large dingy building into which he saw as he watched it half a dozen men enter, and from which two or three came out, through a door that stood permanently open.

As he stood there watching, a very natural suspicion seized upon the mind of someone coming up behind him. The new–comer did not like the look of that figure standing unmoving and apparently without object; for there is a very large section of society in which anyone looking at anything may well be from the Yard.

Mr. Lexington was startled to hear a low voice, not at all friendly, asking him who he thought he was? He turned his head round cautiously with that new look of fear in his eyes, and saw a short, strongly–built, and menacing figure.

“I have no intention …” he said, and the moment he spoke the other was disarmed. Clearly the match-seller was no spy, nor even a slop in plain clothes : or rozzer as we sometimes call them. There is no mistaking the Yard; sometimes it speaks in the accents of the official piercing through disguise, at others it affects more or less successfully the accent corresponding to the disguise; but what the Yard would never do would be to dress up in one way and talk in a totally different way. The Yard would not dress up like a beggar and talk in that particular voice which marks the fortunate — of London at least, and of the more ancient universities.

The suspicious man was converted at once, and softened. He knew the sort. He had come across it a dozen times in his life. The bad luck came early to some of them, later to others. Sometimes the toff had done something funny with a cheque; sometimes it was blackmail. He had worked alongside one of them the last time he was put away. He despised them, but at any rate they were quite safe.

“Wot’r yer looking for?” he said. “A doss?”

“I have to sleep somewhere to-night, and I certainly must have a meal before I go to bed.”

“That’s the place for you then,” came the answer, with a movement of the chin towards the open door, from which the light streamed. “That’s Old David’s. He’s square enough — never give anyone away, not to my knowledge. You can’t be sure of any of ’em, of course. That’s common sense like. We all got to live. And the slops is cruel hard on ’em. They’ve got ’em all down. Still, he’s as square as any.”

All of which meant nothing to the unhappy Lexington, and may well mean nothing to my readers, but was intended by the speaker to mean that the building before which they stood with its door open was a common lodging-house, that the proprietor was one named David, though whether this were a Christian or a surname or a nickname remains unknown; that he was fairly to be depended upon for sheltering the fugitive from justice, and that in general a man evidently not possessed of social backing might do worse than get his supper and his lodging there.

Lexington thanked his informant, and asked him if he would come in, too, and have something. There was a world of suspicion in the voice that answered him.

“Flush? Where’ve you been making it?”

He accepted, however, and they went in together, the new-comer acting as guide and introducing Lexington to customers and to customs to which he was new, and among which he might have blundered so very badly as to make the owner refuse him on suspicion.

They went in past a little wicket, where an elderly man, badly shaved, with fixed little cunning eyes and a determined mouth, stood behind an opening such as one sees at the ticket offices of a railway station, only dirtier and more neglected by far than any railway service would tolerate. Here and there on the grimy surface of the box an old half-torn picture cut from some paper fluttered from a pin, and there was some sort of inscription dating from years ago, barred out with a black line, relating to prices in a prehistoric time.

There was also a dog-eared card about a foot square and abominably dirty, with greasy finger-marks. The printing on it in large letters gave the information that gentlemen must pay in advance for all they received. Below it was a set of simple rules, one of which gave the early hour for clearing out in the morning, another of which had the hour at which the big gates were locked at night; hot water could be had for a penny; gentlemen were allowed to bring their own food. All the prices for cooking it were marked also. Oddly enough games of chance and profane language were alike forbidden. Lastly, any valuables could be left in charge of the proprietor.

Lexington’s guide told him he must leave his tray and strap and bade him count the match-boxes carefully, as there was no knowing.

The thought crossed the unhappy man’s mind that they might be dummy ones, and give him away. He didn’t know how they did these things at costumiers for the stage. They might even be glued to the tray. He had not noticed. Nobody had offered to buy any — it is true that he had not been in any of those thoroughfares where there is a chance of such business.

He was pleased beyond words when the dour old master of the place, taking one of the boxes up, rattled it, and proved there were matches inside. The match-boxes were duly counted. There were fourteen. Then he filled in his slip, hesitating so long at the name that the proprietor suggested Smith, and John by way of addition to it. Both duly went down. His companion was quite ready; he wrote down “Richard Curl.” “I know you, William,” said the landlord. Sixpence each was required, and Lexington did a thing which perhaps had never been done before in that place. It was a gesture belonging to very different places indeed. He pulled out, so that both men could see it, the little stock of silver and copper the benefactress had given him, picked out a shilling from it, and put it down on the wicket window ledge, to pay for his companion and himself. He carefully counted what remained — it came to four shillings, and three pence. As he counted, his companion watched the money as animals watch their prey.

Lexington paid again, as in duty bound, for a cup of stiff each and two slabs; the new-comer by way of returning the courtesy offered him a cigarette drawn from a trouser pocket, and Lexington was glad to take it. Then, their meal eaten at the counter, where hard-working men were serving one customer after another, they went off to fill two empty places on the long bench in front of the fire, which had been kept well stoked, late as was the season.

The warmth was grateful. The meal had done him good; his companions showed no inclination to cross-examine him; he was free to listen to the conversation around him. One man was giving some sort of directions to a couple of neighbours on either side, as to where for some purpose not mentioned one turned off the Great North Road. Another was entertaining a small group with a ceaseless string of words, to not one in three of which could Lexington attach any meaning. Between him and that group another two were discussing what more nearly concerned him. He pricked up his ears to listen to them. They were on a subject of high interest in every class of society; the best method of evasion, concealment, and what that one of the two who was old enough to have served in the war called camouflage. They began by discussing tattoo marks. Lexington was interested to hear that tattoo marks were condemned. They gave one away. It seemed that they could not be properly hidden, not even under a new coloured

The time came for the great doors to be shut and bolted, and Lexington with his guide to lead the way wearily tramped upstairs to the wretched cubicle which was shown him in the big room off the first landing. Two unguarded electric bulbs swung from the patchy and cracked ceiling of the place. There was yet another notice, too far off for him to read it, on the wall between the tall dirty windows; and in two rows down either side the dosses. On his ticket when he bought it he had got the number 42 stamped; he looked for 42, and found it.

Then came a new problem. What should he sleep in? He decided (quite rightly) that one slept as one was, except, of course, for the boots. Anybody who endangered Old David’s thin grey blankets by putting boots in between them would have heard of it. He took off the gaping, stiff, impossible things, with a groan, wondering how on earth he should bear to put them on again next morning. He noticed in the half light from the distant bulb the contrast between his socks — those of the better days — and the broken leather he had just been wearing. He wondered whether it would be possible to sleep with that light glaring all the time. He found it easy enough. It makes all the difference when you have made up your mind to what you know to be inevitable.

He slept so soundly, wig and beard and all, that when they were knocked up at six next morning it seemed as though he had just lain down. He was abominably stiff. It was with the utmost difficulty that he got those horrible boots on again, and he hobbled down the bare boards of the big room towards the stairs like a man who has not ridden a horse for ten years and dismounts after the first long day.

His comrade was already in the big common room below, evidently waiting for him and his resources. He grudged it, but he was ashamed not to pay. So the breakfast for two was got at the counter — two big mugs of coffee, two large slabs of bread and margarine, and, the best luxury of the place, a sausage each, happily fried with onion.

It wasn’t so bad. The new day looked clear enough through the gaunt, forbidding windows. Lexington was without an idea what next to do, but he was ready to face his chances. He proposed to go back to the same lodging that night. He had less than three shillings left; but then, no doubt, he could earn something during the day. He must replenish his stock of matches, and keep a little capital over for that. He did not even know where to buy them.

He told his companion of his intention to return that evening, and got a new surprise.

“Not on your life! What, twice? They’d mark you!”

“I heard one of the men here last night saying he’d been here a fortnight?”

His companion spat and leered knowingly.

“Yus — but he hadn’t been working the round like you and me.”

Lexington half understood the phrase. So he was thought to be “working the round.” Burglary? Something odd — anyhow, something perilous.

They parted at the gates of the doss-house, but not before Lexington had had the presence of mind to ask his companion to take him where men of his new trade could buy their matches at wholesale prices. He covered his ignorance by admitting that he had only just started, which was true enough. The other looked at him curiously, but led him along farther towards the main part of the town, till they came to a warehouse in Lambeth, and there Lexington learned that for two shillings out of his three he could purchase the really surprising number of fifty boxes. They would not sell less. He was ashamed to ask at what price to retail them, but he remembered that when he himself had dealt with such pedlars he had never given less than a penny, and often tuppence or threepence by way of alms. He looked forward to a very fair profit, certainly enough to keep him through the next day, and he could make his remaining shilling keep him alive till evening at least.

They parted, and all day long, save for one half-hour on a sixpenny meal, the match-seller now shuffled the streets, now stopped at what seemed a fairly safe corner.

That day no policeman molested him. Had he known it, they might have asked him for his licence — but he had never heard of such things. He had the good fortune to be left quite unmolested, perhaps because he had learned from his previous lesson not to stand too long in one place.

But there was a growing anxiety upon him. It was late in the afternoon; he had been on the go for the better part of ten hours, and all he had received so far was ninepence in coppers. He must try and have another meal, he must try to get a bed somewhere.

As the evening advanced his anxiety grew more acute. It grew almost desperate as darkness fell, and he found himself, after crossing the bridges, on the Embankment, near Westminster. There remained in his possession, counting the money he had received and less bread and coffee at noon, fourteen pennies and a halfpenny. He considered within himself which were the better investment, a doss and breakfast, or a meal, a sort of meal, something to keep him going and no bed. He could not do both — not on fourteenpence half penny.

Once more the lighter fiction of other days came to his aid. The benches on the Embankment … the last refuge of the destitute.

He had heard of them a hundred times, he had seen men sleeping on them with his own eyes. There returned to him an experience in a book he had read, a book he had always loved, the autobiography of John Pendle; the author’s night on the Embankment in June, when he got back to the smoke after a bad day at Sandown Park, with nothing to pawn, and too late to pawn it if he had. The recollection, at any rate, had been humorous enough. It was not June yet, but on the other hand the weather was not too cold; after a meal he would mind things less. He decided for supper and the Embankment, and perhaps morning would bring some new chances.

CHAPTER XII

IT WAS NIGHT, but still early. The Embankment was nearly deserted.

Lexington had moved away down as far as a bench in front of the Temple. He felt the burden of his tray. He slipped the strap over his head and put the whole affair down by his side upon the pavement. He hoped that was legal, anyhow, but he had his doubts whether poor men were allowed to put anything down on the pavement. He would risk it.

He sat there, staring at the stream which tumbled down on the fast half-ebb, soothing him with its movement. He had dined sufficiently on a cup of tea and a rasher with bread for tenpence half-penny, but he was in deeper gloom than ever. It was not the prospect of a night on the benches that depressed him so much as the blank incapacity for deciding on the morrow. He had just the six pennies left. The firm had no more capital; there were no reserves. There was the stock, of course, all but the two or three he had sold. But assets which are not liquid are often difficult to carry. The night was dark, and his prospects were as dark as the night.

So he stared at the water till he should feel drowsy enough to drop off upon his hard couch. He had only slept sitting up once in his life; that was in a night express to the Riviera, but this was not the same thing.

Sleep was still far from him, he was still staring at the stream, when a gentle tap upon his arm made him look up, at a rotund, not unkindly clerical face, mounted on a rotund, not unkindly clerical body : the body of a man younger than himself and much younger than Lexington himself seemed in his disguise. Under the chin of the honest face there was a collar of the sort known as “dog” which button up at the back, and denote the profession of the Christian Priesthood in all denominations from the Mormons to the Larger Hope. The moment the owner of it spoke there could be no doubt as to which denomination be belonged to. He was official, national, regular. If Lexington knew anything of parsons, let alone of the younger sort of parson — and at the University one becomes an expert in these things — this cleric was not only of the official denomination, but on the right wing thereof, probably on the extreme right wing. Young in years, the Rev. Arthur Bootle was old in charity, and he glowed at the prospect of doing a good deed.

“You are destitute?” he asked in gentle tones.

Charles Lexington admitted the accuracy of the suggestion, and added (in the sure and certain hope that the benefactress act would be repeated) that he had eaten nothing all day, and, not having the wherewithal to pay for the meanest lodging, proposed to pass the night upon that bench.

“You need food and lodging? But oh, much more you need the help and pity of your fellow-men!” said the Man of God, sitting down by the. side of his new-found brother. He proceeded to comfortable exhortation. “By your accent,” he said, “you are an educated man.”

Charles Lexington groaned. The perilous phrase was becoming damnably familiar. But the Reverend Arthur Bootle, aflame with charity, misinterpreted that sad sound.

“Nay,” he affirmed, “fear nothing. I would not presume to probe the secrets of your past, and I know how hard — how much harder it is” — here he got mixed— “for those to bear what you are now bearing and who have known better things. It may be,” continued the hierarch warming to his work and beginning Point One, “it may be that in the far-off days of your proud youth you disported yourself carelessly side by side with your comrades of the Varsity” (at this pronunciation the cultured chemist shivered,, but the reverend Arthur Bootle, not having enjoyed the expensive advantages of our ancient Universities, felt too great a reverence for them to imagine he had done them any wrong …), “with your comrades, I say, of the Varsity, a careless young man: little more than a boy. Then, perhaps, you entered some honourable profession — fear nothing, I shall not ask its name. Doubtless you saw before yourself the prospect of honour, wealth and leisure in your future years. But there came a fatal day when you met another! You gained from him, perhaps, the knowledge of things which it is far, far better for men never to know. You were separated from him — let us hope by your own efforts — but the evil work had begun, and nothing could arrest its course. You entered into practices which had hitherto been unfamiliar to you : you were perhaps tempted by the accursed lure of gold.”

At that word “gold” the seller of matches started violently, and would have risen from his place, but the hand of Charity upon his shoulder restrained him.

“Bear with me yet a little space,” said this Good Samaritan, “I would not believe that you were wholly responsible for whatever may have followed, but I have known” (he sighed) “alas! too many tragedies such as yours.”

“I’m damned if you have!” thought the unhappy Lexington. He half wondered whether he had met the fatal detective at last. Whoever this person in clerical garb might be, he seemed to know a little too much.

“There would be friction, as there always is between those who share a guilty secret. Perhaps a quarrel — who knows? Then perhaps an explosion. And after that, fearing the results — doubtless fearing them more than you need have done — you fled; you lost your old self; you have fallen to this!”

At last the orator ceased. Charles Lexington was still wondering whether his surmise of detection could have anything in it. He gave a side glance at his companion — no! No one from the Yard could put on such simple holiness devoid of guile. The pale blue eyes were sincere, the lips, which in any less awful calling might have been called fatuous, had never descended to deceit. And the left hand hovering in the air in the unmistakable, birdlike fashion of its kind had never done the cruel work of nabbing the lie-low. It had always pursued its proper function of emphasizing the Sacred Words of Scripture and of aiding in its fluttering upward flight the wounded spirit.

“Do not despair!” the kindly voice began again.

“There is hope for all! Look heavenward! Remember our Common Fatherland! Be sure that in the eyes of the Creator some wealthy passer-by, though he despise your state, may seem even more degraded than you. For He who searches all hearts” — Charles Lexington gave a groan; he had all the layman’s horror of sermons, and on the top of this he had that contempt for the illusions of Religion which is the best gift of Physical Science! — and especially (for some reason or other) of Electro-Chemistry.

But his groan was misinterpreted. It was taken for the remorse of a repentant spirit. The holy admonition continued : —

“Nay, my dear brother, do not grieve too sorely! I will make you my especial charge. Follow me. An excellent meal awaits you, under a roof devoted to the service of God and of His poor. A clean if simple bed is before you, a good night’s repose, and to-morrow we will talk it over together as man to man and see what can be done. I have pierced your disguise.” (At this Lexington gave a start more violent than ever.) “You have not always been what now you are. We will find you suitable employment. Clerical work, perhaps, or, if it be necessary at the outset, some light manual labour while we are looking for better things. Follow me,” he said again, rising and keeping a firm grip on his catch — for he had known them wriggle and even bolt. So, leaving his matches and tray derelict upon the pavement in the darkness, Charles Lexington perforce followed his saviour. And indeed he was now desperate for sleep.

They walked up the slope from the river-side through a couple of narrow streets, across the main thoroughfare, and came in about a quarter of an hour to a court wherein a great building in excellent taste, without one fault, true in every line and detail to its period (the Early Tudor, as I need hardly tell you) confronted them. It was of white stone, bearing above its arch an escutcheon whereon the three small bags of the de Bohun family and the motto “Mihi Solo” proclaimed the generous benefactor who had endowed the Church with this refuge of Charity and Religion.

The Rev. Arthur Bootle rang the deep-toned bell — for the winding of a horn had been abandoned some years before as a needless archaism, under the advice of the Bishop. A small wicket opened, disclosing an iron grille and the face of the porter, who, recognizing the clergyman, at once shot back the bolts of the thick, carved, oaken door and let him in.

The porter’s was a welcome figure in the tired eyes of the exhausted Lexington. There were days when that figure would have been mobbed, for he was dressed in a russet garb tied round the waist with a new thick rope. The feet were bare and sandalled, the hair cut all round as though on the model of a pudding basin; and all proclaimed the days of the Faith come back again to England. But those days of persecution are happily long past, and we are all in tune to-day with the New Monasticism.

“Welcome!” cried the Rev. Arthur Bootle, triumphantly. “Welcome, dear guest (for so I must call you) to St. Dives’ Hostel!”

He led his captive through a long corridor adorned with Arundel prints, and having at its end a fine statue of the patron from the chisel of Weissenstein. He turned through yet another oaken door into a great bare room with one fine Perpendicular window at the end. There were two long tables of well-scrubbed deal on strong trestles lying up against the wall, with benches beside them.

The cleric bade the unfortunate man be seated, bowed his head for a moment in silent prayer, then, clapping his hands with startling suddenness, bade yet another roped figure, who replied to the summons, bring food and drink. The drink was the purest water; the food a bowl of soup followed by an excellent stew. It was hard for one who had recently eaten : but it had to be done. When he had consumed it, Charles Lexington rose, and stood for the first time in his life in the attitude of prayer while his captor recited in rapid, muttering tones the Grace after meat in the original Greek of St. Epiphanius; then he bade him once more follow.

They proceeded through another corridor and passed through the cloisters to a room where the matron, who presided over the business side of this noble foundation, was to be discovered; Sister Frideswied by name: in the old days of her profoundly worldly career Jane Beckett. She was dressed in the simple but striking fashion wherein the architect who was the principal adviser of the noble founder had expressed the principle of continuity with the great past of the Church and of the Nation: a wimple band of watchett, with its gampere, quartered and pricked in soslin, after the fashion of Margaret Beaufort, adorned her head and shoulders, while two ear-rolls recalled the court of the Seventh Henry; but she wore not satchel chain nor any tremaillaire ornaments, which, however suitable for pious women in the world, had been forbidden to religious (as the reader will remember) by the Synod of Clovenhofe.

Sister Frideswied was casting up accounts. She greeted the clergyman; as for Charles Lexington, she sized him up (if I may so express myself) in one efficient glance.

“Have we room, dear Sister, for yet another dear brother? Surely, oh surely, yes? I trust it will be but for a night or so! I have already seen to his bodily wants. To-morrow I will see what can be done in the way of finding him employment and return, if I have good fortune, in the evening.”

Sister Frideswied opened a book with plans in it, on which squares neatly numbered had been crossed out with red pencil and with blue.

“Number Nineteen — in the Lazarus Wing, dear Brother,” firmly replied this rescuing Angel. Then, turning to Lexington : “All objects that you have on your person must be left with me. They will be returned to you upon your exit. You will find the clothes proper to the establishment in your room. Those you are wearing will be” (she glanced at him again, and instead of saying “fumigated” added) “burned. All valuables. …”

Here Charles Lexington interrupted her, and his clear St. Olaf’s accent made her pucker her brows.

“I have no valuables. I have nothing.” He turned out the two side-pockets of his ragged coat, the two pockets of his trousers, and put his six pennies on the table.

“Very well,” she said, confiscating the coins, “you shall have the money back when you leave, with such deductions as may be incurred.”

“Thank you, dear Sister! Thank you a thousand times!” said the Reverend Arthur Bootle. “Pray let our dear brother be conducted to No. 19. And now good night. Good night in the Lord.”

Thus it was that Charles Lexington found himself filled with a second meal, and his mood none the better for it, and alas! ticketed, numbered and caught prisoner — the haunting fate of the poor. At No. 19 he was in a little whitewashed room, with hot and cold water, a plain Cross above the bed, and on the opposite wall a notice — (how clean and in what contrast with his lodging of two nights before!) — wherein were printed in bold letters the hours of St. Dives’ Hostel. From this he learned that he would be summoned to the duties of the day at the early hour of five, must be in Chapel by 5.30, would then have to attend Invocatio (roll-call); that then would follow the Collatio Matutina, or breakfast — and so on. It also informed him that all lights would be put out at a certain hour.

Folded upon the bench beside the foot of the bed was a blue canvas suit with white lining; a large D worked on each side; a sort of forage cap in the same material; a pair of cheap socks — even a handkerchief. What made him feel really grateful was a pair of tolerable boots which had been brought from the store with the rest of the things after they had taken his measure. His old rags were taken away.

Charles Lexington lay luxuriating in the cleanliness of the sheets. He was feeling the first repose he had felt since those hours on Wimbledon Common when he had said good-bye to all that he had known.

He still lay there musing, when one more of those experiences which come with such freshness and novelty to those who attempt a new rank in society struck him with great suddenness. The light went out.

He tried to switch it on again, but found there was nothing doing; for such is the nature of institutional control. There was nothing for it but to wait till morning.

Morning came, the Chapel, the Invocatio, a good breakfast of bacon with a score of all ages dressed like himself. Then work with a broom in the yard under the eye of a lay brother who acted as Custos Ergastulorum. The midday meal. More work. Compline and supper. But before he was marched off to bed in file with the rest he was summoned to Sister Fridesweid’s room. There the Rev. Arthur Bootle, bursting with holy charity, handed him the good news.

“Be comforted, my friend,” he said, “all is well. Among the patrons of St. Dives’ who take such a warm, such a real, such a personal interest in our welfare and our holy work, there is one whose name I can never mention without a thrill of gratitude. Lord Taylor finds time among his many activities to interest himself in our lowly task. I have applied to his secretary by telephone, saying — what I can be confident of — that you were an educated man, describing your case, assuring him, alas! that references could not be given, but that I felt confident and could give him my personal guarantee, that if anything could be found for you, even of the humblest sort, you would be grateful, and they would not be disappointed.”

Then did Charles Lexington know the meaning of the word Freedom. He had seen no paper that day, he had heard not a shred of news. For all he knew the streets might already be ringing with his name. And here he was at the point of being thrown bodily into the very jaws of the pursuit!

All the plans that raced through his mind were the plans of a man born free. But he had joined the slave caste, and those plans were worthless. Even if he could get past the doors he had not the wherewithal to ride on an omnibus, let alone to take a railway ticket. And his clothes were gone. He was in a uniform which would be known. He would be brought back.

The Rev. Arthur spoke again :

“It is possible that Lord Taylor’s secretary will speak to his Lordship himself. I cannot tell. His Lordship takes a great interest in personal cases, especially cases such as yours, when a man has fallen from the highest estate to I know not what sad fate. To-morrow by noon I think I shall have good news for you. Keep up your heart, dear brother, and remember” (he made the ritual gesture of pointing to the ceiling) “remember to look upwards. Our common home is above.”

With that he went out.

The profession to which Mr. Lexington belonged is famous for a certain distraction of habit. It is absent-minded, through its weight of learning. But the clergy also in their manifold duties and cares are not infrequently betrayed into this inevitable accompaniment of an intellectual life. And the Rev. Arthur Bootle on leaving the plain visitors’ room in which he had interviewed his catch of the yesterday, even as he moved to the door, left behind him on the table certain papers. Among them Lexington saw peeping out the corner of a one-pound note.

Neither his morals nor the pace of his reactions would have permitted him three short days ago to do what he did next. He acted with a rapidity which would have astonished no one more than himself, and with a lack of scruple of which he felt rather proud. That little bit of green paper which had meant nothing to him a week ago was now the difference between haven and final ruin. He slipped it out noiselessly and in a flash. At the same moment he came forward with all the other papers held in his hand together.

“You’ve forgotten these, sir, I think?” he said respectfully.

“Why, bless me, yes!” said the Reverend Arthur. “So I have. So I have!” He smiled benignantly at the little bundle of letters and circulars, thrust it into the pocket of his coat, thanked the pauper warmly, and went out about the good works to which he was devoted.

Charles Lexington, still grasping with his hand well hidden in his pocket the key to freedom, went up to No. 19 with a zest, a punctuality and an obedience to orders which made him seem a model inmate. Sister Frideswied had never been better pleased.

In her room the Matron as she said good night to the Reverend Arthur congratulated him on his bag.

“I can tell,” she said, “from his speech that he is of a different class from the others; but I can read a face, and if ever honesty were stamped upon a face it is there. I don’t know how he came to fall, but at the root of him there is unalloyed goodness.”

That night, immediately after the light went out, when there was still a solid three hours of dark before moonrise, Charles Lexington arose.

He had the curiosity to try the window, and found that it was not locked. Fresh air was the gospel of St. Dives. There were no bars; perhaps there should have been in a foundation devoted to rescue and charity, but the height from the ground was supposed to prevent any necessity for them in No. 19. The window gave on to a little courtyard, from whence he noted there was an issue into a side street. He had his plan already made.

It was neck or nothing. He had stolen money for the sake of freedom, and freedom he must have.

It is astonishing with what rapidity his education was proceeding. He shuffled on his clothes in the darkness, turning the coat and trousers inside out, pinned the one-pound note inside his vest, and proceeded to take the classical method of evasion. He knotted the sheets and blankets together, prayed furiously to the Unknowable, tied the end of the long contraption to the most solid thing he could find in the room (one of the taps of the basin) and lowered away. He guessed in the darkness that there would be perhaps six feet to drop at the lower end. He risked it, and came down on his feet, jarred but whole. He walked rapidly through the passage, gained the side street, and, for the moment at least, was a free man.

Learn further how rapidly his education was proceeding! He took great handfuls of dirt from the gutter, rubbed them here and there upon his spotless white lining of the canvas trousers, made equally dark and disgusting the lining of the coat worn inside out, and smeared and rubbed his boots into a similar disreputable condition. Then he went on, at random, imitating as he could well do after so much practice, the slouching gait of the tramp. It would not do to run. Besides which, he had half the night before him.

About fifteen minutes later, the hour (to be accurate) being 10.27 p.m., the Reverend Arthur Bootle was ringing excitedly at the bell of St. Dives’ Hostel. The night porter let him in. The clergyman was glad to see that the lights were still on in the main hall. He asked if the Sister was still up and was told that she was, being kept late at her accounts that evening. He made for her room, and knocked gently at the door.

The Reverend Arthur Bootle was not burdened with the perishable goods of this world; a pound was a pound to him, and he had missed one. Anything found in the hostel was automatically returned to Matron’s office. He had only missed the note half an hour ago, when he had taken the papers from his pocket before hanging up his coat to go to bed. He ran through his doings of the day. He remembered to have last seen it when he went in to talk with the new inmate in the course of the afternoon. It might have been lost somewhere in between; more probably it had fallen on the floor and had been found in that room. Hence his return at this intempestive hour.

Together Sister Frideswied and he sought the parlour. It was swept clean and bare; there was not a thing to be found. The Sister ordered the lights of the rooms to be turned on at the main, and she led the way straight with a masterful step to Room No. 19. She did not even go through the formality of knocking; she opened the door with her passkey, threw it wide open and switched on the light.

The bed was a ruin. The bird (if I may so call him) was flown. From the tap of the washhand basin a long twisted sheet led out of the open window. She went to it. She saw the pendant line above the ground below, and she turned in dreadful guise upon the ecclesiastic, who cowered beneath her gaze.

CHAPTER XIII

IT HAS LONG been a matter of debate among philosophers whether the poor or the rich be the more miserable : nor are any better suited to debate the matter than philosophers; for they come of the poor and live among the rich most shamelessly.

I make bold to call the Reverend Arthur Bootle, of St. Dives’ Hostel, rich.

I will not tarry to discuss the exact meaning of the word “rich.” He had no capital and only a very small income, but he was safe. He was on the right side of the hedge. He could talk high-falutin’. He breakfasted at nine.

As surely was Charles Lexington now of the poor; but whether Charles Lexington, stumbling along the deserted streets of London by night after his escape, or the Reverend Arthur Bootle writhing under Sister Frideswied at the same moment, were the more miserable, I (being their Creator) can search into their hearts and decide. It was the Reverend Arthur Bootle who was the more miserable.

Few men can stand up to an efficient, organizing woman, and most of these men are dead. The Reverend Arthur Bootle was not one of the survivors. Sister Frideswied told him in the plainest fashion the kind of man he was: how she thought it her duty to tell him so in spite of the respect she bore for his Holy Office : how she had found him for ever bringing doubtful characters to the place (it was his second mistake in five years); how she had suspected No. 19 from the first; how she wondered that long experience had not yet taught him the elements of judgment in human character. After this preliminary, she went on to set him a number of tasks, all of which he was prepared to fulfil eagerly, glad to be free at such a price from the dreadful agonies of her tongue.

He was to set the Police upon the trail. He was to see to it that not a word got into the Press. She would not have the good name of St. Dives dragged into the mud, nor its holy function caricatured as a sort of a prison for unwilling scallywags. He was to draw up a little report of his meeting with the unfortunate jail-bird. He was to draft a memorandum of his reasons for offering to the same the hospitality of St. Dives. He was to write a careful description of the criminal (she scorned the idea that he would have been business-like enough to take the number of the note). He was to write this description out in triplicate if he pleased — for she could not wake up Miss Benson to take it down on the typewriter at that unearthly hour. All these things he had to do before he slept that night, and she hoped she would see him next morning by ten precisely, in order that the explanation might be drawn up for the visiting trustee : and Sister Frideswied’s hopes were commands.

But while the Reverend Arthur Bootle was suffering his purgatory at her hands (and offering it up to St. Lawrence, the Patron of the Grilled), Charles Lexington still wandered aimlessly with only one star to illumine his night, the thought of the one-pound note : with only one dreadful thought to dog him to despair, the thought of the uniform he wore — inside out. The Police would surely be warned, and he wore (inside out) the badge of servitude, the uniform of Holy Charity imposed upon those whom the foundation of St. Dives succoured when they had fallen by the wayside. The police might know this cut, and the white lining and its seams would not make him less conspicuous.

Here I must introduce Fate. I have kept her in the background so far, busy though she has been, because she begged me not to push her into the limelight, but her gambols henceforward are so material to Charles Lexington’s story that I must seize her by the shoulder and firmly propel her on to the stage.

Fate had taken charge.

Fate now gave Charles Lexington his first glimpse of salvation. Under the bright flood of an arc-light, at the corner of a deserted alley, he saw three men bending over the prostrate body of a fourth.

At first, not knowing his luck, he was for avoiding them and slunk into the shadows. They were strangely garbed in trousers of broad stripes, white and red, as though hurriedly cut from some national flag, each wore a sort of Eton jacket with long, thin tails; the face of each was as black as the night itself. Beside them upon the pavement lay, rapidly cast down, certain musical instruments, among which, by the side of the man that had fallen, was a banjo.

Charles Lexington tried, I say, to sneak in the shadows, but Fate was in full control and played him at will.

One who appeared to be the leader of the band (I say “band”) seeing a man obviously of the poor, summoned him sharply :

“Hi! Mate, bear a hand! Come and help lift him!” For half a second Charles Lexington was in two minds whether to run for it or to obey, but you know how rapid had been his education in the two brief days of his exile. He had got the instinct of his new social rank and its motto: “Never bolt till the coast is clear.”

He shuffled over towards them. “What do you want?” he said. With the customary oath and an invitation to shut his mouth he was motioned to take the feet while the three others took, two of them the shoulders and one the burden of the fallen instruments. They carried the unconscious lump of manhood with face as black as their own down the alley and pushed through a low door into a peculiarly repulsive room, dirty, closely shuttered, lit by a single gas-jet half covered by a broken globe. There were four or five wooden chairs and a large deal table with the stains of drink upon it. Thereon they laid their comrade.

The captain of this band (“band” is the applicable word) was a strong, burly fellow — a natural captain of the other two, the weakness of whose features pierced through the disguise of burnt cork and woolly wigs. He sat down slowly, asked what was next to be done, checked the half answer of one subordinate with a threatened kick, and then announced his plan of campaign. They were to go upstairs and knock up old Sarah. Tell her to doss Joe down till the morning; meanwhile he would sleep it off, but he wished he could catch the bastard as had given poor Joe that back-hander.

His two slaves obediently clattered up the creaky stairs with their burden. The protest of Sarah could be heard above, and sundry heavy footsteps on the flooring as the unconscious Joe was deposited in a room above. Meanwhile, Charles Lexington was left alone with the Master.

The Master wasted no words. He was a man of action. His End Man had got it square. His End Man would be no use for the morrow. There was one wasted ticket to the Races for the next morning, and no End Man. If Charles Lexington could play the banjo and sing a song and answer smart he could have the job. The other two weren’t worth a lemon at solos. It was two florins a day and his share of the takings. Also (scanning Lexington’s figure) they could fit him in Joe’s professional, strange, black tailcoat, striped trousers of red and white, frizzled wig; and his mates would do his face for him.

Then did it leap into Charles Lexington’s mind how the words of the prophet were fulfilled; the man in the common lodging-house who had preached the value of Ethiopian disguise. Fate was working hard! He accepted eagerly. The uniform of his servitude would be cast off. His features would be transformed. It was the very thing he needed. He boldly claimed to be a banjo player of exceptional distinction, witty at the uptake and of a fine repertory in song. He went on to boast of prowess in the past, of long experience in nigger minstrelsy and special talents as End Man. He was enlarging upon his theme, giving places and names that oddly contrasted with that St. Olaf’s accent of his, when the Master, who was watching him with much curiosity and some disgust, came out with the now familiar order to shut his mouth as the two others clattered down the stairs from their mission.

The aged Sarah had been cowed they reported. Joe was in the cupboard room where the bacon was kept. They could leave him safely to Sarah. They were dispatched for their comrade’s properties. Charles Lexington pulled the trousers on with difficulty but successfully over the trousers of his hostel uniform, the absurd tail-coat more successfully over the hostel coat and his narrow shoulders. The woolly wig fitted well enough. They brought out the burnt cork and rubbed his face to perfection.

Then the more browbeaten one of the two was sent off again upstairs for the necessary and returned with a bottle and four glasses; for custom demanded that the new-comer should drink to the trade. Charles Lexington would have preferred to sleep even on the foul boards of the floor, but it would not be safe to make himself unpopular, so he drank with them of the first bottle and even of a second, till the beginning of dawn. With his banjo under his arm, straw hat on his frizzled wig, his face most gloriously dark, he felt safer when daylight arrived than he had felt since that first dreadful shock of the newspaper paragraph in the West Country inn a thousand years ago.

They went out through the empty streets towards the station. The Master produced the wherewithal for a cup of stiff and two slabs a piece. He produced the tickets. He took them down to the racecourse by the river-side, up Thames, and in the train beguiled their leisure with a game of “Jack Last,” kindly allowing Lexington to owe them if he lost. The stakes were humble. The new comrade had made eightpence before they got out, for strangely enough, “Jack” is not a game of skill. “Jack” depends more on chance than skill, and therefore Charles Lexington, patiently learning the game, was bound to be favoured.

So far Fate had been playing the Kind Cat with her victim. Being a woman Fate soon gets tired of that and turns to the more exciting business of torture — to carry on until she has had her fill, whereat she turns to kindness again — and so on. It was time for her to scratch again.

During the morning turns, what with the noise of the crowd and the alternate chaff and quarrels, Charles Lexington had managed to carry on. He twanged the strings somehow, and seemed to be fingering. At any rate, he shifted his left hand fingers up and down as best he could, and was happy to think that the powerful, if coarse, baritone of the Master helped to drown his own voice. By midday there had been enough money chucked into the hat to provide a meal.

The Master led them to such a hostelry, between the course and the river, as Lexington had never seen before : a den of sweating and shouting men in the midst of which they sat at a trestle board with bread and cheese to begin with and lashings of drink to follow. Under such influence the Master grew benign and dared say the new End Man would sing a song when they returned to their performance, and Charles Lexington rashly, madly — touched by the drink himself, but more by fear — protested loudly that he knew a hundred songs. He trusted to luck to save him — but his luck had turned. Indeed, he knew but one song — the Eton Boating Song — and of music he knew not one note from another.

He was one of those, too numerous among the learned, whose incapacity for the simplest music makes them take cover in a chorus, but who, dragged out into the open for an Aria, Solo, bray out odd sounds like a man in great pain or a donkey exultant.

He went long immune during the earlier part of the afternoon when the drink had not quite worn off the Master, and the crowd was still uncritical, but Fate was sharpening her claws; the wheel was bound to turn; the hour was bound to strike, and strike it did.

There was a lively chorus in which the two dependants and the Master had kept it up famously and the Reader to the University had made his uncouth noises unperceived and drowned in the rest. At the end of that chorus the Master called out to his End Man for a solo. The order was accompanied by a wink and a reminder of his boast in the den of infamy when Bold with the Booze. Charles Lexington braced himself for the ordeal. But his blood ran cold. He remembered reading once that condemned men feel acutely the beauty of the world they are about to leave. There above him were the great white clouds sailing in the blue sky. There, beyond the sward, was ancient Thames slipping by, and the green, green grass of England — where it was not hidden by the dense masses of stunted horse-lovers — and there was he upon the edge of doom. The Master’s voice came again in anger, with a second command to sing, not unaccompanied by a vocative disparaging Charles Lexington’s moral character : “Sing, blast your dirty gizzard! Sing, you” (two words indicating illegitimate birth and depraved morals!) “Sing!”

Strange! He could do many things. He could do some things better than other men. He had prided himself upon these talents of his. But the Muse he had never pleased.

He did his desperate best. After all he had the merit of a deep voice, but the effort was appalling. He bellowed manfully enough the first words of the old school chorus. “Jolly Boating Weather,” he began, then failed; there was a murmur from the crowd; “Jolly Boating w—” he shouted, with a break in it, and there was a noise in the crowd as of a sea on a beach : and close at hand he saw the Master glaring. He squeezed his eyes fast shut, lifted his head, dropped his chin, opened his mouth like a cavern and bawled “Jolly—” but even as he did so he felt the oncoming tide. He was aware of a surging of many protesting faces and then — with blows received and taken — he saw the Master’s protecting form stride between peril and those whom he led. It was a fine fight, but the soldier sees nothing of the battle. All Charles Lexington knew was thuds on his body, one landing on his jaw, lashing out with his own arms wildly like a windmill and, I’m sorry to say, kicking hard as well, At last he was conscious of a lull. Victory after some hesitation had descended upon the banners of the Ethiopians — but it was not for financial good — nor did it leave the Master in a mood to spare his End Man.

He approached Charles Lexington with a very ugly look, and after first naming the sum for which he would willingly slosh Charles Lexington on the jaw, and expressing his astonishment that he had not already doubled him up like a brass-jointed foot-rule, he entered upon a tirade of reproach, magnificent in vocabulary, excessive in emphasis, direct, and punctuated by occasional half-jabs of the fist, each one of which, had it been completed and reached the Lexington carcass, would have done the trick. But the forces of order are strong and the Master contented himself with words.

Charles Lexington bowed to the storm. He had no choice. He knew by this time all that a man in his distressed condition should know. Nothing should tempt him to reply. But Fate had other intentions, and there came from the Master a certain word which was more than Charles Lexington could bear.

It is odd, but it is true, that I cannot print that word. You might think that since the War every word in the English language has been printed — especially in books written by unmarried ladies of good birth. Were I such an one I would not hesitate to set the Word down; but the modesty of my sex restrains me and the Victorian rules. All that this modesty allows me to tell you is that the Word was the one best calculated to provoke the result it did, and Charles Lexington, wincing as from an actual blow, forgot his past, fell back into the habits of a lifetime, and the final argument of the upper classes — he threatened his insulter with the Police.

Then it was that the full measure of the Master’s genius was released to ride the air, and a great oration arose : an exercise in rhetoric.

It was none of your academic Ciceronian stuff; it was the great, the glorious, the beefy business, which Pitcher has rendered immortal, and which springs strong and splendid from the heart of the English people. It contained whole regiments of words which the unmarried ladies of good birth who write books would give their ears to know. It swelled on in a great tide of genius, obscenity and blasphemy compared with which the efforts of our fair novelists are but the squeaks of dolls.

The Police? The Master called upon his Saviour, and after that upon other personalities to bear witness that Charles Lexington had threatened him with the Police! He gave Charles Lexington, with a wealth of metaphor, illustrations of what might happen to him if the Police did answer his vows. A few helmets crowning tall forms stood out sparsely here and there above the sea of stunted horse-lovers. The Master asked whether Charles Lexington knew what happened to men who were caught breaking out of St. Dives? and then at a venture — it is nearly always the safe venture among the poor — he spoke darkly of evil deeds which lead the doers to quod. He spoke of the Derbies and he spoke of the Slops.

The Police? Why for (a consideration with which I must not sully my page) he’d send for the rozzers himself and hand the (irrelevant adjective) stinker over to ’em.

The Master little knew how high a trump he had played. Even as he poured out this torrent of threats, one of those distant helmets rising above the sea of stunted horse-lovers began to move towards the spot where so much noise of an angry man was filling the air. At the sight of that helmet, remembering the one-pound note still pinned to his vest, remembering the hue and cry in the papers for the Man who could make Gold, remembering that he was a hunted animal, Chailes Lexington suddenly took refuge in the one talent he still possesses (over and above his considerable flair in electrical chemistry) and started for the horizon.

It was very fine going for a man in the early thirties. It excellently supported the contention of his old headmaster, Dr. Ferguson, that in the long run our English youth profit more by athletics than by academic pursuits. Charles Lexington gave that long run a chance to show itself. He legged it like a Waterloo Cup Winner.

The stunted lovers of horses in their myriads (persuaded that they had to deal with some defaulter of the ring) streamed after him in a pack. Even the policeman, as far as his dignity would allow, pounded along with them, but Charles Lexington easily outdistanced them all. The mead was fair and smooth. It was good going. Had it extended unbroken before him for another half a mile he would have got clean away, but he saw stretched before him two hundred yards away that which has halted many — barbed wire.

It went right down to the water’s edge, and was wickedly stretched out to a post embedded in the very stream of the Thames, swollen with rain.

Flight gave Charles Lexington immediate inspiration. The second of his athletic talents came sharply into play. He doubled sharp to the right like a hare, took to the water like an otter, and struck out like a retriever.

Fate shifted round again. She likes to see men on their mettle. On the banks of the Thames a big crowd of stunted horse-lovers howled, checked in desperation, for the stunted lovers of horses cannot swim; nor can the Force. And Charles Lexington was making fine going down the tumbling brown water of Thames, which added its four knots to his own two and raced him towards the weir.

Weirs are deadly, but not for Charles Lexingtons; they are born for another end. The river was so swollen that its waters poured high over the obstacle. He took it with fear but without hesitation, and in the confusion of the pool below, where no eyes of the followers could perceive him, after a desperate struggle with the whirlpool, he stumbled and plunged towards the farther bank. Masses of brown water dripped from him as he splurged. The reeds hid him like a river god. The slime through which he waded, which might have engulfed him (had he been born to be engulfed), shielded him better from hostile eyes upstream. He plunged into the thick and overhanging undergrowth. He panted and pushed his way among the bushes, and at last sat him down on dry land. He bent him over the bank, cast his frizzled wig upon the waters, vigorously rubbed the black from his face, stripped off the absurd striped trousers and tail-coat, and cast them into the undergrowth.

He rose up in the St. Dives’ uniform (inside out) over which he had strained that disguise. It was gone beyond recognition. It was streaming with water. It was safer than the highly distinctive Ethiopian garb! So habited, so dripping fountains of wet Charles Lexington made inland.

He came soon to the beginnings of things well kept. There was a gravelled path. There were evergreens — trimmed. Beyond there appeared the hedges of great lawns and to him, Odysseus, all bent and streaming with Thames-water and eyes blurred with same, there appeared, skirting these noble lawns, and pacing majestically, if primly, her ample ways, a Noble Woman.

CHAPTER XIV

“A NOBLE WOMAN, something or other planned to something or other” (as Wordsworth droned), etc. A Noble Woman.

When I say noble, I mean noble. None of your true nobility. Not one of Nature’s gentlewomen. Far from it: a Parrell by birth, great-granddaughter of old Parrell, George the Fourth’s last friend, and great-great-granddaughter of Sir Thomas Parrell, Lord Mayor of London, who had begun life as a boot-black. You can’t want better lineage than that!

Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, was a Gatton by marriage; and the Gattons (squires of the Reformation), had wangled the title of Duke a good two hundred years ago, and more. It was a title of which she counts to-day as the sole ornament, for her inept and drunken son the present Duke (or reigning Duke as he prefers people to call him) is less decorative and childless.

Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, was not only a noble woman but a good woman. I’m sure that’ll go down with you. But I have something better to wind up with; she was really rich. It’s rare, these days, in people of her class. She had plenty of money: Parrell money of her own. Her retirement in this excellent house of Holy Cross Abbey, where she lived with her unmarried daughter, suited her fifty odd years. Nor did she disdain the milder excitements of her exalted leisure.

She was indignant with high taxation, she had great pity for the unfortunate, she liked to get her labour cheap. Combine all that and understand what followed.

It was not with indignation but with some interest that she seized on the sight of Charles Lexington approaching her along her well-kept gravelled path. There was material for pity and for exploitation in this figure, squashing and streaming with the water of Thames. She asked him not unkindly what he was about in her garden. He stood before her in perfect humility, rapidly concocting the necessary lie.

At last he spoke. He would have liked to spit first, for there was still too much Thames water in his mouth, but he guessed her to be the lady of the place, and the place was too wealthy for common spitting.

He told his tale. He was no vulgar trespasser. He offered every apology for his intrusion. The truth was (or the lie) he had despaired. Pursued by misfortune (with which he would not trouble her) he had determined to make an end of his miserable life. Even in the water grace had come to him — he had repented. He had made for land even as his strength failed him.

At this point in the lie Charles Lexington halted — boggled for further material; waiting indeed to be furnished with suggestions by the Good Angel of his Deliverance, Clara, Duchess of Aberavon.

Nor was she slow in furnishing that material. Women of her class and experience gauge their chances quickly. Here was the Golden Opportunity, the combination of feeling charitable and saving expense at the same time! Combination irresistible to the Clara’s, Duchesses of Aberavon.

“By your accent,” said the excellent aristocrat, with real kindness and striking originality, “you seem an educated man! It is deplorable to find you in this condition, and especially with such reasons for it. Come,” she said, turning back and beckoning him, “I beg you to feel no false shame. Walk with me for a moment. Perhaps I can be of some service to you.”

Fate had not yet tired of giving Charles Lexington the glad hand.

“Yes, Madam,” he admitted humbly and bitterly, with head still bowed as he walked discreetly behind her, only too conscious of the squish squash, but grateful for the way in which his condition had touched her heart, “I have known better days.”

It was the first true thing he had said for hours and hours and hours, but after that little interlude he plunged back boldly into good solid lying.

His was the story of many! He had been a Civil Engineer by profession, a young lad, only apprenticed, when the call to arms rang out. After gallantly serving his country, he found after the war, with many thousand others, that the nation which applauded the soldier in its agony neglected him in its triumph. Here Charles Lexington was on the point of bringing in the starving wife and children, when Fate was kind to him for the twenty-third time, and stopped the words before they were uttered. Wives and little children are exhibits, and if you can’t produce them it’s serious.

The conversation developed and was prolonged. She came to feel as though she had known him well — it is the way with such. And then, he had the accent of an educated man!

The Duchess mused. “It should not be difficult,” she said, “to give you some sort of employment here while I take the necessary steps to find you something permanent. I may tell you that I have done some poor service myself in connection with distressed cases of your kind on the C.M.O.L.D. for ex-officers, and with my cousin — Mary Brassington — on the P.M.L.N.F. In the meanwhile, before we find you something more solid, no doubt you could turn your hand to one or two little things on the place, where I am sure you could be of great service to us.” The plural was dignified, but not exactly Royal. It was used vaguely for the Family, The Ducal Coronet, the buildings of Holy Cross Abbey, its electric light, its waterworks and the various troubles which modern science imposes upon the rich.

“I take it you are competent to deal with electric fittings?”

The wretched man was free to admit it was his special line.

“And can you — I hope I shall not be burdening you — can you deal with plumbing?” Oh! Charles Lexington was a whale at plumbing. He had, on occasions, plumbed the depths. He could plumb anything.

The Duchess, in common with too many of her kind, had suffered from the extravagance of labour since the glorious return of Peace. It is a blessed thing to combine charity with a saving of household expenses.

“First of all we must see to it,” she went on, “that you have a change of clothes and a good meal. It is long since you had a meal?” she inquired almost tenderly.

“Yesterday morning, Madam, at Basham. A farmer’s wife gave me some bread.”

The Duchess was shocked. They had come in sight of the house. A lad in the temporary employ of the second under-gardener was beckoned from his sudden zeal for scratching the earth with a hoe, to which he had bent on hearing the approaching voices. He was given the fullest instructions. There was sure to be dry clothes which would more or less fit this unfortunate. He was to be well looked after. He was to be shown where he could have a warm bath, and when he was thoroughly rested she was to be told and she would send for him.

So passed Charles Lexington from one set of enemies to another; from the unbridled fury of the racing populace to the more subtle, the more evil, hatred of those who serve the rich. He found below stairs (or to be accurate, in the offices) that the Duchess’s habitual kindness to such new-comers out of the wilds was not popular with her dependants. He was the third of the sort in six months. The first had disappeared in a week, the second had shamelessly made love to the stillroom maid, and they had only got rid of him by denouncing him for a thief. And now came Charles Lexington. He wasn’t popular. He gathered that there would be no lack of work for him to do and plenty of nasty questions picked out with insults to carry on with. But it was a breathing space. It gave him room to turn round.

He would be traced — there was no doubt of that. A man who takes to the water comes out wet, and a man who takes recognizable clothes can be followed, but there was a sure interval of safety before him, and if his Good Luck stuck to him no doubt he would be able to use that interval. The one-pound note had been unpinned from his dripping vest and carefully dried. He would not be without capital when he should next have to fight the world.

In his interview with this his second benefactress (he still remembered with gratitude the first one at Putney. As for Sister Frideswied he didn’t count her a benefactress at all) he told all — frankly and freely in a fine orgy of lying. He told the Duchess the name of his Public School — which he had never even seen — the name of his old headmaster (there he was safe, for the man was dead), his own name — Henry Romilly — his Engineering degree at the University of Liverpool (Lord! what had he said? Supposing she were to look it up!); his gallant volunteering immediately after his degree; his numerous wounds, and then the hopeless, heartbreaking struggle, which had ended as she knew.

At the conclusion of these intimate confidences, she showed him where the electric light had gone wrong, and left him to set it right. She trusted, as she parted from him, that he had all he wanted. He assured her of his gratitude in a St. Olaf’s accent so pronounced that it reminded her of a favourite nephew (now a remittance man in Canada), and stirred her heart to its depths.

The second tide of his good fortune still flowed; it was running slack, it was bound to turn, but it had not turned yet. He was competent to deal with the trouble of the electricity. He understood what was wrong. He sent for the right things. He worked steadily through the remainder of the daylight. By evening all the lights in the hall were working — and had cost Clara nothing.

His benefactress thought it too good to be true. His colleagues of the lower deck were filled with a mixture of evil intentions : against his competence; against his growing favour; more than all against his affectation of gentility.

Next morning, in high good humour, his rescuer, after the secretary had written just the right letter to the Head of Section “M” (the one which worries the R.E. only and is strictly forbidden to tamper with others) she bethought her of the runabout.

A man so expert in the mysteries of electricity must know all about self-starters. There was a short passage between the Duchess’s protégé and the head chauffeur, who wasn’t complimentary. But orders were orders. The head chauffeur was sending one of the minor chauffeurs into the town to fetch a man from Veeley’s garage and pocket a private commission. However, if these were orders, why Charles Lexington must tackle it; and a sincere hope was expressed that he would crush his fingers at the job. Lexington, with the keen eye of the trained scientist, discovered what was the matter : a pebble under the pedal which prevented contact. Increasing in wisdom with every experience, he spent the better part of an hour armed with a hammer, and hit it vigorously against the wall of the garage to give evidence of hard work; then he took the pebble out and started the machine. He brought it round. His mistress was overjoyed to find that it buzzed as cheerfully as it had buzzed in its hot youth when she had bought it second-hand from her own son in the beginning of the year.

Of a truth there was no end to Charles Lexington’s abilities. She almost dreaded the moment when this cheap labour would be classed and docketed and decanted into the regular channels of Department “M.” However, there would be two days before the answer to her secretary’s letter came, and perhaps some weeks before Lexington would be placed. She must hope for the best. If the worst came to the worst she might find him just that type of work which would keep him in her service. But Fate had got tired again, and had made up her mind for another change.

Among the many patents which Professor Kingley (now with God) brought forth to the considerable enrichment of his daughter (now with the people at Hollywood) was the Kingley tap.

In the old days taps would often leak. Many of them still do — but that is in slack and foolish households which disdain or neglect the advantages of modern science. In the mansion graced by Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, all the more important taps had been fitted with Kingley’s patent — although it cost 30s. One in especial, where a leakage might have led to grievous damage, was fitted with size No. 6, the largest size, finished in gun-metal and clamped over the King bolt (as the reader probably knows) with a special Mason catch, dependant upon a screw worked hand-tight upon an outer bevel in such a fashion that the torsion strain works against the cam shaft in reverse and engages the Thirl Pin. You follow me? I am using as few technical terms as I can.

Kingley’s patent has this one drawback, which is not mentioned in the prospectus nor even in the advertisements, but which you ought to hear of in case you should go in for the gadget yourself. It is true that it does not leak, but it is also true that it jams as hard as an Arctic winter, and when it does that, you can’t draw water from it. It turns dumb of a sudden, starts a nasty temper, and won’t turn. So had it happened with this great tap of taps, the most important tap of the household.

It stood in the loft just under the roof, discharging, when it was turned on, into the big zinc container, whence it was distributed by lesser pipes to the various offices in the annexe. It was turned off when the annexe was shut up and there was no need for the supply; but since the Lady Amathea (to give her the best-known and most beautiful of her six names) had just returned to residence at Holy Cross from her long sojourn abroad, and since the Lady Amathea’s particular rooms, filled with objects of art and virtue, were in the annexe, it was urgent that the great Kingley tap should be turned on.

It had, of course, jammed.

The local man had done his worst with it. They were about to send to London at great expense, when Charles Lexington had come like a god-send. After his success with the self-starter and the victory over the electric light in the hall, the great Kingley patent tap would be Charlie’s triumph. He was bidden to master it, and bring it to heel.

The Duchess herself accompanied him to the loft, and showed him the stubborn object. She explained to him how, just below, lay her daughter’s darling little sitting-room : how on the landing outside it was the cupboard in which certain of her clothes were stored, with hot-water pipes running by the wall, for the use of which the release of the water was necessary. She was sure he could put it right.

Charles Lexington had been provided with all he had asked for the task. He had a large monkey wrench; two hammers; a chisel; a screwdriver, and all such humble instruments. He did not know, alas! that when Kingley’s patent tap is in this mood it needs another Kingley patent (even more expensive) to release it. Old Kingley had seen to that. There was not one of his patents that did not require another patent, and even a third, before it would go.

The reader in Electro-Chemistry to the University found himself alone. He gazed at his job doubtfully. He turned from it for a moment towards the single and rather dirty window of the loft. He was in no hurry to begin. Through that window he saw, a good half a mile down the big gravel way that led from the main lodge the unmistakable form of a Policeman,

The great captains who change the history of the world have to decide in their critical hours between one of two courses. When they choose the one that comes off their fame is immortal. Yet the wise know that it has nothing to do with Generalship, but everything to do with Fate.

There were two courses open to him as the Policeman stolidly paced nearer and nearer to the back door. He had less than ten minutes in which to decide between them.

One course open to him was immediate flight — with all its risks. He would have to race down the servants’ stairs at the back of the loft, up which came the joyous laughter of the menials in the offices near the back door. He would have to run the gauntlet somehow. It was a dreadful risk. On the other hand, the Policeman might not be coming for him at all, in which case the sooner he released Kingley’s striking creation the better. He decided to release Kingley’s striking creation.

He began by trying to open the catch. He continued by knocking at the butterfly nut, first with the little hammer and then with the big one. He proceeded to attempt loosening the Rawl screw, which he conceived, in a rather muddled way, would release the coil spring in the sunken socket (excuse me these further technical terms). Nothing happened.

Next he went for the main difficulty boldly with the spanner, clasping the gun-metal periphery nut (under the lock nut, of course) in a tight grasp. It would not move. He betook him once more to the hammer and gave the handle of the jack spanner a fine ringing blow. The noise was terrific — but result there was none.

As he poised the instrument for a second clang he heard voices and listened appalled. Molly’s voice he knew by this time, and Charley’s, and even the haughty tones of the butler, but among these was an unfamiliar voice — gruff yet distinct. It was the voice of the Policeman, and it was giving details which made his blood run cold. There was no mistaking the man it described. The man described was artful — artful, oh! my word! Got out of St. Dives’ Hostel with the swag — God knew how much — and then joined up with nigger minstrels. They had nearly nabbed him at the races … so it went on. Lexington was glad to hear that they had dragged the river for nothing. He was appalled to hear they had found the woolly wig, and when it came to particular mention of the shoes and the trousers and the coat in which he had attempted song, his heart broke. He despaired. There was nothing to be done but to complete his last task — to release that good woman’s water supply; to let the refreshing streams fill the zinc container; strain through the perforated plate and fill with enlivening streams the pipes of the annexe, bringing joy to those who should yet retain their freedom, whilst he was led away to durance. He raised the hammer once more, and caught the Jack-spanner a bang even more furious than the last.

It did the trick — it did it beyond all measure. There was not released from Kingley’s patent tap that reasonable stream it should have conveyed. There poured from it a mighty river with the deafening noise of an avalanche, and all the weight of the Chiltern reservoir behind it, 200 feet above them. The container was filled in a flash; the floor was a rising pond; a stream began to cascade down the well of the back staircase, and a vision rose in his mind of what must he happening to the ceiling of the room below.

Moments of life-and-death crises bring revelation, and to Lexington the only avenue of escape was revealed — the wardrobe on the landing below.

He leapt down to that landing on the next floor, the noise of the tremendous cascade above drowned his footsteps. He could hear the water pouring down the servants’ stairs, while before him lay the well-carpeted descent reserved for the superior ranks of household.

A landing is not a good place in which to change one’s clothes, but Charles Lexington had become an expert in changing clothes. He could have qualified in one of the old-fashioned musical halls where character-actors appeared as Napoleon Bonaparte, Cleopatra, and Mr. Gladstone all in five minutes. He rolled his trousers up to the knee. He kicked off his boots. He slipped on stockings, then a skirt. The lack of shoes would be remarkable, but no matter. He shed his coat and slipped on a bodice. With all to gain and nothing to lose he had the courage to squeeze on a Parisian hat. He was flying down the stairs. He was out at the side door of the annexe. He was striding down towards the gate of the small South lodge on the main road.

Little Anderson opened it and respectfully touched his hat to the tall lady who smiled at him so kindly in return. She seemed unduly pressed. Her lack of foot gear was strange. She took enormous strides. But little Anderson was used to the eccentricities of rich women. He had seen guests funnier than that when he had been helping once in the servants’ passage outside the dining-room during one of the big dinners. He had seen Mrs. Hattle in puce trousers. There was nothing toffs wouldn’t do nowadays: leastways, the wimmin among ’em. What did intrigue him was that after she had got into the main roads he plunged through the hedge opposite and he could see her legging it madly for the neighbouring woods.

After that little Anderson thought it his duty to report; the thing was altogether too strange. But even as he was brushing his coat with the careful minuteness of well-bred men of livery in moments where haste is essential, he heard other feet coming pounding to the gate at a heavy run. They were those of the Policeman and with him two stalwarts of the household. The hunt was up — and meanwhile the Lady Amathea’s boudoir was ruined, and the level of the great Chiltern reservoir had sunk by the eighth of an inch.

CHAPTER XV

WHEN CHARLES LEXINGTON, in the habit of a Duchess — which after all is much like any other indecent kilt — had got through the first hedge, shielded from his pursuers, he went less wildly. The clothes of modern women do not greatly impede your sprinter, rather are they made for lanky, ill-formed men, but Charles Lexington had had enough of sprinting. It was up to Fate. She was at the wheel, not he. These last few days had taught him that.

He went at a good pace along a path through the wood, and then by a right of way across another field (but not running); skirted Bolton St. Thomas reached Pugginholt (lovely village — ugly name) at the end of the fourth mile.

The comments of the young in Pugginholt convinced him that his disguise had rendered him ridiculous. He could put up with that. It was the least of evils. On his way he had unpinned the carefully-dried one-pound note from his vest. He held it clasped in his hand. In his desperate need he formed a resolution. He would telephone to Bowring, get a meeting and explain all.

It was humiliating, but it was necessary. If he were copped — and copped at last he would be — on the wretched point of the one-pound note snatched from the table of St. Dives’ Hostel, if he were once in the grip of the machine, God help him! All the forces of the State and all the Banks would then have got him in their claws. He was the unforgivable and the leper. He was THE MAN WHO HAD MADE GOLD — whom they thought could still make gold. There was only one man in the same boat with him — one fellow-culprit who lied boldly when he did lie; who had shared the swag with him — and that was Bowring. The trail was hot upon him. He thought he had a better start than he had, but even at the best he only had four miles. It was true they did not know in which direction of the four miles he had gone.

Yes. He must telephone to Bowring. Bowring would be in his shop at this hour. He would put himself at Bowring’s feet. He would tell Bowring where he was. He would ask Bowring what next to do. It would pay Bowring to save him. It would pay no one else.

He turned into the Post Office of Pugginholt. A smart building — over-capitalized. The lady in residence — young, not ill-looking, but suffering from a sneer of superiority — watched him curiously. When (from within the female garments which covered him) he asked in a deep bass voice for the London Telephone Directory her pride was blown right out of her with astonishment. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She watched him in terror, as might a child the bearded lady of the fair. She stared at Charles Lexington as he turned over the pages of the book (for it was characteristic of him that he had forgotten the number). She changed him his one-pound note as he bought stamps of her and paid for the call. She marked his enormous strides towards the telephone box.

He got through to Bowring. Their conversation was brief. He, Lexington, was at Pugginholt in danger of immediate arrest for a petty theft. He had been in hiding and desperate for money. He would explain all when they met. Somehow or the other he must be saved. Once in the hands of the police and all the catastrophe would follow. Ought he not to come up to town at once and see Bowring? If so, where and when should they meet? What did he advise?

Thus far, Charles Lexington in the telephone box. In the Post Office there was what the Swan of Avon or his producers call “noise without.”

Through the glass door and out of the corner of his eye, even as Bowring’s steady voice was beginning to give a reply — Charles Lexington saw the two stalwarts of the Duchess’s household flanking a heavily-blown Policeman, and all three facing the grill behind which stood the Lady of the Establishment. At the door shrill voices of children were repeating in chorus, “That’s where ‘ee went in! I seen un!”

Charles Lexington did not linger, no, not even to hear the all-important voice of Bowring. He strolled out unconcernedly behind the backs of the fatal three, unconcernedly, I say, but delicately, like a cat. He burst through the cordon of children, who yelled at the sight of him like a pack of Jays and ran after him with pattering feet. Then, once outside the Post Office where the Policeman and the Duchess’s two stalwarts were still stupidly inquiring, he made his last bolt for cover; not that it could avail him, but that the habit was now too strong to be dropped. He dashed down the street and into the “Aberavon Arms.” He flashed through the lounge, past the empty bar into the billiard - room, hardly knowing or caring what he did, so long as he fled. But from the billiard-room there was no issue. It was a blind alley and his pursuers entered at his heels. The hand of the Policeman was upon his shoulder, and the official voice was in his ears: “I arrest you, in the name of the King!”

“Of who?”

“The King.”

“Oh!” said Charles Lexington, and he went quietly.

Mr. Bowring, with the telephone at his ear in London, was very nearly put out. He could just control himself — but it was certainly exasperating!

He had been cut off at the critical moment. Lexington found! … News of the mystery of no-gold-supply on the tip of Lexington’s tongue! … Lexington in peril of arrest! … With that, what next?

Anyhow he had been given the name of Pugginholt. He got on to that Exchange, after too much delay, and asked them what they meant by it. They referred him to Brandon Junction. Brandon Junction told him to ask the Superintendent of his own Exchange in London. The Superintendent referred him back to Pugginholt — for which he was given first Burgenhalt and then Packenham. At last, when he did get the Pugginholt Exchange by the throat and shook the truth out of it, he found it was too late. The Postmistress was kind enough to speak to him herself over the machine. He gave her his name. “I am sure I don’t know who you mean, or who you are,” she said.

“Never mind that. My name is Bowring, and my number is 8122 Berkeley. You will find me in the Directory. A Mr. Charles Lexington was ringing me up just now. Can you tell me …”

“I don’t know anything about any Mr. Anybody. There has been no man in here to-day since noon. There was a funny-looking woman, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not a woman — a man.”

“Went out suddenly with the Police after her.”

“That’s all I wanted to know.”

The Bowring voice ceased upon the machine, and the unfortunate Postmistress remained gnawed by unsatisfied desire for knowledge. It was so strong upon her that she almost deserted her post to find out what it was all about, and what had happened.

Meanwhile, Bowring had his staff work clear in a moment. There were two desperate things to be done. First, no matter how much the trail might twist and turn he must follow it. No short cuts. March to the sound of the guns. He was for Pugginholt. He looked at his watch. The quickest way would be the express from Waterloo in three-quarters of an hour that stopped first at Brandon. He told his foreman to ring up the “Unicorn” at Brandon, and have a car ready for him at Brandon Station. That was his first action. His next action was this. He wrote a short note to the Secretary of State for Home affairs and sent it off by messenger. The note was in these words and no more : —

“If you will come to my house in Hammersmith at noon sharp to-morrow the matter on which you approached me can be decided.”

Bowring didn’t sign that note, he left the paper heading and his handwriting to speak for themselves. He added not a word of emphasis. He knew his politicians and their games.

When he had sent off that note he still had half an hour to get his train at Waterloo, and he caught it comfortably. At Brandon he found the car awaiting him, and he went straight to the “Aberavon Arms” at Pugginholt. Most middle-aged men who knew the Victorian Thames in their youth know that little village and its inn, only half a mile from the river.

Bowring had come too late to do anything that day, but he found he had acted wisely. A lady, or something of the sort, had been arrested in the billiard-room late that afternoon, and was safely under lock and key, and she, or whatever it was, would come up before the Magistrates the next morning. There was no time to be lost, but the thing could just be done. He had a clear twenty-four hours’ start of Scotland Yard. He had only to play the bold game.

“It is quite simple, my dear Lexington,” Bowring was saying quietly at breakfast in the “Aberavon Arms” next morning. “You must break bail. We’ll walk up the road together in a minute. I have a car waiting in a lane and we’ll both be in my house by eleven.”

“There are ways of arranging these things. I explained to the Bench who you were.”

A look of alarm came into Lexington’s eyes. “Oh, God! you didn’t do that, Bowring?”

“Of course I did,” said Bowring, “and they were most sympathetic. I told them all about it. Old Billy Monkton knows me and the other fellow, the squire, knew your father, and thought he had seen you once or twice. I explained to them all about it. I said you had had a nervous breakdown. They beamed. They’ve all known nervous breakdowns in their families, and they take them for granted at the Universities. They’ve a great respect for St. Olaf’s. It has had more loonies and suicides than any other college…. And now tell me your story — briefly, for we haven’t more than ten minutes to be safe. I know the ropes. They wake up at Scotland Yard about half-past nine; at 9.45 the Police here will get the order and before ten they’ll be here. It’s nine now.

Charles Lexington told the plain truth. How he had sought to analyse the Philosopher’s Stone, the famous cylinder; the explosion; the hopeless outlook for the future.

Bowring watched him all the while and he believed him. Charles Lexington with his candid mouth, in his newly-bought reach-me-downs, his terrified eyes, his absurd adventures, must have had good reason to fly and to hide. Yes, it was all true — Lexington could no longer make gold.

Even as he watched the poor victim of Fate (yet not so poor, for Fate was ready for another rightabout) Bowring had a new plan ready. He had intended, in sending that note to the Home Secretary, to admit Lexington’s powers to make this stuff, to retract his denial, and to tempt Mills to come in at the eleventh hour. Now there was another and more dangerous game to be played. But he would attempt it.

Lexington watched his companion’s quick acceptance of the truth. He rose to go out.

“Would they nobble me in London?” he asked piteously.

Bowring shook his head without emotion.

“All that will be arranged,” he said. “Everything can be arranged when you hold the trumps.”

“How do you mean, ‘hold the trumps’?” asked the other anxiously.

“Wait and see,” said Bowring. “Meanwhile stroll out quietly towards my car down the lane. You’ll see it about half a mile on, opposite a pub called ‘The Snowden Arms.’ I’ll join you in ten minutes.”

Bowring saw Lexington off the place, and then he set the wires to work.

He had a bit of luck to begin with, for he found Hammersham was in all right — at the other end of the wire.

“Bowring speaking. Have they given orders for nabbing Lexington?”

“Not yet. We’ve only just heard.”

“What form will it take?”

“We haven’t decided yet. He is to be sent up to town. We are going to send a man down to tell the Magistrates at Pugginholt that there’s another and graver charge, and that we are going to reserve action.”

“When are you bringing him up to town?”

“Oh, some time to-day. Our man will go down from Scotland Yard this afternoon.”

“You won’t get Lexington.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got away.”

“How do you know?”

Bowring made no direct answer : all he asked was :

“Mills got my note?”

“Yes,” said Hammersham in a constrained voice … then after a long silence. … “I’ve seen it too.”

“Well,” answered Bowring, “See that he comes. A great deal depends on it, and more for him than for me. You understand?”

“Oh yes! I understand all right; but what are you proposing?”

“Come to my house this morning at noon as I said and you’ll see.”

“Are you talking from your house now?” asked Hammersham’s voice again on the wire.

“No. I am talking from Pugginholt.”

“Good God!”

“It’s all right. I won’t let him go. You can make Mills quiet on that. Only do try and make Mills understand that it is to everybody’s advantage that you both come to my house to-day at noon.”

“Very well,” said Hammersham.

And that was the end of the little exchange on the telephone which held up Scotland Yard and put the Secretary of State into a cleft stick; and that is how great nations are democratically governed.

At ten o’clock, before the court at Pugginholt was open, Bowring and Lexington were well on their way to town in the motor; at the same hour, in London, Honest Jack Mills and efficient young Hammersham, were in earnest conversation. That conversation lasted long. The Bowring note was canvassed in all its aspects and Hammersham was steadfast for acceptance.

“It can’t do any harm to see him,” he said, “and we may learn something. We can always lay our hands on Lexington if we want to. There’s no hurry. We can get Bowring too if we like.”

“I wish I’d jugged him long ago!” muttered Mills. He was wondering how much Hammersham knew. He had hesitated to put Bowring under lock and key for fear of what he knew. If Hammersham knew too, Mills was under inspection with a vengeance!

Therefore Hammersham had his way and he and the Home Secretary, by a little after half-past eleven, were bowling along towards Hammersmith in the excellent motor which in the natural course of things had been presented to Jack Mills by an old, old friend — recently ennobled. Hammersham had tried hard to convince his Chief that it was better not to have the detectives about, but he had failed. And two plain-clothes men were already lurking round Bowring’s home.

They arrived at the house just after twelve. They found in Bowring’s study two men — one with whose photograph, secretly circulated by the Home Office and the C.I.D., Hammersham was only too familiar. It was Lexington, sitting quietly in his chair, as though there were no such things as bail or stolen bank-notes or Synthetic gold in the world. The other was a strange figure; a little terrified, half-starved lad, in dead-new ready-made clothes with strong creases at the trousers; hands on his knees, sitting bolt upright in his chair and staring with wide, troubled eyes. It was the Waif.

Bowring rose and greeted Jack Mills with cordiality and perhaps a little too familiarly. Jack Mills answered more stiffly, but without offence. Then Bowring took the floor. He stood up before the fireplace in his accustomed attitude, the same attitude which he had used all those weeks ago, when first he had heard the fantastic story about making gold. He spoke as briefly as he could — but even so it took him a good ten minutes — he told the whole story.

There had been a very grievous misunderstanding. Mr. Lexington, whom he had known from boyhood, had suffered from an accident only too common in our ancient Universities. It is the price they pay for their enormous learning, the pride and envy of the world. Mr. Lexington, the great chemist, had had a nervous breakdown (“like poor Woolston,” murmured Hammersham sympathetically in Jack Mill’s ear). Mr. Lexington’s subliminal self had, in that condition, played tricks of which in his normal state it would have been ashamed. He had begun with a sort of hallucination that he had found a way to make gold. He went on to back it up with a piece of childish practical joking. He took small fragments of the shredded gold used in chemical experiments, rubbed them over with blacklead, and then amused himself by startling his friends with a sort of conjuring trick. He would melt the prepared fragments of black-leaded gold in a crucible so that they seemed to be turned into the precious metal. He did this trick once or twice to astonish his friends, and it was then the silly rumours had got about of which the papers had been so full. But his friends knew Mr. Lexington’s unfortunate condition. He had received the best specialist advice and was now completely cured. It was as well to be quite frank about these things. Of course, there was a certain measure of humiliation, but Mr. Lexington, for whom he was commissioned to speak, owed it to the Community, and to his friends, to make a clean breast of it. That was that. He hoped that the incident was at an end.

“What about Taylor?” said Mills quietly.

“Lord Taylor has been told the whole story over the telephone this morning.”

“Does he agree?” said Mills as quietly as before.

“I do not know,” answered Bowring rather sharply, “but if he does not agree yet — he will.”

Then it was the Home Secretary’s turn to speak at some length.

“There are only five of us here present. I do not know who that gentleman may be?” (he bowed very slightly at the Waif, who did not answer but still sat stolidly staring).

“You may speak freely before him,” put in Bowring, “he will have something of interest to tell you in a moment.”

“There are only five of us here,” went on Mills. “And, anyhow, what I have to say is not so very secret; you know we have already given out an Order in Council. You know what the Press have been saying. There will have to be legislation to forbid not only the manufacture of gold, but any experiment in that direction save under public control. The first rough draft has been prepared, and we shall get the bill through at once. The penalties will be retrospective,” he added, glancing at Bowring.

“Oh, yes, of course!” said Bowring. “The only point is that the Press have got to be told to put the helm over and assure the public that there has been no gold made after all. But the legislation is all right. There’s no harm in that. Quite the contrary! Science has reached a point, I hear, where it might produce gold from, say, lead, any day. And that would be the end of all things. Oh, yes! You politicians and bankers must prevent gold being made,” the slightest ghost of a smile lurked in his eyes. “You cannot make the manufacture of gold too criminal,” he concluded.

Mills broke in abruptly. “There’s one more thing I mean to say before I go,” he cried, looking Lexington and Bowring up and down alternately with his pale eyes. “Certain arrests have been arranged and I intend to go forward with them.”

“Better not,” said Bowring, looking up at the ceiling.

“I should like you to repeat those words,” said Mills, his face paler than the ordinary, for his anger was getting the better of him.

Bowring repeated the phrase good-humouredly. “Better not arrest us, Mills! Far better not!”

Mills half rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” said Bowring authoritatively. He motioned to the Waif. “Mr. Crimps, would you be good enough to tell the company what you were telling me a short while ago?”

The Waif rose. He clasped his hands behind his back; he lifted his chin; in a monotone of extraordinary rapidity he poured out his tale. It was exactly like a Policeman giving evidence on oath in a Court of Justice. It was the seventh repetition of the lesson, and the Waif gabbled it off the reel with no pauses or stops except to gasp for breath.

“At or about 6.30 on Wednesday the 25th of April of this year, I entered for the purpose of concealment the corfer standin’ on the left-’and side of Mr. Bowring’s shop in Percy Street as you come in by the front door and laying there I ‘eard a conversation between Mr. Bowring and another proposing that a nephew of the visitor should enter into partnership with Mr. Bowring for the manufacture and sale of gowld, which proposition Mr. Bowring having rejected ’is visitor next spoke of an Order in Council immediately to be issued and legislation to be put before Parliament for its approval a-rendering criminal all unlicensed efforts or experiments for the manufacture of the said gowld, also and moreover Mr. Bowring ‘aving answered that he would not agree I ‘eard the visitor proclaim twice as ’ow Mr. Bowring would live to regret it.”

“Could you recognize the visitor’s voice if you heard it again?” said Bowring.

“Yus,” answered the good Waif — adding, quite unnecessarily, “so ‘elp me Gawd!”

“Is it the voice of anyone here?”

“Yus,” said the Waif, chin still lifted, gazing at nothing, “it were the voice o’ that large gentleman what’s setting in the arm-chair.”

“That will do,” said Bowring, and the Waif sat down, sweating.

Outside the slow pacing of four boots on the feet of two plain-clothes men could just be heard some way off on the deserted pavement. Then came the whistle of a tug on the river.

Jack Mills’s face, from the pallor of cold veal which was its common form, had taken on a tinge of saffron. At last he brought out these words with difficulty and huskily :

“Do you propose anything, Bowring?”

Bowring jumped briskly to his feet, crying “Yes! Rather! Drew it all up hours ago!” He brought a couple of typewritten sheets out of his pocket and stood up again before the fireplace, mastering his audience :

“It’s all quite simple. As I said, any day they may really hit on the way to make gold — so there must be control. But to be of any use the control would have to be international. Well, that means Geneva. There must be a Bureau at Geneva to check the world production of gold, to issue certificates of origin, licences to deal, etc., and there must be an international laboratory with a monopoly for research and the right to issue licences for experiment. It’s all quite simple, and it’s so necessary that it’s simply certain to be done when we propose it. It must have one of those titles which are made up of initials that can be pronounced like one word. I’ll call it the B.I.C.O., ‘ Bureau International pour le Controle de l’Or.’ You” (nodding at Mills) “have started the ball rolling. Your Order in Council was the first move and you began the first legislation. They’ll listen to you at once.”

“Geneva means the French,” sighed Mills bitterly. “The blighters have nobbled it.” He was thinking of the £2,000 a year job sneaked from poor old Polly’s boy that very winter by nasty little Achille Guéras, the Deputy for Timbuctoo.

“Well, square Malairain,” said Bowring sharply, “That’s not difficult. There’ll have to be a lot of posts, anyhow. Meanwhile,” and here he looked at his typewritten notes, “there are some posts that are obvious. Lexington must have the laboratory — a life appointment, say £5,000 a year, tax free, with a private house in the building, by the lake. Only, we’ll have to allow at least half a dozen foreign subordinates. Hammersham will be Secretary — we know what that kind of thing leads to — Suez Canal, and all that later on — you’ll take it, Hammersham?”

“Yes — but with a lump sum voted in recognition of services on promotion to any further post.”

“Right,” continued Bowring, “that can be arranged all right. Would you like a motor-launch on the lake, Hammersham?”

“Yes,” said Hammersham.

Bowring made a note of the point and went on:

“Then there’s Taylor. He’s not here, but he knows. Taylor could have the bank. There’s always a Bank tied on to these League of Nations ramps. He could have two-fifths of the interest in the Société Anonyme which would hold 51 per cent, of the shares in the Syndicat Particulier which would hold the non-governmental majority of the shares in the bank itself. I’ve got it all here in my notes. It’s perfectly plain. Right! You, Mills, what about your nephew?”

Mills cleared his throat. “I was just going to say … I can’t make part of the group myself … not permanently. But if my nephew could have an interest. …”

“Well, that’s easy. Your nephew could stand in with Taylor,”

“And where do you come in, Bowring?” said Mills.

“I! Oh, you can give me the Assay Department. I’d do it on commission. And then, you know, the Licensees would probably be grateful too, and if they showed their gratitude in some private way now and then, why, I shouldn’t mind…. It’s a grand scheme and bound to go through. Why, bless you! Salaries? That’s what the League of Nations is for! …”

“Lots of places for the foreigners,” he went on enthusiastically. There’ll be a President, of course, and a Vice-President and a Consultation Council — German head? and something for Zbrcz, or he’d put a spoke in — he’s so cursed sly.”

Mills nodded agreement thoughtfully.

“Yes! You’ve always got to square Zbrcz at Geneva.”

Bowring continued: “All of you come to the Lucullus to-night, and we’ll have a dinner and discuss details.”

“I can’t come,” said Hammersham. “It would be noticed. If I were there with my chief it would look official.”

“That’s true … never mind. We’ll tell you all about it afterwards, and then you can go off to Geneva and lay the ground bait as soon as ever you like and the earlier the better.”

The historic group broke up — reconciled. And that night, while the Waif with his well-earned wage was entertaining his friends at Murphy’s, Lord Taylor, Bowring, Lexington, and Mills in the happiest of moods drew up the B.I.C.O. at the Lucullus — and whatever notes the waiter took down on his shirt cuff were generously paid for by Hammersham on the morrow.

When the B.I.C.O. was released six months later after having been common talk among those in the know for at least four months the comments of our Press did honour to the national genius and that unfailing political instinct which has given us our great modern statesmen, and pro-Consuls such as Higgs and Goole.

I say advisedly “our” Press. Upon the continent there was the usual lack of understanding, petty national jealousy and, I am sorry to say, sheer ribaldry from the reactionary sheets of the Paris boulevards. In England the chorus was as striking as it was nearly unanimous.

The Day gave as it were the keynote to the whole, stamping its semi-official character on the praise it accorded.

“As a nation,” it said, in its first leader, “we are not given to boasting, but we may say that it is only fitting that the post so happily filled by the choice of Sir Charles Lexington should fall to an Englishman, and it was a happy and graceful incident that the proposal was made by the representative of the Chinese Republic. All the great chemists have been Englishmen. The whole tradition of modern chemistry is English, and no living Englishman can rival Sir Charles Lexington in the special department over which he is to preside.”

The Modern Democrat said, in its leader of the next day, that as a nation we were not given to boasting, but that everyone would be pleased to see two names on the new great International organization at Geneva : names which no other country could rival or equal. It meant, of course, those of Sir Charles Lexington and Lord Taylor. It was pleasant to remark that the proposal to nominate Sir Charles Lexington had come from the representative of the great Chinese Republic with which our own democracy was in such happy relations, while that of Lord Taylor had been suggested by the representative at Geneva of the Empire of Abyssinia seconded by the negro representative of Liberia.

The Drum, in vigorous outstanding, characteristic English stated in the very first lines of its main leader that as a nation we were not given to boasting. No one could doubt that the English character was peculiarly fitted for the delicate tasks of the new organization where absolute integrity was an essential. It pointed out the qualifications of Sir Charles Lexington.

The Howl spoke in much the same voice. It opened its leader by saying that as a nation we were not given to boasting, but that no one could deny the peculiar aptitude for the very delicate task committed to the new organization at Geneva, of two famous Englishmen of the first rank who, the one on the financial the other on the scientific side, would have so much to say to its success.

I fear I might weary my readers were I to prolong the list, gratifying though it would be to show what a united front the English daily Press can present to the world in matters affecting the welfare of the country.

The Trombone began with words which jarred somewhat on our native modesty.

Only the Empire, it said, could produce men like Sir Charles Lexington and Lord Taylor. It regretted the presence of any foreigners at all on any of the Committees, and prophesied that in all that counted the B.I.C.O. would be run from London. It was devoutly thankful that no position of trust had fallen to others than Germans and Englishmen, though it admitted the strength of the financial committee where Lord Taylor would be supported by M. de Caen from France, Herr von Kuhn from the Reich, Señor Coheño as Spanish Delegate, Signor Cuneo as Italian; and it was gratifying to note that the important interests of the Soviet Republic with its production of gold in the Urals would be unofficially but effectively represented by Commissar Kahn.

Only one false note was struck, the Red Flag, while admitting the suitability of the personalities placed in charge of the B.I.C.O., and especially that of the distinguished scientist Sir Charles Lexington, regretted that the financial side of the new organ should be independent of Parliamentary control. It had not a word to say against Lord Taylor personally, but it suggested that some democratic public servant, such as Mr. Mills himself, might well have overcome his natural reluctance to leave public life and have undertaken the thankless but all-important duty. For only democratic control by a tried democrat could make the B.I.C.O. safe for democracy.

CHAPTER XV

To

Professor ANDRADE

(who taught me how to make Gold)

PROLOGUE

IN THE NEW great Stockham wing of the Examination Halls, still called (in spite of his subsequent imprisonment) by the name of the Empire Maker who had paid for it, there was gathered a great audience, most of it from the University, the rest from the ignorant lay world outside.

They had come to listen to one of the most distinguished scientists in the world. His name was already familiar in America, and had been mentioned in two or three technical reviews upon the Continent: I mean Mr. Charles Lexington, the Reader to the University in Electro-Chemistry, a Fellow of St. Olaf’s.

He was delivering the first of the Railby Lectures of that season, so-called (in spite of his subsequent imprisonment) from the generous Founder of thirty years before.

By the terms of the Trust, the lecturer, who received the sum of a pound a minute, was required “to speak for one hour on some subject connected with physical science in its relation to the human society.” It was a wide field. But there was a general understanding, based upon a clause of the Trust, that the subject chosen should as far as possible be taken from the later developments of research and especially from those upon which no conclusions could be drawn. The lecturers were to be chosen from the nationals of the more progressive countries (scheduled as Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Iceland, Holland, the German Reich, Finland, Esthonia and Latvia, and, of course the United States; and from the associated free nations of the British Empire save the West Indies, British Guiana, the Seychelles Islands, Malta and Cyprus). It was further laid down by the Trust that the same lecturer should not deliver more than one lecture in three years — which was only fair, when you consider what the fee was and how poor most lecturers are.

The subject which had drawn so large an audience was “The Transmutation of Metals,” and while the subject itself was an attraction, the fame of the lecturer a greater attraction still, the chief attraction was the Chairman; for Lord Taylor himself, though on the point of starting for the Lido, had found time to snatch a Saturday afternoon from his crushing labours in the great group of Banks which he directed.

The old gentleman had excellent reasons for such condescension. He had read on that very subject all that an educated man could and should read. He was more inclined than many a younger man to believe that science might achieve the transmutation of metals on a large scale at any moment. He had considered — indeed, it had taken up most of his thoughts of late — what the results would be if some cheaper metal could as a commercial proposition be transformed into gold.

The word “transformed” was inaccurate. Lord Taylor was well abreast of the times. He knew as well as you and I and the leader writers and the politicians — pretty well everyone except the racing men — that what would really happen was the taking away of one or more electrons from an element-group, with the result that the so-called element acted upon ceased to be and another element — in this case called gold — took its place. It was no mere changing of, say, mercury into gold, any more than washing out the bone dust and chalk from a patent salt is changing patent salt into real salt.

Yes, he knew all that all right. He had a clear picture of the modern atom — so different from its dead grandfather, the Victorian atom! He could see the dignified proton sitting in the middle and all the little electrons dancing round it in rings like so many billiard balls round the dome of St. Paul’s.

It is true that this picture itself was a little old-fashioned; for since he had framed it science had advanced yet another step and electrons were doing something else. Still, the essentials of the new scientific dogma remained firmly fixed in his mind.

It was no joke! The scientists were on the threshold of something enormous : no less than the production of gold at will.

If it caught the bankers unprepared there’d be a crash — and he would be in the middle of it.

Therefore was Lord Taylor there that day. The man put up to talk was the best authority, and Lord Taylor must be in touch. He could not be content to read the printed report of the lecture. He wanted to get a physical impression, to listen to the voice and its intonations; to watch the gestures; to mark hesitation or certitude. He wanted to be really informed.

I am afraid he was a little disappointed. Mr. Lexington had all the qualities required for his task. He was gentlemanly, tall and thin, wore a pinch-nose (or Nasen-Knipper, as we say in the University), his pale hair was rather long, and his moustache duly drooped. His collar also was soft.

In one respect only was Mr. Charles Lexington not perfectly true to type. His voice was too deep. But his manner was so learned that this defect was corrected by an occasional squeak or rush up the octave after the most approved models.

No, it was not in the lecturer that Lord Taylor was disappointed — for he had known the man from boyhood, and his father before him. There was even a close intimacy between the two families. What disappointed him as the lecture proceeded was the quality of the information he derived from it. It was abundantly clear from all that Mr. Lexington had to say that transmutation demanded nothing but the knocking out of a few paltry electrons, yet it was apparently the painful duty of the lecturer to confess that the electrons had stood their ground.

“There is, indeed, Pomphaftigzeiter’s famous experiment, which, had it succeeded, would have been conclusive,” he said, peering at his notes, “and when vapour of mercury was subjected some years ago by another pioneer to a high electrical charge it may have left behind it certain minute granules of pure gold.” But with the caution of a true scientist (how different from the untrue ones, who lay down the law!) Charles Lexington would not commit himself. Indeed, he was too much aware of the cold boiled eye of his colleague the Regius Professor fixed on him from the second row of the stalls to give himself away on anything.

He concluded, however, after plenty of safe-guarding, with the suggestion that the whole thing was only a question of time. We had got the electron out from its lurking-place behind the gross veils of the senses; we knew him; we could count him, we could tell him off as a shepherd tells his sheep; and who shall set boundaries to our powers of worrying one sheep and another from out the flock?

Mr. Charles Lexington ended with a passage of rhetoric after his kind, in which he sang the Psalm of Hope, and sat down having spoken for exactly fifty-nine minutes and a half, and earned his cheque like a man.

It might seem strange that such an hour spent in the Chair by Lord Taylor should have had any further effect on his mind. He had certainly learned nothing, he was as wise as when he had come into the room, and so was every member of the audience; for I hope there is no one, lay or professional, who at this time of day does not know the now very simple doctrine of atomic structure. But a thing spoken is very different from a thing read, the action, the emphasis and the rest of it, working on the mind of an old man who had been turning over the subject a good deal too much in his head for rather a long time past, did their work. And when Lord Taylor climbed into his motor to drive back to London it was with a sort of feeling that at any moment they might do the trick after all — and what would the robin do then, poor thing?

Humph! Gold to be manufactured on a commercial basis! Gold at a cost of production of, say, five shillings the ounce. My word! When the news came it would be too late to act! Could one persuade the authorities to act before the news came?

And with that I leave him for a little, to turn from the glories of Modern Science to the puerilities of the Alchemists.

CHAPTER I

HENRY BOLTER WAS an undergraduate in his fourth year. His college was St. Olaf’s, founded long ago in honour of that great saint and king who distinguished himself by fastening his captives to rocks at low tide and watching the water rise.

The reason Henry Bolter was at St. Olaf’s was that his father, generally known as Old Bolter, had been at St. Olaf’s before him : as also had his elder brother, senior to him by four years, an athlete who had just gone down after getting his Blue. Henry Bolter differed, I regret to say, not a little from Old Bolter the Worthy, and Elder Brother Bolter the Blue. He differed from them within and without, in shape and in colour, in texture, manner and creed. He differed from them so much that anyone who had not known Mother Bolter during the Bolters’ Indian years might have suspected her virtue. For Old Bolter — who had also been a Blue in his time — had featured under Queen Victoria a Viking lad, very worthy of St. Olaf’s. And his eldest son, born before the Indian episode, had proved a second Viking Bolter. After an interval of thirty years, with George V on the throne of his grandmother, Old Bolter, rich by birth and much richer after the Indian stunt, had given his old college a new library, while Bolter the Blue, already engaged to an heiress, was game to give a large subscription for the new barge on the river. Both Old Bolter and Bolter the Blue supported and did honour to the established church at large, and to the parish church inside the Park in particular. Both the Father and the Son kept their minds informed upon Europe and the Empire (which, in their eyes, included the United States) by reading The Times; kept their sense of humour lively and clean by reading Punch; and also had the sense to read the excellent verse of Mr. Kipling, the Poet Laureate, and half a dozen other of our leading poets.

I am sorry to have wasted so much of your time and my space with the Bolters, because we shall soon have to drop them. They play but. an initial part in the very interesting story you are about to read. The truth is that I was led on, desiring as I did to make clear the unique and isolated case of Henry, the young Bolter, now still up at the University.

For, oh, see! How different was Harry! Observe him in his rooms out of College in his last year of University sufferings. Mark him and his surroundings. Though he rents the plain sitting-room of a licensed lodgings at 24 Brecon Street, near the Cathedral, he has made his room something as odd as his own dark self. He lies in that state of exhaustion too common to him after his opiate, stretched limply upon a long divan, covered with stuffs of the Levant. You find him under a subdued light that filters through the carven oriental framework fitted on the single window; the dim atmosphere is full of strange scents and with such ornaments upon the walls as ill befit a Bolter.

On sombre hangings, which hide the paper, you may discern as your eyes grow accustomed to the glimmer certain drawings in black and white which represent things not of this world — evil flowers, beasts half human, and leering eyes. Heavy curtains at the casement hold permanently the memory of stale incense. From the ceiling there hangs an inverted alabaster bowl wherein floats, on its little bath of olive oil, a little sacerdotal wick always alight and shedding a subdued halo through the darkened air of the room.

In the darkest corner between the window and the wall, opposite the sofa and its two luxurious Eastern rugs, stood the strangest part of all this furniture. Upon a coffer of the Italian fifteenth century, deeply carved and marked with old gold, stood as upon a pedestal a head, very grotesque, too living and even to the most robust a little startling. It had been fashioned by one whom Henry Bolter had unfortunately sought out in a dead, silent and half-ruined city of Apulia a year before; someone of whose talent or inspiration he had heard, and whom he had been at infinite pains to discover.

The head was that of a not too dignified devil. It was made of composition, but had been treated so as to have a surface like old wood and covered, as a wooden carving might have been, with paint. The face leered and was thrust forward. There bulged from it eyes of I know not what bright material, but intense for such a face. From no position in that curtained room could one avoid the gaze, nor did Henry Bolter, stretched at his loose length along the sofa, avoid it; he rather dwelt on it in a trance he would not break.

The young man gave an impression not only of listlessness, but of physical disease, so far had the misuse of some drug undermined him. His long, delicate hands hung nerveless, his dark, olive face was on the boundary between expressionless despair and useless wisdom, and his eyes burned therein, or rather smouldered, open, over wide, and permanently mournful. His long, black hair, all lank, was in an arranged disorder which he had once thought out, but which had now become a habit.

So he lay in what those very few of his contemporaries who had been allowed to peer into the place had called, some of them The Harem, others the Cave of Baphomet. His drug-clouded ears heard noon booming solemnly from the cathedral, with a sound mellowed by three hundred years.

At that same hour of noon the less profound but more direct timepiece of St. Olaf’s, stuck up in the modern front, of the new library, gave out from its sham fourteenth-century carvings a most inadequate imitation of medieval things; it struck twelve with a sharpness which would stand no nonsense. It was the signal for Mr. Charles Lexington, Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s, Reader in Electro-Chemistry to the University, author of The Flowering of the Atom in the popular “What Things Are” series, and Railby Lecturer of the year, to step down from the platform where he had been lecturing, and make for his rooms on the other side of the Quad.

The unfortunate reader — unless he has been so foolish as to skip the Prologue of this masterpiece — has already met Charles Lexington. Meet him again, for you will have a good deal to do with him.

He was a man typical of his profession and a good hand at his trade : atheist, industrious, clearheaded, very conscientious about his work, trying hard to keep up the standard of his pupils and to give St. Olaf’s the same name in his own branch of Science as it had already gained in Classics and Philosophy, Sophistry, and History.

To-day as he walked smartly across the Quad. to his rooms he was disturbed and he was knitting his brows. Bolter had cut his lecture again! It was the third time in ten days! He had marked the empty place at the beginning of his lecture, made a pretext for waiting a moment in the hope that the lad would come in, and then had gone on with his demonstration. Bolter had become a problem. This kind of thing would not do. Something must be done. But the solution was not easy, for the Bolters counted at St. Olaf’s. He had not solved it by the time he had reached his room, put down his pile of books, and sat down to think it over.

Normally Henry Bolter should have been sent down. The College would have been well rid of him. Half a dozen times in the last year that issue had been proposed, and half a dozen times, either by Lexington’s own advice or by the President’s, it had been decided to do nothing. It was necessary to go slow with Old Bolter; and apart from that there was a genuine feeling of loyalty and affection towards the Bolter name. It had become part of the structure of the place.

Moreover, against Harry Bolter there was nothing sufficiently definite. He was slack in his work, but he never failed in the terminal examinations. His essays were eccentric, they verged on the absurd, and sometimes read as though he were ridiculing his superiors; they dragged in allusions to alchemy and used an archaic wording; but they never showed insufficient knowledge. From the day when at his own choice his father had allowed him to begin to read for his Degree in Electro-Chemistry he had kept up to the required standard, he had read the minimum amount in the required books, he had understood what he had read. But there was in his conduct, in his slackness of attendance, in his solemn pretence at occult knowledge, in his reverence for the Cabala and hints at the Philosopher’s Stone, something which was not laziness but contempt of court. It was this also which appeared in his written work, and which, in the case of any other man, would have finished his career at the University. But a Bolter was a Bolter. Therein the problem lay.

Lexington fished out from the pile of weekly essays that one in the characteristic hand of the exasperating youth (a hand carefully modelled upon a Venetian script of the late fifteenth), and read it through once again.

It was an extraordinary production, fantastic and yet disturbing. It dealt straightforwardly enough with the theme that had been set. It showed a sufficient knowledge of the text-books, but it introduced in strange little asides turns meaningless and metaphors drawn from the mystical nonsense which has been dead these two hundred years. It spoke with respect in one place of some charlatan, seer or other, who followed Wallenstein three hundred years ago, and it quoted, as one might quote from some great modern authority, the formula of Brozius upon the “governance of the base elements by the noble.” It treated with perfect assurance as historical fact the famous description of Helvetius which tells us how he made gold from lead.

In five minutes Henry Bolter’s tutor had finished this last and most exasperating of the young man’s vagaries and his mind was made up. He must see the boy; he must talk to him thoroughly and tell him that it lay between a complete reformation and the end of his career. There must be a general clean-up. It wouldn’t do, and something must be done.

The conscientious Lexington was a man of action. He took a sheet of the College note-paper and wrote : —

Dear Mr. Bolter,

This kind of thing won’t do, and something must be done. This morning, for the third time since the beginning of term, I noticed you were not in your place at my lecture. I am ready to make every allowance, but this kind of thing is becoming serious. Moreover, the weekly essay you sent me, I must frankly say, passes the limits of what is tolerable in the way of extravagance. You can hardly have meant it seriously, and if you did not it is a piece of unpardonable impertinence to send such a thing to your tutor and a Fellow of your College.

I do not want to write more strongly, nor even to write further. It is better that I should see you and that we should have it out once and for all. I shall send this down by hand, and I must beg you to be here in my rooms at four o’clock precisely, when you will find me waiting for you.

There. That was decisive. Lexington felt relieved, as do all honest men when they have banged the table. He sent for Williams, and Williams took the letter round.

Mr. Lexington took a light lunch in his room, during which he re-read for his own satisfaction an essay of his own which had recently appeared in a foreign review, wherein he demolished his opposite number in Leipsic. Then he went off for a brisk grind with Halibut, of St. Barbara’s. It was a most refreshing piece of exercise aided by a cheerful discussion upon the last proposal to change Rule 134. He came back in a mood of vigour, health and sanity. He ran up the stone steps to his rooms, two at a time, some ten minutes before the appointed hour of four. His lungs were filled with fresh air, his blood was circulating well, he was prepared to give the young blighter what for or to know the reason why.

His eye caught upon the table a little roll of parchment tied around with faded pink silk, slight and ancient. It was delicately sealed. His heart misgave him, and his anger began to rise. He broke the seal, and found within, inscribed upon the delicate surface in that singular, careful, Venetian script and in a glossy ink which certainly had never known a shop, an epistle far too brief and far too characteristic. There was no “Dear Mr. Lexington” at the beginning. There was no “24 Brecon Street” at the top. The only date was the Sign of Libra, and the signature a curious hieroglyphic. In between were these words :

“I may not leave my watch before the Thrice Holy. Rather do thou come hither, at the fourth hour.”

This was too much! The Reader in Electrochemistry to the University set his teeth, leapt downstairs like a cataract, and strode from the side–door of the College towards the cathedral quarter and Brecon Street with a flush upon him and at a pace that made the passers–by turn round and watch him as he went.

CHAPTER II

AS THE DEEP-TONED strokes of the old Cathedral bell had announced noon through the trembling air, Henry Bolter lifted without energy that lanky form of his, and, kneeling before the pedestal and the head it bore, kneeling with drooping head, lax shoulders and hands clasped before him, told his Master that the Hour had come, and implored guidance and protection.

This done, he threw into the little brazier a pinch of incense, rose, bowed, deeply genuflected, rose again, lit two tapers which stood in two dragon candlesticks upon the oaken table, and, standing there, put in order the materials of his task and worship. There was the pile of sulphur, the casket filled with secret fragments, there the formula on its cracked parchment, open and held down at either edge with the two carven weights of jade, there the very large, old, black letter book already opened at its decisive page, and, to the right, the crucible with its little intense furnace ready to be lit from the flex : for the room was plugged for power.

Even as he so arranged all in the dim light, that filtered through the carven woodwork screen at the one window he was interrupted.

The landlady at 24 Brecon Street had seen undergraduate lodgers of every kind : black men and yellow, for that matter, and the young white sort that kept it up at the top of their voices, broke glass and drew the Proctors like a magnet. But she knew not whether to be more worried or less by this last specimen. On the one hand he gave no trouble at all. He had bargained with her to pay exactly double her regular terms if he might be free to furnish at his will, to keep his own hours and the rest of it. On the other hand it was all very odd and there was not enough fresh air. On the whole she would be glad enough when, at the opening of the next autumn term, she could see something more native and normal than Harry Bolter occupying the bedroom and sitting-room on the first floor at No. 24 Brecon Street.

She had knocked in that little fear which she always felt. She had been answered in a tone so solemn that it did not diminish her hesitation. She had half peeped in through the artificial, taper–lit darkness and presented Lexington’s note on a tray. Bolter had opened it, read it, begged her to wait a moment, took from a pile one of his thin vellum sheets, and with his reed pen dipped in the saucer of illuminator’s black, traced the two lines : “I may not leave my watch before the Thrice Holy. Rather do thou come hither, at the fourth hour.”

He dried them with a pinch of sand, blew on them, tied the little roll with pink silk, sealed it and gave it to her.

There was no inscription on it. Only she was to see that it could get within an hour or so to Mr. Lexington’s rooms at St. Olaf’s, and she was to put 2s. 6d. for the messenger upon his bill.

The landlady shut the door noiselessly, as she might have done the door to a chapel. The young man, instead of returning to the study of his formula and to the renewal of the task which had absorbed him for now some days, moved again to his place in front of the pedestal, knelt down and prayed with fervour.

“Master,” he prayed, “I have asked you whether a sign might not be given to end these blasphemies. Grant me to lift the veil lest fools blaspheme for ever the Wisdom of Wisdoms.”

He wrestled with that demand. He presented it with all that was left of concentration in his mind, and after the long exhaustion of such an effort he looked up towards the face. There was no sign.

Once more, still kneeling, swaying a little (for his last dose of the drug was still affecting him), he prayed more fervently than ever. He prayed on till he felt some incoherence in his mind and the floor on which he kneeled seemed unstable. He looked up again, but there was no sign.

For the third time he bent his head, murmuring continually the word “Master!” then, inwardly imploring, he looked up a third time…. And now the curtains were swaying or somehow moving, surely, and the little squares of light in the carven screen surely trembled? And was not the head grown greater or nearer? Was not its life more immediate? He was sure that the eyes were looking straight into his own, and on the full, coarse, grinning lips he was sure that there came a very slight, a very subtle change of acquiescence. He closed his eyes, dazed and dizzy; then with an effort rose, sighed profoundly, bowed again and murmured that all was well.

First standing before that great black letter book as it lay between the two tapers in the dragon candlesticks, he read out to himself in a monotone, upon that exact note which he had learned to be the true chord of invocation, the Words of Power : MARA, TAMITHA, DATHEL.

Then he murmured to himself rapidly the lines on the black letter page over which his eye shot from side to side.

“Let the Lion encounter the Virgin and, having been taken captive, fetter him with fetters to the Sun and the Moon. So shall he rise from sleep and shall take on the Form of Mastery, leaving concealment : for in simplicity all shall be accomplished and he shall be given the glory.”

This done, he pulled the curtains over the screen, blew out the tapers so that all should be in darkness save for the tiny light that floated overhead and the dull glow in the brazier. In that darkness where all was shadows he dealt with the materials before him, taking from the casket and making of the sulphur a new thing, under the heat of the crucible; leaving it to cool, rolling the material, still plastic, in his long hands. All the while, and at the just intervals, he murmured the awful title of each advancing step in the Scala Sacra at the summit of which shines the Perfect Thing.

The work was accomplished; he was free to admit the light.

The curtains were pulled back, the last embers of incense in the brazier were extinguished. He threw the carven screen well back upon its hinges, threw the casement wide open and let in the clean air, which he abhorred — but he would have as open as could be the setting for what was to be done, so that the scoffers might be confounded in the very light of the sun. That light of the sun of a clear February day flooded the room and rendered all its ornament tawdry.

But one object there was now present on the table which no one would have seen when first he left the worship of the head, something which had not met the eye under the taper light before that was extinguished; something which now lay conspicuous and new beyond the book upon the hard surface of the old oaken table. Of sulphur none remained. In its place was a short length, roughly cylindrical in shape, of a texture which I will attempt to describe; for although I have not myself even seen that famous Thing, I have read of it.

It was a roll about nine inches long by two inches thick, as it were of glass, but of a cloudy glass, brown in colour, not smooth but granulated in structure, so that a man might with some effort break small crystalline fragments from it as from sugar. Yet in spite of this granulation it was half transparent. On this his closing eyes lay with a glint of triumph in them, and he lay back to sleep and to await the moment when he would have to act. It struck one in the cathedral tower.

He slept, if it was sleep, for rather visions passed before his mind — for all the intervening hours till four.

Again came that discreet knock at the door, and the landlady had just time to say: “Mr. Lexington, sir,” when that eminent man strode in and occupied the little place.

Henry Bolter rose with difficulty from the couch, and put forward the oaken chair for his visitor, who took it without grace and looked angrily round at the absurdity of the fittings — ridiculous antiques like that absurd head, the oriental hangings, all the abracadabra and the smell of stale incense offending his nose, the dragon candlesticks out of some pawnshop in the Chinese quarter of the docks.

Sharply he faced the owner of the room and began at once with the formula which he had found best suited to the occasion.

“Look here, Mr. Bolter, this won’t do. Something will have to be done.”

So the two men, the elder and the younger, sat one in front of the other, the younger man limp, stooping, remarkable only for his burning eyes which were fixed upon the new-comer; the elder flustered and hurried, but ready, and having his common duty to do. Lexington sank back in his chair (its archaic arms offended him and its high carving got in the way).

“Something has got to be done,” he said again, as Henry Bolter sank back nervelessly on to the sofa, but still fixing on him those burning eyes….

“I don’t know whether I have got a right to ask you to get rid of all this tomfoolery. I don’t suppose I have; but it does you harm and you know it. Why can’t you live like an ordinary fellow with the men of your college and your year? Anyhow, you’ll have to come regularly to lectures. Next time you miss it will be the end. I want you to do well. And you mustn’t play the fool with your essays. It’s all very well for you to bring in all this affected rigmarole into the essays you do for me. I don’t mind. I don’t suppose you mean to be insolent.” (Bolter slowly shook his head.) “There’s nothing serious about it, anyhow. But in an examination upon which your career depends it would be fatal. They might understand humour of that kind in the other schools. But it doesn’t go down in Science. If you remember the duty you owe to your father….” Bolter nodded.

“Then,” Lexington went on in a rather slower tone and punctuating his words, “there is just one more point, Mr. Bolter, which I want you to lay to heart. All this taking for granted that our best modern scientific work is charlatan. It won’t do. It’s affected and offensive. It’s silly and will ruin you. Frankly it will. I understand the spirit of opposition. I have been through it myself as a young man.” (Lexington talked as though he was a Methuselah : he was thirty-five. But thirty-five is high above the early twenties.) “I do not even say,” he added graciously, “that a man cannot argue against the latest theories. They are only theories after all. But this way of taking for granted that all you are taught is negligible is mere vanity. And as I have told you, if you don’t get rid of it, it will ruin you. Now take what you wrote about Sir William Matheson’s essay on the ‘Transmutation of Metals.’”

Bolter sat more upright with an effort, then he sank back again.

“You were quite right to distinguish between mere hypothesis and solidly proved fact. You were quite right to dispute the mercury deposit. I don’t deny,” he went on kindly, “that you have got a good deal of reasoning to back you — certainly you can reason — but dragging in Alchemy and the Philosopher’s Stone, and Helvetius …”

Henry Bolter summoned the trifle of energy he had left — he dared not strengthen himself artificially with his drug in the presence of another — and he interrupted. He stretched out a long, disjointed arm, picked up with his fine, delicate, pointed fingers a greyish lump from the little what-not near the head of the divan where he lay, and then, leaning forward as on a hinge, he laid it out on his palm before Lexington’s eyes.

“Mr. Lexington, what is that?” he said, as abruptly as so grave and weakened a voice could speak. And as he so spoke he still kept his glowing eyes fixed firmly upon the man who professed to teach him.

Lexington felt he knew not what. He had a contempt for all this talk of influence; he had the profound conviction of your widely–read physical scientist that the whole thing was subjective and could be resisted by a healthy will. Still he was uncomfortable. Bolter’s gesture had not been abrupt, but his interruption had been. And those eyes troubled him. He saw no way out of answering.

“What’s what?” he said a little petulantly. “Oh, this?”

He had picked the grey lump up rather gingerly out of the young man’s hand.

There was nothing to be frightened of. It was pretty heavy. It seemed familiar enough; it was uncommonly like lead; but he did not want to commit himself. That is a thing they do not like doing in universities, especially before their juniors.

“Well, I don’t know.” He went on with a sort of little empty laugh. “It looks like lead.” He weighed it in his hand. “It’s about as heavy. What about it?”

“It is lead,” said Henry Bolter simply, still keeping his eyes directed upon the other. If staring at a man were like hitting him, Lexington would have protested; but there is a difference. And instead of protesting he turned his head a little away.

“Very well. I don’t know what you’re driving at, really. If you think you are putting me off….”

“No,” said Henry Bolter, “I am not putting you off. I am going to show you something that will interest you, Mr. Lexington. Really it will. It’s what you said about the latest theories and Matheson on the transmutation of metals that put it into my own mind.”

Lexington was off again.

“I don’t want you to begin an argument,” he answered solidly but brightly. “We’ve all heard it from plenty of other young men besides yourself. I grant the modern theory of the atom is only a theory, but the theory is there, and it holds the field. And though theories are only theories, they lead to truths. Now no one denies that if one could bombard that extra electron out of the mercury …”

Henry Bolter was shaking his head.

“Mr. Lexington, let us leave all that aside for a moment. I have told you I want to show you something, and I promise you you won’t be disappointed. It won’t take many minutes. I have a crucible here, and a little furnace, Bower’s Patent that you told us to use, and I have only got to put the power — plug in and set it at work to show you something well worth your while. Do bear with me.”

So much courtesy disarmed Mr. Lexington, but the eyes were still on him and he was more uncomfortable than ever. Henry Bolter got up from the sofa, turned on the current, and the furnace glowed. He dropped the lump of lead into the crucible. The two men waited without a word and watched it melt.

Then Henry Bolter put out a hand towards that strange, brown, glass-like, granulated, half — transparent piece of stuff which had lain so carelessly on the oak table before the old black letter book (now clasped) and between the two extinguished tapers. He carefully broke off from its rough end a tiny particle, the size perhaps of a B. shot or a little larger. He ground it between his finger and thumb and dropped it into the molten lead that turned and heaved in the violent heat of the little furnace. Then he turned to Lexington and said :

“There is one thing you must allow me.” He smiled wanly. “It is the only artifice in my conjuring trick. But you must allow it me.” He covered the fire-ware crucible for a moment with a lid of the same substance. And still the two men sat saying nothing one before the other.

Henry Bolter looked at his watch a moment. Then Lexington spoke.

“Mr. Bolter,” he said, “I don’t want to say anything that could offend you, but you must understand that my time is valuable.”

Again Henry Bolter smiled.

“It will be more so,” he said.

With the pincers he lifted the lid he had lately put on and said : “Look in there.” And as he said it he himself peered into the turning molten metal.

What the two men saw was a liquid, no longer silver — grey, nor whitish, but passing through many colours, as do the whorls of oil spilt on water. The colours eddied one into the other, making wonderful patterns and combinations of hues which gradually and somewhat rapidly melted into one delicate green. The green began to grow yellow. As that change was perceived, Bolter leant forward and touched the switch upon the wall: the furnace went out and rapidly the heated stoneware lost its glow.

“Look!” he said. “Look!” And Lexington looked.

The green was now much more yellow than green; now was it wholly yellow with a touch of red in it; and what was more, as the crucible cooled the liquid mass grew viscous, its movings halted, its flat surface became a film which was growing solid, and now it was of that hue which has led mankind to half its sins and more than half its follies. It was Gold.

Henry Bolter stared at the crucible as might a man at a dead and conquered enemy.

Lexington was a little shaken, but still he did not believe — for there was as yet nothing to believe.

He looked sideways at his pupil to see whether those eyes had been turned upon him once again. They had not, and he was relieved. Nor did Bolter use them further in this fashion, if indeed he had so used them consciously at all. Lexington felt, in spite of himself (and he was ashamed of it), that shackles had fallen from him and that he was a freer man. He sank back in his chair and said rather ineptly : “We must let it cool.”

He looked round again at the tawdry fittings and the grotesque and futile Head out of the antiquaries shop. But, after all, was it so futile? He told himself that his nerves had been shaken, too much tested, that those eyes of Bolter’s had an unpleasant power which took an unfair advantage of a man. Bolter was still standing watching the crucible. He turned half round with no stare this time, and said, gently enough :

“I asked you just now, Mr. Lexington, what it was that I had put into that crucible. I think you said it was lead?”

“Aye. I certainly should have said so,” answered Lexington bluffly : “but I had no way of testing it. I don’t believe in miracles, you know,” he added, with a nervous laugh, and a little defiantly.

“What do you think there is in it now?”

“I can’t tell,” said Lexington, more defiantly and even sullenly. Then he reproached himself for such a mood before a very young man, and said, more brightly, “You might say it looked like gold, or brass, or something. But I don’t know what you have been cooking.”

“Well,” said Bolter, after a little pause, “the thing is easy enough to test. I wanted to show you something, Mr. Lexington, and I think you will agree that I have shown you something. You can take it away with you and test it as and when you will.”

“How do you mean — test?” said Lexington, nervously, but eager in his heart. By this time he had completely forgotten the object of his visit and all else. The thirst of a problem was upon him. He had not spent fifteen years of famous and fruitful experiment for nothing.

“What I mean, Mr. Lexington,” said Bolter, still quite gently, “is this. Shall I be insulting you if I ask you to take this — whatever it is — —” (he picked up the little roll of brown crystalline granulated substance and wrapped it in a silk cloth)— “then in full liberty — but, I trust you, in full privacy — do as I have done and discover whether there be not something in the wisdom of old?”

Once again he turned those smouldering eyes full upon the chemist. And Lexington answered :

“Really, Mr. Bolter … it’s very good of you. I don’t see why I shouldn’t … it’s very interesting, what you have just shown me. Have you any theory or …?”

“No, Mr. Lexington,” said Bolter, still with that glance of his, and shaking his head deliberately. “All I ask you is to follow the one rule of knowledge, which is experience. Then perhaps you, with your great science, can help me also to understand.”

“Oh, it is to help you to understand!” said Lexington, genuinely relieved — and he could see no irony on the other’s lips. “Well, I think we shall get to the bottom of it, whatever it is.”

“Try first, Mr. Lexington, what I have done before your eyes. Take lead as I did. Cast in a fragment of the cylinder. Heat and melt the whole. Test the result. Then, when I call upon you, I shall be eager to know what your conclusions are.”

There was no question now of funny furniture, attendance at lectures, incense, or any other undergraduate folly. Lexington went off with the strange stuff in his coat pocket carefully protected by its silk; and all the way back to college he kept his hand clapped upon the outside of that coat pocket as a rustic might upon a wad of notes. Luckily there was no one to pick a pocket of such a substance.

He reached his rooms. He opened the drawer in which he kept his valuables. He put the mysterious gift therein, after a long look at it under the electric light. That look taught him nothing he had not known before. There lay the cylinder, brown, translucent, crystalline, yet granulated: rather like a stick of dark sugar–candy. Small pieces could be broken off with some effort of the fingers, but it was not friable. Nothing of it had come off during the short journey from its home to his. He looked at his watch and was startled. Nearly two hours had passed. He had little more than an hour before Hall. His mind was curiously confused and fagged. He felt like a man who has done much more than he knew himself to be doing at the time, and who suffers the reaction thereafter.

CHAPTER III

AT 24 BRECON Street, Henry Bolter lay back in a profound and dangerous exhaustion. He would have told you that virtue had gone out of him in that new and awful piece of creation, in the realization of the Thing which had been revealed to him. A doctor would have told you that it was the drug. I shall tell you that I do not know whether it was the one or the other, and it might well have been neither.

At any rate, there he lay back, breathing heavily and, for intervals which were much too long, half swooning.

As he came out of his torpor, the clock of the Cathedral tolled eight through the darkness. He staggered to his feet, and slouched towards the pedestal that bore the Image, then suddenly sank back to where he had lain, and for a quarter of an hour remained prostrated, but now lucid again.

He felt no hunger. He hardly ever felt hungry nowadays. It was one of the mysteries his landlady could never solve. But he did feel coming upon him, insistent, abominable, the craving: stricken though he was, and a slave bound to this dreadful Master, he had attempted to make rules. He knew — under that brilliant light of intelligence which burns so much more fiercely in those thus miserably chained to drugs, which burns so much more brilliantly in the few moments of extreme lucidity before they fall again — he knew, under that beam of perception, that he was near to the limit of what even the accustomed can dare. He made such efforts at resistance as his poor remaining will could make; but the mastery was too strong. He poured out the fatal stuff into the little glass. He noted the divisions graven on the side. He stopped pouring. He drank it off. He sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, his head bent. The necessity was stronger than ever. It would not be denied. He staggered to his feet. Once more he poured out half as much again into the sickly-smelling glass. He must; he would be filled.

He drank off that second dose. Then, at last, indeed, a fulfilment of the spirit and a complete repose fell upon him. Those fatal moments which are paid for in the coin of hell and despair but which are a sort of slumbering paradise while yet they reign, were upon him; it was not sleep, it was not forgetfulness; it was fulfilment … Oh, blessed, blessed opiate. Worthy of whatever price a man must pay … Nor was any price he had paid in the past remembered, nor was any dread of penalty in the future any longer present to his failing and more than contented, his beatified, his final mood.

His eyes closed. His chin sank upon his breast. His arms lay dead at his sides; and in the place of sleep was a dim, omnipresent, dark felicity, through which he heard, after what seemed years or aeons of such supreme content, the long, dull, booming of some bell. It was the Cathedral clock again, tolling nine. But he could count no longer. His mind no longer counted or measured. It had risen above, or sunk below, such faculties; nor did he hear any later striking of the hours.

Charles Lexington, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s, and what is more, Reader to the University, etc., etc., was nervous, as many of his profession commonly are.

He flattered himself that he was not a man of impulse. He did everything in its right place, and in its right moment. His business, when he got back to College a little before six, was to read a few more of his pupils’ papers (he regretted the time he had wasted in Bolter’s room), to run through his notes for the next day, and then to dress for Hall at seven. That was the top stratum of his mind. Immediately under that stratum was another, wherein lay a driving force more powerful than routine, and a good rival even to duty : the great curiosity of the scientist. He could not get that little bundle, that little brown cylinder, out of his head. Sometimes, as he remembered those smouldering eyes, he had a feeling which he resolutely refused to face, and would not put into words, that he had been deceived as by hypnotism. He pushed the thought aside at once, with violence : got rid of it for the moment altogether, and decided that the silly young fellow had played a sort of conjuring trick.

Besides which, was it gold? He might have been tricked by a conjuring trick, or the gold might have been substituted for the lead in that long wait in the gathering darkness. Anything might explain it.

Then he remembered the gradual change in the molten metal, the greenish look of it, the dissolving rings of colour, the final settling down. He had seen it, or thought he had seen it … he had seen it….

The wretched new clock over the new library struck six. He could bear the strain no longer. And he yielded.

In the laboratory, which was across the passage from his rooms, there was a quantity of lead already cut fine for a demonstration which he had proposed to make the next day on a much more hackneyed matter. He could use a portion of that. He could put a few ounces into a crucible, have ready a grain of the brown, translucent, granulated cylinder, switch on the heat, and see what followed.

He had but to turn on the power, melt the lead, drop in the magic stuff, and try his chance.

He was angry with himself for doing it. At least, he was angry with one half of his mind — the stupider, the more instructed half; but the other, the more rational, imaginative half, was saying to him all the time : “Why not? Who can affirm the negative? Who can say that this reagent may not effect the change? Why should we have relied so far, in our efforts at transmutation, upon electricity alone?”

He had turned on every light in the big bare room with its mass of glass-ware and brass, porcelain sinks and taps, and clean-washed deal tables. He would not have any miracles. It should have a fierce inspection.

While the lead was melting he fetched Bolter’s strange gift from the drawer in his room, broke off from it — his hand trembled a little — a tiny fragment, as much as he thought proportionate to the small bulk of metal in the crucible above the furnace, rubbed the little grain between his fingers as he had seen young Bolter do, and powdered it over the surface of the molten stuff. Even as he did so he felt a little ashamed. He walked half–way to the door to bolt it, and then, more ashamed of being caught with locked doors, went back again to his fascination.

The metal continued to move, unchanged, save in its passage from the solid to the liquid. It was but molten lead after all. Secretly Lexington felt a sort of relief. He was still in the familiar world, and that silly business in Brecon Street had been a cheat and a folly. He already blamed himself for having allowed himself to be impressed.

But even as he looked he seemed now to detect some change. The grey–white mass might be deceiving him under the artificial light, but it had surely, already, some greenish tint about it? The moments passed,’ the change became indubitable, and then those whorls and eddies reappeared which he had seen but an hour before. He could not take his eyes from the sight. The iridescence took on the purples, then the lighter yellows were beginning to master them; the whole mass was rapidly transformed. Its colour settled down to a reddish yellow, homogeneous and even, the burning sun of that metal which drives the world.

He did not know whether or not it was necessary to halt the furnace at that moment; he did mechanically what he had seen Bolter do and switched off the heat. Then he stood back to let the crucible and its amazing contents grow cool.

The clock in the library struck the half hour. He started at the sound. He did not know how engrossed he had been. He must dress for Hall. Again that doubt took him, that hesitation between one shame and another. He could not bear to carry the apparatus furtively back into his own room like a thief; he would be in agony if he left it there for anyone to find. But he preferred the agony to the shame.

He went back and dressed. But as he dressed he was in a fever lest he should hear some step in the passage and the laboratory door open. Just as seven struck and the bell tolled for Hall, he changed his mind. He detached the wire and bore the crucible, now cool, bodily on its stand into his room, opened a private cupboard there, and locked it in.

During Hall he had enough mastery of himself to hear what was said to him and to reply consecutively. He was much more silent, however, than usual, and Perkins, the Metaphysician, whom he hated the most of his colleagues, dug little sneers into him while the intolerable food was consumed. The President sheltered Lexington, for he thought him ill, and Lexington was glad to jump at that chance. He said he was afraid he could not come into Common Room; he had to go straight back to his room; he had overworked, he said. And Perkins, when the President hinted a rebuke at his ragging of his colleague, answered, as they strolled towards Common Room, with a ready phrase; the alchemists (he said) always admitted that they were in danger of going mad. It was a judgment of heaven. Perhaps Lexington had found the Philosopher’s Stone. The President was not amused. Lexington was senior to Perkins, and metaphysicians ought not to torture their colleagues.

In his room, the first thing Lexington did was to summon his scout, the wealthy Williams, and tell him that he was going to sport his oak. He had a racking headache and must be alone.

“Very good, sir,” said Williams — a phrase which your modern scout has abominably adopted, a phrase unknown to his father’s time when scouts were scouts indeed, and said, “Yessir,” like honest men.

The oak clanged, and Lexington was so exalted that he actually locked and bolted the door. Like the hero of the melodrama, he would be alone. He was going to make a thorough test: to make certain once for all.

The tests left no room for doubt. The metal he had turned out from the crucible was gold. Gold, gold, gold.

Lexington rose and paced up and down the room, his hands in his trousers pockets, his head bent forward. Had it really happened? Yes, apparently …. Nay, without doubt. There it was, certainly assayed. And it was gold.

He went back and looked at the dull, inanimate thing, his nerves so shaken by the experience that he oddly felt as though that half-egg of heavy, yellow metal had life hidden within it — as though it might speak and mock him.

Then suddenly a whole flood of consequence rushed into his mind. This was a revolution! It was a new date in the history of mankind! What would follow on it who could tell?

One idea overmastered all others. He must seek out at once the only one who understood why that reagent had such power attached to it: Henry Bolter. If the boy could not or would not tell that, at any rate it was he and he alone, who knew whence that reagent came and how it might be found or made.

He had already delayed too long with his experiment and his tests. He regretted that hour wasted in Hall. Who knew what the young madman might have done in between? He might have made another confidant…. He might …

But he could discuss the thing no more! He must go round to Brecon Street at once and have it out! “Having it out” meant a very different thing now from what it had meant that afternoon in the last of the daylight. But he was right in his sense of action. Action was necessary, and something must be done.

The street doors of lodgings at the University are not kept shut. One does not ring, one walks in. Lexington walked in and went up the short flight of stairs. He would open the door into the sitting-room at once. Bolter might be out. He hoped he was in. He would see.

He opened the door into complete darkness. There was complete silence as well — strong with that disgusting scent of stale incense and a slight stink of the burnt-out wick in the exhausted oil of the inverted ceiling lamp and of candles extinguished. All remained very still.

Had Bolter gone out? Lexington groped for the switch of the electric light, but he could find none. Then he seemed to remember how, in that odd furnishing, there was an electric plug for power in the wall, but no electric light. He had matches upon him, and he struck one. By the light he saw, as he held it above his head and peered before him, the long, emaciated body which lay at full length along the couch, the eyes closed and the whole form motionless. The match burned his fingers. He dropped it. He lit another and bethought him of the tapers. He lit them, and by their gleam, as their flames flickered up, he could see the grotesque Head wavering in the shadows until the tapers burned at last bright and clear with their small light. He turned again to the motionless form, and took it gently by the shoulder.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried. There was no response and no movement. He shook the shoulder gently. The head, with its long confused hair, fell back oddly to the left on the cushions, with its face towards the back of the couch.

“Mr. Bolter!” said Mr. Lexington, more loudly; and again, “Mr. Bolter! Wake up! I have come on very important business. Something must be done!”

There was no answer.

Then he shook more roughly. The head only waggled somewhat with the shaking; but not of itself.

Lexington was growing alarmed. He took the hand that lay dangling. It was warm, but not too warm. He looked closely at the face.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried again, almost shouting. He went down on one knee, and as he did so there came a discreet knock at the door, and light flooded in from the passage. It was the landlady.

“I heard you calling, sir. I hope nothing’s the matter? He does sleep like that sometimes, poor gentleman. He’s had nothing to eat. I’m afraid he takes things.”

Lexington stood up. He was frightened now. Very frightened.

“Mr. Bolter!” he cried again, still louder. The landlady came forward.

“He wouldn’t have the electric light, sir. He cut it off, and he covered the switch with that curtain stuff.”

Between them they took the young man by the armpits, lifted his body up farther, till it was half sitting. The head still lay back limply.

An awful suspicion arose in Mr. Lexington.

“Have you a lamp?” he said.

“There’s an old one in the kitchen, sir. I’ll go and get it.”

“Yes, bring it. Leave the door open.”

For a few unpleasant moments he stood there alone, mastering himself. The landlady came back with the light. She had known death more than once in her life. Lexington had never known it. She had the courage to turn back an eyelid. She took one of the tapers from the table and held it near the lips. The flame did not move.

“Do you think he’s fainted?” said the tutor. His voice cracked.

She shook her head.

“It’s worse than that, sir.”

The drug had done its work. Henry Bolter had passed while its beneficence was still upon him, and without paying the price in this world.

CHAPTER IV

EVERYTHING WAS DONE as it should be done in these distressing cases which do happen now and then in our ancient Universities. The Press was arranged in due course. Old Bolter saw to that. The inquest was favourable enough. The death had been due to heart failure. The drugs in the cupboard had been discreetly spirited away in proper time, and the coroner understood his duty. The family preferred that the young man should be buried in the town : and I am not sure that they did not feel — certainly the Eldest son felt it — some relief and some comfort in the decent pomp which followed — and the disappearance of an eccentric.

The President of St. Olaf’s, himself, preached the funeral sermon. It was duly laudatory, lingered on Henry Bolter’s genial good fellowship, and mourned a great chemical genius so early blasted by intense application to his studies. The College made a point of concluding everything agreeably and with ceremonial.

The odd Alchemic room was dismantled and refitted as a room should be with naked electric lights, steel engravings of royalty, photographs of the Parthenon, and chintz curtains. There could be no question of reletting it for the rest of that term; but after the Easter vacation some new tenant would come, or at the worst, after the Long. And old Bolter was very generous.

Everything was over and settled. The dead ride fast. In a few days the misfortune had become a memory and all were at rest — except Lexington.

He managed to get through his lectures after an interval of about a week, during which it was only decent to interrupt them. He said a few words on the first occasion that he met his pupils again; words decently sad and sober, recalling the loss of their colleague and praising him as was due.

It was on the evening of the eighth day, towards ten o’clock, that the chemistry tutor recovered the resolution to wrestle with the business which must henceforward occupy his life. He said to himself that it was his duty — it was certainly his craving necessity — to test the thing once more.

This time he ran no risks. He waited till all was still, till midnight was passed. Using the power–plug in his own room, and bringing the supply of lead which he had been at pains to fetch privately from town, well tested and from a dealer who knew nothing of him, he once more followed with exactitude the process with which he was now fearfully if proudly familiar.

Once more all passed in exactly the same order. By half–past one that night he had again tested and was handling, balancing it in his hand, detached from the crucible, the little half-egg of pure gold. A trifling detail ran through his head in estimating its value. He put it on the scales and weighed it. It did not exactly correspond to the weight of the lead. It was lighter by a trifling amount. It just turned the scale at 25 ounces. He was possessed by his experiment of about £100 — a little more. And if a hundred, why not a thousand? And if a thousand, why not a million?

He had purchased, during his visit to town, a little steel safe, disguised in a wooden case, wherein he put the cylinder of brown, translucent crystalline, granulated stuff of which he now perhaps would never know the secret, the quality, or the formula for its production.

But there was time enough to wait for that. There was material here for many and many another bout. He made a rough estimate, and was staggered at the possibilities that lay to his hand. A few crumbs detached and powdered between the finger and thumb had sufficed to give him his first and his second dollops of gold, locked away safely with their mysterious reagent in his safe. A few grains, powdered between the finger and thumb! There was material for hundreds and hundreds of such tiny doses! And a hundred times a hundred is ten thousand. Ten thousand repeated over and over again runs into a series of millions. He thought of all that.

But, believe me or not (I know it from experience to be true, and I think that many who read this will know it to be true from their own experience), there is in the mind of your scientist a simplicity and a virtue very greatly to be praised, and to be admired unreservedly — until it is corrupted. Discovery, and truth based upon discovery, occupy him in his pristine candour far more than any other appetite; and that, I suppose, is why the greatest of his kind die poor — which is as it should be.

Lexington, in the midst of all that was occupying his spirit in a sort of storm and chaos of conjecture and fear and wonder, was still more mastered by the sense of achievement in his own great, modern, triumphant trade of physics. He thought of glory; but he thought more of the glory and triumph of his craft. At last man had attained the great thing! One of the greatest things! A thing which of recent years men had approached; a thing which men of his own guild and profession had guessed at and had said might be done. There was no limit to what man could do with his environment.

Yet he felt in the long midnight — for that night he did not sleep — two anxieties. In the first place, he must, without delay, put down briefly but clearly upon paper exactly what he had done. It would be for his own eye alone at the moment; but he owed it to the race and to science to publish the discovery. Next he must rely upon another man’s advice for the first steps to be taken.

The simplicity and straightforwardness of this scientific temper — while it is yet virgin to business — is also in its way humble. He knew that in a hundred things he might blunder in worldly wisdom. Only one man need be a confidant, but one confidant there must be; and that confidant, obviously indicated, indeed in Lexington’s case the only one conceivable, was William Bowring.

William Bowring was a man some ten years older than Lexington, a friend to whom he had been closely bound ever since his first days at the University. Bowring’s father, long dead, had been a friend of Lexington’s father, also dead : Lexington’s father had practised as a surgeon in London; Charles was the only child. Lexington and Bowring had met afterwards in Bowring’s own rooms. The strength and general intelligence, travel, culture and good judgment of the older man had strongly influenced the younger. Lexington had had occasion to ask his advice on half a dozen occasions of his simple academic career, and had never found that advice fail him. Bowring had sent him to the right publisher for his first book, had given him sound rules for the drawing up of his contracts, had advised on a couple of patents which were already bringing in a small revenue.

They saw each other often enough. Sometimes in the vacations Lexington would stop in the house of his wealthier friend — for Bowring was well-established in an excellent house of the late seventeenth century on the river–side at Hammersmith. And when Bowring (a year or two after Lexington had got his Fellowship) amused himself by starting a shop in Percy Street for dealing in old furniture and glass and plate, he had prospered steadily and solidly, as he did in everything he touched.

Lexington would sometimes go with Bowring to his place of business in Percy Street and interest himself in the details of what is an absorbing and multiple trade.

This place of business was an interesting little house, untouched since the late eighteenth century, with two bow windows and a door opening right into the small shop, and no hall between. The room was rather crowded, its windows filled with old silver; gold and gilt on the shelves within; a large mahogany table; two or three old chairs, and a big chest against the wall. A door at the back opened into a shed which Bowring had built on to the courtyard and in which he kept spare stuff and a bench and tools for the few men he employed on metal–work and repairs.

There was good taste as well as good judgment in all this side of Bowring’s activities, and it was characteristic of him that among all the things he might have sold there were many he did not sell, because he, personally, desired them and retained them. He was now nearer fifty than forty, and was unmarried.

Bowring would understand the passion of the discoverer for his discovery. He would sympathize, he would help. Bowring must be sought. And Lexington sought Bowring.

The next week–end after that long vigil in his rooms and the locking-up of the second lump of gold he was dining alone with Bowring in the old house at Hammersmith, with the comfortable Georgian panelling soberly reflecting the candlelight. The meal was over. Lexington had, at some effort, refrained from saying anything on the subject which filled his heart until the dinner was finished. He was waiting till he could bring it forward with due effect and at complete leisure, with no chance of interruption from the servants.

They were at their Madeira (Bowring hated port) when the moment came. The younger man, with that candour of which I have spoken, thought that so solemn a moment demanded something of a shock. He had read that pronouncements of the kind he had to make should startle with dramatic simplicity.

He said suddenly, leaning back and looking at the ceiling :

“Bowring, I can make gold!”

“The devil you can!” said Bowring, without emphasis. He took a little gulp of Madeira, and in his turn looked at the ceiling.

“I can turn lead into gold,” continued Lexington, leaning forward, a little more emphatically.

“Profit in that!” said Bowring.

“Bowring,” went on Lexington, really earnestly this time, “I want you to listen to me. It’s important — and I want your advice.”

“Trundle on,” said Bowring. “Trundle on.” He was quite nice and quiet about it, and quite willing to hear.

“You know the elements of the thing?” went on Lexington.

“Well,” said Bowring, “I know what you chemists call elements, though I don’t see what right ….”

Lexington shook his head impatiently.

“No, no, no, I don’t mean elements in that sense. I mean in the problem of the transmutation of metals.”

“Then I confess I don’t,” said Bowring politely. And then, less politely, “Nor does anybody else.”

“You’re wrong,” said Lexington emphatically. “The elements of the problem are known, and they are quite clear. I thought every educated man knew them. You’ve heard of the modern theory of the atom?”

“Oh, bless you, yes!” said Bowring, getting up from his chair a little heavily and getting hold of the Madeira from the other side of the table, so as to pass it round with the sun. “Yes, I’ve heard of the theory.”

“You know what I mean by an electron?”

“I know what you mean all right,” said Bowring, as he sat down again and poured himself out some wine, and pushed the decanter up to his neighbour. “But if you ask me whether I believe in all that rubbish — I don’t. You scientists will get tired of your electrons in a year or two, and then you’ll be giving us some other stunt.”

Lexington waved him away impatiently with his hand. He had had that sort of thing before.

“We can’t go into all that, Bowring,” he said, with a slight touch of temper. “Call it a theory, if you like. But anyhow, on that theory you know that if you could knock one of the electrons out of a mercury atom you would produce a gold atom?”

“I drink to it,” said Bowring solemnly.

“You know,” Lexington continued rapidly, “that you can make a mercury atom out of a lithium atom if you knock one electron out of that. And you know” (he was talking still more quickly, so as not to be interrupted) “you can make a lithium atom out of a lead atom if you knock one atom out of the lead.”

“Child’s play,” said Bowring. “It all lies in the If.”

“Well, now,” said Lexington, sorely tempted to draw a diagram on the cloth, but refraining, “supposing that with one stroke you could get rid of three of the electrons in the lead atom, you would, as the common phrase goes, change the lead into gold, wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say,” said Bowring. “It’s a shame to smoke with this Madeira, but still I can’t do without it any longer. Will you have a cigar?”

Lexington shook his head. Bowring lit his cigar and then nodded.

“Go on,” he said.

“Of course, you don’t really change the lead into gold. All you do is to produce gold where lead had been before, just as ….”

“Oh, yes,” said Bowring, “never mind what you call it. That’s all right. The man in the street, and the Bobby and I, will call it changing lead into gold, and we can take that as read. Is that what you’ve done?”

“Yes,” said Lexington solemnly, after a due pause, and lowering his voice by an octave.

“Humph!” said Bowring. “Well! What’re you going to do about it?”

Lexington sprang from his chair. He was wound up. He stood before the fire with his hands in his trouser pockets, as he always did when his eagerness was strong upon him, either of speech or of thought.

“I’ll tell you what I mean to do about it, Bowring,” he cried in a louder tone. “First of all I’m going to write to Nature.”

The change in Mr. William Bowring, antiquary and private gentleman, was startling.

“What!” he shouted, jumping up in his turn.

“You’re going to write about it to Nature?” He sank back on his chair like one stricken with sudden despair. “Oh, you poor mutt!” he said.

“What’s the matter with writing about it to Nature?” said Lexington, sitting down again, rather bewildered.

“Great God! The man asks me what’s the matter with telling the world!”

He got up again, took a step backward, extended a warning arm and lifted finger and cried : “Halt! I don’t know whether you have made gold. You scientists usually tell the truth, at any rate about straightforward things like that, though you do live in the moon. If you have done it, don’t you see what’s going to happen?”

“That’s what I’ve come to ask you about,” said Lexington, his voice beginning to falter, and already at sixes and sevens.

“My good friend, what is going to happen is this. If any mortal being knows you can do it — and already one mortal knows, for I am fairly sure I’m mortal — you are in peril … If it gets round to two or three, you are done!”

“Why–hy?” gasped and stammered Lexington.

(Bolter’s “Elements of Modern Applied Psychology”)

“Because — oh, grant me patience, Heaven! — because you would have it in your power to rock and ruin the whole of our civilization. Because you would become a doomed target for those few powerful men who govern the modern world. Because you would find yourself caught in a net of tyrannical masters, each of whom would be hesitating between killing you lest they should be ruined and compelling you to share the swag. Because at the very least it would be the business of the State to stop you; and because, at the worst, it would be imperatively necessary for those who are omnipotent to–day to get rid of you at a short delay … Now, do you understand?”

There was a long pause. Bowring had spoken more passionately than Lexington had ever heard him speak before; and the older man was himself a little afraid that he had said more than he should have done. He went back to his chair and continued:

“I don’t know … I don’t want to scold you … But really I must make this plain to you. So far you have only told me … If you can do it … If you can do it, Lexington — and I don’t disbelieve you — if you have managed to do it, you can change the world … and the world won’t allow itself to be changed; at least, the rich won’t allow it to be changed … not in that way. Banking, currency, international complications — oh, my word!” He put his elbows on the table and stared fixedly into Lexington’s face. “You are sitting on a ton of dynamite — here and now!”

There was another long pause. Then Bowring went on, in a more subdued tone, recovering himself again.

“Let me ask you one or two questions. I ought to begin by thanking you for having made me your confidant … it’s a great honour … It’s a great responsibility … You won’t find me ungrateful, and you won’t find me treasonable.”

“I should hope not!” said Lexington warmly.

“Well,” answered Bowring, still more composedly, “sooner or later I suppose you will see what a risk you were running in telling me. But you have done it, and now I want to ask you one or two questions, if you don’t mind. But, of course, you won’t answer them unless you want to.”

Lexington nodded.

“In the first place, does your cost of production approach the cost of gold? — the cost of gold is, roughly, £4 an ounce. Can you turn out an ounce of gold from an ounce of lead …

“Slightly less than an ounce of gold,” corrected Lexington.

“Tut, tut! An ounce of gold, I say, for appreciably less than £4?”

“At present,” answered Lexington, emphasizing the words with slight precision, “it costs me nothing. Later on, after the first few hundredweight” — (“The man talks in hundredweights,” murmured Bowring)— “it may cost something, I don’t quite know how much. I shall have to go into that. But I imagine — I won’t say more — I imagine, from what we know of the cost of certain materials I have in mind, that the reagent ….”

“What’s that?” said Bowring.

“Oh, I suppose you’d call it’ the stuff one makes the gold with.’ Well, unless the reagent needs some very expensive element, which is unlikely, its value would be only a small fraction of the value of the gold produced. I can tell you that, in mere weight, the reagent is much less than a hundredth — I’ve not measured it accurately yet — I should say one - five - hundredth at the most of the original weight of lead. And unless I find in further research that some very expensive element or process is necessary ….” Then he stopped dead. He saw that if he went farther he would be saying plainly that he had not an indefinite amount of the reagent at his command; and already — such is the power of gold over the minds of men — he was beginning to lose his candour.

“I shall know in a day or two,” he said, more airily. “But anyhow, for the moment I know exactly where I am. And I can go on to the tune of a very great weight indeed. I have already said hundredweights …. I don’t know how many; but many.”

“Well, I don’t want to cross-examine you on that. It’s your business,” said Bowring. “And you assure me that it’s as cheap as all that? That was the first point. With lead at £20 a ton, and gold at £4 an ounce, there’s what we call in business a safe margin.” He smiled — a large, firm smile.

“Now, I want to ask you a second question. Have you tested the result, so that it’s beyond all doubt?”

Lexington nodded. “I’ve done it twice. The conditions were identical. I’m certain it could be done any number of times.”

“Now I must ask you a third question. Don’t answer in a hurry. It’s the most important of all. Are you willing to satisfy me by making the transmutation from lead into gold before my eyes? Wait a moment!” he said, holding up his hand to check Lexington’s reply. “Be careful how you answer! So far I have only your word for it. But I believe you. Not only because I know you, but because I know the men in your kind of occupation. You scientists, well I’ve known them say a thousand fantastic and foolish things, but I’ve never known one of them say anything false with regard to actual experiments.”

“Thank you,” said Lexington, a little dryly.

“No, I’m not complimenting you. I’m talking straight business. On that point you are the most truthful people in the world. The reason I have asked you whether you care to do it before my eyes and to my satisfaction — but, mind you, I don’t claim it for one moment — is a good practical business reason. It is this. You have already told me you can do it. I possess the secret of the fact that you can do it, and I have told you how perilous that knowledge is. I understand trade, and I am fairly successful in it. I have a trade with which this sort of thing would well fit in. I sell gold plate and ornaments daily, cups, statuettes, dishes; and I’m going to make you a proposition.”

There was another pause, during which both men shuffled their feet a little, as men will when they are about to consider bargains.

Bowring continued:

“My proposition is this. When I have had ocular demonstration that you can do this, I propose that we should enter into a strict alliance. I won’t call it a partnership, because it would be madness to put down a single word of it on paper. Indeed, if I was not certain of my servants, and if I thought that a third person … that a word of ours had been overheard through someone listening at the door, I should say that we were both of us done for already. That is, supposing we were believed … I propose, I say, that we should enter into a strict alliance. Each will be bound to the other anyhow, by the common knowledge each possesses, and its potential danger to each and to both. You shall make the gold privately, at first in small amounts. I have occasion to buy the precious metals occasionally, and, of course, I am always buying and selling gold and silver objects. Also, I have to deal with gold and with silver for making up and for mounting and for copying, so there would be nothing odd or noticeable in small parcels of gold passing through my hands — small to begin with. We could gradually expand, using our discretion. As the establishment grows and as we sell on a larger and larger scale, we could use more and more gold. The time will come when I shall be buying openly in the market, large bulks of bullion — large for the matter concerned, which is gold … then it will be a matter of course, and not subject to notice, if we handle what I buy and a good deal more which you will supply…. The thing can be shoe–horned and guided…. We must let circumstances guide us in detail … but that’s the outline of the process. As far as I can see, there’s no flaw.”

He ceased to speak.

It is astonishing with what rapidity business enters the consciousness of a man who has never, hitherto, engaged in it, and who for the first time comes across its fascinating game. Lexington, while Bowring was speaking, had already regretted those words of his into which might have been read the fact that he knew nothing of the manufacture of that strange, dangerous stuff, that crystalline, brown, translucent stuff, that cylinder which lay locked in his safe in his rooms at St. Olaf’s.

He spoke in his turn, slowly and emphatically.

“Yes, Bowring, I’ll agree; but I want to make one condition. I shall show you the process, of course, It shall pass before your eyes, and that as often as you like. But my condition is that I keep to myself the nature of the reagent whereby I get rid of those superfluous electrons.”

Bowring paused and hesitated. He had hitherto been a good friend; but business is business. He turned the situation rapidly over in his mind. If he were himself master of the key he would become as a god. But he could not compel Lexington to hand it over. He could destroy Lexington, but then he would destroy himself as well. It is a situation which arises a hundred times a day in the delightful world of commerce : whether it is better worth while to yield or. to threaten, to cringe or to blackmail. Bowring made up his mind in much less time than it would have taken him to define in spoken words the process of his thought.

“Certainly I agree,” he said kindly. “It’s only reasonable. It’s your asset, isn’t it? I’ll not ask one question as to how you get your talisman or what it is. I only stipulate that I must see it work at least once.”

“Thank you!” answered Lexington. And he felt a great relief.

Bowring looked at his watch.

“It’s late,” he said. “I’ve to go to bed early, as I think you know. I need a lot of sleep. We have had a rather exciting time during the last half hour. Do you want any more wine?”

“No,” said Lexington.

“When shall we have that test,” said Bowring again, “and where?”

Lexington consulted the little note–book which he carried on him.

“I’ve got a free day next Wednesday,” he said. Then he hesitated. He was wondering which was the safer of two courses : to bring Bowring up to St. Olaf’s, which meant his partner’s knowing where things were kept, and the rest of it, or his bringing the precious stuff to town himself. Bowring waited patiently till he had decided.

“I’ll come up here, to your house next Wednesday. I’ll come down by the morning train, and lunch with you, and well do it after lunch, in plenty of good daylight, right under your windows. You’re plugged for power?”

Bowring nodded. “Don’t you see the electric heater?”

“It was out, so I didn’t notice it.”

“I always prefer the open grate, and I use it, but I keep that stove in the corner as a second string. It’s been foully cold this winter.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Lexington, putting back his pocket–book. “That’s settled. Ill be here before lunch on Wednesday, and after lunch we’ll do it here by that window, where no one will overlook us except the birds in your little garden.”

“I’m your man,” said Bowring. He stretched and yawned. They went off to sleep. Nor was a word put down in writing by either of them, when each was alone, save the one word “London” under the date of Wednesday, 20th February, in Lexington’s little note–book, and the two words “fifty-fifty” on Bowring’s cuff.

CHAPTER V

WEDNESDAY HAD COME round.

The coffee-cups were still on the table and the little decanter of brandy standing by; the cigars were half smoked, and Bowring had said to the servant who came in to clear away : “Mr. Lexington and I have to talk business together, so would you mind waiting until I ring? It may be an hour hence.”

Bowring had deliberately locked the door. Lexington had opened the small cubical leather case which he had kept beside him all during the meal. Bowring, who forgot nothing, drew from a drawer a piece of thick felt which he had put there a little before lunch for the purpose. He spread it on a small strong table right under the light of the window. The garden beyond was empty, and unapproachable save from the door of his study. The back windows of the distant houses were nothing to trouble about.

Upon that piece of thick felt upon the table Lexington placed the crucible with its tail of flexible wire, and the plug at its end. He waited the next move.

Bowring in his turn drew from his pocket a paper of shredded lead, no more than four or live ounces in weight.

“I am not going to worry,” he said. “I think the thing is straightforward enough. I am assured it’s lead, and pure, by a very good dealer, from whom I got it yesterday, and who doesn’t know me from Adam. I took his word, as I take yours. And we need not bother about exact weights. Now let us go ahead. I suppose the first thing is to put the lead into the crucible, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” said Lexington.

Bowring put it in. Lexington put in the plug, the furnace glowed, and became intense. The two watched what followed without a word, till Bowring half said : “When do you …” and then checked himself. Lexington answered by shaking his head and saying : “What a moment; you’ll see.”

The little blob of shredded lead was already viscous; now it was fully molten. The glare of its heat came up in their faces as they peered into the small hollow.

Then Lexington took from a buttoned waistcoat pocket with the utmost care a small purse, whence he drew a twist of tissue paper. He opened the twist, and Bowring saw within a tiny brown grain. It might be the size of a very small stud head, but not globular nor of any regular shape — a fragment. This Lexington picked up with the utmost caution between a finger and thumb, and as he held it over the molten mass, gradually rubbed it into fine powder, which dropped into the lead below. That done, he rubbed his empty fingers together half a dozen times, to make sure that not a grain of dust remained; then dropped his hand and watched. And Bowring watched beside him.

Slowly the transformation began. First — and it was the longest part of the process — the gradual hint of purple in the brilliant grey–white; then the interweaving whorls of various colours, such as oil makes upon the surface of water; then this in turn coalescing into larger eddies of a green that grew gradually lighter, until at last it was absorbed into the brilliant reddish yellow of the whole compost. Just at the moment when the colour was homogeneous and full, the colour of a bright sun shining through a veil of mist, Lexington thrust out an arm, rapidly clicked off the switch, leant back with a sigh, and said :

“There! It’s done!”

Bowring answered not a word.

“Shall we drink a glass together while it cools?” said Lexington.

Bowring shook his head.

“Well wait,” he said. “I want to watch it.”

It was a long affair, waiting in that warm room for this strange new product of theirs to cool, and during the wait neither of them said a word. It was a strain on both. But business is business. Bowring was determined to be assured, and a mixture of common sense and pride made his companion equally determine that he should be assured.

At last Bowring, putting forth his left hand to a cupboard which he could reach, brought forward a little thermometer and with it a small case containing what he needed for the next step. When he had assured himself by two or three contacts that this little yellow metal was cooled enough to handle, and the crucible as well, he proceeded to the tests. They were conclusive. He was glad.

“Well,” he said, rising, “that’s that. I told you I believed you. But it had to be done, didn’t it.?”

“You’re quite right,” said Lexington.

“We are the richer by twenty pounds.”

“You are the richer,” said Lexington. “It was your lead.”

“Yes, but it was your stuff,” said Bowring. After a pause he added : “Shall we call it fifty-fifty? Half shares in whatever we make?”

Lexington would be most happy. It didn’t matter to him. There was inexhaustible wealth ahead.

And thus with mutual generosity of a genial sort did the transaction end.

The two men were free to lay their further plans. These were simple enough. Only one point remained to be determined. Where should future work of the kind be undertaken? In what amounts? Under what safeguards?

As to the amount, it was simple enough. At first not more than two pounds or so a week. Then after some few weeks they could discuss the rate of increase.

As to the place, Bowring was quite clear on that, though he did not care to give all his reasons. It should be left to Lexington’s discretion, and preferably should be at Lexington’s rooms, at any rate during the earlier part of the affair. After all, an hour or two one night a week would be enough. Lexington had done it privately at St. Olaf’s before : he could do so again. There would be no risk then of anyone asking too many questions at the antiquary’s shop. And running up to town once a week to see a friend would be normal enough — or Bowring could drive up to St. Olaf’s occasionally so that it shouldn’t look too regular. Or they could meet occasionally during a walk, and not in college. So long as the gold was delivered at first in these small and handy amounts all would be well. There was plenty of time to see what should be done later when the production was due to expand.

Would Lexington, by the way, as the crucible was here in town, come back in a day or two and make the first good solid amount? No. Lexington thought it would be better on the whole for him to go back, where he had all his things about him. After all, so long as he gave Bowring the gold, that was all that was wanted, wasn’t it?

Yes, that was all that was wanted. And thus with mutual politeness and with the best of good feelings did these careful partners start upon the great career.

Next week, twenty-four ounces, the shape of half a duck’s egg, travelled down in the express to London, tightly clasped in the left hand overcoat pocket of the Fellow and Tutor, whom his fellow-passengers suspected of paralysis, or perhaps of hiding the end of a limb shattered in the war : for that left hand never left the pocket all the way. The right hand did double work until the taxi drew up at the house in Hammersmith.

A week later Mr. Bowring and his younger friend met at an inn a few miles out from the University, where one was lunching and where the other happened to be stopping, on his way to the provinces in his motor. A week later again the older partner had the pleasure of visiting St. Olaf’s. The week after that, the last week before the end of term, there was occasion for the younger to journey to town. And with the beginning of the vacation Mr. Lexington, with whom everybody sympathized for the dreadful shock he had suffered at his favourite pupil’s death early in the term, and whose fortitude in carrying on his regular routine uninterrupted had earned the highest praise, was persuaded by the President to take a good holiday. Indeed, Mr. Bowring had spoken to the President on the matter in his capacity of older friend and adviser of the Fellow and Tutor of St. Olaf’s; and the President had warmly agreed.

“Don’t suggest to him,” said Mr. Bowring respectfully enough, but in the tone of a man who knows his way about, “don’t suggest his stopping in one place. He’s still young, and he likes walking. I know he hasn’t a motor, but he’s fond of using his legs, and that’s better for him. Let him have a good tramp over Easter.”

“I shall certainly put it to him,” said the President warmly. “He’s used to carrying plenty of weight. It was only last year he was off on a long tramp of the kind in Germany, in the Ruhr district, which he so wisely prefers to Italy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have him go abroad,” said Mr. Bowring hastily. “I don’t think going abroad’s at all wise when one’s nerves are a bit strained. No, not even to Germany, which he would naturally prefer. We must wait till he’s better set up, Mr. President. He might go down into the West Country, and just wander about….”

“I’ll put it to him,” said the Head of the College, as he shook hands warmly and gratefully with Mr. Bowring. “I’m sure he will fall in with our views. You seem to be like an elder brother to him.”

The elder brother modestly disclaimed anything but natural affection for an old friend; and off went Mr. Lexington on a bright March morning, setting his face towards the west, with Somerset, or perhaps Wiltshire, as his goal — it mattered not where. But what about plugging for power? Very discreetly, where none could hear, he put this dilemma to the elder partner, and the elder partner solved it with characteristic rapidity and sense.

“Say you cannot take a bedroom in an inn unless they’ve got an electric fire. Say that coal fires give you asthma. You’ll find plenty of rooms like that.”

Mr. Bowring was right. Mr. Lexington found one on the main Great Western line on the third day of his little jaunt. He was glad to put up there, for his big ruck–sack was unusually heavy; but then he was a precise man and had provided himself with plenty of change of clothing, and slippers for the evening, and the rest of it … also a crucible, flex and plug, and quite a little sack of shredded lead.

On the third day after he was settled in this inn Mr. Lexington hired a car — he could afford it these days — drove to the big junction ten miles away, and got into the morning non-stop for London with a day ticket. He went first — he could afford that too, these days. And since he could afford it these days, he gave the guard a comfortable tip for no apparent reason. And his left hand was still permanently in his greatcoat pocket. He was at Hammersmith in time for lunch. He found Bowring in excellent humour, lovingly handling a very pretty piece, the copy of a little gold cup of Dutch seventeenth-century design. He prided himself on the skill of his workmen. Peering into every corner of the chasing, and moving a gentle finger over the embossed figures, he begged Lexington to admire it with him — which Lexington duly did, though he had not yet taken off his greatcoat and still had his left hand in the left–hand pocket.

“Isn’t that a triumph?” murmured Bowring. “You wouldn’t get that done anywhere else in London. Pelletier could have done it,” he continued musingly, “but Pelletier’s difficult to deal with. And my man Nowell is as straight and simple as you please : at copying, that is. It’s a funny thing, these fellows — they’ll take a perfect cast and make the least touches on it, with genius, so that you couldn’t tell the difference from the original; yet if you asked them to make a design, it’s worthless…. And you can buy talent like that at eight pounds a week!”

Lexington took the copy up in his hands. It was certainly very well done. He did not pretend to judge these things, but he had seen enough Dutch work of the period to see the faithfulness of the reproduction. Bowring took it back almost jealously.

“I don’t lie about these things,” he said, laughing a little, “any more than you lie about your science. It’s not worth it, and it’s a strain on the conscience, let alone the law. I shan’t tell them it’s an original. I shall sell it as a copy. But even as a copy it’s surprising what you can get for these things.” He weighed it in his hands. “It’s an exact copy of the Nassau Baby Mug — as the Yanks call it in their catalogues” — and he laughed again cheerfully at the name.

Lexington asked to hold it again for a moment, and weighed it in his hands.

“Under twenty ounces,” he said. He was getting accustomed to close guesses of the kind by this time.

“You’re very close,” said Bowring. He took it back and balanced it in his turn in his hands. “As a matter of fact it just turns the scale at nineteen. I shall ask five hundred for it — and I shall get it.”

Lexington made a rapid calculation in his head. “19 oz.= £76. 76 goes into 500 six times and something over. Bowring got over £6 for £1 worth of gold. He, Lexington, only got 10s. — Humph!”

“By the way,” he said aloud, “before we go any farther,” and he fished the tightly–gripped lump from his pocket. He unwrapped the tissue paper, and there was the half-egg.

“It’s just over twenty-four ounces,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Bowring. And he went through the routine that was becoming familiar with them. He bolted the door, brought out scales from the cupboard, weighed the metal carefully, and said : “Thank you, Lexington. You’ll verify it, won’t you?”

“That’s all right,” Said Lexington, nodding. “Twenty-four ounces four pennyweights — barely.”

“Well, we’ll call it four pennyweights,” said Bowring carelessly. “Twenty-four ounces, four pennyweights.” He made another rapid little calculation on paper, and then counted out a number of notes, deliberately nondescript, not consecutive. Forty pounds of them in one pound notes, a few ten shilling notes. Then he fished in his trouser pocket and brought out some loose change, and carefully put three shillings and eightpence in silver and bronze on the top of the paper.

“There,” he said. “You saw the price of bullion this morning?”

“No,” said Lexington carelessly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, here it is,” said Bowring meticulously, reaching for the paper and pointing at the line. “Won’t you verify it for yourself?”

“No. It’s all right,” said Lexington. “I know it’s roughly four pounds four shillings the ounce. That’s my half share, fair enough.”

“You brought a little more this time,” said Bowring.

“That was an accident. I happened to put in a little more material. But I think we can begin to increase, can’t we?” There was rather an anxious look in his eye as he said it. He wanted to increase. This new source of income was becoming familiar to him, and was breeding new small needs. He liked to have plenty of elbow-room, He wanted more.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Bowring. “Make it thirty ounces next time if you like — but not more.”

Lexington nodded.

They gave no receipts. That was understood between them. And what was more, Bowring lit a match, burned the tiny scrap of paper on which he had made his calculation, crushed the ashes a little and threw them into the grate.

“You’ll stop to lunch?” he said. “Won’t you? Will you come round to the shop after?”

“No thanks,” said Lexington. “I think I’ll take the early train back.” Then he picked up the cup again and looked at it more closely. “It’s certainly a nice piece of work. But do you really get five hundred pounds for that, only nineteen ounces of gold?”

“Not a doubt of it, whatsoever,” said Bowring decisively. “I shall get it this week. There are at least three men who will be after it. I shall put it where it can be seen. I shall put a good clear label on it, stating that it’s a copy, as I said.”

“Well, I suppose it’s worth it,” sighed Lexington.

“Oh, of course!” answered the other. “One has to count the knowledge that goes into it — I suppose it took Nowell a good ten days — he’s a painstaking man, I shall count him a fortnight for it, anyway — and that’s sixteen pounds.”

There was a silence. They went into the next room to lunch and talked of other things, and Lexington went back with sundry thoughts sprouting in his mind. All the two hours down in the train these thoughts branched out, blossomed and flourished. And they had thorns upon them.

Allowing for the overhead expenses, that five hundred for less than eighty pounds worth of gold was a whacking fine sum. He wished he was in the antiquary trade himself — even in the imitation antiquary trade. There was a feeling of ill-ease and complaint in his mind, not fully conscious. It was bound to come to the surface. It had come to the surface before he got to the junction. By the time the car had got him back to his inn he was a man with a grievance.

He, Lexington, had just pocketed close on fifty pounds. Not bad for a week’s work, or rather, for an hour’s work in the week. But he also had to take trouble and he also had taken risks. Into that cup, for all he knew, had gone the very gold he had handed over three weeks before in the beginning of the new partnership. What would happen to the gold he had taken up that very day? He did not know. Bowring had told him nothing of these things. He would probably have it alloyed. It would certainly have to be. He had forgotten that. That would make it go farther. It might appear as spoons, or a plate — he thought next time he saw Bowring he would ask a few questions on these things. After all, fifty-fifty was absurd. Why should Bowring have fifty per cent, of the material free, anyway? He didn’t make it! And where did he, Lexington, come in?

Next week he brought the full thirty ounces weight. The routine was gone through as before. But this time, when Bowring asked him to stay to lunch, as usual, he refused more markedly.

“I’ve things to do in town,” he said, rather shortly. “By the way, Bowring, do you mind telling me what you think of doing with that particular gold I brought up to-day? I’ve no right to ask, I know, of course,” he added, diffidently — he didn’t like to face his companion’s eyes and looked a little aside, but he went on : “I’ve no right to ask, I know.” (He tittered.) “But you see, I’m only interested. I provide the raw material, don’t I? “(He tittered again.)

“Really I don’t know,” said Bowring, shortly in his turn. “I’ve not thought about it yet. I mix it, of course, and there’s the alloy to be considered, and all that business. And I don’t profess to trace exactly where each ounce of the stuff goes to. It all works in. I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone, “if some of it were not used for the chain that they’re ordering from Saltminster. It’s not a copy this time; it’s to be done to a pattern which the Corporation are sending me.”

“Oh,” said Lexington.

“It’s got no antique value,” continued Bowring. He had counted out Lexington’s money and put his wallet back into his pocket. “But of course, there’s the workmanship. I really couldn’t tell what proportion this particular lump will make of it. I’ll tell you later, if you like.”

“Yes, do. I’ve no doubt you’ll make a good thing of it. And you’re lucky to have such a knowledge of the trade.”

“Why not? It’s taken years to build up.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” And with that they parted.

But all the way home in the train that day once more and much more clearly his grievance rose up before him. Why should he be playing second fiddle? Why should he be in the background all the time, and getting only half what was the produce of his own monopoly? He wondered ignorantly but angrily what added value there would be when it appeared in that chain — two hundred, three hundred per cent.? At any rate, he would get none of that profit.

His mind turned so repeatedly in this distressing circle that he slept ill. Twice in his wakeful moments of the night he had determined to write and begin an explanation; twice he had thought better of it. With the morning he was jaded. There were only two weeks of the vacation left. He would not be so free to give his whole time to the new great affair when term had begun, and when he had his pupils and his lectures and the rest. It would be some time, say a year, before he could resign, and it seemed to lie absolutely with Bowring and not with himself at what pace he should increase his output and expand his income — that income ought to be larger … much larger.

All that jaded day he brooded over it. During all the next a plan began slowly maturing in his mind — not a very subtle one, heaven knows, for Lexington was not a very subtle man. But his, grievance had taken root. On the third day he put his plan into action. That same night he filled the little crucible right up with the lead, much fuller than it had yet been, and shredded in a larger pinch of the precious brown powder. In the morning he concealed, treasured upon his person, nearly fifty ounces of gold.

He telephoned through, not to Bowring’s private house, but to his place of business, in the early afternoon.

“Bowring, I want to tell you. … I am coming up this week rather later. In fact, I’m coming up by the four o’clock train, and I shall be at your place just after six. You’ll be there, won’t you? I’m bringing up the crucible and some lead, too. I don’t want to find the door shut.”

“Yes, of course,” came the thin telephoned voice, talking over a hundred miles. “I don’t know why, but of course if you want to come to the shop … Yes, of course, by all means. Can’t you tell me your reason?”

“No, not now” — abruptly. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“You wouldn’t like to sleep at my place?”

“No . . No thank you. I can run back by car to St. Olaf’s or even right down here. So long. Just after six — don’t forget. I’ll explain when I come.”

At the other end of the wire Bowring was coming to conclusion upon conclusion; and every conclusion was right. His younger associate was feeling the weight of new wealth. His younger associate thought nothing of hiring a motor-car for a hundred miles. The voice of his younger associate was troubled and annoyed. The annoyance of his younger associate was personal. The annoyance was with him, Bowring. His younger associate was about to make some foolish demand.

It took him perhaps five minutes to clinch down that new certitude. Then he put it away in the back of his mind to be produced at the right time and went off to stroll through the dark to his Club, change his clothes there, dine early and go to the play.

CHAPTER VI

MR. LEXINGTON’S TAXI had turned into that narrow lane, Percy Street, in Mayfair, which was always worth I don’t know how much a square yard, and is now worth double because it is turning into shops. But the shop which started the vogue and which had been there for years was one which had nothing more than the name Bowring — for fashion and pride combined to make him disdain a fancy title for the trade he drove so well, and in which he had become a master, famous to all whose custom counted.

Lexington had brought up his crucible and his little furnace in the bag as he had suggested and quite a provision of lead as well — with a pinch of the magic stuff wrapped up in his purse in case still more gold were allowed. All that made his bag heavy. He was glad to find the door open as he had asked for it to be. He walked in. He found the owner of the place sauntering about among his treasures awaiting him. They shook hands, cordially on Bowring’s part, and politely enough on Lexington’s. Then the master of the shop shut and bolted the door, saying, “I mustn’t break the law, you know.”

They sat down opposite each other at the old table and Lexington set down the bag. He had often been in that shop before, but not since all this revolution in his life. It flashed across him how odd it was that his old friend should not have asked him into the familiar place during these many weeks of an acquaintance much closer than of old. He looked about him at the few excellent pictures on the wall, at the excellent furniture of the room; nor did anything catch his eye germane to what he was about to say save a little statuette, standing on the shelf above the old coffer; the thing was of copper gilt, much worn, rather grimy, dainty enough, but nothing remarkable. It might be French of the eighteenth century; a cupid shooting from his bow, in all about six inches high.

That glance at the statuette, the unquiet frown, the mouth drooping at the corners, and all the open discontent of a face which had never been trained to hide emotions within, could be read as plainly as a book. Bowring read it and spoke first. He spoke simply and even heartily, looking steadily at his friend :

“Lexington, there’s some trouble and you must tell me what it is. Tell me frankly and we’ll see if we can’t adjust it.”

“Well, I really don’t know where to begin. What I want to say is … I have had it in my mind some little time … you see, Bowring, it’s like this ….”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” said Bowring, “like what?” He fixed his strong, steady eyes upon the other man, who avoided his gaze.

“I say it’s like this …” (another pause). “Like this. Look here, Bowring, what’s that little Cupid worth?”

Bowring laughed unaffectedly.

“You’ve come all this way to ask me that?” he said. “Well, I tried to get £21 for it yesterday from that old cad Bickers, but he wouldn’t rise. I won’t let it go for less. I like it, and I think I shall keep it.”

“What does it weigh?” said Lexington doggedly. He still kept his eyes nervously away.

Bowring got up, took the thing down, and handling it in connoisseur fashion, balanced it on his right palm.

“Oh, about three to four ounces,” he said. “Perhaps a little more, But I don’t see where that comes in. It’s hollow you know, and copper gilt, and very little of the gilding left. It’s worth nothing, save that it may be by Cousson. But I found no sort of mark.”

He turned it upside down, to look once more for the trace of a signature, and then put it right way up and set it back.

“Well, what about it?” he added. “It’s a long journey to take and a lot of money and a good deal of fatigue, my dear Lexington, to find out about that Cupid. I had no idea you knew anything about it.” And he laughed again.

“Oh, it’s not the Cupid,” broke out Lexington, with rising colour. “It isn’t this and it isn’t that, but it’s this…. The fact is Bowring, you make a lot out of this sort of thing.”

“Yes, I do pretty well,” said Bowring, half yawning. “I don’t complain. What about it?”

“You’ve a fine gold centrepiece in the window — and I shouldn’t wonder if that coffer were full of more such things.”

“Oh, no! It’s just there for oddments and a bottle or two — and sometimes I put in a parcel.”

Bowring lifted the lid as he spoke, and sure enough the fine old coffer was empty save for one bottle of wine, a plate and two glasses in a corner of it.

But Lexington was not mollified. He continued his allusions.

“Then there’s that ship on wheels — which you told me was a copy of the Hampton Court one. That’s not gilt.”

“No. That’s gold all right.”

“Worth some hundreds?”

“Say £2,000 odd. Why, its weight alone — —”

“Never mind its weight! You’ll sell it all right.”

“I hope so!”

“Well, it’s I who provide the stuff, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” said Bowring, with pleasing surprise. “You and I between us know how to get hold of a certain amount of gold free.”

Lexington nodded.

“Yes, you and I between us,” he said, biting his lip. “And more you than I.”

“Look here, Lexington,” came now in much firmer tones from Bowring, “it seems to me that you’ve come here to quarrel. I don’t know what on earth you can be quarrelling about. Is somebody running me down to you?”

“No,” said Lexington. He was struck again with timidity. But his timidity was mastered by his smouldering anger, his sense of injustice, his determination — without a plan behind it — that things must be brought to a head. “But you do get all that stuff free, don’t you? And but for me you wouldn’t get it at all.”

“Oh, yes, I should,” answered Bowring quietly, rising and sauntering up and down the room. “I’ve been getting it for years. Four guineas an ounce plus — with very slight fluctuations up and down.”

“I mean that, but for me you wouldn’t get it for nothing,” said Lexington bitterly …”Look here, it’s only fair … I won’t ask you for a share in your profits …”

“Thank you,” put in Bowring.

“No, honestly. I don’t say I’ve no right to them …”

“Indeed,” said Bowring.

“No! I won’t ask you for any share, because I don’t understand your business. I don’t pretend to.”

“No,” answered Bowring quietly, “you’re right there.”

“I don’t pretend to, and I don’t want to.” (The younger man’s voice rose.) “But what I do say” — and he rather feebly hit the table as he emphasized the word— “is that at least I might have a larger share in the raw material. It’s time I had it.” And with these words he pulled out the big new lump, so large that it came with difficulty out of the coat pocket, and put it down on the table. “I want more of that,” he said.

“You needn’t talk so loud!” said Bowring — the first rough words he had used. “If you want more of that, make more. I don’t mind. We can absorb more now. I’ve bought the place next door, and I’m going to arrange a room for exhibits there.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” cried Lexington, now out of control. “You are, are you? And suppose I was to tell you that you wouldn’t get any more of the stuff free unless you give me my fair share?”

There was nothing from Bowring but an inquiring look. The opportunity seemed a good one. Lexington lowered his tone and said with less violence: “Why not make it two-thirds?”

“Because, my dear young man,” said Bowring firmly, “we have an agreement, and there is no reason why we should modify our agreement. Because your attempt to modify our agreement is quite illegitimate, and a bit of very unpleasant sharp practice. Because I am not the sort of man who yields to threats, and because….”

“Very well,” cried out the other passionately, half rising.

Bowring put a hand on his shoulder and firmly pushed him back on to the chair.

“Wait a moment. Hear me out. I suspect you of treachery. If I catch you keeping anything back, I warn you 111 put an end to the whole thing. There’s no record. I can tell the authorities. You are known to have talked folly about this business of transmutation of metals, and some metals are dangerous things to tamper with in these days of banker government.” He raised his voice very slowly and put a stronger fibre into it as he ended. “If you kick, Lexington, 111 break you. Have you got that clear?”

“Very well then,” screamed the other, now entirely out of control, and seizing the heavy lump of gold as though to hurl it at his partner’s head. His voice stuck in the extremity of his anger, and what he would have said ended in an incoherent sound like a yelp.

Bowring did not flinch. He looked at him something as a fancier might look at an angry puppy, hesitating between drowning the beast and selling him. Lexington hammered the flat of the golden half–dome down on to the table with a bang.

“Very well, then! Keep it!” He snatched up his bag and made for the door, snarling over his shoulder as he went.

“By all means, Lexington. Thank you for the gift. Come back to-morrow … or next week … whenever you’ve recovered. But remember, I know where you are, and I shall know where you’re going … and I shall know what you’re doing. Good night.”

But even as he spoke, the outer door slammed and his discomfited, defeated antagonist was striding down the street, swinging his bag furiously, with the blood hammering at his temples, and in such a state that the passers-by turned round to stare at him in the half darkness.

He had hardly got a hundred yards : he was turning into the square : corners are dangerous to men in such a state : he ran full-tilt into an excellently dressed, excellently groomed, hale, hearty, very big old gentleman who, upon receiving the cannon, half reeled and said, very audibly: “God damn!” Then he caught sight of the face of his distracted assailant and said : “Hullo, young Charlie!”

Lexington pulled himself together.

“Really, I’m very sorry — very sorry indeed, Lord Taylor!”

“So you ought to be,” said old Taylor happily. “I didn’t know you had so much life in you! What’s the matter? Have you been proposing?”

If there was one man whom Lexington would have desired not to offend, it was Lord Taylor. The Banker was one of his father’s oldest friends, and upon his death he had helped to clear up the few debts. He had kept in touch with Lexington. Lexington would dine at the Banker’s house, two or three times in a year. He never went there without feeling not only a solidity of wealth, but a solidity of judgment as well, and now, in his flushed but rapidly calming mood, it was like fresh air to come across this powerful friend.

“I owe you every apology,” he said.

Old Taylor took him by the arm.

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s right. You do honour to your College. It was always famous for manners. I hope you didn’t break my watch glass. No, it’s all right.” Still leading the younger man by the arm and bantering genially, he walked him away.

“What are you doing to-night? My doctor tells me that everything is due to blood pressure. He also says that blood pressure is made worse by good dinners. I don’t believe it. I’ll cure your blood pressure in no time. Come and dine at home. I’m alone.”

Lexington desired nothing better. He was eager for essential advice, and no one in the world could he trust more.

“But I’m not dressed,” he said, apologetically, “and I’m all at sixes and sevens after this row.”

“What row?” said Old Taylor. “You’ve been in a row all right, I can see that. I hope you won.”

“No,” said Lexington. “At least … I don’t know. Yes, perhaps I did. I don’t know … in a way I did. In a way I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s clear as mud. You shall tell me all about it and who he was. And by the time we get to the joint, seeing the wine I have in mind, you will be quite certain that you’ve won … twice over.”

“I do owe you an apology, Lord Taylor. I do and I know it. And now that I’m cooler I’m ashamed of going on like a madman in a public street. It wasn’t my fault — it was Bowring’s.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, the man I’m in business with.”

“But you said Bowring — what Bowring are you in business with? And what have you got to do with business anyhow, eh? Isn’t your Fellowship enough for you?”

“Well, you see, chemistry’s my line.”

“Ho! Yes!” said Lord Taylor, recovering his louder tone again and digging a thumb into the neighbouring ribs. “Transmutation of metals, eh?” and he laughed again. “But you don’t mean Bowring the curiosity shop man that’s been going in for gold plate lately?”

Lord Taylor felt a sudden jerk on his arm, and looked round surprised. Mr. Lexington had jumped.

“Did I say Bowring?”

“Yes, you did. Was it indiscreet?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lexington recklessly. “I hardly know what I’m saying to-night.”

Lord Taylor lowered his voice and walked rather more slowly.

“You ought not to get mixed up with Bowring, my dear boy. I’ve nothing against Bowring, of course; we mustn’t say anything without evidence, eh? … But still, you learned men don’t go in for sharp practice, and you have to be pretty careful, you know. We bankers hear things.”

“What have you heard?” almost whispered Mr. Lexington, thickly. He was so moved that he had checked the old man’s stride, but Lord Taylor kept his arm firmly linked.

“We’ll talk about it when we’ve washed and begun eating,” he said. “Come in.”

It was barely eight when they sat down to table. There was no one but they two at the large handsome board. During dinner, with the servants in and out, they talked of indifferent things. But when coffee had been served and they were alone, Lord Taylor unburdened his mind.

“Don’t have anything to do with Bowring, my boy,” he said, shaking his head. “I say again, I’ve got nothing against him. But you see, St. Olaf’s is not the place for hearing about such things. Remember what Cecil Rhodes said — not that I ever thought anything of Cecil Rhodes — but if he did say it he said one true thing in his life. You Dons, he said, are children in these matters” — and he wagged his head again.

“What have you heard against Bowring, Lord Taylor?” asked Lexington again.

“Nothing, I tell you, nothing,” grumbled the solid peer. “Or rather, we bankers do hear things. But we don’t believe anything we hear, and only half what we see.”

“Lord Taylor, now I’ve gone so far I might as well tell you everything frankly and fully. I’m working as a partner of Bowring’s. And the reason I ask you is because I fear I have reason to … not quite … not quite to …” (he looked over his shoulder) “not quite to trust him.”

There was a genial but subdued laugh from the man of millions.

“Not quite to trust him, eh? Well, that’s good! Now,” clasping his hands on the table and leaning forward and lowering his voice in his turn, “I’ll tell you, my boy, because there’s no one to hear us and I’m not going to let you be fleeced.” (How grateful was Lexington for this tone of considerate advice!) “Well, Bowring’s expanding. And it does look as though more stuff came out of that shop than went in.” The large old head wagged. “You see, there’s a check kept on bullion” (a sinking dread crept into Lexington’s heart) …”You and your transmutation of metals, eh?” If Lexington had been next to him instead of round the corner of the big table, he would have dug him in the ribs once more. “Well, there’s a rough check kept on bullion, and there’s such a thing as private inquiry, too. I ought to know something about it, since I put them on to getting back that collection of Saxon coins. And I tell you, there’s more coming out of that place than goes in. Some say it’s a back door business, some say it’s the smashers.”

“The what?”

“The receivers.” (A word whispered behind Lord Taylor’s hand.)

“Receivers — of what?”

“Oh, you young ass — stolen goods!”

“Oh, I swear it’s not that!” cried out Charles Lexington in agony. “Don’t believe it! Who could have told you so?”

“Hullo. You’re taking it very tragically, my dear boy! I didn’t say anything of the sort. God forbid I should traduce your partner. Bowring had nothing to do with those coins anyhow. I got them back in a week. They caught the man. He still had ’em. Common burglar. But, by the way, how come you to be a partner of Bowring’s, eh?”

A crux arose in the innocent mind of Charles Lexington. He had confessed to working with a man who was already in some way under suspicion. Now he could do this one thing — he could cut the knot. It was always better to do these things simply and straightforwardly. This very wealthy, powerful old friend was a worthy confidant, and a tower of strength in his trouble.

“You remember my lecture on the Transmutation of Metals?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Lord Taylor. “Wasn’t I in the Chair? It was all about knocking out the electron. Knock out the electron — or two or three of them, I forget how many — and there you are. Much easier than spending a lifetime watching the markets.”

There was silence while Lexington gathered his courage. Then he said, looking down at his plate:

“Well, I have made gold. Now do you understand?”

Lord Taylor ought to have gasped. Instead of that he choked, for he was no longer young.

“I have made gold,” repeated Lexington quietly. “Everybody in my profession will tell you that modern science possesses the elements of the problem; it is perfectly simple and perfectly clear. One man probably did actually do it, on a small scale, with the vapour of mercury. It has for some time been clear that at any moment someone might hit on the way to do it on a large scale, either with mercury or with one of the neighbouring metals in the list. And you see — I’ve done it. Yes; but I’ve kept it to myself — now do you understand why I am partner with Bowring?”

A change of mood passed over all the atmosphere of that grand room. The two men had passed into another world. Through the mind of the older one confused streams of apprehension and doubt mingled furiously. In the mind of the younger was an immense relief, as of one who has laid down a burden.

“There,” said Lexington, after the long silence that followed, “you have heard the whole truth.”

“My dear Lexington ….” The old man’s voice was thick and jerky. “My dear Charles … you cannot expect me …”

“Will you wait a moment whilst I get some things from my bag? I think I can convince you.”

Lord Taylor nodded; his face had set oddly. Lexington returned.

“Have you the gold with you there?” jerked out old Taylor with difficulty.

“No. Only lead” (opening a little sack of shredded metal) “and this crucible here; and … Where’s the plug for power?”

“Behind you, Charles; just behind you; near the sideboard, Charles; below that electric heater. Bless my soul …!”

The lead was dropped into the crucible where it stood upon an upturned plate with its guarded small furnace attached. The heat was turned on. The lead melted. There came a rattle at the handle of the door.

“Wait a moment!” (from the master of the house). “Wait, till I ring! Bolt it, Charles!”

There was no further interruption. Lexington took out his purse, took a wisp of paper from it, unscrewed it and showed a pinch of brown powder, which looked to Lord Taylor like so much snuff. Lexington shook it into the now liquid mass of the metal — and all the while the old Banker watched in fascination.

The swift metamorphosis proceeded. The colours whorled and changed; the purple green passed subtly to a more yellowish green — then to a pure deep yellow; then to yellow touched with red. Lord Taylor heard the switch clicking as the current was turned off.

“Gold!” said Lexington.

But his old host hardly heard him. He had half risen from his chair. His aged hands dangled oddly before him in the air as though paralysed by some supernatural fear. His eyes stared out of a face turned quite white. Then he sank back, and stared at the younger man and the cooling liquid yellow mass alternately.

“Is it …? Is it …?” he said at last.

“Yes,” answered Lexington. “It is gold.”

The gold, now quite cold and turned out of the crucible, was safely locked away in the safe behind the panelling in Lord Taylor’s study at the back of the house.

The two men had sat talking for an hour. The elder had recovered his control — with an effort. The younger had easily been led on to talk and had told all: the arrangement with Bowring, the inadequacy of the terms. Yet how he was caught, because he had no means of marketing the gold. He asked for advice. As he talked Lord Taylor was attempting to arrange the chaos of his shaken mind. He was clear on the first step.

“I must put you up,” he said. “You’ve got your bag : what train do you catch in the morning?”

“9.10 at Paddington.”

“Don’t expect me to be down. I mustn’t get up too early these days. They’ll give you breakfast.” He rang the bell and ordered the Spanish room to be got ready. “What day do you come up again to see Bowring?”

“Tuesday, to-day week … if I see him at all.”

“Oh! Yes. You must see him. Come here first. I’ll have arranged something by that time. Come here at noon. Eh? Not a word to anyone in between … you understand?” He peered anxiously into Lexington’s candid, disturbed face. “That’s essential. Eh? These things are very delicate!”

Yes. Lexington understood. He affirmed, quite truly, that, except to this one old friend, he wouldn’t have spoken a word to a soul. He had only done so because he was in vital need of help and support. Yes. He understood the peril. But he knew where he was safe.

Lord Taylor, almost reverently, led the way upstairs and showed his guest his room. He shook hands to say good night, and as he did so Lexington noticed that the old hand still trembled.

CHAPTER VII

LEXINGTON WENT BACK westwards by the morning express. He found travelling first class was less luxurious, for some reason, than it had been the day before. He had read in books that when a man’s income rises he gets sadly familiar with the new glories of his state and takes them as much for granted as the old discomfort. It seemed a pity. Perhaps by the time he had bought a really good motor-car and a man to run it, he might take a more permanent pleasure in wealth.

He was out of sorts. These violent scenes never did suit him. He had not had more than a couple of others in his life, and each time they had made him ill. Perhaps he had drunk a little too much champagne the night before at Lord Taylor’s. Anyhow, he was not himself. He kept mixing up the days of the week as he made his plans. He could not concentrate on his paper. And when he got back to his hotel he felt unaccountably fatigued. Yet he had done no work. It was the first vacation in which he had ever taken a complete rest from work. He had not even brought a textbook with him. He had drafted no notes for the lectures of the next term.

Without so much as taking off his overcoat, the first thing he did was to verify that everything was all right. He turned the key in the little padlocked sack and groped within for the crystalline cylindrical shape upon which his fortunes depended. He did not seem to find it. It had not got in among the two soft shirts. He plunged in farther. Nothing harder than linen met him except his account book, which he knew was there, which none the less he pulled out, with no particular object except to make sure of it. He rummaged round thoroughly.

He felt himself taken with an odd faint feeling; the cylinder had gone! … Ye gods!

He sank back into a chair to try to collect his thoughts.

The first thing to do was to follow step by step backwards — to-day was Thursday … No, Wednesday … It seemed such a long time since he had left that room, but it was not yet twenty-four hours … Yes, certainly. There was only that one night in between, at Lord Taylor’s … It was Wednesday … Not Thursday … He had had that trouble before in the train … He carried his mind back through every moment … not too distinctly … breakfast, his going to bed in Taylor’s house, even the pyjamas he had been lent, and the tip he had given the man… The crucible … dinner … the meeting before in the street … the violent scene with Bowring. Yes … that was it! He must have slipped the cylinder for greater security into the inner breast-pocket of his greatcoat pocket, and forgotten he had done so. He gave a nervous clutch at it, for he was still wearing it.

There was nothing there. He felt rapidly in the other pockets. There was nothing.

Then he tried to piece together carefully everything he had done from the moment of his beginning his manufacture the day before. He remembered very vividly the extra weight of material, the determination to produce the maximum his crucible would take; he remembered the angry mood in which he had done it, his telephoning, how he had ordered the motor to take him to the junction; but of any gesture, instinctive or deliberate, for the putting away of the cylinder he could remember nothing. It had gone.

Fool that he was not to have analysed the stuff the first day it had been put into his hand! Fool that he was not to have discovered for himself, if it were possible, how that substance had been brought into being. Any material could be analysed at last, and if you can analyse the chances are that you can put together again. As it was, he was in the dark, with nothing to guide him. And if the cylinder were really lost … Yes, he had been a fool!

And he had been a fool in another thing. All this would never have happened if he had not let his temper get the better of him and his anger against Bowring fill the whole of his mind when he was setting out on that journey to London the day before. He had let himself get so flustered that he had not known what he was doing. He might have put the stuff down anywhere. He might have held it in his hand as he went out. He might have left it in the motor — well, that was a chance : it was likely enough.

He clattered down the stairs to the telephone box in the hall, looked up the number of the garage, and had just taken off the receiver to make the call when, shifting a foot, he felt something under it. There was no light in the box. It stood in an inconvenient dark corner. Still holding the receiver he stooped down, felt with his hand on the dusty oilcloth, and came on an object there was no mistaking, even in that half light. The feel was too familiar. It was the missing cylinder. He must have had it in his hand and dropped it when he was telephoning the day before.

No more question of telephoning now! He brought it out into the light with trembling hands. It was upon this he had trodden! He struck a match, and carefully wrapped the sacred thing in his handkerchief, grasped the corners of the handkerchief closely together, and went back almost stealthily to his room. No one could have known what he had found, but secrecy had made a sort of guilt of it.

He breathed again as he sank (this time with relief) into his chair — but he locked the door before he did so.

He realized for the first time into what a physical crisis this adventure had thrown him. His heart was still beating violently. He could look now at his leisure upon the cylinder, and see if there had been any damage done.

The stuff lay there still unbroken.

When he had calmed down his thoughts took shape, and he flattered himself that they were the height of good sense. He had had his warning. He might have lost the irreplaceable magic thing for ever, and who knows that in the future it might not be lost again, and that time not be recovered? He had been too greedy. In his haste to make the metal he had postponed experiment. He must proceed at once to what he ought to have done all those weeks before; he must analyse the stuff and make certain what it was. All that was needed was to know the elements and their proportion.

He would take a walk and think matters over. It would clear his brain. But one thing was certain. He would never leave that treasure out of his sight again. He would sleep with it; he would have it on his person; it should be under his hand every hour of his waking day — until he was sure of the formula for reconstructing the material at will.

Wait a moment! Since he was for walking, why not use the solitude? One never knew what might happen; and it was a risk to do the thing indoors. He would take the first step — Barlow’s test — in the open; in some place where there was plenty of elbow-room and no one about. Barlow’s test applied to most things, and it was simple. That was why it had come into a dozen domestic uses since it was put upon the market. It needed no more than a bit of flex which he could buy, with a switch, at the shop in the High Street, a little pocket battery and a Barlow Dial, always supposing they had a Barlow Set with the clips and the retainer. Most shops kept all that since the use of it for testing drinking water supply.

He was not disappointed. The little shop had a Barlow Set all right. He bought it, pocketed it and set forth.

The day was still fine., though there were distant wisps of rain cloud, and there was thunder in the air, for it was already April. He hesitated whether he should take his umbrella, or not; he decided to leave it behind. Even if rain did fall, it would only be a shower.

He made his way towards a large wood in which he had often walked during these lonely days of his seclusion. There was a place he knew where he could meditate freely. It was on the edge of the undergrowth, looking south over an empty ploughed field.

There he sat him down on the grass of the bank and bringing out the Mystery Cylinder, laid it carefully in the open handkerchief upon the soil at his feet. He brought out his pipe, lit it, and meditated on his problem.

He had read enough of the rigmarole in the old books to know that they always hinted at sulphur as the basis of their mysterious reagent. But it was not to be sulphur such as “our sulphur”; it was to be what they called “nobler” or “purer.” What did that mean?

There it lay, holding its secret, dumb. How familiar he was with it! Yet how should he unlock its secret — with what key? He would have to go carefully. The combination might be unstable — perhaps that was why no trace of such a thing had remained from the discoveries of the ancients — for that they had made such discoveries he now knew sure enough.

He took out the apparatus which would give him his first test. He kneeled down to clamp the two clips of Barlow’s Set on either side of the brown crystalline cylinder above the retainer. He screwed the two wires to the pocket battery. He stood up, allowing a good length of flex, and held the metre in one hand, with his finger on the switch to complete the circuit while he watched the dial. Now!

The switch clicked : but no man heard that click. For in the same instant there was an explosion so violent that the world seemed ended. The universe was filled with thunders and the unfortunate Lexington was hurled into darkness, with his very inmost being blasted and stunned into nothingness.

How long he lay there unconscious he never knew, and there was none to tell. When he groped back to consciousness he gradually discovered that he had been blown backwards, badly bruised, against the bole of the tree behind him, and he found himself sitting and staring there, his head still ringing with the tremendous noise.

He had wondered whether the combination were unstable. He had had his answer.

A very faint yellow cloud, drifting away and upwards rapidly under the light wind, was all that remained : that, and, on the ground, the charred ashes of a handkerchief, the smashed battery, and the blackened and twisted plates at the end of the flex of the cylinder not even a dust remained.

Yes, the combination of the old alchemists had been in unstable equilibrium. No doubt at all. And, meanwhile, its lack of balance had nearly destroyed a valuable scientist, and had altogether destroyed his prospects of fortune once and for all.

The consequences of the disaster very slowly filtered into the dazed mind of the unhappy man. He was still suffering so much from that formidable jar that his thoughts were in a jumble, and inconsequent portions of them thrust out in zigzags. Had that enormous noise been heard? Would they take him for a poacher? Would they put it down to a farmer’s gun after rooks? Yes, please God! That would prevent any questions being asked. He must not leave the fragments of the handkerchief there. He stooped painfully down and picked them up, coiled the flex round the remains of the battery, and thrust the whole, with the little dial, into his pocket.

He was relieved to note as he straightened himself, slowly — for he had been badly bruised and his ears were singing — that the catastrophe had left no very marked effect upon the ground. A scrap or two of ash where his handkerchief had burned, and a little blackened grass, as though someone had made a small fire there a week or two before, but nothing more. Then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps some poor fragment might remain. He was on his knees groaning at the difficulty of it and peering every-where. There was not a sign. The thing had gone utterly, and for ever. All had utterly disappeared.

Whereupon there rushed into his mind like a river flood what, had he been less shaken, would have come first — he was utterly, irretrievably, finally ruined. Of that there could be no doubt. All that he had made so sure of in his life, and all that he had come to take for granted had vanished with that tenuous, half perceptible yellow smoke, and there he was once more, no longer the Master of Gold, but the distinguished Mr. Lexington of St. Olaf’s, carrying on at about £1,200 a year; enough for one but hardly enough for two. Such he would remain, until, under the new regulations, he was superannuated into a red brick villa suburban to the University. It was all up.

In any other occasion whatsoever, I think he, being still so well on the right side of forty, would have summoned his reserves of energy and told himself that this would never do and that something must be done. But the case was peculiar. There was nothing to be done. And so far from the situation not doing, it had a completeness rarely rivalled and never equalled.

As he limped back towards the path and began to recover something of his flexibility of limb, another appalling thing which had not yet reached his consciousness began to come to the surface of it and flood him for the second time with dismay.

How should he deal with Bowring? He had just provoked a quarrel. He had made any explanation even more difficult than it would have been anyhow : yet an explanation there would have to be.

It was Wednesday. He had six days before him. Next Tuesday he was due back again in London with his half-egg … but there — it would not bear thinking of! The other golden half-eggs were lost for ever, but the goose remained alive to drag out the weary years : for he was the goose.

Then came a third wave of discovery. He would have some pretty big bills to meet. It was a minor point, but minor points stand out very distinctly in these tragedies, as everyone knows who has suffered acutely.

Since his good fortune, Lexington had lived, as the newly-enriched very naturally do, to the limit of his pleasantly expanded resources; there would be no nugget next week, and no corresponding notes! He had increased his balance, but he had also picked up in his weekly visits to London a few charming little articles of the sort he favoured, notably some beautiful china and some old furniture which he had fancied; much had already been sent on to his rooms in College. He had got himself — it was, after all, something to show for the dead past — as good a chronometer as money could buy. As for the motor he had been going to set up and on which he had half engaged himself, he hoped to be able to get out of that. And damn! There was that new flat he had looked at in Mayfair for whenever he might run up to town, Entry fell due a short two months hence, and the premium was £200 — oh, triple damn!

He began a brief calculation in his head as he reached the edge of the wood, and turned into the high road to the little town. Counting the probable hotel bill, roughly estimating the bill of the local garage, considering the nice old furniture, washing out the possibly escapable motor, allowing for coming out handsomely out of breach of contract over the flat, he still saw about £400 on the wrong side of the account, and a reserve of less than £200 on the right side. He might still humble himself to claim his half of the last lump which he had so contemptuously banged down on Bowring’s table as a trifle. But even if he sank to that, it was not enough.

He entered his rooms, he solemnly brought out his little crucible, to gaze on it as on the relic of a dead past. He could have wept. He sighed deeply and considered what letter he should write to the man of whom he had made an enemy.

He wrote six drafts of letters, and tore them up one after the other. He put it off till the morrow. On the morrow, the Thursday, he wrote two more, tore them up more slowly, and put it off till Friday. On Friday he took the week-end to think it over. And he recklessly snatched £10 out of his little hoard to pass the time by the sea. On Monday he would return, on Monday he would have to get back his courage and his thoughts would be clearer, and he would write the letter. Perhaps something could be saved from the wreck. After all, Bowring need never know. He might be kept in expectation; he might be led to let him into partnership. His plans were still vague, but at any rate he had the relief of postponement. And with that he went off to the coast.

And, meanwhile, in London the wheels he had set moving began to revolve.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEN LORD TAYLOR had sent young Mr. Lexington off to sleep in the carved Spanish sixteenth-century four-post bedstead, on that memorable night, he himself in his plain middle twentieth-century German bedstead (but with the Belgian sommeillier) did not sleep. He lay awake hour after hour, his old brain suddenly compelled to an unnatural alertness by the violence of the shock it had received : the enormity of the problem proposed to it.

They could make gold! … They could make gold! … They could make gold! He had there next door, in his power, the Man who could make Gold! What if that power were used?

Once more, but in a less confused sequence, the results of this revolution passed before him … all the markets of the world rocking … the scream for a universal moratorium … chaos … fiat money at a moment’s notice everywhere … more chaos…. The world shipwrecked… How could they catch the wild animal that had escaped? … Ruin, Ruin, Ruin everywhere … and, my God! what a chance for Moscow!

He was broad awake in a fever.

He switched on the electric light beside his bed, and took up the pencil and pad always kept by him and made a list of policies. For a moment he hesitated; he pulled out his watch from beneath his pillow; it was already two o’clock.

The man who could make gold was there, asleep, down that passage. The only man who could make gold…. He could be put out of action : checked any hour. Time would be gained.

He put out his hand for the alarm that rang in the room of his secretary, his bounden agent. He could give orders for Lexington to be locked into his room.

Now! Now, at once!

But his hand never touched the button, and it was as well.

No! All that was dangerous. He must go slow. He couldn’t keep the young man locked up for ever. And Lexington only had to deny the whole thing. Bowring would trace his partner. There’d be an action even after he’d let Lexington go: so there would be if he kidnapped him. The moment you had the possibility of an action in a Court of Law you could not completely control the consequences — not even nowadays.

In the third hour his tortured mind cooled a little and there stood out prominently in it one immediate necessity: he must see the Home Secretary privately on the morrow and have the first steps taken. An Order in Council forbidding movement of gold in any form … a return of all coined gold in the country to be made at once and an inventory of gold objects.

Then a new thought came to him. Was it safe to see the Home Secretary? A thing of that magnitude! If there was the slightest leakage! A servant coming into the room and hearing even a few words, a politician talking in his most intimate circle … one never knew : and one word — one single word — would set the ball rolling!

No, to see the Home Secretary should not be his first step.

Should he first tell his principal colleague at the bank? No! That was a worse danger of publicity still.

Sleep was coming upon him just as four o’clock struck from Big Ben, clearly heard through the complete silence over the intervening mile. His belated sleep was coming upon him because he had reached a solution. There was a means by which he could keep the great secret still concealed as ever, and at the same time not let it run to waste in the hands of those who surely could not know how to use it. He, his drowsy mind assured him, he himself had all the organization needed for handling gold and for concealing its origin, even though it were produced on a serious scale. He must go to Bowring, he must insist on partnership.

By the time he had reached that sensible and honourable conclusion he was asleep; and he dreamed a good dream of riches increasing tenfold, and of such power over the bullion market as no man had ever had before.

The next day (just as Lexington, far off in the west, having reached his hotel, had first missed and then found the invaluable cylinder), Lord Taylor was waking, very tardily. He dressed; he had breakfast at the hour at which he usually took his lunch, and he gave time for Bowring, who might be lunching at his club, to return to his place of business. About three o’clock (at the same hour in which Lexington was walking to the wood for his first experiment), Lord Taylor came to the antiquary’s famous little shop with its bow windows and its lovely pieces of art behind the slightly coloured curved panes.

Bowring and he were fairly well known to each other, not only from purchases the banker had made, but from meeting once or twice in the houses of common friends. Lord Taylor was cordially greeted. He acted as a man of leisure should act in such a place, handling and praising a few of the finer things before him.

He took up the little statuette which had been the beginning of Lexington’s quarrel the day before, admired it, guessed its age aright; he touched the sail of the little model ship apparently of pure gold, and asked its age.

“It’s just been made,” said Bowring.

Lord Taylor looked at it curiously, and still felt that little sail.

“Take care you don’t bend it,” said Bowring.

“It feels like fine gold,” said Lord Taylor. “Has it got the regular proportion of alloy?”

“I think so,” said Bowring shortly. “But it’s very thin, of course.”

Lord Taylor took up the delicate model and began to turn it upside down to look for the hallmark.

“Take care,” said Bowring. He tried to show no anxiety in his voice, and somehow succeeded.

“In your business,” said Lord Taylor, putting down the little ship (whose hall-mark he had verified) “one has to use gold of different degrees of fineness, I suppose?”

“Not as a rule,” said Bowring, still more shortly. He was trying to make it clear that he did not propose to be catechized.

Lord Taylor sat down, without being asked, said it was a fine spring day, and then began the main business abruptly. He flattered himself he had got his host in an alert mood and prepared the way for what was to come. He was mistaken.

“Bowring,” he said suddenly to the short, strong, obstinate figure before him, “I’ve come to talk to you about Lexington.”

Bowring nodded.

“He’s a sort of partner of yours, isn’t he?”

“No. Why should he be?”

“Well, I mean, he comes in here.”

“So do you, Lord Taylor.”

“Yes, but you’ve known him many years, haven’t you?”

“If you mean, is he a younger friend of mine of long standing, and was my father a great friend of his father, you are right. But you knew all that, Lord Taylor. You didn’t come here to tell me that.”

Lord Taylor put on the expression which he used in earlier days as manager of the Manchester Branch, when he had to speak gravely about an important client’s overdraft, and yet arrange for making it larger still lest he should lose it all.

“Oh, yes, I knew all that,” he said, “But I want to talk to you about something very grave. I feel myself a sort of guardian to Lexington. It’s more or less my duty to look after him, you know. I had to look after the little insurance, the debts, after his father died. And really, Bowring, to make a long story short, the point is this. I think I ought to be in with both of you on this business.”

“What business?” said Bowring.

“I should only want a small proportion,” went on the banker, as though Bowring had not spoken. “Quite small — say a third. And pretty well on any terms you like. But I have facilities for dealing with the stuff on a large scale, you know: such as you will never have — and I think, for Lexington’s sake, I ought to be in with you both. I took the Chair,” he added, rather pompously, “at that lecture — you remember his lecture?”

“No,” said Bowring, lying. “What lecture?”

“Transmutation of metals.”

Bowring smiled, with a slight sneer.

“Oh,” he said. “And do you think Lexington is going to transmute metals? What metals?”

But even as he talked his mind was racing, and had reached its conclusions. This silly old fool Taylor had been impressed by that lecture, and had some vague idea that some day it might come to something. He had heard about Lexington coming to his shop, and to his house. The banks know everything. Old Taylor wanted to forestall some possible discovery. Well, Bowring had only to stand pat and admit nothing.

“I put it to you again,” said Lord Taylor, rising, as though to go out — a gesture he had found successful enough under other conditions of bargaining. “I put it to you for the last time. Any reasonable proportion — say a third — only I do think it’s my duty to be in with you both — for Lexington’s sake.”

Bowring spoke in a new tone of voice, quietly and more courteously.

“Sit down again, Lord Taylor, I beg of you,” he said. And Lord Taylor sat down, but impatiently.

“When I started this business,” continued Bowring, “I was jealous of my independence. I happen to be one of those men who can’t bear complications and the mixing up of other people in their private affairs. I never made more of this shop than a hobby — though it’s a pleasing one; I want to be good at my hobby, of course, everybody does. Maybe I’ve expanded the business a little more than I meant to. Anyhow, it’ll never be much of a thing. I certainly should never take a young man like Lexington into it. You may set your mind at rest on that score. But you must excuse me if I can’t even consider a flattering proposal for new capital coming from a man like yourself.”

“I said nothing about new capital,” broke in Lord Taylor. For forty years he had been on guard against such cool assumptions, and he butted them away the moment they nuzzled in the tips of their noses.

“No! No! Of course not,” went on Bowring courteously. “I didn’t mean to say you had. I should rather have said that even if you proposed new capital it would be of no use to me. You understand me? It’s quite plain. This is a one man show, and it’s got to remain a one man show. Otherwise all my pleasure in the little affair of buying and selling these toys” — he made a little gesture towards his wares— “would be gone. You mustn’t be angry with me. Now I’ve told you exactly what’s in my mind.”

But Lord Taylor was angry, and he could not conceal his anger.

“Very well,” he said, rising for the second time, and taking up his hat and gloves and stick from the table where he had laid them. “Very well, Mr. Bowring! Very well! You think you can bluff me? You’re not the first man who’s thought that! You think I don’t know what Lexington provides you with!”

Mr. Bowring shrugged his shoulders slightly and smiled pityingly. His visitor was trembling with passion.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” he cried. He hesitated a moment at the door as though to add a threat. But he said no more than “Good morning,” and he walked out.

The brilliant sun of that April afternoon and its keen north — eastern air was on the London streets. Far off in the west the object of that little conversation was recovering, half stunned by the woodside, staring at the smoke of the explosion which had ended the new glories of his life.

The Home Secretary lived in a modest flat of the cheaper kind, part of a large and very ugly block of red brick buildings recently put up in one of the new quadrants of Westminster. His name, John Huggerley Mills, had been reduced through the exigencies of public life to Jack Mills, for he was a Communist of the more orthodox sort and had served the party faithfully for now twenty years : a Communist of the right wing. He had risen through his Trade Union by the regular steps, first as Secretary organizing the two great Strikes, then as unquestioned dictator of that great body of men who trusted him so thoroughly and whose trust he so thoroughly deserved. He was unmarried with no one dependent upon him but a nephew whom he had befriended, and who had just finished his course at the London University.

Jack Mills was as much respected by the larger world into which he had entered since his first election to Parliament as by the men of the great Trade Union of which he was the acknowledged head. He was worth, perhaps, £300,000 at the most — not very much for one of such ability to accumulate during full twenty years of active Parliamentary life. In character he had all that the great office he occupied demanded. Reticent, well balanced, with a good knowledge of men, he was the very type which our new political conditions are producing, to the permanent advantage of the country. In build he was a large man, with a flat, broad, rather pale face, full of self-control, small eyes set therein, and an expression that only an enemy would call cunning.

Of his origins he had kept no more than what decency demanded: the flat collar, the ready-made clothes, and, for use on popular occasions, the dialect of his native town. In private he had long talked ordinary English. Courtesy he had had from the first, and knowledge of the world he had acquired. He had also maintained, since each of our public men must have some distinguishing feature by which they shall be represented in the Press, the very thin but long pointed wax moustache on which he had been so unmercifully chaffed by his comrades in the workshop before his name had been known outside it.

Such was plain Jack Mills, of the maternal name of Huggerley (kept decently in the background). He was a man of whom we may be proud.

To his door, painfully toiling up the stone stairs (there was no lift) Lord Taylor came, within half an hour of leaving Bowring’s shop. He had walked there through Mayfair and down St. James’s, and across the Park, full of his purpose — a simple one. Since Bowring would not take the hint that had been given him, Lord Taylor’s duty was plain : he must inform the authorities; but he must do it with the discretion the occasion demanded.

In the natural course of things he knew Mills better than he knew Bowring. It was his business to be in touch with the administration. And Mills, whether in office or in opposition, had been an acquaintance of his, and almost a friend, from the first years in which the statesman’s public life had begun.

He was shown into a well-appointed sitting-room filled with books, where, at a great mahogany desk covered with papers and having a handbell upon it, a telephone and the rest, Mills was working. He rose to greet the old banker as he entered. Taylor noted the double doors with approval; waited till he heard both the inner arid the outer door shut, and then, in a voice which he carefully kept to a low tone, told him at once the reason for which he had called.

“Mills,” he said, “you’re a busy man and so am I, and I won’t beat about the bush. But you must prepare yourself for something rather startling.” He made a deliberate pause. Mills’ large face and receptive little eyes were trained full and unmovedly upon the banker.

“Yes?” he said. And as he said it he put his hands with their fingers together upon the table and listened for what was to come.

“You know all the talk there’s been for years about the changing of metals one into another, and all that sort of scientific palaver?”

Mills nodded. He was well abreast of the times.

“Electrons and all that,” said Taylor vaguely.

Mills nodded again. “Electrons,” he murmured.

“Well, Mills,” said Taylor, sinking back in his chair rather easily, to be the more impressive, and lowering his voice by yet another note. “They’ve done it!”

“Done what?” said Mills, with no emphasis. “Some chemical drug or other?”

“They have made gold.”

There was a silence that lasted a good minute. Mills was careful not to break it, and Taylor was compelled to resume.

“You know what that means?”

Mills nodded. “More or less,” he said.

“It’s the duty of the Government” (and as he said the word “duty” the old man leaned forward and struck upon the table slightly with his fist), “it’s the duty of the Government to act — at once!”

Mills waited again a long time before replying; but Taylor was determined he should speak next. At last he did so, very slowly.

“Taylor,” he said, “excuse my sending for my secretary. I won’t say anything before him — you needn’t be afraid of that. You’ll have to see him a good deal perhaps in the future, I don’t know … but I may as well tell you who he is. Perhaps you know him.”

“I know who he is, of course,” said Taylor. “Young Hammersham, old Lord Hammersham’s grandson. We both remember old Lord Hammersham, when you were young and I wasn’t so old as I am now, don’t we? The Hammersham who was at the Foreign Office.”

Mills nodded again.

“That’s him,” he said. “He hasn’t got anything yet. I won’t let him go into the House. Maybe that will come later. I don’t know. But he’s wonderfully useful. It will be time enough to see about getting him on later.”

He rang the handbell.

“Would you ask Mr. Hammersham to step in,” he said.

The two doors were shut again one after the other after a ritual which Lord Taylor was pleased to see so regularly observed. They opened again in a moment, and were shut again as carefully as before, when Hammersham entered.

“Mr. Hammersham,” said Mills — and Lord Taylor noted the Mr.— “would you be kind enough to bring me that folder marked LL/2 — the one on Lexington’s Lecture, you know.”

Hammersham went out and returned with it in a few minutes.

“Thank you, Mr. Hammersham, that will do,” said his Chief; and the young man disappeared again. Hammersham had said nothing; the whole thing had been automatic, businesslike, rapid.

“I’ve got it here,” said Mills, opening the folder and turning one page after another. “After that lecture was given on the transmutation of metals I had all the notes made and all the inquiries. I’ve got the full dossier here.” Lord Taylor noted the word “dossier.”

“You can act at once?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Mills, shutting the cover of the folder. “But wait a moment. I want to explain matters to you. I have thought of all this a good deal. Ever since that lecture was given, when you took the Chair. I was not there, but I read it myself fully, and I heard all the talk about it, and I’ve got all the material together here. Hammersham arranged it for me. Now … wait a moment” (for Lord Taylor was about to speak) “I’ll tell you what the arguments are against any immediate action, and perhaps against any action at all. We could legislate for this country. We can’t legislate for anyone else.” Taylor admitted the truism with a nod. “We can’t legislate for the Dominions; and they produce gold, mind you, and we don’t. We can’t legislate for the United States. We can’t legislate for any of the countries of Europe. It would need very careful and very secret negotiations before any common action could be taken, and in that negotiation there would be the danger of leakage.” He spoke as unconcernedly as though he were dealing with some petty business of detective work at Scotland Yard. He didn’t allow the tremendous news to alter a muscle of his big, pallid face. He was looking full at Lord Taylor again.

“I don’t see what else you can do except issue an order immediately,” the banker said stolidly. “They may begin putting their gold on the market any minute. They may be doing it now.” He had come with an object; to get something done and checkmate Bowring. He did not like to be put off.

“The first thing to be done,” went on Mills unperturbed, “is to get hold of … shall we call him the culprit? It’s Lexington, I take it, of course?”

“Now, look here, Mills,” broke in Taylor with decision, “you may as well know the whole truth. It is Lexington, of course. He has done the trick. But what is worse is, that he’s negotiating the stuff. He’s already found his market. Shall I tell you who he’s working with … Bowring — the man with the little shop in Mayfair. You know?”

“I ought to have guessed it. Thank you for telling me,” and Mills wrote the name in pencil on a slip of paper and thrust it into the folder.

“What do you propose to do?” asked Taylor.

“What I said,” said Mills. “Get hold of the culprit — who is, as you have told me and as I suspected, Lexington. There are ways,” he added, with slightly rising voice, full of determination, “of making a man do what he’s told. There’s no man about whom enough is not known to make sure of that.” And with the last words he pressed his lips firmly together.

“I know of nothing Lexington has ever done …” began Lord Taylor helplessly.

“No, neither do I,” answered Mills. “But the Department will know. We’ve got everybody card-indexed. And if there’s nothing, the Department can produce something just the same. It’s what they are there for. We can make that young man keep his mouth shut, or put him where they’ll keep it shut for twenty years.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Lord Taylor, anxiously.

“Quite sure,” replied Mills.

“You don’t propose to do anything then?”

“You mean, anything public? No. It would be a mistake. You won’t notice anything, Taylor,” he said, almost kindly, “and the public won’t notice anything. That’s my whole object. But you can be sure of one thing. You can test the result, negatively, and you’ll find that no one knows, except us two — and Bowring — and you’ll find there’s no sort of movement in markets. I’ll see to that. Do you trust me?”

“Oh, yes, I trust you,” said Lord Taylor. But he was disappointed. He wanted his Order in Council.

He rose to go. “I suppose you know best, Mills!” he said. He had longed for the pleasure of putting pressure upon Bowring and for letting Bowring know that he had done it. It was only a personal point, and in his heart he felt a little ashamed of it. But after all, Mills had all the official power in this particular matter. It passed through Lord Taylor’s mind that four human beings possessed of such a secret was too great a number. He almost wished he had taken more time to think it over and had not been moved to such haste in his anger at Bowring’s refusal — but it was too late now.

“Very well, Mills,” he said. “I leave it to you.”

“I think you do right,” said Mills. “Honestly I do. Watch the result, and as I’ve said, you won’t be disappointed.”

He showed the banker through the double doors and took him to the landing of the stair; they talked for a moment of indifferent things, each in a voice calculated for any servant who might be listening to hear; and the interview was at an end.

CHAPTER IX

THE HOME SECRETARY was a man of method. He walked to his window, stood back a little from it, waited till he saw old Taylor pass out of the street door of the flats, noticed that he was on foot and that he turned to the left as though making for the Houses of Parliament. The Cotton Bill was on, and he had heard that Taylor would speak on it. He looked at his watch. His late guest was safe within the walls of the House till dinner time at least. Taylor would miss nothing of the Cotton debate, he was sure of that. It had been his main interest hitherto for weeks. He gave time for the coast to be clear, then walked out himself, took a taxi, and drove straight to Bowring’s shop. There would still be an hour before it shut.

At the moment when Mills was passing out of the front door of the flats into the street Hammersham, in his turn, was watching at the window. He went down to the door at once. He saw Mills take the taxi. He took another himself and bade the driver follow Mills; but when the Home Secretary’s taxi turned down Percy Street he had his own taxi driven not to Bowring’s shop, but to the corner, one hundred yards on this side of it, whence anyone going in or out of the shop could be seen.

Jack Mills had had no occasion in his life to buy plate, whether of gold or silver. It was not consistent with his position to buy plate. He could have afforded a little collection, and being a man of taste he would, no doubt, put together a collection later on. But he had never had anything on his table as yet or in his surroundings anywhere which could cause the enemy to blaspheme. So long as he was plain Jack Mills, the spokesman of his toiling fellows in the Trade Union which he was still proud to govern, he must remain what he had been.

The more surprised ought Bowring to have been to see him coming in at that late hour — for certainly Mills would not have come to buy.

But surprised Bowring was not. Ever since the banker had left him in that strained atmosphere of suppressed anger he had known what to expect. Taylor would go to the Home Office. He did not think the intervention of the Home Office would take quite this form; he had thought to get a message, possibly, summoning him to the Home Secretary’s private room in the House of Commons, where great things happen; more likely he might be asked to dine with him somewhere. Things had turned out otherwise; they were moving more rapidly than he had imagined. At any rate, here was the man whom he knew he would have to face sooner or later, and for facing whom he had prepared himself since his plain and open refusal of Taylor’s proposal an hour or two before. Taylor had carried out his implied threat.

“Mr. Bowring,” said the Home Secretary, with a smile, as his large frame occupied the entry to the little shop, “I ought perhaps to have written to you first, before coming; but the truth is, I have had a great many things to do to-day, and I didn’t know when I could get away. I found just this half hour free, so I took a taxi and came to see you on two things I have had in my mind for some time — things it is easier to discuss by word of mouth than to write about. May I put them before you now?”

“By all means,” said Bowring heartily. “I’m quite free. Tell me whether I can be of service. Is it anything you want me to do? It’s a long time since we met — at dinner at Mrs. Guntry’s last, wasn’t it? — more than a month ago. I remember you told me then that story of the Taylor case, and how they traced the man who had taken the collection of coins from the house. It was very interesting. Is it something of that sort you’ve come to see me about? Oh, won’t you sit down?”

“No,” said Mills. “It isn’t anything of that sort” (leaning familiarly over the table as towards a friend). “No, it’s just two things I’ve had in mind, on both of which you really could be most useful to me; only I don’t want to trouble you; I only want to suggest them, and see what you may have to say.”

“Pray tell me,” said Bowring. “Pray tell me,” and he leaned back.

“Well,” said Mills, with a slight laugh, as little restrained as he could manage, “they are quite different things. One is quite private, and a mere family point, and I’ll come to that first. You know my nephew?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve met him,” said Bowring. “I saw him only last week, when I went down for a week-end to Laversham. I hope you won’t think me familiar if I congratulate you upon him. He told me he’d just taken his degree. And I told him how sensible he was to have done his work in London.”

“So I thought,” said Mills, “when I sent him there. If he is going in for any particular branch which really interests him he gets a better chance in Gower Street than he would at Oxford or Cambridge, and I like them to begin young. I began young myself,” he added, with that slight laugh again. He loved to make these allusions to his career.

“And you have gone far,” said Bowring.

“Well, now, look here, Mr. Bowring, this is the point. I thought to myself that it would be an excellent opening for my nephew if by any chance you could make a place for him in your business. I know it’s sudden of me to be breaking out like this, but then I’m afraid I’m like that. I do things when they occur to me; and when the lad was talking to me this morning, before I went down to the House, about what he wanted to do, he showed such interest in all that kind of thing, and it was so mixed up with what I had intended him to go in for that I could not help thinking there was something in his ideas. He might, of course, now that he’s got a good degree and plenty of backing, have taken the Civil Service side; but he’s young for that, Mr. Bowring, he’s young for that, if you take me. He’s got the idea of making his own way; I suppose it’s inheriting my blood does it,” and he laughed a third time.

Bowring sighed, but said nothing.

“It’s a lad that won’t be content with a safe berth and a salary slightly rising and perhaps a knighthood” (another laugh) “at fifty. He might do anything. Some lads with no father and an uncle in my position would just do nothing. But he’s not like that.”

“No,” said Bowring.

“And if he does go into business, I really do think you are the very man to help him. We both trust you. And you know how entirely I trust and respect you, Mr. Bowring. We all do. There’s no man in England who would make more difference to my nephew. I mean to start him. We should not quarrel about terms. You have a right to ask a good premium, or, if you like, I could bring in some new capital.”

He saw the strong head opposed to him shake a negative.

“Well! Well! It’s not a question of figures, is it? Something would have to be named. And if you don’t want capital put in, or a premium — why, anything you like. I might just put business in your way. But I would like to see the boy here.” He looked round the shop. “It’s only an idea, Mr. Bowring. But I’ve had this in mind for some time.” He paused and looked straight into the other’s eyes, who returned the gaze as steadfastly but without challenge. “Do you know what put it into my head, Mr. Bowring.”

“No,” said Mr. Bowring.

“Why” (the laugh came a fifth time, rather nervously), “why, it was that young Don, Mr. Lexington. I call him young, because he is young compared with you and me, eh?” And there was a sixth laugh.

“Yes, he is young, compared with you and me,” admitted Bowring. “I like him. His father was a very old friend of my family.”

“Yes, exactly. I like him too.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Oh, only once or twice” (seventh slight laugh). “When they gave me the Honorary Degree last summer — and I was proud of that, you may believe! — and then after that, at the University match. And once or twice since then. Yes, he’s a good fellow, is Lexington. Of course, I know how much you are together. The fact is, Mr. Bowring, I thought that you and he were some sort of partners?”

A strong head shake again in denial.

“Well, well, I know nothing of that, but of course, he comes here a good deal, and to your house too. That’s why I thought so…. By the way, Mr. Bowring, did you read that really remarkable lecture of his, that very remarkable lecture … I mean the one on the Transmutation of Metals?”

“No,” said Bowring, “I did not. But he told me about it. He’s rather fond of that nonsense.”

“You think it’s nonsense, do you, Mr. Bowring?” said the Home Secretary in a musing tone.

“Yes,” said Bowring sturdily. “It seems to me pure nonsense.”

“You don’t believe in electrons, Mr. Bowring?” (eighth slight laugh).

“I don’t believe and I don’t disbelieve, and I don’t care. But I am quite sure that in practice, whatever the theory may be, metals will go on as they have always done. Metals will be metals, you know. Stubborn things!”

“Well, I am not so sure.” Mr. Mills was now talking quite loudly, and in so cheerful a manner that it was most impressive to hear him. “I am not, Mr. Bowring. Not at all sure…. Modern science is a wonderful thing. I have always said it, and I always shall. You never know what will come next. No, I am not at all sure” and he wagged his head, “not at all sure. In fact, I have talked to a good many people about it, Mr. Bowring. You deal in the precious metals …” he said, and he toyed for a moment with the statuette on the table. “No one knows more about it than you. We can all come to you in this matter, Mr. Bowring … and that brings me to my second point … nothing to do with my first, of course, but I am a busy man, as you know, and I’ve only got this time. It’s a public matter this time … and you’re just the man whose opinion I want. I tell you, Mr. Bowring, I believe there is something in that scientific talk of theirs, and I am wondering whether we — the Government I mean — ought to forestall it? I have been wondering whether it would not be wise to have a short Bill which would give the Government full control over any attempt at this changing of metals and all the rest of it. Why, you know” (ninth pale politician’s laugh) “they talk of making gold … at least, Lexington did … in that lecture. One man actually seems to have made a little; out of mercury, wasn’t it?”

“Some such rubbish,” said Mr. Bowring without interest.

“Only, of course, it was only a tiny bit of dust, and it’s doubtful, anyhow. And enormously more costly than would be worth while. But you never know. And that’s what I have come to ask your opinion about. It seems to me that it really would be wise to have more control altogether. We should not hamper people like yourself in the legitimate trade, But still, we ought to know what amount of gold there is in the country, and when the stock is added to” … he paused … “or taken from.”

Mr. Bowring said nothing.

The Home Secretary continued with a rather acid smile :

“There’s a good deal of control as it is, isn’t there? But what I mean is, an Act to make it illegal to deal with stuff other than known and certified weights of metal; to make it a felony to make gold; and negotiate it if manufactured…. Of course, it all sounds very fantastic to-day, but we never know about to-morrow…. These things come in a night, nowadays.”

Bowring broke in :

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Mills, but just to come back to that first point, if you don’t mind, because I think we ought to be clear about it, and I don’t want to offend you in any way. I’ll do anything for your sake, of course, and for your nephew as for yourself. I regard you as one person. I’ll recommend him to anyone you like, and I am quite sure he will do very well. There’s Burly’s, for instance — a very good business indeed; made the gold set for the trophy; and I know they are looking for someone. The old man’s going to retire.”

“But, Mr. Bowring,” said the Home Secretary, looming over the table and smiling with a meaning smile, “I do assure you my nephew’s heart is set … you know what boys are … and how strongly they get these ideas … my nephew’s heart is set on coming here with you.… He has begged so hard! …”

“I can’t do it! My dear sir! I can’t do it! “said Bowring. “I am really very sorry, but I can’t. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you. I’m a one-man man. This shop is my pleasure and my occupation, and my amusement in life. I don’t pretend to make much out of it. But I really must go on as I have gone on all these years. I put it plainly … I can’t take in a partner — not even your nephew — whom I regard as one with yourself. You know how much I’d like to….”

“Is that final?” said Mr. Mills, his eyes still beaming mechanically, but rather insufficiently, and his tight lips rather ironically menacing.

“Yes,” said Bowring firmly, “it’s final.” And there was something in his tone which seemed almost to threaten. The face of Jack Mills changed. It was no very dramatic or violent change, but it was sufficient. His eyes hardened, and his mouth grew less ironical and more decided.

“Very well, Mr. Bowring,” he said, drawing himself up. “Very well. If you can’t, you can’t.” He sighed : then, in a different tone : “So now about the other matter…. Do you know, since we began this conversation my mind has been working, and now I think it’s made up. I shall bring in that legislation. I shall bring it in at once. Now you, Mr. Bowring “ — and here he fixed him and attempted to smile again, “you may have special reasons — mark what I say — special reasons for telling me what you think of the proposals I have in mind.”

“I cannot conceive what you mean,” said Bowring.

“Then I’ll tell you, more plainly, Mr. Bowring.” His voice rose again. “I’ll tell you quite plainly, and I don’t think you’ll forget it. I fancy it will sink into your mind. We are going to make it a felony, Mr. Bowring, to make gold.”

Mr. Bowring was so bold as to laugh.

The Home Secretary continued :

“A felony, mind you. And we are going to cast the net very wide — not only a felony for the maker, but a felony to conceal any knowledge of the making, a felony to receive any gold so made knowing it to be so made. And there’s another novel thing we’re going to do, Mr. Bowring. And that’ll interest you, too, I think. It sounds a little revolutionary, doesn’t it? We’re going to have an oath administered to any such person or persons as the authorities may designate, and of course, to all in the bullion trade, and to all dealing in the precious metals, that they know nothing of any such process, that they have not received any of its products,” he paused …”in the past, and that they have no knowledge of any third parties similarly producing or receiving…. Is that clear, Mr. Bowring. Is that quite clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” said Bowring, “and, if you will allow me to say so, very silly. You might as well make it a felony to travel to the moon.”

“Well, Mr. Bowring, you have heard me, haven’t you? The consequences will be on your own head.”

Bowring rose.

“It’s my turn to speak now, Mr. Mills, and I am going to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. You come into my shop and you make me this proposal that your nephew shall enter into partnership with me — that is, know all about my private affairs in connection with this business. You believe that this young fool Lexington can make gold. You know what I think of your belief — but no matter. You have come here believing that, and to put it in a nut-shell, you want him — and incidentally yourself — to share the results which you think I am enjoying.”

Mr. Mills did not look over his shoulder; he did not even cast a side glance with his eyes. He was a politician, with plenty of experience; he knew they were alone, that he was safe from witnesses. He knew what he was doing.

“Go on,” he said.

“When you heard me refuse you threatened me — for it comes to that — with bringing in legislation which, as you foolishly believe, might frighten me into giving way and giving you — under the screen of your nephew — a share in this manufactured gold. You want my final answer, whether I will put that young fellow (and that means you) into the business…. Well, Mr. Mills, if I name a premium, for — for, let us say, your nephew’s apprenticeship — tell me frankly whether you think it too high?”

Mr. Mills did not waste energy in protesting that Bowring had already refused a premium. His political experience served him here also. He was quite willing that men should change their minds, especially on a point of honour.

“Name your figure, Mr. Bowring,” he said simply.

“Shall I be asking too much, Mr. Mills, if I said that I would take £20,000?”

“No,” said Mr. Mills, with equal simplicity. “I am prepared to put in £20,000.”

“You, John Huggerly Mills,” repeated Bowring slowly, “think it worth your while to pay me £20,000 down for the right to share in this new, secretly made gold?”

“I do,” answered Mills simply.

“Very well, Mr. Mills,” said Bowring. “Then you can have my answer again, and quite plainly, and for the last time. I won’t touch the proposition at the end of a barge pole. And now you can go — you’ll excuse my not showing you to the door? It is quite close to you.”

The Home Secretary was a politician of vast experience. He knew well enough what insults were — he had swallowed dozens in his time, and was ready to swallow dozens more. An everyday thing like that could not disturb his judgment or quicken his pulse. He gave another little laugh, slightly less pale than before, and took his big frame out through the door.

From the corner, where he had kept his taxi waiting all this time Hammersham saw his chief come out. He told the man to drive back to Westminster at top speed for double fare, and as he did so he noted the hour. When the Home Secretary returned Hammersham had been safely back five minutes ahead.

Mr. Bowring looked at his watch. He ought to have locked up before — it was after hours. He closed the shutters and barred them. He shut the door with a bang and locked it. Then he stood for a moment irresolute and silent in the empty, dark room. It was his habit so to stand when he was deep in thought for some minutes at a time, immovable, his beard upon his chest, considering the pros and cons in a problem. So he stood now. He made not a sound or a movement as he stood there in the dark. He was fathom deep in thought.

What did they suspect? He knew what they suspected. What did they know? He wondered how much they knew!

Taylor had at least imagined something — perhaps half guessed. Taylor had wanted to share the swag. When he’d been sent about his business he had gone in a rage to the Home Secretary to make him take public action, and the Home Secretary — being a Parliamentarian true to type — had double crossed Taylor. All that was obvious. But how much did they know?

Even as he pondered a slight sound of muffled stirring woke him from his reverie.

It was the sound as of an animal, a big animal; maybe a dog, but a large dog. There was the scrape of something hard. It was pitch dark, he could only hear the noises. He could locate the sound. Something had got into the old Italian coffer — but how the devil did it get there?

The lid creaked on its hinges, two boots touched the floor, but not so stealthily but that they could be heard. Mr. Bowring was standing near the electric light switch by the door. He turned it on, and this is what he saw.

A little cowering figure, a lad barely at the end of his teens, desperately frightened, with drooping arms, bent knees, deplorable ragged clothes, staring at him in a mixture of terror and despair, who quavered:

“Oh, sir, for Gawd’s sake, don’t!”

“Don’t what?” said Mr. Bowring — then recognizing the absurdity of the remark, added, “Good God, where did you come from?”

The miserable Waif pointed to the Italian coffer.

“You couldn’t have got into that?” queried the merchant in gold.

“S’elp me Gawd and ’is truth. I did.”

“Great God!” said Mr. Bowring again. It was the fourth time that the Creator had entered into the conversation.

“You must have been very cramped?” said Mr. Bowring.

“Crool!” said the Waif.

Mr. Bowring peered into the coffer.

“I would have sworn you couldn’t have got a dog into it!” he said.

“It bent me up crool,” said the Waif, beginning to whimper, “an’ me knees and me feet — all dead, they are. Oh, Gawd!”

“Don’t swear,” said Mr. Bowring. “Sit down.”

The Waif sat down, but he was fairly crying now. “Have a drink,” said Bowring. “It’ll do you good.”

He poured out some very excellent wine into an exquisite little goblet of the Renaissance.

“Drink that,” he said.

The Waif, still weeping bitterly, had no taste in wines; in freedom he would have thought it sour stuff, but he would take anything to revive him now, and he gulped down the Chambertin at one swallow. He felt better. He slowly drew his ragged sleeve across his weak eyes. “Crool!” he said again. “Strewth!”

“Tell me all about it,” said Mr. Bowring kindly. “By the way, you haven’t got a gun on you?”

“Search me!” sobbed the other.

“I’ll take your word,” said Mr. Bowring. “Tell me all about it.”

“It came on me sudden,” said the Waif. “I seen you went off to tea, and then I see your man go off, and I ses to myself,’ Now’s me time!’ Never done it afore— ‘cept once in a small way in a Woolworth’s. Truth, I haven’t.” And he began to cry again.

“Don’t cry,” said Mr. Bowring kindly. “We all have to learn. When I see that man of mine I’ll tell him exactly what I think about leaving the shop like this.”

“He was back in a shot,” said the poor Waif. “That’s why I made for the box. I ‘eard him come to that back door again.”

“Then you heard everything?” said Mr. Bowring.

“Yus.”

“You heard me come back from tea?”

“Yus.”

“You heard that gentleman come in and talk to me?”

“Yus.”

“Can you remember what he said?”

The Waif detailed the main parts of the conversation : —

How a gentleman had come in and what he had asked for and how the said gentleman was going to make some laws or other, and how Mr. Bowring had turned him out.

“He wasn’t a gentleman,” put in Mr. Bowring, “he was a politician.”

“Talked like a gentleman, sir!”

“Yes, he’s been washed. But no matter.”

“We must make this all a little more precise,” went on Mr. Bowring, still more kindly than before. “Have another drink!”

The Waif did not refuse. With the second divine Burgundian draught he almost turned into the semblance of a man.

“Now I’ll put it all for you quite clearly,” said Bowring, “and I’ll set it down in black and white.” He took out his fountain pen and a pad, detailed the main parts of what had passed between Mills and himself, and then read the manuscript to the object before him. Sentence by sentence he made the waif get the thing by heart: “At or about 6.30 of Wednesday the 25th of April of this year,” etc., etc. It was a short but full and clear piece of testimony by an aural witness to the proposition Mills had made and to Bowring’s refusal of it.

Bowring made him recite it more than once, till he had got it word perfect, got him a third drink, carefully detached the slip from the pad, put it into his note — book, and then spoke decisively:

“You understand that I could send for a policeman?”

“Oh, sir …” began the Waif.

“Waste no words,” said Mr. Bowring. “I’m not going to do so unless you make me.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said the Waif fervently. “Oh, thank yer!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Mr. Bowring. “First listen to what I have to say to you. It may surprise you to hear it, but I know all about you.”

“Yussir,” said the Waif. The poor devil was used to that.

“I know where you live,” continued the masterful voice, lying freely. “I have had reports of you. They told me this might happen.”

“Don’t see,” began the Waif.

“Be quiet!” said Mr. Bowring. “They told me this might happen. I could have had you arrested already. But I’ve got a use for you. Do you understand?”

“Thenk ye’, sir,” said the Waif simply.

“Remember this address. I am going to take you to my house in Hammersmith, and show you where it is. Then I am going to turn you loose. You will then be traced. You will be watched all the way from my door : I have made arrangements for that. And those who watch you will report to me and keep you under their eye. You are going to come back there, to my house, every day at seven o’clock in the evening, just before I go to dress, and I am going to give you ten shillings — ten shillings every day, mind you — ten shillings! But you shall not have it on any day until you have repeated to me in that day what you have repeated to me to-night, so that I know you have got it by heart. The first day you fail you’ll find yourself arrested before ten o’clock that night. Is that clear?”

The Waif with his bewildered idea in the mysterious powers exercised over waifs believed with a firm faith.

“Then come with me,” said Mr. Bowring.

He went outside and called a taxi, put his own overcoat over the wasted dwarfish ragamuffin’s rags lest their incongruity should be noted even in the dark street, and when he had got the taxi round to the door be bundled the lad in, got in himself, and they drove to Hammersmith.

“Now you see where this is,” he said, “you see the name of this street and the number? I have got it all down here for you on a bit of paper” (he tore off the heading from a sheet on his desk). “Here’s ten shillings to go on with, and you’ll get ten shillings every day, mind you, at seven, beginning with to-morrow. But, so help me the Great Dinausaurus, if you aren’t here to-morrow, or any other day, you’re in the cells that night. Do you follow?”

“Yus, sir,” said the Waif, humbly and gratefully. And he made the ritual gesture of touching his forehead. He was a good waif.

“Well, that’s all,” said Bowring. “Now get yourself something to eat and drink. Be off.”

All great generals take risks. He thought the risk was worth while.

He turned out to be right. The Waif regularly returned, night after night, and came to get his lesson as pat as a Parson has the Doxology.

CHAPTER X

WHEN CHARLES LEXINGTON returned from the sea on the Monday he braced himself to do what he had shirked so long. The morrow, Tuesday, was the day he should, by agreement, reappear in town with his parcel for Bowring. In spite of the quarrel he had written nothing to put off the visit, and the contract held. No. He must write. He couldn’t explain on paper, but he must at least postpone things till they could meet.

At last he jibbed at another bout of hesitation and tearing up of drafts. He sat down and said the thing in half a dozen lines, making it as businesslike as possible: —

My Dear Bowring,

I am afraid that to-morrow, Tuesday, when I come up, I cannot bring the usual consignment [he was sure consignment was the right word]. There has been a hitch. I will explain when we meet.

Yours,

C. L.

That was quite enough. He had got the thing off his mind, and made friends. It wasn’t a quarrelsome note — and it gave nothing away.

He felt more contented now. A great shock often does that; after the worst hours a man can stand no more, and without any good news to raise the spirits the spirits rise all the same. He was back again in his old career, and after all, there are worse things than that.

He dined gloomily after posting his letter to London. He went to bed early — as he lay awake he ruminated on two immediate troubles. In the first place, he would have to have his explanation with Bowring the next day; Bowring would be annoyed, of course, but the younger man thought in the simplicity of his heart that the truth would certainly be believed. He had only to say quite frankly what had happened. They were both in the same boat, and they must both make the best of it.

The other thing, which was a little more disturbing, was the memory of Bowring’s warnings of those weeks ago when he first spoke of the making of the gold. One ugly phrase ran in his head : “You will be a doomed target, my boy.”

The threats of death were pale compared with it. Like everybody who knows England and nothing but England, with its perfect order and huge police machine, he did not believe in assassination and kidnapping. These things were more in keeping with the criminal Mediterranean races or our nobler cousins of the New World, who must be excused the liveliness of a young nation.

But he did believe very firmly in the extreme and permanent unpleasantness of being a wanted man, and he detested the prospect. Marked men disappeared. They weren’t killed, of course — but they did disappear. And another thing that happened to them was getting into prison for a very long time on charges which had nothing to do with their being marked. And when they got out of prison they were usually put back there again or made into coppers’ narks. Anyhow, they were done for.

He worried himself a little over all that; then he quieted down as he got drowsy. All such fears are exaggerated. It would be better by daylight.

With that he went to sleep.

The next morning when they woke him he sent down word to the manager that he would be leaving on Wednesday, after his weekly visit to town, and would settle his bill then, as he had to go back home. They brought him his breakfast in his room, and with it a copy of the Drum. He took in the Drum because it was more sober than the Trumpet, although it was not the thing at the University nowadays to have party politics. The Drum reminded him of his youth, while the Trumpet reminded him of certain flashy relatives he would rather forget — as for the Trombone, he held the severe opinion that no gentleman should have it in his house.

The Drum, therefore, did he open at the leader page and propped it up before him, while he poured out his tea, spilling a little on the cloth, as was his wont; then mechanically, while he topped his egg, he ran his eye down the first principal column.

What he saw there made him forget all about tea and eggs. It took away his appetite as effectively as a slap on the stomach with a dead fish.

“The news which appeared in our last edition of yesterday, too late for comment, is of such gravity that every thinking man and woman in these islands whom it has reached will by this time have appreciated in some degree at least what it may mean for the future of these islands, and indeed for the future of the whole world.”

I pause here to assure you that the chief leader–writer of the Drum, whom I know well, and who is a very good fellow, was not paid, as you might imagine, by the number of words he could spin out, but by a yearly salary (and a good one, too). But if this page should fall under the eye of someone who has not yet written for the papers, or even a book (for many such still remain) let me tell him something which sounds a paradox, but which is perfectly true. When you are writing against time you use too many words.

To continue the leader in the Drum :

“… If the rumour be true that the vexed problem of the transmutation of metals and the transmutation of one of the baser metals into gold could be substantiated …” (here I presume that the leader-writer of the Drum took a draught from his tankard, which is the approved way of putting the caesura into a journalistic sentence)…. “An horizon or vista of possibilities arises before the mind, of which, with …” etc., etc. Every sentence comes to an end at last, and this sentence came to an end. But the three–quarters of a column had to be filled up, and the end was worse than the beginning. “We may deplore the extravagant headlines of the London evening newspapers yesterday, some of which seem to have been suggested by panic, which is unworthy of our Race and our Press, which yield to none in the world for their….” here the tankard must have come into play again … “superiority, good judgment, yet all must acknowledge that …” etc., etc.

And then the final blow:

“… We hear that steps will immediately be taken, perhaps by an Order in Council, shortly to be followed by drastic legislation, which …” etc., etc. (Tankard.) “Meanwhile, if the name which is on everybody’s lips, but which the honourable traditions of this paper forbid us to print in this column.” (All that’s humbug, my boy! You’re keeping it back because the Home Office when they released the news gave orders against mentioning the name.) “Happily the arrest of the individual in question is only a matter of hours. Unusual as the practice is, and reluctant as the Government must have been to exercise such powers, the new Order in Council acts retrospectively and applies to attempts at the manufacture of gold as well as to its actual production. Ours is not a written constitution. It is blessed with indefinite elasticity; and under such urgency as now obtains,” etc., etc. (Tankard.) “Happily the Purity of our Public Life …”

At this point in the official peroration Lexington’s horrified reading was interrupted.

There was a knock at the door; he was wanted on the telephone.

He staggered out, dressing–gown and all. It was Scotland Yard It was Scotland Yard!

No, thank heaven, it was not Scotland Yard; it was the voice which he would have dreaded sufficiently the day before, but which, now that he had read this awful news, he felt to be almost friendly in contrast. It was the voice of Bowring. The voice was controlled, but there was a cold anger in it which Lexington did not miss. Bowring was telling him in carefully–chosen words that he had received the letter, that he would await his explanation, and that meanwhile he also had seen the papers, and he presumed Lexington had seen them too. He was within the radius of the London dailies. He had seen the Trombone … had he seen the Trumpet?

In a rather lowered tone (for men at the telephone usually talk as they would talk to a man face to face) he added : “You’ve been opening your mouth too wide. There’s only one thing for you to do, and you must do it at once. Otherwise God knows what will happen to you. The one thing for you to do is …”

Then came silence. Lexington tapped the machine up and down in a frenzy. The silence continued. They had been cut off. He appealed to the Exchange in an agony. He heard a sweet voice telling him that if he would replace the receiver he would be called again. He waited ten minutes. Nothing happened. It was not warm in his dressing–gown. He went back to his room.

The news columns of the Drum leapt out at him : it was still propped up beside his untouched breakfast, and the news column was much worse than the leader.

“Steps were being taken” — awful phrase — prelude to all the terrors of the law!

He looked at his watch. There was just time for him to catch the 9.57, if he bribed the motor to race to the junction. He ordered the car at once, and was grateful for its promptitude, it was purring below his window before he had done more than hurry on his clothes anyhow, take a gulp of tea, and jump downstairs. Wild in eye, dishevelled in looks, sideways in tie, the knot of the lace on one boot undone and half tripping him up, and grasped in his left hand with a grip of iron a piece of toast — all that stood between him and starvation.

’Tis ever thus. When he got to the junction there were five minutes to spare. However, that was on the right side. He bought all the papers, to the pleased astonishment of the youth who sold them. Habit was still strong upon him, and he was in a first class carriage when he began to open sheet after sheet as the express bowled up to town. Each paper as he opened it told him the same tale.

Academic men with their just distaste for violence in print keep the worst journals to the last, and, therefore, as may be imagined, he suffered a damnably cumulative effect as, beginning with the solemn boiled — owl leader in The Times, he ended with the huge splash headings of the Trombone. And the Trombone did not mince matters. It did not hint. It expressed itself in letters half an inch high. It shouted for immediate attention, stern action; it told the world what monstrous ruin the Man who made Gold would cause; it denounced him as an enemy to the human race; it praised the Government to the skies for taking action; and it had a nice little picture of Dartmoor to raise the highest expectations in its readers. But one of these readers it struck to the heart.

When you strike a man to the heart you affect his circulation. Mr. Lexington felt himself first as cold as ice, and then in a sudden fever. He shut his eyes and lay back. His thoughts were without order, in a turmoil, suggesting a thousand incompatible courses. They drove at last to one compelling command almost as though some voice were issuing it. He must fly. He must hide. He must be lost. He must cease to be Charles Lexington.

The meeting with Bowring, the purpose of his journey, had been blasted from his mind under the shock of those repeated printed words rising in crescendo from the depths of the more reputable to the heights of the gutter Press. All England was looking for Charles Lexington; for Charles Lexington, the Man who made Gold. Men in such moods plot rapidly and already he knew what he would do. It was not very subtle, it was a great deal too obvious, but it succeeded.

Only once in his life had Charles Lexington acted in private theatricals. It was in that enormous place, Rabley Abbey, in Rutlandshire, where he, being then a man of no consequence and only too proud to be a visitor under such a roof, had been compelled to buffoonery by the powerful Mrs. Meyer. He remembered the part. He would play it again. At the time it had perhaps a little wounded his pride, for it was a mean part — the part of a match-seller, very subordinate and only containing three words, “Thank you, sir.” He remembered the rehearsals in which he had been carefully coached in the accents of poverty, and what an expense of energy it had seemed to be painted all over and have a horrible great beard glued on his face and to put on the disgusting broken boots and stand in them all the evening for so thin a rôle. It had been a bitter memory for years — but it was a godsend now.

His taxi stopped before the theatrical costumiers whom he had learned to know in those old days. It looked unchanged, almost friendly. He asked the taxi to wait, and went in.

Had they the things he needed? He detailed them one after another in his best university manner. There was a play of which they were going to have the last rehearsals, and he would want them for a few days. The broken property boots, the unpleasant, ragged clothes, patches and all, the dirty tray, and the strap by which to hang it round his neck, even the match-boxes, and the wig — they had them all.

He wondered, as he waited while they made up the parcel, whether he had been watched when he entered. He had read in detective books that the Police kept a special eye on such places. He had also read in detective fiction that taxi drivers were often high officials of Scotland Yard, and his soul sweated inwardly at the thought. It made him look narrowly at the driver as he came out; and the fact that the driver had a face like a good-natured apple only increased his suspicions.

“Drive me,” he said, “to … ah — drive me to Wimbledon Common.”

“Wot part?” said Appleface.

“Oh, any part — I mean, the pond — the windmill — where you like.” Then it occurred to him that his choice of words was not calculated to allay suspicion. “I mean,” he added quickly, “… what am I saying? I mean, I’ve got to meet a man there, and if you drive along the road just by where the pond is, and the windmill beyond, I shall spot him. What?”

Appleface had carried every kind of fare, and was used to every kind of journey. It was a good long drive, and meant a good long fare, and would give him leverage for insisting on the return fare. All that suited Appleface nicely.

It is said that danger produces cunning, even in readers to the University. At any rate, as they reached Wimbledon Common the fugitive had taken his first step in the new wisdom which he must learn if he would save himself from perdition.

A harmless man, presumably possessed of private means (for he was well dressed and sauntering by the edge of the grass with an expression of complete inanity upon his face) appeared three hundred yards ahead on the port bow. Lexington tapped sharply on the glass and popped his head out of the taxi window.

“There’s my man,” he said mysteriously. “What have you got on your clock?”

Appleface made good. He pointed out that what was on the clock was only half his due : you couldn’t pick up fares in Wimbledon, on the Common, for the asking. He was prepared to maintain his claims with more violence, when he was delighted to observe his adversary capitulating. He drove off a happy man, with a double fare in his pocket.

The gentleman with private means had passed. Charles Lexington crept after him quickly, overhauled him, and took the second step in his upward career of constructive intrigue, in his downward career of morals. He saw Appleface glancing at him as the taxi passed by, and he addressed the stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in the same excellent academic voice which had so charmed the costumiers’ shop. “Are you Sir Edward Barrington?”

The gentleman with private means was not of that social standing. He was correspondingly pleased.

“No,” he said, “I am sorry to say I am not. My name is Booter.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” said Charles Lexington, covered with confusion. “I am very short — sighted, and it is altogether my mistake.” Even as he said it he watched with one eye the distant taxi turning round the corner and plunging towards invisibility down Putney Hill. He poured out apologies a little too profusely, and then was free.

Wimbledon Common is bosky. The season was early and the day was fine. He wandered along and leisurely chose his spinney. He came at last upon one that would exactly suit his purpose. He plunged into its depths.

It was a large and convenient bosquet. I am not good at the names of shrubs, but the shrubs which shrouded its exterior were nicely tangled. He found a sort of clearing in the midst, and there, with infinite precautions, laying down the costumiers’ parcel beside him, he began to take off his clothes. He was a modest man, but he managed it well enough. He kept his shirt on (in the literal, not the metaphorical, sense); he also kept on his socks. His collar he held in hand, far it was marked; he must keep it to destroy it. He put on the ragged trousers, a still more ragged sort of jersey, and the disreputable coat. He fitted the tangled grey wig on his head. He licked the disgusting glue sufficiently to make the still more disgusting matted long beard hold on to his face. He thrust his unfortunate feet into the deplorable broken boots. He slung the tray of matches by its strap round his neck, found one pocket in the trousers that would hold and thrust the collar into it. Then, with infinite precaution, he edged his way through the farther bushes, pushing the tray before him like a ram, peering anxiously when he came to the edge of the thicket to see if the coast was clear, till he came out again upon a cross-road.

Heavens! What boots! They had already begun to hurt him, and he doubted if he could cover a mile. But, alas! those delicately–nurtured feet were destined to tramp many a mile in such cruel bondage. He had taken to that bondage as needs must, without considering what the next step might be. He was disguised, and that was enough. He shambled on towards the first houses near at hand, and as he did so. Nature reminded him of food.

Now where did itinerant match — venders eat? It seemed to him that he had shuffled in increasing pain of the feet for a thousand miles — he had certainly covered nearly one — when he found the streets growing more dingy and noticed with pleasure what a few hours ago would have given him nothing but disgust, the squalor of the less fortunate of this world; nasty little grimy houses which ought to have been ashamed of themselves in a wealthy London suburb; dirty little sweet-shops, and — goal of his anxious heart — an eating-house of sordid face. It looked the sort of eating-house where such as he would raise no comment.

He entered it with that assurance which is bred by years of a sheltered life. He was the more astonished to find a stout lady, her bare arms still wet and red from washing up, confronting him at the door and asking him what he wanted. He said he wanted food. She replied that she could have told that without his troubling, but there was none for such as he. She added that it was not the time for it, either, being nearly three; that he had better be off; that she had known his kind before. Charles Lexington met her with that which is always victorious over human reluctance.

“I can pay what you like,” he said.

“Let’s see your money!” Her arms were akimbo. She was not convinced. His way of speaking made it all the worse. It was funny-like.

Charles Lexington mechanically put his right hand to where his breast-pocket ought to be and where the nice little morocco wallet ought to be nestling with the remains of its sixteen pounds. He found he had no breast-pocket. All his hand discovered was the other side of the coat, for it had no lining. Then it flashed on him. The wallet and all his loose change were in the clothes of his former and higher life.

Such things do happen to the learned. It is the price they pay for their concentration of thought. It is admired by their class and many lively tales are told of it in Common Rooms. How absent-minded had been the great Doctor Markham, and how, when he was a Fellow of his College and before he was made Bishop, Archibald Gregson had come into Hall without a tie.

The lady with her arms akimbo told him just what she thought of him; it was nothing to what Charles Lexington thought of himself. He shambled off with bent head, more conscious of his wounded feet than I can say, and the whole long mile back he shuffled and shuffled on till the bosquet came into sight.

This time it was not so easy to manœuvre. There were cars passing and one or two pedestrians upon the gravel path. The waiting got on his nerves, for his hunger was increasing.

At last there came an opportunity. The coast was clear. Only one distant figure moved at the town end of the road. He slunk into the bushes and made straight for the clearing. There was no mistaking it. A tall young tree marked it. He worked his way through the undergrowth. When he reached the open place he made at once for the spot where he had changed under the tree.

His clothes were gone.

He was as yet so unused to the class into which he had deliberately thrust himself that he could conceive no cause for their disappearance. It seemed to him miraculous. He had not been away an hour, yet somehow or other these clothes (which nobody could have wanted, for they were not particularly good clothes, it was quite an old suit) — had disappeared.

Then the consequence of the disappearance struck him for the first time. He had no money.

CHAPTER XI

TO BE UP against it is for much more than half the human race the commonest of experiences. With the lesser half it is the rarest. In the world to which Charles Lexington belonged it is almost unknown.

He ought to have rejoiced to have found so comparatively early in life so interesting an emotion. On the contrary, it made him despair. He had no conception what to do. He did, therefore, what all men do when they have no conception what to do. He went straight before him into the unknown. The poor fellow shuffled along mechanically, dazed, utterly miserable, hundred yards after hundred yards off the common, down West Hill with its comfortable houses on either side, which not so long ago he would have sneered at as suburban.

He had thus compelled himself to the agony of his progress for perhaps a mile and a half, when he found himself utterly exhausted. He sat down upon the coping of some railings, with his tray still before him; and in his face such hopeless abandonment to misery as your true itinerant vender of matches, by God’s mercy, never feels.

At the gate of the villa upon the coping of whose rails he sat a great motor-car was drawn up, shining like the chariots of the sun, driven by a haughty mechanic, grandly liveried and wearing a mask instead of a face; and towards that motor-car from the gate of the house came a woman of benevolent aspect, considerable age, and excellent clothing. She stopped, and turned, with her hand on the door of the car.

“You seem quite tired out, my poor man!” she said.

Lexington wearily rose from his seat.

“I am afraid I am, Madam,” he said, in something of the tone in which he would have addressed the President’s wife, had she asked him whether he were fatigued after a journey. The benefactress, for so I will call her — it was almost her trade, it was certainly her temperament — was moved beyond expression,

“You speak like an educated man!” she said, rather shocked, but more intrigued.

“No, no, I assure you, Madam, I am nothing of the sort. Far from it.” There was alarm in his voice. “Believe me, you are under a misapprehension, if I may say so without discourtesy.”

“But you do talk like an educated man,” insisted the lady.

If it be possible for chauffeurs to feel as do mortal men, one might say that upon the chauffeur’s face there had appeared a hint of contempt. The benefactress saw it. She was even more terrified of the gentleman who presided over her car than are most of her kind, and that is saying a good deal. She gave a hurried glance towards him, stood for a moment between him and the object of her sympathy, furtively rummaged in her bag, and as furtively dropped a whole clutch of silver on to his tray. Then, as though she had done a bad deed, the benefactress (who, to tell the truth, had been calling on her social inferiors), hurriedly said “Home” to the rigid figure who condescended to hold the car door open for her entry.

With a relief much greater than his gratitude Lexington saw the red triangle on the mud-guard disappear at forty miles an hour. He was rested, and the adventure had put a little heart into him. Now at least he could eat. It was downhill, too, to the degraded parts which survive in the valley below, and this time they could see the colour of his money. Also he had learned enough to know not to ask for food in the manner of those to whom food is a commonplace.

They served him without question, and he ate ravenously. He had the wherewithal to take a room if need be, but instinct told him that poor devils who sell matches would not take a room. It was running a risk to do anything so eccentric. However, he was no longer able to shamble much farther. He would take it easy, till the friendly dark should cover him, and then he would try and find what he had heard was called “a common lodging-house”; listening to the conversation there he might overhear from those who were now his equals something to guide him for the morrow.

It was between daylight and dusk when he sat down again to rest himself and wait for the advantage of the night. He could, at a pinch, put off eating for another hour.

He found himself near a bridge over the Thames from the height of which down to the embankment of the river stood a flight of stone steps with an iron railing dating from George III’s time. A cannon pillar with the monogram of that monarch guarded the descent from the roadway above.

He had already been there some time, and it was now quite dark, when he heard steps upon the stairs, and turned to see whose they might be. Before he knew it, a strong hand was rudely thrust upon his shoulder, and the peremptory voice of a policeman was ordering him in a tone he had never heard before. He was asked what he thought he was doing there : he was told it was not his pitch,

“I was not aware …” began Mr. Lexington, with a frightened look in his eyes.

“Ho! You were not awa-ha-re! You talk like a book, don’t you? Well, look here, where’ve you come from?”

“Putney,” said Charles Lexington, for the moment petrified into a George Washington.

“Ho! Putney, is it?” said the great bureaucrat with unconcealed scorn. “Putney, this time, is it? Well, now you can go to Putney — d’you hear? What’re you doing on this pitch? This ain’t your pitch. It’s old Charlie’s pitch.”

“I had no conception …” began Mr. Lexington again — when he saw that, for some reason he could not grasp, his enemy was roused to fury.

“No conception!” he said, giving no bad imitation of the accent peculiar to St. Olaf’s. “Nah? … Oh! My Aunt! Now, then, another tick and you’re pinched. Hop it!”

The word “hop” unsuitably describes the gait with which poor Mr. Lexington managed to put one bruised foot before the other along the deserted pavement of that London night. He cared not where he was wandering, and he knew not. He wondered what refuge itinerant match-sellers, with elderly long tangled beards and wigs to match, could betake themselves to in peace. If only he had been born to the position! But he was new to it, and felt the isolation and misery we all feel when we move in social ranks which are not our own. Within a stone’s throw of the embankment all around there might be a dozen doss-houses, eating places, thieves’ kitchens, receivers’ lairs, dens of the underworld — all the things which he had read of in detective stories as the natural haunt of those below the income tax and trade unions level: the people without collars. Yet there he was, perhaps within an inch of safety, and out, deserted, under the night. At any moment some other powerful member of the New Bureaucracy might heave in sight and put him through the third degree.

The psychological–research people whom, as Reader in Electro — Chemistry, it was his duty to despise, could have told him that his intense anxiety to find refuge would in itself make the refuge appear; and immediately round the first corner he turned he came upon a large dingy building into which he saw as he watched it half a dozen men enter, and from which two or three came out, through a door that stood permanently open.

As he stood there watching, a very natural suspicion seized upon the mind of someone coming up behind him. The new–comer did not like the look of that figure standing unmoving and apparently without object; for there is a very large section of society in which anyone looking at anything may well be from the Yard.

Mr. Lexington was startled to hear a low voice, not at all friendly, asking him who he thought he was? He turned his head round cautiously with that new look of fear in his eyes, and saw a short, strongly–built, and menacing figure.

“I have no intention …” he said, and the moment he spoke the other was disarmed. Clearly the match-seller was no spy, nor even a slop in plain clothes : or rozzer as we sometimes call them. There is no mistaking the Yard; sometimes it speaks in the accents of the official piercing through disguise, at others it affects more or less successfully the accent corresponding to the disguise; but what the Yard would never do would be to dress up in one way and talk in a totally different way. The Yard would not dress up like a beggar and talk in that particular voice which marks the fortunate — of London at least, and of the more ancient universities.

The suspicious man was converted at once, and softened. He knew the sort. He had come across it a dozen times in his life. The bad luck came early to some of them, later to others. Sometimes the toff had done something funny with a cheque; sometimes it was blackmail. He had worked alongside one of them the last time he was put away. He despised them, but at any rate they were quite safe.

“Wot’r yer looking for?” he said. “A doss?”

“I have to sleep somewhere to-night, and I certainly must have a meal before I go to bed.”

“That’s the place for you then,” came the answer, with a movement of the chin towards the open door, from which the light streamed. “That’s Old David’s. He’s square enough — never give anyone away, not to my knowledge. You can’t be sure of any of ’em, of course. That’s common sense like. We all got to live. And the slops is cruel hard on ’em. They’ve got ’em all down. Still, he’s as square as any.”

All of which meant nothing to the unhappy Lexington, and may well mean nothing to my readers, but was intended by the speaker to mean that the building before which they stood with its door open was a common lodging-house, that the proprietor was one named David, though whether this were a Christian or a surname or a nickname remains unknown; that he was fairly to be depended upon for sheltering the fugitive from justice, and that in general a man evidently not possessed of social backing might do worse than get his supper and his lodging there.

Lexington thanked his informant, and asked him if he would come in, too, and have something. There was a world of suspicion in the voice that answered him.

“Flush? Where’ve you been making it?”

He accepted, however, and they went in together, the new-comer acting as guide and introducing Lexington to customers and to customs to which he was new, and among which he might have blundered so very badly as to make the owner refuse him on suspicion.

They went in past a little wicket, where an elderly man, badly shaved, with fixed little cunning eyes and a determined mouth, stood behind an opening such as one sees at the ticket offices of a railway station, only dirtier and more neglected by far than any railway service would tolerate. Here and there on the grimy surface of the box an old half-torn picture cut from some paper fluttered from a pin, and there was some sort of inscription dating from years ago, barred out with a black line, relating to prices in a prehistoric time.

There was also a dog-eared card about a foot square and abominably dirty, with greasy finger-marks. The printing on it in large letters gave the information that gentlemen must pay in advance for all they received. Below it was a set of simple rules, one of which gave the early hour for clearing out in the morning, another of which had the hour at which the big gates were locked at night; hot water could be had for a penny; gentlemen were allowed to bring their own food. All the prices for cooking it were marked also. Oddly enough games of chance and profane language were alike forbidden. Lastly, any valuables could be left in charge of the proprietor.

Lexington’s guide told him he must leave his tray and strap and bade him count the match-boxes carefully, as there was no knowing.

The thought crossed the unhappy man’s mind that they might be dummy ones, and give him away. He didn’t know how they did these things at costumiers for the stage. They might even be glued to the tray. He had not noticed. Nobody had offered to buy any — it is true that he had not been in any of those thoroughfares where there is a chance of such business.

He was pleased beyond words when the dour old master of the place, taking one of the boxes up, rattled it, and proved there were matches inside. The match-boxes were duly counted. There were fourteen. Then he filled in his slip, hesitating so long at the name that the proprietor suggested Smith, and John by way of addition to it. Both duly went down. His companion was quite ready; he wrote down “Richard Curl.” “I know you, William,” said the landlord. Sixpence each was required, and Lexington did a thing which perhaps had never been done before in that place. It was a gesture belonging to very different places indeed. He pulled out, so that both men could see it, the little stock of silver and copper the benefactress had given him, picked out a shilling from it, and put it down on the wicket window ledge, to pay for his companion and himself. He carefully counted what remained — it came to four shillings, and three pence. As he counted, his companion watched the money as animals watch their prey.

Lexington paid again, as in duty bound, for a cup of stiff each and two slabs; the new-comer by way of returning the courtesy offered him a cigarette drawn from a trouser pocket, and Lexington was glad to take it. Then, their meal eaten at the counter, where hard-working men were serving one customer after another, they went off to fill two empty places on the long bench in front of the fire, which had been kept well stoked, late as was the season.

The warmth was grateful. The meal had done him good; his companions showed no inclination to cross-examine him; he was free to listen to the conversation around him. One man was giving some sort of directions to a couple of neighbours on either side, as to where for some purpose not mentioned one turned off the Great North Road. Another was entertaining a small group with a ceaseless string of words, to not one in three of which could Lexington attach any meaning. Between him and that group another two were discussing what more nearly concerned him. He pricked up his ears to listen to them. They were on a subject of high interest in every class of society; the best method of evasion, concealment, and what that one of the two who was old enough to have served in the war called camouflage. They began by discussing tattoo marks. Lexington was interested to hear that tattoo marks were condemned. They gave one away. It seemed that they could not be properly hidden, not even under a new coloured

The time came for the great doors to be shut and bolted, and Lexington with his guide to lead the way wearily tramped upstairs to the wretched cubicle which was shown him in the big room off the first landing. Two unguarded electric bulbs swung from the patchy and cracked ceiling of the place. There was yet another notice, too far off for him to read it, on the wall between the tall dirty windows; and in two rows down either side the dosses. On his ticket when he bought it he had got the number 42 stamped; he looked for 42, and found it.

Then came a new problem. What should he sleep in? He decided (quite rightly) that one slept as one was, except, of course, for the boots. Anybody who endangered Old David’s thin grey blankets by putting boots in between them would have heard of it. He took off the gaping, stiff, impossible things, with a groan, wondering how on earth he should bear to put them on again next morning. He noticed in the half light from the distant bulb the contrast between his socks — those of the better days — and the broken leather he had just been wearing. He wondered whether it would be possible to sleep with that light glaring all the time. He found it easy enough. It makes all the difference when you have made up your mind to what you know to be inevitable.

He slept so soundly, wig and beard and all, that when they were knocked up at six next morning it seemed as though he had just lain down. He was abominably stiff. It was with the utmost difficulty that he got those horrible boots on again, and he hobbled down the bare boards of the big room towards the stairs like a man who has not ridden a horse for ten years and dismounts after the first long day.

His comrade was already in the big common room below, evidently waiting for him and his resources. He grudged it, but he was ashamed not to pay. So the breakfast for two was got at the counter — two big mugs of coffee, two large slabs of bread and margarine, and, the best luxury of the place, a sausage each, happily fried with onion.

It wasn’t so bad. The new day looked clear enough through the gaunt, forbidding windows. Lexington was without an idea what next to do, but he was ready to face his chances. He proposed to go back to the same lodging that night. He had less than three shillings left; but then, no doubt, he could earn something during the day. He must replenish his stock of matches, and keep a little capital over for that. He did not even know where to buy them.

He told his companion of his intention to return that evening, and got a new surprise.

“Not on your life! What, twice? They’d mark you!”

“I heard one of the men here last night saying he’d been here a fortnight?”

His companion spat and leered knowingly.

“Yus — but he hadn’t been working the round like you and me.”

Lexington half understood the phrase. So he was thought to be “working the round.” Burglary? Something odd — anyhow, something perilous.

They parted at the gates of the doss-house, but not before Lexington had had the presence of mind to ask his companion to take him where men of his new trade could buy their matches at wholesale prices. He covered his ignorance by admitting that he had only just started, which was true enough. The other looked at him curiously, but led him along farther towards the main part of the town, till they came to a warehouse in Lambeth, and there Lexington learned that for two shillings out of his three he could purchase the really surprising number of fifty boxes. They would not sell less. He was ashamed to ask at what price to retail them, but he remembered that when he himself had dealt with such pedlars he had never given less than a penny, and often tuppence or threepence by way of alms. He looked forward to a very fair profit, certainly enough to keep him through the next day, and he could make his remaining shilling keep him alive till evening at least.

They parted, and all day long, save for one half-hour on a sixpenny meal, the match-seller now shuffled the streets, now stopped at what seemed a fairly safe corner.

That day no policeman molested him. Had he known it, they might have asked him for his licence — but he had never heard of such things. He had the good fortune to be left quite unmolested, perhaps because he had learned from his previous lesson not to stand too long in one place.

But there was a growing anxiety upon him. It was late in the afternoon; he had been on the go for the better part of ten hours, and all he had received so far was ninepence in coppers. He must try and have another meal, he must try to get a bed somewhere.

As the evening advanced his anxiety grew more acute. It grew almost desperate as darkness fell, and he found himself, after crossing the bridges, on the Embankment, near Westminster. There remained in his possession, counting the money he had received and less bread and coffee at noon, fourteen pennies and a halfpenny. He considered within himself which were the better investment, a doss and breakfast, or a meal, a sort of meal, something to keep him going and no bed. He could not do both — not on fourteenpence half penny.

Once more the lighter fiction of other days came to his aid. The benches on the Embankment … the last refuge of the destitute.

He had heard of them a hundred times, he had seen men sleeping on them with his own eyes. There returned to him an experience in a book he had read, a book he had always loved, the autobiography of John Pendle; the author’s night on the Embankment in June, when he got back to the smoke after a bad day at Sandown Park, with nothing to pawn, and too late to pawn it if he had. The recollection, at any rate, had been humorous enough. It was not June yet, but on the other hand the weather was not too cold; after a meal he would mind things less. He decided for supper and the Embankment, and perhaps morning would bring some new chances.

CHAPTER XII

IT WAS NIGHT, but still early. The Embankment was nearly deserted.

Lexington had moved away down as far as a bench in front of the Temple. He felt the burden of his tray. He slipped the strap over his head and put the whole affair down by his side upon the pavement. He hoped that was legal, anyhow, but he had his doubts whether poor men were allowed to put anything down on the pavement. He would risk it.

He sat there, staring at the stream which tumbled down on the fast half-ebb, soothing him with its movement. He had dined sufficiently on a cup of tea and a rasher with bread for tenpence half-penny, but he was in deeper gloom than ever. It was not the prospect of a night on the benches that depressed him so much as the blank incapacity for deciding on the morrow. He had just the six pennies left. The firm had no more capital; there were no reserves. There was the stock, of course, all but the two or three he had sold. But assets which are not liquid are often difficult to carry. The night was dark, and his prospects were as dark as the night.

So he stared at the water till he should feel drowsy enough to drop off upon his hard couch. He had only slept sitting up once in his life; that was in a night express to the Riviera, but this was not the same thing.

Sleep was still far from him, he was still staring at the stream, when a gentle tap upon his arm made him look up, at a rotund, not unkindly clerical face, mounted on a rotund, not unkindly clerical body : the body of a man younger than himself and much younger than Lexington himself seemed in his disguise. Under the chin of the honest face there was a collar of the sort known as “dog” which button up at the back, and denote the profession of the Christian Priesthood in all denominations from the Mormons to the Larger Hope. The moment the owner of it spoke there could be no doubt as to which denomination be belonged to. He was official, national, regular. If Lexington knew anything of parsons, let alone of the younger sort of parson — and at the University one becomes an expert in these things — this cleric was not only of the official denomination, but on the right wing thereof, probably on the extreme right wing. Young in years, the Rev. Arthur Bootle was old in charity, and he glowed at the prospect of doing a good deed.

“You are destitute?” he asked in gentle tones.

Charles Lexington admitted the accuracy of the suggestion, and added (in the sure and certain hope that the benefactress act would be repeated) that he had eaten nothing all day, and, not having the wherewithal to pay for the meanest lodging, proposed to pass the night upon that bench.

“You need food and lodging? But oh, much more you need the help and pity of your fellow-men!” said the Man of God, sitting down by the. side of his new-found brother. He proceeded to comfortable exhortation. “By your accent,” he said, “you are an educated man.”

Charles Lexington groaned. The perilous phrase was becoming damnably familiar. But the Reverend Arthur Bootle, aflame with charity, misinterpreted that sad sound.

“Nay,” he affirmed, “fear nothing. I would not presume to probe the secrets of your past, and I know how hard — how much harder it is” — here he got mixed— “for those to bear what you are now bearing and who have known better things. It may be,” continued the hierarch warming to his work and beginning Point One, “it may be that in the far-off days of your proud youth you disported yourself carelessly side by side with your comrades of the Varsity” (at this pronunciation the cultured chemist shivered,, but the reverend Arthur Bootle, not having enjoyed the expensive advantages of our ancient Universities, felt too great a reverence for them to imagine he had done them any wrong …), “with your comrades, I say, of the Varsity, a careless young man: little more than a boy. Then, perhaps, you entered some honourable profession — fear nothing, I shall not ask its name. Doubtless you saw before yourself the prospect of honour, wealth and leisure in your future years. But there came a fatal day when you met another! You gained from him, perhaps, the knowledge of things which it is far, far better for men never to know. You were separated from him — let us hope by your own efforts — but the evil work had begun, and nothing could arrest its course. You entered into practices which had hitherto been unfamiliar to you : you were perhaps tempted by the accursed lure of gold.”

At that word “gold” the seller of matches started violently, and would have risen from his place, but the hand of Charity upon his shoulder restrained him.

“Bear with me yet a little space,” said this Good Samaritan, “I would not believe that you were wholly responsible for whatever may have followed, but I have known” (he sighed) “alas! too many tragedies such as yours.”

“I’m damned if you have!” thought the unhappy Lexington. He half wondered whether he had met the fatal detective at last. Whoever this person in clerical garb might be, he seemed to know a little too much.

“There would be friction, as there always is between those who share a guilty secret. Perhaps a quarrel — who knows? Then perhaps an explosion. And after that, fearing the results — doubtless fearing them more than you need have done — you fled; you lost your old self; you have fallen to this!”

At last the orator ceased. Charles Lexington was still wondering whether his surmise of detection could have anything in it. He gave a side glance at his companion — no! No one from the Yard could put on such simple holiness devoid of guile. The pale blue eyes were sincere, the lips, which in any less awful calling might have been called fatuous, had never descended to deceit. And the left hand hovering in the air in the unmistakable, birdlike fashion of its kind had never done the cruel work of nabbing the lie-low. It had always pursued its proper function of emphasizing the Sacred Words of Scripture and of aiding in its fluttering upward flight the wounded spirit.

“Do not despair!” the kindly voice began again.

“There is hope for all! Look heavenward! Remember our Common Fatherland! Be sure that in the eyes of the Creator some wealthy passer-by, though he despise your state, may seem even more degraded than you. For He who searches all hearts” — Charles Lexington gave a groan; he had all the layman’s horror of sermons, and on the top of this he had that contempt for the illusions of Religion which is the best gift of Physical Science! — and especially (for some reason or other) of Electro-Chemistry.

But his groan was misinterpreted. It was taken for the remorse of a repentant spirit. The holy admonition continued : —

“Nay, my dear brother, do not grieve too sorely! I will make you my especial charge. Follow me. An excellent meal awaits you, under a roof devoted to the service of God and of His poor. A clean if simple bed is before you, a good night’s repose, and to-morrow we will talk it over together as man to man and see what can be done. I have pierced your disguise.” (At this Lexington gave a start more violent than ever.) “You have not always been what now you are. We will find you suitable employment. Clerical work, perhaps, or, if it be necessary at the outset, some light manual labour while we are looking for better things. Follow me,” he said again, rising and keeping a firm grip on his catch — for he had known them wriggle and even bolt. So, leaving his matches and tray derelict upon the pavement in the darkness, Charles Lexington perforce followed his saviour. And indeed he was now desperate for sleep.

They walked up the slope from the river-side through a couple of narrow streets, across the main thoroughfare, and came in about a quarter of an hour to a court wherein a great building in excellent taste, without one fault, true in every line and detail to its period (the Early Tudor, as I need hardly tell you) confronted them. It was of white stone, bearing above its arch an escutcheon whereon the three small bags of the de Bohun family and the motto “Mihi Solo” proclaimed the generous benefactor who had endowed the Church with this refuge of Charity and Religion.

The Rev. Arthur Bootle rang the deep-toned bell — for the winding of a horn had been abandoned some years before as a needless archaism, under the advice of the Bishop. A small wicket opened, disclosing an iron grille and the face of the porter, who, recognizing the clergyman, at once shot back the bolts of the thick, carved, oaken door and let him in.

The porter’s was a welcome figure in the tired eyes of the exhausted Lexington. There were days when that figure would have been mobbed, for he was dressed in a russet garb tied round the waist with a new thick rope. The feet were bare and sandalled, the hair cut all round as though on the model of a pudding basin; and all proclaimed the days of the Faith come back again to England. But those days of persecution are happily long past, and we are all in tune to-day with the New Monasticism.

“Welcome!” cried the Rev. Arthur Bootle, triumphantly. “Welcome, dear guest (for so I must call you) to St. Dives’ Hostel!”

He led his captive through a long corridor adorned with Arundel prints, and having at its end a fine statue of the patron from the chisel of Weissenstein. He turned through yet another oaken door into a great bare room with one fine Perpendicular window at the end. There were two long tables of well-scrubbed deal on strong trestles lying up against the wall, with benches beside them.

The cleric bade the unfortunate man be seated, bowed his head for a moment in silent prayer, then, clapping his hands with startling suddenness, bade yet another roped figure, who replied to the summons, bring food and drink. The drink was the purest water; the food a bowl of soup followed by an excellent stew. It was hard for one who had recently eaten : but it had to be done. When he had consumed it, Charles Lexington rose, and stood for the first time in his life in the attitude of prayer while his captor recited in rapid, muttering tones the Grace after meat in the original Greek of St. Epiphanius; then he bade him once more follow.

They proceeded through another corridor and passed through the cloisters to a room where the matron, who presided over the business side of this noble foundation, was to be discovered; Sister Frideswied by name: in the old days of her profoundly worldly career Jane Beckett. She was dressed in the simple but striking fashion wherein the architect who was the principal adviser of the noble founder had expressed the principle of continuity with the great past of the Church and of the Nation: a wimple band of watchett, with its gampere, quartered and pricked in soslin, after the fashion of Margaret Beaufort, adorned her head and shoulders, while two ear-rolls recalled the court of the Seventh Henry; but she wore not satchel chain nor any tremaillaire ornaments, which, however suitable for pious women in the world, had been forbidden to religious (as the reader will remember) by the Synod of Clovenhofe.

Sister Frideswied was casting up accounts. She greeted the clergyman; as for Charles Lexington, she sized him up (if I may so express myself) in one efficient glance.

“Have we room, dear Sister, for yet another dear brother? Surely, oh surely, yes? I trust it will be but for a night or so! I have already seen to his bodily wants. To-morrow I will see what can be done in the way of finding him employment and return, if I have good fortune, in the evening.”

Sister Frideswied opened a book with plans in it, on which squares neatly numbered had been crossed out with red pencil and with blue.

“Number Nineteen — in the Lazarus Wing, dear Brother,” firmly replied this rescuing Angel. Then, turning to Lexington : “All objects that you have on your person must be left with me. They will be returned to you upon your exit. You will find the clothes proper to the establishment in your room. Those you are wearing will be” (she glanced at him again, and instead of saying “fumigated” added) “burned. All valuables. …”

Here Charles Lexington interrupted her, and his clear St. Olaf’s accent made her pucker her brows.

“I have no valuables. I have nothing.” He turned out the two side-pockets of his ragged coat, the two pockets of his trousers, and put his six pennies on the table.

“Very well,” she said, confiscating the coins, “you shall have the money back when you leave, with such deductions as may be incurred.”

“Thank you, dear Sister! Thank you a thousand times!” said the Reverend Arthur Bootle. “Pray let our dear brother be conducted to No. 19. And now good night. Good night in the Lord.”

Thus it was that Charles Lexington found himself filled with a second meal, and his mood none the better for it, and alas! ticketed, numbered and caught prisoner — the haunting fate of the poor. At No. 19 he was in a little whitewashed room, with hot and cold water, a plain Cross above the bed, and on the opposite wall a notice — (how clean and in what contrast with his lodging of two nights before!) — wherein were printed in bold letters the hours of St. Dives’ Hostel. From this he learned that he would be summoned to the duties of the day at the early hour of five, must be in Chapel by 5.30, would then have to attend Invocatio (roll-call); that then would follow the Collatio Matutina, or breakfast — and so on. It also informed him that all lights would be put out at a certain hour.

Folded upon the bench beside the foot of the bed was a blue canvas suit with white lining; a large D worked on each side; a sort of forage cap in the same material; a pair of cheap socks — even a handkerchief. What made him feel really grateful was a pair of tolerable boots which had been brought from the store with the rest of the things after they had taken his measure. His old rags were taken away.

Charles Lexington lay luxuriating in the cleanliness of the sheets. He was feeling the first repose he had felt since those hours on Wimbledon Common when he had said good-bye to all that he had known.

He still lay there musing, when one more of those experiences which come with such freshness and novelty to those who attempt a new rank in society struck him with great suddenness. The light went out.

He tried to switch it on again, but found there was nothing doing; for such is the nature of institutional control. There was nothing for it but to wait till morning.

Morning came, the Chapel, the Invocatio, a good breakfast of bacon with a score of all ages dressed like himself. Then work with a broom in the yard under the eye of a lay brother who acted as Custos Ergastulorum. The midday meal. More work. Compline and supper. But before he was marched off to bed in file with the rest he was summoned to Sister Fridesweid’s room. There the Rev. Arthur Bootle, bursting with holy charity, handed him the good news.

“Be comforted, my friend,” he said, “all is well. Among the patrons of St. Dives’ who take such a warm, such a real, such a personal interest in our welfare and our holy work, there is one whose name I can never mention without a thrill of gratitude. Lord Taylor finds time among his many activities to interest himself in our lowly task. I have applied to his secretary by telephone, saying — what I can be confident of — that you were an educated man, describing your case, assuring him, alas! that references could not be given, but that I felt confident and could give him my personal guarantee, that if anything could be found for you, even of the humblest sort, you would be grateful, and they would not be disappointed.”

Then did Charles Lexington know the meaning of the word Freedom. He had seen no paper that day, he had heard not a shred of news. For all he knew the streets might already be ringing with his name. And here he was at the point of being thrown bodily into the very jaws of the pursuit!

All the plans that raced through his mind were the plans of a man born free. But he had joined the slave caste, and those plans were worthless. Even if he could get past the doors he had not the wherewithal to ride on an omnibus, let alone to take a railway ticket. And his clothes were gone. He was in a uniform which would be known. He would be brought back.

The Rev. Arthur spoke again :

“It is possible that Lord Taylor’s secretary will speak to his Lordship himself. I cannot tell. His Lordship takes a great interest in personal cases, especially cases such as yours, when a man has fallen from the highest estate to I know not what sad fate. To-morrow by noon I think I shall have good news for you. Keep up your heart, dear brother, and remember” (he made the ritual gesture of pointing to the ceiling) “remember to look upwards. Our common home is above.”

With that he went out.

The profession to which Mr. Lexington belonged is famous for a certain distraction of habit. It is absent-minded, through its weight of learning. But the clergy also in their manifold duties and cares are not infrequently betrayed into this inevitable accompaniment of an intellectual life. And the Rev. Arthur Bootle on leaving the plain visitors’ room in which he had interviewed his catch of the yesterday, even as he moved to the door, left behind him on the table certain papers. Among them Lexington saw peeping out the corner of a one-pound note.

Neither his morals nor the pace of his reactions would have permitted him three short days ago to do what he did next. He acted with a rapidity which would have astonished no one more than himself, and with a lack of scruple of which he felt rather proud. That little bit of green paper which had meant nothing to him a week ago was now the difference between haven and final ruin. He slipped it out noiselessly and in a flash. At the same moment he came forward with all the other papers held in his hand together.

“You’ve forgotten these, sir, I think?” he said respectfully.

“Why, bless me, yes!” said the Reverend Arthur. “So I have. So I have!” He smiled benignantly at the little bundle of letters and circulars, thrust it into the pocket of his coat, thanked the pauper warmly, and went out about the good works to which he was devoted.

Charles Lexington, still grasping with his hand well hidden in his pocket the key to freedom, went up to No. 19 with a zest, a punctuality and an obedience to orders which made him seem a model inmate. Sister Frideswied had never been better pleased.

In her room the Matron as she said good night to the Reverend Arthur congratulated him on his bag.

“I can tell,” she said, “from his speech that he is of a different class from the others; but I can read a face, and if ever honesty were stamped upon a face it is there. I don’t know how he came to fall, but at the root of him there is unalloyed goodness.”

That night, immediately after the light went out, when there was still a solid three hours of dark before moonrise, Charles Lexington arose.

He had the curiosity to try the window, and found that it was not locked. Fresh air was the gospel of St. Dives. There were no bars; perhaps there should have been in a foundation devoted to rescue and charity, but the height from the ground was supposed to prevent any necessity for them in No. 19. The window gave on to a little courtyard, from whence he noted there was an issue into a side street. He had his plan already made.

It was neck or nothing. He had stolen money for the sake of freedom, and freedom he must have.

It is astonishing with what rapidity his education was proceeding. He shuffled on his clothes in the darkness, turning the coat and trousers inside out, pinned the one-pound note inside his vest, and proceeded to take the classical method of evasion. He knotted the sheets and blankets together, prayed furiously to the Unknowable, tied the end of the long contraption to the most solid thing he could find in the room (one of the taps of the basin) and lowered away. He guessed in the darkness that there would be perhaps six feet to drop at the lower end. He risked it, and came down on his feet, jarred but whole. He walked rapidly through the passage, gained the side street, and, for the moment at least, was a free man.

Learn further how rapidly his education was proceeding! He took great handfuls of dirt from the gutter, rubbed them here and there upon his spotless white lining of the canvas trousers, made equally dark and disgusting the lining of the coat worn inside out, and smeared and rubbed his boots into a similar disreputable condition. Then he went on, at random, imitating as he could well do after so much practice, the slouching gait of the tramp. It would not do to run. Besides which, he had half the night before him.

About fifteen minutes later, the hour (to be accurate) being 10.27 p.m., the Reverend Arthur Bootle was ringing excitedly at the bell of St. Dives’ Hostel. The night porter let him in. The clergyman was glad to see that the lights were still on in the main hall. He asked if the Sister was still up and was told that she was, being kept late at her accounts that evening. He made for her room, and knocked gently at the door.

The Reverend Arthur Bootle was not burdened with the perishable goods of this world; a pound was a pound to him, and he had missed one. Anything found in the hostel was automatically returned to Matron’s office. He had only missed the note half an hour ago, when he had taken the papers from his pocket before hanging up his coat to go to bed. He ran through his doings of the day. He remembered to have last seen it when he went in to talk with the new inmate in the course of the afternoon. It might have been lost somewhere in between; more probably it had fallen on the floor and had been found in that room. Hence his return at this intempestive hour.

Together Sister Frideswied and he sought the parlour. It was swept clean and bare; there was not a thing to be found. The Sister ordered the lights of the rooms to be turned on at the main, and she led the way straight with a masterful step to Room No. 19. She did not even go through the formality of knocking; she opened the door with her passkey, threw it wide open and switched on the light.

The bed was a ruin. The bird (if I may so call him) was flown. From the tap of the washhand basin a long twisted sheet led out of the open window. She went to it. She saw the pendant line above the ground below, and she turned in dreadful guise upon the ecclesiastic, who cowered beneath her gaze.

CHAPTER XIII

IT HAS LONG been a matter of debate among philosophers whether the poor or the rich be the more miserable : nor are any better suited to debate the matter than philosophers; for they come of the poor and live among the rich most shamelessly.

I make bold to call the Reverend Arthur Bootle, of St. Dives’ Hostel, rich.

I will not tarry to discuss the exact meaning of the word “rich.” He had no capital and only a very small income, but he was safe. He was on the right side of the hedge. He could talk high-falutin’. He breakfasted at nine.

As surely was Charles Lexington now of the poor; but whether Charles Lexington, stumbling along the deserted streets of London by night after his escape, or the Reverend Arthur Bootle writhing under Sister Frideswied at the same moment, were the more miserable, I (being their Creator) can search into their hearts and decide. It was the Reverend Arthur Bootle who was the more miserable.

Few men can stand up to an efficient, organizing woman, and most of these men are dead. The Reverend Arthur Bootle was not one of the survivors. Sister Frideswied told him in the plainest fashion the kind of man he was: how she thought it her duty to tell him so in spite of the respect she bore for his Holy Office : how she had found him for ever bringing doubtful characters to the place (it was his second mistake in five years); how she had suspected No. 19 from the first; how she wondered that long experience had not yet taught him the elements of judgment in human character. After this preliminary, she went on to set him a number of tasks, all of which he was prepared to fulfil eagerly, glad to be free at such a price from the dreadful agonies of her tongue.

He was to set the Police upon the trail. He was to see to it that not a word got into the Press. She would not have the good name of St. Dives dragged into the mud, nor its holy function caricatured as a sort of a prison for unwilling scallywags. He was to draw up a little report of his meeting with the unfortunate jail-bird. He was to draft a memorandum of his reasons for offering to the same the hospitality of St. Dives. He was to write a careful description of the criminal (she scorned the idea that he would have been business-like enough to take the number of the note). He was to write this description out in triplicate if he pleased — for she could not wake up Miss Benson to take it down on the typewriter at that unearthly hour. All these things he had to do before he slept that night, and she hoped she would see him next morning by ten precisely, in order that the explanation might be drawn up for the visiting trustee : and Sister Frideswied’s hopes were commands.

But while the Reverend Arthur Bootle was suffering his purgatory at her hands (and offering it up to St. Lawrence, the Patron of the Grilled), Charles Lexington still wandered aimlessly with only one star to illumine his night, the thought of the one-pound note : with only one dreadful thought to dog him to despair, the thought of the uniform he wore — inside out. The Police would surely be warned, and he wore (inside out) the badge of servitude, the uniform of Holy Charity imposed upon those whom the foundation of St. Dives succoured when they had fallen by the wayside. The police might know this cut, and the white lining and its seams would not make him less conspicuous.

Here I must introduce Fate. I have kept her in the background so far, busy though she has been, because she begged me not to push her into the limelight, but her gambols henceforward are so material to Charles Lexington’s story that I must seize her by the shoulder and firmly propel her on to the stage.

Fate had taken charge.

Fate now gave Charles Lexington his first glimpse of salvation. Under the bright flood of an arc-light, at the corner of a deserted alley, he saw three men bending over the prostrate body of a fourth.

At first, not knowing his luck, he was for avoiding them and slunk into the shadows. They were strangely garbed in trousers of broad stripes, white and red, as though hurriedly cut from some national flag, each wore a sort of Eton jacket with long, thin tails; the face of each was as black as the night itself. Beside them upon the pavement lay, rapidly cast down, certain musical instruments, among which, by the side of the man that had fallen, was a banjo.

Charles Lexington tried, I say, to sneak in the shadows, but Fate was in full control and played him at will.

One who appeared to be the leader of the band (I say “band”) seeing a man obviously of the poor, summoned him sharply :

“Hi! Mate, bear a hand! Come and help lift him!” For half a second Charles Lexington was in two minds whether to run for it or to obey, but you know how rapid had been his education in the two brief days of his exile. He had got the instinct of his new social rank and its motto: “Never bolt till the coast is clear.”

He shuffled over towards them. “What do you want?” he said. With the customary oath and an invitation to shut his mouth he was motioned to take the feet while the three others took, two of them the shoulders and one the burden of the fallen instruments. They carried the unconscious lump of manhood with face as black as their own down the alley and pushed through a low door into a peculiarly repulsive room, dirty, closely shuttered, lit by a single gas-jet half covered by a broken globe. There were four or five wooden chairs and a large deal table with the stains of drink upon it. Thereon they laid their comrade.

The captain of this band (“band” is the applicable word) was a strong, burly fellow — a natural captain of the other two, the weakness of whose features pierced through the disguise of burnt cork and woolly wigs. He sat down slowly, asked what was next to be done, checked the half answer of one subordinate with a threatened kick, and then announced his plan of campaign. They were to go upstairs and knock up old Sarah. Tell her to doss Joe down till the morning; meanwhile he would sleep it off, but he wished he could catch the bastard as had given poor Joe that back-hander.

His two slaves obediently clattered up the creaky stairs with their burden. The protest of Sarah could be heard above, and sundry heavy footsteps on the flooring as the unconscious Joe was deposited in a room above. Meanwhile, Charles Lexington was left alone with the Master.

The Master wasted no words. He was a man of action. His End Man had got it square. His End Man would be no use for the morrow. There was one wasted ticket to the Races for the next morning, and no End Man. If Charles Lexington could play the banjo and sing a song and answer smart he could have the job. The other two weren’t worth a lemon at solos. It was two florins a day and his share of the takings. Also (scanning Lexington’s figure) they could fit him in Joe’s professional, strange, black tailcoat, striped trousers of red and white, frizzled wig; and his mates would do his face for him.

Then did it leap into Charles Lexington’s mind how the words of the prophet were fulfilled; the man in the common lodging-house who had preached the value of Ethiopian disguise. Fate was working hard! He accepted eagerly. The uniform of his servitude would be cast off. His features would be transformed. It was the very thing he needed. He boldly claimed to be a banjo player of exceptional distinction, witty at the uptake and of a fine repertory in song. He went on to boast of prowess in the past, of long experience in nigger minstrelsy and special talents as End Man. He was enlarging upon his theme, giving places and names that oddly contrasted with that St. Olaf’s accent of his, when the Master, who was watching him with much curiosity and some disgust, came out with the now familiar order to shut his mouth as the two others clattered down the stairs from their mission.

The aged Sarah had been cowed they reported. Joe was in the cupboard room where the bacon was kept. They could leave him safely to Sarah. They were dispatched for their comrade’s properties. Charles Lexington pulled the trousers on with difficulty but successfully over the trousers of his hostel uniform, the absurd tail-coat more successfully over the hostel coat and his narrow shoulders. The woolly wig fitted well enough. They brought out the burnt cork and rubbed his face to perfection.

Then the more browbeaten one of the two was sent off again upstairs for the necessary and returned with a bottle and four glasses; for custom demanded that the new-comer should drink to the trade. Charles Lexington would have preferred to sleep even on the foul boards of the floor, but it would not be safe to make himself unpopular, so he drank with them of the first bottle and even of a second, till the beginning of dawn. With his banjo under his arm, straw hat on his frizzled wig, his face most gloriously dark, he felt safer when daylight arrived than he had felt since that first dreadful shock of the newspaper paragraph in the West Country inn a thousand years ago.

They went out through the empty streets towards the station. The Master produced the wherewithal for a cup of stiff and two slabs a piece. He produced the tickets. He took them down to the racecourse by the river-side, up Thames, and in the train beguiled their leisure with a game of “Jack Last,” kindly allowing Lexington to owe them if he lost. The stakes were humble. The new comrade had made eightpence before they got out, for strangely enough, “Jack” is not a game of skill. “Jack” depends more on chance than skill, and therefore Charles Lexington, patiently learning the game, was bound to be favoured.

So far Fate had been playing the Kind Cat with her victim. Being a woman Fate soon gets tired of that and turns to the more exciting business of torture — to carry on until she has had her fill, whereat she turns to kindness again — and so on. It was time for her to scratch again.

During the morning turns, what with the noise of the crowd and the alternate chaff and quarrels, Charles Lexington had managed to carry on. He twanged the strings somehow, and seemed to be fingering. At any rate, he shifted his left hand fingers up and down as best he could, and was happy to think that the powerful, if coarse, baritone of the Master helped to drown his own voice. By midday there had been enough money chucked into the hat to provide a meal.

The Master led them to such a hostelry, between the course and the river, as Lexington had never seen before : a den of sweating and shouting men in the midst of which they sat at a trestle board with bread and cheese to begin with and lashings of drink to follow. Under such influence the Master grew benign and dared say the new End Man would sing a song when they returned to their performance, and Charles Lexington rashly, madly — touched by the drink himself, but more by fear — protested loudly that he knew a hundred songs. He trusted to luck to save him — but his luck had turned. Indeed, he knew but one song — the Eton Boating Song — and of music he knew not one note from another.

He was one of those, too numerous among the learned, whose incapacity for the simplest music makes them take cover in a chorus, but who, dragged out into the open for an Aria, Solo, bray out odd sounds like a man in great pain or a donkey exultant.

He went long immune during the earlier part of the afternoon when the drink had not quite worn off the Master, and the crowd was still uncritical, but Fate was sharpening her claws; the wheel was bound to turn; the hour was bound to strike, and strike it did.

There was a lively chorus in which the two dependants and the Master had kept it up famously and the Reader to the University had made his uncouth noises unperceived and drowned in the rest. At the end of that chorus the Master called out to his End Man for a solo. The order was accompanied by a wink and a reminder of his boast in the den of infamy when Bold with the Booze. Charles Lexington braced himself for the ordeal. But his blood ran cold. He remembered reading once that condemned men feel acutely the beauty of the world they are about to leave. There above him were the great white clouds sailing in the blue sky. There, beyond the sward, was ancient Thames slipping by, and the green, green grass of England — where it was not hidden by the dense masses of stunted horse-lovers — and there was he upon the edge of doom. The Master’s voice came again in anger, with a second command to sing, not unaccompanied by a vocative disparaging Charles Lexington’s moral character : “Sing, blast your dirty gizzard! Sing, you” (two words indicating illegitimate birth and depraved morals!) “Sing!”

Strange! He could do many things. He could do some things better than other men. He had prided himself upon these talents of his. But the Muse he had never pleased.

He did his desperate best. After all he had the merit of a deep voice, but the effort was appalling. He bellowed manfully enough the first words of the old school chorus. “Jolly Boating Weather,” he began, then failed; there was a murmur from the crowd; “Jolly Boating w—” he shouted, with a break in it, and there was a noise in the crowd as of a sea on a beach : and close at hand he saw the Master glaring. He squeezed his eyes fast shut, lifted his head, dropped his chin, opened his mouth like a cavern and bawled “Jolly—” but even as he did so he felt the oncoming tide. He was aware of a surging of many protesting faces and then — with blows received and taken — he saw the Master’s protecting form stride between peril and those whom he led. It was a fine fight, but the soldier sees nothing of the battle. All Charles Lexington knew was thuds on his body, one landing on his jaw, lashing out with his own arms wildly like a windmill and, I’m sorry to say, kicking hard as well, At last he was conscious of a lull. Victory after some hesitation had descended upon the banners of the Ethiopians — but it was not for financial good — nor did it leave the Master in a mood to spare his End Man.

He approached Charles Lexington with a very ugly look, and after first naming the sum for which he would willingly slosh Charles Lexington on the jaw, and expressing his astonishment that he had not already doubled him up like a brass-jointed foot-rule, he entered upon a tirade of reproach, magnificent in vocabulary, excessive in emphasis, direct, and punctuated by occasional half-jabs of the fist, each one of which, had it been completed and reached the Lexington carcass, would have done the trick. But the forces of order are strong and the Master contented himself with words.

Charles Lexington bowed to the storm. He had no choice. He knew by this time all that a man in his distressed condition should know. Nothing should tempt him to reply. But Fate had other intentions, and there came from the Master a certain word which was more than Charles Lexington could bear.

It is odd, but it is true, that I cannot print that word. You might think that since the War every word in the English language has been printed — especially in books written by unmarried ladies of good birth. Were I such an one I would not hesitate to set the Word down; but the modesty of my sex restrains me and the Victorian rules. All that this modesty allows me to tell you is that the Word was the one best calculated to provoke the result it did, and Charles Lexington, wincing as from an actual blow, forgot his past, fell back into the habits of a lifetime, and the final argument of the upper classes — he threatened his insulter with the Police.

Then it was that the full measure of the Master’s genius was released to ride the air, and a great oration arose : an exercise in rhetoric.

It was none of your academic Ciceronian stuff; it was the great, the glorious, the beefy business, which Pitcher has rendered immortal, and which springs strong and splendid from the heart of the English people. It contained whole regiments of words which the unmarried ladies of good birth who write books would give their ears to know. It swelled on in a great tide of genius, obscenity and blasphemy compared with which the efforts of our fair novelists are but the squeaks of dolls.

The Police? The Master called upon his Saviour, and after that upon other personalities to bear witness that Charles Lexington had threatened him with the Police! He gave Charles Lexington, with a wealth of metaphor, illustrations of what might happen to him if the Police did answer his vows. A few helmets crowning tall forms stood out sparsely here and there above the sea of stunted horse-lovers. The Master asked whether Charles Lexington knew what happened to men who were caught breaking out of St. Dives? and then at a venture — it is nearly always the safe venture among the poor — he spoke darkly of evil deeds which lead the doers to quod. He spoke of the Derbies and he spoke of the Slops.

The Police? Why for (a consideration with which I must not sully my page) he’d send for the rozzers himself and hand the (irrelevant adjective) stinker over to ’em.

The Master little knew how high a trump he had played. Even as he poured out this torrent of threats, one of those distant helmets rising above the sea of stunted horse-lovers began to move towards the spot where so much noise of an angry man was filling the air. At the sight of that helmet, remembering the one-pound note still pinned to his vest, remembering the hue and cry in the papers for the Man who could make Gold, remembering that he was a hunted animal, Chailes Lexington suddenly took refuge in the one talent he still possesses (over and above his considerable flair in electrical chemistry) and started for the horizon.

It was very fine going for a man in the early thirties. It excellently supported the contention of his old headmaster, Dr. Ferguson, that in the long run our English youth profit more by athletics than by academic pursuits. Charles Lexington gave that long run a chance to show itself. He legged it like a Waterloo Cup Winner.

The stunted lovers of horses in their myriads (persuaded that they had to deal with some defaulter of the ring) streamed after him in a pack. Even the policeman, as far as his dignity would allow, pounded along with them, but Charles Lexington easily outdistanced them all. The mead was fair and smooth. It was good going. Had it extended unbroken before him for another half a mile he would have got clean away, but he saw stretched before him two hundred yards away that which has halted many — barbed wire.

It went right down to the water’s edge, and was wickedly stretched out to a post embedded in the very stream of the Thames, swollen with rain.

Flight gave Charles Lexington immediate inspiration. The second of his athletic talents came sharply into play. He doubled sharp to the right like a hare, took to the water like an otter, and struck out like a retriever.

Fate shifted round again. She likes to see men on their mettle. On the banks of the Thames a big crowd of stunted horse-lovers howled, checked in desperation, for the stunted lovers of horses cannot swim; nor can the Force. And Charles Lexington was making fine going down the tumbling brown water of Thames, which added its four knots to his own two and raced him towards the weir.

Weirs are deadly, but not for Charles Lexingtons; they are born for another end. The river was so swollen that its waters poured high over the obstacle. He took it with fear but without hesitation, and in the confusion of the pool below, where no eyes of the followers could perceive him, after a desperate struggle with the whirlpool, he stumbled and plunged towards the farther bank. Masses of brown water dripped from him as he splurged. The reeds hid him like a river god. The slime through which he waded, which might have engulfed him (had he been born to be engulfed), shielded him better from hostile eyes upstream. He plunged into the thick and overhanging undergrowth. He panted and pushed his way among the bushes, and at last sat him down on dry land. He bent him over the bank, cast his frizzled wig upon the waters, vigorously rubbed the black from his face, stripped off the absurd striped trousers and tail-coat, and cast them into the undergrowth.

He rose up in the St. Dives’ uniform (inside out) over which he had strained that disguise. It was gone beyond recognition. It was streaming with water. It was safer than the highly distinctive Ethiopian garb! So habited, so dripping fountains of wet Charles Lexington made inland.

He came soon to the beginnings of things well kept. There was a gravelled path. There were evergreens — trimmed. Beyond there appeared the hedges of great lawns and to him, Odysseus, all bent and streaming with Thames-water and eyes blurred with same, there appeared, skirting these noble lawns, and pacing majestically, if primly, her ample ways, a Noble Woman.

CHAPTER XIV

“A NOBLE WOMAN, something or other planned to something or other” (as Wordsworth droned), etc. A Noble Woman.

When I say noble, I mean noble. None of your true nobility. Not one of Nature’s gentlewomen. Far from it: a Parrell by birth, great-granddaughter of old Parrell, George the Fourth’s last friend, and great-great-granddaughter of Sir Thomas Parrell, Lord Mayor of London, who had begun life as a boot-black. You can’t want better lineage than that!

Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, was a Gatton by marriage; and the Gattons (squires of the Reformation), had wangled the title of Duke a good two hundred years ago, and more. It was a title of which she counts to-day as the sole ornament, for her inept and drunken son the present Duke (or reigning Duke as he prefers people to call him) is less decorative and childless.

Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, was not only a noble woman but a good woman. I’m sure that’ll go down with you. But I have something better to wind up with; she was really rich. It’s rare, these days, in people of her class. She had plenty of money: Parrell money of her own. Her retirement in this excellent house of Holy Cross Abbey, where she lived with her unmarried daughter, suited her fifty odd years. Nor did she disdain the milder excitements of her exalted leisure.

She was indignant with high taxation, she had great pity for the unfortunate, she liked to get her labour cheap. Combine all that and understand what followed.

It was not with indignation but with some interest that she seized on the sight of Charles Lexington approaching her along her well-kept gravelled path. There was material for pity and for exploitation in this figure, squashing and streaming with the water of Thames. She asked him not unkindly what he was about in her garden. He stood before her in perfect humility, rapidly concocting the necessary lie.

At last he spoke. He would have liked to spit first, for there was still too much Thames water in his mouth, but he guessed her to be the lady of the place, and the place was too wealthy for common spitting.

He told his tale. He was no vulgar trespasser. He offered every apology for his intrusion. The truth was (or the lie) he had despaired. Pursued by misfortune (with which he would not trouble her) he had determined to make an end of his miserable life. Even in the water grace had come to him — he had repented. He had made for land even as his strength failed him.

At this point in the lie Charles Lexington halted — boggled for further material; waiting indeed to be furnished with suggestions by the Good Angel of his Deliverance, Clara, Duchess of Aberavon.

Nor was she slow in furnishing that material. Women of her class and experience gauge their chances quickly. Here was the Golden Opportunity, the combination of feeling charitable and saving expense at the same time! Combination irresistible to the Clara’s, Duchesses of Aberavon.

“By your accent,” said the excellent aristocrat, with real kindness and striking originality, “you seem an educated man! It is deplorable to find you in this condition, and especially with such reasons for it. Come,” she said, turning back and beckoning him, “I beg you to feel no false shame. Walk with me for a moment. Perhaps I can be of some service to you.”

Fate had not yet tired of giving Charles Lexington the glad hand.

“Yes, Madam,” he admitted humbly and bitterly, with head still bowed as he walked discreetly behind her, only too conscious of the squish squash, but grateful for the way in which his condition had touched her heart, “I have known better days.”

It was the first true thing he had said for hours and hours and hours, but after that little interlude he plunged back boldly into good solid lying.

His was the story of many! He had been a Civil Engineer by profession, a young lad, only apprenticed, when the call to arms rang out. After gallantly serving his country, he found after the war, with many thousand others, that the nation which applauded the soldier in its agony neglected him in its triumph. Here Charles Lexington was on the point of bringing in the starving wife and children, when Fate was kind to him for the twenty-third time, and stopped the words before they were uttered. Wives and little children are exhibits, and if you can’t produce them it’s serious.

The conversation developed and was prolonged. She came to feel as though she had known him well — it is the way with such. And then, he had the accent of an educated man!

The Duchess mused. “It should not be difficult,” she said, “to give you some sort of employment here while I take the necessary steps to find you something permanent. I may tell you that I have done some poor service myself in connection with distressed cases of your kind on the C.M.O.L.D. for ex-officers, and with my cousin — Mary Brassington — on the P.M.L.N.F. In the meanwhile, before we find you something more solid, no doubt you could turn your hand to one or two little things on the place, where I am sure you could be of great service to us.” The plural was dignified, but not exactly Royal. It was used vaguely for the Family, The Ducal Coronet, the buildings of Holy Cross Abbey, its electric light, its waterworks and the various troubles which modern science imposes upon the rich.

“I take it you are competent to deal with electric fittings?”

The wretched man was free to admit it was his special line.

“And can you — I hope I shall not be burdening you — can you deal with plumbing?” Oh! Charles Lexington was a whale at plumbing. He had, on occasions, plumbed the depths. He could plumb anything.

The Duchess, in common with too many of her kind, had suffered from the extravagance of labour since the glorious return of Peace. It is a blessed thing to combine charity with a saving of household expenses.

“First of all we must see to it,” she went on, “that you have a change of clothes and a good meal. It is long since you had a meal?” she inquired almost tenderly.

“Yesterday morning, Madam, at Basham. A farmer’s wife gave me some bread.”

The Duchess was shocked. They had come in sight of the house. A lad in the temporary employ of the second under-gardener was beckoned from his sudden zeal for scratching the earth with a hoe, to which he had bent on hearing the approaching voices. He was given the fullest instructions. There was sure to be dry clothes which would more or less fit this unfortunate. He was to be well looked after. He was to be shown where he could have a warm bath, and when he was thoroughly rested she was to be told and she would send for him.

So passed Charles Lexington from one set of enemies to another; from the unbridled fury of the racing populace to the more subtle, the more evil, hatred of those who serve the rich. He found below stairs (or to be accurate, in the offices) that the Duchess’s habitual kindness to such new-comers out of the wilds was not popular with her dependants. He was the third of the sort in six months. The first had disappeared in a week, the second had shamelessly made love to the stillroom maid, and they had only got rid of him by denouncing him for a thief. And now came Charles Lexington. He wasn’t popular. He gathered that there would be no lack of work for him to do and plenty of nasty questions picked out with insults to carry on with. But it was a breathing space. It gave him room to turn round.

He would be traced — there was no doubt of that. A man who takes to the water comes out wet, and a man who takes recognizable clothes can be followed, but there was a sure interval of safety before him, and if his Good Luck stuck to him no doubt he would be able to use that interval. The one-pound note had been unpinned from his dripping vest and carefully dried. He would not be without capital when he should next have to fight the world.

In his interview with this his second benefactress (he still remembered with gratitude the first one at Putney. As for Sister Frideswied he didn’t count her a benefactress at all) he told all — frankly and freely in a fine orgy of lying. He told the Duchess the name of his Public School — which he had never even seen — the name of his old headmaster (there he was safe, for the man was dead), his own name — Henry Romilly — his Engineering degree at the University of Liverpool (Lord! what had he said? Supposing she were to look it up!); his gallant volunteering immediately after his degree; his numerous wounds, and then the hopeless, heartbreaking struggle, which had ended as she knew.

At the conclusion of these intimate confidences, she showed him where the electric light had gone wrong, and left him to set it right. She trusted, as she parted from him, that he had all he wanted. He assured her of his gratitude in a St. Olaf’s accent so pronounced that it reminded her of a favourite nephew (now a remittance man in Canada), and stirred her heart to its depths.

The second tide of his good fortune still flowed; it was running slack, it was bound to turn, but it had not turned yet. He was competent to deal with the trouble of the electricity. He understood what was wrong. He sent for the right things. He worked steadily through the remainder of the daylight. By evening all the lights in the hall were working — and had cost Clara nothing.

His benefactress thought it too good to be true. His colleagues of the lower deck were filled with a mixture of evil intentions : against his competence; against his growing favour; more than all against his affectation of gentility.

Next morning, in high good humour, his rescuer, after the secretary had written just the right letter to the Head of Section “M” (the one which worries the R.E. only and is strictly forbidden to tamper with others) she bethought her of the runabout.

A man so expert in the mysteries of electricity must know all about self-starters. There was a short passage between the Duchess’s protégé and the head chauffeur, who wasn’t complimentary. But orders were orders. The head chauffeur was sending one of the minor chauffeurs into the town to fetch a man from Veeley’s garage and pocket a private commission. However, if these were orders, why Charles Lexington must tackle it; and a sincere hope was expressed that he would crush his fingers at the job. Lexington, with the keen eye of the trained scientist, discovered what was the matter : a pebble under the pedal which prevented contact. Increasing in wisdom with every experience, he spent the better part of an hour armed with a hammer, and hit it vigorously against the wall of the garage to give evidence of hard work; then he took the pebble out and started the machine. He brought it round. His mistress was overjoyed to find that it buzzed as cheerfully as it had buzzed in its hot youth when she had bought it second-hand from her own son in the beginning of the year.

Of a truth there was no end to Charles Lexington’s abilities. She almost dreaded the moment when this cheap labour would be classed and docketed and decanted into the regular channels of Department “M.” However, there would be two days before the answer to her secretary’s letter came, and perhaps some weeks before Lexington would be placed. She must hope for the best. If the worst came to the worst she might find him just that type of work which would keep him in her service. But Fate had got tired again, and had made up her mind for another change.

Among the many patents which Professor Kingley (now with God) brought forth to the considerable enrichment of his daughter (now with the people at Hollywood) was the Kingley tap.

In the old days taps would often leak. Many of them still do — but that is in slack and foolish households which disdain or neglect the advantages of modern science. In the mansion graced by Clara, Duchess of Aberavon, all the more important taps had been fitted with Kingley’s patent — although it cost 30s. One in especial, where a leakage might have led to grievous damage, was fitted with size No. 6, the largest size, finished in gun-metal and clamped over the King bolt (as the reader probably knows) with a special Mason catch, dependant upon a screw worked hand-tight upon an outer bevel in such a fashion that the torsion strain works against the cam shaft in reverse and engages the Thirl Pin. You follow me? I am using as few technical terms as I can.

Kingley’s patent has this one drawback, which is not mentioned in the prospectus nor even in the advertisements, but which you ought to hear of in case you should go in for the gadget yourself. It is true that it does not leak, but it is also true that it jams as hard as an Arctic winter, and when it does that, you can’t draw water from it. It turns dumb of a sudden, starts a nasty temper, and won’t turn. So had it happened with this great tap of taps, the most important tap of the household.

It stood in the loft just under the roof, discharging, when it was turned on, into the big zinc container, whence it was distributed by lesser pipes to the various offices in the annexe. It was turned off when the annexe was shut up and there was no need for the supply; but since the Lady Amathea (to give her the best-known and most beautiful of her six names) had just returned to residence at Holy Cross from her long sojourn abroad, and since the Lady Amathea’s particular rooms, filled with objects of art and virtue, were in the annexe, it was urgent that the great Kingley tap should be turned on.

It had, of course, jammed.

The local man had done his worst with it. They were about to send to London at great expense, when Charles Lexington had come like a god-send. After his success with the self-starter and the victory over the electric light in the hall, the great Kingley patent tap would be Charlie’s triumph. He was bidden to master it, and bring it to heel.

The Duchess herself accompanied him to the loft, and showed him the stubborn object. She explained to him how, just below, lay her daughter’s darling little sitting-room : how on the landing outside it was the cupboard in which certain of her clothes were stored, with hot-water pipes running by the wall, for the use of which the release of the water was necessary. She was sure he could put it right.

Charles Lexington had been provided with all he had asked for the task. He had a large monkey wrench; two hammers; a chisel; a screwdriver, and all such humble instruments. He did not know, alas! that when Kingley’s patent tap is in this mood it needs another Kingley patent (even more expensive) to release it. Old Kingley had seen to that. There was not one of his patents that did not require another patent, and even a third, before it would go.

The reader in Electro-Chemistry to the University found himself alone. He gazed at his job doubtfully. He turned from it for a moment towards the single and rather dirty window of the loft. He was in no hurry to begin. Through that window he saw, a good half a mile down the big gravel way that led from the main lodge the unmistakable form of a Policeman,

The great captains who change the history of the world have to decide in their critical hours between one of two courses. When they choose the one that comes off their fame is immortal. Yet the wise know that it has nothing to do with Generalship, but everything to do with Fate.

There were two courses open to him as the Policeman stolidly paced nearer and nearer to the back door. He had less than ten minutes in which to decide between them.

One course open to him was immediate flight — with all its risks. He would have to race down the servants’ stairs at the back of the loft, up which came the joyous laughter of the menials in the offices near the back door. He would have to run the gauntlet somehow. It was a dreadful risk. On the other hand, the Policeman might not be coming for him at all, in which case the sooner he released Kingley’s striking creation the better. He decided to release Kingley’s striking creation.

He began by trying to open the catch. He continued by knocking at the butterfly nut, first with the little hammer and then with the big one. He proceeded to attempt loosening the Rawl screw, which he conceived, in a rather muddled way, would release the coil spring in the sunken socket (excuse me these further technical terms). Nothing happened.

Next he went for the main difficulty boldly with the spanner, clasping the gun-metal periphery nut (under the lock nut, of course) in a tight grasp. It would not move. He betook him once more to the hammer and gave the handle of the jack spanner a fine ringing blow. The noise was terrific — but result there was none.

As he poised the instrument for a second clang he heard voices and listened appalled. Molly’s voice he knew by this time, and Charley’s, and even the haughty tones of the butler, but among these was an unfamiliar voice — gruff yet distinct. It was the voice of the Policeman, and it was giving details which made his blood run cold. There was no mistaking the man it described. The man described was artful — artful, oh! my word! Got out of St. Dives’ Hostel with the swag — God knew how much — and then joined up with nigger minstrels. They had nearly nabbed him at the races … so it went on. Lexington was glad to hear that they had dragged the river for nothing. He was appalled to hear they had found the woolly wig, and when it came to particular mention of the shoes and the trousers and the coat in which he had attempted song, his heart broke. He despaired. There was nothing to be done but to complete his last task — to release that good woman’s water supply; to let the refreshing streams fill the zinc container; strain through the perforated plate and fill with enlivening streams the pipes of the annexe, bringing joy to those who should yet retain their freedom, whilst he was led away to durance. He raised the hammer once more, and caught the Jack-spanner a bang even more furious than the last.

It did the trick — it did it beyond all measure. There was not released from Kingley’s patent tap that reasonable stream it should have conveyed. There poured from it a mighty river with the deafening noise of an avalanche, and all the weight of the Chiltern reservoir behind it, 200 feet above them. The container was filled in a flash; the floor was a rising pond; a stream began to cascade down the well of the back staircase, and a vision rose in his mind of what must he happening to the ceiling of the room below.

Moments of life-and-death crises bring revelation, and to Lexington the only avenue of escape was revealed — the wardrobe on the landing below.

He leapt down to that landing on the next floor, the noise of the tremendous cascade above drowned his footsteps. He could hear the water pouring down the servants’ stairs, while before him lay the well-carpeted descent reserved for the superior ranks of household.

A landing is not a good place in which to change one’s clothes, but Charles Lexington had become an expert in changing clothes. He could have qualified in one of the old-fashioned musical halls where character-actors appeared as Napoleon Bonaparte, Cleopatra, and Mr. Gladstone all in five minutes. He rolled his trousers up to the knee. He kicked off his boots. He slipped on stockings, then a skirt. The lack of shoes would be remarkable, but no matter. He shed his coat and slipped on a bodice. With all to gain and nothing to lose he had the courage to squeeze on a Parisian hat. He was flying down the stairs. He was out at the side door of the annexe. He was striding down towards the gate of the small South lodge on the main road.

Little Anderson opened it and respectfully touched his hat to the tall lady who smiled at him so kindly in return. She seemed unduly pressed. Her lack of foot gear was strange. She took enormous strides. But little Anderson was used to the eccentricities of rich women. He had seen guests funnier than that when he had been helping once in the servants’ passage outside the dining-room during one of the big dinners. He had seen Mrs. Hattle in puce trousers. There was nothing toffs wouldn’t do nowadays: leastways, the wimmin among ’em. What did intrigue him was that after she had got into the main roads he plunged through the hedge opposite and he could see her legging it madly for the neighbouring woods.

After that little Anderson thought it his duty to report; the thing was altogether too strange. But even as he was brushing his coat with the careful minuteness of well-bred men of livery in moments where haste is essential, he heard other feet coming pounding to the gate at a heavy run. They were those of the Policeman and with him two stalwarts of the household. The hunt was up — and meanwhile the Lady Amathea’s boudoir was ruined, and the level of the great Chiltern reservoir had sunk by the eighth of an inch.

CHAPTER XV

WHEN CHARLES LEXINGTON, in the habit of a Duchess — which after all is much like any other indecent kilt — had got through the first hedge, shielded from his pursuers, he went less wildly. The clothes of modern women do not greatly impede your sprinter, rather are they made for lanky, ill-formed men, but Charles Lexington had had enough of sprinting. It was up to Fate. She was at the wheel, not he. These last few days had taught him that.

He went at a good pace along a path through the wood, and then by a right of way across another field (but not running); skirted Bolton St. Thomas reached Pugginholt (lovely village — ugly name) at the end of the fourth mile.

The comments of the young in Pugginholt convinced him that his disguise had rendered him ridiculous. He could put up with that. It was the least of evils. On his way he had unpinned the carefully-dried one-pound note from his vest. He held it clasped in his hand. In his desperate need he formed a resolution. He would telephone to Bowring, get a meeting and explain all.

It was humiliating, but it was necessary. If he were copped — and copped at last he would be — on the wretched point of the one-pound note snatched from the table of St. Dives’ Hostel, if he were once in the grip of the machine, God help him! All the forces of the State and all the Banks would then have got him in their claws. He was the unforgivable and the leper. He was THE MAN WHO HAD MADE GOLD — whom they thought could still make gold. There was only one man in the same boat with him — one fellow-culprit who lied boldly when he did lie; who had shared the swag with him — and that was Bowring. The trail was hot upon him. He thought he had a better start than he had, but even at the best he only had four miles. It was true they did not know in which direction of the four miles he had gone.

Yes. He must telephone to Bowring. Bowring would be in his shop at this hour. He would put himself at Bowring’s feet. He would tell Bowring where he was. He would ask Bowring what next to do. It would pay Bowring to save him. It would pay no one else.

He turned into the Post Office of Pugginholt. A smart building — over-capitalized. The lady in residence — young, not ill-looking, but suffering from a sneer of superiority — watched him curiously. When (from within the female garments which covered him) he asked in a deep bass voice for the London Telephone Directory her pride was blown right out of her with astonishment. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She watched him in terror, as might a child the bearded lady of the fair. She stared at Charles Lexington as he turned over the pages of the book (for it was characteristic of him that he had forgotten the number). She changed him his one-pound note as he bought stamps of her and paid for the call. She marked his enormous strides towards the telephone box.

He got through to Bowring. Their conversation was brief. He, Lexington, was at Pugginholt in danger of immediate arrest for a petty theft. He had been in hiding and desperate for money. He would explain all when they met. Somehow or the other he must be saved. Once in the hands of the police and all the catastrophe would follow. Ought he not to come up to town at once and see Bowring? If so, where and when should they meet? What did he advise?

Thus far, Charles Lexington in the telephone box. In the Post Office there was what the Swan of Avon or his producers call “noise without.”

Through the glass door and out of the corner of his eye, even as Bowring’s steady voice was beginning to give a reply — Charles Lexington saw the two stalwarts of the Duchess’s household flanking a heavily-blown Policeman, and all three facing the grill behind which stood the Lady of the Establishment. At the door shrill voices of children were repeating in chorus, “That’s where ‘ee went in! I seen un!”

Charles Lexington did not linger, no, not even to hear the all-important voice of Bowring. He strolled out unconcernedly behind the backs of the fatal three, unconcernedly, I say, but delicately, like a cat. He burst through the cordon of children, who yelled at the sight of him like a pack of Jays and ran after him with pattering feet. Then, once outside the Post Office where the Policeman and the Duchess’s two stalwarts were still stupidly inquiring, he made his last bolt for cover; not that it could avail him, but that the habit was now too strong to be dropped. He dashed down the street and into the “Aberavon Arms.” He flashed through the lounge, past the empty bar into the billiard - room, hardly knowing or caring what he did, so long as he fled. But from the billiard-room there was no issue. It was a blind alley and his pursuers entered at his heels. The hand of the Policeman was upon his shoulder, and the official voice was in his ears: “I arrest you, in the name of the King!”

“Of who?”

“The King.”

“Oh!” said Charles Lexington, and he went quietly.

Mr. Bowring, with the telephone at his ear in London, was very nearly put out. He could just control himself — but it was certainly exasperating!

He had been cut off at the critical moment. Lexington found! … News of the mystery of no-gold-supply on the tip of Lexington’s tongue! … Lexington in peril of arrest! … With that, what next?

Anyhow he had been given the name of Pugginholt. He got on to that Exchange, after too much delay, and asked them what they meant by it. They referred him to Brandon Junction. Brandon Junction told him to ask the Superintendent of his own Exchange in London. The Superintendent referred him back to Pugginholt — for which he was given first Burgenhalt and then Packenham. At last, when he did get the Pugginholt Exchange by the throat and shook the truth out of it, he found it was too late. The Postmistress was kind enough to speak to him herself over the machine. He gave her his name. “I am sure I don’t know who you mean, or who you are,” she said.

“Never mind that. My name is Bowring, and my number is 8122 Berkeley. You will find me in the Directory. A Mr. Charles Lexington was ringing me up just now. Can you tell me …”

“I don’t know anything about any Mr. Anybody. There has been no man in here to-day since noon. There was a funny-looking woman, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not a woman — a man.”

“Went out suddenly with the Police after her.”

“That’s all I wanted to know.”

The Bowring voice ceased upon the machine, and the unfortunate Postmistress remained gnawed by unsatisfied desire for knowledge. It was so strong upon her that she almost deserted her post to find out what it was all about, and what had happened.

Meanwhile, Bowring had his staff work clear in a moment. There were two desperate things to be done. First, no matter how much the trail might twist and turn he must follow it. No short cuts. March to the sound of the guns. He was for Pugginholt. He looked at his watch. The quickest way would be the express from Waterloo in three-quarters of an hour that stopped first at Brandon. He told his foreman to ring up the “Unicorn” at Brandon, and have a car ready for him at Brandon Station. That was his first action. His next action was this. He wrote a short note to the Secretary of State for Home affairs and sent it off by messenger. The note was in these words and no more : —

“If you will come to my house in Hammersmith at noon sharp to-morrow the matter on which you approached me can be decided.”

Bowring didn’t sign that note, he left the paper heading and his handwriting to speak for themselves. He added not a word of emphasis. He knew his politicians and their games.

When he had sent off that note he still had half an hour to get his train at Waterloo, and he caught it comfortably. At Brandon he found the car awaiting him, and he went straight to the “Aberavon Arms” at Pugginholt. Most middle-aged men who knew the Victorian Thames in their youth know that little village and its inn, only half a mile from the river.

Bowring had come too late to do anything that day, but he found he had acted wisely. A lady, or something of the sort, had been arrested in the billiard-room late that afternoon, and was safely under lock and key, and she, or whatever it was, would come up before the Magistrates the next morning. There was no time to be lost, but the thing could just be done. He had a clear twenty-four hours’ start of Scotland Yard. He had only to play the bold game.

“It is quite simple, my dear Lexington,” Bowring was saying quietly at breakfast in the “Aberavon Arms” next morning. “You must break bail. We’ll walk up the road together in a minute. I have a car waiting in a lane and we’ll both be in my house by eleven.”

“There are ways of arranging these things. I explained to the Bench who you were.”

A look of alarm came into Lexington’s eyes. “Oh, God! you didn’t do that, Bowring?”

“Of course I did,” said Bowring, “and they were most sympathetic. I told them all about it. Old Billy Monkton knows me and the other fellow, the squire, knew your father, and thought he had seen you once or twice. I explained to them all about it. I said you had had a nervous breakdown. They beamed. They’ve all known nervous breakdowns in their families, and they take them for granted at the Universities. They’ve a great respect for St. Olaf’s. It has had more loonies and suicides than any other college…. And now tell me your story — briefly, for we haven’t more than ten minutes to be safe. I know the ropes. They wake up at Scotland Yard about half-past nine; at 9.45 the Police here will get the order and before ten they’ll be here. It’s nine now.

Charles Lexington told the plain truth. How he had sought to analyse the Philosopher’s Stone, the famous cylinder; the explosion; the hopeless outlook for the future.

Bowring watched him all the while and he believed him. Charles Lexington with his candid mouth, in his newly-bought reach-me-downs, his terrified eyes, his absurd adventures, must have had good reason to fly and to hide. Yes, it was all true — Lexington could no longer make gold.

Even as he watched the poor victim of Fate (yet not so poor, for Fate was ready for another rightabout) Bowring had a new plan ready. He had intended, in sending that note to the Home Secretary, to admit Lexington’s powers to make this stuff, to retract his denial, and to tempt Mills to come in at the eleventh hour. Now there was another and more dangerous game to be played. But he would attempt it.

Lexington watched his companion’s quick acceptance of the truth. He rose to go out.

“Would they nobble me in London?” he asked piteously.

Bowring shook his head without emotion.

“All that will be arranged,” he said. “Everything can be arranged when you hold the trumps.”

“How do you mean, ‘hold the trumps’?” asked the other anxiously.

“Wait and see,” said Bowring. “Meanwhile stroll out quietly towards my car down the lane. You’ll see it about half a mile on, opposite a pub called ‘The Snowden Arms.’ I’ll join you in ten minutes.”

Bowring saw Lexington off the place, and then he set the wires to work.

He had a bit of luck to begin with, for he found Hammersham was in all right — at the other end of the wire.

“Bowring speaking. Have they given orders for nabbing Lexington?”

“Not yet. We’ve only just heard.”

“What form will it take?”

“We haven’t decided yet. He is to be sent up to town. We are going to send a man down to tell the Magistrates at Pugginholt that there’s another and graver charge, and that we are going to reserve action.”

“When are you bringing him up to town?”

“Oh, some time to-day. Our man will go down from Scotland Yard this afternoon.”

“You won’t get Lexington.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got away.”

“How do you know?”

Bowring made no direct answer : all he asked was :

“Mills got my note?”

“Yes,” said Hammersham in a constrained voice … then after a long silence. … “I’ve seen it too.”

“Well,” answered Bowring, “See that he comes. A great deal depends on it, and more for him than for me. You understand?”

“Oh yes! I understand all right; but what are you proposing?”

“Come to my house this morning at noon as I said and you’ll see.”

“Are you talking from your house now?” asked Hammersham’s voice again on the wire.

“No. I am talking from Pugginholt.”

“Good God!”

“It’s all right. I won’t let him go. You can make Mills quiet on that. Only do try and make Mills understand that it is to everybody’s advantage that you both come to my house to-day at noon.”

“Very well,” said Hammersham.

And that was the end of the little exchange on the telephone which held up Scotland Yard and put the Secretary of State into a cleft stick; and that is how great nations are democratically governed.

At ten o’clock, before the court at Pugginholt was open, Bowring and Lexington were well on their way to town in the motor; at the same hour, in London, Honest Jack Mills and efficient young Hammersham, were in earnest conversation. That conversation lasted long. The Bowring note was canvassed in all its aspects and Hammersham was steadfast for acceptance.

“It can’t do any harm to see him,” he said, “and we may learn something. We can always lay our hands on Lexington if we want to. There’s no hurry. We can get Bowring too if we like.”

“I wish I’d jugged him long ago!” muttered Mills. He was wondering how much Hammersham knew. He had hesitated to put Bowring under lock and key for fear of what he knew. If Hammersham knew too, Mills was under inspection with a vengeance!

Therefore Hammersham had his way and he and the Home Secretary, by a little after half-past eleven, were bowling along towards Hammersmith in the excellent motor which in the natural course of things had been presented to Jack Mills by an old, old friend — recently ennobled. Hammersham had tried hard to convince his Chief that it was better not to have the detectives about, but he had failed. And two plain-clothes men were already lurking round Bowring’s home.

They arrived at the house just after twelve. They found in Bowring’s study two men — one with whose photograph, secretly circulated by the Home Office and the C.I.D., Hammersham was only too familiar. It was Lexington, sitting quietly in his chair, as though there were no such things as bail or stolen bank-notes or Synthetic gold in the world. The other was a strange figure; a little terrified, half-starved lad, in dead-new ready-made clothes with strong creases at the trousers; hands on his knees, sitting bolt upright in his chair and staring with wide, troubled eyes. It was the Waif.

Bowring rose and greeted Jack Mills with cordiality and perhaps a little too familiarly. Jack Mills answered more stiffly, but without offence. Then Bowring took the floor. He stood up before the fireplace in his accustomed attitude, the same attitude which he had used all those weeks ago, when first he had heard the fantastic story about making gold. He spoke as briefly as he could — but even so it took him a good ten minutes — he told the whole story.

There had been a very grievous misunderstanding. Mr. Lexington, whom he had known from boyhood, had suffered from an accident only too common in our ancient Universities. It is the price they pay for their enormous learning, the pride and envy of the world. Mr. Lexington, the great chemist, had had a nervous breakdown (“like poor Woolston,” murmured Hammersham sympathetically in Jack Mill’s ear). Mr. Lexington’s subliminal self had, in that condition, played tricks of which in his normal state it would have been ashamed. He had begun with a sort of hallucination that he had found a way to make gold. He went on to back it up with a piece of childish practical joking. He took small fragments of the shredded gold used in chemical experiments, rubbed them over with blacklead, and then amused himself by startling his friends with a sort of conjuring trick. He would melt the prepared fragments of black-leaded gold in a crucible so that they seemed to be turned into the precious metal. He did this trick once or twice to astonish his friends, and it was then the silly rumours had got about of which the papers had been so full. But his friends knew Mr. Lexington’s unfortunate condition. He had received the best specialist advice and was now completely cured. It was as well to be quite frank about these things. Of course, there was a certain measure of humiliation, but Mr. Lexington, for whom he was commissioned to speak, owed it to the Community, and to his friends, to make a clean breast of it. That was that. He hoped that the incident was at an end.

“What about Taylor?” said Mills quietly.

“Lord Taylor has been told the whole story over the telephone this morning.”

“Does he agree?” said Mills as quietly as before.

“I do not know,” answered Bowring rather sharply, “but if he does not agree yet — he will.”

Then it was the Home Secretary’s turn to speak at some length.

“There are only five of us here present. I do not know who that gentleman may be?” (he bowed very slightly at the Waif, who did not answer but still sat stolidly staring).

“You may speak freely before him,” put in Bowring, “he will have something of interest to tell you in a moment.”

“There are only five of us here,” went on Mills. “And, anyhow, what I have to say is not so very secret; you know we have already given out an Order in Council. You know what the Press have been saying. There will have to be legislation to forbid not only the manufacture of gold, but any experiment in that direction save under public control. The first rough draft has been prepared, and we shall get the bill through at once. The penalties will be retrospective,” he added, glancing at Bowring.

“Oh, yes, of course!” said Bowring. “The only point is that the Press have got to be told to put the helm over and assure the public that there has been no gold made after all. But the legislation is all right. There’s no harm in that. Quite the contrary! Science has reached a point, I hear, where it might produce gold from, say, lead, any day. And that would be the end of all things. Oh, yes! You politicians and bankers must prevent gold being made,” the slightest ghost of a smile lurked in his eyes. “You cannot make the manufacture of gold too criminal,” he concluded.

Mills broke in abruptly. “There’s one more thing I mean to say before I go,” he cried, looking Lexington and Bowring up and down alternately with his pale eyes. “Certain arrests have been arranged and I intend to go forward with them.”

“Better not,” said Bowring, looking up at the ceiling.

“I should like you to repeat those words,” said Mills, his face paler than the ordinary, for his anger was getting the better of him.

Bowring repeated the phrase good-humouredly. “Better not arrest us, Mills! Far better not!”

Mills half rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” said Bowring authoritatively. He motioned to the Waif. “Mr. Crimps, would you be good enough to tell the company what you were telling me a short while ago?”

The Waif rose. He clasped his hands behind his back; he lifted his chin; in a monotone of extraordinary rapidity he poured out his tale. It was exactly like a Policeman giving evidence on oath in a Court of Justice. It was the seventh repetition of the lesson, and the Waif gabbled it off the reel with no pauses or stops except to gasp for breath.

“At or about 6.30 on Wednesday the 25th of April of this year, I entered for the purpose of concealment the corfer standin’ on the left-’and side of Mr. Bowring’s shop in Percy Street as you come in by the front door and laying there I ‘eard a conversation between Mr. Bowring and another proposing that a nephew of the visitor should enter into partnership with Mr. Bowring for the manufacture and sale of gowld, which proposition Mr. Bowring having rejected ’is visitor next spoke of an Order in Council immediately to be issued and legislation to be put before Parliament for its approval a-rendering criminal all unlicensed efforts or experiments for the manufacture of the said gowld, also and moreover Mr. Bowring ‘aving answered that he would not agree I ‘eard the visitor proclaim twice as ’ow Mr. Bowring would live to regret it.”

“Could you recognize the visitor’s voice if you heard it again?” said Bowring.

“Yus,” answered the good Waif — adding, quite unnecessarily, “so ‘elp me Gawd!”

“Is it the voice of anyone here?”

“Yus,” said the Waif, chin still lifted, gazing at nothing, “it were the voice o’ that large gentleman what’s setting in the arm-chair.”

“That will do,” said Bowring, and the Waif sat down, sweating.

Outside the slow pacing of four boots on the feet of two plain-clothes men could just be heard some way off on the deserted pavement. Then came the whistle of a tug on the river.

Jack Mills’s face, from the pallor of cold veal which was its common form, had taken on a tinge of saffron. At last he brought out these words with difficulty and huskily :

“Do you propose anything, Bowring?”

Bowring jumped briskly to his feet, crying “Yes! Rather! Drew it all up hours ago!” He brought a couple of typewritten sheets out of his pocket and stood up again before the fireplace, mastering his audience :

“It’s all quite simple. As I said, any day they may really hit on the way to make gold — so there must be control. But to be of any use the control would have to be international. Well, that means Geneva. There must be a Bureau at Geneva to check the world production of gold, to issue certificates of origin, licences to deal, etc., and there must be an international laboratory with a monopoly for research and the right to issue licences for experiment. It’s all quite simple, and it’s so necessary that it’s simply certain to be done when we propose it. It must have one of those titles which are made up of initials that can be pronounced like one word. I’ll call it the B.I.C.O., ‘ Bureau International pour le Controle de l’Or.’ You” (nodding at Mills) “have started the ball rolling. Your Order in Council was the first move and you began the first legislation. They’ll listen to you at once.”

“Geneva means the French,” sighed Mills bitterly. “The blighters have nobbled it.” He was thinking of the £2,000 a year job sneaked from poor old Polly’s boy that very winter by nasty little Achille Guéras, the Deputy for Timbuctoo.

“Well, square Malairain,” said Bowring sharply, “That’s not difficult. There’ll have to be a lot of posts, anyhow. Meanwhile,” and here he looked at his typewritten notes, “there are some posts that are obvious. Lexington must have the laboratory — a life appointment, say £5,000 a year, tax free, with a private house in the building, by the lake. Only, we’ll have to allow at least half a dozen foreign subordinates. Hammersham will be Secretary — we know what that kind of thing leads to — Suez Canal, and all that later on — you’ll take it, Hammersham?”

“Yes — but with a lump sum voted in recognition of services on promotion to any further post.”

“Right,” continued Bowring, “that can be arranged all right. Would you like a motor-launch on the lake, Hammersham?”

“Yes,” said Hammersham.

Bowring made a note of the point and went on:

“Then there’s Taylor. He’s not here, but he knows. Taylor could have the bank. There’s always a Bank tied on to these League of Nations ramps. He could have two-fifths of the interest in the Société Anonyme which would hold 51 per cent, of the shares in the Syndicat Particulier which would hold the non-governmental majority of the shares in the bank itself. I’ve got it all here in my notes. It’s perfectly plain. Right! You, Mills, what about your nephew?”

Mills cleared his throat. “I was just going to say … I can’t make part of the group myself … not permanently. But if my nephew could have an interest. …”

“Well, that’s easy. Your nephew could stand in with Taylor,”

“And where do you come in, Bowring?” said Mills.

“I! Oh, you can give me the Assay Department. I’d do it on commission. And then, you know, the Licensees would probably be grateful too, and if they showed their gratitude in some private way now and then, why, I shouldn’t mind…. It’s a grand scheme and bound to go through. Why, bless you! Salaries? That’s what the League of Nations is for! …”

“Lots of places for the foreigners,” he went on enthusiastically. There’ll be a President, of course, and a Vice-President and a Consultation Council — German head? and something for Zbrcz, or he’d put a spoke in — he’s so cursed sly.”

Mills nodded agreement thoughtfully.

“Yes! You’ve always got to square Zbrcz at Geneva.”

Bowring continued: “All of you come to the Lucullus to-night, and we’ll have a dinner and discuss details.”

“I can’t come,” said Hammersham. “It would be noticed. If I were there with my chief it would look official.”

“That’s true … never mind. We’ll tell you all about it afterwards, and then you can go off to Geneva and lay the ground bait as soon as ever you like and the earlier the better.”

The historic group broke up — reconciled. And that night, while the Waif with his well-earned wage was entertaining his friends at Murphy’s, Lord Taylor, Bowring, Lexington, and Mills in the happiest of moods drew up the B.I.C.O. at the Lucullus — and whatever notes the waiter took down on his shirt cuff were generously paid for by Hammersham on the morrow.

When the B.I.C.O. was released six months later after having been common talk among those in the know for at least four months the comments of our Press did honour to the national genius and that unfailing political instinct which has given us our great modern statesmen, and pro-Consuls such as Higgs and Goole.

I say advisedly “our” Press. Upon the continent there was the usual lack of understanding, petty national jealousy and, I am sorry to say, sheer ribaldry from the reactionary sheets of the Paris boulevards. In England the chorus was as striking as it was nearly unanimous.

The Day gave as it were the keynote to the whole, stamping its semi-official character on the praise it accorded.

“As a nation,” it said, in its first leader, “we are not given to boasting, but we may say that it is only fitting that the post so happily filled by the choice of Sir Charles Lexington should fall to an Englishman, and it was a happy and graceful incident that the proposal was made by the representative of the Chinese Republic. All the great chemists have been Englishmen. The whole tradition of modern chemistry is English, and no living Englishman can rival Sir Charles Lexington in the special department over which he is to preside.”

The Modern Democrat said, in its leader of the next day, that as a nation we were not given to boasting, but that everyone would be pleased to see two names on the new great International organization at Geneva : names which no other country could rival or equal. It meant, of course, those of Sir Charles Lexington and Lord Taylor. It was pleasant to remark that the proposal to nominate Sir Charles Lexington had come from the representative of the great Chinese Republic with which our own democracy was in such happy relations, while that of Lord Taylor had been suggested by the representative at Geneva of the Empire of Abyssinia seconded by the negro representative of Liberia.

The Drum, in vigorous outstanding, characteristic English stated in the very first lines of its main leader that as a nation we were not given to boasting. No one could doubt that the English character was peculiarly fitted for the delicate tasks of the new organization where absolute integrity was an essential. It pointed out the qualifications of Sir Charles Lexington.

The Howl spoke in much the same voice. It opened its leader by saying that as a nation we were not given to boasting, but that no one could deny the peculiar aptitude for the very delicate task committed to the new organization at Geneva, of two famous Englishmen of the first rank who, the one on the financial the other on the scientific side, would have so much to say to its success.

I fear I might weary my readers were I to prolong the list, gratifying though it would be to show what a united front the English daily Press can present to the world in matters affecting the welfare of the country.

The Trombone began with words which jarred somewhat on our native modesty.

Only the Empire, it said, could produce men like Sir Charles Lexington and Lord Taylor. It regretted the presence of any foreigners at all on any of the Committees, and prophesied that in all that counted the B.I.C.O. would be run from London. It was devoutly thankful that no position of trust had fallen to others than Germans and Englishmen, though it admitted the strength of the financial committee where Lord Taylor would be supported by M. de Caen from France, Herr von Kuhn from the Reich, Señor Coheño as Spanish Delegate, Signor Cuneo as Italian; and it was gratifying to note that the important interests of the Soviet Republic with its production of gold in the Urals would be unofficially but effectively represented by Commissar Kahn.

Only one false note was struck, the Red Flag, while admitting the suitability of the personalities placed in charge of the B.I.C.O., and especially that of the distinguished scientist Sir Charles Lexington, regretted that the financial side of the new organ should be independent of Parliamentary control. It had not a word to say against Lord Taylor personally, but it suggested that some democratic public servant, such as Mr. Mills himself, might well have overcome his natural reluctance to leave public life and have undertaken the thankless but all-important duty. For only democratic control by a tried democrat could make the B.I.C.O. safe for democracy.