Mr. Weatherley paused and felt his forehead.
"All the time, Chetwode," he went on, "I was watching the fellow, and it began to dawn upon me that he was there to do her some mischief. I didn't understand what it was all about but I could see it in his face. He was an ill-looking ruffian. I remembered then that Fenella had been frightened by some one hanging about the house, more than once. Well, there he was opposite to me, Chetwode, and by degrees I'd been moving a little nearer to him. He was after mischief—I was sure of it. What should you have done, Chetwode?"
"I am not quite sure," Arnold answered. "What did you do?"
"We're coming to that," Mr. Weatherley declared, leaning a little forward. "We're coming to that. Now in that open case, close to where I was, my wife had some South American curios. There was a funny wooden club there. The end was quite as heavy as any lead. I caught hold of it and rushed in upon him. You see, Chetwode, I was quite sure that he meant mischief. If Fenella had come in, he might have hurt her."
"Exactly," Arnold agreed. "Go on, sir."
"Well, I gripped the club in my right hand," Mr. Weatherley explained, seizing a ruler from the table, "like this, and I ran in upon him. I took him rather by surprise—he hadn't expected anything of the sort. He had one shot at me and missed. I felt the bullet go scorching past my cheek—like this."
Mr. Weatherley struck the side of his face sharply with the flat of his hand.
"He had another go at me but it was too late,—I was there upon him. He held out his arm but I was too quick. I didn't seem to hit very hard the first time but the club was heavy. His foot slipped on the marble hearthstone and he went. He fell with a thud. Have you ever killed a man, Chetwode?"
"Never, sir," Arnold answered, his voice shaking a little.
"Well, I never had before," Mr. Weatherley went on. "It really seems quite amazing that that one blow right on the head should have done it. He lay there quite still afterwards and it made me sick to look at him. All the time, though, I kept on telling myself that if I had not been there he would have hurt Fenella. That kept me quite cool. Afterwards, I put the club carefully back in the case, pushed him a little under the sofa, and then I stopped to think for a moment. I was quite clever, Chetwode. The window was open through which the man had come, so I locked the door on the inside, stepped out of the window, came in at the front door with my latchkey, crept upstairs, undressed quickly and got into bed. The funny part of it all was, Chetwode," he concluded, "that nobody ever really found the body."
"You don't suppose that you could have dreamed it all, do you?" Arnold asked.
Mr. Weatherley laughed contemptuously.
"What an absurd idea!" he exclaimed. "What a perfectly absurd idea! Besides, although it did disappear, they came up and told me that there was a man lying in the boudoir. You understand now how it all happened," he went on. "It seemed to me quite natural at the time. Still, when the morning came I realized that I had killed a man. It's a horrid thing to kill a man, Chetwode!"
"Of course it is, sir," Arnold said, sympathetically. "Still, I don't see what else you could have done."
Mr. Weatherley beamed.
"I am glad to hear you say that, Chetwode," he declared, "very glad. Still, I didn't want to go to prison, you know, so a few days afterwards I went away. I meant to hide for quite a long time. I—I don't know what I'm doing back here."
He looked around the office like a trapped animal.
"I didn't mean to come back yet, Chetwode!" he exclaimed. "Don't leave me! Do you hear? Don't leave me!"
"Only for one second, sir," Arnold replied, taking an invoice from the desk. "They are wanting this in the warehouse."
Arnold stepped rapidly across to Mr. Jarvis's desk.
"Telephone home for his wife to come and bring a doctor," he ordered. "Quick!"
"He's out of his mind!" Jarvis gasped.
"Stark mad," Arnold agreed.
When he re-entered the office, Mr. Weatherley was sitting muttering to himself. Arnold came over and sat opposite to him.
"Mrs. Weatherley is calling round presently, sir," he announced. "You'll be glad to see her again."
Mr. Weatherley went deadly pale.
"Does she know?" he moaned.
"She knows that some one was hurt," Arnold said. "As a matter of fact," he continued, "I don't think the man could have been dead. We were all out of the room for about five minutes, and when we came back he was gone. I think that he must have got up and walked away."
"You don't think that I murdered him, then?" Mr. Weatherley inquired, anxiously.
"Not you," Arnold assured him. "You stopped his hurting Mrs. Weatherley, though."
Mr. Weatherley sighed.
"I should like to have killed him," he admitted, simply. "Fenella and Sabatini, too, her brother,—they both laugh at me. They're a little inclined to be romantic and they think I'm a queer sort of a stick. I could never make out why she married me," he went on, confidentially. "Of course, they were both stoneybroke at the time and I put up a decent bit of money, but it isn't money, after all, that buys a woman like Fenella."
"I'm sure she will be very pleased to see you again, sir," Arnold said.
"Do you think she will, Chetwode? Do you think she will?" Mr. Weatherley demanded, anxiously. "Has she missed me while I have been—where the devil have I been, Chetwode? You must tell me—tell me quick! She'll be here directly and she'll want to know. I can't remember. It was a long street and there was a public-house at the corner, and I had a job somewhere, hadn't I, stacking cheeses? Look here, Chetwode, you must tell me all about it. You're my private secretary. You ought to know everything of that sort."
"I'll make it all right with Mrs. Weatherley," Arnold promised. "We can't go into all these matters now."
"Of course not—of course not," Mr. Weatherley agreed. "You're quite right, Chetwode. A time for everything, eh? How's the little lady you brought down to Bourne End?"
"She's very well, thank you, sir," Arnold replied.
"Now it's a queer thing," Mr. Weatherley continued, "but only yesterday—or was it the day before—I was trying to think whom she reminded me of. It couldn't have been my brother-in-law, could it, Chetwode. Did you ever fancy that she was like Sabatini?"
"I had noticed it, sir," Arnold admitted, with a little start. "There is a likeness."
"I'm glad you agree with me," Mr. Weatherley declared, approvingly. "Splendid fellow, Sabatini," he continued,—"full of race to his finger-tips. Brave as a lion, too, but unscrupulous. He'd wring a man's neck who refused to do what he told him. Yet do you know, Chetwode, he wouldn't take money from me? He was desperately hard up one day, I know, and I offered him a cheque, but he only shook his head. 'You can look after Fenella,' he said. 'That's all you've got to do. One in the family is enough.' The night after, he played baccarat with Rosario and he won two thousand pounds. Clever fellow—Sabatini. I wish I wasn't so frightened of him. You know the sort of feeling he gives me, Chetwode?" Mr. Weatherley continued. "He always makes me feel that I'm wearing the wrong clothes or doing the wrong thing. I'm never really at my ease when he's about. But I like him—I like him very much indeed."
Arnold had turned a little away. He was beginning to feel the strain of the situation.
"I wish Fenella would come," Mr. Weatherley wandered on. "I don't seem to be able to get on with my work this morning, since you told me she was coming down. Queer thing, although I was with her last evening, you know, Chetwode, I feel, somehow, as though I'd been away from her for weeks and weeks. I can't remember exactly how long—there's such a buzzing in my head when I try. What do you do when you have a buzzing in your head, Chetwode?"
"I generally try and rest in an easy-chair," Arnold replied.
"I'll try that, too," Mr. Weatherley decided, rising to his feet. "It's a—most extraordinary thing, Chetwode, but my knees are shaking. Hold me up—catch hold of me, quick!"
Arnold half carried him to the easy-chair. The horn of the automobile sounded outside.
"Mrs. Weatherley is here, sir," Arnold whispered.
Mr. Weatherley opened his eyes.
"Good!" he murmured. "Let me sit up."
There was a moment's pause. Arnold moved to the door and held it open. They heard the swish of her skirts as she came through the outer office, and the heavier footsteps of the doctor who followed. Mr. Weatherley tried vainly to rise to his feet. He held out his arms. Fenella hastened towards him.
"Fenella, I couldn't help it," her husband gasped. "I had to kill him—he told me he was waiting there for you. My hands are quite clean now. Chetwode told me that he got up and walked away, but that's all nonsense. I struck him right over the skull."
She fell on her knees by his side.
"You dear, brave man," she murmured. "I believe you saved my life."
He smiled. His face was suddenly childlike. He was filled with an infinite content.
"I think," he said, "that I should like—to go home now—if this other gentleman and Chetwode will kindly help me out. You see, I haven't been here since May 4, and to-day is July 2. I think I must have overslept myself. And that idiot Jarvis was opening the letters when I arrived! Yes, I'm quite ready."
They helped him out to the carriage. He stepped in and took his usual place without speaking again. The car drove off, Fenella holding his hand, the doctor sitting opposite.
There was nothing about their attitude or appearance which indicated the change. Their chairs were so close together that they almost touched. Her white, ringless hand lay in his. Through the wide-open window of their tiny sitting-room they looked down upon the river as they had sat and watched it so many evenings before. Yet the change was unmistakable. Arnold no longer guessed at it—he felt it. The old days of their pleasant comradeship had gone. There were reserves in everything she said. Sometimes she shrank from him almost as though he were a stranger. The eyes that grew bright and still danced with pleasure at his coming, were almost, a moment later, filled with apprehension as she watched him.
"Tell me again," he begged, "what the doctor really said! It sounds too good to be true."
"So I thought," she agreed, "but I haven't exaggerated a thing. He assured me that there was no risk, no pain, and that the cure was certain. I am to go to the hospital in three weeks' time."
"You don't mind it?"
"Why should I?" she answered. "The last time," she continued, "it was in France. I remember the white stone corridors, the white room, and the surgeons all dressed in white. Do you know, they say that I shall be out again in a fortnight."
"I can see you already," he declared, "with a gold-headed stick and a fascinating limp like Marguerite de Vallieres."
She smiled very faintly but said nothing. Somehow, it was hard to make conversation. Ruth was unusually pale, even for her. The eyes which followed that line of yellow lights were full of trouble.
"Tell me," he begged presently, "you have something on your mind, I am sure. There is nothing you are keeping from me?"
"Have I not enough," she asked, "to make me anxious?"
"Naturally," he admitted, "and yet, after all, you have only seen your father once in your life."
"But I am sure that I could have loved him so much," she murmured. "He seems to have come and gone in a dream."
"This morning's report was more hopeful," he reminded her. "There is every chance that he may live."
"All the time," she answered, fervently, "I am praying that he may. If he treated my mother badly, I am sure that he has suffered. I can't quite forget, either," she went on, "although that seems selfish, that when I come out of the hospital, even if all goes well, I may still be homeless."
He leaned over her.
"Ruth," he exclaimed, "what do you mean?"
"You know," she answered, simply. "You must know."
His heart began to beat more quickly. He turned his head but she was looking away. He could see only the curve of her long eyelashes. It seemed to him strange then that he had never noticed the likeness to Sabatini before. Her mouth, her forehead, the carriage of her head, were all his. He leaned towards her. There was something stirring in his heart then, something throbbing there, which seemed to bring with it a cloud of new and bewildering emotions. The whole world was slipping away. Something strange had come into the room.
"Ruth," he whispered, "will you look at me for a moment?"
She kept her head turned away.
"Don't!" she pleaded. "Don't talk to me just now. I can't bear it, Arnold."
"But I have something to say to you," he persisted. "I have something new, something I must say, something that has just come to me. You must listen, Ruth."
She held out her hand feverishly.
"Please, Arnold," she begged, "I don't want to hear—anything. I know how kind you are and how generous. Just now—I think it is the heat—be still, please. I can't bear anything."
Her fingers clutched his and yet kept him away. Every moment he was more confident of this thing which had come to him. A strange longing was filling his heart. The old days when he had kissed her carelessly upon the forehead seemed far enough away. Then, in that brief period of silence which seemed to him too wonderful to break, there came a little tap at the door. They both turned their heads.
"Come in," Arnold invited.
There was a moment's hesitation. Then the door was opened. Fenella entered. Arnold sprang to his feet.
"Mrs. Weatherley!" he exclaimed.
She smiled at him with all her old insolent grace.
"Since when?" she demanded. "Fenella, if you please."
She was more simply dressed than usual, in a thin, black gown and black picture hat, and there were shadows under her eyes. No one could look at her and fail to know that she was suffering. She came across to Ruth.
"My brother is the dearest thing in life to me," she said. "He is all that I have left to me belonging to my own world. All these days I have spent at his bedside, except when they have sent me away. This evening I have come to see you. You are his child, Ruth."
Ruth turned her head slowly.
"Yes," she murmured, half fearfully.
"When Arnold brought you to Bourne End," Fenella continued, "for one moment I looked at you and I wondered. You seemed, even then, to remind me of some one who had existed in the past. I know now who it was. You have something of Andrea's air, but you are very like your mother, Ruth."
"You knew her?" Ruth asked.
"Very slightly," Fenella replied. "She was a very clever actress and I saw her sometimes upon the stage. Sometimes I think that Andrea did not treat her well, but that was the way of his world. Assuredly he never treated her badly, or you and I would not be here together now."
"I am afraid that you are sorry," Ruth said, timidly.
Fenella laid her hand almost caressingly upon the girl's shoulder.
"You need fear nothing of the sort," she assured her. "Why should I be sorry? You are something that will remind me of him, something I shall always be glad to have near me. You can guess why I have come?"
Ruth made no answer for a moment. Fenella laughed, a little imperiously.
"You poor child!" she exclaimed. "You cannot think that since I know the truth I could leave you here for a single second? We can fetch your clothes any time. To-night you are coming home with me."
Ruth gazed at her with straining face.
"Home?" she murmured.
"But naturally," Fenella replied. "You are my brother's child and I am a lonely woman. Do you think that I could leave you here for a single second? Arnold has some claims, I know," she continued. "He can come and see you sometimes. Do not be afraid," she went on, her voice suddenly softening. "I shall try to be kind to you. I have been a very selfish person all my life. I think it will be good for me to have some one to care for. Arnold, please to go and ring for the lift. Now that I have two invalids to think about, I must not be away for long."
He looked at Ruth for a moment. Then he obeyed her. When he returned, Ruth was standing up, leaning upon Fenella's arm. She held out her other hand to Arnold.
"You will help me down, please?" she begged.
It was a day of new emotions for Arnold. He was conscious suddenly of a fierce wave of jealousy, of despair. She was going, and notwithstanding the half pathetic, half appealing smile with which she held out her hands, she was happy to go! Fenella saw his expression and laughed in his face.
"Arnold looks at me as though I were a thief," she declared, lightly, "and I have only come to claim my own. If you behave very nicely, Arnold, you can come and see us just as often as you please."
It was all over in a few minutes. The automobile which had been standing in the street below was gone. Arnold was alone upon the sofa. The book which she had been reading, her handkerchief, a bowl of flowers which she had arranged, an odd glove, were lying on the table by his side. But Ruth had gone. The little room seemed cold and empty. He gripped the window-sill, and, sitting where they had sat together only a few minutes ago, he looked down at the curving lights. The old dreams surged up into his brain. The treasure ship had come indeed, the treasure ship for Ruth. Almost immediately the egotism of the man rebuked itself. If, indeed, she were passing into a new and happier life, should he not first, of every one, be thankful?—first of every one because within that hour he had learned the secret toward which he had been dimly struggling?
THE SHIPS COME IN
The accountant was preparing to take his leave. There had been an informal little meeting held in the dingy private office of Messrs. Samuel Weatherley & Company, at which he had presided.
"I really feel," he said, as he drew on his gloves thoughtfully, "that I must repeat my congratulations to you, Mr. Jarvis, and to your young coadjutor here, Mr. Chetwode. The results which I have had the pleasure of laying before you are quite excellent. In fact, so far as I can remember, the firm has scarcely ever had a more prosperous half year."
"Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and most satisfactory to us. We've worked hard, of course, but that doesn't amount to much, after all. When you've been in a business, as I have in this one, for something like thirty-five years, the interest you take in it is such that you can't help working. This I must say, though," he went on, placing his hand on Arnold's shoulder, "Mr. Chetwode is almost a newcomer here, and yet his energy has sometimes astounded me. Most remarkable and most creditable! For the last two months, Mr. Neville, he has scarcely slept in London for a single night. He has been to Bristol and Cardiff and Liverpool—all over the country, in fact—in the interests of the firm, with results that have sometimes astonished us."
The accountant nodded approvingly. He took up the balance sheet which they had been perusing and placed it in its envelope.
"I shall now," he said, "call upon Mr. Weatherley, and I am sure he will be most gratified. I understand that our next meeting is to be down here."
Mr. Jarvis beamed.
"Although I must say," he admitted, "that the responsibility has been a great pleasure, still, we shall be heartily glad to see Mr. Weatherley back again."
"I am sure of it," the accountant assented. "I understand that he has made a complete recovery."
"Absolutely his own self again, sir," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and looking better than ever."
"Odd thing, though, that loss of memory," the accountant remarked. "I was talking to the doctor about it only the other day. He seems to have wandered away into some sort of hiding, under the impression that he had committed a crime, and now that he is getting better he has absolutely forgotten all about it. He just thinks that he has had an ordinary illness and has had to stay away from business for a time."
"Queer thing altogether, sir," Mr. Jarvis admitted; "a queer business, sir. However, it's over and done with, and the less said about it, the better. We are both very much obliged to you, Mr. Neville, for your kind offices, and I am only thankful that the results have been so satisfactory."
Mr. Jarvis conducted his visitor to the door and returned to Arnold with beaming face. In anticipation of the accountant's visit he was wearing a frock-coat, which was already a shade too small for him. He carefully divested himself of this garment, put on his linen office-coat and turned towards his companion.
"Chetwode," he said, "I have a proposition to make. The firm shall stand us a little dinner this evening, which we will take together. We will go up to the west-end. You shall choose the proper place and order everything—just the best you can think of. The firm shall pay. Mr. Weatherley would be quite agreeable, I am sure."
Arnold forced himself to accept the suggestion with some appearance of pleasure.
"Delighted!" he agreed. "We'll have to finish up the letters and go through this mail first."
"Just so," Mr. Jarvis replied. "After that, we'll shut up shop. This is quite a red-letter day, Chetwode. I knew that we'd held our own, but I must confess that I found those figures most exhilarating. Our little bonus, too, will be worth having."
Later on, they found their way to a restaurant in the Strand, where Mr. Jarvis ate and drank perhaps better than he had ever done in his life. The evening to him was one of unalloyed pleasure, and he was genuinely disappointed when Arnold pleaded an engagement as an excuse for not finishing up at a music-hall. About nine o'clock the two men parted, Mr. Jarvis to spend the rest of the evening alone, with a big cigar in his mouth and an unaccustomed feeling of levity in his head. Arnold, after a moment's hesitation, walked slowly back to his empty rooms.
So this was success! Without a friend in the world, without training or any practical knowledge of life, his feet were firmly planted upon the ladder. He had stifled all sorts of nameless ambitions. He had set his teeth and done what appeared to be his duty. Now it seemed to him that he had come to a pause. He drew up his sofa to the window of his sitting-room and looked downward. Somehow or other, the depression against which he had struggled all the evening seemed only intensified by what he saw below. An early autumn had stripped bare the leaves from the scanty trees; the sky was gray and starless. Even the lights along the river front seemed to burn with a dull and uninspiring fire. He looked around him and his depression became an almost overmastering sensation. He hated the sight of his empty room, the phantom thoughts that would light upon his shoulder, the sofa upon which he was sitting alone, the memory of the things which he might have said to Ruth in the days when the opportunity was his. For a moment he even thought of Mr. Jarvis at the music-hall alone, the welcoming lights, the pleasant warmth, the music, the cheerful throngs of people. Better anything, he told himself, than this brooding! A sudden almost reckless impulse called him back again into the streets, only to pass away the same moment with the vision of Ruth's pale face by his side, her eyes alternately gazing down the lighted way and seeking his, her fingers grasping his hand. His head sank forward into his hands. He was alone!
He sat up suddenly with a start. The inner door of the room had opened and was softly closed again. A familiar voice addressed him.
"I find your habits, my young friend, somewhat erratic," Sabatini remarked. "Your supply of common necessaries, too, seems limited. I have been driven to explore, quite fruitlessly, the whole of your little domain, in the vain search for a match."
He pointed to the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Arnold, who was a little dazed, rose and produced a box of matches.
"But I don't understand how it is that you are here!" he exclaimed. "I thought that you were at Brighton. And how did you get in?"
Sabatini seated himself comfortably at the end of the sofa and placed a cushion behind his head.
"We came up from Brighton this afternoon," he explained, puffing contentedly at his cigarette. "I am now pronounced convalescent. Ruth, too, could throw away her stick any moment she wanted to, only I fancy that she thinks its use becoming."
"But," Arnold persisted, "I don't understand how you got in! You know that I am glad to see you."
"I got in with Ruth's key, of course," Sabatini replied.
Arnold leaned against the back of the sofa.
"I had forgotten," he said. "Of course, if I had known that you had been coming, I would have been here. The accountant brought in the result of our last six months' work this afternoon, and Mr. Jarvis insisted upon a little celebration. We had dinner together."
"So you have been successful," he remarked, thoughtfully. "You kept your feet along the narrow way and you have done well. I am glad. Sit down here by my side."
Arnold sat down on the end of the sofa. The curtain was pulled up as far as it would go. Below them, the curving arc of lights stretched away to the dim distance. Sabatini followed them with his eyes, for a moment, as though he, too, found something inspiring in that lighted way. Then he turned to Arnold with a queer little twinkle in his eyes.
"By the bye," he asked, "you haven't heard—Fenella hasn't told you of the last turn in fortune's wheel?"
"I have seen little of Mrs. Weatherley lately," Arnold murmured.
Sabatini leaned back in his place. His hollow eyes were lit now with laughter, his mouth twitched. The marks of his illness seemed almost to pass.
"It is delicious," he declared. "Listen. You remember that one day when you dined with me I told you of my uncle the Cardinal?"
"The uncle from whom you borrowed money?" Arnold remarked, dryly.
"Precisely," Sabatini agreed; "I borrowed money from him! It was only a trifle but I chose my own methods. Heavens, but it is droll!"
Sabatini began to laugh softly. His whole face now was alight with enjoyment.
"Last month," he continued, "His Eminence died. He had fourteen nephews, three brothers, two sisters, and no end of nieces. To whom do you think he has left his entire fortune, my dear Arnold—three hundred thousand pounds they say it is?"
"To you!" Arnold gasped.
"To me, indeed," Sabatini assented. "I did not even go to the funeral. I read of his death in the newspapers and I shrugged my shoulders. It was nothing to me. Yet those fourteen nephews were left not so much as would buy their mourning clothes. This is the chief sentence in the will,—'To the only one of my relatives whose method of seeking my favors has really appealed to me, I leave the whole of my fortune, without partition or reserve.'—And then my name. I was that one. Almost," Sabatini concluded, with a little sigh, "I am sorry that he is dead. I should have liked once more to have shaken him by the hand."
Arnold was speechless. The realization of what it all meant was beginning to dawn upon him. Sabatini was wealthy—Ruth was a great heiress. Her treasure ship had come in, indeed—and his was passing him by.
"I am glad," he said slowly, "glad for your sake and for Ruth's."
"My shadowy means," he remarked, "have kept me in comfort. Perhaps, even, they have been a trifle more than I have let people imagine. Still, this is all very different. Ruth and I are going to wander about the Riviera for a time. Afterwards, we are going to sail to Sabatini and patch up my old castle. I have some tenants there who certainly deserve a little consideration from me—old friends, who would sooner live without a roof over their heads than seek a new master. I shall grow vines again, my young friend, and make cheeses. You shall come from the illustrious firm of Samuel Weatherley & Company and be my most favored customer. But let me give you just a word of advice while I am in the humor. Buy our cheeses, if you will, but never touch our wine. Leave that for the peasants who make it. Somehow or other, they thrive,—they even become, at times, merry upon it,—but the Lord have mercy upon those others, not born upon the island of Sabatini, who raise it to their lips!"
"I will leave the wine alone," Arnold promised. "But shan't I be able to say good-bye to Ruth?"
Sabatini leaned towards him. His expression was once more grave, yet there was the dawn of a smile upon his sensitive lips.
"You can say to her what you will," he murmured, "for she is here. She had a fancy to look at her old room. I was there with her when you arrived. I have a fancy now to give an order to my chauffeur. A bientot!"
Arnold rose slowly to his feet. His heart was beginning to beat fiercely. He was looking across the room with straining eyes. It was not possible that clothes and health could make so great a difference as this! She was standing upon the threshold of her room. She was coming now slowly towards him, leaning ever so slightly upon her stick. Her cheeks were touched with pink, her eyes were lit with so soft and wonderful a brilliance that they shone like stars. He forgot her fashionable hat, the quiet elegance of her clothes. It was Ruth who came towards him—Ruth, radiantly beautiful, transformed—yet Ruth! He held out his arms and with a little sob she glided into them.
Side by side they took their accustomed places upon the horse-hair sofa. Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his, her eyes were wet with tears. A siren blew from the river. A little tug, with two barges lashed alongside, was coming valiantly along. The dark coil of water seemed suddenly agleam with quivering lights.
"Our ships," she whispered, "together, dear!"
* * * * *
E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels
Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.—Boston Transcript.
The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded by the novel of intrigue and mystery.—The Dial, Chicago.
Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.—London Morning Post.
By all odds the most successful among the writers of that class of fiction which, for want of a better term, may be called "mystery stories."—Ainslee's Magazine.
Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship.—Literary Digest, New York.
We do not stop to inquire into the measure of his art, any more than we inquire into that of Alexandre Dumas, we only realize that here is a benefactor of tired men and women seeking relaxation.—The Independent, New York.
* * * * *
Havoc A brilliant and engrossing story of love, mystery, and international intrigue.
Peter Ruff and the Double Four Deals with the exploits of a shrewd detective and a mysterious secret society.
The Moving Finger. A mystifying story dealing with unexpected results of a wealthy M.P.'s experiment with a poor young man.
Berenice. Oppenheim in a new vein—the story of the love of a novelist of high ideals for an actress.
The Lost Ambassador. A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London, in which a rascally maitre d'hotel plays an important part.
A Daughter of the Marionis. A melodramatic romance of Palermo and England, dealing with a rejected Italian lover's attempted revenge.
Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown. A murder-mystery story rich in sensational incidents.
The Illustrious Prince. A narrative of mystery and Japanese political intrigue.
Jeanne of the Marshes. Strange doings at an English house party are here set forth.
The Governors. A romance of the intrigues of American finance.
The Missioner. Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly heroine.
The Long Arm of Mannister. A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's ingenious revenge.
As a Man Lives. Discloses the mystery surrounding the fair occupant of a yellow house.
The Avenger. Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private revenge.
The Great Secret. Unfolds a stupendous international conspiracy.
A Lost Leader. A realistic romance woven around a striking personality.
A Maker of History. "Explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on the North Sea fishing fleet.
Enoch Strone: A Master of Men. The story of a self-made man who made a foolish early marriage.
The Malefactor. An amazing story of a man who suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.
The Traitors. A capital romance of love, adventure and Russian intrigue.
A Prince of Sinners. An engrossing story of English social and political life.
A Millionaire of Yesterday. A gripping story of a wealthy West African miner.
The Man and His Kingdom. A dramatic tale of adventure in South America.
Anna the Adventuress. A surprising tale of a bold deception.
Mysterious Mr. Sabin. An ingenious story of a world-startling international intrigue.
The Yellow Crayon. Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful secret society.
The Betrayal. A thrilling story of treachery in high diplomatic circles.
A Sleeping Memory. A remarkable story of an unhappy girl who was deprived of her memory.
The Master Mummer. The strange romance of beautiful Isobel de Sorrens.
* * * * *
Little, Brown & Co., Publishers, Boston