Chapter VIII

"On behalf of the organ fund," read Hank and regarded the pink tickets that accompanied the vicar's letter with suspicion.

"It's a curious fact," said the Duke, "that of all people and things in this wide world, there is no class so consistently insolvent as the organ class. There isn't a single organ in England that can pay its way. It's broke to the world from its infancy; its youth is a hand-to-mouth struggle, and it reaches its maturity up to the eyes in debt. It has benefit sermons and Sunday-school matinees, garden parties, bazaars and soirees, but nothing seems to put the poor old dear on his legs; he just goes wheezing on, and ends his miserable existence in the hands of the official receiver. What is this by the way?"

"A soiree," said Hank moodily, "and will we help."

The Duke sprang up.

"Rather!" he said jubilantly "will we help? Why, this is the very opportunity I've been waiting for! I'll sing a sentimental song, and you can say a little piece about a poor child dying in the snow."

"Snow nothing," said Hank, "you can sing if you want, and I'll go outside so that folk's shan't see I'm ashamed of you."

He took a turn or two up and down the apartment, then came to an abrupt stop before the Duke.

"Say," he said quickly, "Bill Slewer's out."

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

"The amiable William?" he asked with mild astonishment, "not Bad Man Bill?"

Hank nodded gravely.

"I got a letter from Judge Morris. Bill had a pull in the state and the remainder of his sentence has been remitted by the new governor."

"Well?" asked the Duke with a yawn. Hank was searching his pocket for a letter. He opened one and read--

"... hope you are having a good time ... m--m your Nevada properties are booming ... (oh, here we are). By the way Big Bill Slewer's loose, the man the Duke ran out of Tycer country and jailed for shooting Ed. Carter the foreman.

"Bill says he is going gunning for Jukey--"

"Ugh!" shuddered the Duke.

"--and reckons to leave for Europe soon. Japhet in search of his pa will be a quaker picnic compared with Bill on the sleuth. Tell Jukey----"

The Duke groaned.

"Tell Jukey to watch out for his loving little friend Bill. Bill is going to have a big send off and a bad citizens' committee has presented the hero with a silver plate Colt's revolver and has passed a special resolution deprecating the artificial social barriers of an effete and degenerate aristocracy."

The Duke smiled.

"If Bill turns up in Brockley I'll run the military gentleman loose on him," he announced calmly; "in the meantime let us address ourselves to the soiree."

It was announced from the pulpit on the next Sunday that amongst the kind friends who has promised to help was "our neighbour the Duc de Montvillier" and the next morning Miss Alicia Terrill sought out the vicar and asked to be relieved of a certain promise she had made.

"But, my dear Miss Terrill, it's quite impossible," protested the amazed cleric; "you were so very keen on the soiree, and your name has been sent to the printer with the rest of the good people who are singing. Here's the proof." He fussed at his desk and produced a sheet of paper.

"Here we are," he said, and she read:--

"No. 5 (song), 'Tell me, where is fancy bred'--Miss A. Terrill.

"No. 6 (song), 'In my quiet garden'--The Duc de Montvillier."

"And here again in Part II," said the vicar. She took the papers with an unsteady hand.

"No. 11 (song), 'I heard a voice'--Miss A. Terrill.

"No. 12 (song), 'Alice, where art thou'--The Duc de Montvillier."

She looked at the vicar helplessly.

"Why--why does the Duke follow me?" she asked weakly.

"It was his special wish," explained the other. "He said his voice would serve to emphasize the sweetness of your singing and coming, as it would, immediately after your song--these are his own words--_his_ feeble efforts would bring the audience to a----"

"Oh yes," she interrupted impatiently, "I can well imagine all that he said, and I'm _thoroughly_ decided that the programme _must_ be rearranged."

In the end she had her way.

For some reason she omitted to convey to her mother the gist of the conversation. If the truth must be told, she had already regretted having spoken of the matter at all to her family, for her mother's letter to the Tanneurs had brought to her a greater infliction than her impetuous suitor. Whatever opinion might be held of the genius of Hal Tanneur at Hydeholm, in the expressive language of the 9th's mess, he was "no flier." The girl had learnt of his coming with dismay, and the gleam of hope that perhaps after all, he _might_ be able to effectively snub the young man of the step ladder, was quickly extinguished as the result of the brief skirmish she had witnessed. And Hal was attentive in his heavy way, and had tricks of elephantine gallantry that caused her more annoyance than alarm.

On the evening of the day she had seen the vicar, Mr. Hal Tanneur decided upon making a diplomatic offer, so set about with reservations and contingencies, that it was somewhat in the nature of a familiar stock exchange transaction. In other words he set himself the task of securing an option on her hand, with the understanding that in the event of his father's refusal to endorse the contract, the option was to be secretly renewed for an indefinite period. He did not put the matter in so few words as I, because he was not such a clever juggler of words as I am, but after he had been talking, with innumerable "d'ye see what I mean Alic's" and "of course you understand's," she got a dim idea of what he was driving at. She let him go on. "Of course the governor's got pots of money, and I don't want to get in his bad books. Just now he's a bit worried over some Nevada property he's trying to do a chap out of--in quite a business-like way of course. The other chap--the chap who has the property now has got a big flaw in his title and he doesn't know it. See? Well, unless he renews his claim and gets some kind of an order from the court, or something of that sort, the governor and the governor's friends can throw him out, d'ye see what I mean?"

"I really don't see what this is to do with me," said Alicia frankly bored, "you said you wanted to tell me something of the greatest importance, and I really ought to be seeing about mother's supper."

"Wait a bit," he pleaded, "this is where the whole thing comes in: if the governor pulls this deal off, he'll be as pleased as Punch, and I can say out plump and plain how I feel about you."

It was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that "plump and plain" was ludicrously descriptive of himself, but she forbore. Instead she plunged him into a state of embarrassed incoherence by demanding coolly--

"Do I understand, Hal, that you have been proposing to me?"

She cut short his explanations with a smile.

"Please don't wound my vanity by telling me this is only a tentative offer--anyway I'll put your mind at rest. Under no circumstances could I marry you: there are thousands of reasons for that decision, but the main one is, that I do not love you, and I cannot imagine anything short of a miracle that would make me love you."

She left him speechless.

The greater part of the next day he sulked in the garden, but towards the evening he grew cheerful. After all, a woman's No was not necessarily final.

He got most of his ideas from the comic papers.

Only for an instant had he entertained the suspicion that there might be Another Man, but this he dismissed as ridiculous. Alicia's refusal was very natural. She had been piqued by the fact that he had not been able to make her a definite offer. He resolved to bide his time, and come to his father on the crest of that prosperous wave which was to hand the Denver Silver Streak Mine into the lap of his astute progenitor. Then he would speak out boldly, trusting to the generosity of his father. Constructing these pleasant dreams, he found himself discussing the coming concert with Alicia, and the girl pleasantly relieved that her refusal had had so little effect upon his spirits, was a little sorry she had been so severe.

They were talking over the songs Alicia was to sing, when there was the sound of a carriage stopping outside the door, followed by an important rat-tat.

"Whoever can it be?" wondered Alicia.

She had not to wait in suspense for very long. In a few seconds the servant announced--

"Sir Harry Tanneur and Mr. Slewer."

*Part II*

*THE DUKE DEPARTS*

*I*

Years ago I discovered that truth was indeed stranger than fiction--that curious and amazing things happened daily that caused one to say, "If I had read this in a book I should have said that it was impossible." Following upon this discovery, I have observed that all the best chroniclers, exercise unusual caution in dealing with unexpected situations, carefully and laboriously laying solid foundations on which to build their literary coincidences. Fortunately Sir Harry saves me the trouble, for his first words explained his presence.

"Ah, Alicia," he pecked at her, "let me introduce our good friend Slewer--just arrived from the United States of America with a letter of introduction from the gentleman in charge of my affairs in Denver."

Alicia regarded the new arrival with polite interest.

Mr. Bill Slewer, in a ready-made suit of clothing that fitted him badly, in a soft grey shirt and a ready-made tie, shuffled uneasily under the scrutiny.

He was a tall man, with shoulders a trifle bowed and long arms that hung awkwardly. But it was his face that fascinated the girl. Scarred and seamed and furrowed till it seemed askew, what held her, were his eyes. They were pale blue and large, and in the setting of his mahogany skin he looked for all the world like one sightless. Two white discs that shifted here and there when she spoke, but which never once looked toward her.

"Mr. Slewer," Sir Harry went on, with an air of quiet triumph, "can serve you, Alicia."

"Me?" The girl's eyes opened in astonishment.

Sir Harry nodded and chuckled.

"I don't think you are likely to be annoyed with your neighbour after to-day," he said, "eh, Mr. Slewer?"

Mr. Slewer, seated on the edge of a settee, twisting his hat awkwardly by the brim and staring at a gilt clock on the mantelpiece, shifted something he had in his mouth from one cheek to the other, and said huskily and laconically--

"Naw."

"This gentleman"--Sir Harry waved his hand like a showman indicating his prize exhibit--"has been most disgracefully treated by--er--the Duke."

Alicia regarded Mr. Slewer with renewed interest and an unaccountable feeling of irritation.

"The Duke in fact," the magnate went on impressively, "fled from America to avoid the--er--just retribution that awaited him. Fled in a most cowardly fashion, eh, Mr. Slewer?"

"Yep," said the other, fingering his long yellow moustache.

"Mr. Slewer came to Denver knowing this--er--duke has property or," corrected Sir Harry carefully, "thinks he has property there, and found him gone. As I have large interests in the mining industry in that city, it was only natural that Mr. Slewer should be directed to me as being likely to know the whereabouts of--this chartered libertine."

There was a grain of truth in this story, for the astute lawyer, who was Sir Harry's agent in Denver city, had most excellent reason for wishing to know the Duke's present address. The coming of Big Bill Slewer, ripe for murder and with the hatred he had accumulated during his five years' imprisonment, played splendidly into his hands.

The girl had risen at Sir Harry's last words, and stood with a perplexed frown facing her uncle.

"Chartered libertine?" She was used to Sir Harry's hackneyed figures of speech and usually attached no importance to them.

"What has he done to this man?"

Sir Harry glanced at Mr. Slewer and that worthy gentleman shifted awkwardly. He did not immediately reply, then--

"This Jukey," he said, "went an' run away wid me wife."

She took a step backward.

"Ran away with your wife?" she repeated.

"Sure," said Mr. Slewer.

"You see?" said Sir Harry enjoying the sensation.

The girl nodded slowly.

"I see," she replied simply.

"I'm going to fix up Mr. Slewer for the night," said Sir Harry, "and to-morrow I will confront him with his victim."

Young Mr. Tanneur, an interested and silent listener, had an inspiration, "I say, governor," he blurted, "I've got a ripping idea!"

His father smiled.

"Trust you, Hal," he said admiringly.

"There's a soiree or concert to-morrow night," said the ingenious Hal, "this fellow is going to sing, why not wait till then? I can get you a couple of seats in the first row--it would be awful fun to see his face when he spots Mr. Slewer."

"Oh no!" protested the girl.

"Why not?" demanded Sir Harry? "I think it is an excellent idea."

"But----"

"Please don't interfere, Alicia," said the knight testily, "we are doing all this for your sake: there will be no fuss. As soon as the man sees this poor fellow he will skip and there will be no bother or disturbance--isn't that so, Mr. Slewer?"

"Yep," said the untruthful Bill, who had followed the conversation with interest. Such a finale was in harmony with his tastes. He wanted an audience for the act he contemplated. His ideas about the English law were of the haziest, but he did not doubt his ability to escape the consequence of his vengeance.

One question the girl put to him before his departure.

She found a surprising difficulty in putting it into words.

"Where--where is the wom--your wife now, Mr. Slewer?" she asked in a low voice.

This well-nigh proved the undoing of Mr. Slewer, whose inventive faculty was not the strongest part of his intellectual equipment. He was standing on the doorstep when she put the question, and she saw him wriggle a little in his embarrassment.

"She," he hesitated, "oh, I guess he's got her with him all right, all right." Then he remembered that this could not be so without her knowledge, and he hastened to add, "or else he's put her down and out."

"Killed her?" comprehended the girl with a gasp.

"Yep," said Mr. Slewer nodding his head. "Jukey's a mighty bad man--yes, sir."

Sir Harry was at the gate directing the cabman and young Mr. Tanneur was with him. Bill looked round and then edged closer to the girl.

"Say," he whispered, "dat Jukey feller--do youse wanter do him dirt?"

"I--I don't understand," she faltered.

He nodded his head sagely did this product of Cherry Hill, who had gone West in '93.

"To-morrer," he said, "I'm goin' to put it outer him--proper!"

He left her as a novelist would say, a prey to conflicting emotions.