Pistols for Two

by Tom Gallon

PISTOLS FOR TWO

By TOM GALLON

RANKIN was probably the most envied man who sat at dinner that summer night at the Warringtons'. Millionaires were scarce in that company, and here was a man who, at about thirty-five years of age, was already in that fortunate position. Good-looking, if a trifle heavy as to his build, with perfect health, and with the air of a man who had already grasped the world by its throat and shaken out of it what he wanted for himself.

And yet, had anyone there known all the true circumstances, or had been able, in some mysterious fashion, to delve deep into the heart of the man, they might have known him for one utterly miserable, for all his smiling appearance, and with a secret heartache that took the joy out of his life.

Brian Rankin was in love. This man, who had told himself that women were nothing to him, and never would be anything, had been knocked over by a glance from a pair of haughty grey eyes, and was as wax in the whitest fingers in the world. And he was in love hopelessly, too, which, in a cynical world, seeing that he was a millionaire, seems rather absurd.

There she was, just across the table, looking at him now languidly out of the grey eyes that had originally bewitched him. Lady Marion Coverdale-Sinclair, with a long line of Coverdale-Sinclairs stretching away behind her into goodness knows how many generations, long before the time when Brian Rankin's ancestors had been penniless small farmers in Ireland, struggling for the living they never seemed to get.

"You wouldn't look at me nor think about me twice," Rankin thought to himself, looking at the proud young head steadily, the while he listened to the chatter of the woman on his left. "Money doesn't mean anything to you, and I'm only a common fellow who has made his pile, and, according to your ideas, doesn't think anything save in a language represented by coins. And yet I'd give everything I have, and start again to-morrow, if you would just——"

He contrived to get near to her when, a little later, the men had gone into the drawing-room. With a little leaping of the heart, he noticed that she drew aside her skirts to make way for him on a settee. He sat down beside her and locked his fine, strong hands together between his knees, and began to speak of casual things. Presently, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself answering definite questions put by lips that almost smiled at him.

"Yes, I do find it somewhat lonely in London, save for business acquaintances. Oh, yes, I live quite alone, except for a man-servant. No, not a fashionable quarter, by any means, but it suits me, and the rooms are big. As a matter of fact, I'm afraid I do stay rather late at the club, sometimes till two or three o'clock in the morning. One finds company there."

He remembered afterwards that he had said all that in direct answer to smiling and interested questions put by the girl. When, a little later, he was taking his departure, it happened that Lady Marion was standing near the door of the room. As Rankin touched the hand of his hostess, Lady Marion smiled across at him and, as if casually continuing their conversation, asked, with a raising of her eyebrows—

"To the club, I suppose?"

"Yes, to the club," he replied, and smiled in return and went out.

At the club he was unlucky. He had counted on meeting one or two men to whom he could chat, and the one or two men were not there.

To make matters worse, there came into the club young Dallas Holly. It is certainly annoying, when you have had a desperate row with a man, that that man should enter a room in which you are, and should remain in it by right. Rankin had had a desperate row with young Dallas Holly only that morning, and the row had culminated in Rankin bundling the younger man out of his flat, and telling him that he was not to come back again, which is a pretty conclusive way of dealing with your secretary, especially if you pay him, as Rankin had done, all that is due to him in the way of salary and a little over.

Half an hour of it was sufficient for Brian Rankin. He threw aside the paper he had been pretending to read, and got up and went out of the club.

A taxi took him home in the matter of a few minutes, and by the time he had climbed the stairs to his flat, his good temper was restored. Dallas Holly had faded into the background, and Rankin was able to remember only that Lady Marion Coverdale-Sinclair had smiled upon him that night, and had seemed interested in his mode of life. He was whistling cheerfully when he put his key into the lock and let himself into the hall of the place.

"Are you there, Jennings?" he called, as he slipped off his overcoat.

A door at the end of the hall opened slowly, and an elderly man came out. Jennings must have come of a long line of men-servants—he was such a perfect type. His movements never seemed to be natural; it was as though he swung himself round stiffly on a pivot. He stood now looking at his brisker master, who, if the truth be told, always regarded him with almost a feeling of awe.

"I am here, sir," said the man. "Anything you require, sir?"

"No, nothing. You can go to bed." And then, as the man, with a stiff inclination of the head, was moving away, Rankin spoke again: "Has anyone called?"

"No one, sir," answered the man. And then, as he once again turned away, he revolved on his pivot and spoke hesitatingly; "At least, sir, someone did call—a lady, sir. I'd quite forgotten."

Rankin paused, with his hand on the door of the room he used as an office and general sitting-room. He looked frowningly at the servant. "A lady? What lady?"

"A young lady, sir, of the name of Jones. A Miss Jones, sir. I could make nothing of her, sir, and she"—the man waved his arm in a wooden fashion and slowly shook his head—"she went away."

"Jones?" muttered Rankin to himself. "I never heard the name in my life—at least, no one I know. Did she give no message?"

"No, sir. You see, sir, it was this way. You come hin sometimes so quietly that I don't know whether you are hin, sir, or whether you are hout, sir."

"I see," said Rankin, hiding a smile. "But I interrupt you. Pray go on, and, above all things, don't hurry."

"I told the young lady, who seemed in a great hurry, sir, that I would inquire if you was hin. I left her for a moment while I went to look. Then I heard the door bang, sir, and lo and be'old—as you might say, sir—she was gone."

Rankin nodded. "I see—wouldn't wait. It can't have been anything very important. Oh, by the way"—this as he opened the door of the room and stood for a moment looking back at Jennings—"was she pretty?"

Rankin delighted in shocking the worthy Jennings, or, at all events, in attempting to shock him. He very rarely succeeded. In this case the imperturbable servant turned an expressionless face towards his master as he replied—

"Not to my mind, sir. Fairish, maybe, but not quite to my taste, sir."

"And it's excellent taste you have, isn't it?" said Rankin, with a laugh and with that faint suspicion of the brogue that came to his tongue sometimes when he was amused. "There—go to bed."

The room into which Rankin stepped was in darkness. He switched on the light by the door, and closed the door quickly and stepped across the room. He thought he had never hated a room quite so much as he hated this one to-night. Other men seemed to find cheerful places in which to live, cosy dens where one felt at home at once. But the furniture even of this place was not of Rankin's choosing; he had taken it as it stood from the last tenant. There was a great desk at one side of the room, and an easy-chair that belied its name set against it. Against one wall was a great ugly cupboard, in which sometimes Rankin hung a coat, or into which he pitched something he did not want at the moment, in true bachelor fashion.

There was a tray on the desk, with a decanter and glasses and a syphon; there was a box of cigars set out also. Rankin mixed a drink for himself and lighted a cigar. He stood for a moment beside the litter of papers on the desk, turning one or two of them over idly in his fingers. After a moment or two he turned slowly and seated himself on the side of the desk, and so leaned, glancing about the room.

It is a well-known fact that something quite remarkable in a room may remain unnoticed for a long time, even though one is staring directly at it, and even though it is so apparent that one wonders afterwards how it could possibly have been overlooked. That was precisely the case with Rankin. He remembered afterwards that he must have stood for nearly half a minute before observing the extraordinary appearance that was showing glaringly in the crack between the big doors of the tall cupboard.

It was the end of a white lace scarf of dainty material.

Rankin straightened himself and stood upright. In a dazed sort of fashion he strove to think, stupidly enough, whether it was possible that there was anything in that cupboard belonging to himself which could produce the appearance; and while he thought that, he kept his eyes glued on the end of the lace scarf. Finally, pulling himself together with a jerk, he stepped softly across the room and bent down and touched the thing; walked round the room, warily watching it; came back to it and touched it again. At last, with the cigar gripped firmly between his teeth, he suddenly seized the handles of the doors and flung them open.

Drawn up inside the cupboard, looking at him with wide eyes, was Lady Marion Coverdale-Sinclair.

Had Rankin even suspected that a woman could hide herself in his rooms, this was absolutely the last woman he would have named for the part. It was almost like a continuance of the dream he had had of her that evening, only, for the moment, he could not understand why the dream should be carried on here. The girl stood drawn up flat against the back of the cupboard; and, after a moment, Rankin stepped back and made a courteous movement to her.

"Won't—won't you come in?" And then, as she did not move, he added whimsically: "Or, won't you come out?"

She gathered her skirts about her and made a rapid movement out of the cupboard and towards the door of the room. In an instant Rankin had stepped between her and the door, so that for a moment they stood within a foot of each other, eye to eye, the girl rebellious and defiant, Rankin keenly watchful. Then the tension of the thing was relieved, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, she stepped back.

"Well, what do you want with me?" she asked quickly.

"I think we'd better turn that question about," said Rankin. "What do you want with me?"

"I don't want anything," she answered. "I just want to—to go away."

It distressed him horribly to notice that she was breathing quickly and painfully, and that, despite the bravery with which she faced him, she was really terribly afraid. While he had not the least notion what it all meant, he yet felt in a vague fashion that he wanted to comfort and help her.

"I think you'd better sit down, Lady Marion," he said, waving his hand towards the chair that was not an easy one.

"I don't want to sit down; I don't intend to sit down," she said. "I'm quite sure, Mr. Rankin, that you will not stand between me and the door when I tell you that I want to get away. You won't dare to prevent me."

He laughed in spite of himself. "I don't think I can let you go quite like that," he said. "Of course, if it's a habit of yours to be running into gentlemen's rooms and hiding yourself in handy cupboards, that's a different matter; but to one who doesn't understand the habit, it's just a little bit surprising, as I think you'll admit. Doesn't it seem to you that you owe me some little explanation?"

"I've no explanation to offer," she said. "I know it all seems horrible, and I must leave you to think what you like about it. Of course, I never expected to be caught like this."

"Obviously not. So you are the Miss Jones who slammed the front door and then slipped back here when that bat-eyed servant of mine wasn't looking—eh?"

She nodded quickly, without looking at him. She was glancing round the place as if seeking a means of escape. He felt strangely humiliated, for the simple reason that she herself was humiliated.

"Now, I'm wondering why you came here?" he said slowly, after a pause. "It can't have been to see me, or you wouldn't have hidden yourself; and Heaven knows there's nothing very attractive in this place—at least, to a woman. What was it brought you here?"

She stood silent, swaying herself a little on her feet and still breathing quickly. Rankin looked at her in a puzzled way, as with his alert mind he began to work out some reason for her being there at all.

"I want to get the hang of this thing, Lady Marion," he said. "We met not an hour since at the Warringtons', and you, who scarcely ever deign to notice me, was anxious to know something about my movements this evening—as to whether I was going to my club. Do you remember?" Despite himself, his voice was sharpening and hardening with a growing suspicion.

"Won't you please let me go?" she said again, in almost a whisper.

"No!" The answer was prompt and decisive. Rankin, moving quickly on his feet, as he always did, got to the door and turned the key and dropped it into his pocket. As he turned quickly, he saw that Lady Marion was holding, though shakily, a small and elegant revolver, a mere pretty toy, silver-mounted and with a mother-of-pearl handle, and that revolver was pointed at him.

"Unlock that door!" said Lady Marion, in a voice that shook even as her hand did. "I—I'm desperate! Unlock the door!"

Rankin looked at her with a new admiration in his eyes. Incidentally, he had never been so tremendously interested in any person or in any situation in all his life. "Is that loaded?" he asked quietly.

"Fully loaded," she replied, "and I shan't hesitate to use it."

Whistling softly, Rankin crossed the room to the big desk, conscious that the toy weapon was nervously following him. Still whistling, he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk.

"Put up your hands!" exclaimed Lady Marion. And then, as he took not the faintest notice of her, she stamped a foot imperiously. "Do you hear what I say? If you don't throw up your hands at once, I shall fire!"

He had got the drawer open by this time, and from it he took out a heavy Army revolver. Lady Marion gave a little shriek and backed away from him; then she dropped her own weapon with a thud on the carpet and covered her face with her hands.

Rankin reversed his own weapon and stepped across to where the girl stood, and with a bow held the butt of it towards her.

"Oh, don't be afraid; I'm not going to use it. But you'll find this a much better weapon than that little thing"—he kicked it contemptuously with his foot—"and it has in its time killed a man. Catch hold of it."

"Take it away!" she exclaimed, with a shudder. "You brute!"

"Well, upon my word, there's no satisfying some people at all," said Rankin, with a laugh. "Are you quite sure that you won't change your mind and take it? You could kill me with that, always supposing, of course, that you contrived to hit me!"

"Will you take the horrible thing away?" exclaimed Lady Marion, crouching away from him against the wall.

Rankin tossed the revolver on to the desk and laughed. He was no nearer to a solution of the mystery, but, as a matter of fact, he had begun rather to enjoy the situation. When at last she looked timidly at him, she saw that he was leaning against the edge of the desk, placidly smoking and watching her. With her eyes upon him, she stooped and picked up the tiny revolver and put it in her dress.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Mr. Rankin," she said—"indeed I'm not."

"I'm deeply relieved to hear it," said he. "In fact, I may say that I breathe freely again."

She gave him a half smile and glanced at the door of the room. "Won't you please unlock the door?"

"There's plenty of time. I'm tremendously interested in you. Now that any possible unpleasantness which might have arisen is all over"—he jerked his head towards the revolver that lay on the desk beside him—"we can discuss the affair in quite a friendly spirit. After the storm—the calm. I really wish you'd sit down—Miss Jones."

"I'm not Miss Jones; you know I'm not Miss Jones," she flashed out at him.

"You told my man that you were Miss Jones—that's why I use the name. I don't quite like to think of Lady Marion being in this position. What was it you came here to get?"

It was a shot at a venture, but it went home. She coloured quickly and then as quickly went white. "How do you know I came to get anything?" she asked incautiously.

"I wonder what it was?" said the man slowly, as he moved round the desk and began searching on it. "My late secretary has left things in such confusion, confound him, that it'll take me some time to get them straight again."

"That wasn't his fault; you never gave him a chance," she broke out amazingly.

He stopped in his task of searching and looked up at her. "Why, how do you know that?" he asked quietly.

"I—I don't know it; I—I don't know anything. I didn't say I knew anything."

"How did you know that I had fired Dallas Holly this morning?" There was no answer, and he supplemented that with another question. "What is Dallas Holly to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I scarcely—scarcely know him."

Rankin had gone back to his old attitude against the desk; he was looking at her now more keenly even than before. "I fired young Dallas Holly—turned him away, if you understand that better—because he was lazy and incompetent, and because I didn't altogether trust him. I fired him so mighty quick that he hadn't got a chance to settle things up. Is that why you're here?"

She did not answer. With a hunted, desperate look in her eyes, she was watching the door. A sudden thought in his mind made Rankin swing round and search again amongst the confused mass of papers. He looked up sharply and spoke.

"There's a small account book missing, Lady Marion, to say nothing of a letter. They were both here this afternoon—in fact, when I went out this evening. I suppose you don't by any chance happen to know where they are—eh?"

There was a long silence. Rankin saw that her lips were quivering; the proud young head, held upright, was still turned a little towards that barred way of escape—the door. Moving quietly, he went across to where she stood and held out his hand. She looked at that and at him in a dull fashion for a moment or two, and then slowly raised the cloak she wore and felt in the pocket of it. From that inside pocket she took out a slim, black account book and put it quietly into his hand. Fingering that and still looking at her, he turned away with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I'm beginning to understand," he said quietly. "It's quite a pretty, melodramatic business, isn't it? You come here, armed to your pretty teeth, for the sake of young Dallas Holly. Something he hadn't cleared up—eh?" He tapped the book with a finger-nail as he spoke. "Stout fellow—to get a woman to steal for him!"

"He did not!" she flashed out. "I—I was willing—I offered!"

"To do what?"

"There was something he hadn't cleared up—something you might have misunderstood. Oh, Mr. Rankin, there's nothing wrong—indeed, believe me, there's nothing wrong! Dallas is straight—I'd stake my life on that!" The proud young voice rang out passionately. "He's careless, reckless, I know, but he's the best-hearted and the finest fellow in the world—my Dallas!"

Rankin looked round at her quickly. "So that's the way the cat jumps, is it?"

She nodded quickly, looking at him with steady eyes. "Yes. We're going to be married. No one knows yet, but it's all settled between us. Now you understand, don't you?"

He was weighing the little book in his hands; he looked at her with a half smile.

"Awfully fond of him, Lady Marion, I suppose?" he suggested wistfully.

"I love him," she answered, and then, as an after-thought—"very dearly."

With a strange, jerky bow, he held out the book to her. "Here's your book, Lady Marion," he said. "I don't think I want to look at it. I'll unlock the door."

He had crossed the room, and had taken out the key and had unlocked the door, and was holding it open, before she seemed to realise what he meant. And then, gripping the book in her hand, she looked at him incredulously. "But what are you doing?" she asked.

"Lady Marion, I don't make war on women," he said, with something of the grand manner that perhaps no one else had ever seen in him. "Take the book to your Dallas, by all means; the incident is closed. Shall my man get a taxi for you—or I would do it myself?"

"I'm not going to let you turn me out like this," she exclaimed, inconsistently enough. "The incident is not closed, by any means. If you think you're going to turn me out of the place like this, leaving behind me an entirely false impression concerning Mr. Dallas Holly——"

"My dear Lady Marion, I have never in all my life had a false impression concerning any man," broke in Rankin quickly. "I reckoned up Mr. Dallas Holly about ten minutes after he had first entered my employment. I was a rough and tough sort of fellow, and it seemed to me that I wanted a gentleman to teach me the ropes a bit. I met young Dallas Holly——"

"And you liked him at once, didn't you?"

The eyes that looked so eagerly into his were disconcerting; he answered vaguely. "Naturally, or I should not have employed him. Holly told me that he was looking for some real work to do in the world, and I gave him his chance to do the real work. I made him my private secretary. You see, he'd been well brought up, and I hadn't. I'd fought my fight in my own rough way, and I had made my pile, and, in spite of what men said, I had made it cleanly."

"You're not suggesting——" she began indignantly.

"I'm suggesting nothing. Under all the circumstances, I think it will be wiser and better if you take that book away and hand it over to Mr. Holly. He can return it to me at his leisure, when the accounts are straight."

"I'm going to look at it now," she said. "You shan't suggest things like this against him when he's not here to defend himself. I'm going to look at it now."

She was fumbling with the leaves, and, as she did so, a letter fell from between them. She stooped quickly and picked it up, with a glance at Rankin. He felt that he was beginning to be desperately sorry for her.

"I don't think I'd look at it," he said. "Much better to let it alone. After all, you've gained your end, Lady Marion; you can take the book away and let him have it. I shall never know anything about it when he returns it in due course."

Almost scornfully she held out the book, and the letter with it, towards him. "I challenge you to tell me what is wrong, and to tell me truthfully," she said.

He took the book and opened it. After a glance at the folded letter, he passed it across to her. She opened it with a puzzled frown and looked at it.

"In a small way, Lady Marion, I give a certain amount away in charity from time to time, perhaps as a sort of thank-offering to a Providence that has been very good to me. Lately, since Mr. Holly has been here, I have been handing him over considerable sums, with instructions as to how the sums should be divided. A day or two back I directed Mr. Holly to send a cheque for five hundred pounds to the Poor Children's Hospital. You see"—Rankin smiled apologetically—"I had been a poor child myself, and I liked to think that perhaps I was helping a few of the same sort. Five hundred pounds was the amount, and you hold the receipt for it in your hands."

She opened the folded paper and read it half aloud, "'Many thanks for your generous contribution of one hundred pounds.' But surely there is some mistake, Mr, Rankin?"

"Sounds like it, doesn't it," he answered bitterly. "Do you know the writing in this book?" He handed the book to her again.

She bent over the page and answered quickly: "Of course—Dallas."

"You will please note that he's been careful to enter the five hundred pounds as being contributed to the hospital."

It took her a moment or two to get the full sense of the thing, the full horror of it, and then she flared out at him indignantly: "I don't believe it—I won't believe it! He wouldn't do a thing like that!"

"Of course he wouldn't," answered Rankin, with a laugh, "And yet he was mighty anxious to get hold of the book and the letter, wasn't he? There—why trouble about it? Let us say that he borrowed the four hundred; it's a prettier word, Lady Marion." He took the book and the folded paper, and tossed them on to the desk. "As I said just now, the incident is closed. I've done some queer things in my time, but I've drawn the line at robbing hospitals."

"I tell you there is some mistake," said the girl again. "Why don't you give him his chance? Why will you judge him when he's not here to answer for himself? The people at the hospital may have made a mistake as to the amount. Give him his chance to explain."

"How is any explanation possible, with you in this room at this hour, and he with the knowledge of why you came?" asked Rankin. "However, I like to play the square game, if I can, and he shall have his chance. It's been my way to judge men quickly, and perhaps to judge them hardly."

While she watched him, he dropped into the big chair behind the desk and took up the telephone. After a moment he asked for a number and got it.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I shall get him at the club; I left him there half an hour ago," he answered her brusquely. And then, speaking into the instrument: "I wish you'd tell me if Mr. Dallas Holly is there. He is? Ask him to come to the 'phone for a moment—Brian Rankin speaking."

"What will you say to him?" asked Lady Marion, in the inevitable pause that followed.

"Nothing. I'll leave him to do the talking. Hullo, Holly, is that you? Sorry to worry you at this hour of the night. Could you come round for five minutes to see me? Matter? No, what should be the matter? You'll come? I'm greatly obliged to you. Good-bye." Rankin hung up the receiver and got to his feet. "He'll be here in five minutes," he said to the girl. "In other words, in five minutes he'll come into this room, and he'll find you, and he'll know that you've failed in what you set out to do. It doesn't give him a dog's chance—that, does it?"

She was white to the lips, but she spoke as bravely and as proudly as ever. "I know that he can explain; he had a perfectly good reason for asking me to get that book and the letter. He couldn't come himself; you had told him never to enter the place again."

"I'm not doubting for moment, Lady Marion, that he's a fine fellow, and all that you judge him to be, and I'd like to give him his chance. It's you who have been put to the test to-night—a bitter test for any woman. It might have happened that I was a blackguard; that does not seem to have occurred to him. Suppose I had found you here stealing an important paper—for that is exactly what it amounted to—and had refused to recognise the fact that I knew you, and had handed you over to the police. Suppose that I had realised that you'd put yourself utterly in my power—oh, suppose anything! Have you thought about that side of the question? You've had your test and come through it. How would you like to test him?"

"I'm not afraid; you can do as you like," she answered, looking at him curiously.

"Good!" His tone was decisive. "Then I propose to arrange a little scene for Mr. Dallas Holly—something that shall strike him at once, in a dramatic sense, when he enters the room. We've got to be quick, because I expect his taxi is already well on the way."

She watched him as he moved quickly across to the big cupboard and threw open the doors. A heavy silk dressing-gown hung in one corner of it, and out of this he pulled the waist-cord. He closed the doors again and, carrying the cord, came to where she stood. "Please turn your back to me and put your hands behind you," he said.

Dominated by his stronger will, she did as she was told; and while he pinioned her wrists—and he was in a mood to kiss the little delicate palms upturned under his eyes—he explained quickly what was in his mind.

"I have discovered you in my rooms, Lady Marion, and I have very brutally overpowered you, despite frantic struggles on your part, and I have forced from you a confession as to why you are here. I sincerely hope I am not hurting your wrists at all? Then, before I confront Mr. Holly with you, I purpose to put you behind that curtain which stretches across the window, so that I can disclose you at the real dramatic moment. I hear the sound of a taxi; he will be up the stairs in a moment now, and I must let him in."

"May I suggest that you should put away that revolver?" said the girl, nodding her head towards it where it lay upon the desk.

"I don't intend to do that," answered Rankin coolly. "I think it only right, Lady Marion, in this crisis of our lives, to tell you quite seriously that I love you with all my heart and soul, and that I have loved you since first I saw you. There, again, comes in the bully and the brute, because I am taking an unfair advantage of you. Come along!"

She was behind the curtains, and the bell of the outer door of the flat was actually ringing, when she thrust out a lovely flushed face and spoke in a quick whisper. "I knew you loved me—a woman always knows," she said, and then was gone again before he could reply.

Dallas Holly followed the other man into the flat nervously enough, and looked about him quickly as if in search of someone. He was a particularly well-dressed young man, with a cultivated air of boredom that had become almost natural. "Thought I might as well come round, as you made a point of it," he drawled. "As a matter of fact, I had not intended to come here again after the way in which you treated me. What is it you want?" He yawned expansively and stared insolently at Rankin. And while he stared at the other man, his mind was working to know what could have happened.

"I've had a visitor, Mr. Holly, a friend of yours," began Rankin.

"I don't think I'm concerned to know anything about your visitors," retorted the other.

"But this happens to be a friend of yours—Lady Marion Coverdale-Sinclair," said Rankin slowly. "Don't you wonder what has become of her?"

"My dear Rankin, I haven't the ghost of a notion what you're driving at," said Holly. "If you've fetched me round here on some cock-and-bull story told by a woman, I simply won't listen to it."

"Then you're quite expecting that some cock-and-bull story, as you phrase it, has been told by some woman about you?" exclaimed Rankin quickly. "Perhaps that woman you sent round here to play a game you were afraid to play yourself, that woman who had more courage in her little finger than you have in your lazy body."

"Let me know precisely what it is you're talking about," said the other man, speaking in a strained voice.

"About a little matter of four hundred pounds, taken from a hospital that badly needed the money. Lady Marion did not get the book nor the receipt, after all, but she innocently helped me to discover the fraud."

"Once again I tell you I don't know what you're talking about. And if any woman says that I got her to help me in—in any matter"—the man was floundering badly, but he still carried the thing off with something of an air—"she lies!"

The curtains parted and Lady Marion stepped out into the room. For a moment Dallas Holly caught his breath and drew himself up tensely. There was a strange silence in the room. Perhaps the younger man realised that the game was up. In all probability he was reckless of what he did.

"I would have forgiven you, Dallas, for anything but this," said the girl at last, in a low voice that yet seemed to echo in every corner of the room. "Many a man is tempted, especially where big sums are put in his way, and you and I together might have put that right. But you've done worse than that—you've gone back on a friend. I thought once that I loved you; I know now that in my heart I've never loved you at all. For all that you knew, you left me to the mercy of this man. He caught me here and bound me as he would have bound any other common thief"—she twisted about so that she might show her bonds, and at the same moment threw a glance in the direction of Rankin that set his heart thumping madly—"and he must do with me as he will. The blame is mine, and I must take the punishment."

Dallas Holly stood glancing from one to the other, with his face working, and then suddenly he made a dash for the big desk and caught up the revolver. Rankin did not move; perhaps he knew his man. For the matter of that, Lady Marion did not scream or move; perhaps she knew the man, too. Holly stood for a moment with the thing gripped in his hand; he held it shakingly towards his head, and then, with a shudder, he let it fall on the desk. He twisted about as though to say something, and finally, with a sound in his throat that was half a laugh and half a sob, he walked quickly from the room. They heard the door of the flat bang in the distance.

"There's no one loves me in all the world!" she said, with her head up and her lips quivering.

"That's not true," he answered steadily. "You didn't say that just now."

"Life isn't worth anything to me," she went on inconsequently. "If you're the man I think you are, kill me!"

He started and looked queerly at her, but he had a notion that he must answer her in her own coin. "Very well," he said, and he stooped and picked up the weapon from the desk. "If you have the courage, so have I. Shut your eyes."

She shut her eyes and stood there without a tremble. "Please be quick! "she murmured.

With a little laugh, he stepped up to her and kissed her on the lips. She opened her lovely grey eyes then full upon him, and the smile came before the blush that suffused her face. She seemed for a moment, pinioned as she was, to sway towards him, and then came her whisper—

"Oh, you coward!"

Copyright 1913, by Tom Gallon, in the United States of America.