The evening world. Newspaper, July 22, 1922, Page 13

i) THE EVENING WORLD, SATURDAY, JULY 22, WHO’S WHO IN THE STORY. SIR HUBERT GALLANFIELD, master of the South Leicester Hounds and father of MOLLY GALLANFI that won scores of admirers MR. DAWSON, attentive to hunting field. MAJOR DAVID DAWLISH, JOHN MARSTO} LD, a splendid horsewoman and a girl Miss Gallanfield at home and in secretary of the Hunt Club , a stranger, the “man in ratcatcher DANNY DRAYTON, a memory to friends, one of the missing in France. “Ratoatohor”’ le the ignominious term for mufti on the hunting field.) 66 4 AIN'T much ter look at, Major, but ‘e’s a ‘andy little ‘orse. A groom stood at the animal's head, waiting for the tall, Spare man with the bronzed, weather- beaten face, who was slowly drawing @n his gloves in the yard, to mount. Tdly the groom wondered if the would- be sportsman knew which side of a horse it was customary to get into the saddle from. What could you ex- Pect these times when most of the men who could ride in days gone by would ride no more; and a crowd of galloping tinkers, with rank cigars and ranker manners, had taken their Places? When he thought of the men who came now—and the women, too— to Boddington’s Livery Stable, re- nowned for fifty years, and contrasted them with their predecessors, he was wont to spit, mentally and literally. And the quods—Strewth! It was a fair disgrace to turn out such ‘orses from Boddington's “Let out that throat-lash a couple of holes."* The groom looked at the speaker @azediy; a bloke that knew the name of a single bit of saddlery on a horse's back was a rare customer these days, “And take that fronmonger's shop out of the poor brute’s mouth, I'll ride him on a snaffle."" “°H pulls a bit when ‘e's fresh, Major," said the groom, dubtously, The tall, spare man laughed. bs § think [ll risk it,” he answered. “Where did you pick him up—at a Jumble sale?" “"B ain't much ter look at, I knows, Major,"" said the groom, carrying out his instructions. ‘But {f yer ‘andle ‘fm easy, and nurse ‘im a bit, ‘e'll give yer some sport.”’ I can quite believe tt.’ remarked the other, swinging into the saddle. Before he had gone fifty yards the horse's head had come up a little, he was walking more collectedly—look- ing as if he had regained some of the spring of former days. For there was a man on his back—a man born and bred to horses and their ways— and it would be hard to say which of the two, the groom or the animal, realized it first. The groom's old Pride in Boddington's felt outraged at Raving to offer such a mount to such @ man. He turned as a two-seated racing car pulled up in the yard, and @ young man stepped out. He nodded to the groom as he removed his coat, and the latter touched his cap. “Grand day, Mr. Dawson," he re- marked. ‘Scent should be good." The newcomer grunted tndifferent- ly and adjusted his already faultles stock, while another groom led out a magnificent blood chestnut from a loose-box. “Who was the fellah In ratcatcher I passed, ridin’ that awful old quod of yours?" he asked, To such a sartorial exquisite a Bowler hat and a@ short coat was al- Most a crime. “I dunno, sir,’ sald the groom, “Ain't never seen ‘Im before to the best of me knowledge, But you'll see ‘im at the finish.’’ The other regarded his chestnut complacently. “He won't live half a mile if we get goin’,”” he remarked. ‘You want a horse {f hounds find In Spinner’ ©opse, not a prehistoric bone-bag. He gave a short laugh in which there was more than a hint of self-satia- faction. ‘‘And you can't get a horse without money these days, George, and big money at that.'’’ He care- fully adjusted his pink coat as he sat im the saddle. ‘‘Have the gray taken to Morton Crossroads; and you can take the car there, too,'’ he contin- ued, turning to the chauffeur. Then with a final hitch at his coat, he too went out of the yard. The old groom watched him dispassionately un- til a bend in the road hid him from sight. Then he turned to one of his underlings and delivered himself of one of his cryptic utterances, “* ‘Ave yer ever seen @ monkey, Jos, sittin’ on the branch of a tree, ‘uggin’ ® waxwork doll?"’ “Can't say as ‘ow I ro, G'arge,"” returned the other, Sogitation. “Well, monkey'd on @ ‘orse. HE meet of the South Leices- ters at Spinner's Copse gen- erally produced a field even larger than the normal huge @rowd which followed that well-known pack. It was near the center of their country, and if Fate was kind, and the fox took the direction of Hang: man's Bottom, the line was unsurpass- ed in any country in the world. Tt was « quarter to eleven when the after profound Yar don't need to. That the same shape ‘as ‘im tall, spare man, having walked the three-quarters of a mile from Bodding ton's, dismounted by the side of the road and thoughtfully lit a cigarette. His eyes took in every detail of the old familiar scene, and, in spite of himself, his mind went back to the Inst time he had been there. He smiled a little bitterly; he had been a fool to come and open old wounds This game wasn't for him any more; his hunting days were over. If thing had been different; if only— He drew back as a blood chestnut, fretting and Irritable under a pair of heavy hands, came dancing by, spattering mud in all directions. If only—well, he might have been riding that chestnut instead of the hedted clothes-peg on his back now. He looked with a kind of weary eynicism at his own mount, mournful- ly nibbling grass. Then he laid a kindly hand on the animal's neck. “"Taint your fault, old son, ts {t?”’ he muttered. ‘But to think of Spin- ner's Copse—and you!" “Hounds, gentlemen, please."" The man looked up quickly with a sudden gleam in his eyes as hounds came slowly past. A new second whip they'd got; he remembered now, Wil- son had been killed at Givenchy. But the huntsman, Mathers, was tho Same—a little greyer perhaps—but still the same shrewd, kindly sports- man, He caught his eye at that mo- ment, and looked away quickly There weren't likely to be many of the old crowd out to-day, and he'd altered almost beyond recognition— but it was as well to be on the safe side. And Mat @rs, he remembered of old, had an eye like a hawk. He pretended to fumble with his girths, turning his back on the hunts- man. It was perhaps as well that he did so for his own pence of mind; for Joe Mathers, with his jaw slowly opening, was staring fascinated at the stooping figure. He was dreaming, of course; {t couldn't be him—not possibly, ‘The man whom this stranger was like was dead—killed on the Somme. Entirely imagination. But still the huntsman stared, until a sudden raising of hats all round an- nounced the arrival of the master. It was the moment that the tall, quiet man, standing a little aloof on the outskirts of the crowd, had been dreading. He had told himself fre- quently that he had forgotten the girl who stepped out of the car with her father. But now, as he saw once more the girl's glowing face and her slender, upright figure, showed off to perfection by her habit, he stifled a groan, and cursed himself more bit- terly than ever for having been such a fool as to come. If only—once again those bitter words mocked him. He had not forgotten; he never would forget; and it was not the least part of the price he had to pay for the criminal negligence of his late father. He glanced covertly at the girl; she was talking vivactously to the man whom he had designated as a heated clothes peg. He noticed the youth bending toward her with an air of possession which infuriated him; then he laughed and swung himself into the saddle. What had it got to do with him? On a sudden impulse he turned toa farmer next him. “Who {s that youngster talking to the master's daughter?" he asked, Tho farmer looked at him in mild surprise. “You'm a stranger to these parts, mister, evidently,” he said, “That be young Mr. Dawson, and folks do say he be engaged to Miss Gollanfield.”* Engaged! To that young blighter! With hands like pothooks and a seat like an elephant! And then, quite suddenly, he produced his handker- chief and proceeded most unnecessar- ily to blow his nose. For Mathers was talking excitedly to Sir Hubert Gol- lanfield and Major Dawlish, the hunt secretary; and the eyes of all three men were fixed on him, "I thought it was before, sir, and then I saw him mount, and I know,” said Mathers, positively. “It can't be. He was killed in , answered the Master, “Wasn't he, David?" “I've always heard so,” sald Daw- eh. “I'll go and cap him now and have @ closer look.” “Anyway, Joe, not a word at Present." The Master turned to Mathers. ‘We'd better draw the spinney first.'’ HROUGH the crowd, as it slowly moved off, the secre- tary threaded his way toward the vaguely familiar figure mhead. It couldn't be; it was out of the question. And yet as he watched him, more and more did he begin to believe that the huntaman was right. Little movements; an odd, tndefinable hitch of the shoulders; the set of the stranger's head. And then, with al- most @ catch in his breath, he saw that the man he was following had left the crowd, and was unostenta- tlously edging for a certain gap, which to the uninitiated appeared al- most a cul-de-sac. Of course, it -VENING~ WORLD’S~COMPL pee lS BF \. AL STORY OF might be just chance hand, that gap was guarded preserve—as things may be guarded—of the cho. sen few who really rode; the first flighters—the men who took their own + on the the closely far as sich other line nd wanted that invaluable hun dred yards’ start to get them clear of the mob. Slightly quickening his pace, the secretary followed his quarry. He overtook him just as he had joined the bare dozen, who, with hats ram med down, sat waiting for the first whimper: They were regarding the newcomer with a certain curiosity as the secretary came up. Who was this fellow jn ratcatcher mounted on a hopeless screw? And what was he doing here, anyway? “Mornin’, David." A chorus of greeting hailed the advent of the popular secretary, but, save for a brief nod and smile, he took no notice, His’ eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was carefully adjusting one of his leathers. “Excuse me, sir." Major Dawlish walked his horse up to him, and then sat staring and motionless. ‘It can't be——'' He spoke under his breath, and the stranger apparently falled to hear, “What is the cap?'' he asked, court- eously. “A fiver this season, I be- Neve." “Danny!"" The secretary was vis!- bly agitated ‘You're Danny Drayton! And we thought you were dead!" “I fear, sir, that there is some mis- take,"’ returned the other. ‘My name is John Marston."’ In silence the two men looked at one another, and then Major Dawlish bowed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston,"* he said gravely, “But you bear a strange resemblance to a certain wery dear friend of mine, whom we all be- Moved had been killed at Flers in 1918. He combined two outstanding quall- ties," continued the secretary delib- erately, “did that friend of mine— quixotic chivalry to the point of idiocy, and the most wonderful horse- manship.”" Once more the eyes of the two men met, and then John Marston looked away. “[ am sorry,"' he remarked quietly, that you should have lost your friend.” “Ah, but have I, Mr. Marston; have I?" quickly “You tell me he died at Flers,"’ re- turned the other. “And very few mis- takes were made in such matters which have not been rectifled since.” “He disappeared a year or two be- fore the war,"’ said the secretary, “suddenly—without leaving a trace. interrupted David Dawlish We hea’! he had gone to New Zea- land; but we could get no confirma- tion. Do you ever go to the Grand National, Mr. Marston?’' he contin- ued, with apparent Irrelevance, HE ‘stranger stiffened in his saddle, “I have been,"’ he answered, abruptly, Merciful heavens! wouldn't some hound own to scent soon? “Do you remember that year when @ certain gentleman rider was booed on the course?’ went on the secre- tary, reminiscently, “It was the year John Drayton & Son went smash for half a million; and it was the son who was booed.’ “I don't wonder,’ returned the stranger. ‘‘He was a fool to ride." “Was he, Mr. Marston? Was he? Or was it just part of that quixotic chivalry of which I have spoken? The horse was a rogue. There was no one else who could do him justice, so rather than disappoint his friend, the owner, the son turned out." “And very rightly got hissed for his pains,’ said John Marston, grimly. “I remember the sinast well—Drayton's smash, It ruined thousands of poor people, and only 4 yal quibble saved a criminal prosecution.” “True,'' asserted the Secretary, “but it was ¢ ton's fault. We all knew it at the t Danny Dray- ton—the son" “The man who died at Flers," tn- terrupted Jolin Marst and the sec- retary looked ut “Perhaps; } have occurred, | whether he didn't quie 4. Mistakes hether he died or was incap. able of even a m He was not to blame “T must beg ti sir," returned John Marston. ‘The firm was Dray- ton @ Son. The son was responsible as much as the father. 1 If one mem- of a firm goes wrong the other nember must make good, It ts only fair to the public “T see,'' answered the secretary. “Then T wonder who the other mem- her of the firm can have been? The father died soon after the exposure; the son died at Flers."" He looked John Mar rught in the face. : would seem to account for returned the other, Indif- on Phat the firm," ferently “Except seoretary, for one thing,’ said the “the significance of which strangely enough—has only just struck me. There's a certain old farmer in this district who Invested one hundred pounds with Drayton— all his savings. Along with the rest, {t went smash. A month or two ago he received one hundred and thirty- five pounds tn notes from an un- known source. Seven years’ inte at five per cent, is thirt pounds.’’ And suddenly the secretary, usually one of the most unemotional of men, le rd in his saddle, Kittle hk ou damned quixotic fool! Come back to us; we can't afford to lose a man who can go like you." ‘The man in ratcatcher stared fix- edly in front of him—his profile set and rigid. For a moment the temp tation was well-nigh overwhelming; every account squared up—every loss made good. Then, ringing in his ears, he heard once more the yell and catcalls as he had cantered the stand at Aintree. “As I said to you before, sir,"’ he 4, facing the secretary steadily “My name {s John Marston. You are making a mistake." What Major Dawilish's reply would have been will never be known. He seemed on the point of an explosion of wrath, when clear and shrill through the morning alr came Joo Mathers’s “gone away."* The pack " came tumbling out of covert, and everything else was forgotten, “It's the right line,” erted John Marston, excitedly. tom, for a quid." The field stre “Hangman’s Bot- med off, every one according to their own peculiar meth ods, bent on getting the best they could out of a breast-high scent They had gone two miles without the suspicion of a chack before the secretary found himself near ir Hu- bert “It's Danny, Hubert,’ sald the sec retary, as they galloped side by side over a pasture field toward a stiff looking post and rails. “Calling him self John Marston The Master grunted—glancing for a moment under his bushy eyebrows at the man, two or three hundred yacds in front, who, despite his mount, still lived with the vanguar “Of course {t 1s," he snorted “There's no one else would be where he 1s, on a horse Ike that, with hounds running at this rate.’ “What's his game, David?" “Quixotic tommyrot,'’* snorted the other, ‘tHe knows L know he's Dan ny, but he won't admit it" “Haa Molly seen him yet?" Sir Hubert glan away to the left Where his daughter, on a raking black, had apparently got her hands full “I don't know." The secretary, frowning slizhtl followed the direction of the other gaze, David Dawlish was no lover of young Dawson. He watched the girl for @ moment, noting the proxim.t of the blond chestnut close to | he turned back to his old fr hat black !s too much for M Hubert," he said, a trifle une “He'll get away with her some day Cyril M¢Neile. ( aoe R OF “BULLDOG mA HE ENGLISH. HUNTIN You tell her so, and seo what happens, old man," chuckled Sir Hubert. “I tried once." Then he re verted to the old subject. ‘What are We going to do about It, David, if it is Danny?" “There's nothing we can do," an swered the other, “Officially, he's dead, the War Ottice has said so. If he chooses to remain John Marston we can't stop him,"* And so for a time the matter was left; the hunting fleld, when the go ing 1s hot, ts no place for Idle specula- tion and talk, HE pace by this time was be- ginning to tell. The main body of the hunt stretched over half a dozen fields; even the firet fight section was getting thinned out, and it was Dayld Daw lish topped the slight rise which hid the brook at the bottom of tho valley beyond—the notorious Cedar Brook—that he found himself next to Molly Gollanfleld. Streaming up the other side were hounds, with Joe Mathers safely over the water and fifty yards behind them. Two or three others were level with him, riding wide to his flank, but the secretary's eyes were fixed on & man in rateatcher was just ramming an obviously tired horse at the brook, With a faint grin, he noted the place he had selected to Jump; the spot well known to every one familiar with the country as being the best and firmest takeoff. He watched the horse rise just fail to clear—setumble and peck badly; he saw the rider literally lift it on to its legs again, and sail on with barely @ perceptible pause. And then he glanced at Molly Gollanfleld “Well ridden; well ridden!’ The girl's impulsive praise at a consum- mate piece of horsemanship made him smile a little grimly. ‘They flew the brook simultaneously, young Dawson a few yards behind, and swept on up the other side of the valley. “Who 1s that man In front, David?" called out the girl. treat to watch him ride."’ “His name, so he tells me, ts John Marston,’ sald the secretary, quietly “Has he ever been out with us be: fore as who Uncle “It's a They breasted the hill as he spoke, to find that the point had ended with a kill In the open. For a few moments no one could think or speak of any thing but the run, And it was a Cap. tuin Malvin, in one of the Lancer r iments, who recalled the mysterious nger to the girl's mind. {s that fellow In ratcateler, Major?" Malvin was standing by F poke and the girl glance nd the subject of his inter had dismounted twenty yards away, and was making of his horse, which was compictely oKed ‘Saw him In Boddingt arked ng Dawson i devil did he manage to get here that?" ‘By A process known d Matvin briefly oe riding “If you mo , Started to 1922, The Man in atcatcher:; apper)—<4 that man ona mule he'd stl be at the top of a hunt—eh, Miss Gollanfield?”" Rut Molly Gollanfleld was staring fascinated at the stranger. “Who did you say {t was, Uncle David?’ Her voice was low and tense, and Malvin glanced at her in surprise, “Jolin Marston,” returned the aec retary slowly, ‘is the name he gave me." And at that moment the man fn rateate Jooked at the girl she faltered Danny, I thought “John Marstont"? “Why—tt's Danny! you were dend!"’ She walked her horse toward him and held out her hand, while @ won- derful Nght dawned in her eyes. “Danny,” she cried, “don't you re- member me?” Gradually the look of joy faded SHE HEARD A_ DREADFUL CLASH BEHIND HER—SHE WAS PAST THE GAP. from her face, to be replaced by one of blank amazement. For the man was looking at her as if she had been a stranger, Then, with a courteous bow, he re- moved his hat. ‘You are the second person, madam, who has made the same mistake this morning. is John Marston.” But the girl only stared at him in silence and shook her head “I've been watching you ride, Dan- My name ny,’ she said at length, ‘and just think of 1t—I didn't know you, What a blind little fool I was, wasn't 17" “I don't see how you could be ex- pected to recognize me, madam," an swered the man, “I hope you'll hat ag good a second run as the one we've Just had. I'm afratd poor old nag must go stableward, He looped the reins over his arm, and once more raised his hat as he turned away, “But, Danny," cried tho girl, a little wildly, ‘you can't go Itke this."* “Steady, Molly.’ Young Dawson was standing beside her, looking a little ruffed, don't know who the devil Danny 18 or was; but this fel- low says he's John Marston, You can't go throwin’ your arms round @ stranger's neck In the huntin’ field, It's simply not done.” “When I require your assistance on what {s or is not done, Mr. Daw- son, I will let you know,” returned the girl coldly, “Until then, kindly keep such information to yourself."’ “Mr, Dawson!" The youth recoiled & pace. ‘Molly! what do you mean? But the girl was taking not the slightest notice of him; her eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was talking for a moment to David Daw- Ush. “You forgot to take my cap,” he aid to the secretary, with a smile ‘If you Mke I will send {t along by Post; or, {f you prefer it, I have it on me now." ND at that moment It oc curred, Perhaps it was @ horse barging into the black's quarters; pe was the sudden flash of young Daw son's ¢* arette case tn the sun. Per- haps only Uncle David saw what really caused the black ive wild convulsive buck bolt Mke the wind with the « ng vainly at its mouth With that agonized o: started to clamber Into his suddle “The quarry!"" His fr sent a chill into the hearts heard, and mount. ape tt one Sir Hubert who ading stralght for the Lisused slate pit. But It was the immaculate Dawson who suffered the greatest shock He had Just got his foot into the stirrup when he felt himself picked up Ike 4 child and deposited In the mud. And mounted on his chestnut was the man In rateatchor. "Keep back—all of you." The tall figure the saddle and rose in dominated the scer IV's a one-man job" ‘Then he swung the chestnut round, gave him one rib-binder and followed the bolting black, “HL! you, wir!’ apluttered Dawson, that's my horse." But no one paid the smallest atten- ton to the aggrieved youth; they were staring at the two galloping horses. They saw the man swinging left- handed. “What's he doing? What's he do- ing? David Dawlish was jumping up and down in his excitement. “Ee'll never oatch her like that." “He will," roared the cavalryman. "Oh, lovely, lovely—look at that re- covery, sir—I ask you, look at it! Don't you seo his game, man?" ho turned to the secretary. ‘Ho's coming up between her and the quarry, and he'll ride her off. If he came up straight behind, nothing could save em. It's too el Fascinated, the fleld watched the rim race—helpless, unable to do anything but alt and look om A crowd of galloping horses would have maddened the black to frenzy. For a few agonizing seconds, when the girl first realized that Nigger was bolting, she panicked; then, being a thor- oughbred herself, she pulled herself together and tried to stop him. But he was away with her—away with her properly; and it was just as she realized {t, that a strong, ringing volee came clearly from behind her left shoulder, “Drop your near rein. both hands on your ¢ pull! I'm comin She heard the thud of his horse be- Molly; nd pull put girl hind her and the black spurted again, Kut the chestnut erept up until {t was level with her girths—till the two horses were neck and neck mull, darling, thrill she heard tense beside her “Pull—pull, on that off retn.? She felt the chestnut hard ngainst her leg as the man, exerting every ounco of his strength, started to ride her off The black was coming round little by little, and at last, she realized that they were galloping parallel with the edge of the quarry and not toward tt. It had been touch and go—another twenty yards, und then, at the same moment, they both saw ft, Straight in front of them, stretching back from the top of the pit, there yawned a great gap. She had forgotten the landslip during the last summer. She saw the man lift his crop, and rive the black a heavy blow on the near side of his head: she heard his nzled shout of “Pull—for God's sake—pull! and then she was gal loping alone, Dimly she heard a dread ful crash and clatter behind her; she had one fleeting glimpse of a chest- nut horse rolling over and over, and bumping sickeningly downward, while something else bumped downward then she, was past the gap with a foot to spare. That one stunning blow with the erop had swung the amazed black through half a right angio to safety; tt had made the chestnut swerve through half a right angle the other way to- Ah, no! not that, Not dead—not dead. He couldn't be that—not Panny. And sho knew it was Danny; had known it all along, Blowing Nke a steam: en) the black had stopped, exhausted, and ghe left him standing where he was, as she ran back to the edge of the gap. “Danny! Danny—my man!" she called in agony Speak — just a word, Danny."' Feverishly she started to clamber down toward the still fig- ure below. But no answer came to her; only the thud of countless other horses, as the field came up to the scene of the disaster, Sir Hubert, babbling incoherently “Only Danny could have done it," he cried over and over again. ‘Only Danny could have saved her, And, he has—and given his life to do It.” He peered over the top and called out anxiously to the girl below: “Careful, my darling, careful; we can get to him round by the road." But the girl paid no heed to her father's cry, and when half a dozen men, headed by David Dawlish, rode furiously tn by the old entrance to the quarry, they found her sitting on the ground with the unconscious n's head pillowed on her lap. Sho lifted her face, streaming with rs, and looked at the secretary ‘He's dead, Uncle David. Danny! my Danny! And {t was all my fault."” One of the men stepped forward “May I examine him, Miss Gollan- pull!’ With a wild his votce low and too: te fleld?’’ He knelt down beside the me tionless figure. “I'm not a doctor, but For what seemed an eter- he bent over him, then bh rose y ‘A flask at once. There ts still iife."” It was not until the limp body had 1y placed on an extemporized to wait for the ambulance avairyman turned to David Dawlish “Danny he said thoughtfully “Not Danny Dr “Himself a replied the Secreta as John M T aval ed softly “Couldn't y 1 Daw! tah “And yet it's not very difficult a. oe ‘The sins of the fathers are visited’ you know the rest. He disappeared and every single sufferer in that crast ts being paid back “But why that dreadful day?'' pursued the soldier. “All he could get, most likely. Bod dington's cattle are pretty Indifferen these days.’ Dawlish glanced at thr stretcher, and the corners of hii: mouth twitched, ‘The damned youns fool could have had the pick of ms stable if he'd asked for {t,"" he said gruffy. "Danny—on that herrint gutted brute—at Spinner's Copse! Bu he was always as proud aa Lucifer was Danny; and I'm thinking no ont will ever know what he's sufferec since the crash." {4 ELL, Sir Philip.” with her father and Davi Dawlish, Molly w: waiting in the hall {: hear the verdict. Sir Philip Wert wood, the great surgeon, glanced a‘ the girl and smiled gravely. “As far as I can see,’ he said “there is nothing broken; only ver; severe bruises and a bad concussion In a week he should be walkine again.” “Thank God!" whispered the gir and Sir Philip patted her shoulder “A great man," he said, “and sreat deed. I'll come over to-morrow and see hin again.” He walked toward the fremt door followed by Bir Hubert, and the gt: turned her swimming eyes on Di Dawlish. “If he'd died, Uncle David," said, brokenly, “‘I—} “He's not going to, Molly,” inter rupted the Secretary. Then, after + pause, "Why did you put the spu; into Nigger?’ he asked, curtously. “You saw, did you?" The gir stared at him miserably. ‘“Becaus+ I was a little fool; because I was ma with him—because I loved him, anc he called himself John Marston She rose and laughed a little wildly “And then when Nigger really dic bolt I was glad—glad; and when saw him beside ms I could have suns for Joy. I knew he'd come—and h+ did, And now I could kill myself. And staunch old David Dawlish was still thinking It over when the door of her room banged upstairs. “A whiskey and soda, Hubert,” he remarked, as the latter nined him, clearly Indicated,"* “We'll have trouble with him, De vid,"" grunted the Master, “Damned quixotic young fool, He's got no right to get killed officially; it upsets all one's plans. Probably have to pas an Act of Parliament to bring him tu life again. “Leave it to Molly, old man."* The Secretary measured out his tot ‘Leave it all to her."* “I never do anything else," sighed Sir Hubert. ‘What is worrying me is quod to she young Dawson."* “There's nothing really in that, is the David Dawlish looked a little anxiously at his old friend. “There's @ blood chestnut stone dead at the bottom of a pit," returned the other. However" “Quite,” assented Dawlish. “Leave it to Molly; leave it all to her."* They both glanced up as a hospital nurse came down the stairs. ‘Mis Gollanfield asked me to tell you, Si Hubert," she remarked, ‘that the patient 1s consctous. She 1s sitting with him for a few minutes. “Oh, she lg is she?’ Sir Hubert rose from hfs chair a little doubt fully. “Sit down, Hubert; sit down. grinned Dawlish. ‘Haven't we just decided to leave it all to her?’* ‘6 ELL, John Marston! Feeling better?" _The man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and stared at the “What an unholy'’'—— he mut tered. ‘How's the horse?’ ‘The gt looked at him steadily “Dead@—tack broken. We thought you'd done the same."’ “Poor brute! Grand horse.” He passed one of his hands dazedly across Ris forehead. “I had to take him—I couldn't have caught you on mine. I must explain things to your flance.” “My what?’ asked the girl “Aren't you engaged to him said the man. “They told me"—— T words tailed off, and he closed his eyes. For a moment the girl looked at him, then she bent over and laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Go to sleep, Danny Drayton," she whispered. ‘'Go to sleep But the name made him open his eyes again. told you my same was John Marston he insisted ‘Then I require an immediate ex+ planation of why you called me das lng," she answered. With a little tired smile he gave in, “Molly,"’ he said, very low, ‘my lit- tle Molly, I’ve dreamed of you, dea: I don't think you've ever been out of my thoughts all these long years. Just for the moment—I am Danny; to-morrow I'll be John Marston vs in “Will you?’ she whispered, and her face was very close to his, “Then there will be a scandal. For I don’t see how John Marston an@ Mrs, Dar ‘rayton can possibly live te ge My dear r man! se H. Doran Con pai A renerved. 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