He had passed the burglar's narrative under review, and, allowing for certain natural extravagances of language, there remained his natural sincerity. Andy had discounted the fear which he man had so graphically described as part and portion of the extravagance, but now he himself was experiencing something of the same vague dread. It was as though his soul was passing under the shadow of a menace. He conceived that menace in the shape of a gigantic figure with an upraised sword, and smiled to himself at the romantic conceit.

    Nevertheless, he kept to the shadows, and stopped opposite Mr Merrivan's house. What made him do it he never knew. He was jeopardising a better acquaintance with the people of Beverley Green, and, by all standards of behaviour, he was acting unpardonably. The gate of Mr Merrivan's house was open as Arthur Wilmot had left it, and, crossing the road, he passed through, walking on the grass border of the drive.

    It was a house of many windows, he saw, when he was clear of the obstructing trees—white, owlish windows, which the moon had transmuted into polished silver. There was no sign of light, and he followed the border until he stood under a window on the entrance floor, and then, with startling clearness, he heard a voice.

    "You won't! By God, you won't! I'll see you dead before you do!"

    It was not Merrivan speaking. He guessed it must be the visitor. Presently he heard a murmur of sound. The window was opened a few inches at the top. Behind, he guessed, were heavy curtains, and the speakers were in this room. And now he heard Merrivan distinctly.

    "You're ridiculous, you're absurd, my dear man. I am not afraid of your threats. And now I will tell you something—something that will surprise you. I know—mysterious occupation in the city—"

    And then the voices dropped, and although Andy put his ear to the pane, he could not distinguish anything more, only he heard the quick, urgent murmur of the visitor's voice, and once Mr Merrivan laughed.

    Then he caught the moving of a chair and went back the way he had come, standing by the bushes until Arthur Wilmot came out, and, walking more slowly, disappeared into his own house.

    Family jars can very well seem more important, more tragic than they are. But this was an unusual quarrel. What was this mysterious occupation of Mr Arthur Wilmot, the very mention of which had reduced him from a hectoring bully, breathing fire and slaughter, to a murmuring supplicant?

    He waited until the door of the Wilmot house closed, then he stepped down to the gravel and paced slowly back. As he came to the Nelson residence he stopped and looked, and his heart beat a little faster. He saw the girl distinctly. The moonlight gave her beautiful face a delicacy which was unearthly. He saw her draw back and the window slowly close, and knew that she had seen him. Was she afraid? Had she recognised him? It was queer, he told himself, as he drove back to Beverley, and queerest of all was the sudden lightening of spirit and the rolling away of a sense of impending trouble which he experienced as his car turned into the main road. If there was a devil at Beverley Green he was a most potent devil. For a second he had scared Andrew Macleod.

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

 

    Stella Nelson was at breakfast when her father came down. He was no longer a haughty dismisser of servants, but an ashamed and humble man. His whole attitude was an apology.

    Once Stella used to be deceived by his penitence. She had argued that if a man realised and was truly sorry for his faults—and he had not grown so callous that he passed over these acts in silence—there must be something in him and a chance of reformation. But that illusion had passed, with many others.

    "Good morning, my dear. I hardly like to look you in the face," he said as he sat down and unfolded his serviette with uncertain hands.