had become 'perhaps.' Had she not owned even more, since she was afraid the gate would open of itself did she but touch and try? His hopes, therefore, rode high that day, and would have ridden yet higher, could he have guessed why she so desired a few lines in his handwriting in the evening of the day after to-morrow.

The reason was this. Repairs, long needed, had at last been undertaken in the house of Pamela's father, a few miles away; and those repairs involved the rooms reserved for Pamela. There were certain drawers in that room which had not been unlocked for years, and of which Pamela sedulously guarded the keys. They held letters, a few small presents, one or two photographs, and some insignificant trifles which could not be valued, since their value depended only on their associations. There were, for instance, some cheap red beads, and the history of those beads tells all that need be said of the contents of those locked drawers.

Two hundred years before, a great full-rigged ship, bound with a general cargo for the Guinea Coast, sailed down the Channel out of Portsmouth. Amongst the cargo was a great store of these red beads. The beads were to buy slaves for the plantations. But the great ship got no further on her voyage than Bigbury Bay in Devonshire. She damaged her rudder in a storm, and the storm swept her on to the bleak rocks of Bolt Tail, dragged her back again into the welter of the sea, drove her into Bigbury Bay, and flung her up there against the low red cliffs, where all her crew perished. The cargo was spilt amongst the breakers, and the shores of that bay were littered with red beads. You may pick them up to this day amongst the pebbles. There Pamela had picked them up on a hot August morning, very like to that which now dreamed over this green, quiet garden of Leicestershire; and when she had picked them up she had not been alone. The locked cabinets held all the relics which remained to her from those few bright weeks in Devon; and the mere touch of any one, however trifling, would have magic to quicken her memories. Yet now the cabinets must be unlocked, and all that was in them removed. There was a bad hour waiting for Pamela when she would remove these relics one by one-the faded letters in the handwriting which she would never see again on any envelope; the photograph of the face which could exchange no look with her; the little presents from the hand which could touch hers no more.

It would be a relief, she thought, to come

Just a

downstairs when that necessary work was done, that bad hour over, and find a letter from Warrisden upon the table. few lines. She needed nothing more.

CHAPTER XX.

MR. CHASE DOES NOT ANSWER.

BOTH Pamela and Millie Stretton walked with Warrisden through the hall to the front door. Upon the hall-table letters were lying. Pamela glanced at them as she passed, and caught one up rather suddenly. Then she looked at Warrisden, and there was something of appeal in her look. It was as though she turned to a confederate on whom she could surely rely. But she said nothing, since Millie Stretton was at her side. For the letter was in the handwriting of Mr. Mudge, who wrote but rarely, and never without a reason. She read the letter in the garden as soon as Warrisden had ridden off, and the news which it contained was bad news. Callon had lived frugally in South America-by Christmas he would have discharged his debts; and he had announced to Mudge that he intended at that date to resign his appointment. There were still four months, Pamela reflected-nay, counting the journey home, five months; and within that time Tony Stretton might reappear. If he did not, why, she could summon Warrisden to her aid. She looked at Millie, who was reading a book in a garden-chair close by. Did she know, Pamela wondered? But Millie gave no sign.

Meanwhile, Warrisden travelled to London upon that particular business which made a visit there in August so imperative. It had come upon him while he had been talking with Pamela that it would be as well for him to know the whereabouts of Tony Stretton at once; so that if the need came he should be ready to set out upon the instant. On the following evening, accordingly, he drove down to Stepney. It was very likely that Chase would be away upon a holiday. But there was a chance that he might find him clinging to his work through this hot August, a chance worth the trouble of his journey. He drove to the house where Chase lodged, thinking to catch him before he set out for his evening's work at the mission. The door of the house stood open to the street. Warrisden dismissed his cab, and walked up the steps into the narrow hall. A door upon his right hand was

opened, and a young man politely asked Warrisden to step in. He was a fair-haired youth, with glasses upon his nose, and he carried a napkin in his hand. He had evidently been interrupted at his dinner by Warrisden's arrival. He was not dining alone, for a youth of the same standing, but of a more athletic mould, sat at the table. There was a third place laid, but not occupied. Warrisden looked at the third chair.

'I came to see Mr. Chase,' he said. 'I suppose that he has gone early to the mission?'

'No,' said the youth who had opened the door. 'He has not been well of late. The hot weather in these close streets is trying. But he certainly should have something to eat by now, even if he does not intend to get up.'

He spoke in a pedantic, self-satisfied voice, and introduced himself as Mr. Raphael Princkley, and his companion as Mr. Jonas Stiles, both undergraduates of Queen's College, Oxford.

'We are helping Chase in his work,' continued Mr. Princkley. 'It is little we can do, but you are no doubt acquainted with the poetry of Robert Browning: "The little more, and how much it is"? In that line we find our justification.'

The fair-haired youth rang the bell for the housekeeper. She was an old woman, fat and slow, and she took her time in answering the summons.

'Mrs. Wither, have you called Mr. Chase?' he asked when the old lady appeared at the door.

No, Mr. Princkley, sir!' she replied. 'You told me yesterday evening not to disturb him on any account until he rang.' Mr. Princkley turned to Warrisden.

'Mr. Chase was unwell all yesterday,' he said, ' and at dinnertime he told us that he felt unequal to his duties. He was sitting in that empty place, and we both advised him not to overtax his strength.'

He appealed with a look to Mr. Stiles for corroboration. 'Yes; we both advised him,' said Stiles, between two mouthfuls; and, very wisely, he took our advice.'

'He rose from his chair,' continued Princkley. There was some fruit upon the table. He took an apple from the dish. I think, Stiles, that it was an apple which he took?'

Mr. Stiles agreed, and went on with his dinner.

'It was certainly an apple which he took. He took it in his hand.'

'You hardly expected him to take it with his foot!' rejoined Warrisden, politely. Warrisden was growing a little restive under this detailed account of Chase's indisposition.

'No,' replied Princkley, with gravity. He took it in quite a natural way, and went upstairs to his sitting-room. I gave orders to Mrs. Wither that he must not be disturbed until he rang. That is so, Mrs. Wither, is it not? Yes. I thank you.' 'That was yesterday evening!' cried Warrisden.

'Yesterday evening,' replied Mr. Princkley.

'And no one has been near him since?'

Then Mrs. Wither intervened.

'Oh, yes. I went into Mr. Chase's room an hour afterwards. He was sitting in his arm-chair before the grate--'

'Holding the apple in his hand, I think, Mrs. Wither, you said?' continued Stiles.

'Yes, sir,' said Mrs. Wither. He had his arm out resting on the arm of the chair, and the apple was in his hand.'

'Well, well!' exclaimed Warrisden.

'I told him that I would not call him in the morning until he rang, as he wanted a good rest.'

'What did he say?' asked Warrisden.

'Nothing, sir. As often as not he does not answer when he is spoken to.'

A sudden fear seized upon Warrisden. He ran out of the room and up the stairs to Chase's sitting-room. He knocked on the door; there was no answer. He turned the handle and entered. Chase had not gone to bed last night. He was still sitting in his arm-chair before the grate. One arm was extended along the arm of the chair, with the palm turned upwards, and in the palm lay an apple. Chase was sitting huddled up, with his head fallen forward upon his breast like a man asleep. Warrisden crossed the room and touched the hand which held the apple. It was quite cold. The apple rolled on to the floor. Warrisden turned to the housekeeper. She was standing in the doorway, and staring over her shoulder were the two undergraduates.

'He was dead,' said Warrisden, 'when you looked into the room an hour afterwards!'

The three people in the doorway stood stupidly aghast. Warrisden pushed them out, locked the door on the outside and removed the key.

'Mr. Princkley, will you run for a doctor?' he asked.

Princkley nodded his head, and went off upon his errand.
Warrisden and Stiles descended the stairs into the dining-

room.

'I think you had better take the news to the mission,' said Warrisden; and Stiles in his turn went off without a word. Mrs. Wither for her part had run out of the house as quickly as she could. She hardly knew what she was doing. housekeeper to Mr. Chase ever since he had

She had served as come to Stepney,

and she was dazed by the sudden calamity. She was aware of a need to talk, to find the neighbours and talk.

It had come

Warrisden was thus left alone in the house. about without any premeditation upon his part. He was the oldest man of the three who had been present, and the only one who had kept his wits clear. Both Princkley and Stiles had looked to him to decide what must be done. They regarded him as Chase's friend, whereas they were mere acquaintances. It did not even occur to Warrisden at first that he was alone in the house, that he held in his hand the key to Chase's room. He was thinking of the strange perplexing life which had now so strangely ended. He thought of his first meeting with Chase in the mission, and of the distaste which he had felt; he remembered the array of liqueur bottles on the table, and the half-hour during which Chase had talked. A man of morbid pleasures, that had been Warrisden's impression. Yet there were the years of work, here, amongst these squalid streets. Even August had seen him clinging tonay, dying at his work. As Warrisden looked out of the window he saw a group of men and women and children gather outside the house. There was not a face but wore a look of consternation. If they spoke, they spoke in whispers, like people overawed. A very strange life! Warrisden knew many-as who does not ?-who saw the high road distinctly, and could not for the life of them but walk upon the low one. But to use both deliberately, as it seemed Chase had done; to dip from the high road on to the low, and then painfully to scramble up again, and again willingly to drop, as though the air of those stern heights were too rigorous for continuous walking; to live the double life because he could not entirely live the one and would not entirely live the other. Thus Warrisden solved the problem of the dilettante curate and his devotion to his work, and his solution was correct.

But he held the key of Chase's room in his hand; and there was no one but himself in the house. His thoughts came back to