other attack, and have gone off altogether."
The door opened and Brike entered the room.
"Very sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but my dear master, he is worried about you all being in the house. I think you will understand."
"Going to turn us out, eh?" said Saltby.
"The master is very angry, sir, with me and Miss Pinson, and everyone. I hope you won't get me into any further trouble, gentlemen. I am in your hands."
"I shall be glad to get to bed, at any rate," I said, with a yawn. "Come along, Professor. We cannot do any good by staying here. You'd better all come round to my place, and we'll have some hot drinks."
Saltby muttered something about the possibility of a doctor being required, but two minutes later we were in the car.
"I think we'll keep all this to ourselves," I said to Saltby, who was sitting by my side in the back seat. "All this nonsense, I mean, about Turton's heathen rites and ceremonies."
"You're right," the young doctor replied. "Turton's a one-idea man, and that makes a fellow a bit queer, you know. I'm sure he believes that Arum was really dead."
THE next morning Audrey Pinson called on me at eleven o'clock. "I am leaving today," she said, "and I've come to say good-by. I-I am sorry to go."
I told her that no doubt she had come to a right decision.
"After last night," I said—"well, I wondered you even stayed in the house last night."
"Oh, it isn't that," she replied. "My uncle has told me to go. He was furious with me for bringing Dr. Saltby and Professor Turton into the house, trying to fight God, instead of praying to Him, as he puts it. He is going to alter his will."
"Oh, I must talk to him about that," I exclaimed. "It would be most unjust—most unfair. I will take all the blame on myself. And I must let him know the truth about Brike."
"The professor's ideas?"
"Yes. Your uncle thinks that Brike's prayers—well, he shall know the truth. I am very sorry you are going. I shall miss you."
She was silent. She might have said, "It's very nice of you to say that." But she said nothing, and I was glad. Such a commonplace remark would have thrown cold water on my hopes, on my belief that she had stayed on at Brant Lodge, not because she wished to protect her uncle, but because she wished to see more of me.
"It's very dull and lonely in this village," I continued, "and I think I shall go up to London for a time. Will you give me your address?"
She gave it—a house in an obscure street in West Kensington—and I wrote it down in my address-book.
"You look as if you wanted a really good time," I went on, "and when I come to London I'll see that you get it."
For a few minutes neither of us spoke. I do not know what she was thinking about, but my own thoughts were clear enough.
"If I ride too hard," I said to myself, "I ride for a fall."
I really did believe that Audrey had stayed on in Harthaven because she wished to see me and talk to me, and find out just what sort of fellow I was. But as yet we knew very little of each other. That did not matter to me. I knew the one essential thing—that I was in love with her. But I was not vain enough to think that she could decide so easily on the most important matter in her life.
"I want waking up a bit," I continued after a pause. "They've offered me a job at the Foreign Office. I think I shall take it. Anyhow, I must go to town, and you'll come to some theatres, won't you?"
She laughed and held out her hands.
"I shall be awfully glad to see you," she said. "One can be just as dull in London as in Harthaven. And, really, I have had quite a lot of excitement down here."
I smiled grimly and took her hand, and held it for a few moments.
"I think you've behaved splendidly," I said.
A servant entered the room, and said that Brike wished to see me.
"I'll see him in here," I replied; and then I turned to Audrey: "You'd better stay. I think I know what he wants."
Brike was shown into the room. He handed me a note. It was from Jacob Arum, just a few scrawling lines to ask me to return his will and the inventory.
"How am I to know that you did not write this?" I said bluntly to Brike.
The man was quite unmoved by the insult. He turned to Audrey.
"I think," he said gently, "that the young lady knows that Mr. Arum is going to make a fresh will."
"Yes," the girl replied. "My uncle told me so."
I handed over the will and the inventory to Brike.
"I have a nice story about you," I said sharply. "Your master will be pleased to hear of all that happened last night."
"It was the mercy of God, sir," said Brike; and he took his departure.
He was out of sight when I walked through the Park with Audrey to the lodge gates. She seemed to care nothing for the loss of the money. And I looked on that as a good sign. It was as though she had made up her mind to marry me. No doubt she regarded me as a rich man. She knew nothing of my losses during the war, of the extravagance of the uncle, from whom I had inherited the property.
Well, there would be enough for us. to live upon anyway, and I could earn more. Poverty is a good thing if it makes a man work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DURING the next few days I tried hard to obtain an interview with Jacob Arum, but he would not see me, and he even wrote me another letter, stating definitely that he had no intention of breaking the habits of years, and requesting me not to annoy him.
I wrote back a full account of what had happened on the night when he was so near to death. And I knew that he received it, because he acknowledged the receipt, and said that he had every confidence in "my God-fearing and trusty servant, William Brike."
The whole plot seemed now quite clear, and Turton had contributed to the success of it. Jacob Arum really believed that Brike's prayers had worked a miracle. And Brike had admitted the doctor to the room simply in order to set Jacob Arum against his niece.
Perhaps Brike knew his master was not dead. Perhaps, on the other hand, Brike had performed those heathen rites and ceremonies, believing that he could restore the dead to life. But, from whichever point of view one looked at it, Brike had come out on top. In the eyes of his master he was a man whose prayers had been answered.
There was nothing more to be done in the matter, and a week after Audrey had taken her departure I went up to London.
I made myself very pleasant to Audrey's aunt, and I had a long talk with her about Jacob Arum. She knew little or nothing about the man, and had never even set eyes on him. She had not even known Audrey's mother, but was "looking after the girl" for her brother's sake.
During the month that I stayed in town, I saw Audrey nearly every day
