A Matter of Motives

by Robert Barr

A MATTER OF MOTIVES.

By ROBERT BARR.

WHEN one comes to think of it, I don't quite see how we of the upper classes can consistently look down on trade, while the Marquis of Morton has a personally conducted stall in Covent Garden, Lord Latimer a carriage-shop in Long Acre, the Countess of Sunderland a millinery establishment in Bond Street, and the Duke of Surrey an outfitter's warehouse off the Strand. Nevertheless, we young fellows in Oriel College thought ourselves vastly superior to the tradesmen with whom we dealt and from whom we accepted credit.

However, in one instance, pride was to have a fall; and I must confess that the bitterest day of my life was that on which I received my father's letter, saying I must leave Oxford and come at once to London, to face the stern realities of life, as he picturesquely put it, because his money had given out. This not unexpected announcement was all the more unwelcome because I was getting on so well at my college. I had a good place in the boat, and—if I do say it myself (it is not boasting, but merely stating an admitted fact)—I was the best cricketer the college possessed. I believe I should have done honour to my school had fate permitted me to remain; but, as I was compelled to leave it, there seemed no use in growling about the matter.

The interview with my father was brief and conclusive. He spoke pathetically of the sad position of a younger son; but that was nothing new, for he had always been a younger son, and the position covered a multitude of shortcomings. I was an only son, and so the younger and elder in one, but precious little good it did me. I thought if my father drank more water and indulged in less betting, he might have been able to keep me at college; but I said nothing of this, for I liked him.

The Pater was well on with the third bottle that evening when I met him, and was inclined to be somewhat doleful regarding the prospects of our family, and pessimistic concerning the world in general.

"Billy, my boy, we're all going to the dogs, unless you can save the situation. Times are bad, Billy—cursedly bad, except commercially. Statistics show us that there never was a period when the rewards of trade were so enormous, and the dish—dishtra—distra"—with a final plunge—"bution of wealth so unequal. If it wasn't for the family, hang me, Billy! if I wouldn't turn—what do you call it?—Socialist, by jingo! Fill your glass, Billy."

"No, thank you, sir; I'm in training."

I had forgotten that I was not going back to college, but the dear old boy remembered it, and shed a few tears, although I tried my best to console him, saying it didn't matter, and I didn't mind in the least. He had been in the boat himself in the past days, and knew better. Now we were in the same boat together—the punt of poverty.

"Billy, the only good your father is to you is as an example. You study him, Billy, and do the opposite. Then you'll get along in this plebeian age. I've given great thought to your future, Billy. Times are changed, and we must change with them. I'm too old to change, but you are young, Billy, and the world's before you. And that's a great thing, Billy. You can't teach an old dog new tricks; but you're a puppy, Billy."

"Not very complimentary, Pater," I ventured to suggest.

"Oh! you know what I mean, Billy. You will have to make a dive in the City, and fetch up a big pearl, if you can."

"Do you mean the Stock Exchange, sir? I fear that is a form of gambling I know less about than of horses. Hadn't I better follow the custom of the family and stick to the turf?"

"The turf has been our ruin, Billy. No, my boy, I don't mean the Stock Exchange. I refer to the more legitimate fields of commercial activity. I have not the money to pay a premium that will get you into anything grand, Billy, so you must depend largely on your own ability. I did a favour once or twice to a shopman named Briggs, and perhaps he has not forgotten it. He was a decent sort, as I remember him. He had a little shop in one of the back streets Victoria Station way. That you will have to find; I forget the address. I have written a letter of introduction, gently intimating that one good turn deserves another, and perhaps he can put you in the way of a place. With your education you ought to forge ahead—forge ahead, Billy. I have no fears but you will do your best."

"In what line of trade was Mr. Briggs?" I asked.

"He was by way of being a brass-fitter, or something of of that sort."

"Is it your intention, sir, that I should learn brass-fitting?"

"That's as maybe, Billy. Needs must when What's-his-name drives, you know. We cannot be pickers and choosers, Billy."

So next morning early I set out, armed with the letter of introduction, to find Richard Briggs, brass-fitter, in no very enviable frame of mind. I searched in vain all about Victoria Station, and could hear nothing of R. Briggs, until I inquired at an ironmonger's.

"Old Dick Briggs?" said the ironmonger. "Oh, yes, I knew him; but, bless you! he's got on in the world, has Dick, and I've seen nothing of him for years and years. His business was made into a 'limited,' and it's on Victoriar Street … R. Briggs and Co … you'll see the sign up. 'Lectricians, they calls themselves now. Ye cawn't miss it."

This somehow cheered me, and I went along Victoria Street, looking to right and left, until I found the place. There was nothing of the back street about this establishment. A great plate-glass window displayed the single word, "Accumulators," on it in white letters. I hoped this word was an omen, and that I should prove an accumulator myself, which very few of my family had ever been. Entering the shop, I was met by a man to whom I took an instant and intuitive dislike. If I may say so, he was greasily polite. He seemed too young a man to be the Mr. Briggs I was in search of, but I resolved to open conversation diplomatically, although I imagined him to be simply a shopman. I found afterwards I had underestimated his position. He was manager.

"Is this Mr Briggs?" I asked.

"No, sir," he replied. "What do you want of Mr. Briggs?"

"I have a letter here for him."

"Well, you're a little late in bringing it. Mr. Briggs has been dead three years come midsummer."

"Oh! I'm sorry to hear it," I muttered, not knowing exactly what else to say. But my sympathy was evidently misplaced, for the man seemed to have no regrets, and looked at me hard, without offering any further suggestion.

"Is there—is there either of his sons in?" I inquired with some hesitation.

"Naturally not. Mr. Briggs never had a son."

"Then who is the proprietor of this business?"

"I am the manager. Won't that do for you?"

I saw that our dislike was mutual, and that for some reason this person had determined to baulk any designs I had upon the establishment. However, I can be stubborn myself if need be. I said to him with the utmost urbanity—

"If you are the manager, you will doubtless answer my question. It can easily be found out, for it is not a State secret, you know. Who is the head of this firm?"

He answered with some surliness—

"Miss Briggs."

"Would you be good enough to ask Miss Briggs if she will see me?"

"I'll take in your letter," he said.

"I'll take it in myself, if you don't mind."

Leaving me standing there, he entered an inner room and closed the door after him. I could not help thinking that if Miss Briggs condescended to take me into her employ, I had made rather a bad beginning by getting the manager down on me, especially as he would be my chief. However, I could see no help for it, because he had been antagonistic from the moment he surmised I was not a customer. I suppose I had "applicant" written all over me, and applicants are never popular with employés. I pictured Miss Briggs as rather a martinet in her realm, because the manager had evidently been afraid to attempt any further bafflement of me, where a man accorded more liberty would not have hesitated to tell me his employer was busy or not in. This guess proved accurate. I also imagined her a tall, severe old maid, with a somewhat forbidding cast of countenance. In this surmise I was wrong.

"Step this way, please," said the manager, emerging. He held the door open for me, but did not venture to follow.

I was confronted by petite young woman perched on a high stool, with very jet black hair, curly and closely cropped. Her eyes were exceedingly black and piercing, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that they saw instantly what a fool I was and how little I knew. They had a habit of blazing alight suddenly, as if the electricity she dealt in had flamed up within them, and I saw that even the manager might quail at meeting their glance in anger. She wore a man's collar and necktie, and her skirts were rather short. My first impression was that she resembled a boy masquerading as a girl.

"Give me the letter," she said shortly. I handed it to her without a word, and she read it without a word. Turning to me, she said, "You are Mr. Kilorme?"

"Yes."

"Where have I heard the name before? Any relation to Lord Kilorme?"

"He is my uncle."

"Um!" She took down a thin book, ran her finger over a list of names, found what she wanted, said sharply to a youth at another desk, "Get ledger No. 4."

The heavy volume was placed before her, and she consulted its pages, then closed them with a snap that sent the dust flying, giving expression again to that little closed-lip exclamation which I have designated by "Um!" but which does not at all represent the sound. She had a habit of using this interjection, and I cannot qualify it better than by saying it appeared to signify, "Just as I thought." The monosyllable was so eloquent that it convinced me she had looked up my father's name, and found that the obligation referred to in his letter had consisted of running up a bill with her father, which was never paid. I have a stupid schoolboy habit of colouring, or at least had at that time, and when she looked at me again, I was uneasily aware that my cheeks were very red. Nevertheless, there was a kindly twinkle in those midnight eyes of hers.

"You wish a situation. What can you do?"

"I fear I am in the willing-to-learn stage."

"Um! That's not of much advantage. Have you been to school?"

"I was at a public school, and have been three years in Oxford."

"Latin and Greek are not of much use in electric working."

"I should be sorry if they were, for I know little enough of either."

She did not smile, but her eyes danced, and she looked me up and down with more of interest than had hitherto been the case. Nevertheless, I was wholly unprepared for the next question, and very much taken aback by it.

"Why do you not say 'miss' or 'madam' when you address me? Did they not teach you politeness in Oxford?"

"Well, miss, I—I—beg your pardon," I managed to stammer, reddening like a sunset.

"Do you understand book-keeping?" continued this merciless young inquisitor, without ever a smile to relieve my embarrassment.

"No, miss."

"Did you take a science course?"

"Well—er—there was some science about, but I'm afraid I——!"

"In Heaven's name what did they teach you, then?"

I began to be annoyed, not only at her searching questions, but at my own evident incompetence, so I said rather brusquely—"Well, madam, I can carry that machine in the other room which two of your men were staggering under."

"The dynamo? Um! Then it is a porter's place you are seeking?"

In spite of myself I laughed, partly through vexation and partly through amusement at her gift of repartee. I was much relieved to see her smile just a little. But the smile lasted only a fraction of a second, "Will twenty-five shillings a week satisfy you to begin on? I doubt if anyone else in London would give you as much for your qualifications. If you think you can get more, don't take my offer."

"I'm sure I could not get anything like it," I said, and then hurriedly added, "miss," which brought the twinkle to her eye again.

"Although I spoke to you a moment ago about politeness," she said very seriously, "it is for your manner rather than your extensive knowledge that I am engaging you. We do a good deal of work for gentlefolk, and I fancy your style of address may prove more suitable than Barclay's. It is merely an experiment, and we will see how it succeeds. Don't forget to say 'sir' when you are speaking to a gentleman customer."

I promised to remember; she called the manager in, addressing him as Barclay, gave me into his charge, and I was launched into business under a scowl from my immediate chief. "Barclay," said Miss Briggs, with some tartness of tone, "you will answer any questions he asks, and give him whatever technical books he cares to study. I hope that before a week he will know some of the differences between a dynamo and an accumulator."

This latter remark rather offended me. I was ignorant, it is true, but not so ignorant as that, so I wired in on the books that were lent me, and asked questions of everybody. I had previously no idea electricity was so interesting, and wondered I had not learnt more of it at college. I also came to the knowledge that Miss Briggs was called Sally by her intimate friends. She always nodded to me when she came in, and once or twice spoke to me on one triviality or another connected with the business, but she gave no intimation that my progress pleased her. I knew I was getting along well, although she did not seem to recognise the fact.

As for Barclay, he was the most objectionable beast I had ever met, making things as unpleasant as he could for me in the absence of Miss Briggs, and actually fawning kindness and help upon me when she was anywhere about. I hoped the time would come when I might venture on punching Barclay's head, but I had to be more sure of my position first.

I had not been long there before I discovered how lucky I had been that first morning in finding Miss Briggs at her office, for most of the time she was elsewhere. She was the cleverest woman in all London, for her size, it seemed to me. No contract was taken by the firm unless she first looked over the ground. She had a speedy little electric motor-car that ran about thirty-five miles on one charge, and with this she tore round the Metropolis and the suburbs at a pace which only her great skill in managing the machine rendered at all practicable. On an average of once a week she had her book-keeper enter a sum ranging from ten shillings to five pounds which she had been fined for breaking the statute of limitation regarding speed. There was a special ledger account, headed "Travelling Expenses," in which these items were set down. The motor-car was painted with amazing vividness; yellow, scarlet, and a staring blue. I was looking at it, standing in front of the shop one day, as she passed through prepared for travelling, and something of disapproval of its gaudiness must have been noticeable in my expression. She was uncannily quick at reading one's thoughts. She stopped abruptly and said, pulling on her driving gloves—

"Well, you don't approve of my motor-carriage, Mr. Kilorme?"

"I confess it seems to me a trifle loud, miss."

"Um! Loud? It's the quietest motor in London. It has a purr like a kitten."

"I mean rather pronounced in colour."

She looked with renewed interest at her vehicle for a few moments without speaking, then said—

"What colour would suit your refined tastes, Mr. Kilorme?"

"I should prefer black, or a dark olive green, with perhaps a thin red stripe, Miss Briggs."

"Um!" said she, and without further remark went out to the motor and was off like a flash of lightning.

"Well, Snobby," sneered Barclay, when she was gone, "that's a nice way to talk to a lady. She'll like that. Her motor-car is the prettiest one I've ever seen. Shows how much you know."

I rarely answered Barclay, and even if I had intended to do so on this occasion, there was no opportunity, for in rushed our American, as I called him—a breathless, frequent visitor of late. He was always on the jump, and gave one the idea that the world was to end in about two minutes, and that he had a good deal to accomplish in the interval. The American never took any notice of me. He seemed to know by intuition that I was an understrapper and of no account in the place. But Barclay and he had a row every time he honoured us with his presence. The American's quest was Miss Briggs, but invariably he missed her, which led me to reflections on my own luck in finding her the first morning I casually strolled in. The American's voice was piercing and insistent, so everyone in the shop had no difficulty in learning all he had to promulgate during his brief and eager visits. I gathered he was in the accumulator trade, but his great speciality was abuse of England and Englishmen. He seemed to be in a constant state of wonderment that a discerning Providence allowed such a slow-going country and such a stupid people still to exist. He evidently took the saturnine Barclay as typical of his race, and the contempt he poured on our heads in consequence was scathing. Now, I loved to interfere with Barclay in a quiet, helpful way, as if I wished to be of assistance to him, which action drove the usually stolid manager into something as near a frenzy as he could reach. So on this occasion, instead of answering his sneer, I put in my oar in an amiable way which I knew would goad Barclay toward indiscretions.

"A moment sooner and you would have met Miss Briggs. She went out in her motor-car just as you were coming in."

The American wheeled round and took me in at an eagle glance.

"What! That little girl in a chromo on wheels? Is that Miss Briggs? Thunder! I thought it was an advertisement of a circus! Why, I've seen her all over town, like a flash escaped from a prism. That girl has some go about her, if she does live in England."

"Why don't you make an appointment with her?"

"Appointment? I've made a dozen appointments, and she hasn't kept one of them."

"There must be some mistake. Miss Briggs is an admirable business woman, strict at keeping an appointment. If you give me your name and address, I'll speak to her and——"

"Snobby!" cried Barclay, almost foaming at the mouth, "you go to the back of the shop and attend to your own business!"

"I was merely offering a suggestion——" I began humbly, but Barclay was in a rage.

"Get out of this!" he roared.

The American clutched me familiarly by the shoulder.

"Hold on, hold on, sonny," he said. "I can see you're a white man, and there's where you differ from a number on this island. You've got some sense, an ingredient entirely overlooked when this manager's storage battery was put together. I got no further use for you." And metaphorically he waved the irate Barclay out of existence. "Now, see here, my son. I'm Jared Hawkings, from Bangor, Main, U.S.A. Do you catch on? Well, you tell Miss Briggs I'm offering her the chance of her life. I've invented a storage battery that will run twice as long and weigh half as much as any now in the market. And the cost is so small that you'll be wondering all the time why you're not giving 'em away. So help me! the batteries you people are deluding a darn fool public with are heavy enough to sink a sanctified soul into pardition, and they don't last any longer than a bundle of dry straw would in the same place. Will you tell Miss Briggs that?"

"I shall endeavour to transmit your meaning as well as our more prosaic English language will allow."

Jared laughed boisterously and smote me genially on the back.

"Bully for you! You're all right. Here's my address, and I'm ready to call on her any hour, night or day. Impress her with the fact that this is important. I'm not pulling your leg. That's right. Now's her chance to make a good bargain with me. The storage battery of my pocket-book is about exhausted and needs re-charging. I don't make no bluff about it. If I had the cash, I'd rent the store next door, and with me in opposition to you, you folks wouldn't sell another storage battery from now till the day Gabriel toots his horn. That's right."

"You're not very logical, Mr. Hawkings. If the English are as stupid as you say they are, they'll go on buying our poor batteries, and leave your good ones alone."

"Oh! the English are not half so bad as they try to be. So long."

He bolted for the door and was gone, as if he had suddenly seen his dearest friend on the pavement.

Barclay was white-hot with rage, but I managed to cool him down. I knew there was an interesting time in store for me, and when he shouted out, "You young jackanapes! do you know who is manager here?" I said very quietly, "I know who very soon will be, if you do not mend your ways, Mr. Barclay. I quite understand your position, and sympathise with your difficulty. You regret that you took me in to see Miss Briggs that first morning, and from your standpoint I don't know that I blame you. You resolved you would not commit a like mistake the second time, and so you have foolishly stood between Jared Hawkings and Miss Briggs. If she ever finds that out, she will be displeased. I don't ask you to be decent, for that's too much to expect from you, but be as decent as you can, and I'll protect you as long as I am able. I'll ask the American not to tell on you."

Barclay muttered and spluttered a bit, but I saw he was frightened, and I expected to have an easier time in future.

I was pleased to have an opportunity of mentioning the American to Miss Briggs, not on his account at all, but on my own. The lady's communications with me had been so brief that no opportunity occurred of showing her how well I had followed her advice in studying electricity, and I was very sure Barclay had never given me any credit in that or in other things. As usual, she was perched on the high stool, like a bird on a twig, when I went in, and she whirled round to face me.

I began with a rapid sketch of the rise and progress of the accumulator, touched on its increasing usefulness, and the future that awaited it, spoke of its numerous disadvantages, and related the cause of them, hinted that America would probably yet produce the ideal storehouse of the electric fluid, indicated the tremendous advantage any firm would possess who had a monopoly of the perfected battery, suggested that it might be well to investigate the merits of Jared Hawkings's invention. There was more real solid and accurate electrical information in that harangue than had ever been got into the same number of words outside an article in the Electrical Review. The young woman never spoke a word, but watched me intently with those very wide-open black eyes of hers, and several times this disconcerting gaze nearly switched off the current; but I was charged to my full capacity, and there was no break in the connections. Several times the smouldering fire in her eyes flamed up, and once there was a twitching of the corners of the lips, as if she said to herself, "This young man is piling it on," but she never interrupted me until I had finished, then she said clippingly—

"Why, Billy, you're a second Edison!"

I don't know how it is, but everyone calls me Billy sooner or later. I never quite liked the designation; it doesn't seem suitable for a man six feet high and stalwart in proportion, but from her lips it didn't sound at all bad, although I felt myself blushing again. She laughed a little at my evident confusion, and then plunged somewhat hurriedly into a discussion of the Hawkings accumulator. For reasons of her own, she did not invite Hawkings to call on her, but, taking me with her, called on him. His battery was tested and found, if not quite all he said it was, yet much superior to the one we were using. I conducted most of the negotiations, which resulted in her taking the vacant shop next door and setting up Hawkings in a business of which she owned the majority of stock. Hawkings had at first objected to giving her the controlling share, but as she furnished all the money, she insisted on holding the reins of power, and ultimately the shrewd Hawkings profited largely by the arrangement, as was right and proper.

Manager Barclay was told nothing of all this, and thought Hawkings had started opposition as he had long threatened to do. It always amused me when customers, offended by Barclay's manner, or not finding what pleased them, alleged they would go next door, for they had no more idea than Barclay himself that the two places were under the same proprietorship.

From this time forward I had little to do in the shop. Miss Briggs took me with her in her motor-car when she went to oversee contracts under way, or to estimate for new work, I acting partly as private secretary, partly as reporter of proceedings, partly as adviser. My salary had been raised several times without any solicitation on my part, and, curiously enough, the motor-car had been painted a dark olive green, with thin red stripes. I think I earned my salary, for now it was my name and address the police took, and I attended the court and paid over the fines and costs. This saved Miss Briggs a great deal of time and annoyance, without limiting the speed of her car in the least. I got accustomed to a large salary much sooner than to her daring whisking in and out among the London traffic. It seemed amazing that we did not come to disaster several times a day, but I never knew her to touch another vehicle, although sometimes there was very little daylight between the hubs. My life at this time was very pleasant, and seemed likely to continue so, when suddenly it was clouded by an admission made by my father which changed the complexion of everything.

The conduct of Miss Sally Briggs became rather a puzzle to me. No woman understood the value of time better than she, yet on several occasions she drove out of London and through various charming parts of the country, with no particular object in view, so far as I could see. The radius of her motor-car had been largely extended through the adoption of the Hawkings accumulator, and I soon discovered that her waste of time came through her growing admiration for that capable inventor, although she endeavoured to delude me by the mention of another, whom I know she had never thought seriously of.

On one of these unnecessary trips we had passed Richmond and were bowling along toward Kingston, for once well within the legal limit of speed. Not that it made any difference in Kingston, she said, for the police there had got so in the habit of stopping her, that they would have taken her name and address if she had been walking to church. She was silent for some time, giving her whole attention to the carriage, when she spoke abruptly.

"Billy, you are adviser-in-chief to the firm. I am offered two contracts, and don't know which to take."

"Take them both, of course," said I, "if the prices are right."

"Um! I can't quite do that. They are proposals of marriage."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, not knowing what further to say. She glanced sideways at me and then went on with much imperturbability, when one considers the subject. I thought it rather strange and—well—a trifle indelicate to consult me on such a theme. I was young and rather romantically inclined, I suppose, and the cool way she talked of marriage, as if it were the installing of the electric light in a country house, jarred on my nerves.

"One proposal is from Mr. Barclay. I have known him for a long time. He was manager for my father when I was a little girl."

I retorted lightly, "Well, you're not very big now"; but I saw she did not like that remark, so I hastened to add, "Barclay never lacked cheek."

"The other offer is from Mr. Jared Hawkings, late of Bangor, U.S.A."

"That's something more like," I said.

"What are you smiling at? " she asked, quick as a whip. I thought she hadn't noticed that, and replied in some embarrassment, making matters worse, "I—I—was thinking of the line in the song about how you fancied Hawkings for your other——"

"I don't think it is a subject for a jest, you know," she snapped angrily, giving a pull to the lever that nearly jerked the motor-car from under me. It is a blessing the Surrey police did not see the speed we gathered in the next minute. When she slowed down again, and I had caught my breath, I said seriously, "There is no comparison between the two men. Barclay is simply a surly brute. I never liked him, so you can take the usual trade discount off my estimate. But Hawkings is a man, and a very clever man."

"Um! Thank you. I shall marry Mr. Hawkings, then."

She stopped the motor, backed it, turned it round, and away we went to London, almost in silence, for the speed was great, and the vivid little machine required unremitting attention.

I hesitate to speak of my father, but his action and revelation are necessary to this recital, I excuse him by remembering that he was scarcely ever himself in those days, being a confirmed dipsomaniac. It was the drink, and not the man, that spoke. He had seemed to be much interested in Miss Briggs and her business, and was in the habit of asking me how she did, which inquiry I paid little attention to beyond answering civilly. On the evening after our trip beyond Richmond, my mind was filled with her and her matrimonial projects, and when my father asked after her welfare, I replied, and added that Miss Briggs was about to be married to a very clever American engineer whom she had met. My father looked at me fixedly for a few moments, as if not comprehending my remark; then, to my astonishment, he brought his fist down on the table and said, with unnecessary emphasis, "It's not true. Somebody has been fooling you."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but the lady told me so herself."

"You great booby! Don't you know she's a very rich woman?"

"What has that to do with it, sir?"

"To do with it? My son, my only son's a fool—that's what it has to do with it. You should have married her."

"Neither of us ever thought of such a thing, sir."

"You put me out of patience, Billy. The woman is in love with you, and has been this long time. You had only to say the word, and a fortune was in your grasp. But you are so confoundedly selfish that you never think of your poor old father, as long as you have enough money of your own to spend."

"I shared my money with you, sir, until you made your last haul at betting, and expect to share with you when that's gone."

"Betting!" cried the old man with great contempt. "I never made any money at betting all my life."

"I understood that was the source of your recent prosperity."

"You're a fool! The woman is dead in love with you."

"I assure you, sir, you are mistaken."

Here he lost all control of himself, and used language which it is unnecessary to repeat; but what struck me dumb was his statement that Miss Briggs had come to him, and proposed her union with me, giving him £500 on account, as one might say, while he had promised to lead me to a consideration of the match; and now everything was to be ruined by my blind obstinacy.

To say that I believed this would be doing me an injustice. My mind was in a whirl, and I did not know what part of the statement to credit and what to reject. I could not go to Miss Briggs and demand her account of the transaction, for I still had too much respect and liking for her, yet my father could not have made up the story out of whole cloth. Her own confidences to me regarding her proposed marriage had struck me as strange at the time, and now they took on another tint. All my growing belief in myself had vanished. If there were even a remnant of truth in my father's disclosures, then my rise in the business had not been on account of merit, as I had fondly imagined, but through favour. If others saw this, it was no wonder that Barclay despised me and took such little pains to conceal his contempt. I thought of resigning my position; but if I did, how could I hope to pay the debt my father owed Miss Briggs? I also thought of having it out with her and learning the exact truth, but I could not bring myself to broach the subject.

On Saturday, when salaries were paid, I told the cashier to credit me with the amount of mine until further notice. Next week I was ordered to accompany my employer in her motor-car, as usual. We went across Westminster Bridge and so south through Croydon. She told me that she had had a new set of Hawkings's accumulators put in the vehicle which the American believed would take the machine to Brighton and back on one charge, so I gathered that I was likely to catch a glimpse of the sea before I saw London again, unless the Surrey police arrested us and refused to accept bail. Miss Briggs did not like the Surrey police, and delighted in eluding them. At no time did the joy of battle light up her fine eyes so thoroughly as when she headed her vehicle south. In every sense of the phrase she gave them a run for their money. "I think of opening a contra account," she said to me once, "and crediting myself with five pounds every time I evade the officers."

We had got safely through Caterham, and were at the top of the hill overlooking Godstone, with a fair country before us and a clear road, when she said, "Why did you refuse your salary last week?"

"I didn't refuse it. I merely had it placed to my credit."

"Um! Why did you do that?"

"I wished it to accumulate, like the electricity we deal in."

"Don't equivocate, please," she said sharply. "Answer me."

"I am anxious to pay the debt my father incurred."

"Um! I thought that was it. How came you to learn about the debt?"

"He told me of it himself."

"What did he say?"

"I'd rather not go into particulars, if you please, Miss Briggs."

"Now, Mr. Kilorme, you're an honest young fellow, and would be the last person in the world to do anyone an injustice. Your very refusal to tell me the particulars is an imputation on me. It gives me no chance to defend myself, or to explain, if I cannot defend."

"You are quite right, Miss Briggs; but, you see, I'm in a difficulty. On the one side IS my own father, whom I—well, he's my father. I can't quite say I don't believe him, can I? On the other side there is yourself, for whom I have the greatest regard—the very greatest regard—and—and liking—and so——"

"Yes, yes, I quite understand your position, quite. Now tell me all about it; that's the best way."

"Very well. Miss Briggs, I'll say at once that I don't believe a word of what was said to me, and if I am an undutiful son, I cannot help it. My father asserted that you paid him five hundred pounds if he would use his influence with me to—that is—he——"

"Get you to marry me," helped out Miss Briggs, with a calmness that took my breath away.

"Exactly."

The dainty tip of her very small boot had been pressed against the brake lever, and we had been sliding slowly down the hill, while this dialogue was going on. Now she lifted her foot, pressed a little current to her aid, and away we went at a terrific rate.

"Be careful, Miss Briggs. There is Godstone right ahead."

Without a word she slowed down to a moderate pace and so ran through the village. Just beyond Godstone the correct road turned to the left, but she went straight for Tilberstowe Hill, the steep street of the old Romans.

"Better take the other," I expostulated.

"I want to test Hawkings's batteries," she replied, turning on the full force and flying up the hill like a bird. "I think these are splendid accumulators," she added when we reached the top. I quite agreed with her. We ran down the hill a little quicker than I cared to go, and, after passing the railway station, she moderated the pace and spoke slower than was her custom.

"You evidently thought badly of me, because of my offer to your father, and the payment of the money."

"I did not believe it, as I told you before."

"It's true enough, Billy," she continued, with a forlorn tone in her voice. "But I think I owe you an explanation. In fact, that is why I wrung forth your avowal. I did not think you would object. I had looked up the record of the Kilorme family, and, as far back as it can be traced, there has not been one of you who hasn't married for money. Not one. Your uncle. Lord Kilorme, remained a bachelor, I am told, because he could not find an heiress rich enough to suit him."

"I dare say that is true," I replied coldly. "I have never seen my uncle, and know nothing of him."

"Well, I learned also that your father is heir to the title, and that you will yet be Lord Kilorme, in all probability. This tempted me. The Kilormes always married for money; I was a rich woman; why not? It looks feasible from a business point of view. How was I to know that you differed from all your forebears in your views of marriage? But there is one point I wish to have settled finally, and that is why I have brought on this conversation. Did you fancy I was in love with you?"

"I am not such a conceited ass," I replied, with some indignation.

"Um! I am very glad of that. It saves me the trouble of disabusing your mind of any such preposterous idea. The man I am in love with is Mr. Jared Hawkings."

"Then why don't you marry him?" said I somewhat bluntly; for, to tell the truth, I was tired of Hawkings eternally turning up, and felt an irritation that was unaccountable, because, after all, it was none of my business.

She laughed in an odd, mirthless sort of way, and said, "It will seem ridiculous, but you hit upon it that day at Richmond. I do not at all fancy Hawkings for my other name. If he were Lord Kilorme, I'd marry him to-morrow. Think how well it would look on the plate-glass window: 'Lady Kilorme, Electrician.'"

She stopped all further conversation by putting on the full force of the machine. We whisked through villages in a way that I thought reckless, and we left behind us a trail of screaming children and frantic policemen. The only reason I can see that we did not kill most of the population was because we came so silently and passed so quickly that no one had time to dodge, so Miss Briggs's magnificent steering avoided every obstacle. At last I saw a barricade across the road ahead, and what I took to be a phalanx of policemen. She saw it, too, and hissing "Hang on!" turned down a side road on two wheels with a suddenness that, in spite of her warning, nearly wrenched me from my place. We ran along an indifferent road for some miles, and then came to another main thoroughfare leading to Brighton. Here she stopped the motor, and once more my breathing became normal. She jumped down. Her cheeks were like roses and her eyes ablaze with excitement.

"Wasn't that glorious?" she cried. "I believe those policemen broke the law in putting a barricade across the road. I must have my solicitor look into that matter."

"I know someone who broke the law, and it needs no solicitor to testify to the crime."

She laughed heartily at this and said—

"You are a clever boy, Billy. Jump down and help me."

I obeyed with alacrity. She unsnapped a catch here and there, and the sides of the motor came off. She reversed them in a jiffy, I giving what aid I could. In a few moments there stood the old gaudy motor-car that I had objected to so long ago, crimson, yellow, and staring blue. She laughed again at my surprise.

"I suppose you imagined in your youthful sense of importance that I changed the colour of this machine because you didn't like it? Not so. It merely gave me an idea, and I had these sides made reversible. This is the first opportunity I have had of testing the device." She took off the toque she wore, stowed it away, and put on a young man's bowler hat. After making her man's collar and necktie a little more prominent, and adjusting her coat, she stepped into her place again, and when we spread the lap-robe over our knees, you would have sworn we were two young fellows out in a very Turneresque motor-car. The police of Brighton were looking for a reckless woman driving a dark automobile, so they allowed two youths in a sunset vehicle to pass slowly by unmolested.

We had lunch together, and the interest of Miss Briggs in the batteries seemed to have subsided, for she stored the motor at Brighton, and we came back together on the Pullman train, which she said was nice and handy for Victoria Street. There was but one other passenger, and he got out at Croydon. As we two neared London, Miss Briggs put out her hand impulsively.

"Billy, there is no misunderstanding between us now, and you won't think any the worse of me because I have been so frank with you, will you? And you won't talk of resigning, or of refusing your salary, or any nonsense of that sort? Things are to go on as they were before? Promise me that."

I took her offered hand in my right and covered it out of sight with my left. She seemed to wince a little at this; almost withdrew her hand, but allowed it to remain where it was. The deepening rose in her cheeks and the liquid diamond of her eyes made a combination so alluring that I swear I would have kissed her right there and then, had it not been for that shuddering little shrinking at the contact of my great paws, and her expressed preference for that man Hawkings, whom I found myself beginning to detest, in spite of his talent and good fellowship. Weeks passed on, and there was no change at the office. But at home the situation was somewhat worrying to me. My father had become irritable in his cups, taunting and sneering at me. This mood alternated with one almost equally difficult to bear—a cringing, ingratiating demeanour, which I did not at all like. In the latter temper he said to me, "Billy, when is Miss Briggs going to marry that other fellow?"

"I do not know, sir. She has ceased to take me into her confidence."

"Billy, I shall always think you a fool!"

"I am aware that is your opinion, sir."

"No, no, Billy, it isn't my opinion. You're a better man than ever your father was. You wouldn't lie, Billy, even if your fortune depended on it. I did Miss Briggs a great injustice, but I was muddled with drink, and thought what I said would bring about what I wanted. It has had the opposite effect, and it serves me right. They say, 'In vino veritas,' Billy, but it isn't so. There was no truth in that story I told you of her. She did not come to me. I wrote to her saying I should like to talk to her over the prospects of my only son, and she replied, giving me an appointment at her house in Kensington. I am an old hand, Billy, and I was certain, by the way her eyes glowed when we talked of you, that she was in love with you. I may have been mistaken, but I am not yet convinced that I was. I think you and I between us have queered the game. I asked her for a loan of £200, and she wrote me a cheque for £500."

I was on my feet by the time he had finished, and I think the expression of my face frightened him, for he began to hedge.

"I saw you did not believe me, Billy, so I thought it would not matter. But now I have told you the truth. Don't make it hard for me, Billy."

"But, sir, the lady herself told me you had spoken the truth. I did not believe the story until she confirmed it."

"Good Heavens! Billy, you never mentioned to her what I said?"

"She compelled me to tell her. She suspected something of the sort, and placed me in such a position that I had to tell."

"Wonderful little woman! Poor little girl! She did not want you to lose faith in your old father. Billy, she's too good for any of our kind."

Next morning I asked Miss Briggs if she would stay in her office until all the rest were gone, as I wished to consult her on a matter of importance. She flashed a quick look at me, in which there was a suggestion of alarm.

"You are not going to resign again, Billy?"

"Not unless you wish me to."

"Oh! very well. I shall be here."

When at last I had seen the back of Barclay, who had fussed about the shop an exasperatingly long time after everyone else had gone (the time-serving villain would have taken his departure soon enough if Miss Briggs had been absent), I entered the inner office, and saw the young woman in her usual place, scribbling figures on a sheet of paper with her pencil. There was a slight wrinkle of perplexity on her smooth brow as she looked up at me.

"Sally," I began, and she started at the name. I had always called her Miss Briggs before. "Sally, that story you related about the Kilormes and the title, and the deposit of money on account, was all a piece of fiction."

"Who told you that?" she asked quickly.

"My father told me the truth of the matter last night. Now, Sally, in punishment for your duplicity, you will have to marry the man you so brazenly deluded."

"Oh, Billy!" she gasped, her eyes filling, "it hurt me a little when I saw you believed that story. You are a nice boy, the very nicest boy I ever knew and you think it right to attempt some sort of quixotic reparation. And that hurts me more than the other did. I shall never marry anyone. Never."

For answer I picked her up and held her high in mid-air, helpless, laughing at her.

"Oh! Billy, Billy!" she cried, "let me down at once! What if someone came in?"

"No fear, Sally. I took the precaution to lock the front door. Hang your riches and hang my prospective title! Will you promise, Sally, or shall I have to shake you into a sensible frame of mind?"

I drew her down to me like the little mid-air angel she was, and I learned something about electricity I had never known before when our lips completed the circuit.

Copyright, 1901, by the S. S. McClure Co., in the United States of America.