In the Dead of Night (Vol. 1-3). T. W. Speight

that they could ever be bridged over. Friendship between two such men was an impossibility.

      With Kester St. George the case was somewhat different. Lionel would gladly have clasped his cousin's hand in friendship, but he had begun to find out that beneath all Kester's geniality, and easy laughing way of dealing with everything that came before him, there existed a nature cold, hard, and cynical, against which the white wings of Friendship or of Love might beat in vain for ever. He was always pleasant, always smiling, always good-tempered: yet it seemed impossible to get near him, or to feel sure that you knew him better at the end of a year than on the first day you met him. Then, too, Lionel was not without an uneasy sense that not only the servants at the hall, but his own social equals in the neighbourhood, looked upon him in some measure as an interloper, and seemed to think that he must, in some inscrutable way, have defrauded his cousin out of his birthright. No wonder Lionel felt that it would be a relief when the visit should have come to an end.

      He took an opportunity one day, when Kester seemed in a more confidential mood than usual, of again hinting at the pleasure it would give him if his cousin would only accept that three thousand a-year out of the estate which it had been his grandfather's manifest wish should be Kester's share of the property. But Kester froze the moment the subject was broached, and Lionel saw plainly how utterly useless any further persistence in it would be.

      Both Squire Culpepper and Mr. Cope had called at Park Newton as soon as they heard that Kester St. George was down there on a visit, and a day or two later Lionel invited those gentlemen, together with several other old friends of his cousin, to a dinner at the hall, in honour of the occasion. Three or four return dinners had been given by different people, and now the day was come when they were all to go and dine with the squire at Pincote--Lionel, Kester, and Mr. Percy Osmond.

      The afternoon was cold and gloomy, with frequent showers of rain. Luncheon was just over, and Kester St. George, who had been out riding all the morning, was sitting alone before a cozy fire in his dressing-room, keeping the unwelcome company of his own thoughts. In his hands was a cheque, which Osmond, who had just left him, had given him, in settlement of a long-standing debt at cards.

      "The greedy hound!" he muttered to himself. "It was like drawing blood from a stone to get even this paltry strip of paper from him. And yet if this were made out for eight thousand pounds instead of for eight only, it would be honoured. Ay, if it were for six times eight thousand pounds, and there would then be a little fortune left. One thing's very certain. I must raise a couple of thousand somewhere before I'm many hours older, or else I shall have to make a bolt of it--have to put salt water between myself and the hounds that are for ever baying at my heels. If Nantucket had only pulled off the Chester Cup, I should have landed three thousand at the very least. Just like my luck that she should fall lame twelve hours before the race. I must have two thousand," he went on as he rose and began to pace the room, "or else submit to be outlawed. Osmond could lend it to me and never feel the loss of it. Shall I ask him? As well try to move a rock. He knows that I'm poor already. If he knew that I was a pauper he'd cut me dead. No great loss as things go; still, I can't afford to lose him. Shall I ask Dering to help me out of my difficulties? No, never! never! Let ruin--outlawry--suicide itself come, rather than that!"

      He sat down again, still twisting and turning the cheque absently between his fingers. "Only a miserable eight pounds! It's like offering a quarter of a biscuit to a man who is dying of starvation. Mr. Percy Osmond doesn't seem to have paid much attention to the art of calligraphy when he was young. Upon my word I never saw a signature that it would be easier to imitate. All that a clever fellow wants is a blank cheque on the same bank. With that, what wonders might be wrought! I've heard Osmond say that he always sleeps with his keys under his pillow. Once obtain possession of them, the rest would be easy. But how to get them? Suppose he gets drunk to-night at Pincote, as he is nearly sure to do--why then----"

      His pale face flushed, and a strange light came into his eyes. He mused for a minute or two, then he got up and rang the bell. Pierre answered it.

      "Ascertain at what hour the next train starts for London."

      In a couple of minutes Pierre came back. "The train for London passes Duxley station at four thirty-six," he said.

      "Good. You will just have time to catch it," said Mr. St. George. "You will reach London in two hours and a quarter after you leave Duxley. Take a cab. Find out Boucher. Tell him to telegraph me first thing to-morrow morning, so that the message will reach me here not later than eight o'clock. His telegram must be to this effect: You are wanted in town immediately on most important business. Do you understand?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "An hour in London will be enough for you. You will be able to catch the eight o'clock down train, and ought to be back in this room by eleven at the latest. In fact, I shall expect to find you here when I return from Pincote."

      "Yes, sir."

      "And don't say a word to any one about your journey."

      Pierre bowed and left the room.

      "Invaluable fellow, that," said Kester aloud.

      The excitement that had stirred his blood so strangely a few minutes before was still upon him. He was like a man who had screwed himself up to some desperate resolve which he was determined to go through with at every cost.

      He began slowly and deliberately to dress himself for dinner.

      "There's an old saying, 'Nothing risk, nothing have,'" he muttered to himself. "The risk, in this case, seems to be nothing very desperate. If I fail, I shall be no worse off than I am now. If I succeed----" His face blanched as suddenly as if he had seen a ghost.

      "I forgot that!" he whispered. "Dering sleeps in the next room to Osmond. What if he should be awake? Even when he does sleep, I've heard him say that the noise of a strange footstep is enough to rouse him. That is a difficulty I never thought of--the biggest difficulty of all."

      He was still pondering over this difficulty, whatever it might be, when Osmond burst suddenly into the room.

      "Not ready yet?" he said. "What a dilatory fellow you are! We shall have Dering in a devil of a temper if you don't make haste. I'll wait for you, if you don't mind my having a whiff meanwhile."