Sometimes, as he sat at his deal table, fighting with a growing sense of disillusionment that was like nothing so much as a child's first discovery that its beautiful doll is stuffed with straw, he would wish passionately, vehemently for the return of those days when he had sat in his little bedroom writing "Reuben Hallard" with Norah Monogue, and dear Mr. Zanti and even taciturn little Gottfried, there to encourage him.

_That_ had been Adventure--but this ...? And then he would remember young Stephen and Clare--moments even lately that she had shared with him--and he would be ashamed.

II

It was on an afternoon of furious wind and rain in early April that the inevitable occurred. All the afternoon the trees in the little orchard had been knocking their branches together as though they were in a furious temper with Somebody and were indignant at not being allowed to get at Him; they gave you the impression that it would be quite as much as your life would be worth to venture into their midst.

Peter had, during a number of hours, endeavoured to pierce the soul of Mortimer Stant--meanwhile as the wind howled, the rain lashed the windows of his room, and the personality of Mr. Stant faded farther and farther away into ultimate distance, Peter was increasingly conscious that he was listening for something.

He had felt himself surrounded by this strange sense of anticipation before. Sometimes it had stayed with him for a short period only, sometimes it had extended over days--always it brought with it an emotion of excitement and even, if he had analysed it sufficiently, fear.

He was suddenly conscious, in the naked spaces of his barely-furnished room, of the personality of his father. So conscious was he that he got up from his table and stood at the rain-swept window, looking out into the orchard, as though he expected to see a sinister figure creeping, stealthily, from behind the trees. In his thoughts of his father there was no compunction, no accusing scruples of neglect, only a perfectly concrete, active sense, in some vague way, of force pitted against force.

It might be summed up in the conviction that "the old man was not done with him yet"--and as Peter turned back from the window, almost relieved that he had, indeed, seen no creeping figure amongst the dark trees, he was aware that never since the days of his starvation in Bucket Lane, had he been so conscious of those threatening memories of Scaw House and its inhabitants.

At that, almost as he reached his table, there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he cried and, scorning himself for his fears, faced the maid with staring eyes.

"Two gentlemen to see you, sir," she said. "I have shown them into the study."

"Is Mrs. Westcott in?"

"No, sir. She told me that she would not be back until six o'clock, sir."

"I will come down."

In the hall, hanging amongst the other things as a Pirate might hang beside a company of Evangelist ministers, was Stephen Brant's hat....

As Peter's hand turned on the handle of the study door he knew that his heart was beating with so furious a clamour that he could not hear the lock turn.

III

He entered the room and found Stephen Brant and Mr. Zanti facing him.

The little window between the dim rows of books showed him the pale light that was soon to succeed the storm. The two men seemed to fill the little room; their bodies were shadowy and mysterious against the pale colour, and Peter had the impression that the things in the room--the chairs, the books, the table--huddled against the wall, so crowded did the place seem.

For himself, at his first sight of them, he was compelled, instantly, to check a feeling of joy so overwhelming that he was himself astonished at the force of it. To them, as they stood there, smiling, feeling that same emotion to which he, also, was now succumbing! He checked himself.

It was as though he were forced suddenly, by a supreme effort of will, to drive from the room a tumultuous crowd of pictures, enthusiasms and memories, that, for the sake of the present and of the future, must be forbidden to stay with him. It was absurd--he was a husband, a father, a responsible householder, almost a personage... and yet, as he looked at Stephen's eyes and Mr. Zanti's smile, he was the little boy back again in Tan's shop with the old suit of armour, the beads and silver and Eastern cloths, and out beyond the window, the sea was breaking upon the wooden jetty....

He put the picture away from him and rushed to greet the two of them.

"Zanti!... Stephen!... Oh! how splendid! How perfectly, perfectly splendid!"

Mr. Zanti's enormous body was enclosed in a suit of bright blue, his broad nose stood out like a bridge, his wide mouth gaped. He wore white spats, three massive rings of twisted gold and in his blue tie a glittering emerald. He was a magnificent, a costly figure and in nothing was the geniality of his nature more plainly seen than in his obvious readiness to abandon, at any moment, these splendid riches for the sake of a valued attachment. "I love wearing these things," you might hear him say, "but I love still better to do anything in the world that I can for you, my friend."

Stephen presented a more moderate appearance, but he was brown with health and shining with strength. He was like the old Stephen of years and years ago, so different from the--man who had shared with Peter that room in Bucket Lane.

He carried himself with that air of strong, cautious reserve that Cornishmen have when they are in some other country than their own; his eyes, mild, gentle, but on the alert, ready at an instant to be hostile.

Then, when Peter came in, the reserve instantly fled. They had, all three of them, perhaps, expected embarrassment, but at that cry of Peter's they were suddenly together, Mr. Zanti, waving his hands, almost shouting, Stephen, his eyes resting with delight on Peter, Peter himself another creature from the man who had pursued Mortimer Stant in the room upstairs, half an hour before.

"We thought that ze time 'ad come, dear boy... we know zat you are busy." Mr. Zanti looked about him a little anxiously, as though he expected to find Mrs. Peter hiding under a chair or a sofa.

"Oh! Stephen, after all this long long while! Why didn't you come before when Mr. Zanti came?"

"Too many of us coming, Mr. Peter, and you so busy."

"Nonsense. I'm not in the least busy. I'm sorry to say my wife's out but the baby's in, upstairs, and there's the most terrific woman up there too, the nurse--I'm frightened out of my life of her--but we'll get rid of her and have the place to ourselves... you know the kid's called after you, Stephen?"

"No, is he really?" Stephen's face shone with pleasure. "I'm keen to see him."

"Oh, he's a trump! There never really was such a baby."

"And your books, Mr. Peter?"

"Oh! the books!" Peter's voice dropped, "never mind them now. But what have you been doing, you two? Made heaps of money? Discovered treasure?..." He pulled himself up shortly. He remembered the bookshop, the girl leaning against the door looking into the street, then the boys crying the news....

If Mr. Zanti had been mixing himself up with that sort of thing again!

And then the bright blue suit, the white spats, were reassuring. As if one could ever take such a child seriously about anything!

Mr. Zanti shook his head, ruefully. "No, not ezackly a fortune! There was a place I 'eard of, right up in the Basque country--'twas an old deserted garden, where zey 'ad buried treasure, centuries ago--I 'ad it quite certainly from a friend. We came up there for a time but we found nothing." He sighed and then was instantly cheered again. "But it's all right. I've got a plan now--a wonderful plan." He became very mysterious. "It's a certain thing--we're off to Cornwall, Mr. Brant and myself--"

"Cornwall?"

"Come too, Peter."

"Ah! don't I wish that I could!" He suddenly saw his life, his books--everything in London holding him, tying him--"But I can't go now, my father being there makes it impossible. But in any case, I'm a family man now--you know."

As he said the words he was conscious that, in Stephen's eyes at any rate, the family man was about the last thing that he looked. He was wondering, with intense curiosity, what were the things that Stephen was finding in him, for the things that Stephen found were most assuredly the things that he was. No one knew him as Stephen knew him. Against his will the thought of Clare came driving upon him. How little she knew him! or was it only that she knew another side of him?

But he pulled himself away from that. "Now for the nursery--Stephen Secundus. But you'll have to support me whilst I get rid of Mrs.

Kant--perhaps three of us together--"

As he led the way upstairs he knew that Stephen was not entirely reassured about him.

Mrs. Kant was a large, busy woman, like a horse--a horse who dislikes other horses and sniffs an enemy in every wind. She very decidedly sniffed an enemy now, and Mr. Zanti's blue suit paled before her fierce eyes. He stepped back into the doorway again, treading upon Stephen.

Peter, who was always conscious that Mrs. Kant looked upon himself and Clare as two entirely ridiculous and slightly impertinent children, stammered a little.

"You might go down and have your tea now, Mrs. Kant. I'll keep an eye upon Stephen."

"I've had my tea, thank you, sir."

"Well, I'll relieve you of the baby for a little." She was sewing.

She snapped off a piece of thread with a sharp click of her teeth, sat silently for a moment staring in front of her, then quietly got up.

"Thank you, sir," she said and left the room.

All three men breathed again as the door closed--then they were all conscious of young Stephen.