She sensed the terror and agony in his voice.

"You!" he gasped. "Mary!"

"Hang you! Go!" roared van Heerden, and thrust him back.

But though he staggered back a pace under the weight of the other's arm, his eyes did not leave the girl's face, and she, fascinated by the appeal in the face of the wreck, could not turn hers away.

"Mary!" he whispered, "what is your other name?"

With an effort the girl recovered herself.

"My name is not Mary," she said quietly. "My name is Oliva Cresswell."

"Oliva Cresswell," he repeated. "Oliva Cresswell!"

He made a movement toward her but van Heerden barred his way. She heard Jackson say something in a strangled voice and heard van Heerden's sharp "What!" and there was a fierce exchange of words.

The attention of the few people in the palm-court had been attracted to the unusual spectacle of two men engaged in what appeared to be a struggle.

"Sit down, sit down, you fool! Sit over there. I will come to you in a minute. Can you swear what you say is true?"

Jackson nodded. He was shaking from head to foot.

"My name is Predeaux," he said; "that is my daughter--I married in the name of Cresswell. My daughter," he repeated. "How wonderful!"

"What are you going to do?" asked van Heerden.

He had half-led, half-pushed the other to a chair near one of the pillars of the rotunda.

"I am going to tell her," said the wreck. "What are you doing with her?"

he demanded fiercely.

"That is no business of yours," replied van Heerden sharply.

"No business of mine, eh! I'll show you it's some business of mine. I am going to tell her all I know about you. I have been a rotter and worse than a rotter." The old flippancy had gone and the harsh voice was vibrant with purpose. "My path has been littered with the wrecks of human lives," he said bitterly, "and they are mostly women. I broke the heart of the best woman in the world, and I am going to see that you don't break the heart of her daughter."

"Will you be quiet?" hissed van Heerden. "I will go and get her away and then I will come back to you."

Jackson did not reply. He sat huddled up in his chair, muttering to himself, and van Heerden walked quickly back to the girl.

"I am afraid I shall have to let you go back by yourself. He is having one of his fits. I think it is delirium tremens."

"Don't you think you had better send for----" she began. She was going to say "send for a doctor," and the absurdity of the request struck her.

"I think you had better go," he said hastily, with a glance at the man who was struggling to his feet. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that we've had this scene."

"Stop!"--it was Jackson's voice.

He stood swaying half-way between the chair he had left and the alcove, and his trembling finger was pointing at them.

"Stop!" he said in a commanding voice. "Stop! I've got something to say to you. I know ... he's making you pay for the Green Rust...."

So far he got when he reeled and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The doctor sprang forward, lifted him and carried him to the chair by the pillar. He picked up the overcoat that the man had been wearing and spread it over him.

"It's a fainting-fit, nothing to be alarmed about," he said to the little knot of people from the tables who had gathered about the limp figure. "Jaques"--he called the head-waiter--"get some brandy, he must be kept warm."

"Shall I ring for an ambulance, m'sieur?"

"It is not necessary," said van Heerden. "He will recover in a few moments. Just leave him," and he walked back to the alcove.

"Who is he?" asked the girl, and her voice was shaking in spite of herself.

"He is a man I knew in his better days," said van Heerden, "and now I think you must go."

"I would rather wait to see if he recovers," she said with some obstinacy.

"I want you to go," he said earnestly; "you would please me very much if you would do as I ask."

"There's the waiter!" she interrupted, "he has the brandy. Won't you give it to him?"

It was the doctor who in the presence of the assembled visitors dissolved a white pellet in the brandy before he forced the clenched teeth apart and poured the liquor to the last drop down the man's throat.

Jackson or Predeaux, to give him his real name, shuddered as he drank, shuddered again a few seconds later and then went suddenly limp.

The doctor bent down and lifted his eyelid.

"I am afraid--he is dead," he said in a low voice.

"Dead!" the girl stared at him. "Oh no! Not dead!"

Van Heerden nodded.

"Heart failure," he said.

"The same kind of heart failure that killed John Millinborn," said a voice behind him. "The cost of the Green Rust is totalling up, doctor."

The girl swung round. Mr. Beale was standing at her elbow, but his steady eyes were fixed upon van Heerden.

CHAPTER IX

A CRIME AGAINST THE WORLD

"What do you mean?" asked Dr. van Heerden.

"I merely repeat the words of the dead man," answered Beale, "heart failure!"