Winfield was silent a second.

"Are you interested in her?" he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"In a way, yes. I live on her lands; she is--well, the good fairy of the district. Yes, I am interested."

"I see no reason why I should not tell you," replied Winfield. "It is a matter of six years ago now, and the man is dead."

"Dead, eh? Who was he?"

"A fellow by the name of Radford Leicester."

"A good fellow? A pattern young man, eh?"

"No; anything but that. Nevertheless I liked him. In many respects I suppose I was his best friend--perhaps his only friend. But there, I'll tell you. Leicester was a cynic, a drunkard, a man who, while I believe he lived a clean, straight life, laughed at morality and truth and virtue. A drunkard, did I say? Well, that is true and false at the same time. He was a slave to drink, and yet he never appeared drunk. Well, he had brilliant gifts, was a fine speaker, a close reasoner, and every one believed that if he would give up his vice, he might become a great man.

As I said, he believed in nothing. He was an atheist, and scorned virtue. One night I was sitting with him, and two others, and he was taken to task for his----"

"Yes, I understand; go on."

"Well, he defended himself, and declared that there was no woman on earth but had her price. The other two chaps, Sprague and Purvis by name, defended the women. Then Leicester offered to make a wager that he, a kind of pariah as he was, could win any woman they liked to name, provided he was able to pay the price. Then I named Olive Castlemaine.

Leicester then offered to stake 100 that he would win her. He said that although she knew him to be a drunkard, an atheist, a cynic, a despiser of women, he would win her, by making her believe he would give her a high place in the land. After he had won her, he was to----"

"What you call jilt her," suggested Ricordo, as he saw Winfield hesitate for a word.

"Exactly. Well, he did win her. The day of the wedding was arranged.

Meanwhile, Sprague and Purvis believed he was simply seeking to win his wager. Indeed, he confessed as much to them a week or so before the wedding. For my own part, I believe that although Leicester began in grim jest, he ended by being deadly in earnest."

"Yes, go on, my friend," said Ricordo, as the other paused. "I am greatly interested in your story. More interested than you can imagine.

I will tell you why presently."

CHAPTER XXVI

REVELATIONS

"Yes, I believe he really loved her. He gave up drink, and although to his acquaintances he seemed as cynical and faithless as ever, I saw a change had come over him. He chose me for his best man at the wedding.

Well, on the eve of the wedding-day Miss Castlemaine got a letter, telling her the whole story. Personally, I believe Sprague wrote it. I suppose the letter seemed to prove up to the hilt that Leicester was simply playing the game to win his bet, and that although he was prepared to marry her, he was doing so because she was one of the richest heiresses in London."

"Well?"

"The wedding never came off. When he went to see her, she drove him from the house. I was there, and I saw and heard everything. I shall never forget Leicester's look as long as I live. I did my best for him, but in vain. She went abroad, and he--went to the devil."

"Tell me how, my friend."

"He flew to whisky; he gave himself over to the devil. Then the General Election came off, and he went to his const.i.tuency, only to fall down on the platform, at a public meeting, in a state of maudlin drunkenness.

He was hooted out of the const.i.tuency. Where he went, G.o.d only knows.

But a few weeks later his body was found washed on the steps by Blackfriars Bridge."

"Ecco! that is almost a tragedy, eh?" and Ricordo laughed almost merrily.

"It was tragedy to me; for, to tell the truth, I liked him. I had seen more of him than perhaps any other."

"And she, my friend--did she grieve?"

"I don't know. I should think not. I heard that a few weeks later her father had bought Vale Linden and that she was making merry with her friends."

"Just like a woman," said Ricordo quietly; "but there is one thing which is not quite clear to me. Why, if she did not care, has she not married some one else?"

"Well, I am not quite sure if that is the reason, but she made a vow to Leicester the night before the day fixed for the wedding that she would never marry another man, no matter what might happen."

"And you think she is keeping the vow?"

"Possibly; I don't know."

"A very interesting story, Mr. Winfield. I think I could tell you one quite as interesting. And you say the man committed suicide?"

"Yes," said Winfield with a sigh.

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose he had nothing to live for. He was disgraced, he was hooted out of his const.i.tuency, he had alienated friends, and he had neither faith nor hope."

For a few minutes they walked in silence. Then Ricordo said:

"And was he the kind of man, Mr. Winfield, who, according to your thoughts, would commit suicide?"

"There can be no doubt about it. It is true the body was unrecognisable, but there were letters found on him by which he could be identified.

Neither coroner nor jury had any doubts about it."

"Was he a weak, incapable man--a man without resource?"

"Great heavens, no! He was a man who could do anything. Had he known what was good for him, I believe he might have been Prime Minister."

"A man of weak will, eh?"

"No; rather a man of iron will, when he made up his mind."

"And he had vowed to marry this Miss Castlemaine?"

"Yes."

"And was he the kind of man to give up so easily?"

"I do not think you quite realise the circ.u.mstances."