A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness.

For that brief s.p.a.ce she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious fulness of her youth, living and beloved.

Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments.

As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days.

They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do so.

"You will be sure to come to-morrow?" she said, as she kissed him good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from her.

"Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?" he whispered as they parted.

"Oh! so much," she answered with a sweet smile. "Didn't I tell you this morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so close. We were all the world to each other."

He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must never be pierced by doubts of her father's rect.i.tude.

Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle's ready a.s.surance was not in the least dashed by these circ.u.mstances. He advanced with outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner.

"I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian club. I ought to have told you."

Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he would have a.s.sumed it in any case.

They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally.

"It is some years since I entered these portals," he remarked in his pompous, affected manner. "I used to know some good fellows in the old days."

He named Jimmy this, d.i.c.ky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the majority.

"I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London career," he explained. "I was a member of the Garrick, and at the Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days could come again."

He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had economised in the matter of lunch.

When dinner was over, they pa.s.sed to the smoking-room, where Mr Boyle very speedily disposed of a few whiskies, taking two to the other's one.

It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visit to Smeaton.

"I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinary circ.u.mstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any old friend of her father's; but I fear such a visit at present would pain her very much."

Boyle rose to the occasion. "It is I who am in fault. It was a thoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, and prompted, I a.s.sure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her, and esteem for my dear old friend."

If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda.

The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of absorption appeared to be unbounded.

Wingate proposed a change of scene. "What do you say to an hour or two at the Empire? We'll stroll round and get a couple of stalls."

Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. "Excellent," he cried, with the glee of a schoolboy. "Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire, what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the light-heartedness of youth."

He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o'clock before Wingate could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for enjoyment.

"Let us make a night of it," he cried cheerfully. "You don't know what a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a little supper together."

Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in good humour.

"Good man," cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. "The night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant, presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my guest."

Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his disappearance.

The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They were very well acquainted.

They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words: "Put it down. I'll call and pay to-morrow."

The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had told him might be of service.

"Pardon me, Boyle," he said, dropping the formal prefix, "but I could not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me be your banker for the time being."

There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered more refreshment.

Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other's shoulder, and spoke in his deep, rolling tones.

"Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself, Wingate. I'm as poor as a church-rat--you can guess that from my clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next week I may not have that. But I don't moan and whine; I set my teeth and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather."

He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst.

Wingate felt in his pockets.

"I haven't much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a sum."

"Would ten pounds be too much?" asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating voice. For the moment, his a.s.surance seemed to have forsaken him; he seemed to realise to what he had fallen.

"Not at all." The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict, together with the two pounds in cash.

For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill.

"I cannot find words to thank you," he told his benefactor, "I can only say, G.o.d bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself, in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history."

Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous front.

"I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had stripped me of every penny."

Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin.

There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as much?

"But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for fear of arrest."

Wingate p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

"You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting, if you saw it?"

"Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession.

If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them to-night."