'Are you actually suggesting that I should carry on the fraud which you initiated?'

'Depends on how you call it. This fraud'll drift into the paths of virtue; as fraud sometimes does. You'll be in every way a fool if you drop a word to cause any one to think that you haven't been the Marquis all along. For one thing, you'll lose the good character I've earned you; and, for another, you'll be in jail.'

'But I shan't be able to continue the deception for a moment.'

'Why not? If there's one thing you're good at, it is deception.'

'Suppose that I'm found out?'

'Then you may expect trouble--from me.'

'How did you come in possession of that--that acceptance?'

'For information on that point I refer you to Mr. Acrodato; though I don't advise you to apply for it. So long as he continues to believe that you are me all will be merry as a marriage bell; the moment he suspects that he's been tricked the band will begin to play.'

'Give me that bill and I'll give you a quittance for the money you've taken, and nothing shall be said of what you've done.'

'You'll do all that, and more--without my giving you the bill.'

'Are you proposing to blackmail me?'

'I'm proposing nothing of the kind. I'm proposing to keep that bill; that's all. So soon as it comes to my ears that you've given any one--it doesn't matter who--the least cause to suspect that it isn't you who've been Marquis of Twickenham all the way along you'll hear I've got it--not till.'

'But, Carruthers, or Babbacombe, or Merrett, or whatever your name is----'

'My name, sir, is James Merrett; and don't you ever let on that you knew me as Carruthers at San Francisco, or anywhere else.'

'It seems to me that between us we've got a good many things we don't want people to know of.'

'You've hit it. That's the point to which I've been trying to bring you. Let's sit on them together.'

'Merrett, I quite recognise that you're the stronger man.'

'Recognition's something.'

'But, whether you choose to admit it or not, you've got me in a hole.

While it is quite possible, and even probable, that in starting to be Marquis on your own account you've cleared the ground for me in some directions, in asking me to continue on your lines undiscovered, you are setting me a task which is beyond my powers.'

'I see that you are trying to get somewhere. Get.'

'It is quite possible that I may become a monk.'

'A what?'

'A monk. For the past five years I've been living the life of a religious.'

'You don't say! It sounds funny.'

'Therefore you will easily perceive that I am scarcely prepared to take upon myself all at once the responsibilities of the position which--you have arranged for me.'

'Get on. You do move slow.'

'Merrett, I want you to stand by me, and help me through the troubles I see ahead.'

'What do you mean by standing by--and what's your idea of helping?'

'Can't you, with your fertile brain, see some means of rendering me a.s.sistance without--compromising either of us?'

Again Mr. Merrett whistled.

'Your head isn't so much on the slant as some might perhaps be thinking. Together we'll be a match for a world in arms. You see, it's this way. There are persons who are foolish enough to think that I'm myself. Between us we might manage to convince them that I'm not. You slip round to Twickenham House. Then sometime to-morrow I'll appear as the injured Merrett--red-hot with an indignant desire to know who has had the cheek and impudence, peer or no peer, to get himself mistaken for me. I shall see you; perceive, with amazement--kept within judicious bounds--how like you are to me. Then I shall understand how the mistake's arisen, and my indignation will tone down. We'll have a little talk together. I may be of a.s.sistance to you--in other ways.

One never knows.'

Mr. Merrett winked. His lordship smiled.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

AN INTERIOR

Mr. Merrett gently opened the door, then stood listening, the handle in his hand. The sound of voices reached his ear. He stepped into the pa.s.sage. The door of the room upon his left was open; he peeped through. A woman was sitting at a table with a pile of photographs in front of her. Two children were standing at her knee; a boy and girl.

They regarded the photograph on which the woman's eyes were fixed.

'Shall I be like father when I grow up?' inquired the boy. 'I hope you will; as like him as you can. O Jimmy, I would be proud if you were like your father.'

'Will I be like him too?' This was the little girl. The boy derided her. 'Girls aren't never like their fathers--never!'

The woman, stopping, put her arm about the young person's neck, and said: 'You be your mother, Pollie; and love him with all your heart and soul. Father'll like that just as well.'

'Father'll like it better!' observed Mr. Merrett, standing at the door.

Mother and children started. They turned to see who it was had spoken.

The woman, dropping the photograph she held, ran towards the door, uttering an exclamation that was like a long-drawn sigh.

'James!'

She threw her arms about his neck, he put his about her waist, and they were still--until the children claimed their share of notice.

'To think that you should come home to-day!'

She spoke as if the day were sanctified by his coming. She was a woman whose beauty was rare both in type and in degree. Small, there was that about her which caused the defect, if defect it was, to go unnoticed. She moved with a grace and freedom which dignified her every gesture. The eye followed her with continual joy. Every change of att.i.tude was a fresh delight. Whether in movement or repose she suggested the physical side of life at its highest and its best; she seemed charged, to the finger-tips, with so delicious a vitality. The thing about her face which struck one most was its expression of perfect innocence. One wondered if such a being ever could grow old.

One felt sure that she would face whatever fortune fate might send her with the same quaint illuminating smile, and that nothing would ever shake her faith in the good that was to be.

Mr. Merrett had a child on either knee. His wife was kneeling beside his chair, regarding him with a rapturous affection which it was curious to contemplate. A man's capacity to win and retain a woman's love is by no means necessarily dependent on his moral qualities.

Which is fortunate for some of us.