of it all. She was only too happy in the knowledge that she had won this man’s affection; she was frightened by the reflection that she might not be worthy of him. With his head in the air. Hardy strode along, quickening his pace unconsciously. As they turned a corner, a shabbily-dressed man, loafing furtively, came in more or less violent contact with Hardy. The man’s shiny hat fell to the ground; he muttered something angrily about the stupidity of people who would not take the trouble to look where they were going. Hardy apologised in his superior manner; the man appeared to be about to retort angrily, then suddenly turned on his heel and crossed the road.
He stood for a moment watching the retreating figures, his face working convulsively; then he threw up his head and laughed bitterly. The others were out of sight now.
“Philip Hardy—and, as I live, Lena Grey,” he muttered. “I wonder if they recognised me; but that is impossible. If they had, Lena would have stopped; she was always forgiving and sweet-tempered. I wonder if it is possible—”
The man stopped abruptly and drifted down the street.
V. — A ROLLING STONE
THE outcast wandered on, stopping from time to time as if waiting or hoping for something. He was conscious of the doubtful glances of the passers-by; he noticed also that more than one policeman took a mental note of him. It was not to be wondered at, seeing that, despite the way he carried himself, his general appearance was suspicious to the last degree. His shabby frock suit at one time had been fashionable enough—indeed, frayed and creased and soiled as it was, the flavour of Bond Street still clung to it. The coat was buttoned up tightly to disguise the absence of a shirt; the greasy top hat was stuck on the head at a defiant angle. Altogether he looked a man to be shunned, as a glance at his shifty eye and unshaven face testified.
And yet there was a time when Jasper Cleave had walked the West End on terms of equality with the best of them. He had been accounted a good fellow and a true friend. He had ample means at his disposal, and more than one designing mother had been ready to welcome him as a probable son-in-law.
But there had been a weak spot somewhere—something wanting in the man’s mental fibre. There had been a scandal, sudden and unexpected, and Jasper Cleave’s place knew him no more. He had drifted abroad as men of his class do; the waters of oblivion had closed over his head; his name had ceased to be mentioned.
Those had been terribly trying years for the ruined gambler. He had starved with others of his clan and had seen many strange and unspeakable experiences, and now some backwater of the sea of life had cast him back upon the streets of London without hope, without friends, without money.
His wandering footsteps brought him presently to the fine block of buildings known as Courtville Square. Here he paused and looked about him curiously. The grounds were all fresh to him; the huge series of flats had not existed when he went away. He could see the blinds pulled up somewhere on the second floor, revealing a glimpse of a luxuriously-furnished room within, brilliantly lighted with soft shaded electrics. Jasper Cleave had seen nothing like this at close quarters for the last three years, and the sight fascinated him. It was just possible that some old-time friend lived there, some man whose hospitality he had shared before his fall. He was still gazing at the fairy scene when he turned to see a neatly-dressed man-servant standing by his side. With a bitter smile he noticed that the man actually lifted a subservient hat to him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the servitor said, “but am I not speaking to Mr. Jasper Cleave?”
Cleave laughed aloud. The irony of the situation appealed to his cynical humour; he had almost forgotten what it was like to be addressed in this fashion; he felt himself in every way inferior to the man who addressed him. He was disposed for the moment to deny his own identity. There might be some subtle scheme behind all this. On the other hand, it was just possible that the man had recognised him. Also, whatever scheme was afoot, Jasper Cleave could not possibly be worse off than he was at that moment.
“Well,” he said guardedly, “we will suppose that my name is Cleave. What have you to say to that? What business can it be of yours?”
The man-servant lost not a whit of his subservient manner; he might have been speaking to his own master.
“I have been tracking you all day, sir,” he said. “My employer would like to see you. There is only one stipulation—that you ask no questions and do exactly as you are told. Believe me, sir, it will be to your advantage to fall in with my suggestion.”
Cleave grinned evilly as he noted his own sorry rags. Any change from the present situation must be to his advantage.
“Where does your employer live?” he asked.
The servant pointed to the brilliantly lit-up room opposite.
“That is the dining-room, sir,” he said. “If you are not disposed to fall in with the suggestion—”
“Lead on,” Cleave said hoarsely. “Lead on, my good fellow; I am not in a position to decline anything that looks like giving me a respectable meal, to be followed, if the gods are good, by a cigar and a cup of coffee.”
The man-servant led the way across the flagged hall and up the steps into the most perfectly appointed suite of rooms that the adventurer had seen for many a long day. He felt a little uplifted by the sight of so much good taste and luxury. It reminded him of the time that had gone for ever. All the same, he did not fail to detect a certain note of femininity in the arrangements of the flat. It could not be possible that some lady had suddenly fallen in love with him. Cleave thought grimly, though certainly the whole thing had a distinct suggestion of the “Arabian Nights ” about it. The silent manservant might have passed for a slave of the ring, quite up-to-date. Cleave could see the man regarding his tattered wardrobe more or less critically in the strong light.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like to make some little change in your dress before supper. If you will come into the bedroom with me I shall act as valet to you—”
“Certainly,” Cleave said grimly. “I shall find my kit bag and dressing-case ready laid out for me. As I have just come off a long voyage, my somewhat dilapidated appearance may be pardoned. Now what am I to call you? Robert? Well, Robert, if you will be so good as to shave me, and put the diamond studs in my dress shirt, I think I shall be able to manage the rest.”
Robert neither bowed nor smiled; he seemed to take the whole thing for granted.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “You will find everything ready if you come this way. Perhaps you would like a bath.”
Too utterly dazed now to make any further comment, Cleave followed the soft-footed servant into a bedroom at the end of a corridor. It was obviously a man’s room somewhat plainly furnished, but lacking nothing that any man of fashion could desire. Here were silver-mounted toilet requisites on the dressing-table, brushes, combs, a case of razors, everything necessary. As Robert turned up the lights. Cleave could see a bathroom leading out of the apartment beyond. As he turned his cynical eyes around the room, he could see a black mass on the bed, which resolved itself presently into a dress suit. Here were also ties, socks, silk underclothing, nothing lacking in the way of wardrobe. To Cleave’s amazement he saw that everything here was marked with his own initials.
“I shall wake up presently,” he muttered, “and find myself on a seat in Hyde Park. This is nothing else
