sounds like a mystery," yawned Spruce, apparently in a listless manner, but secretly all agog to learn what the lawyers of his friend knew; "Madame Alpenny says you are a mystery."
"Me!" Hench laughed scornfully; "why, there's nothing mysterious about me. As you said just now, I am a simple person who places all his cards on the table."
"Yes"--Spruce nodded--"more fool you. Now, if you will only allow that old woman to think that there really is a mystery connected with you--and there seems to be so far as this legal interview is concerned--she may give you a chance of becoming her daughter's husband."
"Perhaps! But why does she think me a mystery?"
"I can't tell you. She was very vague about the matter. She declares that she has seen you somewhere and that you have a history."
"History be hanged. My father had sufficient money to travel about and put me to school at Winchester. When I left I joined him, and we went through Europe to this place and that until he died and was buried in Paris. What mystery is there about that?"
"None. But your family----?"
"I haven't got any save my father, who is dead. And he told me very little about himself or his belongings. We are a Welsh family, I believe."
"Hench isn't a Welsh name."
"Owain is, anyhow, and the spelling is old Welsh," retorted the other.
"True. We used to rag you about the spelling at school. Well, with such a name as that, you might find out the truth about your family."
"I'm not curious."
"You should be then, as I would be if I were in your shoes. For all you know there may be a title and money waiting for you."
"Oh, rubbish! Well, you can tell Madame Alpenny what I have told you. No. On second thoughts, I'll tell her myself. She and her mystery, indeed!" and with a scornful nod Hench left the bleak smoking-room.
Spruce reflected that Hench was a simpleton to be so frank about his private affairs, and had not changed, so far as trusting people went, since his school-days. "Also there is a mystery," he mused. "I'll search it out."
CHAPTER III
MAN PROPOSES
Everyone, without exception, was glad that Hench had returned, for he appeared to be a favourite with all. And not the least pleased to see him was the boy Simon Jedd, commonly called "Bottles." He was a freckled, red-haired, laughing youngster of fifteen, with a wide mouth and a snub nose, not by any manner of means handsome, but genial and cheerful and extremely honest. He helped Amelia with the house-work, ran errands, waited at table, cleaned the boots of the paying guests, and earned his scanty wages by making himself uncommonly useful on all and every occasion. But being a restless youth, and much given at odd moments to reading books of highly-coloured adventure in the form of penny stories, he had a soul above his drudgery, and longed with all his heart to face dangers of the most pronounced kind. Such a lad was bound to have some sort of actual hero to worship and adore.
In Hench, Bottles saw exactly the pioneering type, which was his ideal of perfect manhood, and he looked upon the young man as the model of all the virtues which most appealed to him. This being the case, he never could do enough to prove his devotion. No bed was so well made as that of Hench; no room was kept so spotlessly clean, and no boots were so highly polished. Half amused and half touched by this genuine hero-worship, Hench lent the boy books of travel, told him about his adventures in far lands, gave him odd shillings to patronize the local picture palace and music-hall, and generally treated him in a way which made the heart of the boy swell with pride. It was no wonder that Bottles adored him and could never do enough for him.
On the morning after his return, Hench found his clothes well brushed, his bath ready, and a cup of tea at his elbow, while Bottles hovered round the room wondering what else he could do to show his rejoicing spirit. In his shabby patched clothes, and wearing an apron of green baize, Bottles grinned respectfully when Hench sat up in bed to drink his tea. He also supplied him with small-beer chronicles concerning events which had taken place in The Home of the Muses during his hero's absence. Hench cared very little for such gossip, but allowed Bottles to prattle on because it pleased the lad. And certainly Master Jedd might have been a detective, so full and clever was his report. In the course of his narrative he arrived at Spruce. Then Hench really did listen, for, simple as he was, he began to wonder if the Nut had given his true reason for this visit to Bethnal Green.
"Such a swell as he is, ain't he?" babbled Bottles, who was now slipping links and studs into Hench's shirt. "I never did see a cove come with so many boxes, sir. Must be rich, I think, though he ain't free with his money. Says he knew you at school, sir, he does. True, ain't it?"
"Quite true, Bottles!" replied Hench, nodding. "I haven't seen him for eight or more years."
"And you don't like him now you do see him, do you, sir?"
"Why should you say that?"
"Well, sir"--Bottles scratched his scarlet poll--"he don't seem to me to be quite your style. There ain't no Buffalo Bill, Pathfinder business about him. If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I don't think it's cricket his winning all that foreign lady's jewellery at cards, nohow."
"That's none of your business, Bottles."
"Sorry, sir. But I can't help seeing and thinking when I do see. And what's a swell like him doing down here, I'd like to know?"
"You'd better ask him."
"And get a clip on the ears for my pains, sir. Not me. Though I dessay he ain't the cove to hit out."
"Too kind-hearted?" asked Hench, amused.
"Well," said Bottles slowly, "I shouldn't use them words myself. Mr. Spruce is the kind of feller who'd trip you up when you wasn't looking; but I don't think he'd meet any one's eye straight. Seems to me as he might have done a glide, if you take me, sir."
"I don't take you, Bottles?"
"Bolted, mizzled, cut away," explained the boy earnestly. "Swells don't come to this place for fun."
"Don't be a fool, boy. Mr. Spruce has only come here to gather material for a book he is writing."
"Oh, he says that, do he, sir? Well, I don't think! Ho! I'll keep my eye on all the illustrated papers and see if his picture's in 'em."
"Why should his picture be in them?"
Bottles shook his head mysteriously and skipped lightly towards the door. He saw that Hench did not approve of his groundless suspicions, so made up his mind to say no more. All the same, having got the idea that Spruce had "done something" into his head, which came from reading too many penny-dreadful romances, he made up his mind to watch the Nut. This he did not tell his hero lest he should be forbidden to "follow the trail," as he put it. Therefore he held his tongue and removed himself swiftly.
While Hench took his bath and dressed slowly, he wondered if by chance the boy had hit the mark. It did appear to be strange that a well-to-do and fashionable young man should come and live amidst such sordid surroundings. Spruce's story of gathering material for a novel was plausible enough, yet somehow
