staggered up, a weak, broken-spirited creature of a man; he was bent almost double, and he reached scarcely to the other's shoulder. Mannister showed no signs of fatigue. His white linen riding suit was unsoiled, his tie and collar immaculate. His hands, though brown, were unblistered, and his nails well cared for. He might very well have been riding through the hills on a Simla picnic. If he had suffered through that tireless chase, his hard bronzed face showed little signs of it. Compared with him, the creature by his side was negligible.
His left hand he laid upon Sinclair's drooping shoulder, with his right forefinger he pointed to where they had left the woman. A covered wagon was there now, and a fire smoking. The woman herself was just visible, reclining in a camp chair. Mannister's voice was slower and more deliberate.
"Sinclair," he said, "you see there your life. You have done me, as a man, the greatest injury which one man has learnt in nineteen hundred years to inflict upon another. In leaving you alive upon the earth, I make no pretence at forgiving you. To kick you into eternity would be, however, only the caprice of a child. The vengeance of God and man strikes deeper. The woman is yours by right of theft. I leave you together, and I leave you the care of her a charge upon your life. Only remember that my arm is long, and as you deal with her, so shall you be dealt with by me.
"She loves me no more! She is weary already!" the man muttered. "There is no path in life which we could tread together."
"Too late," Mannister answered. "You must hew one axe in hand, even if it be through the wilderness. And for the rest, the love of a woman is to be won by the man on whom she leans. You must win hers, Sinclair. You played the lover well enough, no doubt, when you took her from my home. See that you play it again, and to good purpose."
"I lied to her! I worked upon her jealousy!" Sinclair muttered.
"My common sense has already assured me of that," Mannister answered, "else she would never have left me for you. Never mind. You must do your best. There is but one royal road through life for you—and along that road you must go hand in hand or alone to your grave. For the smaller matters, you will find that there is money enough in her name to keep you from starvation, and I shall require to hear of your marriage within two months. My divorce decree is before the courts."
"She will not marry me," Sinclair said sullenly. "We do not speak. All day and night she weeps because of what she has done."
"What you won once," Mannister said, "when surely everything was against you, you can win again now when she is alone in the world, and the poor remnants of her honour are in your keeping. At any rate you must try. Remember that it is for your life that you plead. Come."
The two men approached the camp side by side, Mannister leading his horse by the bridle, tall, slim, debonair; Sinclair hobbling by his side, bent and broken, with dulled eyes and wandering footsteps. The woman leaned forward to watch them coming. Her lips were parted, a tinge of colour had come back to her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were fastened upon Mannister—it seemed as though she were fighting with all there was of life left in her, to draw from his stony face one single sign of recognition. He came and went amongst his servants, giving brief orders; once he almost brushed her skirts, and passed by with blank, unseeing eyes. She did not exist for him! He did not speak to her! He could ignore her so completely—he could act as though she were already dead! Faster and faster came her breath, and whiter grew her lips. She loved him! She had known it in the long nights, she had felt it like a mortal pain piercing her burden of intolerable shame. Now he was coming nearer—he had passed. He was upon his horse—how well he always looked upon horseback, and her fingers were gripping the shoulder of the poor creature whom she loathed.
"Remember," he said, looking downwards with a flash from his steely blue eyes. "Remember, Sinclair!"
His horse plunged, and he was galloping away. She sprang to her feet—a cry of anguish broke at last from her dry lips.
"He is coming back!" she shrieked. "Tell me that he is coming back!"
"He is never coming back!" Sinclair said sullenly.
She looked at him for one moment, and her heart sickened with loathing. Away along the level road the figure of the retreating horseman grew smaller and smaller. She tottered, and fell forward upon her face. Sinclair sat still and understood why he was alive.
Traske and the Bracelet
CHAPTER II
TRASKE AND THE BRACELET
GLITTER of glass and perfume of flowers, the music of women's laughter, the sparkle of jewels upon white bosoms, all the nameless air of content and well-being which pervades such a restaurant as Luigi's during the holy hour of all Englishmen—the hour when he dines. The little orchestra, whose soft restrained playing was one of the charms of the place, had just finished the "Salut D'Amour." Smoothly shining heads were bent towards more elaborate coiffures; whispers and smiles and glances, lit with meaning, flashed backwards and forwards between the occupants of the small tables. Dark visaged maîtres d'hôtel deft and eager, watched the scene with interest At one table only, a large round one near the door, were there any signs of dissatisfaction.
The table was laid for four, and there were but three men present. They represented the obvious attitude of waiting for the tardy guest. The eldest of the party, bald-headed, with gold-rimmed spectacles, pink cheeks, and smooth-shaven face, looked continually at his watch and bent forward to see every new arrival. The other two men were talking to one another in earnest whispers.
Luigi himself came up to the table, and bowed to his customers with all the ease of a long acquaintance.
"Mr. Polsover is later this evening, gentlemen," he remarked. "You think that he will come, eh? You see it is half-past eight, and the dinner was ordered for eight o'clock punctual."
"I'm hanged if we'll wait any longer, Luigi," declared the man with the gold-rimmed glasses. "Tell them to serve up dinner. By-the-bye, have either of you fellows seen Polsover to-day? "
"I saw him only an hour or so ago," Traske declared—Traske, the junior of the party, in white waistcoat and tie of the latest pattern, sleek, well groomed, immaculate, after the amazing fashion of the struggling stockbroker. "He was in at Poole's trying a coat on, and we walked down the arcade."
"Say anything about to-night?" the other asked.
"Only that we should meet again later. By Jove, here he is! Polsover, you blackguard! Do you know the time?"
They all turn towards him with a little chorus of protests and questions. And then as suddenly there was silence. The new arrival, tall, slim, and darker than the average Englishman, was slowly unwinding his scarf and passing his hat to the attendant. The eyes of the three men were fastened upon his face. Traske passed a cocktail across the table.
"Have a drink, old chap," he said.
Polsover took the glass, and held it with difficulty to lips almost as pale as the white kid gloves which as yet he had not removed. He drained it, and set it down empty. Then he took his place at the table. The silence was strained and unnatural.
Waiters and maîtres d'hôtel melted away for a moment. Traske leaned across the table. His voice was lowered almost to a whisper—a whisper
