"I—I don't understand," she faltered.
He nodded his head sagely did this product of Cherry Hill, who had gone West in '93.
"To-morrer," he said, "I'm goin' to put it outer him—proper!"
He left her as a novelist would say, a prey to conflicting emotions.
II
I do not profess to understand anything about the legal procedure of the United States Courts, or for the matter of that of English Courts either. Occasionally there comes to me a document beginning "Edward, by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain." I have noticed idly enough that it used to be subscribed "Halsbury"; and that lately it has borne the name of "Loreburn," so I gather there have been changes made, and that the other man has lost his job.
When Sir Harry's business-like agent in Denver decided to contest the title of the Silver Mine, he acted in a perfectly straightforward manner and issued a writ or its equivalent, calling upon the holder of the title to immediately surrender the same. There was a difficulty in serving this notice on the defendant, and there was also a great danger. For the appearance of the defendant in court would have established beyond any doubt whatever that Sir Harry's friends were no more entitled to the property than the mythical man in the moon. Therefore the clever lawyer in Denver made no attempt to serve it, indeed he was anxious to preserve as a secret the fact that such a writ was contemplated.
It was therefore strange that he decided to take the course he did; which was to advertise, in other words, affect substituted service, in three daily newspapers.
The advertisement came to the Minnehaha Magnet in the ordinary way of business, accompanied by a treasury note for fifty dollars. An hour previous to the paper being issued, an alert young man interviewed the editor and proprietor.
He wished to purchase the whole issue of the paper, a simple proposition, but an awkward one for the proprietor of a mining camp newspaper, for there were subscribers to be considered. The young man persisted and offered a price. No one ever saw a copy of that day's issue except the young man who carried away a few copies after superintending the distribution of the whole of the type.
The next day the editor announced that owing to a break down after 2,000 copies of the journal had been printed, many of his subscribers had been disappointed etc. etc. The normal circulation of the Minnehaha Magnet is 1,200, but the editorial bluff may be allowed to pass.
There is little doubt that a similar explanation may be offered for the non-appearance, for one day only, of the Silver Syren, and the Paddly Post Herald. This much is certain: the proprietor of the Silver Streak Mine had, in the eyes of the law, been as successfully "writted" as though a process server had placed the document in his hands. And there was the advantage that he knew nothing about it.
Sir Harry was informed of the progress made by the capable gentleman of Denver on the morning of the day of the concert.
He had found his letters waiting for him at No. 66 when he called that morning—he always stayed at an hotel in town—it had been forwarded from Hydeholm.
It may be doubted that he knew the means adopted by his representative; it may safely be assumed that he made no inquiries. He took the newspaper cuttings from the suppressed editions and read them carefully. Then he whistled.
"Oho!" he said, for until now the Silver Streak had had the inanimate existence of a corporation; of the names of its controllers he had been ignorant. He whistled again and folded the cutting.
He was so thoughtful during his short stay, and moreover so absent-minded that Alicia, who had made up her mind to dissuade her uncle from including Mr. Slewer in his party, could get no opportunity of speaking to him. When he had left with Hal, she went into the garden to think.
III
"Good morning," said a cheerful voice.
She looked up to meet the smiling eyes of the Duke.
A recollection of this man's despicable crime gave her a feeling akin to sickness but she kept her eyes fixed on him.
"Getting ready for the concert?" he asked, but she made up her mind quickly and cut his pleasantly short.
"I would advise you to forget about to-night's concert," she said.
He looked a little surprised.
"It's a strange thing you should say that," he replied, "for the fact is I've been trying to forget about it—I'm in an awful funk."
Should she warn him?
"Is that unusual experience for you?" she questioned drily. She marvelled to find herself engaged in a conversation with him.
"Unusual? Rather! I am as brave as a lion," he said frankly. "Hank says I am about three ounces short of a hero."
He met her scornful gaze unwillingly.
"And a gallant also, I hear!" she retorted with a curl of her lip. He made no reply to this charge, and she misread his silence.
"You do not deny that, M'sieur le Duc," she went on, "and why should you? You must be aware that the reputation of as great a man as yourself is more or less public property. The greatness that excuses his eccentricities and turns his impertinences into amusing foibles may perhaps leniently gloss over his sordid affaires, and give them the value of romance."
All the time she spoke the lines between his eyes were deepening into a frown, but he made no attempt at replying until she had finished.
"May I respectfully demand which of my affaires you are referring to at the moment?" he asked.
"Are they so many," she flamed.
"Hundreds," he said sadly, "was it the affaire with the Princess de Gallisitru, or the affaire of the premiere denseuse, or the affaire of—who else does one have affaires with?"
"You cannot laugh this away," she said, and then before she could stop herself she demanded with an emphasis that was almost brutal—
"What have you done with Mrs. Slewer?"
If she expected her question to create a sensation, she must have been satisfied, for at the name he started back so that he almost lost his balance. Then he recovered himself and for a moment only was silent.
"Mrs. Slewer," he repeated softly, "what have I done with Mrs. Slewer—Mrs. Bill Slewer, of course?" he asked.
She did not speak.
"Of Four Ways, Texas?"
Still she made no response.
"A big bent chap with white eyes"—his voice had recovered its flippancy—"and hands that hang like a 'rang-a-tang?"
She recognized the description.
"So I ran away—do you mind if I consult a friend? You'll admit that this is a crisis in my affairs?"
She affected not to hear him and
