“Dearest!” he said tenderly “you mustn’t be worried or bothered by your policeman; I’m sure he’d do anything in the world for you, if he is only half a human man. You aren’t looking well,” he said anxiously.
She smiled.
“I’m tired tonight, daddy,” she said, putting her arm about his neck.
“You’re always tired nowadays,” he said. “Black thought so the other day when he saw you. He recommended a very clever doctor—I’ve got his address somewhere.”
She shook her head with vigour.
“I don’t want to see doctors,” she said decidedly.
“But—”
“Please—please!” she pleaded, laughing now. “You mustn’t!”
There was a knock at the door and a footman came in.
“Mr. Fellowe, madam,” he announced.
The girl looked round quickly.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Her father saw the pink in her cheeks and shook his head doubtingly.
“He is in the drawing-room,” said the man.
“I’ll go down, daddy.” She turned to her father.
He nodded.
“I think you’ll find he’s fairly tractable—by the way, the man is a gentleman.”
“A gentleman, daddy!” she answered with lofty scorn, “of course he’s a gentleman!”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” said Mr. Theodore Sandford humbly.
Frank was reading her letter—the letter which had brought him to her—when she came in.
He took her hand and held it for a fraction of a second, then he came straight to the point.
It was hard enough, for never had she so appealed to him as she did this night.
There are some women whose charms are so elusive, whose beauty is so unordinary in character, as to baffle adequate description.
May Sandford was one of these.
No one feature goes to the making of a woman, unless, indeed, it be her mouth. There is something in the poise of the head, in the method of arranging the hair, in the clearness and peach-like bloom of the complexion, in the carriage of the shoulders, the suppleness of the body, the springy tread—each characteristic furnished something to the beautiful whole.
May Sandford was a beautiful girl. She had been a beautiful child, and had undergone none of the transition from prettiness to plainness, from beauty to awkwardness. It was as though the years had each contributed their quota to the creation of the perfect woman.
“Surely,” he said, “you do not mean this? That is not your view?” He held out her letter.
She bent her head.
“I think it would be best,” she said in a low tone. “I don’t think we shall agree very well on—on things. You’ve been rather horrid lately, Mr. Fellowe.”
His face was very pale.
“I don’t remember that I have been particularly horrid,” he said quietly.
“It is impossible for you to remain a policeman,” she went on tremulously. She went up to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. “Don’t you see—even papa jokes about it, and it’s horrid. I’m sure the servants talk—and I’m not a snob really—”
Frank threw back his head and laughed.
“Can’t you see, dearie, that I should not be a policeman if there was not excellent reason? I am doing this work because I have promised my superior that I would do it.”
“But—but,” she said, bewildered, “if you left the force you would have no superior.”
“I cannot give up my work,” he said simply.
He thought a moment, then shook his head slowly.
“You ask me to break my word,” he said. “You ask me to do greater mischief than that which I am going to undo. You wouldn’t you couldn’t, impose that demand upon me.”
She drew back a little, her head raised, pouting ever so slightly.
“I see,” she said, “you would not.” She held out her hand. “I shall never ask you to make another sacrifice.”
He took her hand, held it tightly a moment, then let it drop. Without another word the girl left the room. Frank waited a moment, hoping against hope that she would repent. The door remained closed.
He left the house with an overwhelming sense of depression.
VII
Dr. Essley Meets Man
Dr. Essley was in his study, making a very careful microscopic examination. The room was in darkness save for the light which came from a powerful electric lamp directed to the reflector of the instrument. What he found on the slide was evidently satisfactory, for by and by he removed the strip of glass, threw it into the fire and turned on the lights.
He took up a newspaper cutting from the table and read it.
It interested him, for it was an account of the sudden death of Mr. Augustus Fanks.
“The deceased gentleman,” ran the account, “was engaged with Colonel Black, the famous financier, discussing the details of the new iron amalgamation, when he suddenly collapsed and, before medical assistance could be procured, expired, it is believed, of heart failure.”
There had been no inquest, for Fanks had in truth a weak heart and had been under the care of a specialist, who, since his speciality was heart trouble, discovered symptoms of the disease on the slightest pretext.
So that was the end of Fanks. The doctor nodded slowly. Yes, that was the end of him. And now?
He took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed to him in the round sprawling calligraphy of Theodore Sandford.
Essley had met him in the early days when Sandford was on friendly terms with Black. He had been recommended to the ironmaster by the financier, and had treated him for divers ills. “My suburban doctor,” Sandford had called him.
“Though I am not seeing eye to eye with our friend Black,” he wrote, “and we are for the moment at daggers drawn, I trust that this will not affect our relationships, the more so since I wish you to see my daughter.”
Essley remembered having seen her once: a tall girl, with eyes that danced with laughter and a complexion of milk and roses.
He put the letter in his pocket, went into his little surgery and locked the door. When he came out he wore his long overcoat and carried a little satchel. He had just time to catch a train for the City, and at eleven o’clock
