Chapter 1

"AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL."

A week after the catastrophe at Soho, Olive and Laurence were seated before a blazing fire in the Manor House drawing-room. Winter was upon them in earnest, and the rose-garden of July lay covered thick with snow, and the naked woods surrounding fought with the whistling blast.

Mallow had recovered from his cuts and scrapings, but his nerves were still suffering from his recent experience. There was no doubt that his system had received a severe shock, although he pluckily made light of it. Even Mrs. Purcell, suddenly entering the room, made him jump in his chair, and Olive laid her hand on his arm to soothe him. The two had come together only within the last three days, and at their first meeting Mallow had kissed her. That kiss was the outward and visible sign of their engagement.

"My dears!" Mrs. Purcell, with voluminous skirts, sank into a chair a wide-spreading billow. "My dears," she spoke ex cathedr�, "I have been considering your position. Olive, my dear, outside this house you are still known as Mrs. Carson. Have you formed any plausible scheme for the amelioration of this unpleasant state of affairs?"

"None, Mrs. Purcell. I suppose I must tell the truth."

"That seems to me an extreme view to take. The truth is so very strange."

"Stranger than fiction," chimed in Mallow. "But if fact will poach on the domain of fancy, our friends will have to enlarge their swallowing capacity. I think it is best to be straightforward, Mrs. Purcell, and make a clean breast of it, from the arrival of Carson, the impostor, to the Soho explosion."

"I regret to say, Mr. Mallow, that I do not concur," said Mrs. Purcell, shaking her turban. "Exclusive honesty is not the best policy; and in this case it would only provide the daily journals with sensational matter. I am averse, and I feel sure that you are also, to our dear Olive's name being in the mouth of the multitude. There is no need to be too explicit."

"Then how am I to account for my marriage being a false one?" asked Olive.

"By telling the truth, my dear, within limitations. Say that the marriage was a nominal one, contracted with Mr. Angus Carson in obedience to the expressed wish of your father. Add, that during the honeymoon you unfortunately--or, rather, fortunately--discovered that Mr. Carson was the husband of another woman, and at once left him to resume your own name. Finally, let it be known that Mr. Carson and his true wife have left England together, and will return no more. Mr. Carson, you understand, my love, not Signor Boldini."

"You would make no explanation?" demanded Mallow.

"Assuredly not. You are not bound to satisfy the curiosity of the public. Though, indeed!" added Mrs. Purcell, "so much as I would have you reveal, should be sufficient to answer all questions. Moreover, I most earnestly advise Olive to accompany me abroad for a few months, and at the end of that time to marry you, Mr. Mallow, before returning to England. Then both of you can take up your position in this house without giving cause for scandal or public animadversions. It is true people may talk about our dear Olive's first marriage; but, for want of details, which I advise you strongly to withhold, such idle chatter will die of inanition."

There was good sound sense in what Mrs. Purcell said. A bare statement of the facts which enabled Olive to reappear in society as Mrs. Mallow was all that was necessary. And none was better calculated to enunciate the facts than Mrs. Purcell, for one reason because she knew every one in the county worth knowing; for another, because her very prolixity made impressive what otherwise might have been looked upon as a bald and feeble narrative. She would take care that the sympathies of one and all were with her beloved Olive, and when, after a sufficiently judicious absence, she returned to the Manor House the wife of Laurence Mallow, her reception would be something more than cordial.

"What a relief!" sighed Olive, when the old lady had departed in triumph. "The whole thing has been quite a nightmare to me lately. I am so thankful that Mrs. Purcell has found a way out of it."

"Mrs. Purcell is a sensible woman," said Mallow, warmly, "and her opinion carries weight. What she says is perfectly true. You were so unfortunate at first as to be placed in the position of marrying a man who was not your choice, and, further, having married him, of discovering the fact that he was already married. The sequel is, I think, sufficiently obvious to the dullest of our neighbours. At all events, there is the whole business in a nutshell, and it shall be for Mrs. Purcell to present it to the county to crack. No word need be said of any connection with these Anarchist people. Thank goodness, they and their diabolical schemes have been very effectually disposed of."

"Don't, Laurence!" Olive shivered and covered her face. "It is terrible to think of how narrowly you escaped death."

"Dearest, a miss is as good as a mile. Thanks to that poor fellow Rouge, I came through all right. My only regret is that the death of Mrs. Arne, of Trall, and Drabble does away with any hope of our learning the truth. The reason for poor Carson's murder will remain a mystery."

"It is no mystery to me," cried Olive, petulantly. "Mrs. Arne killed him."

"She denied it most solemnly."

"I dare say. Such a woman would deny anything."

"To gain her ends, she would," replied Mallow judiciously; "but, in this case, she gained nothing by denial. I am inclined to think she told me the truth. Until Carson proved recalcitrant it would have been foolish for her to kill the goose with the golden eggs. Olive, whoever killed Carson, the Anarchists didn't."

"Well, innocent or guilty, then the wickedness has put an end to them. That man Rouge is a hero."

"I agree with you, but the world does not know of his heroism, and never will. The police, the papers, are absolutely at a loss to explain the explosion, and it is my intention that neither Jim nor I should enlighten them. The Morning Planet declares that the Anarchists were experimenting with a new explosive. Such an explanation is quite sufficient for the masses, the classes, and the quidnunc asses."

"Will not Vraik say something?"

"What can he say, save that Rouge was one of the Brotherhood? It was only to Jim and me that he revealed himself and his plans. No, Vraik is safe enough. I shall pay him, and dismiss him."

"You won't go on with the case, then, Laurence?" Mallow shook his head. "There are no clues," he said.

"Surely you forget; there are still two clues," cried Olive, vivaciously. "What about the man who inquired at the P. and O. Office?"

"Oh, no doubt he was an Anarchist sent by Drabble to learn when the Pharaoh would arrive--perhaps Drabble himself, in disguise. I dare say, whoever he was, he was blown up with the rest of the gang. No clue there, Olive."

"Then there is the packet Lord Aldean found in the sandal-wood chest."

"H'm," Mallow reflected, "there may be something in that. Of course, it depends upon what the packet contains. Have you given it to Mr. Brock?"

"No; I thought of doing so to-morrow. He has been too ill to see any one lately."

"What! Is his accident so bad as that?"

"It is as bad as it can be," said Olive, emphatically. "He is old, and not very strong. Besides, he would insist upon being brought back to Casterwell; and the journey has shaken him. The nervous shock has affected his heart, so the doctor says."

"That's bad. Poor old chap! Don't suppose he'll pull through."

"Come and see him with me to-morrow, Laurence."

"Yes, dear, with pleasure. We'll ask him about the packet. I dare say he'll show us what is in it." Mallow rose and began to pace the room, musing as he walked. "It might turn out valuable," he said, at length, "from the care Carson took to conceal it it is evidently a document of importance."

"I wonder why Mr. Carson did conceal it?"

"Because he mistrusted Semberry," replied Mallow, promptly. "Depend upon it, Olive, Carson soon realized that the Major was a shifty scamp, and hid his papers where there was no likelihood of their being read. I see no other explanation for their concealment."

"I shall make a point of seeing Brock to-morrow," he said, looking out of the window and whistling softly.

"Laurence," said Olive, who was still staring into the fire, "do you think Dr. Drabble was blown up?"

"I'm certain of it. As Madame Death-in-Life's right-hand man, and general adviser to these rascals, he would certainly not be absent from so important a meeting. Yes, I think Drabble has received the wage of his sins."

"Poor Mrs. Drabble!"

"Happy Mrs. Drabble, you mean. She has been rescued from the torment of an unscrupulous bully. Besides, Drabble would have poisoned his children's minds. He was in a fair way to ruining Margery." Olive rose and came laughing across the room. "Margery has improved," she said, with some amusement; "her Anarchistic mood has passed. She now concerns herself chiefly with religion."

"At her age? Nonsense! There must be a limit even to her precocity."

"A child's religion, of course. Margery is older than her years, and very, very clever, as you know. She now reads her Bible, goes to church, and writes hymns on the model of Keble. I found her with Keble's poems the other day."

"Poor child! her father has quite unsettled her mind. It's a lucky thing for Margery, and for the rest of the family, that he's gone. I suppose the news of his death will, have to be broken to his wife. But if Mrs. Drabble is wise she will rejoice, not sorrow."

"Oh, Laurence! After all he was her husband, the father of her children."

"And a nice blackguard in either capacity. Hullo, who's this tramp?"

Across the lawn stumbled a ragged Guy Fawkes, grotesque and unsteady. He laboured in the snow like a liner rolling in a cross sea. At his nearer approach he raised his head. Those at the window started, and stared eagerly.

"Laurence! look! a black beard, a long beard; can it be----"

"Wait, wait," interrupted Mallow; and throwing open the French window, he ran across the terrace down the steps. With a yelp the man scrambled back, but stumbled full length on the slippery crust of snow. Mallow gripped his shoulder as he dropped. "Who the devil are you?" he said roughly.

"Mr. Mallow?" The ragged creature gave a howl of joy. "I'm--I'm Trall!"