Part 16 (1/2)

”I've got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair to the tea-table. ”n.o.body'll suffer but Gussie.”

”Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply.

”I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, ”and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told him about Gussie.”

Mr. Price stiffened in his chair.

”Acting-under-his-advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, ”I wrote to Scotland Yard and told 'em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.”

Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him.

”The beauty o' that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much enjoyment, ”that Gussie'll 'ave to set out on his travels again. He'll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he'll 'ave to finish his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it'll only make it easier to find him. You'd better take the first train to Australia, Gussie.”

”What-what time did you post-the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, jerkily.

”'Bout two o'clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring aft the clock. ”I reckon you've just got time.”

Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs looked at her husband.

”Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, winking. ”Bill White is a trump; that's what he is.”

”Oh, George!” said his wife. ”Did you really write that letter?”

Mr. Spriggs winked again.

THE TEST

PEBBLESEA was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch Starfish, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amus.e.m.e.nt, returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in gla.s.s and pewter. The att.i.tude of the landlord of the ”Pilots' Hope,” where Mr. Dix had sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in his memory.

The skipper and the hands were still ash.o.r.e and the ketch looked so lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate's easily aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice pa.s.sing, he edged up to him and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night.

”The night's all right,” said the young man, gloomily.

”You're rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause.

”I like being near the edge,” was the reply.

Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head.

”Ain't got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired.

The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction.

”Why, I've known 'er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; ”seven years, and this is the end of it.”

The mate shook his head.

”I told 'er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr.