Mr. Horace Bannister was one of the most perfectly groomed men in London, a familiar figure in Bond Street, and an assiduous student of modern art. His chambers in Stratton Street reflected the man--a roomy suite in correct taste, not too severe, but just masculine enough to give no hint of an effeminate touch, although luxurious to a fault. Choice water-colors, pencil sketches, and rare prints lined the walls, so close to one another that all other mural decoration was superfluous. Huge lounges filled the corners of the sitting rooms, and the original windows had been replaced by something latticed and quaint. The rooms were on two floors, and only one manservant lived upon the premises. All work of a feminine kind was done by a visiting charwoman accustomed to "the best families."

There was not a picture gallery in the West End where they did not know Mr. Bannister. Each fresh exhibition advertised in the gutters on the boards of the sandwich men extracted his shilling, and he could often be seen critically examining a Sainton silver point through the large eyeglass that he always held at a little distance from the eye, as though it were a magnifier. He would go into raptures over enamels and _repoussé_. Inlaid precious stones positively fascinated him (and he always made a point of discovering who bought the specially valuable ones). When the exquisitely beautiful necklet of pearls and diamonds in silver designed by Fallerie was stolen from Barwell's Gallery, he almost wept with vexation--so they say.

He was singularly good looking, with black, waving hair and pointed beard of the same glossy texture and color. Not a tinge of grey; not a wrinkle of age. On the wrong side of forty, he remained young, and looked like one who lived well and easily. The eyeglass gave a slight severity and hauteur to his bearing when in repose; but when he smiled he was irresistible.

Wherever fashionable people foregathered--or, rather, moneyed people--there Horace Bannister was to be found. He lived in clubs, and played bridge incessantly, which made him also an acceptable guest in many large country houses. When he traveled, he was always accompanied by Voss, his man, the most perfect, self-effacing, impenetrable gentleman's gentleman that ever drew breath.

It was only natural that Mr. Horace Bannister and Voss should not regard the presence of tall, slim Mabel at the Stratton Street flat as altogether convenient. Bannister, apparently, was delighted to have her whenever she came--until she had been there a few days, when he always jumped at the suggestion of her going anywhere else--much to Voss's relief. The presence of the bright-eyed, light-hearted girl, singing about the place and setting things straight, and prying into corners, drove Voss almost wild, to the complete destruction of his wonted imperturbability. She had already stumbled upon several strange things, the use of which was quite unknown to Voss, but which he stored away again with alacrity; yet she suspected nothing.

On the same day that Jack returned home, Mabel arrived at Stratton Street. The four days' bride chose the hour when her father would be taking his morning stroll, and crept guiltily into the house. Voss was startled, for he had received no intimation of her coming; and she blushed crimson, as if her secret could be read in her face.

How dingy the dark rooms seemed. She found herself wondering how long she would be obliged to live here before Jack could have her always; and fell a-dreaming at once.

She got through the ordeal of facing her father very well. He greeted her languidly, and taking her soft cheeks in his supple white hands, kissed her affectionately, yet with that leisurely deliberation which characterized all his movements.

"So my little girl has come home from the dear Bishop's palace."

"Yes, father," responded the bride, flushing hot and cold at the unavoidable lie.

"And Jack Cardew, the Bishop's son, wants to marry my little girl?"

"Yes, father."

"All in good time--all in good time."

Then he laughed, a rasping laugh, and threw back his handsome head as if the idea tickled him immensely.

"Why do you laugh like that, father?" she asked.

"It's so funny. But never mind. There's no need to talk about it--not yet."

He wheeled round an armchair preparatory to settling himself for a dip into his _Times_. Voss, like a shadow, glided to his elbow with cigars, and found excuses for remaining in the room.

"Let's have a look at you, Mabel," observed the languid father, as Voss held a lighted match to his cigar. "Stand there. Ah! Good figure, but slender--fine hair--good teeth--eyes not too virginal--almost too deep and understanding for an innocent school girl." A crimson flush dyed the bride's cheek, and the man frowned a little as he watched its sudden rise. "Ah, and no fool either!" he continued. "Frocks? Rather simple and short, but that can be remedied. I think we'll be able to develop you."

"Have you done, father?" she asked, with an awkward laugh. The laugh died away, and the flash of timidity turned to anger as she saw her father's eyes seek those of the wooden-faced Voss, as if in confirmation and approval of his words. This was a little trick of his that had worried her before. It seemed so ill-bred, and futile, too, for Voss might have been stone for all the response he gave.

"We'll have to find a few men to amuse you, Mabel. You must make the most of yourself. Darken those eyebrows a little. The dark eyebrow with the light hair gives more directness to the appeal of the eye. Cheeks a little thin in color, my dear. You must call on my friend Madame Beatty, at No. 206. She will give you a few tips on coloring that will be invaluable. She will explain how to make the flush spread from the cheek back towards the ear artistically. It gives the effect of youth in fullest bloom, and helps the glitter of the eye. Be careful with the tinting. You mustn't overdo it at your age."

"Father, you horrify me."

"My dear girl, that is quite the mildest horror that you will encounter in the next few weeks."

Again his eyes glittered and turned to seek the other man's, as much as to say, "Eh, Voss?" But Voss was carrying an ash tray to the table at his master's elbow, and would not see.

"Try a different dressing of the hair. It is becoming enough like that, but too girlish. Study the fashion papers and the Gibson girls--the real ones, I mean, not the picture post-cards. Now run away, there's a good little girl, and study your mirror for awhile. I want you to make the best of yourself for my sake as well as your own."

He hid himself behind the ample pages of the _Times_, and the girl swept from the room shocked and offended. When the door closed the paper dropped sharply and Mr. Bannister consulted Voss.

"Well, and what do you think, Voss?"

"I think she'll fetch 'em all right," replied the stony-faced one. "But you'll have trouble with her. Better let her work in the dark. Don't expect her to help you with the cards yet. She'll kick. I can give you the old tip as usual." Voss stroked first his little left whisker and then the right with a significant gesture.

"Yes, but we can't win much that way."

"Better go slow at first--until she's broke in."

"Has the Bishop's son got any money, Voss?"

"Not a cent."

"Then we must rule him out of the reckoning. What about young Blunt?"

"The Kaffir plunger. Yes, he'd do to go on with."

"Very well, I'll bring him round at about three. I shall say nothing to her. You can casually mention that I am bringing a friend for a game of cards, and I should like her to give him tea."

"That's right. Go easy."

"Sir," corrected Bannister.

"Go easy, sir," replied Voss with a grin that showed how wonderfully expansive and expressive his face could really be when the locks and bolts were undone.

"You are apt to forget the proper way to address me," continued the master. "As you get used to the girl being here you'll drop into the old way as if we were quite alone if you are not careful."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Bannister returned to his _Times_, and after a casual glance at the headings of the principal columns, confined his attention to the law reports and police news.

* * * * * *

"Mabel, this is Mr. Blunt. Blunt--my daughter."

"Daughter? Good lord! Didn't know you was old enough to have a daughter, Bannister. How d'ye do, Miss Bannister? Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She saw before her a short, thick-set, sandy-haired man of thirty, with a brick-red face, the bluest of blue shirts, a light, woolly suit of blanket-like texture and color, bright yellow boots, and an enormous gold watch-chain. He offered her a big, fat, moist hand, and gave her a rough grip that made her wince.

"She's going to give us some tea," observed Bannister, wheeling round a chair for his guest.

"Some what?" queried the guest, in mock horror. "I thought you knew me better than that. Can't play cards on tea."

"Voss, the whisky."

"Ah, that's better, eh, missy?"

At a loss for words, she gazed coldly upon the young man, who had commenced to ogle her admiringly, and was expanding visibly with the intention of being very friendly.

"No, no; not that nasty, fiery stuff, Voss," cried Bannister, in sharp reproof, as his man brought forward a tray; "let's have the old 'pot still.' Mr. Blunt knows whisky when he tastes it."

"Rather!" ejaculated Blunt, with a wink at Mabel that started at the corner of his mouth and absorbed the entire side of his face.

"Blunt generally knows a good thing when he sees it, eh, Blunt?"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled Mr. Blunt, nodding to Mabel, "that's one for you. Know a good thing when I see it, eh? Ha! ha!"

He was the most odious young man she had ever met, and the commonest. She was glad that in the conversation which followed her father left her out of it. Blunt vainly tried to win her approval and draw her, but she applied herself to making tea. Voss mixed the guest a very stiff drink, with more whisky than soda, and unobtrusively prepared the card table by the window.

"Your little girl going to join us?" asked Blunt genially, when play was about to commence.

"As you please, Blunt. I'm afraid she's rather green; but you can teach her a thing or two, eh, Blunt?"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled Blunt again, hugely gratified. "There ain't many girls I couldn't teach a thing or two, eh?"

The girl voted him a vain, vulgar booby, but he seemed very smart with the cards. She took a hand at poker reluctantly, after many excuses. Voss hovered round, apparently unnoticed by the men; but to Mabel, whose eyes saw everything, he was a perpetual irritation. Twice she saw her father glance at his man rather strangely during the early deals--that questioning look which had irritated her in the morning. Each time the fellow took no notice, but stood rubbing his little side whiskers while gazing thoughtfully at the door. Then her father played his hand--and won. He had the most marvelous luck. Blunt grew savage when he lost, and the stakes rose to a height that alarmed the girl, although she was accustomed to card parties in country houses. Once Blunt's luck turned, and he regained a very large sum. Voss coughed and dropped a tray, and Bannister scowled at him as though it were his fault. Voss looked up at the ceiling next time he scratched his left whisker, and his master's spirits rose. He scratched his whisker deliberately and slowly as often as nine times.

Bannister protested that this was his lucky week. He certainly seemed unable to lose.

Voss replenished the men's glasses assiduously, his master's from one bottle and Blunt's from another, the latter's in huge quantities, until Mabel herself cried out to him in protest. Her father gave her an angry flash that withered her up--and Blunt gurgled thickly over his cards. He lost again and again, and cursed, utterly regardless of a lady's presence at the table.

Bannister's eyes sought those of the watching Voss, and Voss cast swift glances at the guest's hand as he passed, and signalled. It must have been a signal.

The girl's color faded. She grew faint with horror.

"Attend to your cards, Mabel, darling. Remember that your losses are mine also, because I shall have to clear off your liabilities," said her father, sweetly. "Blunt is a wonderful fellow for sudden changes of luck. He has twice cleaned me out at the club."

"There's d----d little luck coming my way this afternoon," growled Blunt, sorting his cards.

That deal, and several others were disastrous to him, and he flung down the cards at last, protesting that he never could play in the afternoon. When he rose from the table he staggered. Mabel, sick with disgust, welcomed the relief, and rose too. Her heart was beating painfully, and her head throbbing as if it would burst. As soon as she conveniently could, she slipped from the room.

* * * * * * *

My father a cheat!

The thought was treachery; the idea preposterous. Yet her eyes had seen. She could not doubt the evidence of her senses. Her delightful, fastidious, tactful, suave father, who could not bear a jarring sound or a false note of color, and was scrupulously nice in all the small things of life, could not possibly condescend to work in league with a common manservant and cheat at cards.

A cheat?

No. He must be an instinctive gambler, who played as one under the influence of an overmastering passion, one of the gamblers she had met in novels, who would sell their souls to win at any cost. If he cheated, it must be because he could not help it, as the kleptomaniac steals, because he must. Any other idea was monstrous. The collusion of Voss--if there was any collusion at all--must have been due to the man's own eagerness for his master to win.

It was so petty, so horrible, that the more she thought of it the less real it became. With true feminine inconsistency she resolved to believe only what she wanted to believe--that she had made an absurd mistake, and misjudged her father terribly.

Nevertheless, the idol was cracked. Her immaculate parent was under suspicion. It was wonderful how many things, that hitherto troubled her not at all, suddenly demanded explanation. Why had she always lived apart from her father? How did he live? Upon what income, and how derived?

Her talks with her husband had done much to stimulate these inquiries; but the possibility of mystery and ugliness in the background of her father's life had never suggested itself before. Jack had asked a dozen questions that she could not answer; and had seemed surprised at her ignorance of such vital matters as the maiden name of her mother, and knowledge of any kinsfolk of her father. She had explained to Jack that she had no relations. Her mother died abroad at the time of her birth--place unstated--and her father was, so far as she knew, her only relation. She had been taught to regard this as sufficient.

It was when Jack began to talk about his people, to tell of his aunts, uncles, and cousins, that a curious sense of aloneness came to her. She was astonishingly ignorant of her antecedents.

Her father's intimates, whom she had seen at foreign spas, and fashionable centres during her brief holiday visits, always seemed a little too intimate. They ogled her and annoyed him; yet he had seemed unable to check their familiarity. There were no women with whom she was allowed to be friendly, except titled and well-known people whom she met on the promenades and other public places. They were civil but bored, and evidently found her _de trop_. The homes of her schoolfellows were opened to her, warmly at first, and sympathy for a motherless girl made her many friends. She was clever, and possessed that unusual charm that drew women to her, and bound her to them, if not with hoops of steel, at least with an indulgent intimacy that ripened with time, and assured her of a friendly welcome at several houses in England and on the Continent. A few of these friends had dropped away suddenly. Her father had charmed them at first. He was delightful. He was everybody's friend. Then he moved on, and a strange constraint fell upon everybody, definite but inexplicable, and through this iciness there came a tinge of sympathy and sorrow for the motherless girl. All this Mabel had felt in a vague way. Now, reviewing the past by the light of present suspicions, these lapses became pregnant with meaning.

A horrible and definite explanation of these strange rebuffs was afforded by this glimpse behind the scenes of her father's life. If he were a gambler, and sometimes a cheat--it could only be sometimes---- No, the thought was unthinkable, and she put it away.

It is surprising what four days of matrimony will do in altering or awakening a girl's point of view. Four days with Jack had stirred all the latent energy of her young brain. Love had aroused mothering instincts and a passionate desire to better the world and all the people in it, especially Jack, and her father, and the obstinate Bishop. She had dreamed of this marriage as the turning-point of Jack's undistinguished career. He was to be appreciated and helped by everybody, her father most of all. And now!

She shuddered, then laughed at her own morbid folly in making mountains out of molehills.

She heard Voss go out--then her father and Blunt. All was quiet, and the sudden tumult that had worked in her brain died down; but she felt the need of physical activity. She must find something to do. She entered the sitting room, which still reeked of smoke, and saw the spirit bottles on the side table. Her curiosity was aroused, and it conquered her loyalty. She examined the bottles. The darker liquid, which had been given to Blunt, was undoubtedly whisky. The lighter, in the other bottle, had a faint unpleasant odor much less definite. She poured out a little and tasted it.

It was not spirit at all--it most resembled sherry and water. Bannister evidently kept a cool head while he plied his guests with spirits. Deception again, treachery, and lies.

It was horrible; it was mean, cunning, vile. And she--what was she?

"Oh, Jack, Jack, what have I done!" she cried, and buried her ashen face in her hands.

* * * * * * *

Tears would not come. She sat shrivelled up, her youth gone, swept away forever by this fateful knowledge.

Many unintelligible things now flashed up clear and terrible. Her father had always been so very anxious to get her into the houses of the rich and those who squandered money. He had taught her card games as though they were an indispensable science; and he had shown her with elaborate care how to beware of cheats at bridge--how to cheat, in fact. She had laughed innocently at the time. Now it seemed to have a painful significance.

"Oh, what would Jack think if he knew? And the Bishop? And Lady Hester? My father a cheat--in league with a common servant."

Blunt had obviously been plied with drink, and drink of a different kind to that taken by her father. She wished with all her heart that she had remained in ignorance; and, as is often the habit of those who suddenly come upon painful knowledge, began to juggle with facts. Perhaps she was mistaken about the signals. And, after all, her father could choose his own drink. Why should he be held responsible if his friends drank more than was good for them? That was their affair. She tried to think so. She compelled herself to think so, diverting her attention by "tidying up" in the grateful absence of the officious Voss.

The room was littered with cards and cigar ash, but she knew the cabinet where Voss kept the cards. She found it almost full of new packs, enough to stock a shop. At the back of the drawer was a broken packet, half full, from which cards had been withdrawn.

"The commonest and crudest form of swindling, chiefly practiced upon drunken men, is by using concealed cards, a scheme at once simple and dangerous."

Her father's own words recurred to her, and she ran through the packet. It contained only the lesser numbers; all the Court cards were missing.

The packet dropped from her trembling fingers and scattered on the floor. At the same moment the key turned in the outer door of the flat, and her father returned. Guilty self-consciousness overwhelmed her. She scrambled them all back into the cabinet anyhow, but too late to escape detection.

Bannister gave one glance, and frowned. Then he smiled, and looked another way.

"Always busy, little girl," he murmured, as he drew off his gloves languidly. "There's nothing like it. If we could afford a staff of servants you should recline on rose leaves and sup on honey. But alas! we must work. Talking of roses----"

"You never work, father."

"Never work, my child? I've had a most laborious afternoon--and I've made four hundred pounds. Four hundred pounds, little girl!" He pinched her cheek affectionately. "And what is more important to you, I have been to Solomon's to buy something that will cancel the commission due to you, an exquisite bunch of roses. You can have a new dress, too, if you like, for your next visit to the dear Bishop."

"Father," she cried, with a gulp of stifled indignation. "I think it wicked to win so much as four hundred pounds in one afternoon from a man who--well, he was almost drunk."

"Shocking exaggeration, my child. Don't glare and choke over your words like that. Why is it that virtuous indignation--and everything else virtuous, in fact--is so horribly distorting and self-torturing?"

"It was monstrous. It was--dishonest."

"My child, I am tired. Don't bore me with school-girl ethics." He dropped softly and wearily into a comfortable lounge, and pulled up a pillow for his head.

"You are old enough to observe the ways of the world now without making injudicious observations and comments. Discretion in a woman is more valuable than beauty. You have the latter--cultivate the former quality."

"Father, you can't expect me to sit by and see abominable things done, and----"

"Little girls should be seen and not heard. I've only half glanced through my _Times_, and in a few minutes it will be time to dress for dinner."

* * * * * * *

A letter from Jack--a big fat letter. The color rushed to Mabel's face, and her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope. It was like a breath of fresh air from the Chilterns. From Jack! the same Jack that she had left behind. But was she the same woman? Ages seemed to have passed, mountains to have arisen, and the distance between them had widened to the width of an ocean.

"_Ripley, Wednesday._

"MY DEAR SWEET SECRET,

"It is dreadful down here without you. I can't think now how I tore myself away just to put in an appearance at home when I might be in London, where I could at least see you sometimes. It's an awful strain keeping up the delusion with Lady Hester that we are painfully waiting, like good little children, till the apples are plucked for us by other people. She almost wept over me when I returned a bachelor (!).

"I have one good piece of news for you, sweetheart. I sounded the governor, and found that he was not nearly so dogmatic and obstinate as I thought. It appears his objection to you was due to something he had heard about your naughty papa--something that occurred probably twenty years ago, when he was young and wild. It was an ugly story. Perhaps it wasn't true at all. He only got hold of it from a dying man who was half mad and trying to make a good end of things after a life of evil. Father so far melted before we had done our talk as to be charitable, and promised to meet your dad. The governor is really an awfully decent sort, but he's an awful stickler for form and family and all that sort of thing, you know. And if he had the slightest suspicion that your dear papa was not all that a good-looking, popular widower ought to be, he would be very nasty.

"That little crib at £300 a year, which I told you looked like coming my way, is off. Bates has got it. I'm bitterly disappointed. It places me more than ever at the mercy of the old man, who is really very conscientious about money. So prime your gay papa for a dull time at the Palace; and if he could rail against the Education Bill and the Radicals he would go straight to father's heart at once.

"Warn him not to mention bridge; for it is father's pet aversion, and he is preaching against it at the present time. There is nothing else I can suggest. Whenever I close my eyes I hear the ripple of the trout stream and the kissing of the leaves overhead. Oh for an hour under that weeping willow with my head in your lap! But I am forgetting our compact of secrecy. This is not a proper letter to write to Miss Bannister. So good night, sweetheart. Write and tell me where I can meet you on Thursday.

"Your loving, ----ahem! "JACK.

"P.S.--An awfully queer thing happened last night. Father, being in an expansive mood, showed me some old photos of himself taken long before I was born, and a miniature which, at first, I mistook for you. It was the very image. But it was only Lady Hester in a nurse's uniform taken when she was about twenty. The likeness was really amazing. So much for coincidences. Of course, I didn't fail to drive home the moral that being the son of my father it was only natural that I should admire that style of beauty."