The Datchet Diamonds. Marsh Richard

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      Still, he could not bring himself to say, straight out, that he would stick to what he had got, and make the most of it. His mind was not sufficiently clear to enable him to arrive at any distinct decision. But he did what was almost equally fatal, he allowed himself, half unconsciously-without venturing to put it into so many words-to drift. He would see which way the wind blew, and then, if he could, go with it. For the present he would do nothing, forgetting that, in such a position as his, the mere fact of his doing nothing involved the doing of a very great deal. He looked at his watch, starting to find it was so late.

      "Daisy will be tired of waiting. I must hurry, or she'll be off before I come."

      He looked into the glass. Somehow there seemed to be a sort of film before his eyes which prevented him from seeing himself quite clearly, or else the light was bad! But he saw enough of himself to be aware that he was not looking altogether his usual self. He endeavoured to explain this in a fashion of his own.

      "No wonder that I look worried after what I've gone through lately, and especially to-day-that sort of thing's enough to take the heart out of any man, and make him look old before his time." He set his teeth; something hard and savage came into his face. "But perhaps the luck has turned. I'd be a fool to throw a chance away if it has. I've gone in for some big things in my time; why shouldn't I go in for the biggest thing of all, and with one bold stroke more than win back all I've lost?"

      He suffered his own question to remain unanswered; but he stowed the precious gems, higgledy-piggledy, inside the copy of the evening paper which contained the news of the robbery of the Duchess of Datchet's diamonds; the paper he put into a corner of the Gladstone bag which was not his; the bag he locked with greater care than he had opened it. When it was fastened, he stood for a moment, surveying it a little grimly.

      "I'll leave it where it is. No one knows what there is inside it. It'll be safe enough. Anyhow, I'll give the common or garden thief a chance of providing for himself for life; his qualms on the moral aspect of the situation will be fewer than mine. If it's here when I come back I'll accept its continued presence as an omen."

      He put on his hat, and he went out to find Miss Strong.

      CHAPTER IV

      MISS WENTWORTH'S RUDENESS

      Miss Strong was growing a little tired of waiting. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder if Mr. Paxton was about to fail in still another something he had undertaken. She loitered near the gates of the pier, looking wistfully at every one who entered. The minutes went by, and yet "he cometh not," she said.

      It was not the pleasantest of nights for idling by the sea. A faint, but chilly, breeze was in the air. There was a suspicion of mist. Miss Strong was growing more and more conscious that the night was raw and damp. To add to the discomfort of her position, just inside the gates of Brighton pier is not the most agreeable place for a woman to have to wait at night-she is likely to find the masculine prowler conspicuously in evidence. Miss Strong had moved away from at least the dozenth man who had accosted her, when she referred to her watch.

      "I'll give him five minutes more, and then, if he doesn't come, I'm off."

      Scarcely had she uttered the words than she saw Mr. Paxton coming through the turnstile. With a feeling of no inconsiderable relief she moved hastily forward. In another moment they were clasping hands.

      "Cyril! I'm glad you've come at last! But how late you are!"

      "Yes; I've been detained."

      The moment he opened his mouth it struck her that about his manner there was something odd. But, as a wise woman in her generation, she made no comment. Together they went up the pier.

      Now that he had come Mr. Paxton did not seem to be in a conversational mood. They had gone half-way up; still he evinced no inclination to speak. Miss Strong, however, excused him. She understood the cause of his silence-or thought she did. Her heart was heavy-on his account, and on her own. Her words, when they came, were intended to convey the completeness of her comprehension.

      "I am so sorry."

      He turned, as if her words had startled him.

      "Sorry?"

      "I know all about it, Cyril."

      This time it was not merely a question of appearance. It was an obvious fact that he was startled. He stood stock still and stared at her. Stammering words came from his lips.

      "You know all about it? What-what do you mean?"

      She seemed to be surprised at his surprise. "My dear Cyril, you forget that there are papers."

      "Papers?"

      Still he stammered.

      "Yes, papers-newspapers. I've had every edition, and of course I've seen how Eries have fallen.

      "Eries? Fallen? Oh! – of course! – I see!"

      She was puzzled to perceive that he appeared positively relieved, as though he had supposed and feared that she had meant something altogether different. He took off his hat to wipe his brow, although the night was very far from being unduly warm. He began walking again, speaking now glibly enough, with a not unnatural bitterness.

      "They have fallen, sure enough-just as surely as if, if I had gone a bear, they would have risen. As you were good enough to say last night, it was exactly the sort of thing which might have been expected."

      "I am so sorry, Cyril."

      "What's the use of being sorry?"

      His tone was rough, almost rude. But she excused him still.

      "Is it very bad?"

      Then a wild idea came to him-one which, at the moment, seemed to him almost to amount to inspiration. In the disordered condition of his faculties-for, temporarily, they were disordered-he felt, no doubt erroneously enough, that in the girl's tone there was something besides sympathy, that there was contempt as well-contempt for him as for a luckless, helpless creature who was an utter and entire failure. And he suddenly resolved to drop at least a hint that, while she was despising him as so complete a failure, even now there was, actually within his grasp, wealth sufficient to satisfy the dreams of avarice.

      "I don't know what you call very bad; as regards the Eries it is about as bad as it could be. But-"

      He hesitated and stopped.

      "But what?" She caught sight of his face. She saw how it was working. "Cyril, is there any good news to counteract the bad? Have you had a stroke of luck?"

      Yet he hesitated, already half regretting that he had said anything at all. But, having gone so far, he went farther.

      "I don't want you to reckon on it just at present, but I think it possible that, very shortly, I may find myself in possession of a larger sum of money than either of us has dreamed of."

      "Cyril! Do you mean it?"

      Her tone of incredulity spurred him on.

      "Should I be likely to say such a thing if I did not mean it? I mean exactly what I said. To be quite accurate, it is possible, nay, probable, that before very long I shall be the possessor of a quarter of a million of money. I hope that will be enough for you. It will for me."

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