"That boy Tray?"

"He was tried for being an accessory before the crime, but his counsel put forward the plea of his age, and that he had been under the influence of Maud. He has been sent to a reformatory for a good number of years. He may improve."

"Huh!" grunted the old gentleman, "and silk purses may be made out of sow's ears; but not in our time, my boy. We'll hear more of that juvenile scoundrel yet. Now that, that blackguard, Hay?"

"He has gone abroad, and is likely to remain abroad. Sandal and Tempest kept their word, but I think Hurd put it about that Hay was a cheat and a scoundrel. Poor Hay," sighed Paul, "he has ruined his career."

"Bah! he never had one. If you pity scoundrels, Paul, what are you to think of good people?"

"Such as Deborah who is nursing my darling? I think she's the best woman in the world."

"Except your mother?"

Paul nearly fell from his seat on hearing this remark. Beecot senior certainly might have been in earnest, but his good opinion did not prevent him still continuing to worry Mrs. Beecot, which he did to the end of her life.

"I suppose that Matilda Junk creature had nothing to do with the murder?" asked Beecot, after an embarra.s.sing pause--on his son's part.

"No. She knew absolutely nothing, and only attacked Deborah because she fancied Deborah was attacking Maud. However, the two sisters have made it up, and Matilda has gone back to 'The Red Pig.' She's as decent a creature as Deborah, in another way, and was absolutely ignorant of Maud's wickedness. Hurd guessed that when she spoke to him so freely at Christchurch."

"And the Thug?"

"Hokar? Oh, he is not really a Thug, but the descendant of one. However, they can't prove that he strangled anything beyond a few cats and dogs when he showed Maud how to use the roomal--that's the handkerchief with which the Thugs strangled their victims."

"I'm not absolutely ignorant," growled his father. "I know that. So this Hokar goes free?"

"Yes. He would not strangle Aaron Norman because he had but one eye, and Bhowanee won't accept maimed persons. Failing him, Maud had to attend to the job herself, with the a.s.sistance of Tray."

"And this detective?"

"Oh, Ford, with Sylvia's sanction, has paid him the thousand pounds, which he shares with his sister, Aurora Qian. But for her searching at Stowley and Beechill, we should never have known about the marriage, you know."

"No, I don't know. They're far too highly paid. The marriage would have come to light in another way. However, waste your own money if you like; it isn't mine."

"Nor mine either, father," said Paul, sharply. "Sylvia will keep her own fortune. I am not a man to live on my wife. I intend to take a house in town when we are married, and then I'll still continue to write."

"Without the spur of poverty you'll never make a hit," grinned the old gentleman. "However, you can live where you please. It's no business of mine but I demand, as your indulgent father, that you'll bring Sylvia down here at least three times a year. Whenever she is well I want to see her."

"I'll bring her next week," said Paul, thinking of his mother. "But Deborah must come too. She won't leave Sylvia."

"The house is big enough. Bring Mrs. Tawsey also--I'm rather anxious to see her. And Sylvia will be a good companion for your mother."

So matters were arranged in this way, and when Paul returned to town he went at once to tell Sylvia of the reconciliation. He found her, propped up with pillows, seated by the fire, looking much better, although she was still thin and rather haggard. Deborah hovered round her and spoke in a cautious whisper, which was more annoying than a loud voice would have been. Sylvia flushed with joy when she saw Paul, and flushed still more when she heard the good news.

"I am so glad, darling," she said, holding Paul's hand in her thin ones.

"I should not have liked our marriage to have kept you from your father."

Mrs. Tawsey snorted. "His frantic par," she said, "ah, well, when I meet 'im, if he dares to say a word agin my pretty--"

"My father is quite ready to welcome her as a daughter," said Paul, quickly.

"An' no poor one either," cried Deborah, triumphantly. "Five thousand a year, as that nice young man Mr. Ford have told us is right. Lor'! my lovely queen, you'll drive in your chariot and forget Debby."

"You foolish old thing," said the girl, fondly, "you held to me in my troubles and you shall share in my joy."

"Allays purvidin' I don't 'ave to leave the laundry in charge of Bart an' Mrs. Purr, both bein' infants of silliness, one with gin and t'other with weakness of brain. It's well I made Bart promise to love, honor and obey me, Mr. Beecot, the same as you must do to my own lily flower there."

"No, _I_ am to love, honor and obey Paul," cried Sylvia.

"When?" he asked, taking her in his arms.

"As soon as I can stand at the altar," she replied, blushing, whereat Deborah clapped her hands.

"Weddin's an' weddin's an' weddin's agin," cried Mrs. Tawsey, "which my sister Matilder being weary of 'er spinstering 'ome 'ave made up 'er mind to marry the fust as offers. An' won't she lead 'im a dance neither--oh, no, not at all."

"Well, Deborah," said Beecot, "we have much to be thankful for, all of us. Let us try and show our grat.i.tude in our lives."

"Ah, well, you may say that," sighed Mrs. Tawsey, in a devout manner.

"Who'd ha' thought things would have turned out so 'appy-like indeed.

But you go on with your billin', my lovely ones, and I'll git th'

mutting broth to put color int' my pretty's cheeks," and she bustled out.

Sylvia's heart was too full to say anything. She lay in Paul's strong arms, her cheek against his. There she would remain for the rest of her life, protected from storm and tempest. And as they sat in silence, the chimes of an ancient grandfather's clock, Deborah's chief treasure, rang out twice, thrice and again. Paul laughed softly.

"It's like wedding-bells," he whispered, and his future wife sighed a sigh of heart-felt joy.

THE END