"It wasn't his fault, Deborah. Mr. Hay stumbled on a piece of orange peel and jostled against me. I was taken by surprise, and fell into the middle of the road just as the motor came along. Mr. Hay was more than sorry and has come to see me every day with books and fruit and all manner of things."

"The least he could do," snapped the servant, "knocking folks into orspitals with his fine gent airs. I sawr him out of the winder while you was in the shop, and there he spoke law-de-daw to a brat of a boy as ought to be in gaol, seeing he smoked a cigar stump an' him but a ten-year-old guttersnipe. Ses I, oh, a painted maypole you is, I ses, with a face as hard as bath bricks. A bad un you are, ses I."

"No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my friend."

"Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared Debby, obstinately, "for if all the wickedness in him 'ud come out in his face, pimples would be as thick as s.m.u.ts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him not what you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas and Julius Cezar ain't in it with his Belzebubness."

Beecot saw it was vain to stop this chatterer, so he turned to talk in whispers to Sylvia, while Debby murmured on like a brook, only she spoke loud enough at times to drown the whispering of the lovers.

"Sylvia," said Paul, softly, "I want you to send your father to me."

"Yes, Paul. Why do you wish to see him?"

"Because he must be told of our love. I don't think he will be so hard as you think, and I am ashamed of not having told him before. I like to act honorably, and I fear, Sylvia darling, we have not been quite fair to your father."

"I think so, too, Paul, and I intended to speak when we went home. But give me your address, so that if we go away unexpectedly I'll be able to write to you."

Beecot gave her his Bloomsbury address, and also that of his old home at Wargrove in Ess.e.x. "Write care of my mother," he said, "and then my father won't get the letter."

"Would he be angry if he knew?" asked the girl, timidly.

Paul laughed to himself at the thought of the turkey-c.o.c.k's rage. "I think he would, dearest," said he, "but that does not matter. Be true to me and I'll be true to you."

Here the nurse came to turn the visitors away on the plea that Paul had talked quite enough. Debby flared up, but became meek when Sylvia lifted a reproving finger. Then Paul asked Debby to seek his Bloomsbury lodgings and bring to him any letters that might be waiting for him. "I expect to hear from my mother, and must write and tell her of my accident," said he. "I don't want to trouble Mr. Hay, but you, Debby--"

"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, it ain't no trouble," said the servant, cheerfully, "and better me nor that 'aughty peac.o.c.k, as ain't to be trusted, say what you will, seeing criminals is a-looking out of his eyes, hide one though he may with a piece of gla.r.s.e, and I ses--"

"You must go now, please," interposed the nurse.

"Oh, thank you, ma'am, but my own mistress, as is a lady, do I obey only."

"Debby, Debby," murmured Sylvia, and after kissing Paul, a farewell which Debby strove to hide from the nurse by getting in front of her and blocking the view, the two departed. The nurse laughed as she arranged Paul's pillows.

"What a strange woman, Mr. Beecot."

"Very," a.s.sented Paul, "quite a character, and as true as the needle of the compa.s.s."

Meanwhile, Debby, ignorant of this flattering description, conducted Sylvia to the draper's shop, and finally fixed on a hideous magenta gown, which she ordered to be made quite plain. "With none of your fal-de-lals," commanded Miss Junk, snorting. "Plain sewing and good stuff is all I arsk for. And if there's any left over you can send home a 'at of the same, which I can brighten with a c.o.c.kes feather as my mar wore at her wedding. There, my own," added Debby, as they emerged from the shop and took a 'bus to Gwynne Street, "that's as you'll allways see me dressed--plain and 'omely, with no more tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs than you'll see on a washing-day jint, as I know to my cost from my mar's ecomicals."

"Economy, Debby."

"It ain't fur me to be using fine words, Miss Sylvia; c.o.c.katoos'

feathers on a goose they'd be in my mouth. The 'ole dixionary kin do for you my flower, but pothooks and 'angers never was my loves, me having been at the wash-tub when rising eight, and stout at that."

In this way Debby discoursed all the way home. On arriving in the room over the shop they found themselves confronted by Aaron, who looked less timid than usual, and glowered at the pair angrily. "Where have you been, Sylvia?" he asked.

The girl could not tell a direct lie, and looked at Debby. That handmaiden, less scrupulous, was about to blurt forth a garbled account, when Sylvia stopped her with a resolute expression on her pretty face.

"No, Debby," she commanded, "let me speak. Father, I have been to see Mr. Beecot at the Charing Cross Hospital."

"And you couldn't have my flower do less as a good Smart 'un," put in Debby, anxiously, so as to avert the storm. "Girls is girls whatever you may think, sir, of them being dolls and dummies and--"

"Hold your tongue, woman," cried Norman, fiercely, "let me talk. Why is Mr. Beecot in the hospital?"

"He was knocked down," said Sylvia, quietly, "and his arm is broken. A motor car ran over him in Gwynne Street. He wants to see you, to tell you that he lost something."

Norman turned even whiter than he was by nature, and the perspiration suddenly beaded his bald forehead. "The opal serpent!" he cried.

"Yes--the brooch he showed me."

"He showed you!" cried Aaron, with a groan. "And what did he tell you about it?--what--what--what--the truth or--" He became pa.s.sionate.

Debby grasped Aaron's arm and whirled him into the middle of the room like a feather. Then she planted herself before Sylvia, with her arms akimbo, and glared like a lioness. "You can pinch me, sir, or gives me black eyes and red noses if you like, but no finger on my precious, if I die for it."

Aaron was staggered by this defiance, and looked fierce for the moment.

Then he became timid again and cast the odd, anxious look over his shoulder. "Leave the room, Deborah," he said in a mild voice.

The faithful maid replied by sitting down and folding her arms. "Get your wild horses, sir," she said, breathing heavily, "for only by them will I be tugged away." And she snorted so loudly that the room shook.

"Pshaw," said Norman, crossly, "Sylvia, don't be afraid of me." He wiped his face nervously. "I only want to know of the brooch. I like the opals--I wanted to buy it from Mr. Beecot. He is poor--he wants money. I can give it to him, for--the--the brooch."

He brought out the last word with a gasp, and again glanced over his shoulder. Sylvia, not at all afraid, approached and took the old man's hand. The watchful Deborah moved her chair an inch nearer, so as to be ready for any emergency. "Dear father," said the girl, "Mr. Beecot doesn't know where the brooch is. It was stolen from him when the accident happened. If you will see him he can tell you--"

"Not where the brooch is," interrupted Aaron, trying to appear calm.

"Well, well, it doesn't matter." He glanced anxiously at Sylvia. "You believe me, child, when I say it doesn't matter."

A snort from Deborah plainly said that she had her doubts. Sylvia cast a reproving glance in her direction, whereupon she rose and committed perjury. "Of course it don't matter, sir," she said in a loud, hearty voice which made Aaron wince. "My precious believes you, though lie it might be. But folk so good as you, sir, who go to church when there ain't anyone to see, wouldn't tell lies without them a-choking of them in their blessed throats."

"How do you know I go to church?" asked Norman, with the snarl of a trapped animal.

"Bless you, sir, I don't need gla.r.s.es at my age, though not so young as I might be. Church you enjiy, say what you may, you being as regular as the taxes, which is saying much. Lor' save us all!"

Deborah might well exclaim this. Her master flung himself forward with outstretched hands clawing the air, and with his lips lifted like those of an enraged dog. "You she-cat," he said in a painfully hissing voice, "you're a spy, are you? They've set you to watch--to drag me to the gallows--" he broke off with a shiver. His rage cooled as suddenly as it had heated, and staggering to the sofa he sat down with his face hidden.

"Not that--not that--oh, the years of pain and terror! To come to this--to this--Deborah--don't sell me. Don't. I'll give you money--I am rich. But if the opal serpent--if the opal--" He rose and began to beat the air with his hands.

Sylvia, who had never seen her father like this, shrank back in terror, but Deborah, with all her wits about her, though she was wildly astonished, seized a carafe of water from the table and dashed the contents in his face. The old man gasped, shuddered, and, dripping wet, sank again on the sofa. But the approaching fit was past, and when he looked up after a moment or so, his voice was as calm as his face.

"What's all this?" he asked, feebly.

"Nothing, father," said Sylvia, kneeling beside him; "you must not doubt Debby, who is as true as steel."

"Are you, Deborah?" asked Aaron, weakly.

"I should think so," she declared, putting her arms round Sylvia, "so long, sir, as you don't hurt my flower."

"I don't want to hurt her ..."

"There's feelings as well as bones," said Deborah, hugging Sylvia so as to keep her from speaking, "and love you can't squash, try as you may, though, bless you, I'm not given to keeping company myself."

"Love," said Aaron, vacantly. He seemed to think more of his troubles than of Sylvia going to visit a young man.