a thing hereditary in the race comes unawares.

jem came straight into the room, and there seemed to be no one in it for him but dora. she went to meet him with outstretched hand, and her eyes were answering the questions that she read in his.

he took her hand and he said no word, but suddenly all the misery of the last year slipped back, as it were, into a dream. she could not define her thoughts then, and they left no memory to recall afterwards. she seemed to forget that this man had been dead and was living, she only knew that her hand was within his. jem looked round to the others present, his attitude a judgment in itself, his face, in its fierce repose, a verdict.

mark ruthine had gently pushed seymour michael into the room and was closing the door behind them. mrs. agar did not see the general, who was half-concealed by his junior officer. she could not take her eyes from jem's face.

“this is fortunate,” he said; and the sound of his voice was music in dora's ears. “this is fortunate, every one seems to be here.”

he paused for a moment, as if at a loss, and drew his brown hand down over his moustache. perhaps he felt remotely that his position was strong and almost dramatic; but that, being a simple, honest englishman, he was unable to turn it to account.

he turned towards seymour michael, who stood behind, uncomfortably conscious of mark ruthine at his heels. it was not in jem to make an effective scene. englishmen are so. we do not make our lives superficially picturesque by apostrophising the shade of a dead mother. jem gave way to the natural instinct of a soldier by nature and training. a clear statement of the facts, and a short, sharp judgment.

“this man,” he said, laying his hand on the general's shoulder, and bringing him forward, “has been brought here by us to explain something.”

white-lipped, breathless, in a ghastly silence anna agar and seymour michael stared at each other over the dainty tea-table, across a gulf of misused years, through the tangle of two unfaithful lives.

then jem agar began his story, addressing himself to dora, then, and until the end.

“i was not with stevenor,” he said, “when his force was surprised and annihilated. i had been sent on through an enemy's country into a position which no man had the right to ask another to hold with the force allowed me. this man sent me. all his life has he been seeking glory at the risk of other men's lives. after the disaster he came to me and relieved my little force; but he proposed to me a scheme of exploration, which i have carried through. but even now i shall not get the credit; he will have that. it was a low, scurrilous thing to do; for he was my commanding officer, and i could not say no.”

“i gave you the option,” blurted out michael sullenly.

jem took no notice of the interruption, which only had the effect of making mark ruthine move up a few paces nearer.

“he made a great point of secrecy,” continued agar, “which at the time i thought to be for my safety. but now i see otherwise; ruthine has pointed it out to me. if i had never come back he would have said nothing, and would thus have escaped the odium of having sent a man to certain death. i only made one condition—namely, that three persons should be informed at once of my survival, after the disaster to stevenor's force. those three persons were my brother arthur, my step-mother, and miss glynde.”

he paused for a moment, and dora's clear, low voice took up the narrative.

“i met general michael,” she said, “in london, some months ago. i met him more than once. he knew quite well who i was, and he never told me.”

thus was the first link of the chain riveted. seymour michael winced. he never raised his eyes.

mark ruthine moved forward again. he did so with a singular rapidity, for he had seen murder flash from beneath jem agar's eyebrows. he was standing between them, his left hand gripping jem's right arm with an undeniable strength. dora, looking at them, suddenly felt the tears well to her eyes. there was something that melted her heart strangely in the sight of those two men—friends—standing side by side; and at that moment her affection went out towards mark ruthine, the friend of jem, who understood jem, who knew jem and loved him, perhaps, a thousandth part as well as she did; an affection which was never withdrawn all through their lives.

it was ruthine's voice that broke the silence, giving jem time to master himself.

“it is to his credit,” he said, also addressing dora, “that for very shame he did not dare to tell you that he had sent agar on a mission which was as unnecessary as it was dangerous. when he sent him he must have known that it was almost a sentence of death.”

then jem spoke again.

“as soon as i got back to civilisation,” he said, “i wrote to him as arranged, and i enclosed letters to—the three persons who were admitted into the secret. those letters have, of course, never reached their destination. general michael will be required to explain that also.”

at this moment arthur agar gave a strange little cackling laugh, which drew the general attention towards him. he was looking at his half-brother, with a glitter in his usually soft and peaceful eyes.

“there are a good many things which he will have to explain.”

“yes,” answered jem. “that is why we have brought him here.”

it fell to arthur agar's lot to forge the second link.

“when,” he asked jem, “did he know that you had got back to safety and civilisation?”

“two months ago, by telegram.”

the half-brothers turned with one accord towards seymour michael, who stood trying to conceal the quiver of his lips.

“he promised,” said arthur agar, “to tell me at once when he received news of your safety.”

it was singular that seymour michael should give way at that moment to a little shrinking movement of fear—back and away, not from jem, who towered huge and powerful above him, but from the frail and delicate younger brother. mark ruthine, who was standing behind, saw the movement and wondered at it. for it would appear that, of all his judges, seymour michael feared the weakest most.

and so the second link was welded on to the first, while only anna agar knew the motive that had prompted michael to suppress the news. she divined that it was spite towards herself, and for once in her life, with that intuition which only comes at supreme moments, she had the wisdom to bide her time.

then at last seymour michael spoke. he did not raise his eyes, but his words were evidently addressed to arthur.

“i acted,” he said, “as i thought best. secrecy was necessary for agar's safety. i knew that if i told you too much you would tell your mother, and—i know your mother better than either you or jem agar know her. she is not fit to be trusted with the most trifling secret.”

“well, you see, you were quite wrong,” burst out mrs. agar, with a derisive laugh. “for i knew it all along. arthur told me at the first.”

her voice came as a shock to them all. it was harsh and common, the voice of the street-wrangler.

“then,” cried seymour michael, as sharp as fate, “why did you not tell miss glynde?”

he raised his arm, pointing one lean dark finger into her face.

“i knew,” he hissed, “that the boy would tell you. i counted on it. why did you not tell miss glynde? come! tell us why.”

mark ruthine's face was a study. it was the face of a very keen sportsman at the corner of a “drive.” in every word he saw twice as much as simple jem agar ever suspected.

“well,” answered mrs. agar, wavering, “because i thought it better not.”

“no,” dora said, “you kept it from me because you wanted me to marry arthur. and you thought that i should do so because he was master of stagholme. you wanted to trick me into marrying arthur before”—she hesitated—“before—”

“before i came back,” added jem imperturbably. “that was it, that was it!” cried seymour michael, grasping at the straw which might serve to turn the current aside from himself.

but the attempt failed. no one took any notice of it. jem was looking at dora, and she was looking anywhere except at him.

it was jem who spoke, with the decisiveness of the president of a court-martial.

“that will come afterwards,” he said. “and now, perhaps,” he went on, turning towards seymour, “you will kindly explain why you broke your word to me. explain it to these l—— [sic.] to miss glynde.”

seymour michael shrugged his shoulders.

“why, what is the good of making all this fuss about it now?” he explained. “it has all come right. i acted as i thought best. that is all the explanation i have to offer.”

“can you not do better than that?” inquired jem, with a dangerous suavity. “you had better try.”

dora was looking at jem now, appealingly. she knew that tone of voice, and feared it. she alone suspected the anger that was hidden behind so calm an exterior.

seymour michael preserved a dogged silence, glancing from side to side beneath his lowered lashes. he had not forgotten jem's threat, but he felt the safeguard of a lady's presence.

“i can offer an explanation,” put in mark ruthine. “this man is mentally incapable of telling the truth and of doing the straight thing. there are some people who are born liars. this man is one. it is not quite fair to judge him as one would judge others. i have known him for years, have watched him, have studied him.”

all eyes turned towards seymour michael, who stood half-cringing, trembling with fear and hatred towards his relentless judges.

“years ago,” pursued ruthine, “at the outset of life, he committed a wanton crime. he did a wrong to a poor innocent woman, whose only fault was to love him beyond his deserts. he was engaged to be married to her, and meeting a richer woman he had not the courage to ask to be released from his engagement. it happened that by a mistake he was gazetted 'dead' at the time of the mutiny. he never contradicted the mistake—that was how he got out of his engagement. he played the same trick with jem agar's name. i recognised it.”

then the last link of the chain was forged.

“so did i,” said anna agar. “i was the woman.”

before the words were well out of her mouth mark ruthine's voice was raised in an alarmed shout.

“look out!” he cried. “hold that man; he is mad!”

no one had been noticing arthur agar—no one except seymour michael, who had never taken his eyes from his face during ruthine's narration.

with a groan, unlike a human sound at all, arthur agar had rushed forward when his mother spoke, and for a few seconds there was a wild confusion in the room, while seymour michael, white with dread, fled before his doom. in and out among the people and the furniture, shouting for help, he leapt and struggled. then there came a crash. seymour michael had broken through the window, smashing the glass, with his arms doubled over his face.

a second later arthur wrenched open the sash and gave chase across the lawn. in the confusion some moments elapsed before the two heavier men followed him over the smooth turf, and the ladies from the window saw arthur agar kneeling over seymour michael on the stone terrace at the end of the lawn. they heard with cruel distinctness the sharp crackling crash of the jew's head upon the stone flags, as arthur shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

instinctively they followed, and as they came up to the group where ruthine was kneeling over seymour michael, while jem dragged arthur away, they heard the doctor say—

“agar, get the ladies away. this man is dead. look sharp, man! they mustn't see this.”

and jem barred their way with one hand, while he held his half-brother with the other.