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Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education
b. Literals
c. Key words
d. Comments
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

ANS: A

7. If the following Java statements are executed, what will be displayed?

System.out.println("The top three winners are\n");

System.out.print("Jody, the Giant\n");
System.out.print("Buffy, the Barbarian");
System.out.println("Adelle, the Alligator");
a. The top three winners are
Jody, the Giant
Buffy, the Barbarian
Adelle, the Alligator
b. The top three winners are
Jody, the Giant\nBuffy, the BarbarianAdelle, the Alligator
c. The top three winners are Jody, the Giant\nBuffy, the BarbarianAdelle, and the Albino
d. The top three winners are
Jody, the Giant
Buffy, the BarbarianAdelle, the Alligator

ANS: D

8. This is a value that is written into the code of a program.

a. literal
b. assignment statement
c. variable
d. operator

ANS: A

9. When the + operator is used with strings, it is known as the:

a. Assignment operator
b. String concatenation operator
c. Addition operator
d. Combined assignment operator

ANS: B

10. What would be printed out as a result of the following code?

System.out.println("The quick brown fox" +

"jumped over the \n"
"slow moving hen.");
a. The quick brown fox jumped over the \nslow moving hen.
b. The quick brown fox jumped over the
slow moving hen.
c. The quick brown fox
jumped over the
slow moving hen.
d. Nothing. This is an error.

ANS: D

11. Which of the following is not a rule that must be followed when naming identifiers?
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

a. The first character must be one of the letters a-z, A-Z, and underscore or a dollar sign.
b. Identifiers can contain spaces.
c. Uppercase and lowercase characters are distinct.
d. After the first character, you may use the letters a-z, A-Z, the underscore, a dollar sign, or digits 0-
9.

ANS: B

12. Which of the following cannot be used as identifiers in Java?

a. Variable names
b. Class names
c. Key words
d. All of the above
e. None of the above

ANS: C

13. In Java, it is standard practice to capitalize the first letter of:

a. Class names
b. Variable names
c. Key words
d. Literals

ANS: A

14. Which of the following is not a primitive data type?

a. short
b. long
c. float
d. String

ANS: D

15. Which of the following is valid?

a. float y;
y = 54.9;

b. float y;
double z;
z = 934.21;
y = z;

c. float w;
w = 1.0f;

d. float v;
v = 1.0;

ANS: C

16. The boolean data type may contain values in the following range of values
a. true or false
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

b. -128 to + 127
c. - 2,147,483,648 to +2,147,483,647
d. - 32,768 to +32,767

ANS: A

17. Character literals are enclosed in ; string literals are enclosed in .

a. single quotes; single quotes
b. double quotes; double quotes
c. single quotes; double quotes
d. double quotes; single quotes

ANS: C

18. What is the result of the following expression?

10 + 5 * 3 - 20

a. -5
b. 5
c. 25
d. -50

ANS: B

19. What is the result of the following expression?

25 / 4 + 4 * 10 % 3

a. 19
b. 5.25
c. 3
d. 7

ANS: D

20. What will be displayed as a result of executing the following code?

int x = 5, y = 20;
x += 32;
y /= 4;
System.out.println("x = " + x + ", y = " + y);

a. x = 32, y = 4
b. x = 9, y = 52
c. x = 37, y = 5
d. x = 160, y = 80

ANS: C

21. What will be the value of z as a result of executing the following code?
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

int x = 5, y = 28;
float z;
z = (float) (y / x);

a. 5.60
b. 5.6
c. 3.0
d. 5.0

ANS: D

22. What will be the displayed when the following code is executed?

final int x = 22, y = 4;

y += x;
System.out.println("x = " + x +
", y = " + y);

a. x = 22, y = 4
b. x = 22, y = 26
c. x = 22, y = 88
d. Nothing, this is an error

ANS: D

23. In the following Java statement what value is stored in the variable name?

String name = "John Doe";

a. John Doe
b. The memory address where "John Doe" is located
c. name
d. The memory address where name is located

ANS: B

24. What will be displayed as a result of executing the following code?

int x = 6;
String msg = "I am enjoying this class.";
String msg1 = msg.toUpperCase();
String msg2 = msg.toLowerCase();
char ltr = msg.charAt(x);
int strSize = msg.length();
System.out.println(msg);
System.out.println(msg1);
System.out.println(msg2);
System.out.println("Character at index x = " +
ltr);
System.out.println("msg has " + strSize +
"characters.");

a. I am enjoying this class.

I AM ENJOYING THIS CLASS.
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

i am enjoying this class.

Character at index x = e
msg has 24 characters.

b. I am enjoying this class.

I AM ENJOYING THIS CLASS.
i am enjoying this class.
Character at index x = e
msg has 25 characters.

c. I am enjoying this class.

I AM ENJOYING THIS CLASS.
i am enjoying this class.
Character at index x = n
msg has 24 characters.

d. I am enjoying this class.

I AM ENJOYING THIS CLASS.
i am enjoying this class.
Character at index x = n
msg has 25characters.

ANS: D

25. What will be displayed as a result of executing the following code?

public class test

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
int value1 = 9;
System.out.println(value1);
int value2 = 45;
System.out.println(value2);
System.out.println(value3);
value = 16;
}
}

a. 9
45
16
b. 94516
c. 9 45 16
d. Nothing, this is an error

ANS: D

26. Which of the following is not a valid comment statement?

a. // comment 1
b. /* comment 2 */
c. */ comment 3 /*
d. /** comment 4 */
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

ANS: C

27. When saving a Java source file, save it with an extension of

a. .javac
b. .class
c. .src
d. .java

ANS: D

28. Every Java application program must have

a. a class named MAIN
b. a method named main
c. comments
d. integer variables

ANS: B

29. To print "Hello, world" on the monitor, use the following Java statement
a. SystemOutPrintln("Hello, world");
b. System.out.println{"Hello, world"}
c. System.out.println("Hello, world");
d. Print "Hello, world";

ANS: C

30. To display the output on the next line, you can use the println method or use this escape sequence in the
print method.

a. \n
b. \r
c. \t
d. \b

ANS: A

31. This is a named storage location in the computer's memory.

a. Literal
b. Constant
c. Variable
d. Operator

ANS: C

32. What would be displayed as a result of the following code?

int x = 578;
System.out.print("There are " +
x + 5 + "\n" +
"hens in the hen house.");

a. There are 583 hens in the hen house.

 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

b. There are 5785 hens in the hen house.

c. There are x5\nhens in the hen house.
d. There are 5785
hens in the hen house.

ANS: D

33. Variables are classified according to their

a. value
b. data type
c. names
d. location in the program

ANS: B

34. The primitive data types only allow a(n) to hold a single value.
a. variable
b. object
c. class
d. literal

ANS: A

35. If x has been declared an int, which of the following statements is invalid?
a. x = 0;
b. x = -58932;
c. x = 1,000;
d. x = 592;

ANS: C

36. Given the declaration double r;, which of the following statements is invalid?
a. r = 326.75;
b. r = 9.4632e15;
c. r = 9.4632E15;
d. r = 2.9X106;

ANS: D

37. Variables of the boolean data type are useful for

a. working with small integers
b. evaluating true/false conditions
c. working with very large integers
d. evaluating scientific notation

ANS: B

38. What is the result of the following expression?

25 - 7 * 3 + 12 / 3
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

a. 6
b. 8
c. 10
d. 12

ANS: B

39. What is the result of the following expression?

17 % 3 * 2 - 12 + 15

a. 7 b.
8 c.
12
d. 105

ANS: A

40. What will be displayed after the following statements have been executed?

int x = 15, y = 20, z = 32;

x += 12;
y /= 6;
z -= 14;
System.out.println("x = " + x +
", y = " + y +
", z = " +z);

a. x = 27, y = 3.333, z = 18
b. x = 27, y = 2, z = 18
c. x = 27, y = 3, z = 18
d. x = 37, y = 14, z = 4

ANS: C

41. What will be the value of z after the following statements have been executed?

int x = 4, y = 33;
double z;
z = (double) (y / x);

a. 8.25
b. 4
c. 8
d. 8.0

ANS: D

42. This is a variable whose content is read only and cannot be changed during the program's execution.

a. operator
b. literal
c. named constant
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

d. reserved word

ANS: C

43. What will be displayed after the following statements have been executed?

final double x = 99.0;

x = 54.3;
System.out.println("x = " + x );

a. x = 54.3
b. x = 99
c. x = 153.3
d. Nothing, this is an error.

ANS: D

44. Which of the following is a valid Java statement?

a. String str = 'John Doe';
b. string str = "John Doe";
c. string str = 'John Doe';
d. String str = "John Doe";

ANS: D

45. What will be displayed as a result of executing the following code?

int x = 8;
String msg = "I am enjoying java.";
String msg1 = msg.toUpperCase();
String msg2 = msg.toLowerCase();
char ltr = msg.charAt(x);
int strSize = msg.length();
System.out.println(msg);
System.out.println(msg1);
System.out.println(msg2);
System.out.println("Character at index x = " +
ltr);
System.out.println("msg has " + strSize +
" characters.");

a. I am enjoying java.
I AM ENJOYING JAVA.
i am enjoying java.
Character at index x = j
msg has 20 characters.

b. I am enjoying java.
I AM ENJOYING JAVA.
i am enjoying java.
Character at index x = o
msg has 20 characters.

c. I am enjoying java.
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

I AM ENJOYING JAVA.
i am enjoying java.
Character at index x = o
msg has 19 characters.

d. I am enjoying java.
I AM ENJOYING JAVA.
i am enjoying java.
Character at index x = y
msg has 19 characters.

ANS: C

46. Which of the following does not describe a valid comment in Java?
a. Single line comments, two forward slashes - //
b. Multi-line comments, start with /* and end with */
c. Multi-line comments, start with */ and end with /*
d. Documentation comments, any comments starting with /** and ending with */

ANS: C

47. Which of the following statements correctly creates a Scanner object for keyboard input?

a. Scanner kbd = new Scanner(System.keyboard);

b. Scanner keyboard(System.in);

c. Scanner keyboard = new Scanner(System.in);

d. Keyboard scanner = new Keyboard(System.in);

ANS: C

48. Which Scanner class method reads an int?

a. readInt() c. getInt()
b. nextInt() d. read_int()

ANS: B

49. Which Scanner class method reads a String?

a. readString() c. getString()
b. nextString() d. nextLine()

ANS: D

50. Which one of the following methods would you use to convert a string to a double?

a. Byte.ParseByte c. Integer.ParseInt
b. Long.ParseLong d. Double.ParseDouble
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 6/e © 2016 Pearson Education

ANS: D

TRUE/FALSE

1. A Java program will not compile unless it contains the correct line numbers.

ANS: F

2. All Java statements end with semicolons.

ANS: F

3. Java is a case-insensitive language.

ANS: F

4. Although the dollar sign is a legal identifier character, you should not use it because it is normally used for
special purposes.

ANS: T

5. Assuming that pay has been declared a double, the following statement is valid.
pay = 2,583.44;

ANS: F

6. Named constants are initialized with a value, that value cannot be changed during the execution of the program.

ANS: T

7. A variable's scope is the part of the program that has access to the variable.

ANS: T

8. In Java the variable named total is the same as the variable named Total.

ANS: F

9. Class names and key words are examples of variables.

ANS: F

10. Both character literals and string literals can be assigned to a char variable.

ANS: F

11. If the compiler encounters a statement that uses a variable before the variable is declared, an error will result.

ANS: T

12. Programming style includes techniques for consistently putting spaces and indentation in a program so visual
cues are created.

ANS: T
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 “But why so soon?” she asked, and her voice was low. “Aren’t
you enjoying yourself?”
“In the course of a life that has taken me into every corner of the
globe,” he answered, slowly, “I have never dreamed that I could be
so utterly and perfectly happy as I have been here. It has opened
my mind to a vista of the Things that Might Be—if the Things that
Had Been were different. But as you grow older, Sybil, you will learn
one bitter truth: no human being can ever be exactly what he
seems. Masks? just masks! And underneath—God and that being
alone know.”
He rose abruptly, and she watched him bending over Lady
Granton with his habitual lazy grace. The indolent smile was round
his lips—the irrepressible twinkle was in his eyes. But for the first
time he had called her Sybil; for the first time—she knew. The vague
forebodings conjured up by his words were swamped by that one
outstanding fact; she knew. And nothing else mattered.
II
It was not until Perrison joined her in the conservatory after
dinner that she found herself called on to play the part set her by
her brother.
She had gone there—though nothing would have induced her to
admit the fact—in the hope that someone else would follow: the
man with the lazy blue eyes and the eyeglass. And then instead of
him had come Perrison, with a shade too much deference in his
manner, and a shade too little control of the smirk on his face. With
a sudden sick feeling she realised at that moment exactly where she
stood. Under a debt of obligation to this man—under the necessity
of a tête-à-tête with him, one, moreover, when, if she was to help
Bill, she must endeavour to be extra nice.
For a while the conversation was commonplace, while she
feverishly longed for someone to come in and relieve the tension.
But Bridge was in progress, and there was Snooker in the billiard-
room, and at length she resigned herself to the inevitable.
Presumably she would have to thank him for his kindness to Bill;
after all he undoubtedly had been very good to her brother.
 “Bill has told me, Mr. Perrison, how kind you’ve been in the way
you’ve helped him in this—this unfortunate affair.” She plunged
valiantly, and gave a sigh of relief as she cleared the first fence.
Perrison waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it, Miss
Daventry, don’t mention it. But—er—of course, something will have
to be done, and—well, there’s no good mincing matters—done very
soon.”
The girl’s face grew a little white, but her voice was quite steady.
“But he told me that you had arranged things with these people.
Please smoke, if you want to.”
Perrison bowed his thanks and carefully selected a cigarette. The
moment for which he had been playing had now arrived, in
circumstances even more favourable than he had dared to hope.
“Up to a point that is quite true,” he remarked, quietly. “Messrs.
Smith and Co. have many ramifications of business—money-lending
being only one of the irons they have in the fire. And because I have
had many dealings with the firm professionally—over the sale of
precious stones, I may say, which is my own particular line of work—
they were disposed to take a lenient view about the question of the
loan. Not press for payment, and perhaps—though I can’t promise
this—even be content with a little less interest. But—er—Miss
Daventry, it’s the other thing where the trouble is going to occur.”
The girl stared at him with dilated eyes. “What other thing, Mr.
Perrison?”
“Hasn’t your brother told you?” said Perrison, surprised. “Oh,
well, perhaps I—er—shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Go on, please.” Her voice was low. “What is this other thing?”
For a moment he hesitated—a well-simulated hesitation. Then he
shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Well—if you insist. As a matter of fact, your brother didn’t tell
me about it, and I only found it out in the course of my conversation
with one of the Smith partners. Apparently some weeks ago he
bought some distinctly valuable jewellery—a pearl-necklace, to be
exact—from a certain firm. At least, when I say he bought it—he did
not pay for it. He gave your father’s name as a reference, and the
firm considered it satisfactory. It was worth about eight hundred
pounds, this necklace, and your very stupid brother, instead of giving
it to the lady whom, presumably, he had got it for, became worse
than stupid. He became criminal.”
“What do you mean?” The girl was looking at him terrified.
“He pawned this necklace which he hadn’t paid for, Miss
Daventry, which is, I regret to say, a criminal offence. And the
trouble of the situation is that the firm he bought the pearls from
has just found it out. He pawned it at a place which is one of the
ramifications of Smith and Co., who gave him, I believe, a very good
price for it—over five hundred pounds. The firm, in the course of
business, two or three days ago—and this is the incredibly
unfortunate part of it—happened to show this self-same necklace,
while they were selling other things, to the man it had originally
come from. Of course, being pawned, it wasn’t for sale—but the
man recognised it at once. And then the fat was in the fire.”
“Do you mean to say,” whispered the girl, “that—that they might
send him to prison?”
“Unless something is done very quickly, Miss Daventry, the matter
will certainly come into the law courts. Messrs. Gross and Sons”—a
faint noise from the darkness at the end of the conservatory made
him swing round suddenly, but everything was silent again—“Messrs.
Gross and Sons are very difficult people in many ways. They are the
people it came from originally, I may tell you. And firms, somewhat
naturally, differ, like human beings. Some are disposed to be lenient
—others are not. I’m sorry to say Gross and Sons are one of those
who are not.”
“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?”
“My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to
be reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and
he adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as
it sounds—is all there is to it.”
“Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward
eagerly, her hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again
came that faint noise from the end of the conservatory.
But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the
nearness, the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen
her six months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was
making his senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the
hairy heel began to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour
to keep himself in check.
“There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will
understand that I should not have been so precipitate—except for
the urgency of your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say
to them that a prosecution by them would affect me personally, I
think I could persuade them to take no further steps.”
Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you
personally?” she repeated.
“If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent,
strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by
letting matters drop, I think they would do it.”
She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just
realised his full meaning.
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said,
haughtily.
And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell
them,” he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll
guarantee they will do nothing more.”
“Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a
snarl.
“Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save
him—so there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up
the Smith show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone
changed. “Why not, little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever
since I saw you at a theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even
for these days, and——” He came towards her, his arms
outstretched, while she backed away from him, white as a sheet.
Her hands were clenched, and it was just as she had retreated as far
as she could, and the man was almost on her, that she saw red. One
hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her only coherent
thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look in his eyes.
Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper
awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking
of a chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand
dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth,
rubbing his eyes, stepped into the light.
“Lord save us, Miss Daventry, I’ve been asleep,” he said, stifling a
yawn. “I knew I oughtn’t to have had a third glass of port. Deuced
bad for the liver, but very pleasant for all that, isn’t it, Mr.—Mr.
Perrison?”
He smiled engagingly at the scowling Perrison, and adjusted his
eyeglass.
“You sleep very silently, Mr. Longworth,” snarled that worthy.
“Yes—used to win prizes for it at an infant school. Most valuable
asset in class. If one snores it disconcerts the lecturer.”
Perrison swung round on his heel. “I would like an answer to my
suggestion by to-morrow, Miss Daventry,” he said, softly. “Perhaps I
might have the pleasure of a walk where people don’t sleep off the
effects of dinner.”
With a slight bow he left the conservatory, and the girl sat down
weakly.
“Pleasant type of bird, isn’t he?” drawled Longworth, watching
Perrison’s retreating back.
“He’s a brute—an utter brute,” whispered the girl, shakily.
“I thought the interview would leave you with that impression,”
agreed the man.
She sat up quickly. “Did you hear what was said?”
“Every word. That’s why I was there.” He smiled at her calmly.
“Then why didn’t you come out sooner?” she cried, indignantly.
“I wanted to hear what he had to say, and at the same time I
didn’t want you to biff him on the jaw—which from your attitude I
gathered you were on the point of doing.”
“Why not? I’d have given anything to have smacked his face.”
“I know. I’d have given anything to have seen you do it. But—not
yet. In fact, to-morrow you’ve got to go for a walk with him.”
“I flatly refuse!” cried Sybil Daventry.
“More than that,” continued Longworth, calmly, “you’ve got to
keep him on the hook. Play with him; let him think he’s got a
chance.”
 “But why?” she demanded. “I loathe him.”
“Because it is absolutely essential that he should remain here
until the day after to-morrow at the earliest.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown.
“You will in good time.” It seemed to her his voice was just a little
weary. “Just now it is better that you shouldn’t. Do you trust me
enough to do that, Sybil?”
“I trust you absolutely,” and she saw him wince.
“Then keep him here till I come back.”
“Are you going away, Archie?” Impulsively she laid her hand on
his arm.
“To-morrow, first thing. I shall come back as soon as possible.”
For a moment or two they stood in silence, then, with a gesture
strangely foreign to one so typically British, he raised her hand to his
lips. And the next instant she was alone.
A little later she saw him talking earnestly to her brother in a
corner; then someone suggested billiard-fives. An admirable game,
but not one in which it is wise to place one’s hand on the edge of
the table with the fingers over the cushion. Especially if the owner of
the hand is not paying attention to the game. It was Perrison’s hand,
and the agony of being hit on the fingers by a full-sized billiard ball
travelling fast must be experienced to be believed. Of course it was
an accident: Longworth was most apologetic. But in the middle of
the hideous scene that followed she caught his lazy blue eye and
beat a hasty retreat to the hall. Unrestrained mirth in such
circumstances is not regarded as the essence of tact.
III
It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one
that a sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at
the door of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be
seen by the score any day of the week propping up the West-end
bars and discoursing on racing form in a hoarse whisper.
“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?”
“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant.
 “To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other.
“Hop along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr.
Johnson that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.”
The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a
request that the visitor would follow him.
“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his
chair as the door closed behind the assistant.
The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case.
“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one
and only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.”
“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg
resoundingly and shook with merriment.
“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith,
I am. Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned
again, and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt
signed by you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was
sent out—on approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is
Joe.” He watched the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for
a moment his blue eyes seemed a little strained. “He wants to give
that receipt to the girl—so as to clinch the bargain.”
“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded
Johnson, and once again the other grinned broadly.
“Strewth!” he said, “I laughed fit to burst this morning. The
’phone at his girl’s place is in the hall, as far as I could make out,
and Joe was whispering down it like an old woman with lumbago.
‘Take ’em round to Johnson,’ he said. ‘Approval—approval—you fool.’
And then he turned away and I heard him say—‘Good morning, Lady
Jemima.’ Then back he turns and starts whispering again. ‘Do you
get me, Bob?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘I get you. You want me to take round
the pearls to Johnson and get a receipt from him. And what about
the other thing—you know, the money the young boob borrowed?’
‘Put it in an envelope and send it to me here, with the receipt,’ he
says. ‘I’m going out walking this morning.’ Then he rings off, and
that’s that. Lord! think of Joe walking.”
The grin developed into a cackling laugh, in which Mr. Johnson
joined.
 “He’s deep—you’re right,” he said, admiringly. “Uncommonly
deep. I never thought he’d pull it off. Though personally, mark you, I
think he’s a fool. They’ll fight like cat and dog.” He rang a bell on his
desk then opening a drawer he dropped the necklace inside.
“Bring me a formal receipt form,” he said to the assistant. “Have
you got the other paper?” he asked, as he affixed the firm’s
signature to the receipt, and the flashy individual produced it from
his pocket.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Put ’em both in an envelope together
and address it to Joe. I’m going along; I’ll post it.”
“Will you have a small tiddley before you go?” Mr. Johnson
opened a formidable-looking safe, disclosing all the necessary-
looking ingredients for the manufacture of small tiddleys.
“I don’t mind if I do,” conceded the other. “Here’s the best—and
to the future Mrs. Joe.”
A moment or two later he passed through the outer office and
was swallowed up in the crowd. And it was not till after lunch that
day that Mr. Johnson got the shock of his life—when he opened one
of the early evening papers.

“DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM.

“A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office of
Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance
brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was
commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and
securely gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further
investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently by
a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the loss is at
present unknown, but the police are believed to possess several
clues.”

And at the same time that Mr. Johnson was staring with a glassy
stare at this astounding piece of news, a tall, spare man with lazy
blue eyes, stretched out comfortably in the corner of a first-class
carriage, was also perusing it.
“Several clues,” he murmured. “I wonder! But it was a very
creditable job, though I say it myself.”
Which seemed a strange soliloquy for a well-dressed man in a
first-class carriage. And what might have seemed almost stranger,
had there been any way of knowing such a recondite fact, was that
in one of the mail bags reposing in the back of the train, a
mysterious transformation had taken place. For a letter which had
originally contained two documents and had been addressed to J.
Perrison, Esq., now contained three and was consigned to Miss Sybil
Daventry. Which merely goes to show how careful one should be
over posting letters.
IV
“Good evening, Mr. Perrison. All well, and taking nourishment, so
to speak?”
Archie Longworth lounged into the hall, almost colliding with the
other man.
“You look pensive,” he continued, staring at him blandly. “Agitato,
fortissimo. Has aught occurred to disturb your masterly composure?”
But Mr. Perrison was in no mood for fooling: a message he had
just received over the telephone had very considerably disturbed his
composure.
“Let me have a look at that paper,” he snapped, making a grab at
it.
“Tush! Tush!” murmured Archie. “Manners, laddie, manners!
You’ve forgotten that little word.”
And then at the far end of the hall he saw the girl, and caught
his breath. For the last two days he had almost forgotten her in the
stress of other things; now the bitterness of what had to come rose
suddenly in his throat and choked him.
“There is the paper. Run away and play in a corner.”
Then he went forward to meet her with his usual lazy smile.
“What’s happened?” she cried, a little breathlessly.
 “Heaps of things,” he said, gently. “Heaps of things. The principal
one being that a very worthless sinner loves a very beautiful girl—as
he never believed it could be given to man to love.” His voice broke
and faltered: then he went on steadily. “And the next one—which is
really even more important—is that the very beautiful girl will receive
a letter in a long envelope by to-night’s mail. The address will be
typed, the postmark Strand. I do not want the beautiful girl to open
it except in my presence. You understand?”
“I understand,” she whispered, and her eyes were shining.
“Have you seen this?” Perrison’s voice—shaking with rage—made
Longworth swing round.
“Seen what, dear lad?” he murmured, taking the paper. “Robbery
in City—is that what you mean? Dear, dear—what dastardly outrages
do go unpunished these days! Messrs. Smith and Co. Really!
Watchman bound and gagged. Safe rifled. Work of a master hand.
Still, though I quite understand your horror as a law-abiding citizen
at such a thing, why this thusness? I mean—altruism is wonderful,
laddie; but it seems to me that it’s jolly old Smith and Co. who are
up the pole.”
He burbled on genially, serenely unconscious of the furious face
of the other man.
“I’m trying to think where I’ve met you before, Mr. Longworth,”
snarled Perrison.
“Never, surely,” murmured the other. “Those classic features, I
feel sure, would have been indelibly printed on my mind. Perhaps in
some mission, Mr. Perrison—some evangelical revival meeting. Who
knows? And there, if I mistake not, is the mail.”
He glanced at the girl, and she was staring at him wonderingly.
Just for one moment did he show her what she wanted to know—
just for one moment did she give him back the answer which was to
him the sweetest and at the same time the most bitter in the world.
Then he crossed the hall and picked up the letters.
“A business one for you, Miss Daventry,” he murmured, mildly.
“Better open it at once, and get our business expert’s advice. Mr.
Perrison is a wonderful fellah for advice.”
 With trembling fingers she opened the envelope, and, as he saw
the contents, Perrison, with a snarl of ungovernable fury, made as if
to snatch them out of her hand. The next moment he felt as if his
arm was broken, and the blue eyes boring into his brain were no
longer lazy.
“You forgot yourself, Mr. Perrison,” said Archie Longworth, gently.
“Don’t do that again.”
“But I don’t understand,” cried the girl, bewildered. “What are
these papers?”
“May I see?” Longworth held out his hand, and she gave them to
him at once.
“They’re stolen.” Perrison’s face was livid. “Give them to me,
curse you.”
“Control yourself, you horrible blighter,” said Longworth, icily.
“This,” he continued, calmly, “would appear to be a receipt from
Messrs. Gross and Sons for the return of a pearl-necklace—sent out
to Mr. Daventry on approval.”
“But you said he’d bought it and pawned it.” She turned furiously
on Perrison.
“So he did,” snarled that gentleman. “That’s a forgery.”
“Is it?” said Longworth. “That strikes me as being Johnson’s
signature. Firm’s official paper. And—er—he has the necklace, I—er
—assume.”
“Yes—he has the necklace. Stolen last night by—by——” His eyes
were fixed venomously on Longworth.
“Go on,” murmured the other. “You’re being most entertaining.”
But a sudden change had come over Perrison’s face—a dawning
recognition. “By God!” he muttered, “you’re—you’re——”
“Yes. I’m—who? It’ll come in time, laddie—if you give it a chance.
And in the meantime we might examine these other papers. Now,
this appears to my inexperienced eye to be a transaction entered
into on the one part by Messrs. Smith and Co. and on the other by
William Daventry. And it concerns filthy lucre. Dear, dear. Twenty-five
per cent. per month. Three hundred per cent. Positive usury, Mr.
Perrison. Don’t you agree with me? A rapacious bloodsucker is Mr.
Smith.”
 But the other man was not listening: full recollection had come to
him, and with a cold look of triumph he put his hands into his
pockets and laughed.
“Very pretty,” he remarked. “Very pretty indeed. And how, in your
vernacular, do you propose to get away with the swag, Mr. Flash
Pete? I rather think the police—whom I propose to call up on the
’phone in one minute—will be delighted to see such an old and
elusive friend.”
He glanced at the girl, and laughed again at the look on her face.
“What’s he mean, Archie?” she cried, wildly. “What’s he mean?”
“I mean,” Perrison sneered, “that Mr. Archie Longworth is what is
generally described as a swell crook with a reputation in certain
unsavoury circles extending over two or three continents. And the
police, whom I propose to ring up, will welcome him as a long-lost
child.”
He walked towards the telephone, and with a little gasp of fear
the girl turned to Archie.
“Say it’s not true, dear—say it’s not true.”
For a moment he looked at her with a whimsical smile; then he
sat down on the high fender round the open fire.
“I think, Mr. Perrison,” he murmured, gently, “that if I were you I
would not be too precipitate over ringing up the police. The
engaging warrior who sent this letter to Miss Daventry put in yet one
more enclosure.”
Perrison turned round: then he stood very still.
“A most peculiar document,” continued the man by the fire, in
the same gentle voice, “which proves very conclusively that amongst
their other activities Messrs. Smith and Co. are not only the receivers
of stolen goods, but are mixed up with illicit diamond buying.”
In dead silence the two men stared at one another; then
Longworth spoke again.
“I shall keep these three documents, Mr. Perrison, as a safeguard
for your future good behaviour. Mr. Daventry can pay a certain fair
sum or not as he likes—that is his business: and I shall make a point
of explaining exactly to him who and what you are—and Smith—and
Gross. But should you be disposed to make any trouble over the
necklace—or should the idea get abroad that Flash Pete was
responsible for the burglary last night—it will be most unfortunate
for you—most. This document would interest Scotland Yard
immensely.”
Perrison’s face had grown more and more livid as he listened,
and when the quiet voice ceased, unmindful of the girl standing by,
he began to curse foully and hideously. The next moment he
cowered back, as two iron hands gripped his shoulders and shook
him till his teeth rattled.
“Stop, you filthy swine,” snarled Longworth, “or I’ll break every
bone in your body. Quite a number of men are blackguards, Perrison
—but you’re a particularly creeping and repugnant specimen. Now—
get out—and do it quickly. The nine-thirty will do you nicely. And
don’t forget what I’ve just said: because, as there’s a God above, I
mean it.”
“I’ll be even with you for this some day, Flash Pete,” said the
other venomously over his shoulder. “And then——”
“And then,” said Longworth, contemptuously, “we will resume this
discussion. Just now—get out.”
V
“Yes: it is quite true.” She had known it was—and yet,
womanlike, she had clung to the hope that there was some mistake
—some explanation. And now, alone with the man she had grown to
love, the faint hope died. With his lazy smile, he stared down at her
—a smile so full of sorrow and pain that she could not bear to see it.
“I’m Flash Pete—with an unsavoury reputation, as our friend so
kindly told you, in three continents. It was I who broke open the
safe at Smith’s last night, I who got the receipt from Gross. You see,
I spotted the whole trick from the beginning; as I said, I had inside
information. And Perrison is Smith and Co.; moreover he’s very
largely Gross as well—and half a dozen other rotten things in
addition. The whole thing was worked with one end in view right
from the beginning: the girl your brother originally bought the pearls
for was in it; it was she who suggested the pawning. Bill told me
that the night before last.” He sighed and paced two or three times
up and down the dim-lit conservatory. And after a while he stopped
in front of her again, and his blue eyes were very tender.
“Just a common sneak-thief—just a common worthless sinner.
And he’s very, very glad that he has been privileged to help the most
beautiful girl in all the world. Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry: there’s
nothing about that sinner’s that’s worth a single tear of yours. You
must forget his wild presumption in falling in love with that beautiful
girl: his only excuse is that he couldn’t help it. And maybe, in the
days to come, the girl will think kindly every now and then of a man
known to some as Archie Longworth—known to others as Flash Pete
—known to himself as—well, we won’t bother about that.”
He bent quickly and raised her hand to his lips; then he was gone
almost before she had realised it. And if he heard her little gasping
cry—“Archie, my man, come back—I love you so!” he gave no sign.
For in his own peculiar code a very worthless sinner must remain
a very worthless sinner to the end—and he must run the course
alone.

IX Jimmy Lethbridge’s Temptation

I
“What a queer little place, Jimmy!” The girl glanced round the tiny
restaurant with frank interest, and the man looked up from the
menu he was studying with a grin.
“Don’t let François hear you say that, or you’ll be asked to leave.”
The head-waiter was already bearing down on them, his face
wreathed in an expansive smile of welcome. “To him it is the only
restaurant in London.”
“Ah, m’sieur! it is long days since you were here.” The little
Frenchman rubbed his hands together delightedly. “And mam’selle—
it is your first visit to Les Coquelins, n’est-ce-pas?”
“But not the last, I hope, François,” said the girl with a gentle
smile.
“Ah, mais non!” Outraged horror at such an impossible idea
shone all over the head-waiter’s face. “My guests, mam’selle, they
come here once to see what it is like—and they return because they
know what it is like.”
Jimmy Lethbridge laughed.
“There you are, Molly,” he cried. “Now you know what’s expected
of you. Nothing less than once a week—eh, François?”
“Mais oui, m’sieur. There are some who come every night.” He
produced his pencil and stood waiting. “A few oysters,” he
murmured. “They are good ce soir: real Whitstables. And a bird,
M’sieur Lethbridge—with an omelette aux fines herbes——”
“Sounds excellent, François,” laughed the man. “Anyway, I know
that once you have decided—argument is futile.”
“It is my work,” answered the waiter, shrugging his shoulders.
“And a bottle of Corton—with the chill just off. Toute de suite.”
François bustled away, and the girl looked across the table with a
faintly amused smile in her big grey eyes.
“He fits the place, Jimmy. You must bring me here again.”
“Just as often as you like, Molly,” answered the man quietly, and
after a moment the girl turned away. “You know,” he went on
steadily, “how much sooner I’d bring you to a spot like this, than go
to the Ritz or one of those big places. Only I was afraid it might bore
you. I love it: it’s so much more intimate.”
“Why should you think it would bore me?” she asked, drawing off
her gloves and resting her hands on the table in front of her. They
were beautiful hands, ringless save for one plain signet ring on the
little finger of her left hand. And, almost against his will, the man
found himself staring at it as he answered:
“Because I can’t trust myself, dear; I can’t trust myself to amuse
you,” he answered slowly. “I can’t trust myself not to make love to
you—and it’s so much easier here than in the middle of a crowd
whom one knows.”
The girl sighed a little sadly.
 “Oh, Jimmy, I wish I could! You’ve been such an absolute dear.
Give me a little longer, old man, and then—perhaps——”
“My dear,” said the man hoarsely, “I don’t want to hurry you. I’m
willing to wait years for you—years. At least”—he smiled whimsically
—“I’m not a little bit willing to wait years—really. But if it’s that or
nothing—then, believe me, I’m more than willing.”
“I’ve argued it out with myself, Jimmy.” And now she was staring
at the signet ring on her finger. “And when I’ve finished the
argument, I know that I’m not a bit further on. You can’t argue over
things like that. I’ve told myself times out of number that it isn’t fair
to you——”
He started to speak, but she stopped him with a smile.
“No, dear man, it is not fair to you—whatever you like to say. It
isn’t fair to you even though you may agree to go on waiting. No
one has a right to ask another person to wait indefinitely, though I’m
thinking that is exactly what I’ve been doing. Which is rather like a
woman,” and once again she smiled half sadly.
“But I’m willing to wait, dear,” he repeated gently. “And then I’m
willing to take just as much as you care to give. I won’t worry you,
Molly; I won’t ask you for anything you don’t feel like granting me.
You see, I know now that Peter must always come first. I had hoped
that you’d forget him; I still hope, dear, that in time you will——”
She shook her head, and the man bit his lip.
“Well, even if you don’t, Molly,” he went on steadily, “is it fair to
yourself to go on when you know it’s hopeless? There can be no
doubt now that he’s dead; you know it yourself—you’ve taken off
your engagement ring—and is it fair to—you? Don’t worry about me
for the moment—but what is the use? Isn’t it better to face facts?”
The girl gave a little laugh that was half a sob.
“Of course it is, Jimmy. Much better. I always tell myself that in
my arguments.” Then she looked at him steadily across the table.
“You’d be content, Jimmy—would you?—with friendship at first.”
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I would be content with friendship.”
“And you wouldn’t bother me—ah, no! forgive me, I know you
wouldn’t. Because, Jimmy, I don’t want there to be any mistake.
People think I’ve got over it because I go about; in some ways I
have. But I seem to have lost something—some part of me. I don’t
think I shall ever be able to love a man again. I like you, Jimmy—like
you most frightfully—but I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to
love you in the way I loved Peter.”
“I know that,” muttered the man. “And I’ll risk it.”
“You dear!” said the girl—and her eyes were shining. “That’s
where the unfairness comes in. You’re worth the very best—and I
can’t promise to give it to you.”
“You are the very best, whatever you give me,” answered the
man quietly. “I’d sooner have anything from you than everything
from another woman. Oh, my dear!” he burst out, “I didn’t mean to
worry you to-night—though I knew this damned restaurant would be
dangerous—but can’t you say yes? I swear you’ll never regret it,
dear—and I—I’ll be quite content to know that you care just a bit.”
For a while the girl was silent; then with a faint smile she looked
at him across the table.
“All right, Jimmy,” she said.
“You mean you will, Molly?” he cried, a little breathlessly.
And the girl nodded.
“Yes, old man,” she answered steadily. “I mean I will.”

· · · · ·
It was two hours later when Molly Daventry went slowly upstairs
to her room and shut the door. Jimmy Lethbridge had just gone; she
had just kissed him. And the echo of his last whispered words—“My
dear! my very dear girl!”—was still sounding in her ears.
For a while she stood by the fireplace smiling a little sadly. Then
she crossed the room and switched on a special light. It was so
placed that it shone directly on the photograph of an officer in the
full dress of the 9th Hussars. And at length she knelt down in front
of the table on which the photograph stood, so that the light fell on
her own face also—glinting through the red-gold of her hair,
glistening in the mistiness of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she
knelt there, till it seemed to her as if a smile twitched round the lips
of the officer—a human smile, an understanding smile.
 “Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal. Forgive me, my
love—forgive me. He’s been such a dear.”
And once again the photograph seemed to smile at her tenderly.
“It’s only you, Peter, till Journey’s End—but I must give him the
next best, mustn’t I? It’s only fair, isn’t it?—and you hated
unfairness. But, dear God! it’s hard.”
Slowly she stretched out her left hand, so that the signet ring
touched the big silver frame.
“Your ring, Peter,” she whispered, “your dear ring.”
And with a sudden little choking gasp she raised it to her lips.
II
It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it
happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two
months of happiness; cynically allowed him to come within a
fortnight of his wedding, and then——
For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring
like a man bereft of his senses. There on the opposite side of the
road, playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had
been reported “Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter,
whom a sergeant had categorically said he had seen killed with his
own eyes. And there he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of
London.
Like a man partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards
him. As he approached the player smiled genially, and touched his
cap with his free hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he
stared at Jimmy suspiciously.
“My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you
doing this for?”
And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed
herself aggressively beside Peter.
“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are
you calling Peter?”
“But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?”
“No!” returned the other truculently. “And I don’t want to,
neither.”
 “A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl.
“Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to
understand the situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!”
“Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous
calmness. “I don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too
friendly as it is, and this is my best pitch.”
“But why didn’t you let your pals know you were back, old man?”
said Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?”
“See ’ere, mister,” the girl stepped forward, “ ’e ain’t got no pals—
only me. Ain’t that so, Billy?” she turned to the man, who nodded.
“I looks after him, I do, d’yer see?” went on the girl. “And I don’t
want no one coming butting their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it
does.”
“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly, and then he
broke off. At last he understood, something if not all. In some
miraculous way Peter had not been killed; Peter was there in front of
him—but a new Peter; a Peter whose memory of the past had
completely gone, whose mind was as blank as a clean-washed slate.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly.
“Never you mind,” said the girl sharply. “He ain’t nothing to you. I
looks after ’im, I do.”
Not for a second did Jimmy hesitate, though deep down inside
him there came a voice that whispered—“Don’t be a fool! Pretend
it’s a mistake. Clear off! Molly will never know.” And if for a moment
his hands clenched with the strength of the sudden hideous
temptation, his voice was calm and quiet as he spoke.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked at her gently. “He is
something to me—my greatest friend, whom I thought was dead.”
And now Peter was staring at him fixedly, forgetting even to turn
the handle of the machine.
“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched at
the appalling accent. “I’ve kind o’ lost my memory, yer see, and
Lizzie ’ere looks after me.”
“I know she does,” continued Jimmy quietly. “Thank you, Lizzie,
thank you a thousand times. But I want you both to come to this
house to-night.” He scribbled the address of his rooms on a slip of
paper. “We must think what is best to be done. You see, Lizzie, it’s
not quite fair to him, is it? I want to get a good doctor to see him.”
“I’m quite ’appy as I am, sir,” said Peter. “I don’t want no doctors
messing about with me.”
“Yer’d better go, Bill.” The girl turned to him. “The gentleman
seems kind. But”—she swung round on Jimmy fiercely—“you ain’t
going to take ’im away from me, guv’nor? ’E’s mine, yer see—mine
——”
“I want you to come with him to-night, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge
gravely. “I’m not going to try and take him away from you. I promise
that. But will you promise to come? It’s for his sake I ask you to
bring him.”
For a while she looked at him half fearfully; then she glanced at
Peter, who had apparently lost interest in the matter. And at last she
muttered under her breath: “Orl right—I’ll bring him. But ’e’s mine—
mine. An’ don’t yer go forgetting it.”
And Jimmy, walking slowly into the main street, carried with him
the remembrance of a small determined face with the look on it of a
mother fighting for her young. That and Peter; poor dazed memory-
lost Peter—his greatest pal.
At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save
the one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he
walked on, gradually the realisation of what it meant to him
personally came to his mind. And with that realisation there returned
with redoubled force the insidious tempting voice that had first
whispered: “Molly will never know.” She would never know—could
never know—unless he told her. And Peter was happy; he’d said so.
And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And perhaps—in fact most likely—
Peter would never recover his memory. So what was the use? Why
say anything about it? Why not say it was a mistake when they
came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his forehead and
found it was wet with sweat.
After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful
unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would
break her heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course, he didn’t count.
It was the others he was thinking of—not himself.
 He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by
eyed him strangely, though he was supremely unaware of the fact.
But when all the demons of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is
apt to look grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards
Hyde Park Corner, Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane.
They thronged him; pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed
the devils out loud. But still they came back, again and again, and
the worst and most devilish of them all was the insidious temptation
that by keeping silent he would be doing the greatest good for the
greatest number. Everyone was happy now—why run the risk of
altering things?
And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted till
he breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of
the Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh
which was almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a
taxi. It was as it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he
laughed again—a laugh that had lost its hardness. And the driver
thought his fare’s “Thank you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it
was. Perhaps it was the first time Jimmy had prayed for ten years.
“Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly
met him in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely.
“Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very
important engagement—even more important than taking you out to
dinner, if possible.”
The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her
shoulders.
“It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added.
“From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed.
“Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly.
“Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a
bit of a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time
of day, I can’t think.”
“You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a
surprise. Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!”
He spoke low under his breath, and the girl looked at him
curiously.
 “What’s the matter, dear?” she cried. “Has something happened?”
Jimmy Lethbridge pulled himself together; he didn’t want her to
suspect anything yet.
“Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “What should have? But I want
to borrow something from you, Molly dear, and I don’t want you to
ask any questions. I want you to lend me that photograph of Peter
that you’ve got—the one in full dress.”
And now she was staring at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy,” she said breathlessly, “does it concern the present?”
“Yes; it concerns the present.”
“You’re going to have a picture of him painted for me?”
“Something like that,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, you dear!” she whispered, “you dear! I’ve been thinking
about it for months. I’ll get it for you.”
She went upstairs, and the man stood still in the hall staring after
her. And he was still standing motionless as she came down again,
the precious frame clasped in her hands.
“You’ll take care of it, Jimmy?” she said, and he nodded.
Then for a moment she laid her hand on his arm.
“I don’t think, old man,” she said quietly, “that you’ll have to wait
very long with friendship only.”
The next moment she was alone with the slam of the front-door
echoing in her ears. It was like Fate to reserve its most deadly arrow
for the end.
III
“You say he has completely lost his memory?”
Mainwaring, one of the most brilliant of London’s younger
surgeons, leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his
host.
“Well, he didn’t know me, and I was his greatest friend,” said
Lethbridge.
The two men were in Jimmy’s rooms, waiting for the arrival of
Peter and the girl.
“He looked at me without a trace of recognition,” continued
Lethbridge. “And he’s developed a typical lower-class Cockney
accent.”
“Interesting, very,” murmured the surgeon, getting up and
examining the photograph on the table. “This is new, isn’t it, old
boy; I’ve never seen it before?”
“I borrowed it this afternoon,” said Jimmy briefly.
“From his people, I suppose? Do they know?”
“No one knows at present, Mainwaring—except you and me. That
photograph I got this afternoon from Miss Daventry.”
Something in his tone made the surgeon swing round.
“You mean your fiancée?” he said slowly.
“Yes—my fiancée. You see, she was—she was engaged to Peter.
And she thinks he’s dead. That is the only reason she got engaged
to me.”
For a moment there was silence, while Mainwaring stared at the
other. A look of wonder had come into the doctor’s eyes—wonder
mixed with a dawning admiration.
“But, my God! old man,” he muttered at length, “if the operation
is successful——”
“Can you think of a better wedding present to give a girl than the
man she loves?” said Jimmy slowly, and the doctor turned away.
There are times when it is not good to look on another man’s face.
“And if it isn’t successful?” he said quietly.
“God knows, Bill. I haven’t got as far as that—yet.”
And it was at that moment that there came a ring at the front-
door bell. There was a brief altercation; then Jimmy’s man appeared.
“Two—er—persons say you told them——” he began, when
Lethbridge cut him short.
“Show them in at once,” he said briefly, and his man went out
again.
“You’ve got to remember, Bill,” said Jimmy as they waited, “that
Peter Staunton is literally, at the moment, a low-class Cockney.”
Mainwaring nodded, and drew back a little as Peter and the girl
came into the room. He wanted to leave the talking to Jimmy, while
he watched.
“Good evening, Lizzie,” Lethbridge smiled at the girl reassuringly.
“I’m glad you came.”
 “Who’s that cove?” demanded the girl suspiciously, staring at
Mainwaring.
“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later
on.”
“His name ain’t Peter,” muttered the girl sullenly. “It’s Bill.”
“Well, at Bill, then. Don’t be frightened, Lizzie; come farther into
the room. I want you to see a photograph I’ve got here.”
Like a dog who wonders whether it is safe to go to a stranger,
she advanced slowly, one step at a time; while Peter, twirling his cap
awkwardly in his hands, kept beside her. Once or twice he glanced
uneasily round the room, but otherwise his eyes were fixed on Lizzie
as a child looks at its mother when it’s scared.
“My God, Jimmy!” whispered the doctor, “there’s going to be as
big a sufferer as you if we’re successful.”
And he was looking as he spoke at the girl, who, with a sudden
instinctive feeling of protection, had put out her hand and taken
Peter’s.
Like a pair of frightened children they crept on until they came to
the photograph; then they stopped in front of it. And the two men
came a little closer. It was the girl who spoke first, in a low voice of
wondering awe:
“Gawd! it’s you, Bill—that there bloke in the frame. You were a
blinking orficer.”
With a look of pathetic pride on her face, she stared first at the
photograph and then at the man beside her. “An orficer! Bill—an
orficer! What was ’is regiment, mister?” The girl swung round on
Jimmy. “Was ’e in the Guards?”
“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the
cavalry. The 9th Hussars,” and the man, who was holding the frame
foolishly in his hands, suddenly looked up. “The Devil’s Own, Peter,”
went on Lethbridge quietly. “C Squadron of the Devil’s Own.”
But the look had faded; Peter’s face was blank again.
“I don’t remember, guv’nor,” he muttered. “And it’s making me
’ead ache—this.”
With a little cry the girl caught his arm, and faced Lethbridge
fiercely.
 “Wot’s the good of all this?” she cried. “All this muckin’ abaht?
Why the ’ell can’t you leave ’im alone, guv’nor? ’E’s going to ’ave one
of ’is ’eads now—’e nearly goes mad, ’e does, when ’e gets ’em.”
“I think, Lizzie, that perhaps I can cure those heads of his.”
It was Mainwaring speaking, and the girl, still holding Peter’s arm
protectingly, looked from Lethbridge to the doctor.
“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a
little better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.”
But instantly the girl was up in arms.
“You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I
won’t ’ave it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to
leave yer Liz?”
And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right.
“I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I
promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my
examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his
attention.”
She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would
read his very soul. And in the infinite pathos of the scene, Jimmy
Lethbridge for the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little
slum girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t
understand; wondering if she should trust these two strangers.
Caught in a net that frightened her; fearful that they were going to
harm Bill. And at the bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate
terror that she was going to lose him.
“You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked
at ’im.”
“I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely.
She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go
with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.”
“ ’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed
behind Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.”
“Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?”
“ ’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,”
she answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved
and pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ.
And we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer,
and ’e don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is
’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead
on me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while.
Sometimes ’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till
’e wakes again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s
’appy with me.”
She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her
tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be
done; he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing a wounded bird
with a sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick.
“He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he
said at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely.
“And he thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back
his memory.”
“So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl.
“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d
remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter
Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.”
“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”
“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her
breath come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed to a picture
of Sybil on the mantelpiece.
“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl
thoughtfully.
“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t
think I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so
much. And——” for a moment Jimmy faltered, then he went on
steadily: “I ought to know in this case, because I’m engaged to her
now.”
And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and
understood.
“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the
chuck?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.”
 “And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face.
Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any
tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both
of us when you come round that street to-day.”
“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you
this because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—
we’ve both of us got to play the game.”
“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?”
“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained
Lethbridge. “But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can
operate to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?
—and stay here with him if you like.”
“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s
photograph. “ ’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did
yer find ’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!”
She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully,
and Lethbridge stood watching her in silence.
“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!”
“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared up. “I want my man.” And then,
as she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in
an instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered
impulsively. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it.
Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style.
And I’ve ’ad my year.”
“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand.
“Very, very lucky.”
“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts
seemed far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together
and started patting her hair.
“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly.
“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming
business.”
And then the door opened and Mainwaring came in.
“Does Lizzie agree?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, Bill—she agrees,” said Jimmy. “What do you think of him?”
 “As far as I can see there is every hope that an operation will be
completely successful. There is evidently pressure on the right side
of the skull which can be removed. I’ll operate early to-morrow
morning. Keep him quiet to-night—and make him sleep, Lizzie, if you
can.”
“What d’yer think, mister?” she said scornfully. “Ain’t I done it fer
a year?”
Without another word she left the room, and the two men stood
staring at one another.
“Will she play the game, Jimmy!” Mainwaring was lighting a
cigarette.
“Yes—she’ll play the game,” answered Lethbridge slowly. “She’ll
play the game—poor little kid!”
“What terms are they on—those two?” The doctor looked at him
curiously.
“I think,” said Lethbridge even more slowly, “that that is a
question we had better not inquire into too closely.”
IV
It was successful—brilliantly successful—the operation. Lizzie
made it so; at any rate she helped considerably. It was she who held
his hand as he went under the anæsthetic; it was she who cheered
him up in the morning, when he awoke dazed and frightened in a
strange room. And then she slipped away and disappeared from the
house. It was only later that Lethbridge found a scrawled pencil
note, strangely smudged, on his desk:
“Let me no wot appens.—Lizzie.”
He didn’t know her address, so he couldn’t write and tell her that
her Bill had come to consciousness again, completely recovered
except for one thing. There was another blank in his mind now—the
last three years. One of his first questions had been to ask how the
fight had gone, and whether we’d broken through properly.
And then for a day or two Lizzie was forgotten; he had to make
his own renunciation.
Molly came, a little surprised at his unusual invitation, and he left
the door open so that she could see Peter in bed from one part of
his sitting-room.
“Where have you buried yourself, Jimmy?” she cried. “I’ve been
——” And then her face grew deathly white as she looked into the
bedroom. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them; her
hands were clenching and unclenching.
“But I’m mad,” he heard her whisper at length, “quite mad. I’m
seeing things, Jimmy—seeing things. Why—dear God! it’s Peter!”
She took a step or two forward, and Peter saw her.
“Molly,” he cried weakly, “Molly, my darling——”
And Jimmy Lethbridge saw her walk forward slowly and
uncertainly to the man who had come back. With a shaking little cry
of pure joy she fell on her knees beside the bed, and Peter put a
trembling hand on her hair. Then Jimmy shut the door, and stared
blankly in front of him.
It was Lizzie who roused him—Lizzie coming shyly into the room
from the hall.
“I seed her come in,” she whispered. “She looked orl right. ’Ow is
’e?”
“He’s got his memory back, Lizzie,” he said gently. “But he’s
forgotten the last three years.”
“Forgotten me, as ’e?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes, Lizzie. Forgotten everything—barrel-organ and all. He thinks
he’s on sick leave from the war.”
“And she’s wiv ’im now, is she?”
“Yes—she’s with him, Lizzie.”
She took a deep breath—then she walked to the glass and
arranged her hat—a dreadful hat with feathers in it.
“Well, I reckons I’d better be going. I don’t want to see ’im. It
would break me ’eart. And I said good-bye to ’im that last night
before the operation. So long, mister. I’ve ’ad me year—she can’t
tike that away from me.”
And then she was gone. He watched her from the window
walking along the pavement, with the feathers nodding at every
step. Once she stopped and looked back—and the feathers seemed
to wilt and die. Then she went on again—and this time she didn’t
stop. She’d “ ’ad ’er year,” had Lizzie; maybe the remembrance of it
helped her gallant little soul when she returned the barrel-organ—
the useless barrel-organ.
“So this was your present, Jimmy.” Molly was speaking just
behind him, and her eyes were very bright.
“Yes, Molly,” he smiled. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said slowly. “I don’t
understand anything except the one big fact that Peter has come
back.”
“Isn’t that enough?” he asked gently. “Isn’t that enough, my
dear? Peter’s come back—funny old Peter. The rest will keep.”
And then he took her left hand and drew off the engagement
ring he had given her.
“Not on that finger now—Molly; though I’d like you to keep it
now if you will.”
For a while she stared at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy, but you’re big!” she whispered at length. “I’m so sorry!”
She turned away as Peter’s voice, weak and tremulous, came from
the other room.
“Come in with me, old man,” she said. “Come in and talk to him.”
But Jimmy shook his head.
“He doesn’t want me, dear; I’m just—just going out for a bit——”
Abruptly he left the room—they didn’t want him: any more than
they wanted Lizzie.
Only she had had her year.

X Lady Cynthia and the Hermit

I
“My dear Cynthia, you haven’t seen our Hermit yet. He’s quite the
show exhibit of the place.”
 Lady Cynthia Stockdale yawned and lit a cigarette. Hermits
belonged undoubtedly to the class of things in which she was not
interested; the word conjured up a mental picture of a dirty
individual of great piety, clothed in a sack. And Lady Cynthia loathed
dirt and detested piety.
“A hermit, Ada!” she remarked, lazily. “I thought the brand was
extinct. Does he feed ravens and things?”
It is to be regretted that theological knowledge was not her
strong point, but Ada Laverton, her hostess, did not smile. From
beneath some marvellously long eyelashes she was watching the
lovely girl lying back in the deck-chair opposite, who was vainly
trying to blow smoke rings. A sudden wild idea had come into her
brain—so wild as to be almost laughable. But from time immemorial
wild ideas anent their girl friends have entered the brains of young
married women, especially the lucky ones who have hooked the
right man. And Ada Laverton had undoubtedly done that. She
alternately bullied, cajoled, and made love to her husband John, in a
way that eminently suited that cheerful and easygoing gentleman.
He adored her quite openly and ridiculously, and she returned the
compliment just as ridiculously, even if not quite so openly.
Moreover, Cynthia Stockdale was her best friend. Before her
marriage they had been inseparable, and perhaps there was no one
living who understood Cynthia as she did. To the world at large
Cynthia was merely a much photographed and capricious beauty.
Worthy mothers of daughters, who saw her reproduced weekly in
the society papers, sighed inwardly with envy, and commented on
the decadence of the aristocracy: the daughters tore out the pictures
in a vain endeavour to copy her frocks. But it wasn’t the frocks that
made Cynthia Stockdale: it was she who made the frocks. Put her in
things selected haphazard from a jumble sale—put her in remnants
discarded by the people who got it up, and she would still have
seemed the best-dressed woman in the room. It was a gift she had
—not acquired, but natural.
Lady Cynthia was twenty-five, and looked four years younger.
Since the war she had been engaged twice—once to a man in the
Blues, and once to a young and ambitious member of Parliament.
Neither had lasted long, and on the second occasion people had said
unkind things. They had called her heartless and capricious, and she
had scorned to contradict them. It mattered nothing to her what
people said: if they didn’t like her they could go away and have
nothing to do with her. And since in her case it wasn’t a pose, but
the literal truth, people did not go away. Only to Ada Laverton did
she give her real confidence: only to Ada Laverton did she show the
real soul that lay below the surface.
“I’m trying,” she had said, lying in that same chair a year
previously, “I’m trying to find the real thing. I needn’t marry if I
don’t want to; I haven’t got to marry for a home and a roof. And it’s
got to be the right man. Of course I may make a mistake—a mistake
which I shan’t find out till it’s too late. But surely when one has
found it out before it’s too late, it’s better to acknowledge it at once.
It’s no good making a second worse one by going through with it. I
thought Arthur was all right”—Arthur was the member of Parliament
—“I’m awfully fond of Arthur still. But I’m not the right wife for him.
We jarred on one another in a hundred little ways. And he hasn’t got
a sense of humour. I shall never forget the shock I got when I first
realised that. He seemed to think that a sense of humour consisted
of laughing at humorous things, of seeing a jest as well as anyone
else. He didn’t seem to understand me when I told him that the real
sense of humour is often closer to tears than laughter. Besides”—she
had added inconsequently—“he had a dreadful trick of whistling
down my neck when we danced. No woman can be expected to
marry a permanent draught. And as for poor old Bill—well Bill’s an
angel. I still adore Bill. He is, I think, the most supremely handsome
being I’ve ever seen in my life—especially when he’s got his full
dress on. But, my dear, I blame myself over Bill. I ought to have
known it before I got engaged to him; as a matter of fact I did know
it. Bill is, without exception, the biggest fool in London. I thought his
face might atone for his lack of brains; I thought that perhaps if I
took him in hand he might do something in the House of Lords—his
old father can’t live much longer—but I gave it up. He is simply
incapable of any coherent thought at all. He can’t spell; he can’t
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