Amusement Only. Marsh Richard
an air of preternatural solemnity the Duke took two letters from the breast-pocket of his coat.
"Mabel, you have already seen your letter. You have already seen the lock of your hair. Just look at this-and that."
He gave her the two very singular communications which had arrived in such a mysterious manner, and so quickly one after the other. She read them with wide-open eyes.
"Hereward! Wherever did these come from?"
The Duke was standing with his legs apart, and his hands in his trousers-pockets. "I would give-I would give another five hundred pounds to know. Shall I tell you, madam, what I have been doing? I have been presenting five hundred golden sovereigns to a perfect stranger, with a top-hat, and a gardenia in his button-hole."
"Whatever for?"
"If you have perused those documents which you have in your hand, you will have some faint idea. Ivor, when its your funeral I'll smile. Mabel, Duchess of Dachet, it is beginning to dawn upon the vacuum which represents my brain that I've been the victim of one of the prettiest things in practical jokes that ever yet was planned. When that fellow brought you that card at Cane and Wilson's-which, I need scarcely tell you, never came from me-some one walked out of the front entrance who was so exactly like you that both Barnes and Moysey took her for you. Moysey showed her into the carriage, and Barnes drove her home. But when the carriage reached home it was empty. Your double had got out upon the road."
The Duchess uttered a sound which was half a gasp, half sigh:
"Hereward!"
"Barnes and Moysey, with beautiful and childlike innocence, when they found that they had brought the thing home empty, came straightway and told me that you had jumped out of the brougham while it had been driving full pelt through the streets. While I was digesting that piece of information there came the first epistle, with the lock of your hair. Before I had time to digest that there came the second epistle, with yours inside, and, as a guarantee of the authenticity of your appeal, the same envelope held this."
The Duke handed the Duchess the half of the broken sixpence. She stared at it with the most unequivocal astonishment.
"Why, it looks just like my sixpence." She put her hand to her breast, feeling something that was there. "But it isn't! What wickedness!"
"It is wickedness, isn't it? Anyhow, that seemed good enough for me; so I posted off the five hundred pounds to save your arm-not to dwell upon your little finger."
"It seems incredible!"
"Its sounds incredible; but unfathomable is the folly of man, especially of a man who loves his wife." The Duke crossed to Mr. Dacre. "I don't want, Ivor, to suggest anything in the way of bribery and corruption, but if you could keep this matter to yourself, and not mention it to your friends, our white-hatted and gardenia-button-holed acquaintance is welcome to his five hundred pounds, and-Mabel, what on earth are you laughing at?"
The Duchess appeared, all at once, to be seized with inextinguishable laughter.
"Hereward," she cried, "just think how that man must be laughing at you!"
And the Duke of Datchet thought of it.
THE STRANGE OCCURRENCES INCANTERSTONE JAIL
CHAPTER I
MR. MANKELL DECLARES HIS INTENTION OF ACTING ON MAGISTERIAL ADVICE
Oliver Mankell was sentenced to three months' hard labour. The charge was that he had obtained money by means of false pretences. Not large sums, but shillings, half-crowns, and so on. He had given out that he was a wizard, and that he was able and willing-for a consideration-to predict the events of the future-tell fortunes, in fact. The case created a large amount of local interest, for some curious stories were told about the man in the town. Mankell was a tall, slight, wiry-looking fellow in the prime of life, with coal-black hair and olive complexion-apparently of Romany extraction. His bearing was self-possessed, courteous even, yet with something in his air which might have led one to suppose that he saw-what others did not-the humour of the thing. At one point his grave, almost saturnine visage distinctly relaxed into a smile. It was when Colonel Gregory, the chairman of the day, was passing sentence. After committing him for three months' hard labour, the Colonel added-
"During your sojourn within the walls of a prison you will have an opportunity of retrieving your reputation. You say you are a magician. During your stay in jail I would strongly advise you to prove it. You lay claim to magic powers. Exercise them. I need scarcely point out to you how excellent a chance you will have of creating a sensation."
The people laughed. When the great Panjandrum is even dimly suspected of an intention to be funny, the people always do. But on this occasion even the prisoner smiled-rather an exceptional thing, for as a rule it is the prisoner who sees the joke the least of all.
Later in the day the prisoner was conveyed to the county jail. This necessitated a journey by rail, with a change upon the way. At the station where they changed there was a delay of twenty minutes. This the prisoner and the constable in charge of him improved by adjourning to a public house hard by. Here they had a glass-indeed they had two-and when they reached Canterstone, the town on whose outskirts stood the jail, they had one-or perhaps it was two-more. It must have been two, for when they reached the jail, instead of the constable conveying the prisoner, it was the prisoner who conveyed the constable-upon his shoulder. The warder who answered the knock seemed surprised at what he saw.
"What do you want?"
"Three months' hard labour."
The warder stared. The shades of night had fallen, and the lamp above the prison-door did not seem to cast sufficient light upon the subject to satisfy the janitor.
"Come inside," he said.
Mankell entered, the constable upon his shoulder. Having entered, he carefully placed the constable in a sitting posture on the stones, with his back against the wall. The policeman's helmet had tipped over his eyes-he scarcely presented an imposing picture of the majesty and might of the law. The warder shook him by the shoulder. "Here, come-wake up. You're a pretty sort," he said. The constable's reply, although slightly inarticulate, was yet sufficiently distinct.
"Not another drop!" he murmured.
"No, I shouldn't think so," said the warder. "You've had a pailful, it seems to me, already."
The man seemed a little puzzled. He turned and looked at Mankell.
"What do you want here?"
"Three months' hard labour."
The man looked down and saw that the new-comer had gyves upon his wrists. He went to a door at one side, and summoned another warder. The two returned together. This second official took in the situation at a glance.
"Have you come from-?" naming the town from which they in fact had come. Mankell inclined his head. This second official turned his attention to the prostrate constable. "Look in his pockets."
The janitor acted on the suggestion. The order for committal was produced.
"Are you Oliver Mankell?"
Again Mankell inclined his head. With the order in his hand, the official marched him through the side-door by which he had himself appeared. Soon Oliver Mankell was the inmate of a cell. He spent that night in the reception-cells at the gate. In the morning he had a bath, was inducted into prison clothing, and examined by the doctor. He was then taken up to the main building of the prison, and introduced to the governor. The governor was a quiet, gentlemanly man, with a straggling black beard and spectacles-the official to the tips of his fingers. As Mankell happened to be the only fresh arrival, the governor favoured him with a little speech.
"You've placed yourself in an uncomfortable position, Mankell. I hope you'll obey the rules while you're here."
"I intend to act upon the advice tendered me by the magistrate who passed sentence."
The governor looked up. Not only was the voice a musical voice, but the words were not the sort of words generally chosen by the average prisoner.
"What advice was that?"
"He