The Second Chance

Introduction

“The Second Chance,” though not regarded as Kathlyn Rhodes most elegant work, is nevertheless an inviting story representative of the periodical genre in the early twentieth century. Published in the July issue of The Strand Magazine in 1920, the tale is situated in a time of economic regrowth in post-World War I England. It was an era in which the culture and optimism of the nation were on rebound, leading to a resurgence of lighter literature that was intended to entertain and to enthrall.

The author Kathlyn Rhodes, although not a commissioned soldier, was surrounded by the war as a girl growing up in Scarborough. After losing both parents at a young age, Kathlyn and her sister, May, were given charge of the family home in Scarborough in 1907. Just 7 short years later, they would see their fortune continue to diminish when the bombings of their town left their home destroyed. This terrible bombing in 1914 must have impacted Rhodes. Although she was not a major voice in the war-literature genre, Rhodes would often include soldiers and wartime events in her work. “The Second Chance” is no exception, as four out of the five characters in the tale are British officers.

This could suggest that this story is (at least partially) biographical. The opening scene is that of a group of soldiers discussing the recent death of one Colonel Chalmers, who was found shot in their household. They discuss who might have shot him, but are also particularly concerned for his daughter, Miss Chalmers, whom the three soldiers each have affection towards. Our author, Kathlyn Rhodes, lost her father to sudden illness at the age of 19, in the year 1896. This was a traumatic event in her life that forced her family to move, for Kathlyn to transfer to a new school, and for her mother to begin considering taking on a position as a laundry worker in order to provide for her daughters. The death of a young girl’s daughter and her proximity to the terrors of war are familiar topics for Rhodes.

This story appeared for the first time in The Strand Magazine as the issue’s first entry. As is typical of this particular periodical, The Strand positioned a story that was sure to turn pages near the front. The tale includes romance, a war setting, and a “whodunit” narrative that is an excellent representation of what The Strand offered its subscribers. After all, it was this magazine which published the first of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s first Sherlock Holmes stories serially. Rhodes’ work stands out as an example of a female author who was involved in the genre, often putting a romantic spin on her works of fiction.

As the title suggest, “The Second Chance” contains themes of redemption and rebirth. Just as the country was trying to reorient itself, in the wake of a war that brought moral ambiguity, this story follows characters who are attempting to discover truth and meaning during an event of great distress. Although it is not particularly “high-brow,” it would have contained great meaning to those who were surrounded by doubt and despair.

Transcription

“It is rather an odd situation, isn’t it?” Amory looked at the two men who sat at the table in more or less uncomfortable attitudes, and his voice was grim. “In there” – he pointed to the “chick” of beads which hung over the opening to an inner room–” lies a dead man: killed by one of us three. And only that one knows which of us is the” –he paused– “the murderer.”

“One moment, Amory.” Captain Ross, who had been sitting scribbling absently on a sheet of paper, raised his head suddenly. “Are you sure you’re speaking correctly when you say Colonel Chalmers has been” –there was the same pause before the word– “murdered?”

“Yes, Amory–are you sure?” Dick Thornley spoke eagerly, hurriedly. “Mightn’t the Colonel have shot himself? He–we don’t know what private worries he had, and he–he looked queer when he came in.”

For a moment Amory’s grey eyes rested on the boy’s twitching face; and young Thornley paled before the other’s gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that, Amory! I know–I know you fellows think I did it. But I didn’t–before God you’re wrong. I–I never did it!”

“No one suggested that you did, Dicky.” Ross spoke quickly. “As a matter of fact, it is not yet certain that anyone killed the Colonel. He might conceivably have shot himself.”

“No.” Amory’s voice was decisive. “Colonel Chalmers was killed–shot with a revolver–mine, by the way–which the murderer then carried over to the big sofa and hid under a cushion. At least"–he paused– “I took it from there not twenty minutes ago.”

“You found it? But what made you look there?” There was curiosity, but as yet no suspicion, in Ross’s voice.

“I was a bit taken aback, as we all were” –he spoke casually– “on finding what had happened: and I sat down for a second to pull myself together. And in so doing”–he smiled rather frigidly– “I felt the revolver.”

“He couldn’t have put it there himself?” “No. Quite impossible. Death must have been instantaneous – and in any case, why should Colonel Chalmers commit suicide? He had everything he wanted: a delightful home, money, promotion, and” –he paused– “and a daughter whom he adored. No, Ross. Chalmers wasn’t the man to lose all these by a revolver-bullet.”

At the mention of the dead man’s daughter both the other men’s faces had changed oddly. Into Ross’s square-chinned, blue-eyed, rather obstinate face came the look of the man who, having failed to attain his heart’s desire, has determined to hide that failure by a resolute composure, a dogged cheerfulness which shall admit no possibility of defeat; and he unconsciously drew himself up and set his lips together as though to prove his indifference to the subject.

But Dick Thornley, being younger and more undisciplined, showed all too plainly what the mention of the girl meant to him; and he flushed hotly, and his eyes flashed as Amory spoke so calmly of Miss Chalmers, as though he would fain have forbidden the speaker to take her name upon his lips.

How the name affected Amory himself no one was at liberty to observe; and he was only too grateful to his companions for their absorption in their own private emotions.

Presently Ross said, rather formally: “Well, since you are so certain that Colonel Chalmers met his death at the hands of one of us” –Dick started nervously– “what steps do you propose to take to clear up the matter? Wouldn’t it be well to review the whole position from the beginning, and see if we can elicit any facts likely to be of value?”

“Quite so.” Amory’s voice was non-committal. “But before we start let’s have a drink. Dick, there’s a siphon over there, and here’s the whiskey.”

Thus requested, Dick Thornley rose from his seat and crossed the room to the shelf on which the siphon stood. He brought it back slowly, and the other men noted how his hand shook as he set it down, clumsily, on the table. But the tragedy of the afternoon was enough to account for shaken nerves; and after all there was a certain pallor, an unusual tension, about each of the three men who were implicated in that tragedy.

“Thanks, Dick.” Amory held out the whiskey bottle. “Help yourselves. I feel that I can do with a stiff peg myself.”

When the glasses were filled he began to speak again, looking ahead of him with expressionless eyes.

 

“To begin with, this is our bungalow, Ross, yours and mine. Dick here dropped in to tiffin today, and after that, as it was confoundedly hot, and we none of us had any business on hand, we agreed to have a laze until tea-time, and then go down to the club. That’s so, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And just as we were settling down, in came Colonel Chalmers, looking very fagged, and said he didn’t feel up to much, and would like a rest before going in to some show or other to meet his daughter.”

“And so you advised him to go into your room and lie down for a bit.”

“Just so, Dick. He agreed, saying his head ached; and we proceeded to settle ourselves as we chose. You, Dick, sat on here, smoking. Ross, you went into your room, through mine; and I went, as usual, on to the veranda.”

“The result being,” said Ross, quietly, “that there was no entrance into the Colonel’s room except through one of the two rooms in which Dick and I were sitting, and–"

“And through the long door opening on to the veranda where I was sitting. That sums up the situation as far as we are concerned. Yet someone did get in; for when we rushed in, roused by the sound of a shot, we found the Colonel dead – shot through the heart.”

Dick Thornley set down his glass noisily.

“Of course someone got in. I–I’m certain no one came my way. I was awake all the time.” He stopped, bit his lips, then hurried on: “At least, perhaps I was asleep, and if so someone might have passed me.”

“No, Dick, that won’t wash.” Ross spoke kindly, though his worried eyes belied his smile. “How often have you lamented the fact that you can’t sleep in the daytime! I’d back you to keep awake on the hottest afternoon.”

“But–but–" The boy began to stammer out something, but Amory stopped him with a gesture.

“Never mind that, Dick. You say no one came past you. Nor did anyone cross the veranda.”

“How do you know? You might easily have closed your eyes for a minute.”

“I might,” returned Amory, dryly. “But it so happened that I did not. You see, I was writing a letter – an important letter.”

“Then I’m the only one left?” Ross’s quiet voice was unruffled. “And when I tell you that I slept peacefully until roused by the sound of a shot, you’ll agree with me that the whole thing is most mysterious.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” Dick reached for the siphon and squirted some soda, shakily, into his glass.

“Do?” Amory looked at him rather oddly. “What can we do? It seems to me that we are at a standstill.”

“My God, Amory!” Dick set down the glass and sat glowering at his host. “How can you speak so calmly! Don’t you see what a devil of a mess we’re in? The Colonel comes here, to this bungalow, to spend a quiet hour or two, and he is murdered in his sleep. There is no one here but us three, the servants are all away–gone off to some tomasha or other–and yet there’s a crime committed. Well, it puts us all in a pretty serious hole, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does.” Ross took up the challenge. “And for that reason, because one of us is guilty and two are innocent, the guilty one must speak.”

“Quite so,” said Amory, quietly. “But which is the guilty one?”

Ross shrugged his shoulders and threw his half-smoked cigarette irritably into the ashtray.

“Which of us, eh? Well, that remains to be seen. But – I can quite understand that things look black against me. You both know what a devil of a temper I have, and it’s all over the place by now that the Colonel and I quarreled last night – at the club. Oh, it was over the merest trifle – a personal matter, but we both got hot over it, and I admit I spoke a good deal more freely than I had any right to do.”

“Yes, yes, I heard you’d quarreled.” Dick spoke eagerly. “Some fellow I met this morning told me about the row – and he said you were in no end of a rage afterwards, and letting off steam against the Colonel like anything.”

“I’d had some drink by that time,” said Ross, dryly. “And no one pays attention to a drunken man’s ravings. But I realize that it puts me in a fix, for quite half-a-dozen fellows heard me letting myself go after the row.”

“What about me?” Dick sounded defiant. “I was up before the Colonel this morning for one of his everlasting wiggings. Everyone knows he hated me, because when I first came out Miss Chalmers was kind to me, and he didn’t like it. You both know how down he’s always been on me, bullyragging me about every little thing.”

“Nonsense, Dick!” To his surprise Amory spoke sharply. “The Colonel was a bit strict, but he was always just: and no one could resent his censure. And you know you are a bit slack at times–oh, over non-essentials!” –he saw the boy’s rage mounting– “and no C.O. likes to see his subs running into debt and spending too much time over racing and cards.”

“I know one thing!” Dick spoke passionately. He wasn’t fair to me–just because he knew I was in love with his daughter! That was why he was always beastly to me. Thought I wasn’t good enough, I suppose, and p’r’aps I wasn’t; but I can tell you his sneers–oh, in that beastly polite voice of his!–were jolly hard to bear, and I only put up with it because –because– “His anger fairly choked him, and he stopped short.

“Don’t be a fool, Dick!” This time it was Ross who answered him, curtly enough. “We’ll keep Miss Chalmer’s name out of this, and raving like that doesn’t do you any good.”

“No. And time’s passing.” Amory glanced at his wrist-watch. “We can’t hush this thing up much longer. But we must find out who shot the Colonel. Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances.”

“Oh, I know what you mean!” Dick’s eyes blazed. “You’ve made up your mind it’s I because there was always a feud between me and the Colonel. But you’re wrong, and it’s simply cowardly to try to bully me into saying it was I who did it!”

“The cowardly deed was the murder, Dick.” Amory spoke coldly. “The brave deed will be the owning up–"

“Owning up!” Dick sprang from his chair and stood opposite the other man, his fists clenched, his whole body shaking from head to foot. “If you’re so keen on owning up, why don’t you own up yourself? Why are you to be above suspicion? Ross here says he quarreled with the Colonel last night–there’s a motive for you! I was in trouble with him this morning–there’s my motive! No suspicion is to rest on you, although it was your revolver that killed him! Why not? I ask you that! Why shouldn’t you have killed the Colonel just as much as Ross or I?”

There was a pause before Amory replied to this challenge; and for a moment Ross’s blue eyes searched his face with, for the first time, a hint of suspicion in their depths.

“Quite so, Dick.” Amory spoke at last, quietly. “Why shouldn’t I have killed the Colonel? True, I’d no apparent motive, but no one knows my business well enough to swear I wasn’t at loggerheads secretly with him. So what if I say that I did kill Colonel Chalmers? It was my revolver, after all, that did the deed.”

“No, no, Amory.” Ross spoke impulsively. “You didn’t do it. That I’ll swear.”

“But don’t you hear what he says?” Dick’s eyes shone with excitement. “He says he did – or as good as says so, anyhow! And so–and so we must help him escape!” He looked round him eagerly. “Come, Ross, let’s plan how to get him away. We can keep the thing dark for hours yet, and he can have a good start–"

“No, Dick.” Amory’s voice was quiet, and he looked the boy squarely in the eyes. “I’m not going to–escape.”

“Not escape! But why not–in Heaven’s name, why not?”

Still looking the other straight in the face Amory spoke quietly; and to Ross, who listened uncomprehendingly, his voice was oddly, almost terribly impressive.

“Because for the murderer there is no escape, Dick. He may get away for a time, but do you think he is ever really a free man again? No. There’s never an hour in the day that he doesn’t feel a ghostly hand on his shoulder, that he doesn’t expect to hear a voice in his ear saying, Thou art the man!”^[1]Quotation from Old Testament, 2 Samuel 12: 7, where Nathan anoints David as King over Israel. There’s never a night passes but he enacts again in his dreams the tragedy which has branded him with the brand of Cain. When he is alone he feels that he must go mad or die–when he is in the midst of his fellow-men he is seized with an almost uncontrollable impulse to rise and shout his ghastly secret to the world. Night and day the torture goes on and on; and at last he feels that death would have been a thousand times more merciful than this hell to which his own cowardice has condemned him.”

“Amory–for God’s sake–" It was Ross who spoke, hoarsely; but with his eyes fixed upon the boy, who cowered before him in an attitude of mortal terror. Amory went on speaking:

“That’s why it’s no use attempting to escape, Dick. When a man has committed a crime like murder there’s no way out–but one. Other men may have a second chance, thank God for it! But the man who kills his brother is accursed. Sooner or later the truth is bound to come out–and pray God it’s not too late.”

But now Dick had fallen into a chair and was hiding his face behind his shaking hands; and it was Ross who said, very quietly:

“Too late? Amory, what do you mean?”

“I mean–" Amory’s own face was ghastly, his brow beaded with drops of sweat–“pray God that no man calls upon his brother to pay the debt that’s his! For that is the unforgiveable sin, Dick.”

He went slowly across to the huddled figure in the chair; and then, while Ross’s blue eyes watched him tensely, he laid one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Dick, are you going to let another man pay your debt?”

Suddenly Dick Thornley shook off the heavy hand and sprang to his feet with blazing eyes.

“My God, Amory, don’t go on! I did it–of course I did it–but I’ll swear before God it was an accident! I never meant to kill him–God knows I never meant it! It was an accident, I tell you–the beastly thing went off in my hand. I only meant to frighten him–"

“You – you did it, Dick?” Now that the truth was out Ross knew he had suspected it all along.

“Yes. I’ll tell you how it was.” He seemed to find in speech relief from the terror which so plainly overwhelmed him. “You know how I was up before him this morning. He was on about – about everything – cards, wine, racing. You know I got into a mess with a moneylender in the Bazar last week, and he’d heard about it–"

He paused, gasping for breath; but in a moment he was off again wildly.

“He said I’d have to send in my papers. I begged him to give me another chance. I said I’d been a fool, but I’d do better. He wouldn’t listen – said I was no credit to the regiment–and yet you fellows know I loved the regiment–and I meant to do better–"

“But that was this morning, Dick–" The interruption came from Ross.

“Yes. But when you left me in here this afternoon, and he was in the other room, I–I went in to beg him to give me another chance. I swore I’d do better, I’d turn over a new leaf. But he wouldn’t listen. He said–oh, vile things” –he flushed scarlet at the memory of the words which had indeed stung his young manhood– “and at last I–I snatched up the revolver from the table and pointed it at him . . . he was sitting up on the bed, and I–I was seeing red by then, but I never meant–before God I never meant to do it. But the beastly thing went off, and he fell back–dead–and I flung the revolver on to the sofa and covered it up and had just time to rush out so that I could come in again with you others.”

“Dick, as God’s your witness”–Ross spoke earnestly–“is that the truth?”

“As God’s my witness, yes!” He raised (unreadable) young face, and both men knew he had spoken truly at last. “But–there’s no help for me, I suppose! I did it, and I’ll have to bear the brunt. But–oh my God, what will my mother say–what will she do when I–when I’m–hanged–"

“Shut up, Dick!” Amory spoke almost brutally in an attempt to check the boy’s rising hysteria. “Perhaps there may be a way out. Don’t speak for a moment–let me think what we can do–"

“You mean–" Dick turned to him eagerly, desperately. “You will help me – give me a chance?”

“But how, Amory! How’s it to be done!” Ross spoke impulsively, and Amory made a gesture of impotence.

“I don’t know–yet! But we must do something, and–good God, what’s that!”

There was a sound of hurrying footsteps, a call in a man’s voice; and the next moment Captain Nicholls, the regimental doctor, burst into the room impetuously.

The three men turned to him with one accord; but before anyone could demand an explanation of this sudden entrance he broke into voluble questioning.

“Any of you fellows know where Colonel Chalmers is? Is he here, by any chance? Or has anyone seen him?”

“Colonel Chalmers?” By common consent it was left for Amory to reply. “What do you want with him, Nicholls?”

“I want him because–I say, do you know where he is?” He mopped his hot forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve had the very devil of a chase, and a shock, too. But if he’s not here–"

He paused for a moment, his keen eyes riveted on Dick Thornley’s ghastly face.

“I say, young fellow, what’s wrong with you? You look pretty queer–are you ill?”

“No, sir.” By a mighty effort Dick pulled himself together and spoke steadily. “But–do you want Colonel Chalmers? He–isn’t he at home?”

“No, he isn’t.” He rapped out the words abruptly. “And I want to find him–quickly. Don’t any of you know where he is?”

“No.” Amory spoke quietly. “At least–why do you want to find him so badly, doctor? And–why should you expect to find him–here?”

“I want him because–because–" For the first time the doctor appeared to feel something unusual in the atmosphere which enveloped the three men. He looked from one to the other with a suddenly awakened interest; and it did not need his trained psychological sense to realize that all of them had lately passed through some extraordinary emotional crisis which had left its trace in each of the three faces–though it was in Dick Thornley’s that he read the fullest ravages of an apprehensive dread which was hard to understand.

“Look here.” He spoke shortly. “There’s something here I don’t catch on to. I ask you a perfectly simply question, and you all look like a lot of dummies. What’s wrong, eh? Amory, you’re a sensible fellow. Is there something wrong?”

For a moment even Amory’s nerve failed him. He did not know how best to treat the situation; but while he hesitated Ross’s quiet voice broke in.

“Perhaps there is something wrong, doctor. But first, let us know what is the mystery concerning your desire to find Colonel Chalmers.”

The doctor looked round again, and it was easy to see that he was considering what course of action to pursue. But time was passing; and he made up his mind to speak openly.

“Look here, you fellows, I’ll tell you something; but it is to go no farther. I want to find the Colonel because I’m afraid that unless I do there will be a tragedy.”

“A tragedy?” Dick Thornley echoed the words in amazement.

“Yes. The facts are these. This morning Colonel Chalmers came to consult me about his health, about which it seems he had been uneasy for some time. To cut a long story short, I found that he was in the grip of an incurable disease, could not live more than a few months at the outside, and would suffer excruciatingly most of the time. I told him the truth–he would have it; and he thanked me quietly and went out. An hour ago I got this note, which by a postscript I find should not have been delivered till to-night.”

He brought a crumpled paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.

“In this note he tells me that on thinking matters out he could not bring himself to face the inevitable end, and so he”–the doctor’s voice faltered– “he intended to–to take matters into his own hands. He didn’t want his daughter to know, of course; so he was going to try to make it appear an accident.”

“But–how was he going to do it?” The question was Amory’s.

“Shoot himself in the jungle somewhere, to-night.”

Through the minds of the listening men flashed the same thought. He had come here, to the bungalow, to rest a while before setting out on the last tragic journey of his gallant life; and here, at the hands of a passionate boy, he had won the release for which he longed, with no discredit to his heroic soul.

“And so” –the doctor’s voice went on, a little urgently now–“you see how important it is for me to find Colonel Chalmers at once.”

There was a silence, during which Amory and Ross, at least, thought hard and furiously. But before either of them could speak, Dick Thornley stepped forward slowly.

“If you want Colonel Chalmers, sir, he is–in there.” He pointed to the inner room.

“In there?” The doctor stared at him. “But–what do you mean? If he’s there, why doesn’t he come–“ He stopped suddenly. Then: “Good God, you don’t mean to say he’s done it already–that I’m too late?”

Between Amory and Ross there passed a look of quick mutual comprehension. Then the latter detained the doctor, who was moving towards the “chick” of beads, with a hand on his arm.

“Wait a minute, doc. Have a drink before you go in. It’s been a shock, and you’re upset. And you know”– he was filling a glass as he spoke–“there’s no hurry now.”

And Dick Thornley, his face like chalk, was hearkening to Amory’s whispered instructions.

“Listen, Dick. Go out on to the veranda, and into the room, and put the revolver on the floor by the bed, as though it had dropped. Quickly, mind, and don’t bungle.” He sank his voice still lower. “Remember, Dick–it’s the second chance–and it’s up to you to make the best of it.”

Without a word the boy disappeared on to the veranda; and Amory turned to the others with an explanatory word.

“Thought I heard someone coming. Better wait a second and be sure we’re alone.”

He paused, as though listening; and as the doctor set down the empty glass Dick re-entered to the room through the long door opening on the veranda.

“No one there.” He spoke rather hoarsely, but after all agitation was natural in the circumstances; and Amory turned to Nicholls at once.

“Will you come and see him now? Yes”–he was holding aside the bead curtain and did not look at the other man – “shot himself in there. Like a fool I’d left my revolver out, and I suppose”–he hesitated–“the temptation was too great.”

When the doctor and Amory had disappeared, Ross turned to Dick.

“Dick.” His voice was solemn. “You have got off well–but for God’s sake let this be a lesson to you. Remember, it’s only because you swore it was an accident that we’re lying like this, to save you.”

“I’ll never forget, sir.” The boy’s voice trembled, but Ross was satisfied and neither of them spoke again until the doctor and Amory re-entered the room.

“Stone dead, of course, poor chap.” Nicholls looked preternaturally grave. “See here, this must be hushed up as much as possible. Luckily it’s known his heart was a bit rocky, and there is no need to let out how he died. I will certify that the cause of death was heart failure, consequent on the shock of discovering, suddenly, the seriousness of his condition; and I don’t anticipate any difficulty. The only man we must take into our confidence is his own servant, Peters, who’s been with him thirty years; and he’ll manage everything satisfactorily.”

“There’s no doubt he did it himself?” Ross asked the question stolidly, and Captain Nicholls looked at him rather sharply.

“No reasonable doubt. The shot was fired at very close quarters, and the revolver was on the ground where it had dropped from his hand. But, of course, if you are not satisfied–"

“But, I am.” He spoke apologetically. “Forgive me, doc. This has been a bit of a shock to us all, you know. And I am wondering who is to break the news to Miss Chalmers.”

“To Rosamund, eh?” Nicholls bit his lip. “I’d forgotten the girl. But she mustn’t learn the truth. It’s bad enough for her to know her father is dead–"

“For God’s sake, sir, be quiet!” It was Dick who hissed the words in his ear; and when, startled, Nicholls swung round to face him he understood the speaker’s meaning all too plainly.

For there, in the doorway leading to the veranda, stood Rosamund Chalmers, and the white gown she wore was not less devoid of colour than was her charming face. For a moment she said nothing, but stood staring at them all with dilated blue eyes and parted lips. Then, as still the silence held, she made one step forward and asked the fatal question which each man dreaded.

“Is my father here? Captain Amory” –it was to him, finally, she appealed– “has Daddy been here this afternoon? I–I’m feeling anxious about him.”

He moved towards her and nerved himself to face her bravely.

“Why are you feeling anxious, Miss Chalmers? And why should your father be–here?”

“I’m anxious because he didn’t come in to lunch.” Her blue eyes roved from one fact to another as she spoke, yet came back to rest on Amory in the end. “He saw Captain Nicholls this morning, didn’t he?” She appealed to him, but did not wait long for a reply.

“And when he came in, for a moment, he said he had had bad news – that he was ill – and he looked so queer, so grey, just as he did when he had a heart attack–and naturally I felt anxious. And when he didn’t come in again, I began to wonder–"

She broke off again, as though something in the men’s silence struck her as sinister; and turning to Captain Nicholls she questioned him fearfully.

“You though Daddy was ill, didn’t you? But it wasn’t–it wasn’t he you were talking of as I came in just now?”

“Were we talking of someone?” He did not know how to parry this direct attack.

“Yes. But you said,” she put her hand on his arm imploringly, “you said that someone was dead – someone’s father. You – you didn’t mean my father, did you?”

In his silence, in the silence of them all, she read the answer; and for a second she swayed beneath the blow. Then, with the courage which came from a long line of fighting ancestors, she stood erect before the four men and spoke calmly.

“You mean Daddy is dead? But how–when–"

“Colonel Chalmers died–in that room–a couple of hours ago, Miss Chalmers.” Amory answered her. “He had had bad news about himself, and–you know his heart was weak, that a shock was bound to be disastrous? Well, it was too much for him; and his heart gave out beneath the strain.”

Quietly, convincingly, he lied; and the girl accepted his story unquestioningly. Only she turned even paler than before, and her blue eyes filled with a look of dreadful desolation which wrung the hearts of the three men who, each in his own way, loved her.

“Then,” her voice was low, “I’m all alone now! But,” she turned to Amory, “this is your bungalow, isn’t it? And–there will be arrangements to make–may I go in there and see–him?”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Chalmers,” he said, quickly. “We will make all the arrangements, and I think–I think you should wait to see your father until we–we bring him home.”

“Yes, that will be much the best thing to do,” said Nicholls, quickly. “You had better go home now, Miss Chalmers, and one of the ladies of the Station will come and look after you for a bit. How did you get here–you walked, in all this heat?”

“I’ve got my pony cart here, Miss Chalmers!” It was Dick who spoke, pressing forward, eagerly. “Let me take you home–please!”

He ventured to lay a hand on her arm, but she turned to him gently, with a refusal on her lips.

“No, please, Dick. I–I’d rather go alone. I–I want to be alone!”

“It’s getting late, Miss Chalmers.” Ross’s quiet voice followed her impulsive cry. “I don’t think you must go alone. May I take you? The car can be round in a minute.”

For a moment she stood among the men, an appealing, sorrowful figure in her white gown; and at the moment even Nicholls, confirmed bachelor though he was, told himself it was small wonder that all the men in the Station were in love with Rosamund Chalmers. He wondered, with a trace of cynicism, which of these three, if any, was the favoured lover; and even as the wonder lingered in his mind he knew the answer to his own unuttered question.

For Rosamund did not heed Captain Ross’s offer–did not, or so it seemed, even hear it. It was Amory to whom she turned, with the instinct of the loved one who knows she may call upon her lover; and as her blue eyes sought his face, he started forward as though she had spoken to him.

“I may take you home, Rosamund?” He did not notice his user of her name–a use made familiar to him through his thoughts of her; but the others noted it; and Dick Thornley turned away with a face grown suddenly old.

Into Ross’s blue eyes there sprang a look of defeat; but he said nothing, only fumbled mechanically with his cigarette-case; and it was left to Nicholls to break the silence which followed Amory’s words.

“Yes, take Miss Chalmers home, Amory.” He put his hand on the girl’s arm and gently piloted her towards the door. “And I’ll ring up Mrs. Farey”–her best friend in the Station–“and ask her to drop in presently.”

Without demur Rosamund accepted the position; and although she looked in the direction of the other men, murmured a vague word of farewell, they knew she did not really see them. Only Amory, the man she loved, was real to her in this last moment of stress; and Ross, at least, accepted the position with a quiet acquiescence which was not far removed from heroism.

When they had gone, followed down the veranda steps by the doctor, Ross turned slowly to Dick Thornley, who had fallen into a chair and was hiding his face in his hands.

“Dick!” At the tone the boy looked up, and his eyes were haunted. “Remember, you’ve got to make good–now.”

“Make good–me?” He stammered rather than spoke. “But how can I make good?”

“You can, Dick, and you must.” Ross’s tone was bracing. “God in His mercy has given you a second chance, and it’s your part to make the best you can of it.”

For a moment the boy said nothing. Then, suddenly, he sprang to his feet, and into his haggard young face there flashed the light of a great resolve.

“By God, Ross, you’re right!” There was a ring of hope in his voice. “I’ll do it! I’ll make good yet!”

“See that you do, Dick.” Ross put his hand for a second on the other’s shoulder. “Remember, few men who do what you have done get the opportunity to make good. But you have god it; and if you’re a man at all, Dick Thornley, you’ll go home and thank God with all your soul that He has given you a second chance.”

And–

“I will,” said Dick Thornley, humbly.