looked at him,--some with recognition, others in
alarm,--and Helmsley, compelled as he was to keep himself out of the
general notice in his corner, almost started to his feet with an
involuntary cry of amazement. For it was Tom o' the Gleam.

CHAPTER X

Tom o' the Gleam,--Tom, with his clothes torn and covered with
dust,--Tom, changed suddenly to a haggard and terrible unlikeness of
himself, his face drawn and withered, its healthy bronze colour whitened
to a sickly livid hue,--Tom, with such an expression of dazed and stupid
horror in his eyes as to give the impression that he was heavily in
drink, and dangerous.

"Well, mates!" he said thickly--"A fine night and a clear moon!"

No one answered him. He staggered up to the bar. The hostess looked at
him severely.

"Now, Tom, what's the matter?" she said.

He straightened himself, and, throwing back his shoulders as though
parrying a blow, forced a smile.

"Nothing! A touch of the sun!" A strong shudder ran through his limbs,
and his teeth chattered,--then suddenly leaning forward on the counter,
he whispered: "I'm not drunk, mother!--for God's sake don't think
it!--I'm ill. Don't you see I'm ill?--I'll be all right in a
minute,--give me a drop of brandy!"

She fixed her candid gaze full upon him. She had known him well for
years, and not only did she know him, but, rough character as he was,
she liked and respected him. Looking him squarely in the face she saw at
once that he was speaking the truth. He was not drunk. He was ill,--very
ill. The strained anguish on his features proved it.

"Hadn't you better come inside the bar and sit down?" she suggested, in
a low tone.

"No, thanks--I'd rather not. I'll stand just here."

She gave him the brandy he had asked for. He sipped it slowly, and,
pushing his cap further off his brows, turned his dark eyes, full of
smouldering fire, upon Lord Wrotham and his friend, both of whom had
succeeded in getting up a little conversation with the hostess's younger
daughter, the girl named Grace. Her sister, Elizabeth, put down her
needlework, and watched Tom with sudden solicitude. An instinctive
dislike of Lord Wrotham and his companion caused her to avoid looking
their way, though she heard every word they were saying,--and her
interest became centred on the handsome gypsy, whose pallid features and
terrible expression filled her with a vague alarm.

"It would be awfully jolly of you if you'd come for a spin in