l you about Springfield presently,' he
said, 'but you have something in your mind. What is it?'

'It is very simple,' I replied. 'If there is no engagement between
Lorna and Springfield, and if you come to her as your father's heir,
you will of course be an eligible suitor. If you hold by your
determination, you are just where you were. How could you ask her to
marry you on the pay of a major in the Army? It would not be fair; it
would not be honourable.'

'If she loves me, it would be honourable,' he said.

'How could it be honourable for you, with just a major's pay, to go to
a girl reared as she has been,--a girl as attractive as she is, and who
has only to hold up her finger to a man like Buller, who will own one
of the finest estates in Devonshire? You have no right to drag her
into poverty, even if she cared for you.'

He rose to his feet, and took a turn across the lawn. 'I see what is
in your mind, but my dear Luscombe,'--and then he burst out into a
laugh, a laugh that was sad, because it had a touch of hopelessness in
it,--'I am afraid we are talking in the clouds,--I am afraid Lorna
doesn't love me. If she does, she has shown no sign of it.'

'But are you going to let her go without a struggle?'

He looked at me with flashing eyes. 'I thought you knew me better than
that,' he said. 'No, I am going to fight for her, fight to the very
last. But if she will not have me as I am,--if she will not have me
without my father's money, which I will not take, then--then----'

'You'll see her marry Springfield? I say, Jack, you know all we have
thought and said about Springfield?'

'I have something to tell you about Springfield,' he said quietly.

CHAPTER XXXVII

MAURICE ST. MABYN

'You don't know Maurice St. Mabyn, do you?'

I shook my head.

'Spent all his life soldiering in the East, and knows more about
Eastern affairs than any living man. Yes, I mean it. He knows any
amount of Eastern dialects; speaks Arabic and Turkish like a native,
and has a regular passion for mixing himself up in Eastern matters. He
can pass himself off as a Fakir, a Dervish--anything you like. He
knows the byways of Eastern cities and Eastern life better than any man
I know of, and obtained a great reputation in certain official quarters
for discovering plots inimical to British interests. That's Maurice
St. Mabyn. A jolly chap, you understand, as straight as a die, and as
fearless as a lion. A diploma