WM^—MM——W—■—*^*^^*^*1 flMr^,-^ - -- -~- • ■ -,_-.Jr-,-. . | The Master Man I j By Ruby M. Ayres /vuy uamage, sir I lie asaeu iheerfully. “Narrow squeak that was.” Michael was rather pale. “I’ve sprained my ankle,! think,” He tried to put his foot to the ground, but gave a stifled groan, clutching at the con stable's arm helplessly. Another man was coming along the path. lie looked at Michael sharply, then came for ward. “My dear boy, what has hap pened! ” he asked anxiously. It was Mr. Philips himself. Mic hael explained as best he could— he was in considerable pain. “I was ori my way to see you. I don’t know how it happened I shall have to have a taxi. Can you see me home?” “Why, of course. It's most I unfortunate— most unfortun ate.” Alight have been worse, sir, the constable said stoically. “Gent was nearly run over.” They took Michael back to his rooms and found that he sprain ed his foot and ankle badly. “You’ll have to have a doc tor,” Mr. Philips insisted. “Non sense! 1 say you must!” “For a sprained ankle?” said Michael contemptuously. “I’ll be dashed if I do. I shall be all right in the morning. I dare say I can manage to walk now I’ve got the boot off.” Air. Philips looked on grimly as Michael dragged him self t° an upright position, but in a moment he was back in his chair again, white to the lips with pain and furious because of his helpleness. Mr- Philips telephoned for the doctor without further parley. Michael watched him with grim eyes. “If you think you’re going to ■ keep me a prisoner here for a week,” he began threateningly. “A week! More like a month I should thiuk,” Mr. Philips answered. Alichael swore. “And what about Aliss Rolf, in heaven’s name?” he demand ed. “Who’s going to find her if I’m tier! here hand and foot?” Air. Philips' eyes were very kindly as he looked at the young man’s agitated face. “Well, I’ll do my best,” he submit fed. Michael muttered something unintelligible, lie had a very poor opinion of Mr. Philips’ “best.” “How long have I got to sit here!” he demanded later of the doctor. “How long! Well, its impossi ble to say. A sprain’s a nasty thing, you know,” was the guard ed reply “It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is,” Michael growled when he had gone. “There’s nothing the matter with me—it’s all rot.” When Air. Philips had taken his departure he dragged himself to bis feet again and tried once more to walk across the room, but the pain of the effort turned him deadly sick. Non- , ) “ etaoietaoinetae “Far better give it up, sir,” his man advised sympathicMly. “Fve bad a sprain like that and I know the only way to cure it is to lay up.” 1 d have given a thousand pounds rather than it should have happened now,” Michael said savagely. The thought of Patricia wor ried him doubly now he could no longer search for her—he wrote an imploring note to Mr. Philips before the lawyer had been gone an hour, urging him to do every thing in his power to find her, and to spare no expense. Mr. Philips was at dinner when the note came—a journalist nephew was dining with him, and when he reached the end of Michael’s desperate note a sudden idea flashed, aoross his usually imagin ative brain. “I suppose,” he said deliberately, and with uncon scious sarcasm, turning to his nephew, ’’that mistakes are some times made, even in your profess ion —people wrongly reported to have died, for instance, or to have met with a serious accid ent t” Young Philips laughed. “Rather!” he said. “Didn’t I tell you how I once killed and buried a man in an evening edi tion, and had a whole column of his obituary published, when he was as well as you and I arc at this moment!” Mr. Philips’ face flushed ex citedly, He leaned across the table and laid his hand on the win’s arm. “How would you like to do something of the same sort again.” he asked impressively, to oblige me?” When Michael Rolf’s »^an came to call his master 'Jw fol lowing morning he found him already half-dressed and sitting on the side of the fcfd. “It’s no use arguing,” Mich ael said crossly, when the man started talking about doctor’s orders. “I’m not going to stay here— not if the whole medical profes sion went on their bended knees and implored me not to get up. I've got business to do—urgent business—so lend me a hand, there’s a good fellow, and shut up. ’ The man obeyed resignedly. Secretly he admired Michael’s spirit. He helped him ,to finish dressing and got him into the next room by the fire. Michael had had about enough of it then, whether he chose to admit it or not—his ankle ached unbearably, and he was glad to rest. He made a pretense of eating breakfast, and tcok up the pap er. An advertisement had ap peared in it e* ery day since Pa tricia had vanished, carefully worded by Michael himself so that she should understand for whom it was intended and by whom it was inserted, but so far it had born no fruit, and Mich ael scow'led as his eyes rested upon it. He turned over the sheet quickly, and his own name in a small paragraph caught his at tention. “Serious accident to Mr. Michael Rolf.,f Michael blinked his eyes and stared. It could not be referring to himscVf, that wras certain. There must be another Michael Rolf—another who .. ho read the highly-coloured and incor rect account of his mishap with a sort of amused consternation. It did refer to him without a doubt, but who could inserted it, or known of it, he could not imagine. Nobody but Mr. Phil ips had heard of it. Who in the wide world, then, could be re sponsible for such a gross exag geration of what had happened, and w'hy should the public at large be supposed to take*an in terest in the doings of his obs cure self? ^ The day produced no solution to the mystery. Mr. Philips in terviewed on the telephone, pro fessed entire ignorance of the matter, and Michael pushed it aside in exasperation. After all, what did it matter? He only felt savagely sorry that the motor-lorry had not overtaken and finished him. He fell asleep during the afternoon by the fire, his injured foot resting on a chair, and only roused to the ringing of a bell and voices talking together outside the door. Michael had been dreaming of Patricia—a silly confused dream in which he knew she had been crying, and he had been scolding her, so it did not seem altogether strange that he should open his eyes to the fire lit room and still hear the sound of her voice. lie lay still for a moment, lis tening; then suddenly he sat up stiffly at attention, jerking his injured foot and causing himself an excruciating twinge of pain, for the voieb was real—so real that Michael's heart began to thump suffocatingly against his .ribs; and the next moment the door was opened softly, as if the intruder was afraid of dis turbing him, and it was Patri cia who entered. CHAPTER XI. Michael did not move. He sat and looked at her across the firelit room, and she looked back at him with frightened implor ing eyes, then without any warn ing she burst into tears. “They said you were very ill,” she sobbed. “I thought you were dying. That hateful paper! Why did you let them put such things in. —I’ve been so frightened—1 thought—,” and the tears and sobbing came again. Michael dragged, himself up from the chair leaning heavily against it, relief at seeing her and bitter anger with her for so calmly wall mg back into his life after the torments he had suffered on her account, had kept him silent, but now lie gave a short hard laugh. “I am flattered that you should be so concerned on my ac count—but I assure you that it’s entirely unneccessary. I’ve sprained my ankle—nothing more! And as to that absurd paragraph in the paper—I know nothing whatever about it,” he said, curtly. Patricia raised her head—her face was all white and tear stained, but Michael had no pity for her. In this sudden reac tion he could only remember what he himself had endured for her sake. The sleepless nights and endless days of alternating hope and fear, and his eyes were hard as they searched the weary beauty of her face. “Where have you been?” be asked, roughly. She made a little hopeless gesture. “I don’t know. I’ve been try ing tc work. I sold programmes in a theatre for two nights, but I hated it, and... and—” He cut in almost rudely, it seemed. “Why have you come back to me?” Her lips moved, but she could find no words. Somehow she had never dreamed that he would receive her like this—she had been so sure that in spite of everything Michael would be glad to see her. The blank amazement and silence fanned his smouldering anger to pas sion. “Your utterly selfish and in considerate,” he broke . out hoarsely. “And I’ve had' en ough of this infernal dancing about after you. It’s ceased to be amusing or interesting. You may stay away for ever for all concern it is of mine. I did my best for you, and this is how you treat me—rushing off from Kensington like that, leaving a ridiculous note.” Her cheeks flamed. “You had been deceiving me all the time. You had arranged it all—that Mrs. Smith should write to me, and that you should pay her to have me there. How dared you do such a thing?” “I did it because you are not fit to be trusted to look after yourself. I suppose I was a fool, but I did it for your sake.” “If I had known I would rath er have died than have gone there at all.” Michael laughed grimly. “I’m afraid you will have to die this time then. I suppose you’ve got some idea in coming here to me, though why to me after what has happened God only knows. But it’s too late, Patricia. You told me, to be gin with, that I should never bo able to master you, and you were right. I can’t, and I no longer want to!” He looked helplessly toward the door. i m airaia i must trouble _yon to ring for my man. I can’t put my foot on the ground. He111 get you a taxi.” “To take me—where?” Pa tricia asked with white lips. He would not look at her. “You can go back to Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Flannagan— whichever you prefer,” he said, hardily. Patricia gave a stifled cry. “I will never go back to eith er.” Michael went on as if she had not spoken. “You owe Mrs. Smith an apol ogy—running away like that. She has been very good to you, I know, and is one of the few people who is disinterestedly fond of you, I thought you cared for her, but apparently you have not got it in you to care for anyone.” Patricia winced as if he had •struck her. She moved towards the door uncertainly. “I will go—I am sorry I came.” There was a touch of her old hauteur in her voice. “I should not have done so only I thought you were really ill. 1 thought you might be worried.” Her voice broke in the most undignified way. “It only shows how mistaken I was,” she added, almost in a whisper. Michael’s face flamed. “Worried! of course I was worried,” he answered passion ately. “Do you think it’s been any pleasure to me to know that you’ve been racing about Lon don, when, if you’d chosen to be have like a rational woman, you could have been living now at Clayton, with everything you want in the world? Worried? Of course I \tf*u! And a lot you care. However—you've come ! back—for sonic reason beat p i known to yourself, no doubt, and iny worrying is over. You can do as you like in the future, and I promise not to interfere... Where are you going now?” “I don’t know; anywhere—• away from you.” — He laughed cruelly. “You’d better go back to Mrs. Smith and ask her to for give you for the way you’ve be haved,” he said rather brutally. “After all you owe more to her than you do to me or anyone else.” What do you mean? Pa tricia faced him with flashing eyes. “I have never owed Mrs. Smith anything—I would never condescend to owe her anything. If slu* took me in it was for the money you gave her, and for no other reason. I shall repay you that as soon as I can earn any thing, you may be very sure.” She broke off with a stifled scream. Michael had somehow dragged himself across th< room to her and caught her by her shoulders—his face was white as he looked down into hers.* “Shall I tell you who Mrs. Smith is, my proud princess?” he asked with slow deliberation. Would you like to know who she is, and w'hy she has always been fond of you and put up with your insufferable pride?—shall I tell you who she is?” She tried to free herself from him; there was a flash of fear in her eyes, and she trembled be neath the touch of his hands. “Let me go, Michael—you’re hurting me. I don’t know what you mean—she isn’t anything to me—how could she be: why...” “She is your mother,” said Michael. There was a dreadful little silence; Patricia had fallen back from him, and was leaning against the door, her beautiful eyes fixed on his white face. My—mother! she said in a whisper. “My—mother!—oh, how ab surd—why...” She broke off, only to cry out again: It’s not true! Michael, say it isn’t true.” “It is true,” said Michael curtly. “She told me so her self, and Mr. Philips told me. I suppose it hurts your pride to think you came from simple peo ple like that. I suppose you’d rather know that you were Miss Rolf of Olay ton Wold, than the daughter of a ordinary Mrs. Smith.” He laughed, the stunned pain in her eyes gave him an odd sort of pleasure. ‘ ‘ So now you see why you had better go back and ask her to forgive you,” he went on more quietly. “Your home is with her, and I dare say, in spite of all that has happened, you will find that she is ready to take you back.” His eyes softened ever so little as lie broke out hoarsely: “Haven’t you got a heart for anyone, Patricia? Not even for your own mother? You look as if you could care so much, and all the time I know 4 1 • •. . mere isu i a soui in tne world who matters one hang to you.” He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her disdainful face till it quivered into life and pas sion beneath the touch of his lips, but she looked so cold and unaproachable as she stood there that it gave him a bitter realiza tion of his own impotence. What did she care that he loved her and had suffered for her! Her master he had sworn he would be, and he had failed. Patrieia raised her eyes, and her lips curved inta a tremu lous smile as she read the strug gle in his face. ‘‘I suppose now you would like to shake me again,” she said,-, with a ghost of her old mockery. ‘"You so often said— Oh, Michael 1” He laid rough hands on her shoulders, hurting her with the grip of his fingers. For the mo ment he had lost himself in the sudden anger that surged through him, and he shook her as if she had been a child, till she fell away from him, tremb ling and crying like the child she felt herself at that moment to be. ‘‘Oh, you hurt me,” she said, sobbing. “You deserved it,” he said breathlessly. He leaned his arm on the man telshelf and stood staring down into the fire. He was trembling with the force of his own pas sion and the reluctant shame of what he had done. He knew that his hands must have bruised her .soft shoulders, and he was fiercely glad. Why should he care that he had hurt her, when she had hurt him so much? Nothing that to could 6 Bell-ans * Hot water «