Red Money

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Hume Fergus. Red Money

CHAPTER I. THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS

CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOD

CHAPTER III. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION

CHAPTER IV. SECRETS

CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN

CHAPTER VI. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN

CHAPTER VII. THE SECRETARY

CHAPTER VIII. AT MIDNIGHT

CHAPTER IX. AFTERWARDS

CHAPTER X. A DIFFICULT POSITION

CHAPTER XI. BLACKMAIL

CHAPTER XII. THE CONSPIRACY

CHAPTER XIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

CHAPTER XIV. MISS GREEBY, DETECTIVE

CHAPTER XV. GUESSWORK

CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST STRAW

CHAPTER XVII. ON THE TRAIL

CHAPTER XVIII. AN AMAZING ACCUSATION

CHAPTER XIX. MOTHER COCKLESHELL

CHAPTER XX. THE DESTINED END

CHAPTER XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE

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Miss Greeby swung along towards her destination with a masculine stride and in as great a hurry as though she had entered herself for a Marathon race. It was a warm, misty day, and the pale August sunshine radiated faintly through the smoky atmosphere. Nothing was clear-cut and nothing was distinct, so hazy was the outlook. The hedges were losing their greenery and had blossomed forth into myriad bunches of ruddy hips and haws, and the usually hard road was soft underfoot because of the penetrating quality of the moist air. There was no wind to clear away the misty greyness, but yellow leaves without its aid dropped from the disconsolate trees. The lately-reaped fields, stretching on either side of the lane down which the lady was walking, presented a stubbled expanse of brown and dim gold, uneven and distressful to the eye. The dying world was in ruins and Nature had reduced herself to that necessary chaos, out of which, when the coming snow completed its task, she would build a new heaven and a new earth.

An artist might have had some such poetic fancy, and would certainly have looked lovingly on the alluring colors and forms of decay. But Miss Greeby was no artist, and prided herself upon being an aggressively matter-of-fact young woman. With her big boots slapping the ground and her big hands thrust into the pockets of her mannish jacket, she bent her head in a meditative fashion and trudged briskly onward. What romance her hard nature was capable of, was uppermost now, but it had to do strictly with her personal feelings and did not require the picturesque autumn landscape to improve or help it in any way. One man's name suggested romance to bluff, breezy Clara Greeby, and that name was Noel Lambert. She murmured it over and over again to her heart, and her hard face flushed into something almost like beauty, as she remembered that she would soon behold its owner. "But he won't care," she said aloud, and threw back her head defiantly: then after a pause, she breathed softly, "But I shall make him care."

.....

"I shouldn't have painted her otherwise."

"Oh, then the original of that portrait does exist?"

.....