



Produced by Les Bowler





WITH EDGED TOOLS


By Henry Seton Merriman


  "Of the same clay he maketh both the vessels that serve for clean
  uses, and likewise also such as serve to the contrary; but what is
  the use of either sort, the potter himself is the judge."



                               TO JAMES PAYN

                         A TOKEN OF SINCERE REGARD



CONTENTS

     I.        TWO GENERATIONS
     II.       OVER THE OLD GROUND
     III.      A FAREWELL
     IV.       A TRAGEDY
     V.        WITH EDGED TOOLS
     VI.       UNDER THE LINE
     VII.      THE SECRET OF THE SIMIACINE
     VIII.     A RECRUIT
     IX.       TO PASS THE TIME
     X.        LOANGO
     XI.       A COMPACT
     XII.      A MEETING
     XIII.     IN BLACK AND WHITE
     XIV.      PANIC-STRICKEN
     XV.       A CONFIDENCE
     XVI.      WAR
     XVII.     UNDERHAND
     XVIII.    A REQUEST
     XIX.      IVORY
     XX.       BROUGHT TO THE SCRATCH
     XXI.      THE FIRST CONSIGNMENT
     XXII.     THE SECOND CONSIGNMENT
     XXIII.    MERCURY
     XXIV.     NEMESIS
     XXV.      TO THE RESCUE
     XXVI.     IN PERIL
     XXVII.    OFF DUTY
     XXVIII.   A SLOW RECOVERY
     XXIX.     A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
     XXX.      OLD BIRDS
     XXXI.     SEED-TIME
     XXXII.    AN ENVOY
     XXXIII.   DARK DEALING
     XXXIV.    AMONG THORNS
     XXXV.     ENGAGED
     XXXVI.    NO COMPROMISE
     XXXVII.   FOUL PLAY
     XXXVIII.  THE ACCURSED CAMP
     XXXIX.    THE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCE
     XL.       SIR JOHNS LAST CARD
     XLI.      A TROIS
     XLII.     A STRONG FRIENDSHIP
     XLIII.    A LONG DEBT
     XLIV.     MADE UP
     XLV.      THE TELEGRAM





CHAPTER I. TWO GENERATIONS



     Why all delights are vain, but that most vain
     Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain.

"My dear--Madam--what you call heart does not come into the question at
all."

Sir John Meredith was sitting slightly behind Lady Cantourne, leaning
towards her with a somewhat stiffened replica of his former grace. But
he was not looking at her--and she knew it.

They were both watching a group at the other side of the great ballroom.

"Sir John Meredith on Heart," said the old lady, with a depth of
significance in her voice.

"And why not?"

"Yes, indeed. Why not?"

Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has not
yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these two;
and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational attitude,
belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in some ways--a
period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an age of slums
wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--mental, literary,
and theological.

Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee. His
back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not his own,
nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own. His face was
eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society smile with the best
of them. There was not a young man in the room of whom he was afraid,
conversationally.

"No, Lady Cantourne," he repeated. "Your charming niece is heartless.
She will get on."

Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and
motherly right arm.

"She will get on," she admitted. "As to the other, it is early to give
an opinion."

"She has had the best of trainings--," he murmured. And Lady Cantourne
turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles.

"For which?" she asked.

"Choisissez!" he answered, with a bow.

One sees a veteran swordsman take up the foil with a tentative turn of
the wrist, lunging at thin air. His zest for the game has gone; but the
skill lingers, and at times he is tempted to show the younger blades a
pass or two. These were veteran fencers with a skill of their own, which
they loved to display at times. The zest was that of remembrance; the
sword-play of words was above the head of a younger generation given to
slang and music-hall airs; and so these two had little bouts for their
own edification, and enjoyed the glitter of it vastly.

Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for he
had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men have.
And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he fumbled with his
fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he
was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two.

The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent
Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers anxious
to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the fashion at
that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of the men
crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing succeeds like
the success that knows how to draw a crowd.

She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that
hauteur affected by bel