



Produced by Al Haines.





                             *WHITE MOTLEY*

                               _A NOVEL_


                                   BY

                             MAX PEMBERTON



                 AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE HUGUENOT," "THE
                     GARDEN OF SWORDS," ETC., ETC.



                                New York
                        STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY
                                  1911

                         _All rights reserved_




                             Copyright 1911
                      By STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY

             Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1911




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAPTER

PROLOGUE

I  THE GRAND PRIX AT ANDANA
II  A DARK HORSE GOES DOWN
III  CONCERNING A DISOBLIGING GHOST
IV  THE MAN WHO KNEW
V  THE GHOST TAKES WINGS
VI  A LESSON UPON SKIS
VII  AN ULTIMATUM
VIII  BENNY BECOMES AN OPTIMIST
IX  IN WHICH WE BAG A BRACE
X  A SPECIALIST IS CONSULTED
XI  THE VIGIL OF TRAGEDY
XII  FLIGHT
XIII  AFTER THE STORM
XIV  THE GENDARME PHILIP
XV  THE CORTEGE
XVI  TWO OPINIONS
XVII  HERALDS OF GREAT TIDINGS
XVIII  THE EVE OF THE GREAT ATTEMPT
XIX  THE THIEF
XX  THE FLIGHT IS BEGUN
XXI  THE FLIGHT IS FINISHED
XXII  THE EMPTY HOUSE
XXIII  THE NIGHT MAIL
XXIV  THE DOCTOR INTERVENES
XXV  THE LIGHTS OF MAGADINO
XXVI  AT THE HOSPICE
XXVII  BENNY SETS OUT FOR ENGLAND




                             *WHITE MOTLEY*



                               *PROLOGUE*

                      *THE NEW HOUSE AT HOLMSWELL*


The New House at Holmswell lies, far back from the road, upon the great
highway to Norwich.  Local topographers delight to tell you that it is
just forty-five miles from that city and five from the Cesarewitch
course at Newmarket.  They are hardly less eloquent when they come to
speak of its late owner, Sir Luton Delayne, and of that unforgotten and
well-beloved woman, the wife he so little deserved.

To be sure, the house is not new at all, for it was built at the very
moment when the great Harry put his hands into the coffers of the
monasteries and called upon high Heaven to witness the justice of his
robberies.  They faced it with wonderful tiles some years ago, and
stamped the Tudor rose all over it; but the people who first called it
"new" have been dead these four hundred years, and it is only the local
antiquary who can tell you just where the monastery (which preceded it)
was built.

Here, the master of a village which knows more about the jockeys of the
day than about any Prime Minister, here lived Sir Luton Delayne and that
gentle woman who won so many hearts during her brief tenure of the
village kingdom.  Well the people knew her and well they knew him.  A
florid, freckled-faced man with red hair and the wisp of an auburn
moustache, the common folk said little about his principles and much
about his pugnacity.  Even these dull intellects knew that he had been
"no gentleman" and were not afraid to tell you so.  His fame, of a sort,
had culminated upon the day he thrashed the butcher from Mildenhall,
because the fellow would halt on the high road just when the pheasants
were being driven from the Little Barton spinneys.  That was no famous
day for the House of Delay