The three men were sitting at a small round dining-table, from which everything except the dessert had been removed. Duncombe filled his own glass and passed around a decanter of port. Pelham and Spencer both helped themselves almost mechanically. A cloud of restraint had hung over the little party. Duncombe raised his glass and half emptied its contents. Then he set it down and leaned back in his chair.
"Well," he said, "I am ready for the inquisition. Go on, Andrew."
Pelham fingered his own glass nervously. He seemed to find his task no easy one.
"George," he said, "we are old friends. I want you to remember it. I want you also to remember that I am in a hideous state of worry and nerves"—he passed his hand over his forehead just above his eyes as though they were hurting him. "I am not behaving to you as a guest should to his host. I admit it freely. I have lost my temper more than once during the last twenty-four hours. I am sorry! Forgive me if you can, George!"
"Willingly, Andrew," Duncombe answered. "I shall think no more about it."
"At the same time," Pelham continued, "there is another point to be considered. Have you been quite fair to me, George? Remember that Phyllis Poynton is the one person whose existence reconciles me to life. You had never even heard her name before I sent for you. You went abroad, like the good fellow you are, to find her for me. You assure me that you have discovered—nothing. Let me put you upon your honor, George. Is this absolutely true?"
"I have discovered nothing about Phyllis Poynton," Duncombe declared quietly.
"About Miss Fielding then?"
"Phyllis Poynton and Miss Fielding are two very different persons," Duncombe declared.
"That may be so," Pelham said, "although I find it hard to believe that God ever gave to two women voices so exactly similar. Yet if you are assured that this is so, why not be altogether frank with me?"
"What have you to complain of?" Duncombe asked.
"Something has happened at Runton Place, in which Mr. Fielding and his daughter are concerned," Pelham continued. "I have heard all manner of strange rumors. This afternoon I distinctly heard the girl's voice in the lane outside. She was crying out as though in fear. A few minutes later I heard you speaking to some one in the library. Yet when I entered the room you would not answer me."
"Supposing I grant everything that you say, Andrew," Duncombe answered. "Supposing I admit that strange things have happened with regard to Mr. Fielding and his daughter which have resulted in their leaving Runton Place—even that she was there inthe lane this afternoon—how does all this concern you?"
"Because," Pelham declared, striking the table with his fist, "I am not satisfied that the girl who has been staying at Runton Place, and calling herself Miss Fielding, is not in reality Phyllis Poynton."
Duncombe lit a cigarette, and passed the box round.
"Do you know what they are saying to-night of Mr. Fielding and his daughter?" he asked quietly.
"No!"
"That the one is a robber, and the other an adventuress," Duncombe answered. "This much is certainly true. They have both left Runton Place at a moment's notice, and without taking leave of their host and hostess. Remember, I never knew Phyllis Poynton. You did! Ask yourself whether she is the sort of young person to obtain hospitality under false pretences, and then abuse it—to associate herself in a fraud with a self-confessed robber."
"The idea," Pelham said quietly, "is absurd."
"While we are on the subject," Spencer remarked, drawing the cigarettes towards him, "may I ask you a few questions, Mr. Pelham? For instance, had Miss Poynton any relations in France?"
"Not to my knowledge," Pelham answered. "I have known both her and her brother for a great many years, and I never heard either of them mention any."
"Why did she go to Paris, then?"
"To meet her brother."
"And why did he go abroad?"
"It was a whim, I think. Just a desire to see a few foreign countries before he settled down to live the life of a country gentleman."
"You believe that he had no other reason?"
"I think I may go so far as to say that I am sure of it," Pelham answered.
"One more question," Spencer added, intervening.
But the question remained unasked. The butler had opened the dining-room door and was announcing Lord Runton.
Duncombe rose to his feet in surprise. For the moment a sudden fear drew the color from his cheeks.
He looked apprehensively towards his unexpected visitor. Lord Runton, however, showed no signs of any great discomposure. He was wearing his ordinary dinner clothes, and in reply to Duncombe's first question assured him that he had dined.
"I will try a glass of your port, if I may, George," he declared. "Thanks!"
The butler had wheeled a chair up to the table for him, and left the room. Lord Runton filled his glass and sent the decanter round. Then he turned towards Spencer, to whom he had just been introduced.
"Mr. Spencer," he said, "my visit to-night is mainly to you. I dare say you are aware that a somewhat unpleasant thing has happened at my house. My people tell me that you called there this morning and inquired for Mr. Fielding."
Spencer nodded.
"Quite true," he answered. "I called, but did not see him. He appears to have left somewhat hurriedly while I was waiting."
"You did not even catch a glimpse of him?"
"No!"
"You know Mr. Fielding by sight, I presume?"
"I have seen him in Paris once or twice," Spencer answered.
"You will not think me impertinent for asking you these questions, I am sure," Lord Runton continued apologetically, "but could you describe Mr. Fielding to me?"
"Certainly," Spencer answered. "He was tall and thin, wears glasses, was clean-shaven, bald, and limped a little."
Lord Runton nodded.
"Thank you," he said. "I presume that your visit this morning was one of courtesy. You are acquainted with Mr. Fielding?"
"I have not that pleasure," Spencer answered. "I am afraid I must confess that my visit was purely one of curiosity."
"Curiosity!" Lord Runton repeated.
"Exactly. Do you mind passing those excellent cigarettes of yours, Duncombe?"
Lord Runton hesitated for a moment. He was conscious of a certain restraint in Spencer's answers. Suddenly he turned towards him.
"Mr. Spencer," he said, "may I ask if you are Mr. Jarvis Spencer, of the 'Daily Messenger'—the Mr. Spencer who was mentioned in connection with the investigations into the Lawson estates?"
Spencer nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I am that person."
"Then," Lord Runton continued, "I want to tell you exactly what has happened to-day in my house, and to ask your advice. May I?"
"If our host has no objection," Spencer answered, glancing towards Pelham.
"None whatever," Duncombe answered, also glancing towards Pelham.
There was a moment's silence. Pelham raised his head.
"If Lord Runton desires it, I will withdraw," he said slowly. "At the same time I must confess that I, too, am interested in this matter. If Lord Runton has no objection to my presence I should like to remain. My discretion goes without saying."
Duncombe moved uneasily in his chair. His eyes sought Spencer's for guidance, but found his head averted. Lord Runton raised his eyebrows slightly at what he considered a somewhat vulgar curiosity, but his reply was prompt.
"You are a friend of Duncombe's, Mr. Pelham," he said, "and that is enough. I have to ask not only you, but all three of you, to consider what I am going to tell you as absolutely confidential."
They all signified their assent. Lord Runton continued:—
"Mr. and Miss Fielding came to me with letters from my brother, and with many convincing proofs of their identity. We none of us had the slightest suspicion concerning them. Their behavior was exactly what it should have been. Nothing about them excited remark in any way, except the unusual number of telegrams and telephone messages which Mr. Fielding was always receiving. That, however, was quite in accord with our ideas of an American business man, and didn't seem to us in the least remarkable."
"The telegrams were delivered through a neighboring office?" Spencer asked quietly.
"Yes," Lord Runton answered, "but they were all incode. I happen to know that because the postmaster brought the first one up himself, and explained that he was afraid that he must have made some mistake as the message was incomprehensible. Fielding only laughed, and gave the man a sovereign. The message was absolutely correct, he declared. He told me afterwards that whenever he was speculating he always coded his messages, and it seemed perfectly reasonable."
Spencer nodded.
"Just so!" he murmured.
"This morning," Lord Runton continued, "Mr. Fielding rather upset our plans. We were all to have spent the day at the Duke's, and dined there. There was a big shoot for the men, as you know. At breakfast-time, however, Mr. Fielding announced that he had a man coming over with a motor car from Norwich for them to try, and begged to be excused. So we had to go without them.
"Von Rothe was staying with me, as you know, and just before we started he had a telegram that a messenger from the Embassy was on his way down. He hesitated for some time as to whether he ought not to stay at home so as to be here when he arrived, but we persuaded him to come with us, and promised to send him back after luncheon. When we got to Chestow, however, the wind had become a gale, and it was impossible to shoot decently. Von Rothe was a little uneasy all the time, I could see, so he and I and a few of the others returned here, and the rest went up to Chestow. Just as we arrived Fielding passed us in a great motor car with his daughter behind. When we got to the house Von Rothe inquired for the messenger. He was told that he was in Mr. Fielding's sitting-room, but whenwe got there we found the door locked, and through the key-hole we could hear a man groaning. We broke the door in and found Von Rothe's messenger half unconscious, and a rifled despatch box upon the floor. He has given us no coherent account of what has happened yet, but it is quite certain that he was attacked and robbed by Mr. Fielding."
"What was stolen?" Spencer asked. "Money?"
"No, a letter," Lord Runton answered. "Von Rothe says very little, but I never saw a man so broken up. He has left for London to-night."
"The matter is in the hands of the police, of course?" Spencer asked.
Lord Runton shook his head.
"Von Rothe took me into his room and locked the door a few minutes after we had discovered what had happened. He implored me to keep the whole affair from the Press and from publicity in any form. His whole career was at stake, he said, and very much more than his career. All that we could do was to follow Mr. Fielding and drag him back by force if we could. Even then he had little hope of recovering the letter. We did our best, but, of course, we had no chance. Mr. Fielding and his daughter simply drove off. Von Rothe is dealing with the affair in his own way."
"It is a most extraordinary story," Spencer said quietly.
Lord Runton turned towards him.
"I have treated you with confidence, Mr. Spencer," he said. "Will you tell me now why you called at my house to see Mr. Fielding to-day?"
Spencer hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Certainly," he said. "I came because I knew that Mr. Fielding was half-way to America, and his daughter in Russia. Some friends of mine were curious to know who your guests could be."
Pelham raised his head.
"You lied to me then!" he exclaimed.
"I had as much right to lie to you," Spencer answered calmly, "as you had to ask me questions. I had——"
He stopped short in the middle of his sentence. The faces of the three men were a study in varying expressions. From some other part of the house there came to them the sound of a woman's sudden cry of terror—the cry of a woman who had awakened suddenly to look into the face of death. Duncombe's uplifted glass fell with a crash upon the table. The red wine trickled across the table-cloth.
Duncombe was out of the room in a very few seconds. The others hesitated for a moment whether to follow him or not. Spencer was the first to rise to his feet and moved towards the door. Lord Runton and Pelham followed a moment or two later. Outside in the hall the house was perfectly silent.
Duncombe reached the library door just in time to find himself confronted by half a dozen of the men and women servants coming from the back of the house. With his hand upon the door-knob he waved them back.
"Be so good, Mrs. Harrison," he said to the housekeeper, "as to keep better order in the servants' hall. We could hear some girls calling or laughing in the dining-room."
"Indeed, sir," Mrs. Harrison answered with some dignity, "the noise, whatever it was, did not come from the servants' quarters. We fancied that it came from your library."
"Quite impossible," Duncombe answered coolly. "If I require any one I will ring."
He passed through the door and locked it on the inside. In half a dozen hasty strides he was across the room and inside the smaller apartment where he had left the girl. With a little gasp of relief he realized that she was there still. She was pale, and a spot ofcolor was blazing in her cheeks. Her hair and dress were a little disordered. With trembling fingers she was fastening a little brooch into her blouse as he entered. A rush of night air struck him from a wide-open window.
"What has happened?" he called out.
"I have been terrified," she answered. "I am sorry I called out. I could not help it. A man came here—through the window. He talked so fast that I could scarcely hear what he said, but he wanted that paper. I tried to make him understand that I had not got it, but he did not believe me—and he was rude."
Duncombe shut down the window, swearing softly to himself.
"I cannot stay with you," he said, "just now. The whole house is alarmed at your cry. Listen!"
There was a loud knocking at the library door. Duncombe turned hastily away.
"I must let them in," he said. "I will come back to you."
She pointed to the window.
"He is coming back," she said, "at twelve o'clock."
"Do you wish me to give up the paper?" he asked.
"No."
"Very well. I will be with you when he comes—before then. I must get rid of these men first."
He closed the door softly, and drew the curtain which concealed it. Then he opened the library window, and a moment afterwards the door.
"Come in, you fellows," he said. "I scarcelyknow what I was doing when I locked the door. I fancy one of the housemaids has been seeing ghosts in the garden. I saw something white in amongst the shrubs, but I could find nothing. Come on out with me."
Spencer followed with a perfectly grave face. Lord Runton looked puzzled. Pelham did not attempt to leave the library. Spencer drew his host a little on one side.
"What a rotten liar you are, George!" he said. "I don't think that even Runton was taken in."
"I suppose it sounded a little thin," Duncombe answered coolly. "Put it this way, then, so far as you are concerned. The shriek occurred in my house. I've no explanation to offer to anybody."
"I like the sound of that better, Duncombe," he remarked. "Hullo! What's the matter with Runton?"
Lord Runton was calling to them.
"You've had a visitor who was in a hurry, old chap!" he remarked. "Send for a lantern."
Duncombe concealed his annoyance.
"I don't want to alarm the whole household," he said. "I've a little electric torch in my study. I'll fetch that."
He brought it out. The progress of a man from the road to the small window, towards which Duncombe glanced every now and then apprehensively, was marked by much destruction. The intruder had effected his exit either in great haste or in a singularly unfortunate manner. He had apparently missed the gate, which at this point was only a small hand one, and in clambering over the fence he had broken the topmost strand of wire. He had blundered into a bed of wallflowers,which were all crushed and downtrodden, and snapped off a rose tree in the middle. Below the window were distinct traces of footmarks. Lord Runton, who held the torch, was becoming excited.
"Duncombe," he said, "there is something which I have not told you yet. I have had numerous reports in about the car, and was able to trace it as far as Lynn, but they all agreed in saying that it contained only two persons—the driver and the man who called himself Fielding. What became of the girl?"
"I have no idea," Duncombe answered steadily.
"Of course not," Lord Runton continued, "but don't you think it possible that—without your knowledge, of course—she may be hidden somewhere about here? That cry was not like the cry of a housemaid. Let us have the whole place searched."
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders.
"As you will," he answered. "I am certain, however, that it will be useless. There is no place here where any one could hide."
"Your servants may know something," Runton suggested.
"I have already questioned them," Duncombe answered.
"Come along, Mr. Spencer," Lord Runton exclaimed, "let us search the grounds."
Spencer shook his head.
"Waste of time, Lord Runton," he answered. "If you really want to discover the whereabouts of this missing young lady, and she should by any chance be close at hand, I should recommend you to induce Sir George to let you search the room to which those footsteps lead."
"The library," Duncombe interrupted quickly. "Search it by all means, if you like. I have done so myself already."
Spencer was facing the house.
"The library!" he remarked reflectively. "Ah!"
He stooped down to light a cigarette. Suddenly he felt Duncombe's hot breath upon his cheek. In the momentary glow of the match he caught a silhouette of a pale, angry face, whose eyes were flashing upon him.
"This isn't your affair, Spencer. Shut up!"
Spencer blew out the match deliberately. They both followed Lord Runton to the library. Pelham was standing in the middle of the room. He had the appearance of a man listening intently.
"George," he asked sharply, "what is on the north side of this room?"
"The wall!" Duncombe answered.
"And beyond?"
"A passage and the billiard-room."
Pelham seemed dissatisfied.
"I fancied," he muttered—"but I suppose it must have been fancy. Do the women servants use that passage?"
"Of course! Upon my word," Duncombe added, with a nervous little laugh, "you all seem to be trying to make my house into a Maskelyne and Cooke's home of mystery. Let us go into the dining-room and have a whisky and soda."
"Not for me, thanks," Lord Runton declared. "I must go back. The real object of my coming here, Duncombe, was to see if the Mr. Spencer who called at Runton Place to-day was really Mr. Jarvis Spencer, and if so to ask him whether he would help me."
"To what extent, Lord Runton?" Spencer asked quietly.
"To the extent of recovering, or attempting to recover, the papers which were stolen from the Baron Von Rothe," Lord Runton said. "The Baron was a guest in my house, and I feel the occurrence very much. He will not let me even mention the matter to the police, but I feel sure that he could not object to Mr. Spencer's taking the matter in hand."
"I think you will find," Spencer said, "that Von Rothe has already placed the matter in the hands of his own people. The German secret service is pretty active over here, you know. I have come in contact with it once or twice."
"Nevertheless, for my own satisfaction," Lord Runton continued, "I should like the matter inquired into by you, Mr. Spencer."
"I am not quite sure whether I am free to help you or not," Spencer said slowly. "May I come and see you to-morrow morning?"
"If you prefer it," Lord Runton said doubtfully. "Come as early as possible. Good night, Duncombe! I should like to know who your nocturnal visitor was."
"If he comes again," Duncombe said, "I may be able to tell you."
He walked to his desk, and taking out a revolver, slipped it into his pocket. Then he rang the bell for Lord Runton's carriage. It seemed to Duncombe that there was a shade of coolness in his visitor's manner as he took his leave. He drew Spencer a little on one side.
"I want you to promise to come and see me in any case to-morrow morning," he said. "There is somethingwhich I should prefer saying to you in my own house to saying here."
Spencer nodded.
"Very well," he said, "I will come. I can promise that much at least."
Lord Runton departed. Pelham went off to bed. Spencer and his host were left alone in the library.
"Billiards, or a whisky and soda in the smoke-room?" the latter asked. "I know that you are not a late bird."
"Neither, thanks. Just a word with you here," Spencer answered.
Duncombe paused on his way to the door. Spencer was standing in a reflective attitude, with his hands behind his back, gently balancing himself upon his toes.
"I am very much disposed," he said, "to accept Lord Runton's offer. Have you any objection?"
"Of course I have," Duncombe answered. "You are working for me."
"Was working for you," Spencer corrected gently. "That is all over, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?" Duncombe exclaimed.
Spencer stood squarely upon his feet. He looked a little tired.
"My engagement from you was to find Miss Phyllis Poynton," he said softly. "You and I are perfectly well aware that the young lady in question is—well, a few yards behind that curtain," he said, motioning with his head towards it. "My task is accomplished, and I consider myself a free man."
Duncombe was silent for a moment. He walked restlessly to the window and back again.
"How did you find out that she was here?" he asked.
Spencer looked a little disgusted.
"My dear fellow," he said, "any one with the brains of a mouse must have discovered that. Why, Lord Runton, without any of the intimations which I have received, is a little suspicious. That is merely a matter of A B C. There were difficulties, I admit, and I am sorry to say that I have never solved them. I cannot tell you at this moment how it comes about that a young lady, brought up in the country here, and from all I can learn an ordinary, unambitious, virtuous sort of young person, should disappear from England in search of a missing brother, and return in a few months the companion of one of the most dangerous and brilliant members of the French secret service. This sort of thing is clean beyond me, I admit. I will be frank with you, Duncombe. I have met with difficulties in this case which I have never met with before—peculiar difficulties."
"Go on!" Duncombe exclaimed eagerly.
"I have many sources of information in Paris," Spencer continued slowly. "I have acquaintances amongst waiters, cabmen, café-proprietors, detectives, and many such people. I have always found them most useful. I went amongst them, making careful inquiries about Phyllis Poynton and her brother. They were like men struck dumb. Their mouths were closed like rat-traps. The mention of either the boy or the girl seemed to change them as though like magic from pleasant, talkative men and women, very eager to make the best of their little bit of information, into surly idiots, incapable of understanding or answering the slightest question. It was the most extraordinary experience I have ever come across."
Duncombe was breathlessly interested.
"What do you gather from it?" he asked eagerly.
"I can only surmise," Spencer said slowly, "I can only surmise the existence of some power, some force or combination of forces behind all this, of the nature of which I am entirely ignorant. I am bound to admit that there is a certain amount of fascination to me in the contemplation of any such thing. The murder of that poor girl, for instance, who was proposing to give you information, interests me exceedingly."
Duncombe shuddered at the recollection. The whole scene was before him once more, the whole series of events which had made his stay in Paris so eventful. He laid his hand upon Spencer's arm.
"Spencer," he said, "you speak as though your task were accomplished. It isn't. Phyllis Poynton may indeed be where you say, but if so it is Phyllis Poynton with the halter about her neck, with the fear of terrible things in her heart. It is not you nor I who is the jailer of her captivity. It is some power which has yet to be discovered. Our task is not finished yet. To-night I will try to question her about this network of intrigue into which she seems to have been drawn. If she will see you, you too shall ask her about it. Don't think of deserting us yet."
"My dear Duncombe," Spencer said, "I may as well confess at once that the sole interest I felt in Lord Runton's offer was that it is closely connected with the matter we have been discussing."
"You shall have my entire confidence, Spencer," Duncombe declared. "The man who called himself Fielding was badly wounded, and he passed here almost unconscious. He entrusted the paper or letter, or whatever it was, he stole from Von Rothe's messenger, to his so-called daughter, and she in her turn passed it on to me. It is at this moment in my possession."
Spencer looked very serious.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I congratulate you upon your pluck, but not upon your discretion. You are interfering in what may turn out to be a very great matter—a matter in which a few lives are like the pawns which are swept from the chess-board. Does any one know this?"
"She and I only! You heard her shriek?"
"Yes."
"A man threw up her window and climbed in. He demanded the packet. He searched the room. When he left her he declared that he should return at twelve to-night, and if she did not hand it to him then he threatened her."
Spencer smiled, and rubbed his hands softly together.
"Really," he murmured, "this is most interesting. I am with you, Duncombe. With you altogether! There is only one more question."
"Well?"
"You did not know Phyllis Poynton. You took up this search for her out of your friendship for Pelham. You are a rich man, young, strong, with every capacity for enjoyment. What induces you to risk your life in an adventure of this sort? You see, I don't mince words."
Then Duncombe became grave. His face fell into firm, hard lines. Yet as he spoke there was something boyish about his expression.
"It is a fair question," he answered. "You won'tunderstand me. I don't understand myself. I've a brilliant galaxy of fools behind me. They've made the pages of history interesting. They've been the butt always of wiser men such as you, Spencer. The girl in that room may be Phyllis Poynton or the worst adventuress who ever lied her way through the mazes of intrigue, but I love her! She's in my life—a part of it. If I lose her—well, you know what life is like when the flame has gone and only the embers burn."
Spencer nodded very softly.
"That is sufficient!" he said. "You speak of things that I myself do not understand. But that is nothing. I know that they exist. But——"
"Well?"
"But what about Pelham?"
"Pelham has no prior claim," he answered. "As soon as she is safe he shall know the whole truth. I would tell him at this moment but that I am a little afraid of him. He would never understand, as we can, the intricacy of the situation. And now—to the prosaic."
He rang the bell.
"Groves," he told the butler, "I am hungry. Bring me in anything you can rake up for supper on a tray, and a pint of champagne."
Spencer raised his eyebrows and smiled. Duncombe nodded.
"For her, of course," he said. "I am going to take it in, and I want you to stay here. It is past eleven o'clock already."
"I was never," she declared, "quite so pleased to see any one in all my life. I was wondering whether it would occur to you that I was starving."
He set the tray down for her, placed a chair in front of the table, and busied himself opening the wine. All the time he was looking at her.
"Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" he asked at length.
She laughed softly.
"Oh, I had to amuse myself somehow," she answered. "I've done my hair a new way, rearranged all my ornaments, and really I don't think a man has a right to such a delightful manicure set. I felt terribly nervous in the lavatory, though. I could hear some one in the billiard-room all the time."
"That's all right!" he declared. "I've locked the door there, and have the key in my pocket. No one can get in from that side."
"Please talk, and don't watch me," she begged. "I'm ashamed to be so hungry."
He smiled and helped her to some more chicken. If he talked he was scarcely conscious of what he said. All the time his eyes kept straying towards her. She had taken off her jacket and was dressed simply enough in a blouse of some soft white material and a dark skirt.Everything, from the ornaments at her neck, the dull metal waistband, and the trim shoes, seemed to him to be carefully chosen, and the best of their sort. She wore no rings, and her fingers had the rosy pinkness of health. If she had seemed graceful to him before in the drawing-room of Runton Place, and surrounded by some of the most beautiful women in the country, she seemed more than ever so now, seated in the somewhat worn chair of his little studio. The color, too, seemed to have come back to her cheeks. She seemed to have regained in some measure her girlishness. Her eyes were ever ready to laugh into his. She chattered away as though the world after all contained nothing more serious for her than for any other girl. Duncombe hated to strike another note, yet he knew that sooner or later it must be done.
"You are quite sure that you will not have anything else?" he asked.
"Absolutely, thanks! I have never enjoyed anything so much in my life."
He glanced at his watch. It was half-past eleven.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am going to be a nuisance to you, but one's friends often are that. I want to be your friend. I want to prove myself such. I am not an inquisitive person, by any means, but fate has declared that I should be your inquisitor. There are some questions which I am bound to ask you."
Her face grew suddenly grave.
"There is so little," she murmured, "which I can tell you."
"We shall see," he answered. "In the first place, Lord Runton has been here. He is one of my oldest friends, and a very good fellow. He came to tell methat Von Rothe had been robbed in his house of some valuable papers. He came partly to ask my advice. All the time I was sitting opposite to him, with those papers in my pocket."
She looked at him strangely.
"Perhaps," she said quietly, "you gave them up to him."
"I did not," he answered. "You know very well that I did not."
"It was your duty," she said in a low tone.
"Perhaps so. On the other hand," he continued, "you trusted me. The papers are safe."
"Does he know that you have them?" she asked.
"He knows nothing!"
She looked at him steadfastly—not with any appearance of doubting his word, and yet as though she were revolving something in her mind concerning him.
"I am thinking," she said, "how much better it would have been for both of us if we had never met."
"The fates thought otherwise," he answered. "I searched Paris for you, only to find you at my gates. The fates meant you to be my friend. We must be careful not to disappoint them."
She shook her head a little wistfully.
"You have been very good to me," she said, "but you don't understand——"
"Precisely!" he interrupted. "I don't understand. I want to. To begin with—what in this world induced you to throw in your lot even for an hour with the man who called himself Fielding?"
"I can answer no questions concerning myself," she said sadly.
He smiled.
"Come," he said, "it isn't so serious as all that, is it? Sooner or later your friends are sure to find you, and they will not be content with such a statement as that. You were summoned one day to Paris by or on behalf of your brother, who had unaccountably disappeared there. You immediately appear to have followed suit. You had no friends in Paris—neither, I think, had he. I believe I am correct in saying that you had neither of you ever been there before. If your brother has fallen into bad hands, and if those same people are trying to work upon your fears by leading you into this sort of thing—well, I have friends who are powerful enough to bring you safely out of any den of thieves in the world. You are in an impossible situation, my dear young lady. Nature never meant you for an adventuress. There is no necessity for you to become one. Why do you look at me like that?"
There was terror in her face. He had hoped to reassure her, to give her courage. On the contrary every word he spoke only seemed to increase her distress.
"Oh, I am afraid!" she murmured. "I wish I had taken my chance. I ought not to have burdened you for a moment with my affairs. I have given you the right to ask me questions which I cannot answer."
He was perplexed.
"If you have given promises to these people——" he began.
"Oh, there is no question of promises," she interrupted. "I am here of my own free will. I refuse to answer any questions. I pray only if you would be generous that you ask me none, that you keep meuntil to-morrow, and let me go, not only from this place, but out of your life. Then indeed I will be grateful to you."
He took her hand in his. She yielded it without any attempt at resistance, but it lay in his palm a cold, dead thing.
"I am only concerned for your good," he said gently. "It is your happiness only that I am anxious for. You were not born or trained for a life of lies and crime. I want to save you from it before it is too late."
"What I do," she said slowly, "I do of my own free will."
"Not quite, I think," he answered, "but let that pass. Listen! If you will not talk to me about these things, will you talk to my friend, Jarvis Spencer? He is a gentleman, and a journalist by profession, but he is also one of the cleverest amateur detectives in England."
She held up her hands with a little gesture of horror. Her eyes were alight with fear.
"No!" she cried. "No! A thousand times, no! Don't let him come near me, please. Oh, I wish I could make you understand," she continued helplessly. "You yourself in Paris only a few weeks ago were in terrible danger. A girl who only gave, or meant to give, you information about my brother and me was murdered. You, too, would have been killed if you had found anything out."
He would have answered her lightly, but the memory of Mademoiselle Flossie lying dead upon the bed in that gloomy little room suddenly rose up before him, and the words died away upon his lips. He was silent for a moment, and glanced again at his watch. It wantedonly five minutes to twelve. He came and leaned over her chair.
"Phyllis," he said, "what am I to do about you? I cannot let you go out of my life like this. No, you must listen to me for a moment. When Pelham sent for me after you had disappeared he showed me your picture. I am not exactly the sort of man of whom knight-errants are made. I have never gone a mile out of my way to meet any woman in my life. My life here has seemed of all things the best to me. I am a dull, unambitious sort of fellow, you know, since I settled down here, and I expected to go on for the rest of my days pretty much in the same way. And yet when Pelham showed me your picture it was different. I made him give a copy to me. I told him—liar that I was—that I could not carry the memory of your face in my mind, when it was already engraven in my heart. And I went off to Paris, Phyllis, like the veriest Don Quixote, and I came back very sad indeed when I could not find you. Then you came to Runton Place, and the trouble began. I did not care who you were, Phyllis Poynton, Sybil Fielding, or any one else. I let the others dispute. You were—yourself, and I love you, dear. Now do you understand why I cannot let you go away like this?"
He had both her hands in his now, but her face was turned away. Then without any warning, there came a soft rapping at the door which led into the library.
Duncombe reached it in a couple of strides. He opened it cautiously, and found Spencer standing there.
"I thought it best to let you know," he said, "that a carriage has stopped in the lane. If I can be of any assistance I shall be here—and ready."
Duncombe nodded and closed the door. The girl was sitting upright in her chair, with the old look of fear in her eyes.
"Who was that?" she asked quickly.
"Spencer," he answered. "He discovered your presence here, but he is perfectly discreet. He knocked to tell me that a carriage has stopped in the lane outside."
She was white with fear, but he only laughed, and stooping down would have taken her hands once more. But at that moment an unexpected sound intervened. The deep silence of the house was broken by the ringing of the front door bell.
Duncombe started back. The girl half rose to her feet.
"The front door!" he exclaimed. "The servants will have gone to bed. I must answer it myself."
She clung to him with a sudden abandon. She was white to the lips.
"I am afraid," she moaned. "Don't leave me alone."
He glanced towards the window.
"By Jove, it may be a trap!" he exclaimed. "Let them ring. I'll stay here with you."
They stood hand in hand listening. His head was turned towards the door, but the gentle pressure of her fingers drew him round. Her face was upturned to his. Something of the fear had gone. There was an eager, almost desperate, light in her softened eyes, and a tinge of color in her cheeks. He caught her into his arms, and their lips met. She disengaged herself almost immediately.
"I don't care," she said with a little laugh. "That is the first kiss I have ever given to a man, and very likelyit will be the last. You won't be able to say that I have gone away without paying my bill. Now go and open the front door, Sir George."
He hesitated for a moment.
"Say only the word, Phyllis, and no one in the world shall ever take you away."
She did not even answer him. He left her with a little sigh.
"Spencer," he said, "if you hear the slightest noise in that room go in and shout for me."
Spencer nodded. The front door bell rang again.
Duncombe unfastened the chain and bolts of the ponderous front door, and looked out into the darkness. A carriage and pair of horses were drawn up outside. A man and a woman, both dressed in long travelling-coats, were standing upon the door-step.
"This is Duncombe Hall, I believe?" the man said. "Is Sir George Duncombe at home?"
"I am Sir George Duncombe," he answered. "Will you come inside?"
They crossed the threshold at once. The man was tall and dark, and his voice and bearing were unmistakable. The woman was fair,petite, and apparently very sleepy. She wore magnificent furs, and she had the air of being in a very bad temper.
"We really are heartily ashamed of ourselves for disturbing you at such an hour, Sir George," the man said, "but you will pardon us when you understand the position. I am the Marquis de St. Ethol, and this is my wife. I have a letter to you from my friend the Duke of Chestow, with whom we have been staying."
Duncombe concealed his astonishment as well as he was able. He bowed to the lady, and led them towards the library. Spencer, who had heard them coming, had hastily concealed his revolver, and was lounging in an easy-chair reading the evening paper.
"I am afraid that my servants are all in bed," Duncombe said, "and I can offer you only a bachelor's hospitality. This is my friend, Mr. Spencer—the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. Wheel that easy-chair up, Spencer, will you?"
Spencer's brow had betrayed not the slightest sign of surprise, but Duncombe fancied that the Marquis had glanced at him keenly. He was holding a note in his hand, which he offered to Duncombe.
"My errand is so unusual, and the hour so extraordinary," he said, "that I thought it would be better for Chestow to write you a line or two. Will you please read it?"
Duncombe tore open the envelope.