Mr. Sabin, who had parted with Wolfenden with evident relief, leaned back in the cab and looked at his watch.
“That young man,” he remarked, “has wasted ten minutes of my time. He will probably have to pay for it some day.”
“By the bye,” the girl asked, “who is he?”
“His name is Wolfenden—Lord Wolfenden.”
“So I gathered; and who is Lord Wolfenden?”
“The only son of Admiral the Earl of Deringham. I don’t know anything more than that about him myself.”
“Admiral Deringham,” the girl repeated, thoughtfully; “the name sounds familiar.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“Very likely,” he said. “He was in command of the Channel Squadron at the time of theMagnificentdisaster. He was barely half a mile away and saw the whole thing. He came in, too, rightly or wrongly, for a share of the blame.”
“Didn’t he go mad, or something?” the girl asked.
“He had a fit,” Mr. Sabin said calmly, “and left the service almost directly afterwards. He is living in strict seclusion in Norfolk, I believe. I should not like to say that he is mad. As a matter of fact, I do not believe that he is.”
She looked at him curiously. There was a note of reserve in his tone.
“You are interested in him, are you not?” she asked.
“In a measure,” he admitted. “He is supposed, mad or not, to be the greatest living authority on the coast defences of England and the state of her battleships. They shelved him at the Admiralty, but he wrote some vigorous letters to the papers and there are people pretty high up who believe in him. Others, of course, think that he is a crank.”
“But why,” she asked, languidly, “are you interested in such matters?”
Mr. Sabin knocked the ash off the cigarette he was smoking and was silent for a moment.
“One gets interested nowadays in—a great many things which scarcely seem to concern us,” he remarked deliberately. “You, for instance, seem interested in this man’s son. He cannot possibly be of any account to us.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Did I say that I was interested in him?”
“You did not,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but it was scarcely necessary; you stopped to speak to him of your own accord, and you asked him to supper, which was scarcely discreet.”
“One gets so bored sometimes,” she admitted frankly.
“You are only a woman,” he said indulgently; “a year of waiting seems to you an eternity, however vast the stake. There will come a time when you will see things differently.”
“I wonder!” she said softly, “I wonder!”
Mr. Sabin had unconsciously spoken the truth when he had pleaded an appointment to Lord Wolfenden. His servant drew him on one side directly they entered the house.
“There is a young lady here, sir, waiting for you in the study.”
“Been here long?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“About two hours, sir. She has rung once or twice to ask about you.”
Mr. Sabin turned away and opened the study door, carefully closing it behind him at once as he recognised his visitor. The air was blue with tobacco smoke, and the girl, who looked up at his entrance, held a cigarette between her fingers. Mr. Sabin was at least as surprised as Lord Wolfenden when he recognised his visitor, but his face was absolutely emotionless. He nodded not unkindly and stood looking at her, leaning upon his stick.
“Well, Blanche, what has gone wrong?” he asked.
“Pretty well everything,” she answered. “I’ve been turned away.”
“Detected?” he asked quickly.
“Suspected, at any rate. I wrote you that Lord Deringham was watching me sharply. Where he got the idea from I can’t imagine, but he got it and he got it right, anyhow. He’s followed me about like a cat, and it’s all up.”
“What does he know?”
“Nothing! He found a sheet of carbon on my desk, no more! I had to leave in an hour.”
“And Lady Deringham?”
“She is like the rest—she thinks him mad. She has not the faintest idea that, mad or not, he has stumbled upon the truth. She was glad to have me go—for other reasons; but she has not the faintest doubt but that I have been unjustly dismissed.”
“And he? How much does he know?”
“Exactly what I told you—nothing! His idea was just a confused one that I thought the stuff valuable—how you can make any sense of such trash I don’t know—and that I was keeping a copy back for myself. He was worrying for an excuse to get rid of me, and he grabbed at it.”
“Why was Lady Deringham glad to have you go?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Because I amused myself with her son.”
“Lord Wolfenden?”
“Yes!”
For the first time since he had entered the room Mr. Sabin’s grim countenance relaxed. The corners of his lips slowly twisted themselves into a smile.
“Good girl,” he said. “Is he any use now?”
“None,” she answered with some emphasis. “None whatever. He is a fool.”
The colour in her cheeks had deepened a little. A light shot from her eyes. Mr. Sabin’s amusement deepened. He looked positively benign.
“You’ve tried him?” he suggested.
The girl nodded, and blew a little cloud of tobacco smoke from her mouth.
“Yes; I went there last night. He was very kind. He sent his servant out with me and got me nice, respectable rooms.”
Mr. Sabin did what was for him an exceptional thing. He sat down and laughed to himself softly, but with a genuine and obvious enjoyment.
“Blanche,” he said, “it was a lucky thing that I discovered you. No one else could have appreciated you properly.”
She looked at him with a sudden hardness.
“You should appreciate me,” she said, “for what I am you made me. I am of your handiwork: a man should appreciate the tool of his own fashioning.”
“Nature,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “had made the way easy for me. Mine were but finishing touches. But we have no time for this sort of thing. You have done well at Deringham and I shall not forget it. But your dismissal just now is exceedingly awkward. For the moment, indeed, I scarcely see my way. I wonder in what direction Lord Deringham will look for your successor?”
“Not anywhere within the sphere of your influence,” she answered. “I do not think that I shall have a successor at all just yet. There was only a week’s work to do. He will copy that himself.”
“I am very much afraid,” Mr. Sabin said, “that he will; yet we must have that copy.”
“You will be very clever,” she said slowly. “He has put watches all round the place, and the windows are barricaded. He sleeps with a revolver by his side, and there are several horrors in the shape of traps all round the house.”
“No wonder,” Mr. Sabin said, “that people think him mad.”
The girl laughed shortly.
“He is mad,” she said. “There is no possible doubt about that; you couldn’t live with him a day and doubt it.”
“Hereditary, no doubt,” Mr. Sabin suggested quietly.
Blanche shrugged her shoulders and leaned back yawning.
“Anyhow,” she said, “I’ve had enough of them all. It has been very tiresome work and I am sick of it. Give me some money. I want a spree. I am going to have a month’s holiday.”
Mr. Sabin sat down at his desk and drew out a cheque-book.
“There will be no difficulty about the money,” he said, “but I cannot spare you for a month. Long before that I must have the rest of this madman’s figures.”
The girl’s face darkened.
“Haven’t I told you,” she said, “that there is not the slightest chance of their taking me back? You might as well believe me. They wouldn’t have me, and I wouldn’t go.”
“I do not expect anything of the sort,” Mr. Sabin said. “There are other directions, though, in which I shall require your aid. I shall have to go to Deringham myself, and asI know nothing whatever about the place you will be useful to me there. I believe that your home is somewhere near there.”
“Well!”
“There is no reason, I suppose,” Mr. Sabin continued, “why a portion of the vacation you were speaking of should not be spent there?”
“None!” the girl replied, “except that it would be deadly dull, and no holiday at all. I should want paying for it.”
Mr. Sabin looked down at the cheque-book which lay open before him.
“I was intending,” he said, “to offer you a cheque for fifty pounds. I will make it one hundred, and you will rejoin your family circle at Fakenham, I believe, in one week from to-day.”
The girl made a wry face.
“The money’s all right,” she said; “but you ought to see my family circle! They are all cracked on farming, from the poor old dad who loses all his spare cash at it, down to little Letty my youngest sister, who can tell you everything about the last turnip crop. Do ride over and see us! You will find it so amusing!”
“I shall be charmed,” Mr. Sabin said suavely, as he commenced filling in the body of the cheque. “Are all your sisters, may I ask, as delightful as you?”
She looked at him defiantly.
“Look here,” she said, “none of that! Of course you wouldn’t come, but in any case I won’t have you. The girls are—well, not like me, I’m glad to say. I won’t have the responsibility of introducing a Mephistocles into the domestic circle.”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I had not the faintest idea of coming. My visit to Norfolk will be anything but a pleasure trip, and I shall have no time to spare.
“I believe I have your address: ‘Westacott Farm, Fakenham,’ is it not? Now do what you like in the meantime, but a week from to-day there will be a letter from me there. Here is the cheque.”
The girl rose and shook out her skirts.
“Aren’t you going to take me anywhere?” she asked. “You might ask me to have supper with you to-night.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head gently.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but I have a young lady living with me.”
“Oh!”
“She is my niece, and it takes more than my spare time to entertain her,” he continued, without noticing the interjection. “You have plenty of friends. Go and look them up and enjoy yourself—for a week. I have no heart to go pleasure-making until my work is finished.”
She drew on her gloves and walked to the door. Mr. Sabin came with her and opened it.
“I wish,” she said, “that I could understand what in this world you are trying to evolve from those rubbishy papers.”
He laughed.
“Some day,” he said, “I will tell you. At present you would not understand. Be patient a little longer.”
“It has been long enough,” she exclaimed. “I have had seven months of it.”
“And I,” he answered, “seven years. Take care of yourself and remember, I shall want you in a week.”
At precisely the hour agreed upon Harcutt and Densham met in one of the ante-rooms leading into the “Milan” restaurant. They surrendered their coats and hats to an attendant, and strolled about waiting for Wolfenden. A quarter of an hour passed. The stream of people from the theatres began to grow thinner. Still, Wolfenden did not come. Harcutt took out his watch.
“I propose that we do not wait any longer for Wolfenden,” he said. “I saw him this afternoon, and he answered me very oddly when I reminded him about to-night. There is such a crowd here too, that they will not keep our table much longer.”
“Let us go in, by all means,” Densham agreed. “Wolfenden will easily find us if he wants to!”
Harcutt returned his watch to his pocket slowly, and without removing his eyes from Densham’s face.
“You’re not looking very fit, old chap,” he remarked. “Is anything wrong?”
Densham shook his head and turned away.
“I am a little tired,” he said. “We’ve been keeping late hours the last few nights. There’s nothing the matter with me, though. Come, let us go in!”
Harcutt linked his arm in Densham’s. The two men stood in the doorway.
“I have not asked you yet,” Harcutt said, in a low tone. “What fortune?”
Densham laughed a little bitterly.
“I will tell you all that I know presently,” he said.
“You have found out something, then?”
“I have found out,” Densham answered, “all that I care to know! I have found out so much that I am leaving England within a week!”
Harcutt looked at him curiously.
“Poor old chap,” he said softly. “I had no idea that you were so hard hit as all that, you know.”
They passed through the crowded room to their table. Suddenly Harcutt stopped short and laid his hand upon Densham’s arm.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Look at that! No wonder we had to wait for Wolfenden!”
Mr. Sabin and his niece were occupying the same table as on the previous night, only this time they were not alone. Wolfenden was sitting there between the two. At the moment of their entrance, he and the girl were laughing together. Mr. Sabin, with the air of one wholly detached from his companions, was calmly proceeding with his supper.
“I understand now,” Harcutt whispered, “what Wolfenden meant this afternoon. When I reminded him about to-night, he laughed and said: ‘Well, I shall see you, at any rate.’ I thought it was odd at the time. I wonder how he managed it?”
Densham made no reply. The two men took their seats in silence. Wolfenden was sitting with his back half-turned to them, and he had not noticed their entrance. In a moment or two, however, he looked round, and seeing them, leaned over towards the girl and apparently asked her something. She nodded, and he immediately left his seat and joined them.
There was a little hesitation, almost awkwardness in their greetings. No one knew exactly what to say.
“You fellows are rather late, aren’t you?” Wolfenden remarked.
“We were here punctually enough,” Harcutt replied; “but we have been waiting for you nearly a quarter of an hour.”
“I am sorry,” Wolfenden said. “The fact is I ought to have left word when I came in, but I quite forgot it. I took it for granted that you would look into the room when you found that I was behind time.”
“Well, it isn’t of much consequence,” Harcutt declared; “we are here now, at any rate, although it seems that after all we are not to have supper together.”
Wolfenden glanced rapidly over his shoulder.
“You understand the position, of course,” he said. “I need not ask you to excuse me.”
Harcutt nodded.
“Oh, we’ll excuse you, by all means; but on one condition—we want to know all about it. Where can we see you afterwards?”
“At my rooms,” Wolfenden said, turning away and resuming his seat at the other table.
Densham had made no attempt whatever to join in the conversation. Once his eyes had met Wolfenden’s, and it seemed to the latter that there was a certain expression there which needed some explanation. It was not anger—it certainly was not envy. Wolfenden was puzzled—he was even disturbed. Had Densham discovered anything further than he himself knew about this man and the girl? What did he mean by looking as though the key to this mysterious situation was in his hands, and as though he had nothing but pity for the only one of the trio who had met with any success? Wolfenden resumed his seat with an uncomfortable conviction that Densham knew more thanhe did about these people whose guest he had become, and that the knowledge had damped all his ardour. There was a cloud upon his face for a moment. The exuberance of his happiness had received a sudden check. Then the girl spoke to him, and the memory of Densham’s unspoken warning passed away. He looked at her long and searchingly. Her face was as innocent and proud as the face of a child. She was unconscious even of his close scrutiny. The man might be anything; it might even be that every word that Felix had spoken was true. But of the girl he would believe no evil, he would not doubt her even for a moment.
“Your friend,” remarked Mr. Sabin, helping himself to an ortolan, “is a journalist, is he not? His face seems familiar to me although I have forgotten his name, if ever I knew it.”
“He is a journalist,” Wolfenden answered. “Not one of the rank and file—rather adilettante, but still a hard worker. He is devoted to his profession, though, and his name is Harcutt.”
“Harcutt!” Mr. Sabin repeated, although he did not appear to recollect the name. “He is a political journalist, is he not?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Wolfenden answered. “He is generally considered to be the great scribe of society. I believe that he is interested in foreign politics, though.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Sabin’s interjection was significant, and Wolfenden looked up quickly but fruitlessly. The man’s face was impenetrable.
“The other fellow,” Wolfenden said, turning to the girl, “is Densham, the painter. His picture in this year’s Academy was a good deal talked about, and he does some excellent portraits.”
She threw a glance at him over her gleaming white shoulder.
“He looks like an artist,” she said. “I liked his picture—a French landscape, was it not? And his portrait of the Countess of Davenport was magnificent.”
“If you would care to know him,” Wolfenden said, “I should be very happy to present him to you.”
Mr. Sabin looked up and shook his head quickly, but firmly.
“You must excuse us,” he said. “My niece and I are not in England for very long, and we have reasons for avoiding new acquaintances as much as possible.”
A shade passed across the girl’s face. Wolfenden would have given much to have known into what worlds those clear, soft eyes, suddenly set in a far away gaze, were wandering—what those regrets were which had floated up so suddenly before her. Was she too as impenetrable as the man, or would he some day share with her what there was of sorrow or of mystery in her young life? His heart beat with unaccustomed quickness at the thought. Mr. Sabin’s last remark, the uncertainty of his own position with regard to these people, filled him with sudden fear; it might be that he too was to be included in the sentence which had just been pronounced. He looked up from the table to find Mr. Sabin’s cold, steely eyes fixed upon him, and acting upon a sudden impulse he spoke what was nearest to his heart.
“I hope,” he said, “that the few acquaintances whom fate does bring you are not to suffer for the same reason.”
Mr. Sabin smiled and poured himself out a glass of wine.
“You are very good,” he said. “I presume that you refer to yourself. We shall always be glad that we met you, shall we not, Helène? But I doubt very much if, after to-night, we shall meet again in England at all.”
To Wolfenden the light seemed suddenly to have goneout, and the soft, low music to have become a wailing dirge. He retained some command of his features only by a tremendous effort. Even then he felt that he had become pale, and that his voice betrayed something of the emotion that he felt.
“You are going away,” he said slowly—“abroad!”
“Very soon indeed,” Mr. Sabin answered. “At any rate, we leave London during the week. You must not look upon us, Lord Wolfenden, as ordinary pleasure-seekers. We are wanderers upon the face of the earth, not so much by choice as by destiny. I want you to try one of these cigarettes. They were given to me by the Khedive, and I think you will admit that he knows more about tobacco than he does about governing.”
The girl had been gazing steadfastly at the grapes that lay untasted upon her plate, and Wolfenden glanced towards her twice in vain; now, however, she looked up, and a slight smile parted her lips as her eyes met his. How pale she was, and how suddenly serious!
“Do not take my uncle too literally, Lord Wolfenden,” she said softly. “I hope that we shall meet again some time, if not often. I should be very sorry not to think so. We owe you so much.”
There was an added warmth in those last few words, a subtle light in her eyes. Was she indeed a past mistress in all the arts of coquetry, or was there not some message for him in that lowered tone and softened glance? He sat spellbound for a moment. Her bosom was certainly rising and falling more quickly. The pearls at her throat quivered. Then Mr. Sabin’s voice, cold and displeased, dissolved the situation.
“I think, Helène, if you are ready, we had better go,” he said. “It is nearly half-past twelve, and we shall escape the crush if we leave at once.”
She stood up silently, and Wolfenden, with slow fingers,raised her cloak from the back of the chair and covered her shoulders. She thanked him softly, and turning away, walked down the room followed by the two men. In the ante-room Mr. Sabin stopped.
“My watch,” he remarked, “was fast. You will have time after all for a cigarette with your friends. Good-night.”
Wolfenden had no alternative but to accept his dismissal. A little, white hand, flashing with jewels, but shapely and delicate, stole out from the dark fur of her cloak, and he held it within his for a second.
“I hope,” he said, “that at any rate you will allow me to call, and say goodbye before you leave England?”
She looked at him with a faint smile upon her lips. Yet her eyes were very sad.
“You have heard what my inexorable guardian has said, Lord Wolfenden,” she answered quietly. “I am afraid he is right. We are wanderers, he and I, with no settled home.”
“I shall venture to hope,” he said boldly, “that some day you will make one—in England.”
A tinge of colour flashed into her cheeks. Her eyes danced with amusement at his audacity—then they suddenly dropped, and she caught up the folds of her gown.
“Ah, well,” she said demurely, “that would be too great a happiness. Farewell! One never knows.”
She yielded at last to Mr. Sabin’s cold impatience, and turning away, followed him down the staircase. Wolfenden remained at the top until she had passed out of sight; he lingered even for a moment or two afterwards, inhaling the faint, subtle perfume shaken from her gown—a perfume which reminded him of an orchard of pink and white apple blossoms in Normandy. Then he turned back, and finding Harcutt and Densham lingering over their coffee, sat down beside them.
Harcutt looked at him through half-closed eyes—a little cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung over the table. Densham had eaten little, but smoked continually.
“Well?” he asked laconically.
“After all,” Wolfenden said, “I have not very much to tell you fellows. Mr. Sabin did not call upon me; I met him by chance in Bond Street, and the girl asked me to supper, more I believe in jest than anything. However, of course I took advantage of it, and I have spent the evening since eleven o’clock with them. But as to gaining any definite information as to who or what they are, I must confess I’ve failed altogether. I know no more than I did yesterday.”
“At any rate,” Harcutt remarked, “you will soon learn all that you care to know. You have inserted the thin end of the wedge. You have established a visiting acquaintance.”
Wolfenden flicked the end from his cigarette savagely.
“Nothing of the sort,” he declared. “They have not given me their address, or asked me to call. On the contrary, I was given very clearly to understand by Mr. Sabin that they were only travellers and desired no acquaintances. I know them, that is all; what the next step is to be I have not the faintest idea.”
Densham leaned over towards them. There was a strange light in his eyes—a peculiar, almost tremulous, earnestness in his tone.
“Why should there be any next step at all?” he said. “Let us all drop this ridiculous business. It has gone far enough. I have a presentiment—not altogether presentiment either, as it is based upon a certain knowledge. It is true that these are not ordinary people, and the girl is beautiful. But they are not of our lives! Let them pass out. Let us forget them.”
Harcutt shook his head.
“The man is too interesting to be forgotten or ignored,” he said. “I must know more about him, and before many days have passed.”
Densham turned to the younger man.
“At least, Wolfenden,” he said, “you will listen to reason. I tell you as a man of honour, and I think I may add as your friend, that you are only courting disappointment. The girl is not for you, or me, or any of us. If I dared tell you what I know, you would be the first to admit it yourself.”
Wolfenden returned Densham’s eager gaze steadfastly.
“I have gone,” he said calmly, “too far to turn back. You fellows both know I am not a woman’s man. I’ve never cared for a girl in all my life, or pretended to, seriously. Now that I do, it is not likely that I shall give her up without any definite reason. You must speak more plainly, Densham, or not at all.”
Densham rose from his chair.
“I am very sorry,” he said.
Wolfenden turned upon him, frowning.
“You need not be,” he said. “You and Harcutt have both, I believe, heard some strange stories concerning the man; but as for the girl, no one shall dare to speak an unbecoming word of her.”
“No one desired to,” Densham answered quietly. “And yet there may be other and equally grave objections to any intercourse with her.”
Wolfenden smiled confidently.
“Nothing in the world worth winning,” he said, “is won without an effort, or without difficulty. The fruit that is of gold does not drop into your mouth.”
The band had ceased to play and the lights went out. Around them was all the bustle of departure. The three men rose and left the room.
To leave London at all, under ordinary circumstances, was usually a hardship for Wolfenden, but to leave London at this particular moment of his life was little less than a calamity, yet a letter which he received a few mornings after the supper at the “Milan” left him scarcely any alternative. He read it over for the third time whilst his breakfast grew cold, and each time his duty seemed to become plainer.
“Deringham Hall, Norfolk.“My dear Wolfenden,—We have been rather looking for you to come down for a day or two, and I do hope that you will be able to manage it directly you receive this. I am sorry to say that your father is very far from well, and we have all been much upset lately. He still works for eight or nine hours a day, and his hallucinations as to the value of his papers increases with every page he writes. His latest peculiarity is a rooted conviction that there is some plot on hand to rob him of his manuscripts. You remember, perhaps, Miss Merton, the young person whom we engaged as typewriter. He sent her away the other day, without a moment’s notice, simply because he saw her with a sheet of copying paper in her hand. I did not like the girl, but it is perfectly ridiculous to suspect her of anything of the sort. He insisted, however, that she shouldleave the house within an hour, and we were obliged to give in to him. Since then he has seemed to become even more fidgety. He has had cast-iron shutters fitted to the study windows, and two of the keepers are supposed to be on duty outside night and day, with loaded revolvers. People around here are all beginning to talk, and I am afraid that it is only natural that they should. He will see no one, and the library door is shut and bolted immediately he has entered it. Altogether it is a deplorable state of things, and what will be the end of it I cannot imagine. Sometimes it occurs to me that you might have more influence over him than I have. I hope that you will be able to come down, if only for a day or two, and see what effect your presence has. The shooting is not good this year, but Captain Willis was telling me yesterday that the golf links were in excellent condition, and there is the yacht, of course, if you care to use it. Your father seems to have quite forgotten that she is still in the neighbourhood, I am glad to say. Those inspection cruises were very bad things for him. He used to get so excited, and he was dreadfully angry if the photographs which I took were at all imperfectly developed. How is everybody? Have you seen Lady Susan lately? and is it true that Eleanor is engaged? I feel literally buried here, but I dare not suggest a move. London, for him at present, would be madness. I shall hope to get a wire from you to-morrow, and will send to Cromer to meet any train.—From your affectionate mother,“Constance Manver Deringham.”
“Deringham Hall, Norfolk.
“My dear Wolfenden,—We have been rather looking for you to come down for a day or two, and I do hope that you will be able to manage it directly you receive this. I am sorry to say that your father is very far from well, and we have all been much upset lately. He still works for eight or nine hours a day, and his hallucinations as to the value of his papers increases with every page he writes. His latest peculiarity is a rooted conviction that there is some plot on hand to rob him of his manuscripts. You remember, perhaps, Miss Merton, the young person whom we engaged as typewriter. He sent her away the other day, without a moment’s notice, simply because he saw her with a sheet of copying paper in her hand. I did not like the girl, but it is perfectly ridiculous to suspect her of anything of the sort. He insisted, however, that she shouldleave the house within an hour, and we were obliged to give in to him. Since then he has seemed to become even more fidgety. He has had cast-iron shutters fitted to the study windows, and two of the keepers are supposed to be on duty outside night and day, with loaded revolvers. People around here are all beginning to talk, and I am afraid that it is only natural that they should. He will see no one, and the library door is shut and bolted immediately he has entered it. Altogether it is a deplorable state of things, and what will be the end of it I cannot imagine. Sometimes it occurs to me that you might have more influence over him than I have. I hope that you will be able to come down, if only for a day or two, and see what effect your presence has. The shooting is not good this year, but Captain Willis was telling me yesterday that the golf links were in excellent condition, and there is the yacht, of course, if you care to use it. Your father seems to have quite forgotten that she is still in the neighbourhood, I am glad to say. Those inspection cruises were very bad things for him. He used to get so excited, and he was dreadfully angry if the photographs which I took were at all imperfectly developed. How is everybody? Have you seen Lady Susan lately? and is it true that Eleanor is engaged? I feel literally buried here, but I dare not suggest a move. London, for him at present, would be madness. I shall hope to get a wire from you to-morrow, and will send to Cromer to meet any train.—From your affectionate mother,
“Constance Manver Deringham.”
There was not a word of reproach in the letter, but nevertheless Wolfenden felt a little conscience-stricken. He ought to have gone down to Deringham before; most certainly after the receipt of this summons he could not delay his visit any longer. He walked up and down theroom impatiently. To leave London just now was detestable. It was true that he could not call upon them, and he had no idea where else to look for these people, who, for some mysterious reason, seemed to be doing all that they could to avoid his acquaintance. Yet chance had favoured him once—chance might stand his friend again. At any rate to feel himself in the same city with her was some consolation. For the last three days he had haunted Piccadilly and Bond Street. He had become a saunterer, and the shop windows had obtained from him an attention which he had never previously bestowed upon them. The thought that, at any turning, at any moment, they might meet, continually thrilled him. The idea of a journey which would place such a meeting utterly out of the question, was more than distasteful—it was hateful.
And yet he would have to go. He admitted that to himself as he ate his solitary breakfast, with the letter spread out before him. Since it was inevitable, he decided to lose no time. Better go at once and have it over. The sooner he got there the sooner he would be able to return. He rang the bell, and gave the necessary orders. At a quarter to twelve he was at King’s Cross.
He took his ticket in a gloomy frame of mind, and bought theFieldand a sporting novel at the bookstall. Then he turned towards the train, and walking idly down the platform, looking for Selby and his belongings, he experienced what was very nearly the greatest surprise of his life. So far, coincidence was certainly doing her best to befriend him. A girl was seated alone in the further corner of a first-class carriage. Something familiar in the poise of her head, or the gleam of her hair gathered up underneath an unusually smart travelling hat, attracted his attention. He came to a sudden standstill, breathless, incredulous. She was looking out of the opposite window, her head resting upon her fingers, but a sudden glimpse ofher profile assured him that this was no delusion. It was Mr. Sabin’s niece who sat there, a passenger by his own train, probably, as he reflected with a sudden illuminative flash of thought, to be removed from the risk of any more meetings with him.
Wolfenden, with a discretion at which he afterwards wondered, did not at once attract her attention. He hurried off to the smoking carriage before which his servant was standing, and had his own belongings promptly removed on to the platform. Then he paid a visit to the refreshment-room, and provided himself with an extensive luncheon basket, and finally, at the bookstall, he bought up every lady’s paper and magazine he could lay his hands upon. There was only a minute now before the train was due to leave, and he walked along the platform as though looking for a seat, followed by his perplexed servant. When he arrived opposite to her carriage, he paused, only to find himself confronted by a severe-looking maid dressed in black, and the guard. For the first time he noticed the little strip, “engaged,” pasted across the window.
“Plenty of room lower down, sir,” the guard remarked. “This is an engaged carriage.”
The maid whispered something to the guard, who nodded and locked the door. At the sound of the key, however, the girl looked round and saw Wolfenden. She lifted her eyebrows and smiled faintly. Then she came to the window and let it down.
“Whatever are you doing here?” she asked. “You——”
He interrupted her gently. The train was on the point of departure.
“I am going down into Norfolk,” he said. “I had not the least idea of seeing you. I do not think that I was ever so surprised.”
Then he hesitated for a moment.
“May I come in with you?” he asked.
She laughed at him. He had been so afraid of her possible refusal, that his question had been positively tremulous.
“I suppose so,” she said slowly. “Is the train quite full, then?”
He looked at her quite keenly. She was laughing at him with her eyes—an odd little trick of hers. He was himself again at once, and answered mendaciously, but with emphasis—
“Not a seat anywhere. I shall be left behind if you don’t take me in.”
A word in the guard’s ear was quite sufficient, but the maid looked at Wolfenden suspiciously. She leaned into the carriage.
“Would mademoiselle prefer that I, too, travelled with her?” she inquired in French.
The girl answered her in the same language.
“Certainly not, Céleste. You had better go and take your seat at once. We are just going!”
The maid reluctantly withdrew, with disapproval very plainly stamped upon her dark face. Wolfenden and his belongings were bundled in, and the whistle blew. The train moved slowly out of the station. They were off!
“I believe,” she said, looking with a smile at the pile of magazines and papers littered all over the seat, “that you are an impostor. Or perhaps you have a peculiar taste in literature!”
She pointed towards theQueenand theGentlewoman. He was in high spirits, and he made open confession.
“I saw you ten minutes ago,” he declared, “and since then I have been endeavouring to make myself an acceptable travelling companion. But don’t begin to study the fashions yet, please. Tell me how it is that after looking all over London for three days for you, I find you here.”
“It is the unexpected,” she remarked, “which always happens. But after all there is nothing mysterious about it. I am going down to a little house which my uncle has taken, somewhere near Cromer. You will think it odd, I suppose, considering his deformity, but he is devoted to golf, and some one has been telling him that Norfolk is the proper county to go to.”
“And you?” he asked.
She shook her head disconsolately.
“I am afraid I am not English enough to care much for games,” she admitted. “I like riding and archery, and I used to shoot a little, but to go into the country at this time of the year to play any game seems to me positively barbarous. London is quite dull enough—but the country—and the English country, too!—well, I have been engrossed in self-pity ever since my uncle announced his plans.”
“I do not imagine,” he said smiling, “that you care very much for England.”
“I do not imagine,” she admitted promptly, “that I do. I am a Frenchwoman, you see, and to me there is no city on earth like Paris, and no country like my own.”
“The women of your nation,” he remarked, “are always patriotic. I have never met a Frenchwoman who cared for England.”
“We have reason to be patriotic,” she said, “or rather, we had,” she added, with a curious note of sadness in her tone. “But, come, I do not desire to talk about my country. I admitted you here to be an entertaining companion, and you have made me speak already of the subject which is to me the most mournful in the world. I do not wish to talk any more about France. Will you please think of another subject?”
“Mr. Sabin is not with you,” he remarked.
“He intended to come. Something important kept himat the last moment. He will follow me, perhaps, by a later train to-day, if not to-morrow.”
“It is certainly a coincidence,” he said, “that you should be going to Cromer. My home is quite near there.”
“And you are going there now?” she asked.
“I am delighted to say that I am.”
“You did not mention it the other evening,” she remarked. “You talked as though you had no intention at all of leaving London.”
“Neither had I at that time,” he said. “I had a letter from home this morning which decided me.”
She smiled softly.
“Well, it is strange,” she said. “On the whole, it is perhaps fortunate that you did not contemplate this journey when we had supper together the other night.”
He caught at her meaning, and laughed.
“It is more than fortunate,” he declared. “If I had known of it, and told Mr. Sabin, you would not have been travelling by this train alone.”
“I certainly should not,” she admitted demurely.
He saw his opportunity, and swiftly availed himself of it.
“Why does your uncle object to me so much?” he asked.
“Object to you!” she repeated. “On the contrary, I think that he rather approves of you. You saved his life, or something very much like it. He should be very grateful! I think that he is!”
“Yet,” he persisted, “he does not seem to desire my acquaintance—for you, at any rate. You have just admitted, that if he had known that there was any chance of our being fellow passengers you would not have been here.”
She did not answer him immediately. She was looking fixedly out of the window. Her face seemed to him more than ordinarily grave. When she turned her head, her eyes were thoughtful—a little sad.
“You are quite right,” she said. “My uncle does not think it well for me to make any acquaintances in this country. We are not here for very long. No doubt he is right. He has at least reason on his side. Only it is a little dull for me, and it is not what I have been used to. Yet there are sacrifices always. I cannot tell you any more. You must please not ask me. You are here, and I am pleased that you are here! There! will not that content you?”
“It gives me,” he answered earnestly, “more than contentment! It is happiness!”
“That is precisely the sort of thing,” she said slowly to him, with laughter in her eyes, “which you are not to say! Please understand that!”
He accepted the rebuke lightly. He was far too happy in being with her to be troubled by vague limitations. The present was good enough for him, and he did his best to entertain her. He noticed with pleasure that she did not even glance at the pile of papers at her side. They talked without intermission. She was interested, even gay. Yet he could not but notice that every now and then, especially at any reference to the future, her tone grew graver and a shadow passed across her face. Once he said something which suggested the possibility of her living always in England. She had shaken her head at once, gently but firmly.
“No, I could never live in this country,” she said, “even if my liking for it grew. It would be impossible!”
He was puzzled for a moment.
“You think that you could never care for it enough,” he suggested; “yet you have scarcely had time to judge it fairly. London in the spring is gay enough, and the life at some of our country houses is very different to what it was a few years ago. Society is so much more tolerant and broader.”
“It is scarcely a question,” she said, “of my likes or dislikes. Next to Paris, I prefer London in the spring to any city in Europe, and a week I spent at Radnett was very delightful. But, nevertheless, I could never live here. It is not my destiny!”
The old curiosity was strong upon him. Radnett was the home of the Duchess of Radnett and Ilchester, who had the reputation of being the most exclusive hostess in Europe! He was bewildered.
“I would give a great deal,” he said earnestly, “to know what you believe that destiny to be.”
“We are bordering upon the forbidden subject,” she reminded him, with a look which was almost reproachful. “You must please believe me when I tell you, that for me things have already been arranged otherwise. Come, I want you to tell me all about this country into which we are going. You must remember that to me it is all new!”
He suffered her to lead the conversation into other channels, with a vague feeling of disquiet. The mystery which hung around the girl and her uncle seemed only to grow denser as his desire to penetrate it grew. At present, at any rate, he was baffled. He dared ask no more questions.
The train glided into Peterborough station before either of them were well aware that they had entered in earnest upon the journey. Wolfenden looked out of the window with amazement.
“Why, we are nearly half way there!” he exclaimed. “How wretched!”
She smiled, and took up a magazine. Wolfenden’s servant came respectfully to the window.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?” he inquired.
Wolfenden shook his head, and opening the door, stepped out on to the platform.
“Nothing, thanks, Selby,” he said. “You had betterget yourself some lunch. We don’t get to Deringham until four o’clock.”
The man raised his hat and turned away. In a moment, however, he was back again.
“You will pardon my mentioning it, my lord,” he said, “but the young lady’s maid has been travelling in my carriage, and a nice fidget she’s been in all the way. She’s been muttering to herself in French, and she seems terribly frightened about something or other. The moment the train stopped here, she rushed off to the telegraph office.”
“She seems a little excitable,” Wolfenden remarked. “All right, Selby, you’d better hurry up and get what you want to eat.”
“Certainly, my lord; and perhaps your lordship knows that there is a flower-stall in the corner there.”
Wolfenden nodded and hurried off. He returned to the carriage just as the train was moving off, with a handful of fresh, wet violets, whose perfume seemed instantly to fill the compartment. The girl held out her hands with a little exclamation of pleasure.
“What a delightful travelling companion you are,” she declared. “I think these English violets are the sweetest flowers in the world.”
She held them up to her lips. Wolfenden was looking at a paper bag in her lap.
“May I inquire what that is?” he asked.
“Buns!” she answered. “You must not think that because I am a girl I am never hungry. It is two o’clock, and I am positively famished. I sent my maid for them.”
He smiled, and sweeping away the bundles of rugs and coats, produced the luncheon basket which he had secured at King’s Cross, and opening it, spread out the contents.
“For two!” she exclaimed, “and what a delightful looking salad! Where on earth did that come from?”
“Oh, I am no magician,” he exclaimed. “I orderedthe basket at King’s Cross, after I had seen you. Let me spread the cloth here. My dressing-case will make a capital table!”
They picnicked together gaily. It seemed to Wolfenden that chicken and tongue had never tasted so well before, or claret, at three shillings the bottle, so full and delicious. They cleared everything up, and then sat and talked over the cigarette which she had insisted upon. But although he tried more than once, he could not lead the conversation into any serious channel—she would not talk of her past, she distinctly avoided the future. Once, when he had made a deliberate effort to gain some knowledge as to her earlier surroundings, she reproved him with a silence so marked that he hastened to talk of something else.
“Your maid,” he said, “is greatly distressed about something. She sent a telegram off at Peterborough. I hope that your uncle will not make himself unpleasant because of my travelling with you.”
She smiled at him quite undisturbed.
“Poor Céleste,” she said. “Your presence here has upset her terribly. Mr. Sabin has some rather strange notions about me, and I am quite sure that he would rather have sent me down in a special train than have had this happen. You need not look so serious about it.”
“It is only on your account,” he assured her.
“Then you need not look serious at all,” she continued. “I am not under my uncle’s jurisdiction. In fact, I am quite an independent person.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he said heartily. “I should imagine that Mr. Sabin would not be at all a pleasant person to be on bad terms with.”
She smiled thoughtfully.
“There are a good many people,” she said, “who would agree with you. There are a great many people in the world who have cause to regret having offended him. Letus talk of something else. I believe that I can see the sea!”
They were indeed at Cromer. He found a carriage for her, and collected her belongings. He was almost amused at her absolute indolence in the midst of the bustle of arrival. She was evidently unused to doing the slightest thing for herself. He took the address which she gave to him, and repeated it to the driver. Then he asked the question which had been trembling many times upon his lips.
“May I come and see you?”
She had evidently been considering the matter, for she answered him at once and deliberately.
“I should like you to,” she said; “but if for any reason it did not suit my uncle to have you come, it would not be pleasant for either of us. He is going to play golf on the Deringham links. You will be certain to see him there, and you must be guided by his manner towards you.”
“And if he is still—as he was in London—must this be goodbye, then?” he asked earnestly.
She looked at him with a faint colour in her cheeks and a softer light in her proud, clear eyes.
“Well,” she said, “goodbye would be the last word which could be spoken between us. But,n’importe, we shall see.”
She flashed a suddenly brilliant smile upon him, and leaned back amongst the cushions. The carriage drove off, and Wolfenden, humming pleasantly to himself, stepped into the dogcart which was waiting for him.
The Countess of Deringham might be excused for considering herself the most unfortunate woman in England. In a single week she had passed from the position of one of the most brilliant leaders of English society to be the keeper of a recluse, whose sanity was at least doubtful. Her husband, Admiral the Earl of Deringham, had been a man of iron nerve and constitution, with a splendid reputation, and undoubtedly a fine seaman. The horror of a single day had broken up his life. He had been the awe-stricken witness of a great naval catastrophe, in which many of his oldest friends and companions had gone to the bottom of the sea before his eyes, together with nearly a thousand British seamen. The responsibility for the disaster lay chiefly from those who had perished in it, yet some small share of the blame was fastened upon the onlookers, and he himself, as admiral in command, had not altogether escaped. From the moment when they had led him down from the bridge of his flagship, grey and fainting, he had been a changed man. He had never recovered from the shock. He retired from active service at once, under a singular and marvellously persistent delusion. Briefly he believed, or professed to believe, that half the British fleet had perished, and that the country was at the mercy of the first great Power who cared to send her warships up the Thames. It was a question whether he was really insane;on any ordinary topic his views were the views of a rational man, but the task which he proceeded to set himself was so absorbing that any other subject seemed scarcely to come within the horizon of his comprehension. He imagined himself selected by no less a person than the Secretary for War, to devote the rest of his life to the accomplishment of a certain undertaking! Practically his mission was to prove by figures, plans, and naval details (unknown to the general public), the complete helplessness of the empire. He bought a yacht and commenced a series of short cruises, lasting over two years, during the whole of which time his wife was his faithful and constant companion. They visited in turn each one of the fortified ports of the country, winding up with a general inspection of every battleship and cruiser within British waters. Then, with huge piles of amassed information before him, he settled down in Norfolk to the framing of his report, still under the impression that the whole country was anxiously awaiting it. His wife remained with him then, listening daily to the news of his progress, and careful never to utter a single word of discouragement or disbelief in the startling facts which he sometimes put before her. The best room in the house, the great library, was stripped perfectly bare and fitted up for his study, and a typist was engaged to copy out the result of his labours in fair form. Lately, the fatal results to England which would follow the public disclosure of her awful helplessness had weighed heavily upon him, and he was beginning to live in the fear of betrayal. The room in which he worked was fitted with iron shutters, and was guarded night and day. He saw no visitors, and was annoyed if any were permitted to enter the house. He met his wife only at dinner time, for which meal he dressed in great state, and at which no one else was ever allowed to be present. He suffered, when they were alone, no word to pass his lips, save with reference to thesubject of his labours; it is certain he looked upon himself as the discoverer of terrible secrets. Any remark addressed to him upon other matters utterly failed to make any impression. If he heard it he did not reply. He would simply look puzzled, and, as speedily as possible withdraw. He was sixty years of age, of dignified and kindly appearance; a handsome man still, save that the fire of his blue eyes was quenched, and the firm lines of his commanding mouth had become tremulous. Wolfenden, on his arrival, was met in the hall by his mother, who carried him off at once to have tea in her own room. As he took a low chair opposite to her he was conscious at once of a distinct sense of self-reproach. Although still a handsome woman, the Countess of Deringham was only the wreck of her former brilliant self. Wolfenden, knowing what her life must be, under its altered circumstances, could scarcely wonder at it. The black hair was still only faintly streaked with grey, and her figure was as slim and upright as ever. But there were lines on her forehead and about her eyes, her cheeks were thinner, and even her hands were wasted. He looked at her in silent pity, and although a man of singularly undemonstrative habits, he took her hand in his and pressed it gently. Then he set himself to talk as cheerfully as possible.
“There is nothing much wrong physically with the Admiral, I hope?” he said, calling him by the name they still always gave him. “I saw him at the window as I came round. By the bye, what is that extraordinary looking affair like a sentry-box doing there?”
The Countess sighed.
“That is part of what I have to tell you,” she said. “A sentry-box is exactly what it is, and if you had looked inside you would have seen Dunn or Heggs there keeping guard. In health your father seems as well as ever; mentally, I am afraid that he is worse. I fear that he is gettingvery bad indeed. That is why I have sent for you, Wolf!”
Wolfenden was seriously and genuinely concerned. Surely his mother had had enough to bear.
“I am very sorry,” he said. “Your letter prepared me a little for this; you must tell me all about it.”
“He has suddenly become the victim,” the Countess said, “of a new and most extraordinary delusion. How it came to pass I cannot exactly tell, but this is what happened. He has a bed, you know, made up in an ante-room, leading from the library, and he sleeps there generally. Early this morning the whole house was awakened by the sound of two revolver shots. I hurried down in my dressing-gown, and found some of the servants already outside the library door, which was locked and barred on the inside. When he heard my voice he let me in. The room was in partial darkness and some disorder. He had a smoking revolver in his hand, and he was muttering to himself so fast that I could not understand a word he said. The chest which holds all his maps and papers had been dragged into the middle of the room, and the iron staple had been twisted, as though with a heavy blow. I saw that the lamp was flickering and a current of air was in the room, and when I looked towards the window I found that the shutters were open and one of the sashes had been lifted. All at once he became coherent.
“‘Send for Morton and Philip Dunn!’ he cried. ‘Let the shrubbery and all the Home Park be searched. Let no one pass out of either of the gates. There have been thieves here!’
“I gave his orders to Morton. ‘Where is Richardson?’ I asked. Richardson was supposed to have been watching outside. Before he could answer Richardson came in through the window. His forehead was bleeding, as though from a blow.
“‘What has happened, Richardson?’ I asked. The man hesitated and looked at your father. Your father answered instead.
“‘I woke up five minutes ago,’ he cried, ‘and found two men here. How they got past Richardson I don’t know, but they were in the room, and they had dragged my chest out there, and had forced a crowbar through the lock! I was just in time; I hit one man in the arm and he fired back. Then they bolted right past Richardson. They must have nearly knocked you down. You must have been asleep, you idiot,’ he cried, ‘or you could have stopped them!’
“I turned to Richardson; he did not say a word, but he looked at me meaningly. The Admiral was examining his chest, so I drew Richardson on one side.
“‘Is this true, Richardson?’ I asked. The man shook his head.
“‘No, your ladyship,’ he said bluntly, ‘it ain’t; there’s no two men been here at all! The master dragged the chest out himself; I heard him doing it, and I saw the light, so I left my box and stepped into the room to see what was wrong. Directly he saw me he yelled out and let fly at me with his revolver! It’s a wonder I’m alive, for one of the bullets grazed my temple!’
“Then he went on to say that he would like to leave, that no wages were good enough to be shot at, and plainly hinted that he thought your father ought to be locked up. I talked him over, and then got the Admiral to go back to bed. We had the place searched as a matter of form, but of course there was no sign of anybody. He had imagined the whole thing! It is a mercy that he did not kill Richardson!”
“This is very serious,” Wolfenden said gravely. “What about his revolver?”
“I managed to secure that,” the Countess said. “It islocked up in my drawer, but I am afraid that he may ask for it at any moment.”
“We can make that all right,” Wolfenden said; “I know where there are some blank cartridges in the gun-room, and I will reload the revolver with them. By the bye, what does Blatherwick say about all this?”
“He is almost as worried as I am, poor little man,” Lady Deringham said. “I am afraid every day that he will give it up and leave. We are paying him five hundred a year, but it must be miserable work for him. It is really almost amusing, though, to see how terrified he is at your father. He positively shakes when he speaks to him.”
“What does he have to do?” Wolfenden asked.
“Oh, draw maps and make calculations and copy all sorts of things. You see it is wasted and purposeless work, that is what makes it so hard for the poor man.”
“You are quite sure, I suppose,” Wolfenden asked, after a moment’s hesitation, “that it is all wasted work?”
“Absolutely,” the Countess declared. “Mr. Blatherwick brings me, sometimes in despair, sheets upon which he has been engaged for days. They are all just a hopeless tangle of figures and wild calculations! Nobody could possibly make anything coherent out of them.”
“I wonder,” Wolfenden suggested thoughtfully, “whether it would be a good idea to get Denvers, the secretary, to write and ask him not to go on with the work for the present. He could easily make some excuse—say that it was attracting attention which they desired to avoid, or something of that sort! Denvers is a good fellow, and he and the Admiral were great friends once, weren’t they?”
The Countess shook her head.
“I am afraid that would not do at all,” she said. “Besides, out of pure good nature, of course, Denvers has already encouraged him. Only last week he wrote him a friendlyletter hoping that he was getting on, and telling him how interested every one in the War Office was to hear about his work. He has known about it all the time, you see. Then, too, if the occupation were taken from your father, I am afraid he would break down altogether.”
“Of course there is that to be feared,” Wolfenden admitted. “I wonder what put this new delusion into his head? Does he suspect any one in particular?”
The Countess shook her head.
“I do not think so; of course it was Miss Merton who started it. He quite believes that she took copies of all the work she did here, but he was so pleased with himself at the idea of having found her out, that he has troubled very little about it. He seems to think that she had not reached the most important part of his work, and he is copying that himself now by hand.”
“But outside the house has he no suspicions at all?”
“Not that I know of; not any definite suspicion. He was talking last night of Duchesne, the great spy and adventurer, in a rambling sort of way. ‘Duchesne would be the man to get hold of my work if he knew of it,’ he kept on saying. ‘But none must know of it! The newspapers must be quiet! It is a terrible danger!’ He talked like that for some time. No, I do not think that he suspects anybody. It is more a general uneasiness.”
“Poor old chap!” Wolfenden said softly. “What does Dr. Whitlett think of him? Has he seen him lately? I wonder if there is any chance of his getting over it?”
“None at all,” she answered. “Dr. Whitlett is quite frank; he will never recover what he has lost—he will probably lose more. But come, there is the dressing bell. You will see him for yourself at dinner. Whatever you do don’t be late—he hates any one to be a minute behind time.”