Wrayson felt, from the moment he crossed the threshold of the room, that he had entered an atmosphere charged with elusive emotion. He was not sure of himself or of her as she turned slowly to greet him. Only he was at once conscious that something of that change in her which he had prophetically imagined was already shining out of her eyes. She was at once more natural and further removed from him.
"I am glad," she said simply. "I wanted to say good-bye to you."
He was stunned for a moment. He had not imagined this.
She nodded.
"Good-bye!" he repeated. "You are going away?"
"To-morrow. Oh! I am glad. You don't know how glad I am."
She swept past him and sank into an easy-chair. She wore a black velveteen evening dress, cut rather high, without ornament or relief of any sort, and her neck gleamed like polished ivory from which creeps always a subtle shade of pink. Her hair was parted in the middle and brushed back in little waves, her eyes were full of fire, and her face was no longer passive. Beautiful she had seemed to him before, but beautiful with a sort of impersonal perfection. She was beautiful now in her own right, the beauty of a woman whom nature has claimed for her own, who acknowledges her heritage. The fear-frozen subjectivity in which he had yet found enough to fascinate him had passed away. He felt that she was a stranger.
"Always," she murmured, "I shall think of London as the city of dreadful memories. I should like to be going to set my face eastwards or westwards until I was so far away that even memory had perished. But that is just where the bonds tell, isn't it?"
"There are many who can make the bonds elastic," he answered. "It is only a question of going far enough."
"Alas!" she answered, "a few hundred miles are all that are granted to me. And London is like a terrible octopus. Its arms stretch over the sea."
"A few hundred miles," he repeated, with obvious relief. "Northward or southward, or eastward or westward?"
"Southward," she answered. "The other side of the Channel. That, at least, is something. I always like to feel that there is sea between me and a place which I—loathe!"
"Is London so hateful to you, then?" he asked.
"Perhaps I should not have said that," she answered. "Say a place of which I am afraid!"
He looked across at her. He, too, in obedience to a gesture from her, was seated.
"Come," he said, "we will not talk of London, then. Tell me where you are going."
She shook her head.
"To a little Paradise I know of."
"Paradise," he reminded her, "was meant for two."
"There will be two of us," she answered, smiling.
He felt his heart thump against his ribs.
"Then if one wanted to play the part of intruder?"
She shook her head.
"The third person in Paradise was always very muchde trop," she reminded him.
"It depends upon the people who are already there," he protested.
"My friend," she said, "is in search of solitude, absolute and complete."
He shook his head.
"Such a place does not exist," he declared confidently. "Your friend might as well have stayed at home."
"She relies upon me to procure it for her," she said.
A rare smile flashed from Wrayson's lips.
"You can't imagine what a relief her sex is to me!" he exclaimed.
"I don't know why," she answered pensively. "Do you know anything about the North of France, Mr. Wrayson?"
"Not much," he answered. "I hope to know more presently."
Her eyes laughed across at him.
"You know what I said about the third person in Paradise?"
"I can't admit your Paradise," he said.
"You are a heretic," she answered. "It is a matter of sex, of course."
"Naturally! Paradise is so relative. It may be the halo thrown round a court in the city or a rose garden in the country, any place where love is!"
"And may I not love my friend!" she demanded.
"You may love me," he answered, the passion suddenly vibrating in his tone. "I will be more faithful than any friend. I will build Paradise for you—wherever you will! I will build the walls so high that no harm or any fear shall pass them."
She waved him back. Something of the old look, which he hated so to see, was in her face.
"You must not talk to me like this, Mr. Wrayson," she said. "Indeed you must not."
"Why not?" he demanded. "If there is a reason I will know it."
She looked him steadily in the eyes.
"Can't you imagine one for yourself?" she asked.
He laughed scornfully.
"You don't understand," he said. "There is only one reason in the world that I would admit—I don't even know that I would accept that. The other things don't count. They don't exist."
She looked at him a little incredulously. She was still sitting, and he was standing now before her. Her fingers rested lightly upon the arms of her chair, she was leaning slightly forward as though watching for something in his face.
"Tell me that there is another man," he cried, "that you don't care for me, that you never could care for me, and I will go away and you shall never see my face again. But nothing short of that will drive me from you."
He spoke quickly, his tone was full of nervous passion. It never occurred to her to doubt him.
"You can be what else you like," he continued, "thief, adventuress—murderess! So long as there is no other man! Come to me and I will take you away from it all."
She laughed very softly, and his pulses thrilled at the sound, for there was no note of mockery there; it was the laugh of a woman who listens to hidden music.
"You are a bold lover," she murmured. "Have you been reading romances lately? Do you know that it is the twentieth century, and I have seen you three times? You don't know what you say. You can't mean it."
"By Heaven, I do!" he cried, and for one exquisite moment he held her in his arms. Then she freed herself with a sudden start. She had lost her composure. Her cheeks were flushed.
"Don't!" she cried, sharply. "Remember our first meeting. I am not the sort of person you imagine. I never can be. There are reasons—"
He swept them aside. Something seemed to tell him that if he did not succeed with her now, his opportunity would be gone forever.
"I will listen to none of them," he declared, standing between her and the door. "They don't matter! Nothing matters! I choose you for my wife, and I will have you. I wouldn't care if you came to me from a prison. Better give in, Louise. I shan't let you escape."
She had indeed something of the look of a beautiful hunted animal as she leaned a little towards him, her eyes riveted upon his, her lips a little parted, her bosom rising and falling quickly. She was taken completely by surprise. She had not given Wrayson credit for such strength of mind or purpose. She had believed entirely in her own mastery over him, for any such assault as he was now making. And she was learning the truth. Love that makes a woman weak lends strength to the man. Their positions were becoming reversed. It was he who was dictating to her.
"I am going away," she said nervously. "You will forget me. You must forget me."
"You shall not go away," he answered, "unless I know where. Don't be afraid. You can keep your secrets, whatever they are. I want to know nothing. Go on exactly with the life you are leading, if it pleases you. I shan't interfere. But you are going to be my wife, and you shall not leave London without telling me about it."
"I am leaving London," she faltered, "to-morrow."
"I was thinking," he remarked, calmly, "of taking a little holiday myself."
She laughed uneasily.
"You are absurd," she declared, "and you must go away. Really! The Baroness will be home directly. I would rather, I would very much rather that she did not find you here."
He held out his arms to her. His eyes were bright with the joy of conquest.
"I will go, Louise," he answered, "but first I will have my answer—and no answer save one will do!"
She bit her lip. She was moved by some emotion, but he was unable, for the moment, to classify it.
"I think," she declared, "that you must be the most persistent man on earth."
"You are going to find me so," he assured her.
"Listen," she said firmly, "I will not marry you!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"On that point," he answered, "I am content to differ from you. Anything else?"
She stamped her foot.
"I do not care for you! I do not wish to marry you!" she repeated. "I am going away, and I forbid you to follow me."
"No good!" he declared, stolidly. "I am past all that."
She held up her finger, and glanced backward out of the window.
"It is the Baroness," she said. "I must go and open the door."
For one moment she lay passive in his arms; then he could have sworn that her lips returned his kiss. She was there when they heard the turning of a latch-key in the door. With a little cry she slipped away and left him alone. The outer door was thrown open, and the Baroness stood upon the threshold.
The Baroness recognized Wrayson with a little shrug of the shoulders.
"Ah! my dear Mr. Wrayson," she exclaimed, "this is very kind of you. You have been keeping Louise company, I hope. And see what droll things happen! It is your friend, Mr. Barnes, who has brought me home this evening, and who will take a whisky and soda before he goes. Is it not so, my friend?"
She turned around, but there was no immediate response. The Baroness looked over the banisters and beheld her escort in the act of ascending.
"Coming right along," he called out cheerfully. "It was the cabman who tried to stop me. He wanted more than his fare. Found he'd tackled the wrong Johnny this time."
Mr. Sydney Barnes came slowly into view. He was wearing an evening suit, obviously too large for him, a made-up white tie had slipped round underneath his ear, a considerable fragment of red silk handkerchief was visible between his waistcoat and much crumpled white shirt. An opera hat, also too large for him, he was wearing very much on the back of his head, and he was smoking a very black cigar, from which he had failed to remove the band. He frowned when he saw Wrayson, but followed the Baroness into the room with a pronounced swagger.
"You two need no introduction, of course," the Baroness remarked. "I am not going to tell you where I found Mr. Barnes. I do not expect to be very much longer in England, so perhaps I am not so careful as I ought to be. Louise, if she knew, would be shocked. Now, Mr. Wrayson, do not hurry away. You will take some whisky and soda? I am afraid that my young friend has not been very hospitable."
"You are very kind," Wrayson said. "To tell you the truth, I was rather hoping to see Miss Fitzmaurice again. She disappeared rather abruptly."
The Baroness shook her finger at him in mock reproach.
"You have been misbehaving," she declared. "Never mind. I will go and see what I can do for you."
She stood for a moment before a looking-glass arranging her hair, and then left the room humming a light tune. Sydney Barnes, with his hands in his pockets, flung himself into an easy-chair.
"I say," he began, "I don't quite see what you're doing here."
Wrayson looked at him for a moment in supercilious surprise.
"I scarcely see," he answered, "how my movements concern you."
Mr. Barnes was unabashed.
"Oh! chuck it," he declared. "You know very well what I'm thinking of. To tell you the truth, I've come to the conclusion that there's some connection between this household and my brothers affairs. That's why I'm palling on to the Baroness. She's a fine woman—class, you know, and all that sort of thing, but what I want is the shino! You tumble?"
Wrayson shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"I wish you every success," he said. "Personally, I think that you are wasting your time here."
"Perhaps so," Barnes answered. "I'm taking my own risks."
Wrayson turned away, and at that moment the Baroness re-entered the room.
"My friend," she said, addressing Wrayson, "I can do nothing for you. Whether you have offended Louise or made her too happy, I cannot say. But she will not come down. You will not see her again to-night."
"I am sorry," Wrayson answered. "She is going away to-morrow, I understand?"
The Baroness sighed.
"Alas!" she declared, "I must not answer any questions. Louise has forbidden it."
Wrayson took up his hat.
"In that case," he remarked, "there remains nothing for me but to wish you good night!"
There was a cab on the rank opposite, and Wrayson, after a moment's hesitation, entered it and was driven to the club. He scarcely expected to find any one there, but he was in no mood for sleep, and the thought of his own empty rooms chilled him. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he found the smoking-room full. The central figure of the most important group was the Colonel, his face beaming with good-nature, and his cheeks just a little flushed. He welcomed Wrayson almost boisterously.
"Come along, Herbert," he cried. "Plenty of room. What'll you have to drink, and have you heard the news?"
"Whisky and soda," Wrayson answered, sinking into an easy-chair, "and I haven't heard any news."
The Colonel took his cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward in his chair. He had the appearance of a man who was striving to appear more grave than he felt.
"You remember the old chap we saw dining at Luigi's to-night—Bentham, I think you said his name was?"
Wrayson nodded.
"Of course! What about him?"
"He's dead!" the Colonel declared.
Wrayson jumped out of his chair.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean it, Colonel!"
"Unfortunately, I do," the Colonel answered. "He was found dead on the stairs leading to his office, about ten o'clock to-night. A most interesting case. The murder, presuming it was a murder, appears to have been committed—"
Wrayson was suddenly pale.
"Murder!" he repeated. "Colonel, do you mean this?"
The Colonel, who hated being interrupted, answered a little testily.
"My dear Wrayson," he expostulated, "is this the sort of thing a man invents for fun? Do listen for a moment, if you can, in patience. It is a deeply interesting case. If you remember, it was about nine o'clock when we left Luigi's; Bentham must have gone almost straight to his office, for he was found there dead a very few minutes after ten."
"Who killed him, and why?" Wrayson asked breathlessly.
"That, I suppose, we shall know later," the Colonel answered. "The police will be on their mettle this time, but it isn't a particularly easy case. He was found lying on his face, stabbed through the heart. That is all anybody knows."
The thoughts went rushing through Wrayson's brain. He remembered the man as he had seemed only a few hours ago, cold, stonily indifferent to young Barnes' passionate questions, inflexibly silent, a man who might easily kindle hatreds, to all appearance without a soft spot or any human feeling. He remembered the close of their interview, and Sydney Barnes' rash threat. The suggested idea clothed itself almost unconsciously with words.
"I have just seen young Barnes," he said. "He has been at the Empire all the evening."
The Colonel lit another cigar.
"It takes a man of nerve and deliberation," he remarked, "to commit a murder. From what I have heard of him, I should not imagine your young friend to be possessed of either. The lady whom he was entertaining, or rather failing to entertain, at dinner—"
"I have seen her since," Wrayson interrupted shortly. "She went straight to the Alhambra."
The Colonel nodded.
"I would have insured her against even suspicion," he remarked. "She was a large, placid woman, of the flabby order of nerves. She will probably faint when she hears what has happened. She might box a man's ears, but her arm would never drive a dagger home into his heart, especially with such beautiful, almost mathematical accuracy. We must look elsewhere, I fancy, for the person who has paid Bentham's debt to society. Heneage, here, has an interesting theory."
Wrayson looked across and found that his eyes met Heneage's. He was sitting a little in the background, with a newspaper in his hand, which he was, however, only affecting to read. He was taking note of every word of the conversation. He was obviously annoyed at the Colonel's reference to him, but he did his best to conceal it.
"Scarcely a theory," he remarked, laying down his paper for a moment. "I can hardly call it that. I only remarked that I happened to know a little about Bentham, and that his clients, if he had any, were mostly foreigners, and their business of a shady nature. As a matter of fact, he was struck off the rolls here some years ago. I forget the case now, but I know that it was a pretty bad one."
"So you see," the Colonel resumed, "he was probably in touch with a loose lot, though what benefit his death could have been to any one it is, of course, a little hard to imagine. Makes one think, somehow, of this Morris Barnes affair, doesn't it? I wonder if there is any connection between the two."
Heneage laid down his paper now, and abandoned his attitude of indifferent listener. He was obviously listening for what Wrayson had to say.
"Connection of some sort between the two men there certainly was," Wrayson admitted. "We know that."
"Exactly," Heneage remarked. "I speak without knowing very much about the matter, but I am thoroughly convinced of one thing. If you can find the murderer of Morris Barnes, you will solve, at the same time, the mystery of Bentham's death. It is the same affair; part and parcel of the same tangle."
The Colonel was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be reflecting on Heneage's words.
"I believe you are right," he said at last. "I should be curious to know, though, how you arrived at this decision."
Heneage looked past him at Wrayson.
"You should ask Wrayson," he said.
But Wrayson had risen, and was sauntering towards the door.
"I'm off," he remarked, looking backwards and nodding his farewells. "If I stay here any longer, I shall have nightmare. Time you fellows were in bed, too. How's the Malleni fund, Colonel?"
The Colonel's face relaxed. A smile of genuine pleasure lit up his features.
"Going strong," he declared triumphantly. "We shall ship him off for Italy next week with a very tidy little cheque in his pocket. Dear old Dobson gave us ten pounds, and the concert fund is turning out well."
Wrayson lit a cigarette and looked back from the open door.
"You're more at home with philanthropy than horrors, Colonel," he remarked. "Good night, everybody!"
The Baroness was looking her best, and knew it. She had slept well the night before, and her eyes were soft and clear. Her maid had been unusually successful with her hair, and her hat, which had arrived only that morning from Paris, was quite the smartest in the room. She was at her favourite restaurant, and her solitary companion was a good-looking man, added to which the caviar was delightfully fresh, and the toast crisp and thin. Consequently the Baroness was in a particularly good temper.
"I really do wish, my dear friend," she said, smiling across at him, "that I could do what you ask. But it is not so simple, not so simple as you think. You say, 'Give me the address of your friend,' You ask me nicely, and I like you well enough to be glad to do it. But Louise she say to me, 'Give no one my address! Let no one know where I am gone.'"
"I'm sure she didn't mean that to apply to me," Wrayson pleaded.
"Ah! but she even mentioned your name," the Baroness declared. "I say to her, 'Not even Mr. Wrayson?' and she answered, 'No! No! No!'"
"And you promised?" he asked.
"Why, yes! What else could I do?" she replied. "I say to her, 'You are a very foolish girl, Louise. After you have gone you will be sorry. Mr. Wrayson will be angry with you, and I shall make myself very, very agreeable to him, and who knows but he will forget all about you?' But Louise she only shake her head. She knows her own countrymen too well. They are so terribly insularly constant."
"Is that such a very bad quality, Baroness?"
"Ah! I find it so," she admitted. "I do not like the man who can think of only one thing, only one woman at a time. He is so dull, he has no imagination. If he has only one sweetheart, how can he know anything about us? for in a hundred different women there are no two alike."
"That is all very well," Wrayson answered, smiling; "but, you see, if a man cares very much for one particular woman, he hasn't the least curiosity about the rest of her sex."
She sighed gently, and her eyes flashed her regrets. Very blue eyes they were to-day, almost as blue as the turquoises about her throat.
"They say," she murmured, "that some Englishmen are like that. It is so much a pity—when they are nice!"
"I suppose," he suggested, "that yours is the Continental point of view."
She was silent until the waiter, who was filling her glass with white wine, had departed. Then she leaned over towards him. Her forehead was a little wrinkled, her eyebrows raised. She had the half-plaintive air of a child who is complaining of being unjustly whipped.
"Yes! I think it is," she answered. "The lover, as I know him, is one who could not be unkind to a woman. In his heart he is faithful, perhaps, to one, but for her sake the whole world of beautiful women are objects of interest to him. He will flirt with them when they will. He is always their admirer. In the background there may always be what you call the preference, but that is his secret."
Wrayson smiled across the table.
"This is a very dangerous doctrine, Baroness!" he declared.
"Dangerous?" she murmured.
"For us! Remember that we are a susceptible race."
She flung out her hands and shook her head. Susceptible! She denied it vehemently.
"It is on the contrary," she declared. "You do not lose your heads or your hearts very easily, you Englishmen."
"You do not know us," he protested.
"I knowyou," she answered. "For myself, I admit it. When I am with a man who is nice, I try that I may make him, just a little, no more, but just a little in love with me. It makes things more amusing. It is better for him, and we are not bored. But with you,mon ami, Iknow very well that I waste my time. And so, I ask you instead this question. Tell me why you have invited me to take luncheon with you."
She flashed her question across at him carelessly enough, but he felt that she expected an answer, and that she was not to be deceived.
"I wanted Miss Fitzmaurice's address," he said.
"Naturally. But what else?"
He sighed.
"I want to know more than you will tell me, I am afraid," he said. "I want to know why you and Miss Fitzmaurice are living together in London and leading such an unusual life, and how in Heaven's name you became concerned in the affairs of Morris Barnes."
"Ah!" she said. "You want to know that? So!"
"I do," he admitted.
"And yet," she remarked, "even for that it was not worth while to make love to me! You ask so much, my friend, and you give so little."
"If you—" he began, a little awkwardly.
Her light laugh stopped him.
"Ah, no! my friend, you must not be foolish," she said. "I will tell you what I can for nothing, and that, I am afraid, is very little more than nothing. But as for offering me a bribe, you must not think of that. It would not becomme-il-faut;not at allgentil."
"Tell me what you can, then," he begged.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It is so little," she declared; "only this. We are not adventuresses, Louise and I. We are living together because we were schoolfellows, and because we are both anxious to succeed in a certain undertaking to which, for different reasons, we have pledged ourselves. To succeed we needed some papers which had come into the hands of Mr. Morris Barnes. That is why I am civil to that little—what you call bounder, his brother."
"It sounds reasonable enough, this," Wrayson said; "but what about the murder of Morris Barnes, on the very night, you know, when Louise was there?"
"It is all a very simple matter," the Baroness answered, quietly, "but yet it is a matter where the death of a few such men would count for nothing. A few ages ago it would not have been a matter of a dozen Morris Barnes, no, nor a thousand! Diplomacy is just as cruel, and just as ruthless, as the battlefield, only it works, down there—underground!"
"It is a political matter, then?" Wrayson asked swiftly.
The Baroness smiled. She took a cigarette from her little gold case and lit it.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you must not try to, what you say, pump me! You can call it what you will. Only to Louise, as to me, it is very much a personal affair. Shall we talk now, for a little, of other things?"
Wrayson sighed.
"I may not know, then," he begged, "where Louise has gone, or why?"
"It would not be her wish," the Baroness answered, "that I should tell you."
"Very well," Wrayson said, "I will ask you no more questions. Only this. I have told you of this man Bentham."
The Baroness inclined her head. He had told her nothing that was news to her.
"Was he on your side, or opposed to you?"
"You are puzzling me," the Baroness confessed.
"Already," Wrayson explained, "I know as much of the affair as this. Morris Barnes was in possession of something, I do not know whether it was documents, or what possible material shape it had, but it brought him in a considerable income, and both you and some others were endeavouring to obtain possession of it. So far, I believe that neither of you have succeeded. Morris Barnes has been murdered in vain; Bentham the lawyer, who telephoned to me on the night of his death, has shared his fate. To whose account do these two murders go, yours or the others'?"
"I cannot answer that question, Mr. Wrayson," the Baroness said.
"Do you know," Wrayson demanded, dropping his voice a little, "that, but for my moral, if not actual perjury, Louise herself would have been charged with the murder of Morris Barnes?"
"She had a narrow escape," the Baroness admitted.
"She had a narrow escape," Wrayson declared, "but the unfortunate part of the affair is, that she is not even now safe!"
The Baroness looked at him curiously. She was in the act of drawing on her gloves, but her fingers suddenly became rigid.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean," Wrayson said, "that another person saw her come out of the flats that night. It was a friend of mine, who kept silence at first because he believed that it was a private assignation of my own. Since then events have occurred to make him think differently. He has gone over to the other side. He is spending his time with young Sydney Barnes, and he has set himself to discover the mystery of Morris Barnes' murder. He has even gone so far as to give me warning that I should be better out of England."
"Who is this person?" the Baroness asked calmly.
"His name is Stephen Heneage, and he is a member of my club, the club to which Louise's father also belongs," Wrayson replied.
The Baroness suddenly dropped her veil, but not before Wrayson had seen a sudden change in her face. He remembered suddenly that Heneage was no stranger to her, he remembered the embarrassment of their meeting at the Alhambra.
"You know him, of course," he repeated. "Heneage is not a man to be trifled with. He has had experience in affairs of this sort, he is no ordinary amateur detective."
"Yes! I know Mr. Stephen Heneage," the Baroness said. "Tell me, does Louise know?"
Wrayson shook his head.
"I have had no opportunity of telling her," he answered. "I might not have thought so seriously of it, but this morning I received a note from Heneage."
"Yes! What did he say?"
"It was only a line or two," Wrayson answered. "He reminded me of his previous warning to me to leave England for a time, and he underlined it. Louise ought to know. I want to tell her!"
"I am glad you did not tell me this before," the Baroness said, as they left the room together, "or it would have spoiled my luncheon. I do not like your friend, Mr. Heneage!"
"You will give me Louise's address?" he asked. "Some one must see her."
"I will send it you," the Baroness promised, "before the day is out."
"One would scarcely believe," Wrayson remarked, leaning back in his chair and drawing in a long deep breath, "that we are within three miles of one of the noisiest and most bustling of French watering places."
"It is incredible," his companion admitted.
They were seated in a garden behind the old inn of theLion d'Or, in the village of St. Étarpe. Before them was a round table, on whose spotless white cloth still remained dishes of fruit and a bottle of wine—not thevin ordinairewhich had been served with their repast, but something which Wrayson had ordered specially, and which the landlord himself, all smiles and bows, had uncorked and placed before them. Wrayson produced his cigarette case.
"How did you hear of this place?" he asked, watching the smoke curl upwards into the breathless air. "I fancy that you and I are the only guests here."
Wrayson's companion, tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily bearded, was busy filling a pipe from a pouch by his side. His features were unmistakably Saxon, and his cheeks were tanned, as though by much exposure to all sorts of weathers. He was still apparently on the right side of middle age, but his manners were grave, almost reserved.
"I was in the neighbourhood many years ago," he answered. "I had a fancy to revisit the place. And you?"
"I discovered it entirely by accident," Wrayson admitted. "I walked out from Chourville this morning, stayed here for some luncheon, and was so delighted that I took a room and went straight back for my bag. There isn't an emperor in Europe who has so beautiful a dining-room as this!"
Together they looked across the valley, a wonderful panorama of vine-clad slopes and meadows, starred with many-coloured wild flowers, through which the river wound its way, now hidden, now visible, a thin line of gleaming quicksilver. Tall poplars fringed its banks, and there were white cottages and farmhouses, mostly built in the shelter of the vine-covered cliffs. To the left a rolling mass of woods was pierced by one long green avenue, at the summit of which stretched the grey front and towers of the Château de St. Étarpe. Wrayson looked long at the fertile and beautiful country, which seemed to fade so softly away in the horizon; but he looked longest at the chateâu amongst the woods.
"I wonder who lives there," he remarked. "I meant to have asked the waiter."
"I can tell you," the stranger said. "The château belongs to the Baroness de Sturm."
"A Frenchwoman?" Wrayson asked.
"Half French, half Belgian. She has estates in both countries, I believe," his companion answered. "As a matter of fact, I believe that this château is hers in her own right as a daughter of the Étarpes. She married a Belgian nobleman."
"You seem well acquainted with the neighbourhood," Wrayson remarked.
"I have been here before," was the somewhat short answer.
Wrayson produced his card-case.
"As we seem likely to see something of one another during the next few days,nolens volens," he remarked, "may I introduce myself? My name is Wrayson, Herbert Wrayson, and I come from London."
The stranger took the card a little doubtfully.
"I am much obliged," he said. "I do not carry a card-case, but my name is Duncan."
"An Englishman, of course?" Wrayson remarked smiling.
"I am English," Mr. Duncan answered, "but I have not been in England for many years."
There was something about his manner which forbade any further questioning on Wrayson's part. The two men sat together in silence, and Wrayson, although not of a curious turn of mind, began to feel more than an ordinary interest in his companion. One thing he noticed in particular. Although, as the sun sank lower, the beauties of the landscape below increased, Duncan's eyes scarcely for a moment rested upon them. He had turned his chair a little, and he sat directly facing the chateâu. The golden cornfields, the stained-glass windows of the grey church rising like a cathedral, as it were, in the midst of the daffodil-starred meadows, caught now with the flood of the dying sunlight mingled so harmoniously with their own time-mellowed richness, the increasing perfume of the flowers by which they were surrounded,—none of these things seemed for one moment to distract his attention. Steadily and fixedly he gazed up that deep green avenue, empty indeed of any moving object, and yet seemingly not empty to him. For he had the air of one who sees beyond the world of visible objects, of one who sees things dimmed to those of only natural powers. With what figures, Wrayson wondered, idly, was he peopling that empty avenue, what were the fancies which had crept out from his brain and held him spellbound? He had admitted a more or less intimate acquaintance with the place: was he, perhaps, a former lover of the Baroness, when she had been simply Amy de St. Étarpe? Wrayson forgot, for a while, his own affairs, in following out these mild speculations. The soft twilight stole down upon them; here and there little patches of grey mist came curling up the valley. A bat came flying about their heads, and Wrayson at last rose.
"I shall take a stroll." he remarked, "and turn in. Good night, if I don't see you again!"
The man named Duncan turned his head.
"Good night!" he said, mechanically.
Wrayson walked down the garden and passed through a wicket-gate into the broad white road. Setting his back to the village, he came, in a few minutes, to the great entrance gate of the château, hung from massive stone pillars of great age, and themselves fashioned of intricate and curiously wrought ironwork. The gates themselves were closed fast, and the smaller ones on either side, intended for pedestrians, were fastened with a padlock. Wrayson stood for a moment looking through the bars into the park. The drive ran for half a mile perfectly straight, and then, taking an abrupt bend, passed upwards into the woods, amongst which was the château.
"What do you want?" an abrupt voice demanded.
Wrayson looked round in surprise. A man in gamekeeper's clothes had issued from the lodge, carrying a gun.
"Good evening!" Wrayson said. "Is it permitted for the public to enter the park?"
"By no means," was the surly answer. "Cannot monsieur see that the gates are locked?"
"I understood from the landlord of theLion d'Or" Wrayson said, "that the villagers were allowed the privilege of walking in the park."
The man looked at him suspiciously.
"You are not of the village," he said.
"I am staying there," Wrayson answered.
"It makes nothing. For the present, villagers and every one are forbidden to enter. There are visitors at the château."
Wrayson turned away.
"Very well," he said. "Good night!"
The man did not answer him. Wrayson continued to climb the hill which skirted the park. He did not turn round, but he heard the gates open, and he was convinced that he was being watched, if he was not followed. He kept on, however, until he came to some more iron gates, from which stretched the grass avenue which led straight to the gardens of the château. Dimly, through the gathering dusk, he caught a view of it, which was little more than an impression; silver grey and quiet with the peace which the centuries can bring, it seemed to him, with its fantastic towers, and imperfectly visible outline, like a palace of dreams rather than a dwelling house, however magnificent, of material stone and brick. An owl flew out from the trees a few yards to the left of him, and drifted slowly over his head, with much flapping of wings, and a weird, soft call, faintly answered in the distance by his mate; from far away down in the valley came the slow ringing of a single evening bell. Save for these things, a silence almost wonderful reigned. Gradually Wrayson began to feel that sense of soothed nerves, of inexpressible relief, which Nature alone dispenses—her one unequalled drug! All the agitation and turmoil of the last few months seemed to fall away from him. He felt that he had been living in a world of false proportions; that the maze of doubts and fears through which he had wandered was, after all, no part of life itself, merely a tissue of irrelevant issues, to which his distorted imagination had affixed a purely fictitious importance. What concern of his was it how Morris Barnes had lived or died? And who was Bentham that his fate should ever disturb him? The secrets of other people were theirs to keep. His own secret was more wonderful by far. Alone, from amidst the tangle of his other emotions, he felt its survival—more than its survival, its absolute conquest of all other feelings and considerations. It was truth, he knew, that men sought after in the quiet places, and it was the truth which he had found. If he could but see her coming down the avenue, coming to him across the daisy-strewn grass, beneath the shadow of the stately poplars! The very thought set his heart beating like a boy's. He felt the blood singing in his veins, the love-music swelling in his heart. He shook the gates. They, too, were padlocked. Then he listened. There was no sound of any footfall in the road. He moved a few steps higher up, and, making use of the pillars of the gate, he climbed on to the wall. It was a six-foot drop, but he came down noiselessly into a bed of moss. Once more he paused to listen. There was no sound save the burring of some night insect over his head. Stealthily, and keeping in the shadow of the trees, he began to climb the grassy avenue towards the château.
It seemed to Wrayson, as by and by he began to make bolder and more rapid progress, that it was an actual fairy world into which he was passing with beating heart and this strange new sense of delicious excitement. As he drew nearer, the round Norman towers and immense grey front of the château began to take to themselves more definite shape. The gardens began to spread themselves out; terraced lawns, from whose flower-beds, now a blurred chaos so far as colour was concerned, waves of perfume came stealing down to him; statuary appeared, white and ghostly in the half light, and here and there startlingly lifelike; there were trimmed shrubs, and a long wall of roses trailed down from the high stone balcony. But, as yet, there was no sound or sign of human life! That was to come.
Wrayson came to a pause at last. He had passed from the shelter of the woods into a laurel walk, but further than this he could not go without being plainly visible to any one in the château. So he waited and watched. There were lights, he could see now, behind many of the ground floor windows of the chateâu, and more than once he fancied that he could catch the sound of music. He tried to fancy in which room she was, to project his passionate will through the twilight, so that she should come to him. But the curtains remained undrawn, and the windows closed. Still Wrayson waited!
Then at last Providence intervened. Above the top of the woods, over on the other side of the château, came first a faint lightening in the sky, which gradually deepened into a glow. Slowly the rim of the moon crept up, and very soon the spectral twilight was at an end. The shadowy landscape became real and vivid. It was a new splendour creeping softly into the night. Wrayson moved a little further back into his shelter, and even as he did so one of the lower windows of the château was thrown open, and two women, followed by a man, stepped out. Their appearance was so sudden that Wrayson felt his breath almost taken away. He leaned a little forward and watched them eagerly.
The woman, who was foremost of the little group, was a stranger to him, although her features, and a somewhat peculiar headdress which she wore, seemed in a sense familiar. She was tall and dark, and she carried herself with the easy dignity of a woman of rank. Her face was thoughtful and her expression sweet; if she was not actually beautiful, she was at least a woman whom it was impossible to ignore. But Wrayson glanced at her only for a minute. It was Louise who stood by her side!—the music of her voice came floating down to him. Heavens! had he ever realized how beautiful she was? He devoured her with his eyes, he strained his nerves to hear what they were saying. He was ridiculously relieved to see that the man who stood by their side was grey-headed. He was beginning to realize what love was. Jealousy would be intolerable.
They moved about the terrace. He scarcely knew whether he hoped or feared the more that they would descend and come nearer to him. After all, it was cruelly tantalizing. He dared not disobey the Baroness, or he would have stepped boldly from his hiding-place and gone up to them. But that, by the terms of his promise, was impossible. He was to make his presence known to Louise only if he could do so secretly. He was not to accost her in the presence of any other person. It might be days or weeks before the opportunity came—or it might—it might be minutes! For, almost without warning, she was alone. The others had left her, with farewells, if any, of the briefest. She came forward to the grey stone parapet, and, with her head resting upon her hand, looked out towards the woods.
His heart began to beat faster—his brain was confused. Was there any chance that she would descend into the gardens—dare he make a signal to her? Her head and shoulders were bare, and a slight breeze had sprung up during the last few minutes. Perhaps she would feel the cold and go in! Perhaps—
He watched her breathlessly. She had abandoned her thoughtful attitude and was standing upright, looking around her. She looked once at the window. She was apparently undecided whether to go in or not. Wrayson prayed then, if he had never prayed before. He didn't know to whom! He was simply conscious of an intense desire, which seemed somehow formulated into an appeal. Before he was fully conscious of it, she was coming down the steps. She stood on the edge of the lawn for a moment, as though considering; then, carefully raising her skirts in both hands, she picked her way amongst the flower-beds, coming almost directly towards him. Glancing round, he saw her objective—a rustic seat under a dark cedar tree, and he saw, too, that she must pass within a few feet of where he stood. She walked as one dreaming, or whose thoughts are far distant, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed. The awakening, when it came, was sudden enough.
"Louise," he called to her softly, "Louise!"
She dropped her skirts. For a moment he feared that she was going to cry out.
"Who is that?" she asked sharply.
"It is I, Herbert Wrayson," he answered. "Don't be afraid. Shall I come out to you, or will you come down the laurel path?"
"You!" she murmured. "You!"
He saw the light in her face, and his voice was hoarse with passion.
"Come," he cried, "or I must fetch you! Louise! Sweetheart!"
She came towards him a little timidly, her eyebrows arched, a divine smile playing about her lips. She stood at the entrance to the laurel grove and peered a little forward.
"Where are you?" she asked. "Is it really you? I think that I am a little afraid! Oh!"
He took her into his arms with a little laugh of happiness. Time and life itself stood still. Her feeble remonstrances were swept away in the tide of his passion. His lips hung burning against hers.
"My sweetheart!" he murmured. "Thank God you came!"...
She disengaged herself presently. A clock from the stables was striking. She counted the hours.
"Eleven o'clock!" she exclaimed. "Herbert, how long have I been here?"
"Don't ask me that," he answered. "Only tell me how long you are going to stay."
"Not another minute, really," she declared. "They will be sending out search parties for me directly. And—Herbert—how did you get here?" she demanded anxiously.
"I climbed over the wall," he answered cheerfully. "There didn't seem to be any other way."
She seemed almost incredulous.
"Didn't you see any watchmen?" she asked.
"There was one at the gates," he answered. "I fancied he followed me up the road, but I gave him the slip all right."
"Be careful how you go back," she begged. "This place is supposed to be closely watched."
"Watched! Why?" he asked. "Are you afraid of robbers?"
"How much did the Baroness tell you?" she asked.
"Nothing, except that I should find you here," he declared. "She made me promise that I would wait for an opportunity of seeing you alone."
"And why," she asked, "have you come?"
He took her into his arms again.
"I have learnt what love is," he murmured, "and I have forgotten the other things."
"That is all very well," she laughed, smoothing out her hair; "but the other things may be very important to me."
"A man named Stephen Heneage has taken up this Barnes affair," he answered. "He saw you leave the flats that night, and he is likely, if he thinks that it might lead to anything, to give the whole show away. He warned me to get away from England and—but you want the truth, don't you? All these are excuses! I came because I wanted you!—because I couldn't live without you, Louise! Couldn't we steal away somewhere and never go back? Why need we? We could go to Paris to-morrow, catch the Orient express the next day—I know a dozen hiding-places where we should be safe enough. We will make our own world and our own life—and forget!"
"Forget!" She drew a little away from him. Her tone chilled him. "Herbert," she said, "whatever happens, I must go now—this moment. Where are you stopping?"
"TheLion d'Or," he answered, "down in the village."
"I will send a note in the morning," she said eagerly. "Only you must go now, dear. Some one will be out to look for me, and I cannot think—I must have a little time to decide. Be very careful as you go back. If you are stopped, be sure and make them understand that you are an Englishman. Good night!"
He kissed her passionately. She yielded to his embrace, but almost immediately drew herself away. He clutched at her hand, but she eluded him. With swift footsteps she crossed the lawn. Just as she reached the terrace, the windows opened once more and some one called her name.
"I am coming in now," he heard her answer. "It has been such a wonderful night!"
The landlord of theLion d'Or,who had appeared for a moment to chat with his guests while they took their morning coffee, pointed downwards into the valley, where little clouds of mist hung over the lowlands.
"Themessieurswill find themselves hot to-day," he remarked. "Here, only, there will be a breeze. Eleven hundred feet up, and only three miles from the sea! It is wonderful, eh?"
Wrayson pointed across towards the château, whose towers rose from the bosom of the cool green woods.
"There, also," he said, "it will be very pleasant. The château is as high as we are, is it not so?"
The landlord shrugged his shoulders.
"There is little difference," he admitted, "and in the woods there is always shade. But who may go there? Never was an estate kept so zealously private, and, does monsieur know? Since yesterday a new order has been issued. The villagers were forbidden even their ancient rights of walking across the park! The head forester has posted a notice in the village."
"I have heard something of it," Wrayson admitted. "Has any reason been given. Are the family in residence there?"
The landlord shook his head.
"Madame la Baronne was never so exacting," he replied. "One hears that she has lent the château to friends. Two ladies are there, and one gentleman. It is all."
"Do you know who they are?" Wrayson asked.
The landlord assumed an air of mystery.
"One," he said, "is a young English lady. The other—well, they call her Madame de Melbain."
"What?"
The exclamation came like a pistol-shot from Wrayson's fellow-guest at the inn, who, up to now, had taken no part in the conversation. He had turned suddenly round, and was facing the startled landlord.
"Madame de Melbain," he repeated. "Monsieur, perhaps, knows the lady?"
There was a moment's silence. Then the man who had called himself Duncan looked away, frowning.
"No!" he said, "I do not know her. The name is familiar, but there is no lady of my acquaintance bearing it at present."
The landlord looked a little disappointed.
"Ah!" he remarked, "I had hoped that monsieur would have been able to give us a little information. There are many people in the village who would like to know who this Madame de Melbain is, for it is since her coming that all has been different. The park has been closed, the peasants and farmers have received orders forbidding them to accept boarders at present, and I myself am asked—for a consideration, I admit—to receive no further guests. Naturally, we ask ourselves, monsieur, what does it mean? One does not wish to gossip, but there is much here to wonder at!"
"What is she like, this Madame de Melbain?" Duncan asked.
"No one has seen her, monsieur," the landlord answered. "She arrived in a close carriage, since when she has not passed the lodge gates. She has her own servants who wait upon her. Without doubt she is a person of some importance! Possibly, though, she is eccentric. They say that every entrance to the château is guarded, and that a cordon of men are always watching."
Wrayson laughed.
"A little exaggeration, my friend, there, eh?"
The landlord shrugged his shoulders.
"One cannot tell," he declared. "This, at least, is singular," he continued, bending forward confidentially. "Since the arrival of these two ladies several strangers have been observed about the place, some of whom have endeavoured to procure lodgings. They spoke French, but they were not Frenchmen or Englishmen. True, this may be a coincidence, but one can never tell. Monsieur has any further commands?"
Monsieur had none, and the landlord withdrew, smiling and bowing.
Duncan leaned across the table.
"My French," he said deliberately, "is rotten. I couldn't understand half of what that fellow said. Do you mind repeating it to me?"
Wrayson did so, and his companion listened moodily. When he had finished, Duncan was gazing steadfastly over towards the château, and knocking the ashes from his pipe.
"Sounds a little feudal, doesn't it?" he remarked, drawing his pouch from his pocket. "However, I don't suppose it is any concern of yours or of mine."
Wrayson made no direct answer. He was fully conscious that his companion was watching him closely, and he affected to be deeply interested in the selection of a cigarette.
"No!" he said at last; "it is no concern of ours, of course. And yet one cannot help feeling a little interested. I noticed myself that the lodge gates of the château were rather strictly guarded."
"Very likely," the other answered. "Women of fashion who suffer from nerves take strange fancies nowadays. This Madame de Melbain is probably one of these."
Wrayson nodded.
"Very likely," he admitted. "What are you going to do with yourself all day?"
"Loaf! I am going to lie down in the fields there amongst the wild flowers, in the shade of the woods," Duncan answered; "that is, if one may take so great a liberty with the woods of madame! This sort of country rather fascinates me," he added thoughtfully. "I have lived so long in a land where the vegetation is a jungle and the flowers are exotics. There is a species of exaggeration about it all. I find this restful."
"Africa?" Wrayson asked.
The other nodded silently. He did not seem inclined to continue the conversation.
"You are the second man I have met lately who has come home from Africa," Wrayson remarked, "and you represent the opposite poles of life."
"It is very possible," Duncan admitted. "We are a polyglot lot who come from there."
"You were in the war, of course?" Wrayson asked.
"I was in the war," Duncan answered, "almost to the finish. Afterwards I went into Rhodesia, and incidentally made money. That's all I have to say about Africa. I hate the country, and I don't want to talk about it. See you later, I suppose."
He rose from his chair and stretched himself. Across the lawn the landlord came hurrying, his face perturbed and uneasy. His bow to Wrayson was subtly different. Here was perhaps an aristocrat under an assumed name, a person to be, without doubt, conciliated.
"Monsieur," he announced, with a little flourish of the white serviette which, from habit, he was carrying, "there is outside a young lady from the château who is inquiring for you."
"Which way?" Wrayson demanded anxiously.
"Monsieur will be pleased to follow me," the landlord answered.
Louise was alone in a victoria, drawn up before the front door of the inn. Wrayson saw at once that something had happened to disturb her. Even under her white veil he knew that she was pale, and that there were rings under her eyes. She leaned towards him and held out her hand in conventional manner for the benefit of the landlord, who lingered upon the steps.
"Come round to the other side of the carriage, Herbert," she said. "I have something to say to you. The coachman does not understand English. I have tried him."
Wrayson crossed behind the carriage and stood by her side.
"Herbert," she asked, anxiously, "will you do something for me, something I want you to do very much?"
"If I can," he answered simply.
"You can do this," she declared. "It is very easy. I want you to leave this place this morning, go away, anywhere! You can go back to London, or you can travel. Only start this morning."
"Willingly," he answered, "on one condition."
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"That you go with me," he declared.
She shook her head impatiently.
"You know that is not what I mean," she said reproachfully. "I was mad last night. You took me by surprise and I forgot everything. I was awake all night. This morning I can see things clearly. Nothing—of that sort—is possible between you and me. So I want you to go away!"
He shook his head, gently but firmly.
"It isn't possible, Louise," he said. "You mustn't ask me to do anything of that sort after last night. It's too late you see, dear. You belong to me now. Nothing can alter that."
"It is not too late," she answered passionately. "Last night was just an hour of madness. I shall cut it out of my life. You must cut it out of yours."
He leaned over till his head nearly touched hers, and under the holland dust-sheet which covered her knees he gripped her hand.
"I will not," he answered. "I will not go away. You belong to me, and I will have you!"
She looked at him for a moment without speech. Wrayson's features, more distinguished in a general way by delicacy than strength, had assumed a curiously set and dogged appearance. His eyes met hers kindly but mercilessly. He looked like a man who has spoken his last word.
"Herbert," she murmured, "there are things which you do not know and which I cannot tell you, but they stand between us! They must stand between us forever!"
"Of that," he said, "I mean to be the judge. And until you tell me what they are, I shall treat them as though they did not exist."
"I came here," she said, "to ask you, to beg you to go away."
"Then I am afraid you must write your mission down a failure," he answered doggedly, "for I refuse to go!"
Her eyes flashed at him from underneath her veil. He felt the pressure of her fingers upon his hand. He heard a little sigh—could it have been of relief?
"If I failed—" she began.
"And you have failed," he said decidedly.
"I was to bring you," she continued, "an invitation to dine to-night at the château. It is only a verbal one, but perhaps you will forgive that."
The colour streamed into his cheeks. He could scarcely believe his ears.
"Louise!" he exclaimed, "you mean it?"
"Yes!" she answered softly. "It would be better for you, better, perhaps, for me, if you would do as I ask—if you would go away and forget! But if you will not do that, there is no reason why you should not come to the château. A carriage will arrive for you at seven o'clock."
"And you will come with me again into the gardens?" he whispered passionately.
"Perhaps," she murmured.
The horses, teased by the flies, tossed their heads, and the jingling of harness reminded Louise that half the village, from various vantage points, were watching the interview between the young lady from the château and the visitor at the inn.
"I must go at once," she said to Wrayson. "About to-night, do not be surprised at anything you see at the château. I have no time to say more. If you notice anything that seems to you at all unusual, accept it naturally. I will explain afterwards."
She spoke a word to the immovable man on the box, and waved her hand to Wrayson as the horses started forward. They were round the corner in a moment, and out of sight. Wrayson turned back to the inn, but before he had taken half a dozen paces he stopped short. He had happened to glance towards the upper windows of the small hotel, and he caught a sudden vision of a man's face—a familiar face, transformed, rigid, yet with staring eyes following the departing carriage. Wrayson himself was conscious of a quick shock of surprise, followed by a sense of apprehension. What could there possibly have been in the appearance of Louise to have brought a look like that into the face of his fellow-guest?
The two men did not meet again until luncheon-time, Anglicized into a one-o'clock meal for their benefit. Already seated at the table they found a short fair man, in the costume of a pedestrian tourist. He wore a tweed knickerbocker suit, and a knapsack lay upon the grass by his side. As Wrayson and his fellow-guest arrived almost at the same time, the newcomer rose and bowed.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" he said. "I trust you will permit me a seat at your table. It appears to be the only one."
Duncan contented himself with a nod. Wrayson felt compelled to be a little more civil. The man certainly seemed harmless enough.
"A very delightful spot, gentlemen," he continued, "and a fine, a very fine church that in the valley. I am spending my holiday taking photographs of churches of a certain period in this vicinity. I am looking forward to explore this one."
"I am afraid," Wrayson remarked, "that I do not know much of ecclesiastical architecture, but the æsthetic effect of this one, at least, is very fine."
The newcomer nodded.
"You are an artist perhaps, sir?" he asked innocently.
"I hope so—in some degree," Wrayson answered.
"Every one is fundamentally an artist, I suppose, who is capable of appreciating a work of beauty."
Duncan smiled slightly to himself. So far he had not spoken.
"It is all new country to me," the newcomer continued, "but from what I have seen of it, I should think it a grand place for painters. Not much for the ordinary tourist, eh?"
"That depends," Wrayson answered, "upon the ordinary tourist."
"Exactly! Quite so!" the little man agreed. "Of course, if one wanted a quiet time, what could be better than this? There must be others who think so besides yourselves."
"Who?" Wrayson asked.
"Your fellow-guests here."
"We have no fellow-guests," Wrayson answered, a little incautiously.
The newcomer leaned back in his chair with a disconcerted look.
"Then I wonder why," he exclaimed, "the landlord told me that he had not a single room."
Wrayson bit his lip.
"I fancy," he said, "that he is not in the habit of having people stay here."
"I am afraid," the little fair man said, "that it is not an hospitable village. I tried to get a room elsewhere, but, alas! with no success. They do not seem to want tourists at St. Étarpe."
Wrayson looked at the knapsack, at the camera, and at the little man himself. He spoke English easily, and without any trace of an accent. His clothes, too, had the look of having come from an English ready-made shop. Yet there was something about the man himself not altogether British.
"I fancy the people are busy getting ready for the harvest," Wrayson remarked at last. "You will find lots of places as pretty as this along the coast."
"Perhaps so," the visitor admitted, "and yet when one has taken a fancy to a place, it seems a pity to have to leave it so soon. You couldn't speak a word to the landlord for me, sir, I suppose—you or your friend. I don't fancy he understood my French very well."
Wrayson shook his head.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use," he said. "As a matter of fact, I know that he does not intend to take any more visitors. He has not the staff to deal with them."
"It is a pity," the little man said dejectedly. "I think that I must try again in the village. By the by, sir, perhaps you can tell me to whom the château there belongs?"
"Madame la Baronne de Sturm," Wrayson answered. "At least, so our host told me yesterday."
"It is a very beautiful place—very beautiful," the tourist said reverently. "I dare say there is a chapel there, too! Can one gain admission there, do you know, sir?"
Wrayson laid down his knife and fork.
"Look here," he said good-humouredly, "I'm not a guide-book, you know, and I only arrived here yesterday myself. You've reached the limit of my information. You had better try the landlord. He will tell you all that you want to know."
Duncan pushed his chair back. He had eaten very little luncheon, but he was filling his pipe preparatory to leaving the table. As soon as it began to draw, he rose and turned to Wrayson. The little tourist he absolutely ignored, as he had done all the time during the meal.
"I should like a word with you before you go out," he said.
Wrayson nodded, and followed him in a few minutes to the summer-house at the end of the lawn. Duncan did not beat about the bush.
"That little brute over there," he said, inclining his head towards the table, "is neither an Englishman nor a tourist. I have seen him before, and I never forget a face."
"What is he then?" Wrayson asked.
"Heaven knows what he is now," Duncan answered. "I saw him last at Colenso, where he narrowly escaped being shot for a spy. He is either a Dutchman or a German, and whatever he may be up to here, I'll swear ecclesiastical architecture is not his game."
There was a moment's silence. Wrayson had turned involuntarily towards the château, and Duncan had followed suit. They both looked up the broad green avenue to where the windows of the great building flashed back the sunlight. At the same moment their mutual action was realized by both of them.
Wrayson first turned away and glanced round at the table which they had just quitted. The little man, who was still seated there, had lit a cigar and was talking to the waiter. He looked back again and moved his head thoughtfully in the direction of the château.
"He asked questions about the château," Wrayson remarked. "Do you suppose that there can be anything going on there to interest him?"
"You should know better than I," Duncan answered. "You received a visit this morning from one of the two ladies who are staying there."
Wrayson turned a little pale. He looked at Duncan steadily for a moment. A giant in height, his features, too, were of a large and resolute type. His eyes were clear and truthful; his expression, notwithstanding a certain gloom which scarcely accorded with his years and apparent health, was unmistakably honest. Wrayson felt instinctively that he was to be trusted.