"To the First Man who comes to-night."
Then on a sheet of paper he wrote:
"I was the first in, and had been here some time, when I got a note by the last post. Must run away at once, but hope to be back in an hour. Don't wait for me. I am awfully sorry. Show all the fellows this, and tell them, as they will guess, that nothing but matter of the gravest moment could take me away under the circumstances.
"C. A. C."
He drove straight to Tenby Terrace. He ran up the steps, and, when Anne opened the door, asked impetuously:
"Is May in?" He forgot to say "Miss Durrant."
"Oh, a letter has just come saying she will not be back, and we don't know where she is gone to, sir."
Anne had forgotten to call him even "my lord."
That night the members of the new Anerly Club saw nothing of its founder.
When Marion found herself out of the house for the second time on that day, with the letter in her hand addressed to her aunt, she had no idea of what direction she took. It was only a little after five o'clock, and the air was fall of pleasant sunshine. All around her were happy-looking people moving blithely along, each to some known point or other. She was going nowhere; she was simply going away. All places were alike to her, so long as there was no chance of meeting him there. She, whose whole nature yearned to be at his side, was flying from him who, she knew, wished her to remain for him, with him. What was all the world to one without love? How could it be that anything in the world could come between hearts that loved?
She turned east and walked on. She was conscious she knew well the streets through which she passed, but the names of them did not occur to her. After a while she found herself on the Thames Embankment. It was full tide, and the river looked its best. It was the fresh young summer of the year, when all London looks brightest; and no part of London, not even the parks, feels the summer so much as the Embankment; for there is not only the fresh green of the time on the trees of the Embankment and the gardens, but the bright silver of the river of all time sparkling back to the wide expanse of sky. Every wholesome man and woman and child, and beast and bird and insect, that could, came out to pay homage to the sun; all noisome things, human or beneath man in the scheme of Nature, now sought concealment. It made old people young and young people gay, to be abroad.
She had not often been on the Embankment, and the river was a variety to her. Without intruding on her thoughts, it attracted her eye. A full tide between prosperous banks always gives a sense of quietude and peace; but to May's mind the sense of peace did not seem of this world, but of the world beyond. There was a bounteous calm in that river which seemed to invite the weary. When the tide is out, and the sordid lower abutments of bridges and the bedraggled foreshore are visible, the river looks fit to be the friend of only outcasts and felons. But when it is full it seems to have risen up to one as a kind friend capable of assuaging present woes, and of wafting one securely to Elysian Fields.
As May walked along by the parapet, she thought she should like to lay herself down gently on the bosom of the water, and be carried calmly beyond the noises of the world. She had no thought of suicide; what she felt was merely a craving of her physical nature. It was parallel to the desire one experiences, when looking down from a high mountain, to launch oneself into air, and float above the valley below. She did not murmur against Heaven or revile Fate. She would have liked to be at rest; she longed to change utterly the ordinary experiences of life, even if death was the only alternative; but she had no intention or wish to compass her own death.
Big Ben struck seven. The sound startled her.
"That is the Parliament clock," she thought; "and he will often hear that sound when he has ceased to hear my voice for ever."
And then she forgot him for awhile and fell to pitying herself, until the tears rolled down her face under her veil, and she found herself at Blackfriars Bridge. This part of the town she knew nothing of. Whither should she go? All ways were alike to her. She kept on to the right, and crossed the bridge.
She had never been across any London bridge on foot before; she could not remember ever having been across the river at all, except in a train. She had never heard either her aunt or him speak about the Surrey side. It was best for her to go across the water, and to stay there.
To stay there! She had not thought of staying anywhere before; she had come away from home because she had made up her mind not to see Charlie again; but up to that moment she had not thought of staying away from home, or staying anywhere else. Before, leaving Tenby Terrace she had mechanically taken all the money out of her writing-case and put it in her purse. She always had much more money by her than young girls living in houses such as those in the Terrace; for she had an income which was absolutely her own, and her aunt had always insisted on her keeping a small bundle of bank-notes by her. Miss Traynor said: "You should always keep a little money by you; I do. You never know what is going to happen. A bank may break, or your lawyer may die, and you may not be able to get your money for a month, or maybe three months; and then, you see, what a fix you would be in! I do not think it safe to keep large sums of money in the house; but twenty or thirty or forty pounds can do no harm, and make you feel secure, for a time at least, against accident." Miss Traynor little thought, when she gave her niece this advice, that the money would in the end be used for putting space between her and the girl for whose welfare and happiness she would have laid down her life.
Now, for the first time. May realised the fact that it would be necessary for her to find some place in which she might live. She had been in her time very little from home, and felt miserably uncomfortable at the notion of having to take lodgings for herself in London. She had no plan, no scheme. She did not think of the future; she did not try to see a week in advance--she wished only to hide herself. She made no calculation as to how long she should be from home, how long her money would last. She had, like a pursued hare, the simple instinct of flight, with the desire for concealment; all else was absolutely indifferent to her. If she had her choice between life and death, she would have chosen the latter.
The idea of leaving London never crossed her mind. She had often heard that, for the purpose of concealment, there was no place so good as London. She had now been walking two hours, and all that time she had been putting space between her and Knightsbridge; and yet all around her were thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles hurrying up and down. There was no fear of anyone being able to track her through all those winding ways, all this streaming multitude.
It was necessary for her to get somewhere to sleep that night. She was now in the Kennington Road. The noise of the tramcars and omnibuses and cabs, and carts and vans and drays, almost overwhelmed her. She was beginning to feel tired. She turned into a quiet-looking side-street; up and down this street she walked more than once before she could make up her mind to knock at any door of a house in which she saw that lodgings were to be let. At last she selected a neat-looking house, with flower-pots on the window-sill and immaculate steps. She knocked. Yes, there were lodgings to be let in that house; would the lady walk in? She was shown into a clean, cheaply-furnished back parlour, which looked into a dark yard twenty feet square. It was the landlady herself who let in May. She was a stout, undersized, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. She had two bedrooms and a sitting-room to let. This was the sitting-room; the bedrooms were up-stairs. Would the lady like to see the bedrooms?--they were comfortable and well furnished. Would not the lady walk up? This was the better bedroom of the two, in the front; this was the smaller one in the back. What accommodation did the lady require? The gentleman could have breakfast and tea or supper in, and dinner of a Sunday. Oh, it wasn't for gentlemen, wasn't it? It was the lady herself? So sorry; but she never took lady lodgers--only gentlemen. Her servant would not stay if lady lodgers were admitted. It was very wrong in a servant to have such notions; but her servant was a very good one, and it was next to impossible to get a good servant, and she could not afford to lose this one. Good-afternoon.
May went down the whitened steps with a heavy heart. She had never tried to find lodgings before; she had not known there was any difficulty in the way of getting them. It was necessary, however, that she should try again. She looked at her watch, half in fear. Half-past seven. Not any time to be lost; it was getting late.
She selected another house in the same street. A tall thin woman, who suggested a remote connection with better days, and a present connection with a temper, opened the door. May's first question was: Did they accommodate lady lodgers in that house? They did. Would the lady like to see the room?
With a sigh of relief May went in. She explained that she wanted only one room--a bedroom. Very well. This way; this was the bedroom. The lady would dine out? Oh yes. May would have undertaken to do anything now, that she might be at liberty to lock the door, sit down by herself and cry. The rent was ten shillings a week, inclusive. May did not know that the room would have been dear at seven-and-six; and of what "inclusive" meant she had no idea. Was ten shillings a week satisfactory? Yes, perfectly. And the lady would pay a week's rent in advance to secure the room? May took out her purse and proffered a sovereign. And when did the lady wish to occupy the room? To-night--now. To-night! How could that be? Of course references should be exchanged. Did the lady know anyone in the immediate vicinity to whom a reference might be made? No, May knew no one in the vicinity. Was it--was it necessary there should be a reference? Oh, absolutely; all respectable houses require references. Ah, in that case May must try elsewhere.
"Well, I'm sure; just to think you fancied they'd take anyone into a respectable house without a reference!" cried the tall slim woman, in a tone of exasperation, as she allowed May to find the front door and let herself out.
She hurried out of that street; she had not the courage to try at any other house there. She thought she should not have the courage to try anywhere else. She had already thought of going to an hotel, but had dismissed the idea. She had a great fear of being discovered; and an hotel was too open. Besides, she could not bring herself to face an hotel alone; there was something repugnant to her feelings in being without a friend or protector in a house the front door of which was always kept open. Besides, who could tell but, by one of those coincidences there is no foreseeing, some acquaintance of hers might light on that very hotel, and meet her in one of the passages? But if people objected to ladies as lodgers, and if those who did not object to ladies would take no one in who could not give a reference, how could she hope to find a resting-place for her weary limbs, a covering for her aching head that night? She could give no reference; for to do so would be, of course, instantly to betray herself.
What was she to do now? Whither should she turn? In a little while it would be dark. It was dreadful to be alone in London, cut off from all friends, having no home, no roof to cover her, and find the shades of night coming on. How peaceful and secure now seemed that small house over there in Knightsbridge, where but a few hours ago she had seen him, had heard his great kind voice, had felt his strong protecting arm round her! She had but to hold up her hand, get into the nearest cab, and in an hour she would be safe under that protecting roof.
Should she go back? Those houses in which she had sought shelter were hideous in her eyes, and the women repulsively vulgar. Should she go back and throw herself at her aunt's feet, and cry herself into her aunt's forgiveness? No, no, that would never do. She had resolved to sacrifice herself for him she loved, and she would do so, no matter how great the pain, no matter how great the humiliation she should endure. In the sum of her great sacrifice, what did these mean houses, these vulgar women, count for? Nothing. Why should she make great difficulties out of small? She had had the courage to write that letter to him, to renounce her love, to give up the one dream of her young life: was she now going to blench when confronted by trivial details such as would not daunt one out of ten of the women moving round her, passing up and down this road? No. She had been brave in the great thing, she would be indifferent in the small. She would be brave. She would hold on. She would lie down in the road and die rather than go back, rather than imperil his future happiness by once more placing herself under the influence of his presence, which she felt certain would be too strong for any resolution she might make.
She once more found herself walking down a side street, looking up at the windows for a card. This was a much better street than the last one. The roadway was wider, and the houses more respectable and better kept. She was now glad she had not succeeded in getting a place in the former street.
This one looked much better, and as though the people who lived in the houses could not be so vulgar.
She went down all one side, and saw no card in any window. She thought she had discovered one at the opposite side, but she could not be quite sure. She crossed. Yes, there was a card in one window, in only one. She knocked. A servant opened the door. Did they take lady lodgers? Oh yes; would the lady be kind enough to step into the front room and see the mistress?
In the front room May found a little old widow sitting at work. She greeted the entrance of the young girl with a benevolent smile, and bade her be seated. May was delighted she had come so far. This woman was much superior to either of the others. She had not the look of common prosperity of the first, nor of broken-down respectability of the second. Fate may make a lady poor, but it never can make her shabby-genteel. Though she may sink to pauperism, she can never fall so low as gentility. A lady once is a lady for ever; and the little old widow before May was evidently not only a lady, but a kindly and considerate old soul as well. May resolved, if possible, to cast her lot here.
After a few preliminary words, the landlady said:
"Yes, my dear, I not only take in ladies, but I do not take in gentlemen. I know how hard ladies, who wish to be quiet, find it to get lodgings in London, and so I have made up my mind to take in no gentlemen."
"Oh, then," said May piteously, "I may stay with you, may I not?"
"Well, my dear," said the old woman smiling encouragingly, "that will be as you please, I daresay. I have no doubt we should get on together. Of course you would like to see the room; we have only one to be let."
She half rose from her chair.
"No, no," cried May. "Pray sit down. Do not disturb yourself. I am sure I shall like it."
"Then, my dear," said the old lady, smiling again, but looking curiously at the worn face and bright eyes and weary figure of this young girl, who was willing to take a room without seeing it, "there are, you know, a few business arrangements to be considered. We shall have to charge you seven shillings and sixpence a week for your room. You will dine in or out, as you please."
"I am sure I am very much obliged to you. I had no idea----" here she paused. She thought it just as well not to say any more.
The old lady looked at May again. She smiled, but there seemed to be something over-eager in this young girl.
"May I ask, do you belong to London?"
"Yes."
"Ah, I am glad of that. Then you will perhaps know the name of this gentleman. He is not the rector of our parish, but one of the Canons of St. Paul's."
She handed the girl a card.
"I do not know him," answered May, wondering what a Canon of St. Paul's could have to do with the matter. "I know his name very well. Is he a relative of yours?"
"No, my dear, no relative, but a good kind friend of my late husband. The Canon has done a great deal for me, and among other things he allows me to refer anyone to him who may want to know anything about me."
"It is very kind of him," said May, not knowing what to say, what was meant.
"So, my dear," said the old lady, "you may call upon him or write to him, as you please."
The widow was plainly perplexed by May's rejoinder.
"I!" cried May; "I call on him!"
"Yes, my dear. I suppose there will be plenty of time before you give me the pleasure of your company permanently. When do you wish the room to be ready for you?"
The girl did not yet understand what the old lady meant by reference to the Canon of St. Paul's; but she had a sickening sense that something was going wrong.
"If--if," she faltered, "you would let me, I should like to stay this evening. I--I am anxious to get some place this evening, now."
She felt her throat quite dry, and her voice husky,
"This evening, my dear; this evening! That is rather sudden. I am not sure we could manage that. And where are your things?"
"What things?" asked May, in a whisper.
"Your luggage, my dear."
"I have none."
"Well, then, give me the name and address of some of your friends in London."
"I cannot."
"Oh dear, dear, dear! I am very sorry, truly sorry for you, my child. But you have friends in London?" said the old lady, in a kindly tone.
May placed her hand on the back of the chair, and rose with unsteady limbs.
"I beg your pardon," she said, in a low broken voice, "I now understand what you mean. I have no luggage, and can give no reference. Thank you for your kindness. Good-evening!" and before the old lady had time to rise or speak, May had reached the outer door and gained the street.
"There must be something wrong," said the old lady to herself, "or she would not have been in such a hurry to run away. If she had only waited and told me all, I might have done something for her. She is young and very pretty. It's a thousand pities, whatever it is. I'm sorry she did not wait another minute. She took my breath away when she stood up. I thought she was going to make a scene. I did not intend her to go. I only wanted the address to write to her friends. There's something wrong, and it's a thousand pities, a thousand pities."
The Duke passed quickly by Anne in the little hall, and went into the room where Miss Traynor sat in the dim light of a single lamp. As he entered, she had been sitting with her head bowed upon her chest. She had not uttered an exclamation on reading Marion's brief note. She had not wept a tear since. It was now ten o'clock. Half an hour ago that note had come. It lay on the table beside her. She had put on her spectacles to read it, and had forgotten to take them off. As the young man entered the room, she looked up.
"Miss Traynor! Miss Traynor, what is this Anne tells me? Is it true Marion has left the house?"
"What?" said she.
"Anne tells me that Marion has left the house, and that you do not know where she is, and that she said she is not coming back."
"Anne told me she was not in the house, and I got that note a while ago."
She pointed to the table.
He took up the note and read it. Then he sat down without a word, and for a long time there was unbroken silence.
When Miss Traynor saw her niece's writing, addressed to herself on a stamped envelope which had come by the post, all her faculties had been suddenly stimulated into extraordinary activity. She had had, ever since his visit earlier in the day, a dull misgiving that something had gone wrong, or was going wrong. The sight of her niece's handwriting instantly confirmed her suspicions. She tore the letter open, and in a minute had mastered its contents. The letter was very brief, and ran as follows:
"My own dearest Aunt,
"I have all along been terrified by the changes which have taken place in his fortunes. I am, as you know, only a poor plain girl, with no pretensions to blood or family. It is therefore impossible for anything more to be between him and me. I have made my mind up never to see him again. I am sure he would not stay away for my telling him. I have no choice but to go and hide myself until he has grown wise enough to forget.
"Your always most loving niece,
"Marion."
When Miss Traynor had finished reading, the extraordinary mental activity which had sprung up in her died out, and she sank into a dull stupid state, in which there was nothing clear before her mind. For years she had been an invalid incapable of active bodily exercise. She now found herself alone in a house with her servant, and the knowledge that, as far as she might be able to do anything, she might as well be dead. Marion had fled. She could not move, and even if she were suddenly restored to health and strength, she had so long been unaccustomed to cross the threshold of her own door, that she would have been quite helpless. All this rushed into her mind in a moment, while the mind continued still active. Then the activity was exhausted, her chin dropped upon her chest and until Cheyne entered the room she had had no clear image of anything in her mind.
He broke the silence at last.
"Miss Traynor, this is dreadful. This is awful. I too got a letter from her this evening. It contains something of the substance of yours, but it did not hint at her leaving home. When did she go out?"
He was looking vacantly as he spoke at the feeble old woman before him.
"I do not know. Anne can tell you I daresay."
Anne was called. She thought Miss Durrant had gone out a little after five. She could not say exactly.
"There is not a moment to be lost. She must be found to-night," said he, as the servant withdrew.
"It would be well she was found to-night," said Miss Traynor mechanically. She did not seem to know what his words meant--of whom he was speaking. After a moment's pause, she added: "I think she will come back to-night, for she did not even take a shawl with her; and you know, Charlie, it will be very cold soon, won't it?"
He was greatly shocked at this speech. She had never called him Charlie before, and what she said about the shawl plainly showed her mind was unhinged. It was obvious to him that he could do no good by staying. Without saying another word, beyond a formal "Good-bye for the present; I may see you later on," he rose, and went to the door.
"Any time you come I will see you," said the poor invalid quietly, "for I intend waiting up until my child comes home. I think we ought to have a fire for her when she comes in; you know, Charlie, she did not take even a shawl with her, and a place always looks twice more like home when there's a fire in the room we love best."
As he was going out he called Anne, and told her to remain in the room with her mistress until he returned.
"If Miss Traynor refuses to go to bed, as I fear she will, you must sleep in a chair. I'll be back as soon as ever I can. I have a cab at the door. I'll leave it there; and if you want a doctor, or anything else, you can send the cab."
Then he hurried out, told the cabman to wait at the disposal of the servant, and walked off in search of another. He sprang into a hansom, and gave the order--"Scotland Yard."
He did not remain long in the Yard. Once more jumping into the hansom, he drove to Charing Cross, and entered a court, where he remained a short time. Then he went to Finsbury Square. He drove to a few other places that night, and at twelve o'clock he dismissed the hansom in Piccadilly.
"I do not know what more I can do to-night. The police and every inquiry-office in London are on the alert now. It is too late for the morning papers. What else can I do? Nothing, as far as I can see, but go back and see how the poor old lady is. There will be no news for a few hours, at the earliest."
He set off to walk to Tenby Terrace. He had nothing to do but to kill' time, and walking killed more time than driving. To the police and at the private inquiry-offices he had given the name of Ashington, and his address at the hotel. They had all promised to send the first intelligence there at the earliest moment. His orders had been, that if any news came, and the messenger at the hotel found him out, the messenger was to wait.
It was one o'clock when he got back to the Knightsbridge house. The cab was still standing at the door. He knocked, and was let in by Anne. There was no news. No one had come near the house since. Miss Traynor had not stirred. She had refused to go to bed up to this. She had, Anne believed, dozed in her chair. Anne had slept a few minutes.
He said he would go in and see Miss Traynor.
"Miss Traynor," said he, as he entered the room, "I have run back to say that I have been round to all the offices"--he did not mention what kind of offices--"and have given full description and instructions; and you may rely on it that, if Marion does not return here to-night, we shall know where she is, and fetch her home in the morning."
Miss Traynor had not been asleep; she was just in the same state as he had left her--half-stunned. She said:
"It is very good of you, Charlie. I am sure she will come home some time to-night. I'll sit up for her--I'll sit up; I am not sleepy. You know I often lie awake half the night. I shouldn't mind it if she had only taken a shawl--ever so light a shawl."
He told Anne, if Miss Durrant came back during the night, to send the cab instantly to his hotel.
Although he had walked a good deal that day, and had not yet fully recovered from the effects of that swim, he resolved to walk back to his hotel. All that could be done had been done, and until morning, at all events, there was nothing for him to do but wait, and the best place for waiting was at his hotel, whither the first news would be carried.
His mind was highly strung, and he went at a quick rate. He had not yet given himself time to think; he did not mean to give himself time to think. He had only one thing to do now, and that was to find May. Until she was found, all his thoughts should be centred in one idea; there would be plenty of time for thought afterwards.
He had no sensation of tenderness or love toward May in his thoughts while thinking of her flight or recovery; he felt as though he had no personal interest in the pursuit. That girl must be brought back to her home at any expense, at any risk; and he meant to bring her back, though he carried her by main force, and broke the law in so doing. To her aunt's house he would bring her, as sure as he had carried that line to that yacht. He had risked his life to save life at Silver Bay; he would risk his life, and all he was worth, to place this girl once more under her aunt's roof. When she was safe there, then he might think of other things, such as his love for her, himself, and so on.
No messenger awaited him at the hotel; of course he could hardly hope for news yet. He left word with the hall-porter that if anyone called for Mr. Ashington, Mr. Ashington might be found in his own room.
He had engaged a suite of rooms on the first floor, and to the sitting-room of this he went. He never felt less inclined to sleep in all his life; all his mind and body tingled for something to do, and yet he could do nothing but wait.
Miss Traynor never lay down that night, but sat in her chair with her chin sunken on her breast, and her dull lifeless eyes fixed on the dimly-illumined carpet of the little sitting-room which had for so many years been brightened by the young girl's presence and cheered by her voice.
By six o'clock in the morning no fewer than four clues had been reported to the Duke; but as each one came from a different office, and each pointed to a different point of the compass as the line of flight, and as none was declared to be thoroughly satisfactory, there was nothing to be done but to wait still further.
At seven o'clock breakfast was brought to Cheyne in his private room. He ate with appetite, and when he had finished, lit a cigar. He was engaged in business of importance, which required all his faculties.
At half-past eight Mr. Bracken was announced. Cheyne told the waiter to show the gentleman up instantly.
Bracken was the detective into whose hands he had confided the Scotland Yard branch of the inquiry. Bracken was a tall, lank, solemn-looking man, dressed in black. Only that there was no appearance of relaxation or festivity about him, he would have looked like a clergyman on his holiday tour.
"Well, Mr. Bracken," said Cheyne, after he had motioned the detective to a chair, "any news?"
"Yes, sir. We have news of the first importance."
"Noclue, I hope, Mr. Bracken."
"No, sir; not a clue this time. Clues are very good things when you have nothing to go on. We're bound to have a clue in a few hours, it's the privilege of our profession."
"I know," said Cheyne, "a kind of perquisite."
"In a way, sir, a kind of perquisite; or, if you like it better, the flash note by whichwework our confidence-trick."
"Well, Mr. Bracken, you are very candid, and from your candour I assume you have a genuine note for me in this case."
The detective took out a large pocket-book, and having drawn a letter from it, handed the letter to Cheyne, saying:
"That's a genuine note, sir."
Cheyne took the letter out of the envelope and read:
"8, Garthorne Street,
"Kennington Road.
"Sir,
"I am uneasy, and cannot rest without writing you a line. I let lodgings in this house to ladies only. This evening a young lady, a little under the middle height, and of very good figure, dark eyes, brown hair, and pretty expression, called and wanted me to accommodate her. She had no luggage, and when I asked her for the address of some friend in London, she seemed much disturbed, told me she could not give it to me, and before I could say or do anything, she hastened out of the room and house. She was in deep distress; and ever since she went I feel as though she must have left her friends, and that in all likelihood they will make inquiries after her. In case you should wish for anything I can tell you of her, I shall be only too glad to give you all information I have.
"Yours faithfully,
"Harriet Dumaresq.
"The Chief Inspector of Police,
"Scotland Yard."
"You have a cab at the door?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the photograph I gave you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, then; come along at once. We will drive direct there without loss of a moment."
When they arrived, Mrs. Dumaresq was up, and would see them immediately. In a few minutes she came into the room. Bracken explained the object of their visit, and showed a photograph of May, which the old lady at once recognised as that of the young lady who wished to engage lodgings there the evening before. Then Bracken and Cheyne took their leave, having found that the thoughtful and kindhearted old widow could give them no more information beyond the fact that the young lady, when she left that house, took the way leading into Kennington Road.
When the two men got outside, Cheyne said:
"Well, Bracken, what do you think of this?"
"I think, sir, we have done a good morning's work. The lady was here surely last evening, and late too, so that it is almost certain she slept in London last night. Now that's a most useful thing to know'; for we had all the trains watched this morning, and if she tried to get away by any of them, we shall have news of her. As it was late when she was here, we may take it she slept somewhere in this neighbourhood; so that we have limited the district we shall have to examine. These are two great things; in fact, they are nearly as good as if we had got sight of her."
"And what do you think we should do next?"
"The best thing for you to do is to go back to the hotel. They may have more knowledge of her there now. I'll go round here to the stations, and see if they know anything. I suppose, sir, you would not mind spending a little money locally on this district, now that we have a--I won't say clue, but trace?"
"No, no; spend any money you like. You will come back as soon as you have made arrangements here?"
"I will."
When Cheyne returned to the hotel, he found clues had accumulated during his absence, but that nothing more important than clues had turned up. He wrote a brief note to Miss Traynor, saying they had certain intelligence of Marion; that he had been to a house in which she had sought lodgings last night; and that there could now be no doubt Marion would be restored to her friends in a very short time. He did not name any exact hour, or even day, for her return; for, warned by his hasty prophecy of the night before, he did not care to risk another disappointment. In avoiding prophecy, he did not wholly, or even to any large extent, consider Miss Traynor's ease of mind, for, from what he had seen of her since Marion's flight, he did not think theory or hope likely to be of any great good. "Nothing," he said to himself, "but the sight of Marion, and the touch of her hand, will rouse the poor old lady from her lethargy." But he forbore to prophesy, because he did not wish to be again mistaken to himself. He would admit no sentimental thoughts into his mind until the mere business of the case had been discharged--until Marion was once more under the protection of her aunt; and in the meantime he must not exhaust his hope or energy by placing limits to her absence, only to find these limits overpassed.
It was past ten o'clock when Cheyne got back to his hotel. He had two great desires in this unhappy affair. One was that his own rank should not ooze out, and the other that the utmost possible secrecy should be observed. These two wishes were indeed only two parts of the one, for, if it were known that the Duke of Shropshire had a case in the hands of the detectives, it would be sure to get into the papers; and, if anyone knew that Miss Durrant had left her home alone without consulting her friends or guardians, it would very soon be known the relation in which she stood to him. Accordingly, he telegraphed to Miss Traynor's servant that she was not to open the door that day to any one whatsoever until he saw her; for he very well knew that if Anne allowed an acquaintance of either of the ladies in, or even if she stood talking for a few seconds at the open door, the secret would be over the whole district in an hour. Having despatched the telegram, he adopted another precaution. He sent down one of the private-inquiry men to Tenby Terrace with instructions that he was to stay in the house, to open the side-door as far as was absolutely necessary, and to see that no one went into or came out of the house. Of course Anne was in the secret, and might tell at some later day, even though a curb was now placed on her natural loquacity; still, sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, and later on he could devise means of insuring her permanent silence. In order most effectually to guard against the danger of his rank being discovered, he thought the best thing for him to do would be to retire from the active conduct of the search. He therefore resolved to place it in the hands of Macklin and Dowell, and at about eleven o'clock he found himself detailing the facts of the evening and night to Mr. Macklin, who promised to do all he could, and undertook to say that there was no doubt whatever that the young lady would be discovered that day before set of sun.
Mr. Macklin was very unlike the typical family London lawyer. He was low of stature, well-proportioned, fresh-complexioned, and abrupt and forcible in speech. He had a decidedly horsey appearance, although, as a matter of fact, he took as little interest in horses as any man within the sound of Big Ben. Although he was a solicitor, he hated law, and left all the legal elements of the firm to his partner. But he had a taste for business which did not wear a strictly legal aspect, and he entered into the ordinary and extraordinary affairs of the clients with a zest which made him cheering to his own side and irresistible against those on the other. Cheyne had known him, and liked him, before the great change had taken place in his fortunes; and one of the chief pleasures he had in contemplating his good luck was that by means of it he could do a service to Macklin by appointing his firm law-agents to the Shropshire property. Macklin was the quickest and most ready of men. When a thing was proposed to him he never made a difficulty. He either instantly declared the thing to be impossible, or he went about doing it with all his heart and soul, and with such a manner of conviction he was right that it seemed an outrage on common sense to oppose him.
Cheyne asked the lawyer if there was anything more he would recommend to be done.
"No," said Macklin, "leave it all in the hands of Bracken now. You could not possibly have done better. There is not a more intelligent, conscientious, and painstaking man in the Yard. You may do what you like, go where you please. Take my word for it, things will turn out as I say, and before dark you will be at rest."
"And now," said Cheyne, "I want you to do something for me. I told you of the way in which we heard of her?"
"Yes, yes, of course, through the old widow lady; of course. Somewhere in Kennington. I wonder you found a lady keeping lodgings there. My impression was, and is still, that with the one exception you met, every lodging-house is kept by a retired upper servant. But you were about to say----?"
"The house is No. 8, Garthorne Road, Kennington, and I want you, if you can, to buy it for me. I know this is rather a strange thing to ask you, for of course the house may not be for sale."
"Any limit as to price, your grace."
"No; no limit."
"Then if the house is not in the market, we must put it in the market."
"How can you manage that?"
"We will put golden rollers under it, and roll it into the market. If the house is one the market valued at five hundred pounds, we will pay down the five hundred. If, being worth five hundred pounds, it is not in the market, we give a thousand, that's the only difference. You cannot get everything you want in this world, your grace, unless you have plenty of money, and are willing to give your money for what you want."
"Then I may look on that thing as settled?"
"Oh, yes, practically settled. Of course, if a miracle should occur against us, there would be a hitch."
"And suppose a miracle did occur against us, what then?" asked Cheyne.
"Why, then the purchase-money would be two thousand pounds, instead of only one."
Then Cheyne explained to the lawyer his wishes with regard to secrecy, and her name and his being kept out of people's mouths, and most particularly out of the newspapers.
"Last night," said he, "when the first fresh anxiety was upon me, I thought of going to the newspapers and inserting advertisements for this morning; but it was too late, and now I am glad it was too late; for while there would be hardly a likelihood of her seeing any of the advertisements, and less of her acting on them, there would be reason to fear someone else might see and understand to whom they referred. I wish you to take the whole thing up for me, and act for me now until the end. Of course, last night I had to do what I could myself. I did not know where to find you. You will, I am sure, do all you can for me."
"You may rely on my thinking of nothing else until the young lady is restored to her friends."
When he asked himself the question, had his love for May altered with his altered fortune? he smiled, but would not deign any other reply. He was not insensible to the enormous advantages attending his new position. To be a duke of England was to be one of the first subjects of the first country in the world; and then to have that great honour; coupled with an income which exceeded that of many European sovereigns, were circumstances which impressed him profoundly. Although he moved and acted as though he believed all that had happened, when he was alone he always tried to shake off what he could not help regarding as a delusion. At times it seemed to him as though he was but playing a part, into which he had entered so thoroughly that he could not at ordinary moments divest his mind of the character he had temporarily assumed. This was a very unpleasant feeling; he would have given a great deal to be rid of it, but nothing he could do would drive it away. When people came up to him and called him "your grace" he always felt inclined to laugh, but refrained from doing so, lest it might spoil the play.
He had talked to May about taking the oath and his seat; but although his manner may have been serious, he spoke more as one continuing the play than as one uttering serious words of measured import.
He had called her Duchess, but he had done it in jest, or at least half jest, or as another portion of the play, but not as a part of their own real life. Women are much more literal than men. She had taken all his words literally, and been affrighted by them. Besides, it was much more easy for her than for him to realise the fact that he was a duke. She was a woman; he was her lover, her hero, and, to her mind, worthy of being anything and everything good on earth. But he knew the stuff he was made of, the thoughts that had been in his mind; and to himself the notion of his wearing a coronet was mostly comic. Still, carrying out the conceit of the play, he had indulged his imagination with comic scenes in the House of Lords, between him and others of the hereditary members until he had to shout out laughing. He had had even the irreverence to picture a full sitting of the House of Lords as a transformation scene, in which all the noble lords wore their robes and coronets until the red fire was turned on, and he, playing harlequin, jumped in, and with one blow of his lath sword turned all the noble lords into his old intimate friends of Fleet Street.
In the other days, when he lived in Long Acre and earned a few pounds a week, he had indulged his imagination with lordly company. He had written about lords and ladies, dukes and fine associates; he had described palaces beside which the Escurial was but a simple manor-house; he had lavished riches, and bestowed whole countries, on his heroes. Moreover, he had taken these lords and ladies out of the frame of fiction, and set their portraits round his simple table, making believe that he was the wisest, the richest, and the most puissant of all. He had acted as one of the commissioners in opening Parliament, and crowned monarchs in Westminster Abbey; he had been received with regal honours at foreign courts; had danced with Princesses of the Blood, and been minister in attendance at Osborne. In all these romances and dreams he had been awake. Then into his sleep his splendid surroundings had followed him; the mere dross of authorship he left behind when he slept, but he could not, if he would, shake off the phantoms aristocracy; they followed him into sleep with the easy familiarity of friends whom he could not deny. The shadowy duke who by day graced his garret breakfast by night sent him presents of game or wine or jewels. In his waking and his sleeping dreams he was always rich beyond measurement by number. All the wealth of the world was at his feet, and he scattered it with a liberal hand. The affluence of his imagination was never checked by the emptiness of his purse. He had led a double life--the one of iron poverty, the other of golden visions. So much had his dreams become a portion of his inner life that they often overflowed into his talk. When he dreamed he had been on a visit to the Marquis of Thanet, and came to tell of his dream, he forgot to put in the words "I dreamt." What difference did those two words make? No one was the richer or the poorer for leaving the words out, and the anecdote was all the shorter.
Now reality had exceeded in his own person any dignity or wealth he had ever enjoyed in the realm of shadows. It was one of his great difficulties to persuade himself all was not the pure creation of the brain. He had never, after waking, believed in the reality of those dreams. He had never been at a loss to know whether the Long Acre rooms or the marquis's castles were the reality when he was awake in the Long Acre rooms; but in his sleep he was confident the castles were substantial. When he slept now, he lived in the Long Acre rooms; when he woke, then he dwelt in the marquis's castles. The real and the imaginary had been interchanged, and although he felt, in talking to men who knew of the great change, that he should act as the Duke of Shropshire, he was always prepared to awake and find himself in bed at the top of Mr. Whiteshaw's carriage-manufactory, and, hear the noise of Mrs. Ward in the outer room, busy getting his breakfast ready.
But in the old time and the new there was one thing that never changed--he was always May's lover. In the old time, when he was at the marquis's castles, he thought how he should bring May there when they were married. In the old time, in the Long Acre rooms, he thought how he should go away from them for ever when May was his. In the new time May would enjoy the Long Acre rooms, and how she would enjoy the marquis's castles! Thus she was more with him at this time than ever. Her image was never from his side; her voice was always in his ear. And now she had gone away from him.
Where was she now? Good God, if anything had happened to her!