Southward, through the country lanes whose hedges were still wreathed with late honeysuckle, on to the great mainroad, Deane's car was driven through the night,—always southward, till the lights of the great city flared before them up into the sky. Deane himself, for hour after hour, had sat back in his corner, buried in thought. His companion was even more invisible, but as the end of the journey drew near he roused himself with an effort, turned on the electric light which hung down from the roof of the car, lit a cigarette, and, bending forward, looked into the half-hidden face of the girl who was reclining by his side.
"My dear fiancée," he said, "we are nearing London. Won't you rouse yourself and give me your further orders?"
She sat up, with a little yawn. "Let down the windows, please," she said. "We will have some fresh air in for a few minutes."
He obeyed her at once. The sweet midnight air through which they were rushing was like a douche of cold water upon her face.
"How far are we from London?" she asked.
"Less than twenty miles. Unless we are stopped, we shall certainly be there in half-an-hour."
"Why did you disturb me?" she asked.
"To know your wishes."
"You had better leave me at one of the small hotels in the west end," she said. "I daresay you can think of one at which you are known. In the morning, please come and see me and bring some money. I shall want to engage a companion and a maid, and to buy some clothes."
Deane looked at her curiously. Her manner was perfectly natural. "Anything else?" he asked calmly.
"I don't think so," she answered.
"You mentioned the fact, I believe," he continued, "that you were—that you had done me the honor—that you were, in fact, my fiancée."
"Well?" she murmured.
"Under those circumstances," he continued, "don't you think—"
His hand rested for a moment upon hers. She drew it at once away. "No, I think not!" she answered.
"I have not had much experience," he went on, "in being engaged, but it seemed to me that there were certain privileges which belonged to that state."
"You are perfectly well aware," she answered, "that ours is not an engagement of that sort. You know something about the world in which the men marry for position and the women for money, don't you? You can look upon our engagement as being of that order. I marry you because it is the only way I can make you pay your debt. I have given you notice from the first. I mean to gain everything I can, and to give nothing."
"Nothing?" he repeated.
"As little as possible," she answered. "As a matter of fact, you are singularly indifferent to me. You simply represent the things I desire, the things which are owing to me, the things which were owing to—to him. I marry you to acquire them. You marry me because you must."
"Well," he said, "ours promises to be a novel matrimonial experience."
"Not at all," she answered.
"You have been reading too many novels," he declared. "People really don't marry in this sort of way at all. There is always a pretence of sentiment about it. If not, for very shame's sake, they try to cultivate it."
"Then we," she answered, "will remain exceptions."
"Do you dislike me?" he asked.
"Personally I have not thought about you," she answered. "Apart from that, I hate you. You represent the victor, and all that I have loved upon this earth have been the vanquished. Willingly I would not give you so much as the touch of my fingers. If I thought that my presence was a pleasure to you, I would shrink back into myself. If I thought that any happiness could come to you from our association, even now I would throw myself from the car and end it."
"Our prospects of matrimonial bliss," he remarked, "appear to me to be distinctly above the average."
"I do not expect," she answered, "to find any pleasure that may come to me in later life, at your hands."
"I shall certainly not allow you to flirt."
"I know the law," she answered. "I know what I may do and what I may not do. I shall not transgress it. I want your money, I want your position, I want your power. These things I will share with you. For the rest, you cannot keep too far away to please me."
He leaned towards her, heedless of the fact that she was shrinking away. There was something a little pitiful in the blue-gray eyes which tried so hard to hold him at a distance. "Well," said he, "it will be an interesting experiment, at any rate. Personally, I think that you are a brave woman. I wonder that you did not take the money without me."
"What good would that have been to me?" she answered. "I have no name, no friends. Can't you imagine the sort of people who would have come hanging on to my skirts, if I had made my début on the scene as a widow or a spinster with a large fortune, unattached, looking for companions? No! I need your name, Mr. Stirling Deane."
"I am not at all sure," he answered grimly, "that you will find that much of an asset."
"You must see to it that I do find it an asset, and a valuable one," she answered. "You are relieved now from any fear of that deed being produced. There is no shadow of evidence to connect you with the man Sinclair, or with my brother's transaction with him. If your lawyers are clever and you are brave, you must win your case with honor, and Hefferom will be sent to prison. He deserves it, in any case."
Deane nodded. "I shall win my case all right," he said. "For me there never was any danger except in the production of that document, concerning which you have been so mysterious."
"It was mine," she answered. "I ran all the risk to get it. I ran risks the memory of which will haunt me all my days. I have lost Basil. All that I can do is to exact the utmost price that you can pay for that little paper."
"It isn't worth it, you know," said Deane. "I believe, even now, that I should win my case, anyhow."
She smiled—a curious little contraction of the corners of her lips. Her eyes mocked him. "Perhaps," she said, "but it is a different thing since Sinclair's murder. Its production to-day would ruin you inevitably, whether it were held a legal document or not."
"We all make mistakes," he said, looking out of the window.
"But too often others pay for them!" she murmured, turning away.
Presently he gave some instructions to the chauffeur. The pace of the car slackened as they reached the outskirts of London and turned westward.
"Well," he remarked, "the world is full of surprises for us. I little thought, when I came down to Rakney, that it was to find a bride!"
She shivered a little at his words, but made no reply.
"Forgive me," he said, "if I do not seem very coherent about it all. As a matter of fact, you see, I was not expecting to take up obligations of this sort again so quickly."
"If you do not mind," she said coldly, "we will not discuss it."
"I may at least be permitted to ask," he continued, "when it is your intention to—marry me?"
"In about two months' time," she answered.
"You would like our engagement announced?" he asked.
She hesitated for a few seconds. "In a fortnight's time," she declared.
"In the meantime," he inquired, "I shall have the pleasure of being received by you?"
"Certainly," she answered. "I shall expect to lunch and dine with you occasionally, to be taken to the theatres, and for short expeditions into the country—Ranelagh and Hurlingham, for instance."
"Delightful!"
The car stopped at one of the smallest and most famous of semi-private hotels, in the neighborhood of Bond Street. Deane assisted his companion to alight.
"If you will come in for a moment," he said, "I will arrange things for you here. They know me very well."
She followed him into the hotel and waited while he interviewed the manager. Then he took his leave of her, bowing over her reluctantly offered hand, and smiling into her face as though honestly anxious to penetrate behind its absolute imperturbability.
"I hope you will find the little suite comfortable," he said. "You must go to bed soon, and try and rest. They will do everything that is possible for you, I am sure, until you have your own maid and things. Good-night!"
She raised her eyes for a moment to his, but there was more indignation than gratitude in the glance she threw upon him. "I am very much obliged to you. Good-night!"
Deane drove back to his rooms. As yet he could scarcely realize the situation. Had anyone ever been confronted with a position so unique? The mystery of the girl's impenetrability was solved at last!
The curtain had fallen upon the first act of this little drama in Deane's life. Hefferom was committed for trial. Deane had walked into the court a few minutes late, as though the whole affair was one which interested him only indirectly. He had gone into the witness box without hesitation, and his story had been so perfectly rational and straightforward that people began to wonder whether, indeed, any defence was possible. Cross-examination only amused him. Hefferom, who went into court expecting to be released, was committed at once to the Old Bailey, and to everyone's surprise, his own included, was refused bail.
Deane left the court a few minutes after the case was closed, and paused for a moment to light a cigarette on the steps. On the edge of the pavement there was a woman who watched with steady and scrutinizing interest every person who left the entrance of the Law Courts. When Deane came out she advanced towards him. "Is Hefferom free?" she asked.
Deane looked at her, and recognized at once Ruby Sinclair.
"No!" he answered. "He is committed for trial."
"You—"
She leaned forward as though about to strike him. Deane neither shrank back nor showed any sign of interest in her words.
"What is Hefferom to you?" he asked quickly.
"He is no blackmailer, at any rate!" she answered fiercely.
"The Court has ventured to think otherwise," Deane declared.
She was almost at his side now. Suddenly his eyes caught the sight of something glittering, something half drawn from the pocket of her dress. Her wrist was caught in a clasp of iron.
"Young lady," he said sternly, "are you mad?"
"If I am, it is your fault," she answered.
"Nonsense!" he declared. "You see that policeman there? He is watching us now. Let go the revolver and be off. I don't want to give you into custody—my life is worth something for others as well as myself—and I shall certainly do it unless you obey me."
She gave a little sob, and her fingers relaxed their hold upon the revolver, which Deane transferred into his own pocket. She glided away into the crowd. Deane stepped into his brougham, giving the man the address of the hotel where Winifred Rowan was staying. He leaned back in the seat, looking at the little weapon in his hands. Somehow, the fact of his escape, instead of bringing any exultation with it, seemed to depress him strangely. Deane had never called himself or believed himself to be a religious man, yet there was certainly one principle which had always been part of his creed,—to live and let live. He was not a greedy capitalist. He could look upon money without any desire to absorb it. Yet lately he seemed to have been forced into tortuous paths. From the moment when he had attempted to make use of Rowan as a tool, everything had gone against him. Rowan himself lay dead in that windy churchyard, and the words which had been spoken over Rowan's grave were still fresh in his memory. He had lost Lady Olive, of whom, in a way, he had been fond. And at her own bidding he was engaged to this strange, impenetrable girl, a situation which he could not wholly realize, and yet which he felt to be surrounded with danger and humiliation. Then there was this other,—Ruby Sinclair,—who had come to London expecting to find a fortune, and had found nothing but her uncle's dead body. She, too, looked upon him as a hungry schemer, the indirect cause of her uncle's death, a robber, if not a murderer! He looked at the little revolver, opened it carelessly, and laughed as he stared into the empty breech. It was unloaded, a brand-new toy which had never been discharged. He threw it into the opposite seat with a little gesture of contempt. All its tragedy seemed to have passed away. She had bought it to frighten him with. There had, after all, been no serious purpose in her mind. She too, perhaps, had hoped to play the part of extortioner.
What was his offence, he asked himself, as his brougham glided along the Embankment. Simply this: there had been a claim presented for his mine, which was, without doubt, a fraud, which few people would ever have believed in, and which, in a court of law, would have stood but little chance of success. What a fool he had been not to defy Sinclair, to go to his directors and tell them the truth, to resist stoutly any claim the man might bring! Since his first compromise with Rowan, everything had gone wrong. It was unworthy for a man in his position to have allowed Rowan even to play the ambassador, apart from anything else. He saw very clearly in those few minutes where the mistake of his life had been. What he could not see was whither he was tending.
Winifred was waiting for him in the hall of the small hotel in Dover Street. For three days, at her own request, he had not seen her. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the transformation which he now saw. She was faultlessly dressed in a gown of the latest design, and a picture hat which even he recognized as being something quite apart from the usual efforts of even the Bond Street shopkeepers. In every detail she seemed to express the wholly self-satisfied, half-insolent perfection of the woman who knows that she may and does command the best of everything. And with this change in her dress seemed to have come a similar change in her deportment. Her aloofness was still evident enough, but she carried herself with confidence, and with a sort of languid, graceful ease.
"You are nearly ten minutes late," she said quietly. "Where are you taking me to lunch?"
"Wherever you like," he answered. "What about Prince's?"
She took a gold purse and a tiny black spaniel from the neatly dressed maid who stood by her side, and lifting her skirts in her other hand, passed through the door which he was holding open. The lace of her petticoat, the slenderness of her arched instep, the delicate narrowness of her patent shoes, were revelations to him. He gave an order to his chauffeur, and sat down by her side.
"You appear," he said, "to possess a gift for assimilation!"
"My sex is like that," she said. "I have had a good many years to wait, to store up knowledge in. Besides," she continued, a little mockingly, "you yourself are supposed to be something exceptional in the way of grooming, aren't you? There is no need for other people to find our engagement surprising."
Looking at her critically, "I think," he said, "that there is no fear of that."
"You flatter me," she murmured.
"Not at all," he answered. "People might wonder, perhaps, how it is possible to fall in love with anyone whose expression so much resembles that of those statues in there," pointing to a gallery which they were passing. "You have no other fault. There is none, at least, to be found in your appearance. You certainly do look, however, a little inclined to be faultily faultless."
She laughed,—a laugh, however, which brought no color into her cheeks or light into her eyes. "I am a statue," she said, "into which life has not yet been breathed. You see you have been a little remiss up till now. You have never attempted to make love to me!"
"Do you mean to say—" he asked, leaning towards her,—
She gently pushed back his hand, saying: "Please don't be ridiculous. Of course, you must know that overtures of that sort, under the circumstances, are impossible."
"For always?" he asked.
"Certainly!"
"Perhaps you will draw up a little code of conditions," he remarked. "I feel a little in the dark sometimes as to what is expected of me."
"You will easily pick it up as we go along," she replied. "Is this Prince's? I wonder if I shall succeed in behaving as though I had lunched here every day of my life!"
Deane found a singular interest, an interest which amounted almost to fascination, in watching the demeanor and general deportment of his companion. Her adaptability was little short of marvellous. She smiled at the right moment at the obsequiousmaître d'hôtel, and exhibited just the proper amount of interest in the luncheon which Deane ordered. The restaurant was somewhat crowded, but there was no one who attracted more notice than Deane and the girl who sat opposite him,—slim, and elegantly dressed,—looking around her with a certain partly veiled interest, which was all the time in piquant contrast to the languor of her eyes and manner. She was by no means a silent companion, although her conversation consisted for the most part of questions. She had an unerring gift for discovering the most noteworthy of the little crowd by whom they were surrounded, and she was continually asking questions about them, with a persistence which clearly indicated an interest scarcely suggested by her general deportment.
"I wonder," Deane said, toward the end of their meal, "whether social preëminence is amongst your carefully veiled ambitions."
"I am not at all sure," she answered. "Of course, one develops according to circumstances. In the office of Messrs. Rubicon & Moore I naturally cared nothing for the world which I could only read about in the columns ofModern Society. As one comes into touch with things, one appreciates. It is always interesting to know people."
"I am afraid," Deane said, with covert satire, "that my friends are scarcely what you would call fashionable."
"Your friends?" she remarked, looking up at him. "But that doesn't matter, does it? I shall make my own friends later on."
Deane looked across the table. She was patting the head of her little spaniel, and watching, with a self-possession which amounted almost to insolence, the exodus of a party from the neighboring table.
"Young lady," he said, "what sort of a life did you lead before you went to Messrs. Rubicon & Moore's? I always understood that your people were very poor, and only respectably connected."
"You understood the truth," she answered, with composure.
"Will you tell me, then," he asked, "how you learned to wear your clothes?—how you picked up all the little tricks of social life?"
The very faintest of smiles parted her lips, a smile that wrinkled at the corners of her eyes, and suddenly altered her appearance so that Deane was forced to recognize the charm which even to himself he had denied.
"My dear Mr. Deane," she said, "it is the natural heritage of a woman to assimilate quickly, especially," she added, after a moment's pause, "amongst surroundings for which she has had a great desire. Many a time when I was typing price-lists in that wretched little office, in a black alpaca gown, with my hat hanging up opposite me,—a black straw with faded flowers, which had cost me three or four shillings, with darned stockings and patched boots,—many a time I have left off typing for a few minutes, and thought and wondered what this must be like. I suppose I have what you would call a natural aptitude for it. It is because I have thought of it, pondered over it, desired it."
Deane looked at her wonderingly. "Well," he said, "let me congratulate you. You play the game to perfection. If I were in a position to make terms—"
"You are not," she interrupted shortly. "Please to pay the bill. I am going to take you shopping."
They left the brougham at the corner of Bond Street. Winifred had signified her desire to walk for a little time. Deane found himself becoming thoroughly interested—not, as he told himself, in his companion herself, but in his study of her. The women they passed she subjected, nearly every one of them, to a close and comprehensive scrutiny. At the men she scarcely glanced. She found, perhaps, her greatest interest in the shop windows. She led him across the road to the establishment of a great jeweller.
"You have not given me an engagement ring," she said, a little abruptly. "We will go in and choose one."
He followed her obediently into the shop, and stood by her side while she described minutely the sort of ring she required. Her manner inspired instant respect. She knew exactly what she wanted, and what she wanted was the rarest and most beautiful stones, set in the newest fashion. She showed very little enthusiasm—hesitated, even—over the ring which was produced at last, after a little hesitation, and shown almost with reverence. It had been made for a queen, but something had gone wrong—a matter of politics—and they had not dared to part with it. Even Deane stared when the man at his elbow whispered the price, but Winifred never moved a muscle.
"I think it will do," she said, turning to him. "It is very nearly what I wanted. And I want a few pins—emeralds and diamonds I prefer."
The shopman was already producing a tray from the window. She spoke of pearls, and examined those that were shown her with the air of a connoisseur.
"I shall want a rope of pearls very soon," she told the man, "but not just yet. Perhaps you will let Mr. Deane know when you have enough of the ones the color and size I like."
"It will give us very great pleasure, madam, to collect them," the man said, bowing.
Deane produced his cheque-book—fortunately, he was well known—and wrote a cheque for over two thousand pounds in exchange for the receipt which the man handed to him. Winifred calmly withdrew her glove and slipped on the ring. The other things she asked them to send. When she left the shop, it seemed to Deane that there was a little more color in her cheeks and a deeper light in her eyes.
"Jewelry interests you?" he remarked, as they stood for a moment on the pavement.
"Yes!" she answered. "Of course it does. Everything of this sort interests me. Haven't I longed all my days to feel the touch of pearls upon my bare neck, to have something like this upon my finger that I could look at and worship, not only for itself but for the things it represents? Come and buy me some flowers. My sitting-room is a wilderness. Afterwards, I am going into the milliner's beyond."
Deane followed her obediently into the florist's opposite. She chose a great bowl of pink roses and some white lilac.
"How many of the roses, madam?" the shopman asked her.
She looked at him with faintly upraised eyebrows. "Oh! send them as they are," she answered carelessly.
"There are four dozen, madam," the man remarked, bowing.
She nodded indifferently. The fact that they were a shilling each did not appear to interest her.
"Is that all the lilacs you have?" she asked, as they were leaving the shop.
"All we have at present, madam," the man answered.
"Please get some more," she said, "if you can. These hotel sitting-rooms," she added, turning to Deane, "seem to have a sort of odor of their own. One can only get rid of it by having flowers everywhere. Now I am going in here," she said, stopping at a tiny milliner's. "You must wait for me—I know you are dying to smoke a cigarette—but you had better give me your pocket-book."
"I am afraid," Deane answered imperturbably, "that its contents will be of little use to you, for I have only twenty pounds with me. If you will take these"—he handed her the notes—"I will take a taximeter and cash a cheque. I shall only be a few minutes."
She nodded, and disappeared into the shop. When she came out again Deane had returned from his little expedition, and was talking to some men whom he knew. They glanced at Winifred a little curiously as they raised their hats and passed on.
"We can perhaps continue our shopping," Deane said, "more comfortably now."
She ignored the faint note of satire in his tone. "One needs so many things," she murmured. "The woman inside is just making out my bill. I think I shall want another thirty pounds."
"I am afraid," he said, "that you have not been able to find what you wanted. The amount seems trivial."
"Well," she said, "there was a lace dressing-gown about which I could not quite make up my mind. Perhaps, after all, I had better have it."
She turned back into the shop, and he followed her. The lace dressing-gown was still lying upon a chair, and in a few moments Deane found it being held up before him by a vivacious little Frenchwoman, who was endeavoring to convince him that in it Madame would look a dream. It was very filmy, very dainty, wonderfully expensive. Deane heard the price without moving a muscle.
"I think you had better have it," he said. "I am sure," he went on, looking into her eyes, "that you will look charming in it."
For the first time he seemed to score. She bent over some lace handkerchiefs, as though anxious to avoid his gaze. "Very well," she said, "I think that will be all now. Please pay, and let us go."
Once more they were in the streets.
"I want a dressing-bag," she said, a little abruptly.
"By all means," he answered. "We had better go back to the jeweller's. Do you prefer mother-of-pearl fittings, or gold?"
"I am not sure," she answered. "I should like to look at some."
They were twenty minutes or so making a selection. Deane wrote another cheque, and stuffed another receipt into his pocket. He had made a few suggestions himself, which had increased the cost considerably.
"Where to now?" he asked.
"I want some gloves," she said. "Perhaps you would rather go back to your office now. I must not take up your whole afternoon."
"I am entirely at your service," he assured her. "Believe me, I find shopping quite an interesting novelty."
"You mean," she said, "that you like to watch the effect upon me. You think I don't understand. It is quite easy. Tell me how I seem to you?"
"You seem very much to the manner born," he answered, "but you seem also, if I may say so, as though you were getting rid of the pent-up desires of years. For instance," he added, as they strolled along the south side of the street, "there is a certain almost fierceness—I won't say barbarism—in the way you absorb the things you desire. I am not complaining," he added quickly. "As a matter of fact, I am rather inclined to welcome any note of humanity. So long as we are engaged," he added, looking at her sideways, "one would just as soon feel that one were engaged to a living person as an automaton."
She kept her eyes averted, but he saw the faint spot of color burning in her cheeks.
"This is where I think I shall get the gloves I want," she said.
"I will come in with you, if I may," he answered.
Her purchases here showed a little more restraint. Nevertheless, everything she chose was the best of its sort. When she came out, her appetite seemed somehow whetted. She walked along the street almost listlessly.
"Do you know that it is nearly half-past four?" he said. "You had better let me give you some tea."
She nodded indifferently. "Thank you. That would be very nice."
"Will you come to my rooms," he asked, "or shall we go into the Carlton and hear the music?"
She looked at him quickly, and then back into a shop window. "To the Carlton, if you please," she said coldly.
They walked to the corner of the street and stood waiting while the brougham came round to them. She turned toward a florist's and looked into the window.
"You would like some more flowers?" he asked.
She led him into the shop without a word. There was a cluster of red roses over which she bent and selected one. "I should like this, please," she said.
"One only, madam?" the shopman asked.
"One only," she answered composedly. "I will pin it in here if you will cut the stalk a little," she added, removing a brooch from the bosom of her gown. "Will you pay for this, please?" she added, turning to Deane.
He was taken aback for a moment. "You are sure that there is nothing else?" he asked.
"Nothing," she answered.
They left the shop and he handed her into the brougham. Deane was suddenly conscious that his pulse was beating a little faster, even though her fingers had lain in his absolutely unresponsive. He was wondering what sort of a whim it was which had led her to desire that one flower.
A man in the city, who was an old friend of Lord Nunneley, stopped the latter as he was on the point of entering his club.
"By the bye, Nunneley," he said, "did I understand—I think I saw it in the papers—that the marriage between your daughter and Stirling Deane was off?"
"The engagement has been broken off," answered Lord Nunneley, a little stiffly. "Why?"
"That's all right," said the man. "The only thing was that as I was one of the people you came to, to ask about Deane, I felt that if it was still on I ought to tell you that things aren't supposed to be just the same as they were."
"Do you mean about Deane?" asked Lord Nunneley.
His friend nodded. "There are some very curious rumors going about," he said. "You remember, of course, his charging a man named Hefferom—a South African—with an attempt at blackmail the other day? The man was committed for trial, and there was not much came out in the evidence before the magistrates. Since then, however, people have been talking. They say that Hefferom had actual knowledge of documents proving that Deane's title to the Little Anna Gold-Mine was a false one, and that the mine in reality belonged to Hefferom himself and a partner."
"That sounds like a very curious story," Lord Nunneley remarked. "If it is true, why doesn't Hefferom produce his document and have done with it?"
"Because it has been stolen," the other answered. "There are all sorts of stories going about, too, concerning the theft. The point remains, however, that there is a strong feeling that the document in question does exist, and that it may turn up. If so, of course, it would ruin Deane. I see that the shares of his corporation have had a most tremendous drop, so it seems as though there might be something in it. Buy a special edition this afternoon, and you'll know more about it."
Lord Nunneley nodded. "Thank you," he said, "I will do so."
Lord Nunneley walked slowly along Pall Mall. After all, there was no need to buy a paper. On the placards which the boys were displaying as he neared Trafalgar Square were great headlines,—
Extraordinary Drop of Shares in the Gold-Mines Association. Panic in the City.
Extraordinary Drop of Shares in the Gold-Mines Association. Panic in the City.
Lord Nunneley bought a paper, and stood for a few minutes reading it. Then he called a taxicab, and gave the man the address of Deane's offices. He was well known there, and Deane's confidential man at once came forward.
"Mr. Deane will see you, of course, my lord," he said. "He is really disengaged now, but we are obliged to deny him to everybody because of these interviewers. Will you come with me, my lord?"
Lord Nunneley found himself ushered into Deane's private room. Deane was dictating rapidly to his secretary. As usual he was calm, self-possessed, carefully groomed and dressed. There was nothing about his appearance in any way to suggest a panic. He heard his visitor's name, however, with surprise.
"Nunneley!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet.
Lord Nunneley nodded, and held out his hand. "I was in the city and thought I'd look you up, Deane," he said. "Can I have a word or two with you?"
"Certainly," Deane answered. "Give us five minutes, Ellison,—or stay away until I ring," he added to his secretary.
Lord Nunneley accepted an easy-chair and also a cigarette, but he seemed in no great hurry to explain his business. "I was very sorry, Deane," he said at last, "to see the papers this evening. I hope the trouble isn't very serious."
"Do you hold any of our shares?" Deane asked.
"If I did," said the other, coloring a little, "I should not have come here."
Deane accepted the reproof. "I beg your pardon."
"I daresay," continued Lord Nunneley, "my coming seems to you, under the circumstances, a little superfluous. However, what I wanted to say is this. You see Olive is our only child, and that made us very anxious about anything to do with her. I am sure that you yourself must feel now, when you are under so much anxiety, that it is better not to have the added responsibility of your engagement upon your shoulders."
"I have never questioned your wisdom in breaking it off," Deane said quietly. "Under the circumstances, I agree with you that it is a very good thing."
"That's all right," Lord Nunneley continued, a little hastily. "Of course, neither you nor Olive are children, and you are not the sort to wear your hearts upon your sleeve. In short," he added, somewhat abruptly, "you'll both get over it. There's no doubt about that. I didn't come to revert to this matter at all. I simply wanted to say that though our relations are changed, I still do feel a considerable amount of friendship for you, Deane, and I wanted to come and just tell you I was sorry. And look here," he went on, a little awkwardly, "I've between seven and eight thousand pounds for which I am looking for an investment, and if the money's any use to you, Deane, why say the word, and I'll write you a cheque on the spot."
Deane looked at his visitor for a moment in an astonishment which triumphed over the natural impassivity of his expression. Then a little flush rose in his cheeks. He got to his feet and held out his hand.
"Nunneley," he said, "this is awfully good of you. I shall not forget it. Believe that. If we wanted money, or if I did personally, I'd accept your offer like a shot."
"Too much of a drop in the bucket, I suppose," Lord Nunneley remarked. "It isn't much, I know."
"It isn't that," Deane interrupted. "The situation is simply that our shares have had a big drop because of certain rumors about our title to the Little Anna Gold-Mine. If those rumors were confirmed, five or six hundred thousand pounds wouldn't help us. If they are not confirmed, and if they die a natural death, as I imagine they must, our shares will recover themselves and we shall not need money."
"You don't believe in the existence of any such document, then?" Lord Nunneley asked.
"I do not believe that it will be produced," Deane answered, "and if it were produced," he went on, "I do not believe in its validity. I would not say as much, even, as this to the reporters, but the document about which people have been talking is simply an original claim to the Little Anna Gold-Mine, which was deserted by the very man who put me on to it, and in whose name the claim stands. You see, therefore, that any attempt to establish a legal claim is more or less a swindle."
Lord Nunneley rose to his feet. "You are really not so very much alarmed, then?"
Deane shook his head. "This drop in shares, after all," he said, "does not affect us particularly, except for the time. It simply means that the market declares that we are a few hundred thousand pounds poorer to-day than we were yesterday. Whether the market is right or not remains to be proved."
"Well, I am glad to have seen you, at any rate, Deane, and remember, if there is anything I can do—"
"You have already," Deane said, "done a great deal, Lord Nunneley. I shall not forget your visit or your offer."
"That's all right," Lord Nunneley declared. "Olive did not know I was coming, but I'm sure if she had known she would have sent her love. Don't bother to ring. I can find my way out."
The visit of his projected father-in-law seemed to Deane like a pleasant little oasis in the middle of a long, dreary day. These rumors of which Lord Nunneley had heard seemed to have come into existence during the last few hours. There had been some large failures lately, and investors were all nervous. The country was short of money. In ordinary times, an attack upon the stability of such a corporation as his would have been impossible. To-day, nothing seemed impossible. In his heart, Deane knew or felt that the situation was safe. Yet the very fact that these rumors had sprung into being seemed to denote the line of defence which Hefferom's lawyers were prepared to offer in the coming trial. He would be accused everywhere—if not in words, in suggestion—of complicity in the murder of Sinclair. The existence of that document would be believed in. It would be said openly, perhaps, that he was responsible himself for its suppression. It was not the fact that on paper he was nearly a quarter of a million poorer than he had been a week ago that troubled him. It was the reflection that bold though his words had been, it was within the power of the man who lay awaiting his trial practically to ruin him. The question of the whereabouts of the document might be, in a few weeks, the most discussed matter in London.
Deane, acting upon a sudden impulse, left his office by the back entrance and drove to the small hotel where Winifred was staying. Miss Rowan was at home, he was told, and after a few minutes' delay he was shown into her sitting-room.
"Miss Rowan will be with you in a moment," her maid announced, coming through from the bedroom. "She is with her dressmaker at present."
Deane nodded, and took up the newspaper mechanically from the table. The room seemed to him almost faint with the perfume of flowers. He glanced around carelessly, and suddenly found his attention riveted upon her writing-table. In a little silver vase, standing by itself, was the red rose which he had bought for her two days since!
She came to him in a few moments, dressed in a fascinating negligée gown,—came to him with a rustle of silk and a faint expression of surprise upon her upraised eyebrows.
"I did not expect you until this evening," she remarked.
He nodded. "I took the liberty of coming here to ask you a question."
She smiled as she sat down upon the sofa. "Oh, the paper is quite safe."
"How did you know what I came for?" he asked, a little startled.
"My dear friend," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "as I have decided that it is to my interests to link my future with yours, you cannot wonder that I have found such details as those"—she pointed to an evening paper which he noticed now lying upon her writing-table—"interesting. I have been trying to understand how matters stand. Tell me if I am right! It seems to me that so long as that document remains an imagined thing, so long as it is not produced or sworn to definitely, you are safe."
"The corporation is safe," answered Deane, "and in a measure, I suppose, I am. On the other hand, I shall be accused, naturally, of suppressing it, and probably of complicity in Sinclair's murder. There is Hefferom, you see, prepared to swear that Sinclair came to London with that paper in his possession. Sinclair is known to have come to my office. He has certainly been murdered. The paper cannot be found, and the corporation remains in possession of the mine. People will certainly put these things together."
She nodded. "It will be very bad indeed," she said slowly, "for your reputation."
"It will, I am afraid," said Deane, "considerably lessen my social value as your husband."
"It seems to me," she replied, "that money is so powerful. I daresay you will be able to live it down."
"With your help," Deane remarked sarcastically, "it seems to me very possible. By the bye," he continued, "with reference to that document, you must forgive me if I feel some slight uneasiness at times as to its safety."
"You need have none," she answered. "It is in safe keeping."
"It is your own interests as well as mine you are guarding," he reminded her.
"I am perfectly aware of it," she answered. "Since you are here, may I offer you some tea?"
"Thanks," he said, "I think not. By the bye, do you care to go to the Opera to-night? I have two stalls, and Melba is singing."
A sudden light flashed over her face. It was as though the mask had been raised for a moment. Perhaps by contrast her tone seemed colder than ever as she answered him. "I should like to very much. Will you call for me?"
"At half-past seven," he answered. "We will have a little dinner somewhere first."
"You are sure," she asked, "that you do not mind being seen out?"
"It is all to my advantage," he answered. "The men who are most talked about should never shrink from publicity. The people who have been told to-day that I am a bankrupt, a swindler, and a murderer, and that my ruin is only a matter of minutes, will hesitate if they see me with you in the stalls of the Opera to-night."
"Nero fiddled," she reminded him.
"Nero was a hysterical person," he answered. "My tendencies are towards the other extreme. Until half-past seven, then."
"Until half-past seven," she repeated.
He bowed and left her without even shaking hands. She stood quite still for a moment, looking at the door which he had closed behind him. Then she crossed the room slowly, and lifted the vase with its solitary rose to her lips. A second later it lay dashed to pieces upon the floor, the flaming color was in her cheeks, her fists were clenched.
"I hate him!" she declared to herself. "I hate him now more than ever!"