"If I had that paper," Duge said quietly, "I would tear it up at this moment, but I regret to say that I have not. It was stolen during my illness."
"We know that," Weiss answered. "We know even in whose hands it is."
Phineas Duge looked up inquiringly.
"Norris Vine has it," Weiss continued. "We have offered him a million, but he declines to sell. He would have used it for his paper before now, and we should have been on the other side of the ocean, but for the fact that John Drayton advised him not to. Now he has taken it with him to London. He is going to ask Deane's advice. At any moment the thing may come flashing back. We may wake up to find a copy of that document in black and white in every paper in New York State."
"You have offered him a reasonable sum for it," Phineas Duge said, "and he declines to sell. Very well, what do you propose to do?"
"It was stolen from you," Weiss said. "He may justly decline to treat with us; but it is your property, and you have a right to it."
"You propose, then?" Phineas Duge asked.
"That you should catch theKaiserinto London to-morrow," Higgins said, "and find out this man Vine. The rest we are content to leave with you, but I think that if you try you will get it."
Phineas Duge sat quite still for several moments. He sipped his wine thoughtfully, threw his cigar, which had gone out, into the fire, and lit a cigarette. He appreciated the force of the suggestion, and a trip to Europe was by no means distasteful to him, but he was not a man to decide upon anything of this sort without reflection.
"A week ago," he said softly, "even a day ago, and my absence from New York would have meant ruin. If I leave the country to-morrow, and trust myself upon the ocean for six days, what guarantee have I that you will keep to any arrangement which we might make to-morrow?"
"We will sign affidavits," Weiss declared, "that we will not, directly or indirectly, enter into any operations in any one of our stocks during your absence, except for your profit as well as our own. We will execute a deed of partnership as regards any transactions which we might enter into during your absence."
Phineas Duge nodded thoughtfully.
"I suppose," he said, "we might be able to fix things up that way. I should be glad enough to get the paper back again, but Vine is not an easy man to deal with, and he is pleased to call himself my enemy."
"The men who have called themselves that," Higgins remarked grimly, "have generally been sorry for it."
"And so may he," Phineas Duge answered, "but I am not sure that his time has come yet. You must let me think this over, gentlemen, until to-morrow morning. I will meet you with my broker and lawyer at ten o'clock at your office, Weiss, and if I make up my mind to go to Europe, my luggage will be on the steamer by that time. On the whole I might tell you that I am inclined to go."
Weiss drew a great breath of relief. He poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it off.
"It's good to hear you say that, Duge," he said. "I tell you we have come pretty near being scared the last week or so. I feel a lot more comfortable fighting with you in the ranks."
Phineas Duge forbore from all recrimination. He filled Higgins' glass and his own. He could afford to be magnanimous. He had fought them one against four, and they had come to him for mercy!
"We will drink," he said, "to the new President. This one has tilted against the windmills once too often. He must learn his lesson."
Virginia slept little that night. Her room, one of the smallest and least expensive in the cosmopolitan boarding-house where she was staying, was high up, almost in an attic. The windows were small, and opened with difficulty. The heat, combined with her own restlessness, made the weary hours one long nightmare for her. Early in the morning she rose and sat in front of the little window, looking out across the wilderness of house-tops, where a pall of smoke seemed to convert to luminous chaos the rising sun. There was a lump in her throat, and gathering tears in her eyes. It seemed to her that no one could ever realize a loneliness more absolute and complete than hers. She thought of the early summer mornings in that tiny farmhouse perched on the side of the lonely valley, where the air at least was clear and pure and bright, musical with the song of birds, and the west wind which stirred always in the pine-woods behind heralded the coming morning. If only she could have dropped from her shoulders the burden of the last few months, and found herself back there once more. Then a pang of remorse shook her heart. She remembered the happiness which through her had come to those whom she loved, and the thought was like a tonic to her. She forgot her own sorrows, she forgot that dim tremendous feeling, which had shown through her life for a minute or two, only to pass away and leave behind longings and regrets which were in themselves a constant pain. She forgot everything except the thought of what it might mean to those others who were dear to her if she should fail in her task. Her face seemed suddenly aged as she sat there, crushing down the sweeter things, clenching her fingers upon the window-sill, and telling herself that at any cost she must succeed, hopeless though the task might seem.
Presently she began to move about the room and collect her clothes. At half-past nine she had left the boarding-house and departed without leaving any address behind her. At ten o'clock a great automobile swung round the corner, stopped before the door, and Mr. Mildmay descended and ran lightly up the steps. Miss Longworth had gone away, he was told by the shabby German waiter in soiled linen coat and greasy black trousers. She had left no address. She had left no message for any one who might be calling for her. The largest tip which he had ever received could only send him into the inner regions to interview the proprietress, who came out and confirmed his words. Mildmay turned slowly around and drove away.
* * * * *
Stella and Norris Vine lunched together that day in a small West End restaurant. He had telephoned asking her to come, and she had at once thrown over another engagement. They were scarcely seated before he asked her a question.
"Do you know that your cousin is in London?"
"What! Virginia?" Stella exclaimed.
He nodded, and Stella was genuinely amazed.
"Whom did she come with?" she asked. "What does she want here?"
"She came alone, poor little thing," he answered, "and on a wild-goose chase. I never heard anything so pathetic in my life. She ought to be in short frocks, playing with her dolls, and she has come here four thousand miles to a city she knows nothing of, to steal back—well, you know what. One could laugh if it were not so pathetic."
"Little fool!" Stella said, half contemptuously, and yet with a note of regret in her tone.
"I thought, perhaps," Vine said, "you might find out where she is and go and talk common sense to her. If there is anything else we can do, I'd like to, only I hate the thought of a pretty child like that wandering about London on such an absurd quest."
"Do you know where she is to be found?" Stella asked quietly.
"I have no idea," Vine answered. "The last time I saw her was in my own rooms. I am only sorry that I let her go."
Stella looked up at him quickly.
"Your own rooms!" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"Well," he answered, "with the extraordinary luck which comes sometimes to babies, she overheard two men talking about me and arranging to meet at a certain hour at my flat. She actually had the nerve to be there herself at the same time. While she sat in my sitting-room, they waited in the bedroom. Mind, a great part of this may be her invention. I have only her word for it, but she certainly seemed as though she were telling the truth. I rang up for some one to bring me a change of clothes, and she answered the telephone. What she said to me sounded such rank nonsense that I jumped in a hansom and went straight back to my rooms. However, the men who were listening gathered from what she said that I was not coming back, and they gave it up and stole out. When I returned I found her waiting there, and she demanded that I should give her up the paper she wanted as a matter of gratitude."
"Do you believe her story?" Stella asked.
"I don't know," he answered. "I know that I am being followed about, and if she could get into my rooms, it is quite as easy for them to do so. They may have been there, and I dare say that if I had entered unsuspectingly, and Dan Prince had anything to do with it, I shouldn't have had much chance. It amused me to see all my drawers turned out and my papers disturbed."
"Little idiot!" Stella said impatiently. "She ought to be at home, feeding her father's chickens. She is hopelessly out of place here, just as she was in New York,"
"I wish we could send her back there," Vine declared.
Stella looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"My dear Norris," she said, "isn't this rather a new departure for you?I don't seem to recognize you in this frame of mind."
He sipped his wine thoughtfully for a minute or two, and helped himself to some curry.
"I believe after all, Stella," he said, "that you know very little about me. I am naturally a most tender-hearted person."
"You have managed," she remarked drily, "to conceal your weakness most effectively."
"A journalist," he reminded her, "is used to conceal them. Without the arts of lying and acting, we might as well abandon our profession. Seriously, Stella, I am sorry for the child. I wish you could find her and pack her off home."
Stella shrugged her shoulders.
"In the first place," she said, "I have no idea where to look; and in the second, she is one of those obstinate children who never do what they are told, or see reason."
"I admit," he replied, "that finding her is rather a difficulty, but after all, you see, it is you directly, and I indirectly, who are responsible for her troubles. I think we ought to do what we can. I wish I hadn't let her go the other night."
"I am becoming," Stella said, smiling, "a little jealous of my cousin."
He looked at her with steady scrutiny, as though he were curious to decide how much of truth there might be in her words.
"You have no need, my dear Stella," he said, "to be jealous of Virginia or any other girl. This is simply the dying kick of a nearly finished conscience."
"If I come across her," Stella said, "I will do what I can. If you see her again, and I should think you are the more likely, find out her address and I will go and see her. By the by," she added, leaning across the table towards him, "you seem very confident of preserving it. Tell me, where do you keep that paper?"
He smiled.
"Ah!" he said. "All my secrets save one are yours, but I think that that one I will not tell you."
She frowned at him, obviously annoyed.
"Do you mean that?" she asked. "Surely you do not hesitate to trust me?"
"Not for one moment," he answered. "On the other hand, the knowledge of a thing of that sort is better in as few hands as possible. You will be none the better for knowing. Circumstances might arise to make even the knowledge an embarrassment to you. Take my advice, and do not ask me that question."
Stella's face had grown darker.
"It is I," she said, "whom you have to thank for the possession of it. Considering that you go in danger every moment, I think that some one else save yourself should share in the knowledge of what you have done with it."
"Let me recommend," he said, studying the menu for a moment with his horn-rimmed eyeglass, "an artichoke with sauce mayonnaise, or would you prefer asparagus?"
"I should prefer," she insisted, "an answer to my question."
He looked at her steadily. His face was utterly impassive, his forefinger was tapping lightly upon the table-cloth. It was a look which she knew very well.
"The knowledge of where that paper is, Stella, would do you no good," he declared. "Forgive me, but I do not intend to tell a soul."
They finished their luncheon almost in silence. She only once recurred to the subject.
"Perhaps," she said, looking quietly up at him, "as your conscience is growing so susceptible, you will think it right to restore that paper to my little cousin. Those are wonderful eyes, of hers, you know, now she has learnt to use them a little."
Norris Vine did not answer, and they parted with the briefest of farewells.
This time Mildmay was angry. He showed it alike in his speech and expression. Virginia looked at him like a terrified child.
"So, Virginia," he said, "I have found you at last!"
"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly.
He looked at her for quite thirty seconds without replying. Her eyes fell before his. More than ever she felt the shame of her position.
"What do I want?" he repeated, a little bitterly. "You ask me that,Virginia, seriously?"
She covered her face with her hands.
"Oh! please go away," she said. "It is not kind of you to come here."
"I do not mean to be unkind," he answered, "but I want to understand. Why did you leave your boarding-house in Russell Street and run away from me?"
"It was not only to run away from you," she answered. "There were other reasons."
"Why should you wish to run away from me at all?" he asked.
"Because," she answered, "I am afraid, and you ask me things which are impossible."
"What are you afraid of?" he asked.
"Of myself, of you, of everything," she murmured pathetically.
Virginia was a little worn out. Day after day of disappointment had tried her sorely. He felt himself softening, but he showed no signs of it in his face.
"Is there anywhere here where we can talk?" he asked. "You have rooms in the building, have you not? Are you alone?"
He could have bitten his tongue out for that question, but its significance never occurred to her.
"Yes!" she answered. "Since you are here, perhaps you had better come in."
They had met on the landing of the fifth floor of Coniston Mansions. She led him down the corridor, and, opening a door, ushered him into a tiny sitting-room.
"How did you find me out?" she asked.
"I saw you dining at Luigi's yesterday and to-day," he answered sternly. "You were with the same man both times. I followed you yesterday. You both came back here. To-day you came back alone. Is this man your brother?"
"No!" she answered.
"Your cousin? Is he any relation to you?"
"No!" she repeated.
"Who is he, then?"
"A friend," she answered, "or an enemy perhaps. What does it matter to you?"
He looked at her steadfastly. She was dressed in white muslin, and she wore a big black hat without any touch of colour. Her clothes were those which her uncle had ordered in New York. She was slim and dainty and elegant, and he found it hard indeed to keep his heart steeled against her.
"How can you ask me that, Virginia?" he replied. "Have you forgotten that I have asked you to marry me?"
"And I have told you that I cannot," she replied desperately. "I cannot and I will not. You have no right to come here and worry me."
"So my coming does worry you?" he asked.
"Yes!" she answered desperately, "you know that it does."
"Virginia," he said, "what is this man's name?"
"It is no concern of yours," she answered.
"Are you in love with him?"
"I shall not tell you," she said.
"Is he in love with you?"
"If you ask me any more such questions, I shall go into my room and lock the door," she declared.
Mildmay took a turn up and down the little apartment. The child was obdurate, yet all the time he seemed to read her soft frightened eyes.
"Virginia," he said suddenly, stopping in front of her, "I have the license in my pocket. Won't you come out with me and be married?"
"No!" she answered, "I will not."
"Think!" he begged her. "It would be so easy. We could walk out of this place together, and in an hour's time you would have some one else to take your little troubles on their shoulders. Don't you think that mine are broad enough, little girt?"
"Please don't!" she begged. "I cannot. I wish you would not ask me."
"I don't know whether it makes any difference," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "but I have plenty of money. In fact I am very rich. If there is any possible way in which money could help your troubles, they would soon be over."
"Oh! I know that you have," she answered. "It is not that."
He looked at her fixedly.
"You know that I have? Perhaps you know who I am?"
"I do," she answered. "You are Guy Mildmay, Duke of Mowbray."
He was taken aback.
"How did you find that out?" he asked.
"On the steamer," she answered, "the last few days. People got to know,I am not sure how, and in any case it does not matter."
A light began to break in upon him.
"I believe," he said, "that it is because you know you will not marry me."
"Oh! it isn't only that," she answered. "It is utterly, absolutely impossible. My people live on a little farm in America, and have barely enough money to live on. We are terribly poor."
He frowned for a moment thoughtfully. He was looking at her expensive clothes. He did not understand.
"And besides," she continued, "there is another reason why I should never think of it. Now, please, won't you believe me and go away? It is not kind of you to make it so difficult for me."
"Very well, Virginia," he said quietly, "for the present I will ask you no more. But can you tell me any reason why I should not be your friend?"
"None at all," she answered. "You can be what you like, if you will only go away and leave me alone."
"That," he answered, "is not my idea of friendship. If we are friends, I have the right to help you in your troubles, whatever they may be."
"That," she declared, "is impossible."
Then he began to realize that this child, with her soft great eyes, her delightful mouth, her girlish face, which ever since he had first seen it had seemed to him the prototype of all that was gentle and lovable, possessed a strength of character incredible in one of her years and appearance. He realized that he was only distressing her by his presence. The timidity of her manner was no sign of weakness, and there was finality even in that earnest look which she had fixed upon him.
"You decline me as a husband then, Virginia," he said, "and you decline me as a friend. You want to have nothing more to do with me. Very well, I will go away."
She drew a sharp breath between her teeth, and if he noticed it he made no sign. He drew a paper from his pocket and calmly tore it into pieces.
"That," he said, "was the paper which was to have made us happy.Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" she gasped, tearfully.
He laughed as he took her into his arms. She did not make the least resistance.
"You little idiot!" he said. "Do you know that I very nearly went?"
Her head was buried upon his shoulder, and she was not in the position for a moment to make any reply.
He helped Virginia to descend from the automobile, and led her up the steps in front of the great house in Grosvenor Square.
"You are not frightened, dear?" he asked.
"I am terrified to death," she answered frankly. He touched her hand reassuringly.
"Silly child!" he said. "I am sure you will like my aunt."
The door flew open before them. A footman stood aside to let them pass. An elderly servant in plain black clothes came hurrying down from a little office.
"I trust that your Grace is well?" he said.
"Very well indeed, thank you, Jameson," Mildmay said. "Is my aunt in?"
"Her ladyship is in the morning-room, your Grace," the man answered, with an almost imperceptible glance towards Virginia. "Shall I announce you?"
"Is she alone?" Mildmay asked.
"For the moment, yes, your Grace," the man answered.
Guy led Virginia across the hall, knocked at a door and entered. A tall, grey-haired lady was sitting on a sofa with a tea-tray by her side. She was very good-looking, and absurdly like Mildmay, to whom she held out her right hand. Guy stooped and raised it to his lips.
"My dear aunt," he said, "can you stand a shock?"
"That depends," she answered, glancing at Virginia. "My nerves are not what they were, you know. However, go on."
"I am trying you rather high, I know," he said, "but there are reasons for it which I can explain later on. I have brought a young lady to see you, Miss Virginia Longworth. I want you to like her very much, because she has promised to be my wife."
Lady Medlincourt held out her hand, long and slim and delicate, and made room for Virginia by her side on the sofa.
"How are you, my dear?" she said quite calmly. "Will you have some tea? It's beastly, I know, been standing for hours, but Guy can ring for some fresh. So you are really going to marry my nephew?"
Virginia raised her eyes, and looked for a moment into the face of the woman who sat by her side.
"Yes, Lady Medlincourt," she answered; "I do hope you will not be angry."
"Angry! My dear child, I am never angry," Lady Medlincourt declared. "I have arrived at that time in life when one cannot afford the luxury of giving way to emotion. You won't mind my asking you a few questions, though, both of you. To begin with, I do not know your name. Who are you?"
Guy leaned a little forward.
"She will be Duchess of Mowbray in a very short time, aunt," he said."Please don't forget that."
Lady Medlincourt raised her eyebrows.
"Bless the boy!" she exclaimed. "As though I were likely to! I can feel it go shivering down my backbone all the time. Sit here for a moment, both of you. I am going to give Jameson orders myself not to admit any one for a little while."
She crossed the room and they were alone for a moment. They exchanged quick glances, and Guy laughed at the consternation in Virginia's face.
"Don't be scared, little woman," he said. "You'll get on all right with my aunt, I am sure. She is a little odd just at first, and she hates to show any feeling about anything, but she's a thundering good sort."
"She seems just a little casual, doesn't she?" Virginia asked—"rather as though you had brought me to call?"
"Don't you worry, dear," he answered, smiling. "That's only her manner.Just drink your tea and you'll feel better."
Virginia shook her head.
"I can't, Guy," she declared. "It's just too poisonous."
"I'll ring for some fresh," he said, moving toward the bell.
"Please don't," she begged. "I hate tea anyway. Guy, you are not sorry, are you?"
He took her hand and laughed reassuringly.
"You little idiot!" he said. "Do you want me to kiss you?"
"I don't much care," Virginia answered. "I have a sort of feeling in my throat that I want—some one to kiss me. You're quite, quite sure that whatever your aunt may say you will never regret this?"
"Absolutely, positively certain!" he declared. "And you?"
"It isn't the same thing with me," Virginia declared, shaking her head."I am not going to marry a pig in a poke."
"It's a very dear little pig," he said, resting his hand for a moment upon her shoulder.
Lady Medlincourt reappeared. She resumed her seat, and motioned Guy to sit opposite to her.
"Now we shall not be disturbed for at least a quarter of an hour," she said, "and I want to hear all about it. You are very pretty, I am glad to see, dear," she said, looking at Virginia contemplatively. "I hate plain girls. What did you say that your name was?"
"Virginia Longworth!" Virginia answered, blushing.
"Quite a charming name!" Lady Medlincourt said, shutting her eyeglasses with a snap. "Tell me all about her, Guy."
"My dear aunt," he answered, laughing, "we aren't married yet."
Lady Medlincourt nodded.
"Ah!" she said. "No doubt you'll have plenty to discover later on. Put it another way. Tell me the things that I must know about the Duchess of Mowbray."
"As for instance?" he asked quietly.
"Her people," Lady Medlincourt said. "You are American, I suppose, child?" she continued. "You have very little accent, but I fancy that I can just detect it, and we don't see eyes like yours in England."
"Yes, I am American, Lady Medlincourt," Virginia answered.
"Who are your people, then?" Lady Medlincourt asked. "Where did you meet? Who introduced you? Don't look at one another like a pair of stupids. Remember that, however pointed my questions may sound, they are things which I must know if I am to be of any use to you."
Virginia went a little pale.
"Lady Medlincourt," she said, "I am sorry, but I cannot answer any questions just now."
Lady Medlincourt drew back a little in her place. She looked at the girl in frank amazement.
"What!" she exclaimed.
Guy leaned forward in his chair.
"Dear aunt," he pleaded, "don't think that we are both mad, but I have promised Virginia that she shan't be bothered with questions for a short time. I met her on the steamer coming over from America, and that is all we can tell you just now."
Lady Medlincourt looked from one to the other. She was more than a trifle bewildered.
"Bless the boy!" she exclaimed. "You don't call this bothering her with questions, do you? She can tell me about her people, can't she?"
"Her people," he answered firmly, "are going to be my people."
Lady Medlincourt gasped.
"You have known her, then," she said, "about three weeks?"
"I have known her long enough to realize that she is the girl whom I have been waiting for all my life."
Lady Medlincourt shrugged her shoulders.
"All your life!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Twenty-eight silly years! Have you nothing more to say to me than this, either of you? Do you seriously mean that you bring this very charming young lady here, and ask me to accept her as your fiancée, without a single word of explanation as to her antecedents, who she is, or where she came from?"
Virginia rose to her feet.
"Guy," she said, turning towards him, "we ought never to have come here. Lady Medlincourt has a perfect right to ask these questions. Until we can answer them we ought to go away."
Guy took her hand in his.
"Aunt," he said, "can't you trust a little in my judgment? Look at her.She is the girl whom I love, and whom I am going to trust with my name.Can't you let it go at that for the present?"
Lady Medlincourt shook her head.
"No, I cannot, Guy!" she said, "and if you weren't a silly fool you would not ask me. The future Duchess of Mowbray has to explain her position, whether she is a gentlewoman or a chorus girl. There's plenty of rope for her nowadays. She may be pretty well anything she pleases, but she must be some one. Don't think I am a brute, dear," she added, turning not unkindly to Virginia. "I like your appearance all right, and I dare say we could be friends. But if you wish me to accept you as my nephew's future wife, you must remember that the position which he is giving you is one that has its obligations as well as its pleasures. You'll have to open your pretty little mouth, or I am afraid I can't do anything for you."
Virginia turned to Guy.
"Your aunt is quite right," she said. "I know it must sound very foolish, but I came over here on an errand which I cannot tell any one about just yet."
"That, of course, is for you to decide," Lady Medlincourt said, rising, "but I wouldn't be silly about it if I were you. I must go and change my gown, as I have some people coming for bridge. Supposing you show her the house, Guy, and when I come back perhaps both of you may have changed your minds and be a little more reasonable. Remember," she added, turning to Virginia, "that I am quite serious in what I say. It will give me very great pleasure to be of any possible use to the affianced wife of my favourite nephew, but there must be no secrets. I hate secrets, especially about women. If your father is a market-gardener it's all right, so long as you can explain exactly who you are and where you came from; but there must be no mystery. Talk it over with her, Guy. I'll look in here on my way out."
She nodded a little curtly but not unkindly, and swept toward the door, which Guy opened and closed after her. Then he came slowly back, and, putting his arm around Virginia's waist, kissed her.
"You don't want to see the house, do you?" he asked.
Virginia shook her head.
"Not a bit," she answered. "I think that we had better go away."
"There is no hurry," he answered slowly. "We may as well stay and talk it over a bit. When one comes to think of it, it is trying the old lady pretty high, isn't it? Suppose we just review the situation for a minute or two. Something might occur to us."
Virginia leaned back against the cushions.
"Certainly," she answered. "You review it and I'll listen."
"Right!" Guy answered. "I met you first, then, never mind exactly how long ago, on the steamer coming from America. You were quite alone, unescorted, and unchaperoned. That in itself, as of course you know, was a very remarkable thing. Nevertheless, I think you will admit that it did not terrify me. We became—well, pretty good friends, didn't we?"
"I think we did," she admitted.
"Afterwards," he continued, "we met again at Luigi's restaurant. There again I found you alone, in a restaurant where the women who know what they are doing would not dream of entering without a proper escort. Forgive me, but I want you to understand the position thoroughly. I saw, of course, that you were being annoyed by the attentions of almost every man who entered the place, and in my very best manner I came over and made a suggestion."
Virginia sighed.
"You did it very nicely," she murmured.
"I rather flatter myself," he continued, "that I showed tact. I asked simply to be allowed to sit at your table. Before we had finished dinner I asked you, for the second time, to marry me."
"That," she declared, "was distinctly forward."
"You will remember that I refused to discuss things with you then. I told you that I was coming for you the next morning, and I mentioned what I thought of bringing with me. When I arrived at your boarding-house you had gone. You left no word nor any message. I don't consider that that was treating me nicely."
"It wasn't," she admitted, "but you have forgiven me for it."
He nodded.
"Of course I have. Well, a few nights later I saw you dining with a man whom I know slightly, a clever fellow, distinctly a man of the world. You were dining with him alone. I followed you home to Coniston Mansions. Then I came away, and hesitated for some time whether to get drunk or go for a swim in the Thames. Eventually I went home to bed."
"It was very sensible," she murmured.
"The next night," he continued, "you were dining with the same man again, only this time he did not go back with you to Coniston Mansions. I did, and before I left you, you had promised to be my wife. You warned me to ask you no questions, and I didn't. I know as little of you now as I did on the steamer. I know that this man Norris Vine has a flat within a few yards of yours, and in the same building, but I ask no questions. I think that you must certainly acquit me of anything in the shape of undue curiosity. I was content to know that I had fallen in love with the sweetest little girl I had ever set eyes on."
She pressed his hand and sighed.
"Guy, you're a dear!" she said.
"It was quite sufficient for me," he continued, "that you are what you are. It is sufficient for me even now. The trouble is that it won't be sufficient for everybody. You can see that for yourself, dear, can't you?"
Virginia drew a little away. He fancied that the hand which still rested in his was growing colder.
"I suppose so," she murmured.
"I am glad you realize that," Guy said earnestly. "Now look here, Virginia. You saw the line my aunt took. There's no doubt that from a certain point of view she's right. I wonder whether, under the circumstances, it would be better"—he hesitated, and looked at her for a moment—"better—you see what I mean, don't you?"
"I am not quite sure," she said. "Hadn't you better tell me?"
Guy looked at her in surprise.
"Why, that was just what I thought I had done," he declared. "What I mean is that after all, although for my own sake I wouldn't ask a question, it might be as well for you to tell my aunt what she wants to know. It would make things much more comfortable."
"I think you are quite right," Virginia said softly.
Guy stooped and kissed her.
"Dear little lady!" he declared. "I'll go and tell her, and bring her back."
He found his aunt descending the stairs, but when they reached the morning-room it was empty. Guy looked around in surprise, and stepped out into the hall. Jameson hurried up to him.
"The young lady has just gone, sir," he said deferentially. "I called a hansom for her myself. She seemed rather in a hurry."
Guy stood for a moment motionless.
"Do you happen to remember the address she gave you?" he asked the man.
"I am sorry, your Grace. I did not hear it."
Lady Medlincourt opened the door of the morning-room.
"I think, Guy," she said, "you had better come in and talk to me."
It was between half-past four and five o'clock in the morning, and London for the most part slept. Down in the street below, the roar of traffic, which hour after hour had grown less and less, had now died away. Within the building itself every one seemed asleep. Floor after floor looked exactly the same. The lights along the corridors were burning dimly. Every door was closed except the door of the service-room, in which a sleepy waiter lay upon a couch and dreamed of his Fatherland. The lift had ceased to run. The last of the belated sojourners had tramped his way up the carpeted stairs. On the fifth floor, as on all the others, a complete and absolute silence reigned. Suddenly a door was softly opened. Virginia, dressed in a loose gown, and wearing felt slippers which sank noiselessly into the thick carpet, came slowly out from her room. She looked all around and realized the complete solitude of the place. Then she crossed the corridor swiftly, and without a moment's hesitation fitted the key which she was carrying in her hand into the lock of Norris Vine's room. The door opened noiselessly. She closed it behind her and paused to listen. There was not a sound in the place, and the door on the left, which led into the sitting-room, was ajar. She stepped in, and, after another moment's hesitation, closed the door softly behind her and gently raised the blind. The sunlight came streaming in. There was no need for the electric light. The sitting room, none too tidy, showed signs of its owner's late return. There was a silk hat and a pair of white kid gloves upon the table, and on the sideboard a half-empty glass of whiskey and soda. Several cigarette ends were in the grate. An evening paper lay upon the hearthrug. She knew from these things that a few yards away Norris Vine lay sleeping.
Without hesitation, with swift and stealthy fingers, she commenced a close and careful scrutiny of every inch of the room. In a quarter of an hour she had satisfied herself. There was no hiding-place left which could possibly have escaped her. The more dangerous part of her enterprise was to come. Very softly she opened the door, leaving it ajar as she had found it. She stood before the closed door of the bedroom. Very slowly, and with the tips of her fingers, she turned the handle. It opened without a sound. She had no garments on that rustled, and the soles of her slippers were of thick felt. She stood inside the room without having made the slightest sound. She held her breath for a moment, and then summoning up her courage, she looked toward the bed. The close-drawn curtains were unable to altogether exclude the early morning sunlight which streamed in through the chinks of the curtains and the uncovered part of the window.
Virginia stood as though she had been turned to stone. Every nerve in her body seemed tense and quivering. The cry which rose from her heart parted her death-white lips, but remained unuttered. Wider and wider grew her eyes as she gazed with horror across the room. The power of action seemed to be denied to her. Her knees shook; a sort of paralysis seemed to stifle every sense of movement. She swayed and nearly fell, but her hand met the corner of the mantelpiece and she held herself erect. Gradually, second by second, the arrested life commenced to flow once more through her veins. She had but one impulse—to fly. She thought nothing of the motive of her coming, only to place the door between her and this! Unsteadily, but without accident, she passed through the door, and though her hand shook like a leaf, she managed to close it noiselessly again. Somehow, she never quite knew how, she found herself outside in the corridor, and a moment later safe in her own room with the door bolted. Then she threw herself upon the bed, and it seemed to her afterwards that she must have fainted!
* * * * *
Only a few hours later Guy, who had slept little that night, and had waked with a desperate resolve, stepped out of the lift and knocked at Virginia's door. There was no answer. The waiter came out from the service-room and approached him.
"The young lady has left, sir," he announced.
"Left?" Guy repeated aimlessly. "When? How long ago?"
"Barely half an hour, sir," the man answered.
"She paid up her bill as I know, and left the key behind. The rooms belong to her for another fortnight, but she didn't seem as though she were coming back."
"Did she leave any address for letters?" Guy asked.
"If you inquire at the office, sir, they will tell you," the man answered.
Guy went down to the office.
"Can you tell me," he asked, "if Miss Longworth has left any address?"
The man shook his head.
"She left an hour ago, sir," he said. "She said there would be no letters, and if we liked we could let her rooms, as she was certain not to come back."
"You cannot help me to find her, then?" Guy asked. "I am the Duke of Mowbray, and I should be exceedingly obliged to any one who could help me to discover this young lady."
They were all sent for at once, porter, commissionaire, hall-boy. The information he was able to obtain, however, was scanty indeed. Virginia had simply told the cabman, who had taken her and her luggage away, to drive along the Strand toward Charing Cross.
Guy drove back to Grosvenor Square, and insisted upon going up to his aunt's room. She received him under protest in her dressing-gown.
"My dear Guy," she expostulated, "what is the meaning of this? You know that I am never visible until luncheon time."
"Forgive me?" he said. "I scarcely know what I am doing this morning.""Well, what is it?" she demanded.
"Virginia has gone!" he answered, "left her rooms, left no address behind her. What a fool I was not to follow her up last night! She waited until this morning. She must have expected that I would come, and I didn't. I was a d——d silly ass!"
Lady Medlincourt yawned.
"Have you come here to tell me that, my dear Guy?" she said. "So unnecessary! You might at least have telephoned it."
"Look here," he said, "we were too rough on her yesterday afternoon. I made no conditions as to what she should tell me when I asked her to be my wife. I was quite content that she should say yes. I know she's all right; I feel it, and she's the only girl I shall ever care a fig for!"
"I really cannot see," Lady Medlincourt murmured, "why you should drag me from my bed to talk such rubbish. If you feel like that, go and look for her. It is open for you to marry whom you choose, the lady who is selling primroses at the corner of the Square if you wish. The only thing is that you cannot expect your friends to marry her too. What did you come here for, advice or sympathy? I have none of the latter for you, and you wouldn't take the former. Do, there's a good boy, leave me! I want to have my bath, and the hairdresser is waiting."
Guy turned on his heel and left the house. There was only one thing left to be done, although he hated doing it. He went to the office of a private detective.
"Mind," he said, when he had told them what he wanted, "I will not have the young lady worried or annoyed in any form if you should happen to find her. Simply let me know where she is living. The rest is my affair. You understand?"
"Perfectly!" the man answered. "We are to spare no expense, I presume?"
It did him good to be able to answer fervently, "None whatever, only find her!"
The morning papers were full of the news. Phineas Duge had landed in London! The Stock Exchange was fluttered. Those whose hands were upon the money-markets of the world paused to turn their heads towards the hotel where he had taken a suite of rooms. Interviewers, acquaintances, actual and imaginary, beggars for themselves and for others, left their cards and hung around. In the hotel they spoke of him with bated breath, as though something of divinity attached itself to the person of the man whose power for good or for evil was so far-reaching.
Meanwhile Phineas Duge, who had had a tiresome voyage, and who was not a little fatigued, slept during the greater part of the morning following his arrival, with his faithful valet encamped outside the door. The first guest to be admitted, when at last he chose to rise, was Littleson. It was close upon luncheon time, and the two men descended together to the grillroom of the hotel.
"A quiet luncheon and a quiet corner," Littleson suggested, "some place where we can talk. Duge, it's good to see you in London. I feel somehow that with you on the spot we are safe."
Phineas Duge smiled a little dubiously. They found their retired corner and ordered luncheon. Then Littleson leaned across the table.
"Duge," he said, "I'm thankful that we've made it up. Weiss cabled me that you had come to terms, and that you were on your way over here to deal with the other matter. It's cost us a few millions to try and get the blind side of you."
Phineas Duge smiled very slightly; that is to say, his lips parted, but there was no relaxation of his features.
"Littleson," he said, "before we commence to talk, have you seen anything of my niece over here?"
Littleson was a little surprised. He had not imagined that Phineas Duge would ever again remember his niece's existence.
"Yes," he answered, "I crossed over with her."
"And since then?"
"I have seen her once or twice," Littleson answered a little dubiously.
"Alone?" Phineas Duge asked.
"Not always," Littleson answered. "Twice I have seen her with NorrisVine, and twice with a young Englishman who was on the steamer."
Phineas Duge said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be studying the menu, but he laid it down a little abruptly.
"Do you happen to know," he asked, "where she is now?"
"I haven't an idea," Littleson answered truthfully. "To be frank with you, she was not particularly amiable when I spoke to her on the steamer. She evidently wanted to have very little to say to me, so I thought it best to leave her alone."
"How long is it," Phineas Duge asked, "since you saw her?"
"It is about a week ago," Littleson answered. "She was dining at Luigi's with Norris Vine. I remember that I was rather surprised to see her with him. He seems to possess some sort of attraction for your family." Phineas Duge looked at the speaker coldly, and Littleson felt that somehow, somewhere, he had blundered. He made a great show of commencing his first course.
"Let me know exactly," Phineas Duge said, a moment or two later, "what you have done with regard to the man Vine."
Littleson glanced cautiously around.
"I have seen him," he said. "I have argued the matter from every possible side. I found him, I must say, absolutely impossible. He will not deal with us upon any terms. I fear that he is only biding his time. Every day I see by the papers that the agitation increases, and it seems to me that if this bill passes, we shall all practically be criminals. I think that Norris Vine is waiting for the moment when he can do so with the greatest dramatic effect, to fill his rotten paper with a verbatim copy of that document."
"It would be," Phineas Duge remarked, "uncommonly awkward for you andWeiss and the others."
"We couldn't be extradited," Littleson answered, "and I shall take remarkably good care not to cross the ocean again until this thing has blown over."
"If it ever does," Phineas Duge remarked quietly. "Well, go on aboutNorris Vine."
Once more Littleson looked around the room.
"You know Dan Prince is over here?" he said softly.
Duge nodded.
"So far," he remarked, "his being over here does not seem to have affected the situation."
"He has made one attempt," Littleson whispered. "He got inside, and he had certain information that Vine was going to return that night. Whether he had warning or not no one can tell, but he never came back. They followed him a few nights ago across Trafalgar Square, hoping that he was going down toward the Embankment, but he took a hansom and drove to his club. They followed, and waited for him to come out, but there was a policeman standing at the very entrance, within a foot of them. This isn't New York, Duge. You can't depend upon getting the coast clear for this sort of thing over here, and Prince will take no risks. He is a rich man in his way, and he wants to live to enjoy his money. He's as clever as they make them, although he's failed twice here. I fancy he has something else pending."
"And meanwhile," Duge said quietly, "to-morrow morning's paper may contain our damnation."
"It may, of course," Littleson answered. "I don't think so, though. He doesn't move a yard without being shadowed, and he hasn't written out a cable when some one hasn't been near his shoulder."
"That is the position, then, so far as you know it?" Duge asked."Absolutely!" Littleson answered. "I can tell you nothing more."
Duge finished his luncheon and signed the bill. Then he made an appointment to dine with Littleson, and sent out for an automobile. When it arrived he was driven to the American Embassy. At the mention of his name everything was made easy, and he found himself in a few minutes in the presence of the ambassador.
"Glad to meet you once more, Mr. Duge," he said. "You have forgotten me,I dare say, but I think we came across one another at a banquet in NewYork about four years ago."
"I remember it perfectly," Phineas Duge answered. "A dull affair it was, but we talked of the Asiatic Powers and kept ourselves amused. Since then, you see, all that I said has become justified."
Deane smiled.
"They say that with you that is always the case," he answered. "'Duge the Infallible' I heard a stockbroker once call you."
Duge smiled.
"Well," he said, "if I remember your politics, and I think I do, you are going to try and take away that title from me. You are amongst those, are you not, who have set themselves to dam the torrents?"
Deane shook his head a little stiffly.
"In the diplomatic service," he said, "we have no politics."
"Sometimes," Duge murmured, "you come in touch with them. For instance, I should like to know what advice you are going to give Norris Vine about the publication of that little document in his paper."
Deane looked for a moment annoyed.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I cannot answer you that question."
"If you advise him one way or the other," Phineas Duge said, "you give the lie to your own statement, that in diplomacy there are no politics. Your advice will show on which side you intend to stand."
"I have not given any advice," Deane replied.
"Nor must you," Phineas Duge said pleasantly enough. "It is not your affair at all, Mr. Deane. I grant your cleverness, your shrewdness, even your common sense, but all three are academic. They have no direct relation to the actual things of the world. Wealth is one of those forces which only strong fingers can gather, a stream which if you like you can divert, but you cannot dam. I want to tell you, Mr. Deane, that if you advise Norris Vine at all, you must see to it that you advise him to place that paper upon the fire, or to restore it from whence it was stolen."
"I am afraid, Mr. Duge," the ambassador said, "that I cannot recognize you as possessed of such authority as to justify the use of the word 'must.' I am in the habit of doing what I think right and well."
Phineas Duge bowed his head.
"I will only remind you, Mr. Deane," he said, "of the facts which led to the withdrawal of our ministers from Lisbon and Paris and Vienna. I am not proud of the power which undoubtedly lies in the palm of my right hand. On the other hand, I should be foolish if I did not remind you of these things at a time like this. I only ask you to take up a passive attitude. You escape in that way all trouble, and if you fancy that the climate of Paris would suit you or Mrs. Deane better than London, it would be a matter of a few months only; but—you must not advise the other way!"
The ambassador was distinctly uneasy. Duge saw his embarrassment and hastened on.
"I ask you for no reply, Mr. Deane," he said; "not even for an expression of opinion. I have said all that I came to say. Apart from any question of self-interest, I can assure you, as a man who sees as clearly as his neighbours, that you could do no good, but much evil, by advising Norris Vine to hold up these men to the ridicule and contempt of the world. He might sell a million copies of his paper, but he would create an enmity which in the end, I think, would swamp him. Mrs. Deane, I trust, is well?"
"She is in excellent health," the ambassador answered. "What can I do for you during your stay? I presume you know that anything you desire is open to you? You represent, you see, a great uncrowned royalty, to whom all the world bows. Will you come to Court?"
"Not I," Duge answered. "Those things are for another type of man. There was a further question which I wished to ask you. I have a niece who came over here on a foolish errand, a Miss Virginia Longworth. Do you happen to have seen or heard anything of her?"
"Nothing," the ambassador replied; "nothing personally, at any rate. I will inquire of my secretaries."
He left the room for a few minutes, and returned shaking his head.
"Nothing is known about her at all," he declared.
"If she should apply here," Duge said, rising and drawing on his gloves, "assist her in any way and let me know at once. She must be getting," he continued, "rather short of money. You can advance her whatever sum she asks for, and I will make it good."
Phineas Duge walked out into the sunlight and drove away in his automobile. Was it the glaring light, he wondered, the perfume of the flowers, the evidences on every side of an easier and less strenuous life, which were accountable for a certain depression, a slackening of interests which certainly seemed to come over him that afternoon as he drove back to the hotel. If he could have summarized his thoughts afterwards, he would have scoffed at them, as a grown man might laugh at a toy which a lunatic had offered him. Yet it is certain that the empty place by his side was filled more than once during that brief ride. He looked into the faces of the women and girls who streamed along the pavements with a certain half-eager curiosity, as though he expected to find a familiar face amongst them, a pale oval face, with quivering lips and lustrous appealing eyes—eyes which had come into his thoughts more often lately than he would have cared to admit.
"It is that infernal voyage!" he said to himself, as he got out of the car and entered the hotel. "One cannot think about reasonable things on days when the marconigram fails."
He bought a cigar at the stall and strolled over to the tape. It was a busy afternoon, and reports from America were coming in fast. He nodded as he turned away. Weiss and the rest had had their lesson. They were keeping, at any rate, to their part of the bargain.
Phineas Duge carefully drew off his gloves and laid them inside his hat. He declined a chair, however, and stood facing the man whom he had come to visit.
"I scarcely understand, Mr. Duge," Vine said, "what you can possibly want with me. Our former relations have scarcely been of so pleasant a nature as to render a visit from you easily to be understood."
"I will admit," Phineas Duge said coldly, "that personally I have no interest or any concern in you. But nevertheless there are two matters which must bring us together so far as the holding of a few minutes' conversation can count. In the first place, I want to know whether you are going to make use of the paper which my daughter stole, and which you feloniously received? In the second place, I want to know how much or what you will accept for the return of that paper? And thirdly, I want to know what the devil you have done with my niece, Virginia Longworth?"
"Your niece, Virginia Longworth," Norris Vine repeated thoughtfully."Are you in earnest, sir?"
"I am in earnest," Duge answered.
"Then I have done nothing with her," Vine declared. "I do not know where she is. I do not know why you should ask me?"
"You lie!" Phineas Duge said quietly. "But let that go. It is your trade, of course. I came here to give you the opportunity of answering questions. I scarcely expected that such direct methods would appeal to you."
"Your methods, at any rate," Vine said, moving toward the bell, "are not such as I am disposed to permit in my own apartment."
Phineas Duge stretched out his hand.
"One moment, Mr. Vine," he said.
Vine stopped.
"Well?" he asked.
"I refer again," Phineas Duge said, "to the question of my niece. As regards those other matters, if you do not wish to discuss them with me, let them go. Even in this country you will find that I am not powerless. But as regards my niece, I insist upon some explanation from you."
"Some explanation of what?" Vine asked.
"When she left New York a few months ago," Phineas Duge continued, "you and she were strangers. Granted that she came upon a silly errand, still it was not wholly her own fault, and she was only a simple child who ought never to have been permitted to have left America,"
"Up to that point, Mr. Duge," Vine said drily, "I am entirely in accord with you."
"She made your acquaintance somehow," Phineas Duge continued, "and you were seen out with her at different restaurants; once, I believe, at a place of amusement. She left her boarding-house and took rooms here in this building. Her room, I find, was across the corridor, only a few feet away from yours. What is there between you and my niece, Norris Vine?"
Vine leaned against the table, and a faint smile flickered over his face.
"Really, Mr. Duge," he said, "you must forgive my amusement. The idea that anything so trivial as the well-being of a niece should interest you in the slightest, seems to me almost paradoxical."
Phineas Duge was silent for several moments, his keen eyes fixed upon Vine's face.
"Pray enjoy your jests as much as you will, Mr. Vine," he said, "but answer my questions."
"Your niece," Norris Vine said, "came over here to rob me, at whose instigation I can only surmise. My first introduction to her was in my room, where she came as a thief. What consideration have you ever shown, Phineas Duge, even to the innocent who have crossed your paths? Why should you expect that I should show consideration to this simple child who came across the ocean to steal from me?"
There was still no change in Duge's face, but a little breath came quickly through his teeth, and, as though insensibly, he moved a little nearer to the man opposite him.
"Where is she now, Norris Vine?" he asked.
"If she is not in her rooms," Vine answered, "I do not know."
"She has given up her rooms, taken her luggage, and gone away," Duge said. "Perhaps it is you who have driven her out of this place."
"I was not aware of it," Vine answered. "As a matter of fact I expected her to lunch with me to-day."
Phineas Duge looked down upon the table before which he stood. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind, and opposite to him Norris Vine waited. When Duge looked up again, Vine seemed to notice for the first time that his visitor was aging.
"Norris Vine," he said, "you and I have been enemies since the day when we became aware of one another's existence. We represent different principles. There is not a point in life on which our interests, as well as our theories, do not clash. But there are things outside the battle for mere existence which men with any fundamental sense of honour can discuss, even though they are enemies. I wish to ask you once more whether you can give me any news of my niece."
"I can give you none," Norris Vine answered. "All that I can tell you is that I found her a charming, simple-minded girl, in terrible trouble because of your anger, and the fear that you would impoverish her people; and goaded on by that fear to attempt things which, in her saner moments, she would never have dreamed of thinking of. Where she is now, what has become of her, I do not know; but I would not like to be the person on whom rests the responsibility of her presence here and anything that may happen to her."
Phineas Duge took up his hat and gloves.
"I thank you, Mr. Vine," he said. "Your expression of opinion is interesting to me. In the meantime, to revert to business, am I right in concluding that you have nothing to say to me, that you do not wish even to discuss a certain matter?"
"You are right in your assumption, sir," Norris Vine answered. "I see no purpose in it. What I may do or leave undone would never be influenced by anything that you might say."
Phineas Duge turned toward the door. Norris Vine followed him. There was not, however, any motion on the part of either to indulge in any form of leave-taking; but Phineas Duge half opened the door, stood for a moment with his hand upon the handle, and looked back into the room.
"I fear, Mr. Vine," he said, "that you are developing an insular weakness. You are forgetting to be candid, and you are just a little too self-reliant."
He opened the door suddenly quite wide, but he made no motion to depart. On the contrary two men, who must have been standing within a foot or so of it, stepped quickly in. Phineas Duge closed the door.