As soon as the funeral was over, Cyril left Geralton. On arriving in London he recognised several reporters at the station. Fearing that they might follow him, he ordered his taxi to drive to the Carlton. There he got out and walking quickly through the hotel, he made his exit by a rear door. Having assured himself that he was not being observed, he hailed another taxi and drove to the nursing home.
"Well, Mr. Thompkins," exclaimed the doctor, with ponderous facetiousness. "I am glad to be able to tell you that Mrs. Thompkins is much better."
"And her memory?" faltered Cyril.
"It's improving. She does not yet remember people or incidents, but she is beginning to recall certain places. For instance, I asked her yesterday if she had been to Paris. It suggested nothing to her, but this morning she told me with great pride that Paris was a city and that it had a wide street with an arch at one end. So you see she is progressing; only we must not hurry her."
Cyril murmured a vague assent.
"Of course," continued the doctor, "you must be very careful when you see Lady Wilmersley to restrain your emotions, and on no account to remind her of the immediate past. I hope and believe she will never remember it. On the other hand, I wish you to talk about those of her friends and relations for whom she has shown a predilection. Her memory must be gently stimulated, but on no account excited. Quiet, quiet is essential to her recovery."
"But doctor—I must—it's frightfully important that my wife (he found himself calling her so quite glibly) should be told of a certain fact at once. If I wait even a day, it will be too late," urged Cyril.
"And you have reason to suppose that this communication will agitate Lady Wilmersley?"
"I—I fear so."
"Then I can certainly not permit it. You don't seem to realise the delicate condition of her brain. Why, it might be fatal," insisted the doctor.
Cyril felt as if Nemesis were indeed overtaking him.
"Come, we will go to her," said the doctor, moving towards the door. "She is naturally a little nervous about seeing you, so we must not keep her waiting."
But Cyril hung back. If he could not undeceive the poor girl, how could he enter her presence. To pose as the husband of a woman so as to enable her to escape arrest was excusable, but to impose himself on the credulity of an afflicted girl was absolutely revolting. If he treated her with even the most decorous show of affection, he would be taking a dastardly advantage of the situation. Yet if he behaved with too much reserve, she would conclude that her husband was a heartless brute. Her husband! The one person she had to cling to in the isolation to which she had awakened. It was horrible! Oh, why had he ever placed her in such an impossible position? Arrest would have been preferable. He was sure that she could easily have proved her innocence of whatever it was of which she was accused, and in a few days at the latest would have gone free without a stain on her character, while now, unless by some miracle this episode remained concealed, she was irredeemably compromised. He was a married man; she, for aught he knew to the contrary, might also be bound, or at all events have a fiancé or lover waiting to claim her. How would he view the situation? How would he receive the explanation? Cyril shuddered involuntarily. Every minute the chances that her secret could be kept decreased. If she did not return to her friends while it was still possible to explain or account for the time of her absence, he feared she would never be able to return at all. Yes, it would take a miracle to save her now!
"Well, Lord Wilmersley?"
Cyril started. The doctor's tone was peremptory and his piercing eyes were fixed searchingly upon him. What excuse could he give for refusing to meet his supposed wife? He could think of none.
"I must remind you, doctor," he faltered at last, "that my wife has lately detested me. I—I really don't think I had better see her—I—I am so afraid my presence will send her off her head again."
The doctor's upper lip grew rigid and his eyes contracted angrily.
"I have already assured you that she is perfectly sane. It is essential to her recovery that she should see somebody connected with her past life. I cannot understand your reluctance to meet Lady Wilmersley."
"I—I am only thinking of the patient," Cyril murmured feebly.
"The patient is my affair," snapped the doctor.
What could he do? For an instant he was again tempted to tell Stuart-Smith the truth. He looked anxiously at the man. No, it was impossible. There was no loophole for escape. And after all, he reflected, if he had an opportunity of watching the girl, she might quite unconsciously by some act, word, or even by some subtle essence of her personality furnish him with a clue to her past. Every occupation leaves indelible marks, although it sometimes takes keen eyes to discern them. If the girl had been a seamstress, Cyril believed that he would be able by observing her closely to assure himself of the fact.
"Very well," he said aloud. "If you are willing to assume the responsibility, I will go to my wife at once. But I insist on your being present at our meeting."
"Certainly, if you wish it, but it is not at all necessary, I assure you," replied the doctor.
A moment later Cyril, blushing like a schoolgirl, found himself in a large, white-washed room. Before him on a narrow, iron bedstead lay his mysteriousprotégée. Cyril caught his breath. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her red lips were slightly parted and the colour ebbed and flowed in her transparent cheeks. Ignoring the doctor, her eager glance sought Cyril and for a minute the two young people gazed at each other in silence. How young, how innocent she looked! How could any one doubt the candour of those star like eyes, thought Cyril.
"Well, Mrs. Crichton," exclaimed Stuart-Smith, "I have brought you the husband you have been so undutiful as to forget. 'Love, honour, and obey, and above all remember,' I suggest as an amendment to the marriage vow."
"Nurse has been reading me the marriage service," said the girl, with a quaint mixture of pride and diffidence. "I know all about it now; I don't think I'll forget again."
"Of course not! And now that you have seen your husband, do you find that you remember him at all?"
"Yes, a little. I know that I have seen you before," she answered, addressing Cyril.
"I gather from your manner that you don't exactly dislike him, do you?" asked the doctor with an attempt at levity. "Your husband is so modest that he is afraid to remain in your presence till you have reassured him on this point."
"I love him very much," was her astounding answer.
Cyril's heart gave a bound. Did she realise what she had said? She certainly showed no trace of embarrassment, and although her eyes clung persistently to his, their expression of childlike simplicity was absolutely disarming.
"Very good, very good, quite as it should be," exclaimed the doctor, evidently a little abashed by the frankness of the girl's reply. "That being the case, I will leave you two together to talk over old times, although they can't be very remote. I am sure, however, that when I see you again, you will be as full of reminiscences as an octogenarian," chuckled the doctor as he left the room.
Cyril and the girl were alone.
An arm-chair had been placed near the bed, obviously for his reception, and after a moment's hesitation he took it. The girl did not speak, but continued to look at him unflinchingly. Cyril fancied she regarded him with something of the unquestioning reverence a small child might have for a beloved parent. His eyes sank before hers. Never had he felt so unworthy, so positively guilty. He racked his brains for something to say, but the doctor's restrictions seemed to bar every topic which suggested itself to him. If he only knew who she was! He glanced at her furtively. In the dim light of the shaded lamp he had not noticed that what he had supposed was her hair, was in reality a piece of black lace bound turbanwise about her head.
"What are you wearing that bandage for?" he inquired eagerly. "Was your head hurt—my dear?" he added diffidently.
"No—I—I hope you won't be angry—nurse said you would—but I couldn't help it. I really had to cut it off."
"Cut what off?"
"My hair." She hung her head as a naughty child might have done.
"You cut off your hair? But why?" His voice sounded suddenly harsh. Strange that her first act had been to destroy one of the few things by which she could be identified. Was she as innocent as she seemed? Had she fooled them all, even the doctor? This amnesia, or whatever it was called, was it real, was it assumed? He wondered.
"Oh, husband, I know it was wrong; but when I woke up and couldn't remember anything, I was so frightened, and then nurse brought me a looking-glass and the face I saw was so strange! Oh, it was so lonely without even myself! And then nurse said it was my hair. She said it sometimes happened when people have had a great shock or been very ill and so—I made her cut it off. She didn't want to—it wasn't her fault—I made her do it."
"But what had happened to your hair?"
"It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it."
Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy of him.
"You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease me," he answered.
"Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious.
"Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness."
"I know it was—but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get them quite easily."
"Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all."
"Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge of tears.
What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry—anything rather than that.
"My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which you can make your choice."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands! Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned eagerly forward.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly.
"What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection. Yes, it was as he had expected—her forefinger was rough. She was Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion, yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this moment.
"Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in the sight of her lord.
"They are—" He checked himself; he had almost added—the prettiest hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that you have quite spoiled one little finger."
"Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I know I can."
Further proof of her identity, if he needed it.
"Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise your talents—only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in future."
"I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the offending finger.
There was a pause.
"Do tell me something about my past life," said she. "I have been lying here wondering and wondering."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. In the first place, are my parents living? Oh, I hope so!"
Here was a poser. Cyril had no idea whether her parents were alive or not, but even if they were, it would be impossible to communicate with them for the present, so he had better set her mind at rest by denying their existence.
"No, my dear, you are an orphan, and you have neither brothers nor sisters," he added hastily. It was just as well to put a final stop to questions as to her family.
"Nobody of my own—nobody?"
"Nobody," he reiterated, but he felt like a brute.
"Have I any children?" was her next question.
Cyril started perceptibly.
"No, no, certainly not," he was so embarrassed that he spoke quite sharply.
"Oh, are you glad?" She stared at him in amazement and to his disgust Cyril felt himself turning crimson.
"Now I'm sorry," she continued with a soft sigh. "I wish I had a baby. I remember about babies."
"I—I like them, too," he hastened to assure her. Really this was worse than he had expected.
"How long have we been married?" she demanded.
"I have been married four years," he truthfully answered, hoping that that statement would satisfy her.
"Fancy! We have been living together for four years! Isn't it awful that I can only remember you the very weeist little bit! But I will love, honour, and obey you—now that I know—I will indeed."
"I am sure you will always do what is right," said Cyril with a sudden tightening of his throat. She looked so young, so innocent, so serious. Oh, if only——
"Bah, don't waste too much love on me. I'm an unworthy beggar," he said aloud.
"You are an unworthy husband? Oh!" She opened her eyes wide and stared at him in consternation. "But it doesn't say anything in the prayer-book about not loving unworthy husbands. I don't believe it makes any difference to the vow before God. Besides you don't look unworthy—are you sure you are?" she pleaded.
Cyril's eyes fell before her agonised gaze.
"I'll try to be worthy of you," he stammered.
"Worthy of me?" she cried with a gay, little laugh. "I'm too silly and stupid now to be anything but a burden—I quite realise that—but the doctor thinks I will get better and in the meantime I will try to please you and do my duty."
Poor baby, thought Cyril, the marriage vows she imagined she had taken seemed to weigh dreadfully on her conscience. Oh, if he could only undeceive her!
A discreet knock sounded at the door.
The nurse made her appearance.
"The doctor thinks Mrs. Thompkins has talked enough for the present," she said.
Cyril rose with a curious mixture of relief and reluctance.
"Well, this must be good-bye for to-day," he said, taking her small hand in his.
She lifted up her face—simply as a child might have done. Slowly he leaned nearer to her, his heart was pounding furiously; the blood rushed to his temples.
Suddenly he started back! He must not—he dare not——!
For a moment he crushed her fingers to his lips; then turning abruptly, he strode towards the door.
"You'll come to-morrow, won't you?" she cried.
"Yes, to-morrow," he answered.
"Early?"
"As early as I can."
"Good-bye, husband. I will be so lonely without you," she called after him, but he resolutely closed the door.
At the foot of the stairs a nurse was waiting for him.
"The doctor would like to speak to you for a moment," she said as she led the way to the consulting-room.
"Well, how did you find Lady Wilmersley's memory; were you able to help her in any way to recall the past," inquired the doctor.
Cyril was too preoccupied to notice that the other's manner was several degrees colder than it had been on his arrival.
"I fear not." Cyril felt guiltily conscious that he was prevaricating.
"You astonish me. I confess I am disappointed. Yes, very much so. But it will come back to her—I am sure it will."
"I say, doctor, how long do you think my wife will have to remain here?"
"No longer than she wishes to. She could be moved to-morrow, if necessary, but I advise waiting till the day after."
"You are sure it won't hurt her?" insisted Cyril anxiously.
"Quite. In fact, the sooner Lady Wilmersley resumes her normal life the better."
"How soon will I be able to talk freely to her?" Cyril asked.
"That depends largely on how she progresses, but not before a month at the earliest. By the way, Lord Wilmersley, I want you to take charge of Lady Wilmersley's bag. The contents were too valuable to be left about; so after taking out her toilet articles, the nurse brought it to me."
"Ah! and—and what was in the bag?" asked Cyril fearfully.
"Lady Wilmersley's jewels, of course."
Jewels! This was terrible. If they were those belonging to his cousin, their description had been published in every paper in the kingdom. It was a miracle that Smith had not recognised them.
"Of course," Cyril managed to stammer.
The doctor went to a safe and taking out a cheap, black bag handed it to Cyril.
"I should like you, please, to see if they are all there," he said.
"That isn't the least necessary," Cyril hastened to assure him.
"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."
"I'm quite sure they are all right; besides if any are missing, they were probably stolen in Paris," said Cyril.
"But I insist." Stuart-Smith was nothing if not persistent. His keen eyes had noted Cyril's agitation and his reluctance to open the bag made the doctor all the more determined to force him to do so.
But Cyril was too quick for him. Seizing the bag, he made for the door.
"I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house.
A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away.
No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared—a part, if not all, of the Wilmersley jewels lay before him.
"Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face was within a foot of the jewels.
Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he was, and followed him. He was a detective!
"A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his features clearly.
Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand.
"Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police."
The man sank out of sight.
"My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels.
"You must be mad, Cyril! No sane man could have got into such a mess!" cried Guy Campbell, excitedly pounding his fat knee with his podgy hand.
Cyril had been so disturbed by the finding of the Wilmersley jewels that he had at last decided that he must confide his troubles to some one. He realised that the time had come when he needed not only advice but assistance. He was now so convinced that he was being watched that he had fled to his club for safety. There, at all events, he felt comparatively safe from prying eyes, and it was there in a secluded corner that he poured his tale of woe into his friend's astonished ears.
"You must be mad," the latter repeated.
"If that is all you can find to say, I am sorry I told you," exclaimed Cyril irritably.
"It's a jolly good thing you did! Why, you are no more fit to take care of yourself than a new-born baby." Guy's chubby face expressed such genuine concern that Cyril relaxed a little.
"Perhaps I've been a bit of an ass, but really I don't see what else I could have done."
"No, don't suppose you do," said Guy, regarding Cyril with pitying admiration.
"Oh, don't rub it in! The question now is not what I ought to have done, but what am I to do now?"
"What do you intend to do?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. I want your advice."
"Oh, no, you don't! Why, you wouldn't even listen to a sensible suggestion."
"What do you call a sensible suggestion?" Cyril cautiously inquired.
"To get the girl out of the nursing home and lose her. And it ought to be done P. D. Q., as the Americans say."
"I shall certainly do nothing of the sort."
"Exactly," cried Campbell triumphantly. "I know you, Lord Quixote; you have some crazy plan in your head. Out with it."
"I haven't a plan, I tell you. Now as I am being followed——"
"I can't believe you are," interrupted Guy.
"I feel sure that that beggar I told you about was a detective."
"Why?"
"He was evidently waiting for me and I couldn't shake him off till he had had a good look at the jewels."
"It is much more likely that he was waiting for a penny than for you, and beggars are usually persistent. I see no possible reason why the police should be shadowing you. It is your guilty conscience that makes you so suspicious."
"You may be right; I certainly hope you are, but till I am sure of it, I don't dare to run the risk of being seen with Miss Prentice. As she is in no condition to go about alone, I have been worrying a good deal as to how to get her out of the Home; so I thought—it occurred to me—that—you are the person to do it."
"Thanks, awfully! So you leave me the pleasant task of running off with a servant-girl who is 'wanted' by the police! You are really too unselfish!"
"Miss Prentice is a lady," Cyril angrily asserted.
"H'm," Campbell ejaculated skeptically. "That she is a beauty I do not doubt, and she has certainly played her cards very skilfully."
"Don't you dare to speak of her like that," cried Cyril, clenching his fists and half starting to his feet.
"By Jove, old man! You're smitten with her," exclaimed Campbell, staring aghast at his friend.
Cyril flushed darkly under his tan.
"Certainly not, but I have the greatest respect for this unfortunate young woman, and don't you forget it again."
Campbell smiled incredulously.
"Oh, very well! Believe what you like, but I didn't think you were the sort of man who never credits a fellow with disinterested motives, if he behaves half-way decently to a woman."
"Steady now, Cyril. Don't let's quarrel. You mustn't take offence so easily. I have never seen the young lady, remember. And you know I will help you even against my better judgment."
"You're a good chap, Guy."
"Thanks! Now let us first of all consider Miss Prentice's case dispassionately. I want to be sure of my facts; then I may be able to form some conjecture as to why Wilmersley was murdered and how the jewels came into Miss Prentice's possession. You tell me that it has been proved that she really left Geralton on the afternoon before the murder?"
"Yes; the carrier swears he drove her into Newhaven and put her down near the station. Further than that they have luckily not been able to trace her."
"Now your idea is that Miss Prentice, having in some way managed to secure a car, returned to Geralton that evening and got into the castle through the library window?"
"No, I doubt if she entered the castle. I can think of no reason why she should have done so," said Cyril.
"In that case, how do you account for her injuries? Who could have flogged her except your charming cousin?"
"I hadn't thought of that!" exclaimed Cyril.
"Granting that she is Priscilla Prentice, the only hypothesis I can think of which explains her predicament is this: Having planned to rescue her mistress, she was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to present itself. The doctor's visit determined her to act at once. I agree with you that to re-enter Geralton was not her original intention, but while waiting under the library window for Lady Wilmersley to join her, she hears Wilmersley ill-treating his wife, so she climbs in and rushes to the latter's assistance."
"Yes, yes," assented Cyril with shining eyes.
"But she is overpowered by Wilmersley," continued Campbell, warming to his theme, "who, insane with rage, flogs her unmercifully. Then Lady Wilmersley, fearing the girl will be killed, seizes the pistol, which is lying on the desk, and fires at her husband——"
"I am convinced that that is just what happened," cried Cyril.
"Don't be too sure of it; still, it seems to me that that theory hangs together pretty well," Campbell complacently agreed. "Of course, neither woman contemplated murder. Wilmersley's death completely unnerved them. If the gardener's wife heard a cry coming from the car, it is possible that one or the other had an attack of hysterics. Now about the jewels—I believe Miss Prentice took charge of them, either because Lady Wilmersley was unfit to assume such a responsibility or because they agreed that she could the more easily dispose of them. I think that Miss Prentice's hurried trip to town was undertaken not in order to avoid arrest, but primarily to raise money, of which they must have had great need, and possibly also to rejoin her mistress, who, now that we know that she made her escape in a car, is probably hiding somewhere either in London itself or in its vicinity."
"Guy, you are a wonder. You have thought of everything," cried Cyril admiringly.
"Of course, I may be quite wrong. These are only suppositions, remember," Campbell modestly reminded him. "By the way, what have you done with the jewels? I can't believe that you are in any danger of arrest, but if there is the remotest chance of such a thing, it wouldn't look very well if they were found in your possession."
"I had thought of that. I was even afraid that my rooms might be searched in my absence, so I took them with me."
"They are here?"
"Yes, in my pocket. I have hidden the bag and to-night I mean to burn it."
"Your pocket is not a very safe repository."
"Exactly. That is why I want you to take charge of them," said Cyril.
"Oh, very well," sighed Campbell, with mock resignation. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I shall probably end by being arrested as a receiver of stolen property! But now we must consider what we had better do with Miss Prentice."
"I think I shall hire a cottage in the country for her."
"If you did that, the police would find her immediately. The only safe hiding-place is a crowd."
"You think so?" Cyril looked doubtful.
"I am sure of it. Now let me see: Where is she least likely to attract attention? It must be a place where you could manage to see her without being compromised, and, if possible, without being observed. I have it! A hotel. The Hotel George is the very place. In a huge caravansary like that all sorts and conditions of people jostle each other without exciting comment. Besides, the police are less likely to look among the guests of such an expensive hotel for a poor maid servant or in such a public resort for a fugitive from justice."
"You are right!" cried Cyril enthusiastically.
"But in her present condition," continued Campbell, "I don't see how she could remain there alone."
"Certainly not. She must have some woman with her."
"Exactly. But what trustworthy woman could you get to undertake such a task? Perhaps one of the nurses——"
"No," Cyril hastily interrupted him. "When she leaves the nursing home, all trace of her must be lost. At any moment the police may discover that a woman whom I have represented to be my wife has been a patient there. That will naturally arouse their suspicions and they will do their utmost to discover who it is that I am protecting with my name. No, a nurse would never do. For one thing, she would feel called upon to report to the doctor."
"You might bribe her not to do so," suggested Guy.
"I shouldn't dare to trust to an absolutely unknown quantity. Oh, if I only knew a respectable woman on whom I could rely! I would pay her a small fortune for her services."
"I know somebody who might do," said Campbell. "Her name is Miss Trevor and she used to be my sister's governess. She is too old to teach now and I fancy has a hard time to make both ends meet. The only trouble is that she is so conscientious that she would rather starve than be mixed up in anything she did not consider perfectly honourable and above board. If I told her that she was to chaperon a young lady whom the police were looking for, she would be so indignant that I doubt if she would ever speak to me again."
"Why tell her?" insinuated Cyril.
"It doesn't seem decent to inveigle her by false representations into taking a position which she would never dream of accepting if she knew the truth."
"I will pay her £200 a year as long as she lives, if she will look after Miss Prentice till this trouble is over. Even if the worst happens and the girl is discovered, she can truthfully plead ignorance of the latter's identity," urged Cyril.
"True, and two hundred a year is good pay even for unpleasant notoriety. Yes, on the whole I think I am justified in accepting the offer for her. But now we must consider what fairy tale we are going to concoct for her benefit."
"Oh, I don't know," sighed Cyril wearily.
"Imagination giving out, or conscience awakening—which is it?" asked Guy.
"Don't chaff!"
"Sorry, old man; but joking aside, we must really decide what we are to tell Miss Trevor. You can no longer pose as Miss Prentice's husband——"
"Why not?" interrupted Cyril sharply.
"What possible excuse have you for doing so, now that she is to leave the doctor's care?"
"I am sure it would have a very bad effect on Miss Prentice's health, if I were to tell her that she is not my wife."
"H'm, h'm!" Campbell regarded his friend quizzically.
"Remember, she is completely cut off from the past," urged Cyril; "she has neither friend nor relation to cling to. I am the one person in the world she believes she has a claim on. I can't undeceive her. Besides, the doctor's orders are that she shall not be in any way agitated."
"Well, that settles that question. Now what explanation will you give Miss Trevor for not living with your wife?"
"I shall say that her state of health renders it inadvisable for the present."
"What shall she be called?" asked Campbell.
"I think we had better stick to Thompkins. She is accustomed to that. Only we will spell it Tomkyns and change the Christian name to John."
"But won't she confide what she believes to be her real name to Miss Trevor?" asked Guy anxiously.
"I think not—not if I tell her I don't wish her to do so. She has a great idea of wifely obedience, I assure you."
"Well," laughed Guy, "that is a virtue which so few real wives possess that it seems a pity it should be wasted on a temporary one. And now, Cyril, we must decide on the best way and the best time for transferring Miss Prentice to the hotel."
"Unless something unexpected occurs to change our plans, I think she had better be moved the day after to-morrow. I advise your starting as early as possible before the world is well awake. But I leave all details to you. You are quite capable of managing the situation. Only be sure you are not followed, that is all I ask."
"I don't expect we shall be, but if we are, I think I can promise to outwit them," Campbell assured him.
"I shall never forget what you are doing for me, Guy."
"You had better not. I expect you to erect a monument commemorating my virtues and my folly. Now I must be off. Where are those stolen goods of which I am to become the custodian?"
"Here they are. I have done them up in several parcels, so that they are not too bulky to carry. As I don't want the police to know how intimate we are, it is better that we should not be seen together in public for the present."
"I think you are over-cautious. But perhaps," agreed Campbell, "we might as well meet here till all danger is over."
A few minutes later Cyril also left the club. His talk with Campbell had been a great relief to him. As he walked briskly along, he felt calm—almost cheerful.
"Isn't this Lord Wilmersley?" inquired a deep voice at his elbow.
Turning quickly Cyril recognised Inspector Griggs.
For a moment Cyril was too startled to speak. Then, pulling himself together, he exclaimed with an attempt at heartiness:
"Why, Inspector! I thought you were in Newhaven. What has brought you to town?"
"I only left Newhaven this afternoon, but I think my work there is finished—for the present at least."
"Really? Have you already solved the mystery?"
"No indeed, but the clue now leads away from Geralton."
"Clue? What clue?" Cyril found it difficult to control the tremor in his voice.
"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I had better keep my suppositions to myself till I am able to verify them."
The man suspected him! But why? What had he discovered? Cyril felt he could not let him go before he had ascertained exactly what he had to fear. It was so awful, this fighting in the dark.
"If you have half an hour to spare, come to my rooms. They are only a few doors away." Cyril was convinced that the Inspector knew where he was staying and had been lying in wait for him. He thought it best to pretend that he felt above suspicion.
"Thank you, my lord."
A few minutes later they were sitting before a blazing fire, the Inspector puffing luxuriously at a cigar and sipping from time to time a glass of whiskey and soda which Peter had reluctantly placed at his elbow. Peter, as he himself would have put it, "did not hold with the police," and thought his master was sadly demeaning himself by fraternising with a member of that calling.
"I quite understand your reluctance to talk about a case," said Cyril, reverting at once to the subject he had in mind; "but as this one so nearly concerns my family and consequently myself, I think I have a right to your confidence. I am most anxious to know what you have discovered. This mystery is weighing on me. I assure you, you can rely on my discretion."
"Well, my lord, it's a bit unprofessional, but seeing it's you, I don't mind if I do. It's the newspaper men, I am afraid of."
"I shall not mention what you tell me to any one except possibly to one friend," Cyril hastily assured him.
"Thank you, my lord. You see I may be all wrong, so I don't want to say too much till I can prove my case."
"I understand that," said Cyril; "and this clue that you are following—what is it?" he inquired with breathless impatience.
"The car, my lord," answered the Inspector, settling himself deeper in his chair, while his eyes began to gleam with suppressed excitement.
"You have found the car in which her ladyship made her escape?"
"I don't know about that yet, but I have found the car that stood at the foot of the long lane on the night of the murder."
"Remarkable!"
"Oh, that's not so very wonderful," protested the Inspector with an attempt at modesty, but he was evidently bursting with pride in his achievement.
"How did you do it? What had you to go on?" asked Cyril with genuine amazement.
"I began my search by trying to find out what cars had been seen in the neighbourhood of Geralton on the night of the murder—by neighbourhood I mean a radius of twenty-five miles. I found, as I expected, that half-past eleven not being a favourite hour for motoring, comparatively few had been seen or heard. Most of these turned out to be the property of gentlemen who had no difficulty in proving that they had been used only for perfectly legitimate purposes. There remained, however, two cars of which I failed to get a satisfactory account. One belongs to a Mr. Benedict, a young man who owns a place about ten miles from Geralton, and who seems to have spent the evening motoring wildly over the country. He pretends he had no particular object, and as he is a bit queer, it may be true. The other car is the property of the landlord of the Red Lion Inn, a very respectable hotel in Newhaven. I then sent two of my men to examine these cars and report if either of them has a new tire, for the gardener's wife swore that the car she heard had burst one. Mr. Benedict's tires all showed signs of wear, but the Red Lion car has a brand new one!"
"Bravo! That is a fine piece of work."
"Oh, that is nothing," replied the Inspector, vainly trying to suppress a self-satisfied smile.
"Did you find any further evidence against this hotel-keeper? What connection had he with the castle?" inquired Cyril.
"He knew Lord Wilmersley slightly, but says he has never even seen her Ladyship. And I am inclined to believe him."
"In that case what part does he play in the affair?"
"None, I fancy. You see he keeps the car for the convenience of his guests and on the day in question it had been hired by two young Frenchmen, who were out in it from two o'clock till midnight."
"Frenchmen! But how could they have had anything to do with the tragedy?"
"That remains to be seen. So far all I have been able to find out about these two men is that they landed in Newhaven ten days before the murder. They professed to be brothers and called themselves Joseph and Paul Durand. They seemed to be amply provided with money and wanted the best the hotel had to offer. Joseph Durand appeared a decent sort of fellow, but the younger one drank. The waiters fancy that the elder man used to remonstrate with him occasionally, but the youngster paid very little attention to him."
"You say theyprofessedto be brothers. Why do you doubt their relationship?"
"For one reason, the elder one did not understand a word of English, while the young one spoke it quite easily, although with a strong accent. That is, he spoke it with a strong accent when he was sober, but when under the influence of liquor this accent disappeared."
"And what has become of the pair?"
"They left Newhaven the morning after the murder. Their departure was very hurried, and the landlord is sure that the day before they had no intention of leaving."
"Where did they go to?"
"They took the boat to Dieppe. The porter saw them off."
"Have you been able to trace them farther?"
"Not yet, my lord, but I have sent one of my men to try and follow them up, and I have notified the continental police to be on the look-out for them. It's a pity that they have three days' start of us."
"But as you have an accurate description of both, I should imagine that they will soon be found."
"It's through the young 'un they'll be caught, if they are caught."
"Why, is he deformed in any way?"
"No, my lord, but they tell me he is abnormally small for a man of his age, for he must be twenty-two or three at the very least. The landlord believes that he is a jockey who had got into bad habits, and that the elder man is his trainer or backer. Of course, he may be right, but the waiters pooh-pooh the idea. They insist that the boy is a gentleman-born and servants are pretty good judges of such things, though you mightn't think it, my lord."
"I can quite believe it," assented Cyril. "But then there are many gentlemen jockeys."
"So there are. I only wish I had seen the little fellow, for they all agree that there was something about him which would make it impossible for any one who had once met him ever to forget him again."
"That certainly is a most unusual quality."
"So it is, my lord. They also tell me that if his eyes had not been so bloodshot, and if he had not looked so drawn and haggard, he'd have been an extraordinarily good-looking chap."
"Really?"
"Yes. It seems that he has large blue eyes, a fine little nose, not a bit red as you would expect, and as pretty a mouth as ever you'd see. His hair is auburn and he wears it rather long, which I don't think he'd do if he were a jockey. Besides, his skin is as fine as a baby's, though its colour is a grey-white with only a spot of red in the middle of each cheek."
"He must be a queer-looking beggar!"
"That's just it. That's why I think we shall soon spot him."
"What did the elder Durand look like?"
"The ordinary type of Frenchman. He is about twenty-eight years old, medium height, and inclined to be stout. He has dark hair, a little thin at the temples, dark moustache, and dark eyes. His features are nondescript."
"On the night of the murder you say they returned to the hotel at about midnight?"
"Somewhere around then."
"Was their behaviour in any way noticeable?"
"The porter was so sleepy that he can't remember much about it. He had an impression that they came in arm in arm and went quietly upstairs."
"They were alone?"
"Certainly."
"But what do you think they had done with Lady Wilmersley?"
"But, my lord, you didn't expect that they would bring her to the hotel, did you? If they were her friends, their first care would be for her safety. If they were not—well, we will have to look for another victim, that is all."
"You think that there is that possibility?" inquired Cyril eagerly.
"I do, my lord." The Inspector rose ponderously to his feet. "I mustn't keep you any longer." He hesitated a moment, eyeing Cyril doubtfully. There was evidently still something he wished to say.
Cyril had also risen to his feet and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, idly wondering at the man's embarrassment.
"I trust her Ladyship has quite recovered?" the Inspector finally blurted out.
Cyril felt the muscles of his face stiffen. He had for days been dreading some such question, yet now that it had finally come, it had found him completely unprepared. He must parry it if he could. He must fight for her till the last ditch.
But how devilishly clever of Griggs to have deferred his attack until he was able to catch his adversary off his guard! Cyril looked keenly but, he hoped, calmly at the Inspector. Their eyes met, but without the clash which Cyril had expected. The man's expression, although searching, was not hostile; in fact, there was something almost apologetic about his whole attitude. Griggs was not sure of his ground, that much was obvious. He knew something, he probably suspected more, but there was still a chance that he might be led away from the trail.
Cyril's mind worked with feverish rapidity. He realised that it was imperative that his manner should appear perfectly natural. But how would an innocent man behave? He must first decide what his position, viewed from Griggs's standpoint, really was. He must have a definite conception of his part before he attempted to act it.
The Inspector evidently knew that a young woman, who bore Cyril's name, had been taken ill on the Newhaven train. He was no doubt also aware that she was now under the care of Dr. Stuart-Smith. But if the Inspector really believed the girl to be his wife, these facts were in no way incriminating. Yet the man smelt a rat! He must, therefore, know more of the truth. No, for if he had discovered that the girl was not Lady Wilmersley, Cyril was sure that Griggs would not have broached the subject so tentatively. What then had aroused the man's suspicions? Ah, he had it! He had told every one who inquired about his wife that she was still on the continent. Peter, also, obeying his orders, had repeated the same story in the servants' hall. And, of course, Griggs knew that they were both lying. No wonder he was suspicious!
"She is much better, thank you. But how did you hear of her illness? I have not mentioned it to any one." Cyril flattered himself that his voice had exactly the right note of slightly displeased surprise. He watched the Inspector breathlessly. Had he said the right thing? Yes, for Griggs's expression relaxed and he answered with a smile that was almost deprecating:
"I, of course, saw the report of the man who searched the train, and I was naturally surprised to find that the only lady who had taken her ticket in Newhaven was Mrs. Cyril Crichton. In a case like this we have to verify everything, so when I discovered that the gentleman who was with her, was undoubtedly your Lordship, it puzzled me a good deal why both you and your valet should be so anxious to keep her Ladyship's presence in England a secret."
"Yes, yes, it must have astonished you, and I confess I am very sorry you found me out," said Cyril. He had his cue now. The old lie must be told once more. "Her Ladyship is suffering from a—a nervous affection." He hesitated purposely. "In fact—she has just left an insane asylum," he finally blurted out.
"You mean that the present Lady Wilmersley—not the Dowager—?" The Inspector was too surprised to finish his sentence.
"Yes, it's queer, isn't it, that both should be afflicted in the same way," agreed Cyril, calmly lighting a cigarette.
"Most remarkable," ejaculated Griggs, staring fixedly at Cyril.
"As the doctors believe that her Ladyship will completely recover, I didn't want any one to know that she had ever been unbalanced. But I might have known that it was bound to leak out."
"We are no gossips, my lord; I shall not mention what you have told me to any one."
"Thanks. But if the whole police department——?"
"They have got too much to do, to bother about what doesn't concern them. I don't believe a dozen of them noticed that in searching the train for one Lady Wilmersley, they had inadvertently stumbled on another, and as the latter had nothing to do with their case, they probably dismissed the whole thing from their minds. I know them!"
"But you—" suggested Cyril.
"Well, you see, it's different with me. It's the business of my men to bring me isolated facts, but I have to take a larger view of the—the—the—ah—possibilities. I have got to think of everything—suspect every one."
"Even me?" asked Cyril quickly.
"Your Lordship would have no difficulty in proving an alibi."
"So you took the trouble to find that out?"
"Of course, my lord."
"But why? I should really like to know what could have led you to suspect me?"
"I didn't suspect you, my lord. I only thought of you. You see, Lady Wilmersley must have had an accomplice and you must acknowledge that it was a strange coincidence that your Lordship should have happened to pass through Newhaven at that particular moment, especially as the Newhaven route is not very popular with people of your means."
"Quite so. As a matter of fact, I had no intention of taking it, but I missed the Calais train."
"I see," Griggs nodded his head as if the explanation fully satisfied him. "Would you mind, my lord," he continued after a brief pause, "if, now that we are on the subject, I asked you a few questions? There are several points which are bothering me. Of course, don't answer, if you had rather not."
"You mean if my answers are likely to incriminate me. Well, I don't think they will, so fire ahead," drawled Cyril, trying to express by his manner a slight weariness of the topic.
"Thank you, my lord." Griggs looked a trifle abashed, but he persisted. "I have been wondering how it was that you met her Ladyship in Newhaven, if you had no previous intention of taking that route?"
Cyril was ready with his answer.
"It was quite accidental. The fact is, her Ladyship escaped from an asylum near Fontainebleau over a fortnight ago. I scoured France for her but finally gave up the search, and leaving the French detectives to follow up any clue that might turn up, I decided almost on the spur of the moment to run over to England. I was never more astonished than when I found her on the train."
"Why had she gone to Newhaven?" asked Griggs.
"I have no idea."
"Nor how long she stayed there?"
"No. She was rather excited and I asked no questions."
"Had she ever before visited Newhaven to your knowledge?"
"Never."
"Then she did not know the late Lord Wilmersley?"
"No."
"Was there any reason for this?" inquired the detective, looking keenly at Cyril.
"I was never very friendly with my cousin, and we sailed for South Africa immediately after our marriage. Neither of us has been home since then."
"I must find out where she spent the night of the murder," murmured the Inspector. He seemed to have forgotten Cyril's presence.
"If you think her Ladyship had anything to do with the tragedy, I assure you, you are on the wrong track," cried Cyril, forgetting for a moment his pose of polite aloofness. "She has never been at all violent. It is chiefly her memory that is affected. Until the last few days what she did one minute, she forgot the next."
"You think, therefore, that she would not be able to tell me how she spent her time in Newhaven?"
"I am sure of it."
"That is most unfortunate! By the way, how has she taken the news of Lord Wilmersley's murder?"
"She has not been told of it. She does not even know that he is dead."
"Ah!"
"I see I must explain her case more fully, so that you may be able to understand my position. Her Ladyship's mind became affected about six months ago, owing to causes into which I need not enter now. Since her arrival in England her improvement has been very rapid. Her memory is growing stronger, but it is essential that it should not be taxed for the present. The doctor assures me that if she is kept perfectly quiet for a month or so, she will recover completely. That is why I want her to remain in absolute seclusion. An incautious word might send her off her balance. She must be protected from people, and I will protect her, I warn you of that. Six weeks from now, if all goes well, you can cross-question her, if you still think it necessary, but at present I not only forbid it, but I will do all in my power to prevent it. Of course," continued Cyril more calmly, "I have neither the power nor the desire to hamper you in the exercise of your profession; so if you doubt my statements just ask Dr. Stuart-Smith whether he thinks her Ladyship has ever been in a condition when she might have committed murder. He will laugh at you, I am sure."
"I don't doubt it, my lord; all the same—" Griggs hesitated.
"All the same you would like to know what her Ladyship did on the night of the murder. Well, find out, if you can. I assure you that although our motives differ, my curiosity equals yours."
"Thank you, my lord. I shall certainly do my best to solve the riddle," said the Inspector as he bowed himself out.
Cyril sank wearily into a chair. The interview had been a great strain, and yet he felt that in a way it had been a relief also. He flattered himself that he had played his cards rather adroitly. For now that he had found out exactly how much the police knew, he might possibly circumvent them. Of course, it was merely a question of days, perhaps even of hours, before Griggs would discover that the girl was not his wife; for the Inspector was nothing if not thorough and if he once began searching Newhaven for evidence of her stay there, Cyril was sure that it would not take him long to establish her identity. Oh! If he only had Griggs fighting on his side, instead of the little pompous fool of a Judson! By the way, what could have become of Judson? It was now two full days since he had left Geralton. He certainly ought to have reported himself long before this. Well, it made no difference one way or the other. He was a negligible quantity. Cyril had no time to think of him now. His immediate concern was to find a way by which Priscilla could be surreptitiously removed from the nursing home, before the police had time to collect sufficient evidence to warrant her arrest. But how was it to be done? Cyril sat for half an hour staring at the smouldering fire before he was able to hit on a plan that seemed to him at all feasible.
Going to the writing-table, he rapidly covered three sheets and thrust them into an envelope.
"Peter," he called.
"Yes, sir," answered a sleepy voice.
"You are to take this letter at half-past seven o'clock to-morrow morning to Mr. Campbell's rooms and give it into his own hands. If he is still asleep, wake him up. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Very well. You can go to bed now——"
It was lucky, thought Cyril, that he had taken Guy into his confidence. He was a good chap, Guy was! How he must hate the whole business! For, notwithstanding his careless manner, he wasau fonda conventional soul. It was really comical to think of that impeccable person as a receiver of stolen property. What would he do with the jewels, Cyril wondered. Ah, that reminded him of the bag. He must get rid of it at once. Poking the fire into a blaze, he cautiously locked the two doors which connected his rooms with the rest of the house. Then, having assured himself that the blinds were carefully drawn and that no one was secreted about the premises, he knelt down before the empty fireplace in his bedroom and felt up the chimney.
The bag was no longer there!
In the grey dawn of the following morning Cyril was already up and dressed. The first thing he did was to detach two of the labels affixed to his box and place them carefully in his pocketbook. That accomplished, he had to wait with what patience he could muster until Peter returned with Campbell's reply. Cyril perused it eagerly. It was evidently satisfactory, for he heaved a sigh of relief as he sat down to breakfast. His eyes, however, never left the clock and it had hardly finished striking nine before our hero was out of the house. No suspicious person was in sight, but Cyril, was determined to take no chances. He therefore walked quickly ahead, then turned so abruptly that he would necessarily have surprised any one who was following him. This he did many times till he reached Piccadilly Circus, where, with a last look behind him, he bolted into a shop. There he asked for a small travelling box suitable for a lady. Having chosen one, he took his labels out of his pocket.
"Have these pasted on the box," he ordered.
The man's face expressed such amazement that Cyril hastened to remark that the box was intended for a bride who did not wish to be identified as such by the newness of her baggage. A comprehending and sympathetic smile proved that the explanation was satisfactory. A few minutes later Cyril drove off with his new acquisition. The next purchase was a handsomely-fitted lady's dressing-bag, which he took to Trufitt's and filled with such toilet accessories as a much-befrizzled young person designated as indispensable to a lady's comfort. On leaving there he stopped for a moment at his bank.
Cyril now metaphorically girded his loins and summoning up all his courage, plunged into a shop in Bond Street, where he remembered his mother used to get what she vaguely termed "her things." Among the maze of frou-frous he stood in helpless bewilderment, till an obsequious floor-walker came to his rescue. Cyril explained that he had a box outside which he wanted to fill then and there with a complete outfit for a young lady. To his relief the man showed no surprise at so unusual a request and he was soon ensconced in the blessed seclusion of a fitting room. There the box was hurriedly packed with a varied assortment of apparel, which he devoutly prayed would meet with Priscilla's approval. It was not half-past eleven. The doctor must have left the nursing home by this time, thought Cyril.
Not wishing to attract attention by driving up to the door, he told the chauffeur to stop when they were still at some distance away from it. There he got out and looked anxiously about him. To his relief he recognised Campbell's crimson pate hovering in the distance. So far, thought Cyril triumphantly, there had been no hitch in his carefully-laid plans.
"You are to wait here," he said, turning to the driver, "for a lady and a red-haired gentleman. Now understand, no one but a red-haired man is to enter this car. Here is a pound, and if you don't make a mess of things, the other gentleman will give you two more."
"All right, sir; thank you, sir," exclaimed the astonished chauffeur, greedily pocketing the gold piece.
Cyril was certain that he had not been followed, and there was no sign that the nursing home was being watched, but that did not reassure him. Those curtained windows opposite might conceal a hundred prying eyes.
When he was ushered into Miss Prentice's room, he was surprised to find her already up and dressed. She held a mirror in one hand and with the other was arranging a yellow wig, which encircled her face like an aureole. Cyril could hardly restrain a cry of admiration. He had thought her lovely before, but now her beauty was absolutely startling.
On catching sight of him she dropped the mirror and ran to him with outstretched hands.
"Oh! I am so glad you have come. How do you like my hair?" she exclaimed all in one breath.
Cyril heroically disengaged himself from her soft, clinging clasp and not daring to allow his eyes to linger on her upturned face, he surveyed the article in question judicially.
"For a wig it's not bad. I can't say, however, that I like anything artificial," he asserted mendaciously.
"You prefer my own hair!" she cried, and the corners of her mouth began to droop in a way he had already begun to dread. "Oh! what shall I do? Nurse tells me it will take ages and ages for it to grow again."
"There, there, my dear, it's all right. You look lovely—" he paused abruptly.
"Oh, do I?" she cried, beaming with delight. "I am so glad you think so!"
"It doesn't matter what I think."
"But it does," she insisted.
Cyril turned resolutely away. This sort of thing must stop, he determined.
"I would like to ask you one thing." She hesitated a moment. "Are we very poor?"
"No, why?"
"Then I could afford to have some pretty clothes?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, I'm so glad! I can't bear the ones I have on. I can't think why I ever bought anything so ugly. I shall throw them away as soon as I can get others. By the way, where is my box? Nurse tells me that I arrived here with nothing but a small hand-bag."
"It has gone astray," he stammered. "It will turn up soon, no doubt, but in the meantime I have bought a few clothes for your immediate use."
"Oh, have you? Where are they?" she cried, clapping her hands.
Now was the crucial moment. He must introduce the subject of her departure tactfully.
"They are outside in a cab."
She ran to the window.
"But I see no cab."
"It is waiting a little farther down the street."
She looked bewildered.
"Farther down—why?"
"You trust me, don't you?" he said, looking earnestly at her.
"Yes, of course."
"Then, believe me, it is necessary for you to leave this place immediately. I—you—are being pursued by some one who—who wishes to separate us."
"Oh, no, not that!" she cried. "But how can any one separate us, when God has joined us together?"
"It's a long story and I have no time to explain it now. All I ask is that you will trust me blindly for the present, and do exactly what I tell you to."
"I will," she murmured submissively.
"Thank you. Will you please call your nurse?"
She touched a bell.
The same middle-aged woman appeared of whom he had caught a glimpse on his former visit.
"Good-morning, nurse. Your patient seems pretty fit to-day."
"Mrs. Thompkins is recovering very rapidly."
"Can I speak to the doctor?" asked Cyril.
"I am sorry, but he has just left."
"Too bad!" Cyril knitted his brows as if the doctor's absence was an unexpected disappointment. "Mrs. Thompkins must leave here at once and I wanted to explain her precipitate departure to him."
"You might telephone," suggested the nurse.
"Yes, or better still, I shall call at his office. But his absence places me in a most awkward predicament."
Cyril paced the room several times as if in deep thought, then halted before the nurse.
"Well, there is no help for it. As the doctor is not here, I must confide in you. Thompkins is not our real name. The doctor knows what that is and it was on his advice that we discarded it for the time being. I can't tell you our reason for this concealment nor why my wife must not only leave this house as soon as possible, but must do so unobserved. Will you help us?"
"I—I don't know, sir," answered the nurse dubiously, staring at Cyril in amazement.
"If you will dress my wife in a nurse's uniform and see that she gets out of here without being recognised, I will give you £100. Here is the money."
The nurse gave a gasp and backed away from the notes, which Cyril held temptingly toward her.
"Oh, I couldn't, sir, really I couldn't. The doctor would never forgive me. Besides it seems so queer."
"I promise you on my word of honour that the doctor need never know that you helped us."
But the woman only shook her head.
"What makes you hesitate?" continued Cyril. "Do you think I am trying to bribe you to do something dishonourable? Ah, that is it, is it?" He gave a short laugh. "Look at my wife, does she look like a criminal, I ask you?"
"She certainly doesn't," answered the nurse, glancing eagerly from one to the other and then longingly down at the money in Cyril's hand.
"Well, then, why not trust your instinct in the matter? My wife and I have been placed, through no fault of our own, in a very disagreeable position. You will know the whole story some day, but for the present my lips are sealed. International complications might arise if the truth leaked out prematurely." Cyril felt that the last was a neat touch, for the woman's face cleared and she repeated in an awe-struck voice: "International complications!"
"Germany! I can say no more," added Cyril in a stage whisper.
"Ah! The wretches!" cried the nurse. "One never knows what they will be at next. Of course I will help you. I ought to have known at once that it was sure to be all right. Any one can see that you are a gentleman—a soldier, I dare say?"
"Never mind who or what I am. It is better that you should be able truthfully to plead your complete ignorance. Now as to the uniform; have you one to spare?"
"Yes, indeed. I will go and get it immediately."
"All this mystery frightens me," exclaimed Priscilla as soon as they were alone.
"You must be brave. Now listen attentively to what I am saying. On leaving here——"
"Oh, aren't you going with me?" she asked.
"No, we must not be seen together, but I will join you later."
"You will not leave me alone again?"
"Not for long."
"Promise."
"I promise."
"Very well, now tell me what I am to do."
"On leaving this house you are to turn to your right and walk down the street till you see a taxi with a box on it. A friend of mine, Guy Campbell, will be inside. You can easily recognise him; he has red hair. Campbell will drive you to a hotel where a lady is waiting for you and where you are to stay till I can join you. If there should be any hitch in these arrangements, go to this address and send a telegram to me at the club. I have written all this down," he said, handing her a folded paper.