As We Forgive Them

by William Le Queux

dreaded for years--afact that affects not only my poor father's memory, but also myself. Iam in peril--personal danger."

  "How?" I asked quickly, failing to understand her meaning. "Recollectthat I promised your father to act as your protector."

  "I know, I know. It is awfully good of you," she said, looking at megratefully with those wonderful eyes that had always held me fascinatedbeneath the spell of her beauty. "But," she added, shaking her headsorrowfully, "I fear that in this you will be powerless. If the blowfalls, as it must sooner or later, then I shall be crushed and helpless.No power, not even your devoted friendship, can then save me."

  "You certainly speak very strangely, Mabel. I don't follow you at all."

  "I expect not," was her mechanical answer. "You do not know all. Ifyou did, you would understand the peril of my position and of the greatdanger now threatening me."

  And she stood motionless as a statue, her hand upon the corner of thewriting-table, her eyes fixed straight into the blazing fire.

  "If the danger is a real one, I consider I ought to be aware of it. Tobe forewarned is to be forearmed!" I remarked decisively.

  "It is a real one, but as my father has confessed the truth to me alone,I am unable to reveal it to you. His secret is mine."

  "Certainly," I answered, accepting her decision, which, of course, wasbut natural in the circumstances. She could not betray her deadfather's confidence.

  Yet if she had done, how altered would have been the course of events!Surely the story of Burton Blair was one of the strangest and mostromantic ever given to man to relate, and as assuredly the strangecircumstances which occurred after his decease were even more remarkableand puzzling. The whole affair from beginning to end was a completeenigma.

  Later, when Mabel grew slightly calmer, we concluded our work ofinvestigation, but discovered little else of interest save severalletters in Italian, undated and unsigned, but evidently written by DickDawson, the millionaire's mysterious friend--or enemy. On reading themthey were, I found, evidently the correspondence of an intimateacquaintance who was sharing Blair's fortune and secretly assisting himin the acquisition of his wealth. There was much mention of "thesecret," and repeated cautions against revealing anything to Reggie orto myself.

  In one letter I found the sentences in Italian: "My girl is growing intoquite a fine lady. I expect she will become a Countess, or perhaps aDuchess, one day. I hear from your side that Mabel is becoming a verypretty woman. You ought, with your position and reputation, to make agood match for her. But I know what old-fashioned ideas you hold that awoman must marry only for love."

  On reading this, one fact was vividly impressed upon me, namely, that ifthis man Dawson shared secretly in Blair's wealth he surely had nonecessity to obtain his secret by foul means, when he already knew it.

  The clock on the stables chimed midnight before Mabel rang for Mrs.Gibbons, and the latter's husband followed, bringing me a night-cap ofwhisky and some hot water.

  My little companion merrily pressed my hand, wishing me good-night, andthen retired, accompanied by the housekeeper, while Gibbons himselfremained to mix my drink.

  "Sad thing, sir, about our poor master," hazarded the well-trainedservant, who had been all his life in the service of the previousowners. "I fear the poor young mistress feels it very much."

  "Very much indeed, Gibbons," I answered, taking a cigarette and standingwith my back to the fire. "She was such a devoted daughter."

  "She is now mistress of everything, Mr. Ford told us when he was downthree days ago."

  "Yes," I said, "everything. And I hope that you and your wife willserve her as well and as faithfully as you have done her father."

  "We'll try, sir," was the grave, grey-haired man's response."Everybody's very fond of the young mistress. She's so very good to allthe servants." Then, as I remained silent, he placed my candle inreadiness on the table, and, bowing, wished me good-night.

  He closed the door, and I was alone in that great silent old room wherethe darting flames cast weird lights across into the dark recesses, andthe long, old Chippendale clock ticked on solemnly as it had done for acentury past.

  Having swallowed my hot drink, I returned again to my dead friend'swriting-table, carefully examining it to see whether it contained anysecret drawers. A methodical investigation of every portion failed toreveal any spring or unsuspected cavity, therefore, after glancing atthat photograph which had taken Blair those many months of wearytramping to identify, I extinguished the lamps and passing through thegreat old hall with the stands of armour which conjured up visions ofghostly cavaliers, ascended to my room.

  The bright fire gave the antique place with those rather funerealhangings a warm and cosy appearance in contrast to the hard frostoutside, and feeling no inclination to sleep just then, I flung my selfinto an arm-chair and sat with arms folded, pondering deeply.

  Again the stable-clock chimed--the half-hour--and then I think I musthave dozed, for I was awakened suddenly by a light, stealthy footstep onthe polished oaken floor outside my door. I listened, and distinctlyheard some one creeping lightly down the big old Jacobean staircase,which creaked slightly somewhere below.

  The weird ghostliness of the old place and its many historic traditionscaused me, I suppose, some misgivings, for I found myself thinking ofburglars and of midnight visitants. Again I strained my ears. Perhaps,after all, it was only a servant! Yet, when I glanced at my watch, andfound it to be a quarter to two, the suggestion that the servants hadnot retired was at once negatived.

  Suddenly, in the room below me, I distinctly heard a slow, harsh,grating noise. Then all was still again.

  About three minutes later, however, I fancied I heard low whispering,and, having quickly extinguished my light, I drew aside one of my heavycurtains, and peering forth saw, to my surprise, two figures crossingthe lawn towards the shrubbery.

  The moon was somewhat overcast, yet by the grey, clouded light Idistinguished that the pair were a man and a woman. From the man's backI could not recognise him, but his companion's gait was familiar to meas she hurried on towards the dark belt of bare, black trees.

  It was Mabel Blair. The secret was out. Her sudden desire to visitMayvill was in order to keep a midnight tryst.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  MERELY CONCERNS A STRANGER.

  Without a moment's hesitation I struggled into an overcoat, slipped on agolf cap and sped downstairs to the room below my own, where I found oneof the long windows open, and through it stepped quickly out upon thegravel.

  I intended to discover the motive of this meeting and the identity ofher companion--evidently some secret lover whose existence she hadconcealed from us all. Yet to follow her straight across the lawn inthe open light was to at once court detection. Therefore I wascompelled to take a circuitous course, hugging the shadows always, untilI at length reached the shrubbery, where I halted, listening eagerly.

  There was no sound beyond the low creaking of the branches and thedismal sighing of the wind. A distant train was passing through thevalley, and somewhere away down in the village a collie was barking. Icould not, however, distinguish any human voices. Slowly I made my waythrough the fallen leaves until I had skirted the whole of theshrubbery, and then I came to the conclusion that they must have passedthrough it by some bypath and gone out into the park.

  My task was rendered more difficult because the moon was notsufficiently overcast to conceal my movements, and I feared that byemerging into the open I might betray my presence.

  But Mabel's action in coming there to meet this man, whoever he was,puzzled me greatly. Why had she not met him in London? I wondered.Could he be such an unpresentable lover that a journey to London wasimpossible? It is not an uncommon thing for a well-born girl to fall inlove with a labourer's son any more than it is for a gentleman to love apeasant girl. Many a pretty girl in London to-day has a secretadmiration for some young labourer or good-looking groom on her father'sestate, the seriou
sness of the unspoken love lying in the utterimpossibility of its realisation.

  With ears and eyes open I went on, taking advantage of all the shadow Icould, but it seemed as though, having nearly five minutes' start of me,they had taken a different direction to that which I believed.

  At last I gained the comparative gloom of the old beech avenue which ledstraight down to the lodge on the Dilwyn road, and continued along itfor nearly half-a-mile, when suddenly my heart leaped for joy, for Idistinguished before me the two figures walking together and engaged inearnest conversation.

  My jealous anger was in an instant aroused. Fearing that they mighthear my footsteps on the hard frozen road I slipped outside the treesupon the grass of the park, and treading noiselessly was soon able toapproach almost level with them without attracting