A soft voice in his ear suddenly recalled him to the present. Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was standing upon the pavement. The slight pallor had gone from her cheeks and the light had come back to her eyes. He looked at her, irresistibly attracted. She had never appeared more charming.
She stepped into the carriage, and the soft folds of her gown spread themselves out over the cushions. She drew them on one side to make room for him.
“Come,” she said, “let us have one turn in the Park. It is quite early, although I am afraid that I have been a very long time.”
He stepped in at once and they drove off. Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughingly repeated some story which the Princess had just told her. Evidently she was in high spirits. The strained look had gone from her face. Her gaiety was no longer forced.
“You want to know the result of my mission, I suppose,” she remarked, pleasantly. “Well, I am afraid you will call it a failure. The moment I mentioned the man’s name the Princess stopped me.
“‘You mustn’t talk to me about that man,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask why, only you must not talk about him.’
“‘I don’t want to,’ I assured her; ‘but the girl.’”
“What did she say about the girl?” Densham asked.
“Well she did tell me something about her,” Mrs. Thorpe- Satchell said, slowly, “but, unfortunately, it will not help your friend. She only told me when I had promised unconditionally and upon my honour to keep her information a profound secret. So I am sorry, Francis, but even to you——”
“Of course, you must not repeat it,” Densham said, hastily. “I would not ask you for the world; but is there not a single scrap of information about the man or the girl, who he is, what he is, of what family or nationality the girl is—anything at all which I can take to Harcutt?”
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell looked straight at him with a faint smile at the corners of her lips.
“Yes, there is one thing which you can tell Mr. Harcutt,” she said.
Densham drew a little breath. At last, then!
“You can tell him this,” Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell said, slowly and impressively, “that if it is the girl, as I suppose it is, in whom he is interested, that the very best thing he can do is to forget that he has ever seen her. I cannot tell you who she is or what, although I know. But we are old friends, Francis, and I know that my word will be sufficient for you. You can take this from me as the solemn truth. Your friend had better hope for the love of the Sphinx, or fix his heart upon the statue of Diana, as think of that girl.”
Densham was looking straight ahead along the stream of vehicles. His eyes were set, but he saw nothing. He did not doubt her word for a moment. He knew that she had spoken the truth. The atmosphere seemed suddenly grey and sunless. He shivered a little—he was positively chilled. Just for a moment he saw the girl’s face, heard the swirl of her skirts as she had passed their table and the sound of her voice as she had bent over the great cluster of white roses whose faint perfume reached even to where they were sitting. Then he half closed his eyes. He had come very near making a terrible mistake.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will tell Harcutt.”
CHAPTER VIII
A MEETING IN BOND STREET
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Wolfenden returned to his rooms to lunch, intending to go round to see his last night’s visitor immediately afterwards. He had scarcely taken off his coat, however, before Selby met him in the hall, a note in his hand.
“From the young lady, my lord,” he announced. “My wife has just sent it round.”
Wolfenden tore the envelope open and read it.
“Thursday morning.
“Dear Lord Wolfenden,—Of course I made a mistake in coming to you last night. I am very sorry indeed—more sorry than you will ever know. A woman does not forget these things readily, and the lesson you have taught me it will not be difficult for me to remember all my life. I cannot consent to remain your debtor, and I am leaving here at once. I shall have gone long before you receive this note. Do not try to find me. I shall not want for friends if I choose to seek them. Apart from this, I do not want to see you again. I mean it, and I trust to your honour to respect my wishes. I think that I may at least ask you to grant me this for the sake of those days at Deringham, which it is now my fervent wish to utterly forget.—I am, yours sincerely,
“Blanche Merton.”
“The young lady, my lord,” Selby remarked, “left early this morning. She expressed herself as altogether satisfied with the attention she had received, but she had decided to make other arrangements.”
Wolfenden nodded, and walked into his dining-room with the note crushed up in his hand.
“For the sake of those days at Deringham,” he repeated softly to himself. Was the girl a fool, or only an adventuress? It was true that there had been something like a very mild flirtation between them at Deringham, but it had been altogether harmless, and certainly more of her seeking than his. They had met in the grounds once or twice and walked together; he had talked to her a little after dinner, feeling a certain sympathy for her isolation, and perhaps a little admiration for her undoubted prettiness; yet all the time he had had a slightly uneasy feeling with regard to her. Her ingenuousness had become a matter of doubt to him. It was so now more than ever, yet he could not understand her going away like this and the tone of her note. So far as he was concerned, it was the most satisfactory thing that could have happened. It relieved him of a responsibility which he scarcely knew how to deal with. In the face of her dismissal from Deringham, any assistance which she might have accepted from him would naturally have been open to misapprehension. But that she should have gone away and have written to him in such a strain was directly contrary to his anticipations. Unless she was really hurt and disappointed by his reception of her, he could not see what she had to gain by it. He was puzzled a little, but his thoughts were too deeply engrossed elsewhere for him to take her disappearance very seriously. By the time he had finished lunch he had come to the conclusion that what had happened was for the best, and that he would take her at her word.
He left his rooms again about three o’clock, and at precisely the hour at which Densham had rung the bell of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell’s house in Mayfair he experienced a very great piece of good fortune.
Coming out of Scott’s, where more from habit than necessity he had turned in to have his hat ironed, he came face to face, a few yards up Bond Street, with the two people whom, more than any one else in the world, he had desired to meet. They were walking together, the girl talking, the man listening with an air of half-amused deference. Suddenly she broke off and welcomed Wolfenden with a delightful smile of recognition. The man looked up quickly. Wolfenden was standing before them on the pavement, hat in hand, his pleasure at this unexpected meeting very plainly evidenced in his face. Mr. Sabin’s greeting, if devoid of any special cordiality, was courteous and even genial. Wolfenden never quite knew whence he got the impression, which certainly came to him with all the strength and absoluteness of an original inspiration, that this encounter was not altogether pleasant to him.
“How strange that we should meet you!” the girl said. “Do you know that this is the first walk that I have ever had in London?”
She spoke rather softly and rather slowly. Her voice possessed a sibilant and musical intonation; there was perhaps the faintest suggestion of an accent. As she stood there smiling upon him in a deep blue gown, trimmed with a silvery fur, in the making of which no English dressmaker had been concerned, Wolfenden’s subjection was absolute and complete. He was aware that his answer was a little flurried. He was less at his ease than he could have wished. Afterwards he thought of a hundred things he would have liked to have said, but the surprise of seeing them so suddenly had cost him a little of his usual self-possession. Mr. Sabin took up the conversation.
“My infirmity,” he said, glancing downwards, “makes walking, especially on stone pavements, rather a painful undertaking. Howev
er, London is one of those cities which can only be seen on foot, and my niece has all the curiosity of her age.”
She laughed out frankly. She wore no veil, and a tinge of colour had found its way into her cheeks, relieving that delicate but not unhealthy pallor, which to Densham had seemed so exquisite.
“I think shopping is delightful. Is it not?” she exclaimed.
Wolfenden was absolutely sure of it. He was, indeed, needlessly emphatic. Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.
“I am glad to have met you again, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “if only to thank you for your aid last night. I was anxious to get away before any fuss was made, or I would have expressed my gratitude at the time in a more seemly fashion.”
“I hope,” Wolfenden said, “that you will not think it necessary to say anything more about it. I did what any one in my place would have done without a moment’s hesitation.”
“I am not quite so sure of that,” Mr. Sabin said. “But by the bye, can you tell me what became of the fellow? Did any one go after him?”
“There was some sort of pursuit, I believe,” Wolfenden said slowly, “but he was not caught.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Sabin said.
Wolfenden looked at him in some surprise. He could not make up his mind whether it was his duty to disclose the name of the man who had made this strange attempt.
“Your assailant was, I suppose, a stranger to you?” he said slowly.
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“By no means. I recognised him directly. So, I believe, did you.”
Wolfenden was honestly amazed.
“He was your guest, I believe,” Mr. Sabin continued, “until I entered the room. I saw him leave, and I was half-prepared for something of the sort.”
“He was my guest, it is true, but none the less, he was a stranger to me,” Wolfenden explained. “He brought a letter from my cousin, who seems to have considered him a decent sort of fellow.”
“There is,” Mr. Sabin said dryly, “nothing whatever the matter with him, except that he is mad.”
“On the whole, I cannot say that I am surprised to hear it,” Wolfenden remarked; “but I certainly think that, considering the form his madness takes, you ought to protect yourself in some way.”
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
“He can never hurt me. I carry a talisman which is proof against any attempt that he can make; but none the less, I must confess that your aid last night was very welcome.”
“I was very pleased to be of any service,” Wolfenden said, “especially,” he added, glancing toward Mr. Sabin’s niece, “since it has given me the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
A little thrill passed through him. Her delicately-curved lips were quivering as though with amusement, and her eyes had fallen; she had blushed slightly at that unwitting, ardent look of his. Mr. Sabin’s cold voice recalled him to himself.
“I believe,” he said, “that I overheard your name correctly. It is Wolfenden, is it not?”
Wolfenden assented.
“I am sorry that I haven’t a card,” he said. “That is my name.”
Mr. Sabin looked at him curiously.
“Wolfenden is, I believe, the family name of the Deringhams? May I ask, are you any relation to Admiral Lord Deringham?”
Wolfenden was suddenly grave.
“Yes,” he answered; “he is my father. Did you ever meet him?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“No, I have heard of him abroad; also, I believe, of the Countess of Deringham, your mother. It is many years ago. I trust that I have not inadvertently——”
“Not at all,” Wolfenden declared. “My father is still alive, although he is in very delicate health. I wonder, would you and your niece do me the honour of having some tea with me? It is Ladies’ Day at the ‘Geranium Club,’ and I should be delighted to take you there if you would allow me.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
Wolfenden had the satisfaction of seeing the girl look disappointed.
“We are very much obliged to you,” Mr. Sabin said, “but I have an appointment which is already overdue. You must not mind, Helène, if we ride the rest of the way.”
He turned and hailed a passing hansom, which drew up immediately at the kerb by their side. Mr. Sabin handed his niece in, and stood for a moment on the pavement with Wolfenden.
“I hope that we may meet again before long, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “In the meantime let me assure you once more of my sincere gratitude.”
The girl leaned forward over the apron of the cab.
“And may I not add mine too?” she said. “I almost wish that we were not going to the ‘Milan’ again to-night. I am afraid that I shall be nervous.”
She looked straight at Wolfenden. He was ridiculously happy.
“I can promise,” he said, “that no harm shall come to Mr. Sabin to-night, at any rate. I shall be at the ‘Milan’ myself, and I will keep a very close look out.”
“How reassuring!” she exclaimed, with a brilliant smile. “Lord Wolfenden is going to be at the ‘Milan’ to-night,” she added, turning to Mr. Sabin. “Why don’t you ask him to join us? I shall feel so much more comfortable.”
There was a faint but distinct frown on Mr. Sabin’s face—a distinct hesitation before he spoke. But Wolfenden would notice neither. He was looking over Mr. Sabin’s shoulder, and his instructions were very clear.
“If you will have supper with us we shall be very pleased,” Mr. Sabin said stiffly; “but no doubt you have already made your party. Supper is an institution which one seldom contemplates alone.”
“I am quite free, and I shall be delighted,” Wolfenden said without hesitation. “About eleven, I suppose?”
“A quarter past,” Mr. Sabin said, stepping into the cab. “We may go to the theatre.”
The hansom drove off, and Wolfenden stood on the pavement, hat in hand. What fortune! He could scarcely believe in it. Then, just as he turned to move on, something lying at his feet almost at the edge of the kerbstone attracted his attention. He looked at it more closely. It was a ribbon—a little delicate strip of deep blue ribbon. He knew quite well whence it must have come. It had fallen from her gown as she had stepped into the hansom. He looked up and down the street. It was full, but he saw no one whom he knew. The thing could be done in a minute. He stooped quickly down and picked it up crushing it in his gloved hand, and walking on at once with heightened colour and a general sense of having made a fool of himself. For a moment or two he was especially careful to look neither to the right or to the left; then a sense that some one from the other side of the road was watching him drew his eyes in that direction. A young man was standing upon the edge of the pavement, a peculiar smile parting his lips and a cigarette between his fingers. For a moment Wolfenden was furiously angry; then the eyes of the two men met across the street, and Wolfenden forgot his anger. He recognised him at once, notwithstanding his appearance in an afternoon toilette as carefully chosen as his own. It was Felix, Mr. Sabin’s assailant.
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOWS THAT GO BEFORE
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Wolfenden forgot his anger at once. He hesitated for a moment, then he crossed the street and stood side by side with Felix upon the pavement.
“I am glad to see that you are looking a sane man again,” Wolfenden said, after they had exchanged the usual greetings. “You might have been in a much more uncomfortable place, after your last night’s escapade.”
Felix shrugged his shoulders.
“I think,” he said, “that if I had succeeded a little discomfort would only have amused me. It is not pleasant to fail.”
Wolfenden stood squarely upon his feet, and laid his hand lightly upon the other’s shoulder.
“Look here,” he said, “it won’t do for you to go following a man about London like this, watching for an opportunity to murder him. I don’t like interfering in other people’s business, but wil
lingly or unwillingly I seem to have got mixed up in this, and I have a word or two to say about it. Unless you give me your promise, upon your honour, to make no further attempt upon that man’s life, I shall go to the police, tell them what I know, and have you watched.”
“You shall have,” Felix said quietly, “my promise. A greater power than the threat of your English police has tied my hands; for the present I have abandoned my purpose.”
“I am bound to believe you,” Wolfenden said, “and you look as though you were speaking the truth; yet you must forgive my asking why, in that case, you are following the man about? You must have a motive.”
Felix shook his head.
“As it happened,” he said, “I am here by the merest accident. It may seem strange to you, but it is perfectly true. I have just come out of Waldorf’s, above there, and I saw you all three upon the pavement.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Wolfenden said.
“More glad,” Felix said, “than I was to see you with them. Can you not believe what I tell you? shall I give you proof? will you be convinced then? Every moment you spend with that man is an evil one for you. You may have thought me inclined to be melodramatic last night. Perhaps I was! All the same the man is a fiend. Will you not be warned? I tell you that he is a fiend.”
“Perhaps he is,” Wolfenden said indifferently. “I am not interested in him.”
“But you are interested—in his companion.”
Wolfenden frowned.
“I think,” he said, “that we will leave the lady out of the conversation.”
Felix sighed.
“You are a good fellow,” he said; “but, forgive me, like all your countrymen, you carry chivalry just a thought too far—even to simplicity. You do not understand such people and their ways.”
Wolfenden was getting angry, but he held himself in check.
“You know nothing against her,” he said slowly.
“It is true,” Felix answered. “I know nothing against her. It is not necessary. She is his creature. That is apparent. The shadow of his wickedness is enough.”
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