William Le Queux (continued 4)

Archibald Cator paused and glanced behind him half suspiciously, as if to make certain that the door was closed, while Chisholm sat erect, immovable, as though turned to stone. What his visitor had told him, confirmed the horrible suspicion which had crept upon him some weeks ago.

“Yes. It was a very neat and very pretty scheme, all of it,” went on the man with the hollow cheeks, giving vent to a short, dry laugh. “During my career I have known many schemes and intrigues with the same object, but never has one been formed with such open audacity, such cool forethought, and such clever ingenuity as the present.”

“Then it still exists?” exclaimed Chisholm quickly.

“Most certainly. My present object is to expose and destroy it,” answered the confidential agent. “That it has the support of two monarchs of known antipathy towards England is plain enough, but our would-be enemies have no idea that the details of their plot are already in my possession, nor that yesterday I placed the whole of them before the chief. By to-morrow every British Embassy in Europe will be in possession of a cypher despatch from his lordship warning Ministers of the intrigue in progress. The messengers left Charing Cross last night carrying confidential instructions to all the capitals.”

“And especially to Vienna, I presume?”

“Yes, especially to Vienna,” Cator said, adding, “That, I suppose, you guessed from the tenor of the confidential report from the Austrian capital which passed through your hands a short time back. Do you recollect that your answer to that embarrassing question in the House was supplied to you after a special meeting of the Cabinet?”

“I recollect that was so.”

“Then perhaps it may interest you to know that I myself drafted the answer and suggested to the F.O. that it should be given exactly as I had written, it, in order to mislead those who were so ingeniously trying to undermine our prestige. It was our counter-stroke of diplomacy.”

This statement of Cator’s was a revelation. He had been under the impression that the public reply to the Opposition was the composition of the Foreign Secretary himself.

“Really,” he said, “that is most interesting. I had not the least idea that you were responsible for that enigmatical answer. I must congratulate you. It was certainly extremely clever.”

The captain smiled, as though gratified by the other’s compliment. As he sat there, a wan and very unimpressive figure, none would have believed him to be the great confidential agent who, if the truth were told, was the Foreign Secretary’s trusted adviser upon the more delicate matters of European policy. This man with the muddy trousers and frayed suit was actually the intimate friend of princes; he knew reigning Sovereigns personally, had diplomatic Europe at his fingers’ ends, and had often been the means of shaping the policy to be employed by England in Europe.

“I must not conceal from you the fact that the present situation is extremely critical,” the secret agent went on. “When Parliament reassembles you will find that a strenuous attempt will be made by the Opposition to force your hand. It is part of the game. All replies must be carefully guarded—most carefully.”

“That I quite understand.”

“It was certainly most fortunate for us that I, quite by accident, dropped upon the conspiracy,” the other went on. “The man through whom I obtained the copy of the document was a person well-known to us. He was in a high position in his own government, but as his expenditure greatly exceeded his income, the bank drafts that mysteriously found their way into his pocket were most acceptable.”

“You speak in the past tense. Why?”

“Because unfortunately the person in question fell into disgrace a few weeks ago, and was called upon to resign. Hence, our channel of information is, just at the moment when it would be so highly useful, suddenly closed.”

“Fortunate that it was not closed before you could obtain the document which gave you the clue to what was really taking place,” remarked the Under-Secretary. “Cannot you tell me more regarding the plot? From which Chancellerie did the document emanate?”

“Ah, I regret that at this juncture I am not at liberty to say! The matter is still in the most confidential stage. The slightest betrayal of our knowledge may result in disaster. It is the chief’s policy to retain the facts we have gathered and act upon them as soon as the inquiry is complete. For the past three weeks all my endeavours and those of my staff have been directed towards unravelling the mystery presented by the document I have mentioned. In every capital active searches have been made, copies of correspondence secured, prominent statesmen sounded as to their views, and photographs taken of certain letters and plans, all of which go to show the deep conspiracy that is in progress, with the object of striking a staggering blow at us. Yet, strangest of all, there is mention of a matter which is hinted at so vaguely that up to the present I have been unable to form any theory as to what it really is. To put it plainly,” he added, with his eyes fixed upon Chisholm’s face, “in certain parts of the correspondence the name of Mayne Lennox is mentioned in connection with your own.”

“In connection with my own!” gasped Dudley, his face blanching again in an instant. “What statements are made?”

“Nothing is stated definitely,” replied his shabby visitor. “There are only vague hints.”

“Of what?”

“Of the existence of something that I have up to the present failed to discover.”

Dudley Chisholm breathed more freely, but beneath that cold, keen gaze of the man of secrets his eyes wavered. Nevertheless, the fact that Cator was still in ignorance of the truth reassured him, and in an instant he regained his self-possession.

“Curious that I should be mentioned in the same breath, as it were, with a man whom I know so very slightly—very curious,” he observed, as though reflecting.

“It was because of this that I have sought you here to-night,” the confidential agent explained. “I must find this man Lennox, for he alone can throw some light upon the strange hints contained in two of the letters. Then, as soon as we know the truth, the chief will act swiftly and fearlessly to expose and overthrow the dastardly plot. Until all the facts are quite plain it is impossible to move, for in this affair the game of bluff will avail nothing. We must be absolutely certain of our ground before making any attack. Then the whole of Europe will stand aghast, and England will awake one morning to discover how she has been within an ace of disaster.”

“But tell me more of this mention of myself in the confidential correspondence of our enemies,” Dudley urged. “What you have told me has aroused my curiosity.”

“I have told you all that there is to tell at this stage,” Cator replied. “It is most unfortunate that you can give me absolutely no information regarding this man; but I suppose I must seek for it elsewhere. He must be found and questioned, for the allegations are extremely grave, and the situation the most critical I have known in all my diplomatic career.”

“What are the allegations? I thought I understood you that there were only vague hints?” exclaimed Chisholm in suspicion.

“In some letters the hints are vague, but in one there is a distinct and serious charge.”

“Of what?”

“Of a certain matter which, together with the name of the Ministry from which the document was secured, must remain for the present a secret.”

“If the crisis is so very serious I think I, as Parliamentary Under-Secretary, have a right to know,” protested Dudley.

“No. I much regret my inability to reply to your questions, Mr Chisholm,” his visitor answered. “It is, moreover, not my habit to make any statement until an inquiry is concluded, and not even then if the chief imposes silence upon me, as he has done in the present case. Remember that I am in the public service, just as you are. All that has passed between us to-night has passed in the strictest confidence. Any communication made by the chief through you in the House will, in the nation’s interest, be of a kind to mislead and mystify our enemies.”

“But the mention of my own name in these copied letters!” observed the Under-Secretary. “What you have told has only whetted my appetite for further information. I really can’t understand it.”

“No, nor can I,” replied Archibald Cator frankly.

And he certainly spoke the honest truth, even though he knew a good deal more than he had thought it wise to admit.

Chapter Twenty.

Throws Light on the Past.

Finding that his visitor was determined to travel back to London at once, Dudley gave orders for the dog-cart to be brought round to the servants’ entrance, for Cator had expressed the strongest desire that his visit should remain unknown.

“Among your guests are several persons who have wintered in Rome, with whom I am on friendly terms. Just now I’m too much occupied to meet them. You’ll quite understand,” he said.

“Perfectly, my dear sir,” replied the Under-secretary, mixing another glass of whiskey for each of them. “In this matter I shall be perfectly silent. From me not a soul will know that you have been in England.”

Dudley’s spirits had risen, for he imagined that he had successfully evaded the man’s inquiries and by that means had staved off the threatened exposure and ruin.

“From what I’ve explained you will readily recognise how extremely critical is the present situation, and the urgent necessity that exists for a firm and defiant policy on our part. But until I discover the truth the chief is utterly unable to move, lest he should precipitate events and cause the bursting of the war-cloud.”

“Exactly. I see it all quite plainly,” Dudley answered. “I trust you will experience little difficulty in discovering the man for whom you are searching. I need not say how extremely anxious I shall be to see the strange matter elucidated, so that the mystery may once and for all be cleared up.”

“I am working unceasingly towards that end, Mr Chisholm,” answered Cator with a meaning look in his quick grey eyes, as he drained his glass and rose. “And now I have only to apologise for intruding upon you at such an unearthly hour.”

“Apology is quite unnecessary,” Dudley assured him. “It appears that the matter personally concerns me in some extraordinary manner.”

“Yes,” replied the chief of the secret service. “So it seems. But we shall know more later, I hope. My staff are on the alert everywhere. As every confidential agent that England possesses on the Continent is at work endeavouring to unravel the mystery of Mayne Lennox, I am very hopeful of success. And success will allow England to make a counter-stroke that will paralyse our enemies and ‘frustrate their knavish tricks,’ to quote a suppressed line from the National Anthem.”

“I wish you every luck,” said the Under-Secretary, shaking the other’s thin and chilly hand. “As I can’t persuade you to remain the night, I hope you’ll have a comfortable journey up to town.”

“Not very comfortable, I anticipate,” the captain laughed, surveying himself. “I’m in an awful state—aren’t I? It was so late when I got to Shrewsbury that I couldn’t get a conveyance anywhere, so in desperation I tramped over here.”

“Well, Barton shall drive you back; you’ll have plenty of time for your train. When do you return to the Continent?”

“Perhaps at once—by the eleven from Charing Cross. It all depends upon a telegram which I shall receive on arrival in town. My future movements are extremely uncertain. They always are. From one hour to another I never know in which direction I shall be hurrying.”

Chisholm had heard of this man’s rapidity of movement. Indeed, it was whispered in his own circle in the Foreign Office that Archie Cator would often retire to his bachelor rooms in Rome, and cause his man, Jewell, to give out that his master was indisposed, and confined to his bed; though, as a matter of fact, the chief of the Confidential Intelligence Department would be flying across to Berlin, Vienna, or Petersburg on a swift and secret mission. He lived two lives so completely that his ingenuity surpassed comprehension. In Rome, only his servant and the Ambassador knew the truth. Even at that moment the diplomatic circle in the Eternal City believed their popular member, Captain Archie Cator of the British Embassy, to be suffering from one of his acute and periodical attacks of the rheumatic gout which so often prostrated him.

Dudley himself conducted his distinguished visitor down several stone corridors into the servants’ quarters. In the courtyard outside stood Barton with the dog-cart, the light of the lamps showing that the snow was still thawing into thick slush.

“Good-bye,” cried the captain airily, when he had swung himself into the trap and turned up the collar of his shabby overcoat.

“Good-bye, and good luck!” exclaimed the owner of Wroxeter, with a warmth that was far from being heart-felt. Then the trap turned, and disappeared swiftly through the old arched gateway into the black winter’s night.

Dudley, full of conflicting thoughts, paced slowly back through the echoing corridors until he reached the ancient banqueting hall, where the dancing had not long since been in progress. But all was silence, and on opening the door he found the place in darkness. The gaiety had ended, and his guests had retired. He crossed the great, gloomy hall, distinguished by its ghostly-looking stands of armour, on which the light from the corridor shone in gleaming patches, and, passing down another corridor of the rambling old place, entered the smoking-room, where half a dozen men were taking their whiskey and gossiping as was their habit before going to bed.

“Hulloa, Dudley!” cried one man as he entered. “We’ve been looking for you for an hour past. We wanted you to take a hand at whist.”

“I had some little matters to attend to, so I slipped away,” his host explained. “I know you will forgive me.”

“Of course,” the man laughed, pulling forward a chair, into which Chisholm sank wearily. When he had allowed a servant to hand him some refreshment he joined? in the discussion which his entrance had interrupted. As it was incumbent upon him to spend an hour with his guests, he did so, but of the conversation he scarcely had any idea, for his mind was full of grave thoughts, and he spoke mechanically, heartily wishing that the men would retire, and leave him at liberty to return to his study.

At last they all bade him good-night. As soon as they were gone he walked slowly to that old room in which he knew he would remain undisturbed. He threw himself down in the cosy-corner beside the blazing logs, where he sat staring fixedly at the dancing flames.

For a long time he remained immovable, his face hard and drawn, his eyes wide open and fixed, until of a sudden he passed his hand slowly across his brow, sighed heavily, and at last allowed bitter words to escape from his white lips.

“My God!” he exclaimed in wild despair; “it’s all over. That man Cator has discovered the clue which must sooner or later reveal the hideous truth. If it were any other person except him there might be just a chance of misleading the chase. But no secret is safe from him and his army of confidential agents. Ruin—nothing but ruin is before me! What can I do?”

He rose and paced the room quickly with unequal steps. His face was blanched, his eyes were fixed, his clenched hands trembled.

“Ah!” he cried bitterly to himself, “it would have been best to have resigned and gone abroad months ago, while there was yet time. Under another name I might have contrived to conceal my identity in one or other of the colonies, where they do not inquire too closely into a man’s antecedents. But, alas! it is now too late. My movements are evidently watched, and I am under suspicion, owing to the discovery of my connection with that scoundrel Lennox. To resign my appointment is impossible. I can only remain and face the ruin, shame, and ignominy that are inevitable. I have sinned before God, and before man!” he cried wildly, his face upturned, his clenched hands held trembling above his head in blank despair. “For me there is no forgiveness—none!—none! My only means of escape is suicide,” he gasped with bated breath. “A few drops of liquid in a wine-glass full of innocent water, and all will be over—all the anguish, all the fever. No, it is not difficult—not at all,” and he laughed a hard, dry, sarcastic laugh. “And a final drastic step of that sort is far preferable to shame and ruin.”

He was silent for some time. His lips were still moving as he stood there in the centre of the room, but no sound came from them. In the awful agony he suffered he spoke to himself and heard words that were unuttered. The possibility which he had suspected and dreaded during so many dark weeks was now becoming horribly realised. His secret sin would before long be revealed in all its true hideousness, and he, England’s rising statesman, the man of whom so much was prophesied, the man who was trusted by the Prime Minister, who held such a brilliant and responsible position, and who was envied by all the lesser fry in the House, would be rudely cast forth as unfit and unworthy, his name, honoured for generations, rendered odious.

Truly his position was graver and more precarious than that of ninety-nine out of a hundred men. Condemnation was at hand. Cator, now that he knew the name of Mayne Lennox, would not be long in laying bare the whole of the facts.

And then?

He thought it all over, sighing heavily and clenching his hands in wild despair. To no single person could he look for assistance, for he dared not confide in any one. He could only suffer alone, and pay the penalty for his sin.

How little the world knows of the inner life of its greatest men! The popular favourite, the chosen of fortune in the various walks of life, is too often an undeserving man, the skeleton in whose cupboard could not bear the light of day. Fortune never chooses the best men for the best places. Dishonesty grows fat, while virtue dies of starvation. The public are prone to envy the men who are popular, who are “boomed” by the newspapers, and whose doings are chronicled daily with the same assiduity as the movements of the Sovereign himself, yet in many cases these very men, as did Dudley Chisholm, shrink from the fierce light always beating upon them. They loathe the plaudits of the multitude, because of the inner voice of conscience that tells them they are charlatans and shams; and they are always promising themselves that one day, when they see a fitting opportunity, they will retire into private life.

In every public assembly, from the smallest parish council up to Westminster itself, there are prominent members who live in daily fear of exposure. Although looked upon by the world as self-denying, upright citizens, they are, nevertheless, leading a life of awful tension and constant anxiety, knowing that their enemies may at any moment reveal the truth.

Thus it was with Dudley Chisholm. That he was a man well fitted for the responsible post he occupied in the Government could not be denied, and that he had carefully and assiduously carried out the duties of his office was patent to all. Yet the past—that dark, grim past which had caused him to travel in the unfrequented tracks of the Far East—had never ceased to haunt him, until now he could plainly see that the end was very near. Exposure could not be long delayed.

The turret-clock chimed the hour slowly, and its bells aroused him.

“No,” he cried hoarsely to himself, “no, it would not be just! Before taking the final step I must place things in order—I must go out of office with all the honour and dignity of the Chisholms,” he added with a short and bitter laugh. “Out of office!” he repeated hoarsely to himself, “out of office—and out of the world!”

Chapter Twenty One.

Sows Seeds of Suspicion.

Chisholm with uneven steps walked back to the big writing-table, turned up the reading-lamp and, seating himself, began to put the many official papers quickly in order, signing some, destroying others, and now and then making marginal notes on those to be returned to the Foreign Office. Many of the more unimportant documents he consigned to the waste-paper basket, but the others he arranged carefully, sorted them, and placed them in several of the large official envelopes upon which the address was printed, together with the bold words “On Her Majesty’s Service.”

The light of hope had died from his well-cut features. His countenance was changed, grey, anxious, with dark haggard eyes and trembling lips. When, at last, he had finished, he rose again with a strange smile of bitterness. He crossed to the portion of the book-lined wall that was merely imitation, opened it, and with the key upon his chain took from the small safe concealed there the envelope secured by the black seal, and the small piece of folded paper which contained the lock of fair hair—his most cherished possession.

He opened the paper and stood with the golden curl in the palm of his hand, gazing upon it long and earnestly.

“Hers!” he moaned in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “If she were here I wonder what would be her advice? I might long ago have confided in her, told her all, and asked her help. She would have given it. Yes, she was my friend, and would have sacrificed her very life to save me. But it is all over. I am alone—utterly alone.”

Tears stood in his eyes as he raised the love-token slowly and reverently to his lips. Then he spoke again:

“For me there only remains the punishment of Heaven. And yet in those days how childishly happy we were—how perfect was our love! Is it an actual reality that I’m standing here to-night for the last time, or is it a dream? No,” he added, his teeth clenched in firmness, “it’s no dream. The end has come!”

The stillness of the night remained unbroken for a long time, for he continued to stand beside the table with the fair curl in his nervous hand. Many times he had been sorely tempted to destroy it, and put an end to all the thoughts of the past that it conjured up. And yet he had grown to regard it as a talisman, and actually dare not cast it from him.

“Little lock of hair,” he said at last in a choking voice, his eyes fixed upon it, “throughout these years you have formed the single link that has connected me with those blissful days of fervent love. You are the only souvenir I possess of her, and you, emblem of her, fragile, exquisite, tender, were my faithful companion through those long journeys in far-off lands. In days of peril you have rested near my heart; you have been my talisman; you have, sweet and silent friend, cheered me often, telling me that even though long absent I was not forgotten. Yes—yes!” he exclaimed wildly; “you are part of her—actually part of her!” and again he kissed the lock of hair in a burst of uncontrollable feeling.

Suddenly he drew himself up. His manner instantly changed, as the stern reality again forced itself upon him.

“Ah!” he sighed, “those days are long spent, and to me happiness can never return—never. My sin has risen against me; my one false step debars me from the pleasures of the world.” His chin was sunk upon his breast, and he stood staring at the little curl, deep in reverie. At last, without another word, he raised it again to his hot, parched lips, and then folded it carefully in its wrapping.

The envelope he broke open, took out the small piece of transparent paper, and spread it upon a piece of white foolscap in order to read it with greater ease. Slowly he pondered over every one of the almost microscopic words written there. As he read, his heavy brows were knit, as though some of the words puzzled him.

He took a pencil from the inkstand and with it traced a kind of geometrical diagram of several straight lines upon the blotting-pad.

These lines were similar to those he had traced with his stick in the dust when standing at the stile on that steep path in the lonely coppice near Godalming.

Now and then he referred to the small document in the crabbed handwriting, and afterwards examined his diagram, as though to make certain of its correct proportions. Then, resting his chin upon his hands, he sat staring at the paper as it lay upon the blotting-pad within the zone of mellow lamplight.

“It seems quite feasible,” he said at last, speaking aloud. “Would that the suggestion were only true! But unfortunately it is merely a vague and ridiculous idea—a fantastic chimera of the imagination, after all. No,” he added resolutely, “the hope is utterly false and misleading. It will not bear a second thought.”

With sad reluctance he refolded the piece of transparent paper, replaced it in the envelope, and put it back in the safe without resealing it. But from the same unlocked drawer he took a formidable-looking blue envelope, together with a tiny paper folded oblong, and sealed securely with white wax. The paper contained a powdered substance.

The Parliamentary Under-Secretary carried them both back to his writing-table, and laid them before him. Upon the envelope was written in a bold legal hand, doubly underlined: “The Last Will and Testament of Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm, Esquire (Copy).”

He smiled bitterly as he glanced at the superscription, then drew out the document and spread it before him, reading through clause after clause quite calmly.

There were four pages of foolscap, engrossed with the usual legal margin and bound together with green silk. By it the Castle of Wroxeter and his extensive property in Shropshire were disposed of in a dozen words. The document was only lengthy by reason of the various bequests to old servants of the family and annuities to certain needy cousins. With the exception of the Castle and certain lands, the bulk of the great estate was, by that will, bequeathed to a well-known London hospital.

Some words escaped him when, after completing its examination, during which he found nothing he wished to be altered, he refolded it. He then sealed it in another envelope and wrote in a big, bold hand: “My Will—Dudley Chisholm.”

As the names of his solicitors, Messrs Tarrant and Drew, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, were appended to the document, there was no necessity for him to superscribe them.

“All is entirely in order,” he murmured hoarsely. “And now I have to decide whether to await my doom, or take time by the forelock.” As he spoke thus, his nervous hand toyed with the little paper packet before him.

The room was in semi-darkness, for the logs had burned down and their red glow threw no light. At that moment the turret-clock struck a deep note, which echoed far away across the silent Severn.

A strange look was in his eyes. The fire of insanity was burning there. As he glanced around in a strained and peculiar manner, he noticed upon a side table the whiskey, some soda-water, and a glass, all of which Riggs, according to custom, had placed there ready to his hand.

Without hesitation he crossed to it, resolved on the last desperate step. He drew from the syphon until the glass was half-full. Then he added some whiskey, returned with it to his seat, and placed it upon the table.

With care he opened the little packet that had been hoarded since the days of his journey in Central Asia, disclosing a small quantity of some yellowish powder, which he emptied into the glass, stirring it with the ivory paper-knife until all became dissolved. Then he sank into his chair with the tumbler set before him.

He held it up to the light, examining it critically, with a sad smile playing about his thin white lips. Presently he put it down, and with both hands pushed the hair wearily from his fevered forehead.

“Shall I write to Claudia?” he asked himself in a hoarse voice, scarcely louder than a whisper. “Shall I leave her a letter confessing all and asking forgiveness?”

For a long time he pondered over the suggestion that had thus come to him.

“No,” he said at last, “it would be useless, and my sin would only cause my memory to be more hateful. Ah, no!” he murmured; “to leave the world in silence is far the best. The coroner’s jury will return a verdict to the effect that I was of unsound mind. Juries don’t return verdicts of felo-de-se nowadays. The time of stakes and cross-roads has passed.”

And he laughed harshly again, for now that he had placed all his affairs in order a strange carelessness in regard to existence had come upon him.

“To-morrow, when I am found, the papers—those same papers that have boomed me, as they term it—will discover in my end a startling sensation. All sorts of ridiculous rumours will be afloat. Parliament will gossip when it meets; but in a week my very name will be forgotten. One memorial alone will remain of me, my name engraved upon the tablet in the house of the Royal Geographical Society as its gold-medallist. And nothing else—absolutely nothing.”

Again he paused. After a few minutes had passed he stretched out his trembling hand and took the glass.

“What will the world say of me, I wonder?” he exclaimed in a hoarse tone. “Will they declare that I was a coward?”

“Yes,” came an answering voice, low, but quite distinct within the old brown room, “the world will surely say that Dudley Chisholm was a coward—a coward!”

He sprang to his feet in alarm, dashing the glass down on the table, and, turning quickly to the spot whence the answer had come, found himself face to face with an intruder who had evidently been concealed behind the heavy curtains of dark red velvet before the window, and who had heard everything and witnessed all his agony.

The figure was lithe and of middle stature—the figure of a woman in a plain dark dress standing back in the deep shadow.

At the first moment he could not distinguish the features; but when he had rushed forward a few paces, fierce resentment in his heart because his actions had been overlooked, he suddenly became aware of the women’s identity.

It was Muriel Mortimer.

Since he had locked the door behind him as soon as he had entered the room, she must have been concealed behind the heavy curtains which were drawn across the deep recess of the old diamond-paned window.

“You!” he gasped, white-faced and haggard. “You! Miss Mortimer! To what cause, pray, do I owe this nocturnal visit to my study?” he demanded in a stern and angry voice.

“The reason of my presence here was the wish to find a novel to read in bed, Mr Chisholm,” she answered with extraordinary firmness. “Its result has been to save you from an ignominious death.”

Erect, almost defiant, she stood before him. Her face in the heavy shadow was as pale as his own, for she perceived his desperate mood and recognised the improbability of being able to grapple with the situation. He intended to end his life, while she, on her part, was just as determined that he should live.

“You have been in this room the whole time?” he demanded, speaking quite unceremoniously.

“Yes.”

“You have heard my words, and witnessed all my actions?”

“I have.”

“You know, then, that I intend to drink the contents of that glass and end my life?” he said, looking straight at her.

“That was your intention, but it is my duty towards you, and towards humanity, to prevent such a catastrophe.”

“Then you really intend to prevent me?”

“That certainly is my intention,” she answered. Her clear eyes were upon him, and beneath her steady gaze he shrank and trembled.

“And if I live you will remain as witness of my agony, and of my degradation?” he said. “If I live you will gossip, and tell them of all that has escaped my lips, of my despair—of my contemplated suicide!”

“I have seen all, and I have heard all,” the girl answered. “But no word of it will pass my lips. With me your secret is sacred.”

“But how came you here at this hour?” he demanded in a fiercer tone.

“As I’ve already told you, I came to get a book before retiring, and the moment I had entered you came in. Because I feared to be discovered I hid behind the curtains.”

“You came here to spy upon me?” he cried angrily. “Come, confess the truth!”

The curious thought had crossed his mind that she had been sent there by Claudia.

“I chanced to be present here entirely by accident,” she answered. “But by good fortune I have been able to rescue you from death.”

He bowed to her with stiff politeness, for he suspected her of eavesdropping. He felt that he disliked her, and in no half-hearted fashion. Besides, he recollected the prophetic warning of the colonel. It was more than strange that he should discover her there, in that room where his valuable papers were lodged. He scented mystery in her action, and fiercely resented this unwarrantable intrusion upon his privacy.

“My own behaviour is my own affair, Miss Mortimer,” he said in a determined voice.

“Yes, all but suicide,” she assented. “That is an affair which concerns your friends.”

“Of whom you are scarcely one,” he observed meaningly.

“No,” she replied, stretching forth her hand until it rested upon his arm. “You entirely misunderstand me, Mr Chisholm. As in this affair you have already involuntarily confided in me, I beg of you to rely upon my discretion and secrecy, and to allow me to become your friend.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Requires Solution.

With his face to the intruder, Chisholm stood leaning with his hand upon the back of a chair.

“Friends are to me useless, Miss Mortimer,” he answered her.

“Others perhaps are useless, but I may prove to be the exception,” she said very gravely. “You want a friend, and I am ready to become yours.”

“Your offer is a kind one,” he replied, still regarding her with suspicion, for he could not divine the real reason of her visit there, or why she had concealed herself, unless she had done so to learn, if possible, his secret. “I thank you for it, but cannot accept it.”

“But, surely, you do not intend to perform such a cowardly act as to take your own life,” she said in a measured tone of voice, looking at him with her wide-open eyes. “It is my duty to prevent you from committing such a mad action as that.”

“I quite admit that it would be mad,” he said. “But the victim of circumstances can only accept the inevitable.”

“Why, how strangely and despondently you talk, Mr Chisholm! From my hiding-place at the back of those curtains, I’ve been watching you this hour or more. Your nervousness has developed into madness, if you will permit me to criticise. Had it not been for my presence here you would by this time have taken your life. For what reason? Shall I tell you? Because, Mr Chisholm, you are a coward. You are in terror of an exposure that you dare not face.”

“How do you know?” he cried fiercely, springing towards her in alarm. “Who told you?”

“You told me yourself,” she answered. “Your own lips denounced you.”

“What did I say? What foolish nonsense did I utter in my madness?” he demanded, the fact now being plain that she had heard all the wild words that had escaped him. The old colonel had warned him that this woman was not his friend. He reflected that, at all costs he must silence her. She paused for a few moments in hesitation.

“Believing yourself to be here alone, you discussed aloud your secret in all its hideousness—the secret of your sin.”

“And if I did—what then?” he demanded defiantly. His courtliness towards her had been succeeded by an undisguised resentment. To think that she should have been brought into his house to act as eavesdropper, and to learn his secret!

“Nothing, except that I am now in your confidence, and, having rescued you from an ignominious end, am anxious to become your friend,” she answered in a quiet tone of voice. Her face was pale, but she was, nevertheless, firm and resolute.

He was puzzled more than ever in regard to her. With his wild eyes full upon her, he tried to make out whether it was by design or by accident that she was there, locked in that room with him. That she was an inveterate novel-reader he knew, but her excuse that she had come there to obtain a book at so late an hour scarcely bore an air of probability. Besides, she had exchanged her smart dinner-gown for a dark stuff dress. No, she had spied upon him. The thought lashed him to fury.

“To calculate the amount of profit likely to accrue to oneself as the result of a friend’s misfortune is no sign of friendship,” he said in a sarcastic voice. “No, Miss Mortimer, you have, by thus revealing your presence, prolonged my life by a few feverish minutes, but your words certainly do not establish the sincerity of your friendship. Besides,” he added, “we scarcely know each other.”

“I admit that; but let us reconsider all the facts,” she said, leaning a little toward him, across the back of a chair. “Your actions have shown that the matter is to you one of life or death. If so, it manifestly deserves careful and mature consideration.”

He nodded, but no word passed his lips. She seemed a strangely sage person, this girl with the fair hair, whose parentage was so obscure, and whose invitation to his house was due to some ridiculous penchant felt for her by Claudia. Why she had ever been invited puzzled him. He would gladly have asked her to return to town on the day of her arrival if it had been possible to forget the laws of hospitality and chivalry. The whole matter had annoyed him greatly, and this was its climax.

“Well, now,” she went on, in a voice which proved her to be in no way excited, “I gather from your words and actions that you fear to face the truth—that your guilt is such that exposure will mean ruin. Is this so?”

“Well, to speak plainly, it is so,” he said mechanically, looking back at the glassful of death on the table.

“You must avoid exposure.”

“How?”

“By acting like a man, not like a coward.”

He looked at her sharply, without replying. She spoke with all the gravity of a woman twice her years, and he could not decide whether she were really in earnest in the expression of her readiness to become his friend. One thing was absolutely certain, namely, that she was acquainted with the innermost secrets of his heart. In the wild madness of despair he had blurted out his fear and agony of mind, and she had actually been the witness of those moments of sweet melancholy when, at the sight of that lock of hair, he had allowed his thoughts to wander back to the days long dead, when the world was to him so rosy and full of life. Should he conciliate her, or should he, on the other hand, defy her and refuse her assistance? That she, of all women, should in this fashion thrust herself into his life was strange indeed. But had she actually thrust herself upon him, or was her presence there, as she had alleged, a mere freak of fortune?

“You say that I ought to act like a man, Miss Mortimer. Well, I am ready to hear your suggestion.”

“My suggestion is quite simple: it is that you should live, be bold, and face those who seek your downfall.”

He sighed despairingly.

“In theory that’s all very well, but in practice, impossible,” he answered after a short pause.

“Think! You are wealthy, you are famous, with hosts of friends who will come to your aid if you confide in them—”

“Ah! but I cannot confide in them,” he cried despondently, interrupting her. “You are the only person who knows the secret of my intention.”

“But surely you will not deliberately seek such an inglorious end—you, the pride and hope of a political party, and one of a race that has century after century been famous for producing noble Englishmen. It is madness—sheer madness!”

“I know it,” he admitted; “but to me birth, position, wealth, popularity are all nothing.”

“I can quite understand that all these qualities may count as nothing to you, Mr Chisholm,” she said in a tone of voice indicative of impatience, “but there is still one reason more why you should hesitate to take the step you have just been contemplating.”

“And what is that?”

For a moment she remained silent, looking straight at him with her splendid eyes, as if to read the book of his heart. At length she made answer:

“Because a woman worships you.”

He started, wondering quickly if his midnight visitor intended those words to convey a declaration of love. With an effort he smiled in a good-humoured way, but almost instantly his dark features regained their tragic expression.

“And if a woman pays me that compliment, is it not a misfortune for her?” he asked. There was a motive in her concealment there. What could it be?

“It surely should not be so, if the love is perfect, as it is in the present case.”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “apparently you are better acquainted with my private affairs than I am myself, Miss Mortimer. But in any case the love of this woman whom you mention can be only a passing fancy. True, I was loved once, long ago. But that all belongs to the past.”

“And the only relic of the bygone romance is that lock of hair? Yes, I know all. I have seen all. And your secret is, I assure you, safe with me.”

“But this woman who—well, who is attracted towards me? What is her name?” he demanded, not without some interest.

“You surely know her,” she answered. “The woman who is your best and most devoted friend—the woman in whom you should surely confide before attempting to take such a step as you are contemplating to-night—Lady Richard Nevill.”

His lips again set themselves hard at the mention of that name. Was it uttered in sarcasm, or was she in real earnest? He regarded her keenly for a moment, and then inclined to the latter opinion.

“The relations existing between Lady Richard and myself are our own affair,” he said, vexed by her reference to a subject which of all others, next to the knowledge of his sin, perturbed him most.

“But your secret concerns her,” Muriel declared. “Many times you have confided in her and asked her help at the various crises in your career. Why not now? Her very life is yours.”

“Am I to understand that you wish to pay me compliments, Miss Mortimer?”

“No. This is hardly the time for paying compliments. I speak the truth, Mr Chisholm. She loves you.”

“Then if that is really so, it seems an additional misfortune has overtaken me,” he replied hoarsely, unable as yet to grasp her motive.

“All the world knows that she is madly in love with you, and would be ready to become your wife to-morrow. Under all the circumstances I must say that your indifference strikes me as almost unbelievable.”

She was pleading for Claudia, a fact which made the mystery surrounding her all the more perplexing. He did not notice that she was calmly watching the effect of her words upon him.

“You hold a brief for Lady Richard, but I fail to see the reason why. We are friends, very old friends, but nothing else. Our future concerns no one but ourselves,” he said.

“Exactly. The future of each of you concerns the other,” she answered triumphantly. “She loves you, and because of this all her thoughts are centred in you.”

“I must really confess, Miss Mortimer, that I do not see the drift of your argument,” he said. “Lady Richard has no connection whatever with the present matter, which is my private affair alone.”

“But since she loves you as devotedly as she does, it concerns her deeply.”

“I repeat that we are friends, not lovers,” he replied with some asperity.

“And I repeat, just as emphatically, that she loves you, and that it is your duty to confide in her,” answered Muriel, determined not to haul down her flag.

“Love!” he cried bitterly, beginning to pace the room, for as soon as he thought of Claudia his attempt to remain calm was less and less effective; “what is love to me? There is no love for such as I.”

“No, Mr Chisholm,” she said earnestly, stretching forth her hand. “Pardon me, I pray, for speaking thus, but to every man and woman both love and happiness are given, if only they will accept it.”

He was thinking of Claudia, and of the fact that she had first seen Cator and had contrived to keep him aloof from the guests. She could surely suspect nothing, otherwise she would have waited to see him after the visitor’s departure. Yes, he knew that everything said by this fair-haired girl was quite true. That was the unfortunate factor in the affair. She loved him.

“Tell me, then,” he demanded at last, “what do you advise? You know that I have a secret; that I intend deliberately to take my life and to trouble no one any further. As you have prevented me from doing so, it is to you I look for help and good counsel.”

“I am ready and eager to give both,” she exclaimed, “only I very much fear that you do not trust me, Mr Chisholm! Well, after all, that is not very remarkable when the short period of our acquaintanceship is borne in mind. Nevertheless, I am Claudia’s friend, and consequently yours. You must really not do anything foolish. Think of your own position, and of the harsh judgment you will naturally provoke by your insane action!”

“I know! I know!” he replied. “But to me the opinion of the world counts for absolutely nothing. I have sinned, and, like other men, must bear the penalty. For me there is no pardon on this side of the grave.”

“There is always pardon for the man who is loved.”

“A love that must turn to hate when the truth is discovered,” he added bitterly, with a short, dry laugh. “No, I much prefer the alternative of death. I do not fear the end, I assure you. Indeed, I really welcome it,” and he laughed again nervously, as though suicide were one of the humours of life.

“No,” she cried in earnestness, laying her hand gently on his arm. “Listen to reason, Mr Chisholm. I know I have no right to speak to you like this—only the right of a fellow-creature who would prevent you from taking the rash step you contemplate. But I want you fully to realise your responsibility towards the woman who so dearly loves you.”

“Our love is ended,” he blurted out, with a quick, furtive look at the glass upon the writing-table. “I have no further responsibility.”

“Has it really ended?” she asked anxiously. “Can you honestly and truthfully say before your Maker that you entertain no love for Lady Richard—that she is never in your thoughts?”

Her question nonplussed him. A lie arose to his lips, but remained there unuttered.

“You are thinking of that former love,” she went on; “of that wild, impetuous affection of long ago, that madness which has resulted so disastrously, eh? Yes, I know. You still love Lady Richard, while she, for her part, entertains a loving thought for no other man but you. And yet there is a sad, sweet memory within you which you can neither stifle nor forget.” There was a tone of distinct melancholy in her voice.

“You have guessed aright,” he answered in a strained tone. “The tragedy of it all is before me day and night, and it is that alone which holds me at a distance from Claudia.”

“Why not make full confession to her?” she suggested, after a short pause.

Surely it was very strange, he thought, that she, who was little more than a mere girl, should venture to debate with him his private affairs. To him it appeared suspiciously as though she had already discussed the situation with the woman who had introduced her beneath his roof. Had they arranged all this between them? But if his madness had not blinded him, he would have detected the contemptuous curl of the lip when she uttered Claudia’s name.

“I have neither the wish nor the intention to confess anything,” he answered. “You alone know my secret, Miss Mortimer, and I rely upon your honesty as a woman to divulge nothing.”

For answer she walked quickly to the table, took up the glass, and flung its contents upon the broad, old-fashioned hearthstone.

“I solemnly promise you,” she said, as she replaced the empty tumbler and confronted him again. “I promise you that as long as you hold back from this suicidal madness the world shall know nothing. Live, be brave, grapple with those who seek your downfall, and reciprocate the love of the woman who is both eager and ready to assist and defend you.”

It struck him that in the last words of this sentence she referred to herself. If so, hers was, indeed, a strange lovemaking.

“No,” replied the despondent man. “My position is hopeless—utterly hopeless.”

As his head was turned away, he did not notice the strange glint in her eyes. For a single instant the fierce fire of hatred burned there, but in a moment it had vanished, and she was once more the same calm, persuasive woman as throughout the conversation she had been.

“But your position is really not so serious as you imagine,” she declared. “If you will only place confidence in me I can help you ever so much. Indeed, I anticipate that, if I so wish, I can rescue you from the exposure and ruin that threatens you.”

“You?” he cried incredulously. “How can you hope to rescue me?” he demanded sharply, taking a step toward her in his eagerness to know what the answer to his question would be.

“By means known only to myself,” she said, watching him with panther-like intensity. She had changed her tactics.

“From your words it would appear that my future is to be controlled in most respects by you, Miss Mortimer,” he observed with a slight touch of sarcasm in his hard voice.

“You have spoken correctly. It is.”

“And for what reason, pray?” he inquired, frowning in his perplexity.

“Because I alone know the truth, Mr Chisholm,” she said distinctly. “I am aware of the secret of your sin. All of these hideous facts are in my possession.”

He started violently, glaring at her open-mouthed, as though she were some superhuman monstrosity.

“You believe that I am lying to you, but I declare that I am not. I am in full possession of the secret of your sin, even to its smallest detail. If you wish, I will defend you, and show you a means by which you can defy those who are seeking to expose you. Shall I give you proof that I am cognisant of the truth?”

He nodded in the affirmative, still too dumbfounded to articulate.

Moving suddenly she stepped forward to the table, took up a pen, and wrote two words upon a piece of paper, which she handed to him in silence.

He grasped it with trembling fingers. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it than a horrible change swept over his countenance.

“My God! Yes!” he gasped, his face blanched to the lips. “It was that name. Then you really know my terrible guilt. You—a comparative stranger!”

“Yes,” she answered. “I know everything, and can yet save you, if you will place your trust in me—even though I am little more than a stranger.”

“And if I did—if I allowed you to strive on my behalf? What then?”

She looked straight at him. The deep silence of the night was again broken by the musical chimes high up in the ancient turret.

“Shall I continue to speak frankly?” she asked at last.

“Most certainly. In this affair there can be no concealment between us, Miss Mortimer, for it seems that my future is entirely in your hands.”

“It is,” she answered, in a deep, intense voice. “And in return for my silence and defence of yourself I make one condition.”

“And that is?”

She again placed her soft hand tenderly upon the arm of the nervous, haggard-faced man whom she had just rescued from self-destruction, and looked earnestly into his pallid face.

“My sole condition is that you shall give me yourself,” she answered in a wild, hoarse voice; “that you shall cast aside this other woman and give me your love.”

“Then you actually love me!” he exclaimed in his astonishment.

“Yes,” she cried fiercely, her clear eyes looking anxiously up into his face. “Yes, I frankly confess that I love you.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Records some Matters of Fact.

The house-party at Wroxeter Castle had broken up, and Dudley Chisholm, having returned to town, had once more taken up his official duties.

Every hour of his day, however, was haunted by the memory of that strange encounter in the library, and its astonishing sequel. That fair-haired girl, whose parentage was so mysterious, and against whom he had been so distinctly warned, was aware of his secret, and, moreover, had openly declared her love for him. Assuredly his was a most complicated and perilous position.

Muriel Mortimer had at every point displayed marvellous tact and ingenuity. She was undoubtedly clever, for at breakfast on the morning following their interview, Lady Meldrum had announced the receipt of a letter which compelled them to leave by the midday train for Carlisle. All sorts of regrets were expressed in the usual conventional manner, but Muriel exchanged a glance with her host, and he understood. No word regarding the midnight interview passed between them; but when she entered the carriage to be driven into Shrewsbury with Sir Henry and his wife, and grasped his hands in farewell, he felt a slight pressure upon his fingers as their eyes met, and knew that it was intended as a mute repetition of her promise to rescue him.

She alone knew the truth. If she so desired she herself could expose him and lay bare his secret. He was utterly helpless in her hands, and in order to save himself had been compelled to accept the strange condition she had so clearly and inexorably laid down. This fair-faced woman, about whom he knew next to nothing, had declared that she could save him by means known only to herself; and this she was now setting forth to do.

Archibald Cator, the resourceful man whose success in learning the diplomatic secrets of foreign states was unequalled, was working towards his exposure, while she, an apparently simple woman, with a countenance full of childlike innocence, had pitted herself against his long experience and cunning mind. The match was unequal, he thought. Surely she must be vanquished. Yet she had saved him from suicide, and somehow, he knew not exactly how, her declarations and her sudden outburst of devotion had renewed the hope of happiness within him.

Public life had never offered more brilliant prizes to a Canning, a Disraeli, or a Randolph Churchill than it did to Dudley Chisholm. To him, it seemed, the future belonged. England was in the mood to surrender herself, not necessarily to a prodigy of genius, a Napoleon of politics, but to a man of marked independence, faith, and capacity. And all these qualities were possessed by the present Parliamentary Under-Secretary—the unhappy man who so short a time before had sat with the fatal glass in front of him.

He was in the hall when Muriel took leave of Claudia. The latter was inclined to be affectionate and bent to kiss her on the cheek, but Muriel pretended not to notice her intention, merely shaking her hand and expressing regret at being compelled to leave so suddenly. Their parting was most decidedly a strained one, and he fell to wondering whether, on his account, any high words had passed between them.

But a fortnight had gone by, the House had reassembled, and he had resumed his duties.

Has it ever occurred to you, my reader, what a terrible sameness marks the careers of front-bench men?

Ancestors who toiled and spun, as some writer in a daily journal has it; Eton and Oxford; the charmed Commons at twenty-eight or thirty, an Under-Secretaryship of State two years later; high Government office three years after that, then a seat in the Cabinet, then the invariable Chief Secretaryship of Ireland, birthplace of reputations, where they take the place of colleagues physically prostrated by Irish persiflage.

As Chief Secretary the typical front-bench man, of course, surprises friends and foes by his unshakable coolness. If he still has any hair, he never turns a particle of it while the Irish members are shrieking their loudest, and branding him with nicknames; which we are instructed to accept as examples of epoch-making humour. Well, we are bound to believe what we are told, but we cannot be described as cordial believers.

Last scene of all, the ignoble, protesting tumble upstairs into the House of Lords; a coronet on the door panels of his brougham; his identity hidden under the name of a London suburb or an obscure village; while his eldest son who is now an “Honourable,” and has always been a zany, remains down below to fritter away illustrious traditions.

Once Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm had marked out for himself a similar career, but the events of the past few months had changed it all. Public life no longer attracted him. He hated the wearying monotony of the House, and each time he rose from the Treasury bench to speak, he trembled lest there should arise a figure from the Opposition to denounce him in scathing terms. The nervous tension of those days was awful. His friends of his own party, noticing his nervousness, put it down to the strain of office, and more than one idling politician of the dining-room had suggested that he should pair and leave town for a bit of a change.

Would, he thought within himself, that he could leave the town for ever!

He had arranged with the woman into whose hands he had given himself unreservedly, providing that she placed him in a position to overthrow his enemies, that she should write to him at his club, the Carlton; but as the weeks crept on and he received no letter he began to be uneasy at her silence.

In the Morning Post he had noticed two lines in the fashionable intelligence, which ran as follows:

“Sir Henry and Lady Meldrum with Miss Muriel Mortimer have left Green Street for the Continent.” The announcement was vague, but purposely so, he thought. He tried to calm himself by plunging with redoubled energy into the daily political struggle.

Claudia after leaving the castle had gone to Paris with her almost inseparable friend, the Duchess of Penarth, gowns being the object of the visit. Hors de Paris, hors du monde was Claudia’s motto always. They usually went over together, without male encumbrances, twice or three times yearly, stayed at the Athenée, and spent the greater part of their time in the ateliers of Doeuillet and Paquin, or shopping in the Vendôme quarter, that little area of the gay city so dear to the feminine heart.

The visit had lasted a fortnight, and Claudia was back again at Albert Gate. She had sent him a brief note announcing her arrival, but he had not called, for, truth to tell, because of the fresh development springing from Muriel Mortimer’s policy he felt unable to continue his fervent protestations of love. The web of complications was drawing round him more tightly every moment. He tried to struggle against it, but the feeble effort was utterly hopeless.

One evening, however, he accepted, under absolute compulsion, her invitation to dine. In that handsome, well-remembered room, with its snowy cloth, its shining glass, its heavy plate and big silver épergne of hot-house flowers, he sat with her tête-à-tête, listening to the story of her visit to the French capital, her account of the pretty evening gowns which were on their way to her—new and exclusive “models” for which she had been compelled to pay terribly dear—all about her meeting with the old Comtesse de Montigny while driving in the Avenue des Acacias, and the warm invitation, which she had accepted, to the latter’s salon, one of the most exclusive in all Paris. Moreover, she and the Duchess had dined one evening with Madame Durand, one of her old companions at the pension at Enghien, and now wife of the newly appointed Minister of the Interior. Yes, in Paris she had, as usual, a most enjoyable time. And how had he fared?

As Jackson, the solemn-faced and rather pompous butler, who had been in poor Dick Nevill’s service for a good many years, was pouring out his wine, he hesitated to speak confidentially until he had left.

Claudia certainly looked charming. She was dressed in black, and had a large bunch of Neapolitan violets in her low corsage. They were his favourite flowers, and he knew that she wore them in honour of his visit.

“I wrote to you twice from Paris, and received no reply, Dudley,” she said, leaning toward him when the man had gone. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“Forgive me, Claudia,” he answered, placing his hand upon hers and looking into her handsome face. “I have been so very busy of late—and I expected you back in London every day.”

“You have only written to me once since I left Wroxeter,” she said, pouting. “It is really too bad of you.”

“I can only plead heavy work and the grave responsibilities of office,” he answered. “I’ve been literally driven to death. You’ve no doubt seen the papers.”

“Yes, I have seen them,” she answered. “And my candid opinion is, Dudley, that the Government has not come out particularly well in regard to the question of Crete. I’m quite with you as to your declaration in the House last night, that we are not nearly strong enough in the Mediterranean.”

Jackson entered again, and, as their conversation was of necessity prevented from taking on an intimate tone, they kept to a discussion of matters upon which Dudley had been speaking in the House during the past week. She had always been his candid critic, and often pointed out to him his slips and shortcomings, just as she had criticised him in their youthful days and stirred within him the ambition to enter public life.

If she knew of the secret compact that he had made with Muriel Mortimer what would she say? He dreaded to contemplate the exposure of the truth.

“Have you heard anything of the Meldrums?” he inquired, as the thought flashed into his mind that from her very probably he might be able to learn their whereabouts.

“Oh! they’re abroad,” she replied. “They left us very suddenly at the castle, for what reason I’ve not yet been able to make out. Do you know, I’ve a horrible suspicion that Lady Meldrum was offended, or something, but what it was I really have no idea. She was scarcely civil when we parted.”

“That’s very strange,” he said, pricking up his ears and looking at her in astonishment. “Who was the culprit? One of the guests, I suppose.”

“I suppose so,” his hostess answered. “But at any rate, whatever the cause, she was gravely offended. The excuse to leave was a palpably false one, for there chanced to be no letters for her that morning.”

“Where are they now?”

“They first went up to Dumfries, and then came to town and left for Brussels. I heard from Muriel a week ago from Florence.”

“From Muriel!” he exclaimed. “Then she is with them?”

“Yes. Her letter says that they were contemplating taking a villa there for the winter, but were hesitating on account of Lady Meldrum’s health. It appears that her London doctor did not recommend Florence on account of the cold winds along the Arno.”

In Florence! It was strange, he thought, that if she could write civilly to the woman who was her rival, whom she had scarcely saluted at parting, she did not send a single line to him. Then the strange thought flitted through his mind that Archibald Cator was attach in Rome. Could her visit to Italy have any connection with the task which she had taken upon herself to fulfil?

In the blue drawing-room later, after they had taken their coffee and were alone, she rose slowly and stood with him before the tiled hearth. She saw by his heavy brow that he was preoccupied, and without a word she took his hand and raised it with infinite tenderness to her lips.

He turned his eyes upon her, uttering no word, for he hated himself for his duplicity. Why had he been persuaded to visit her? How could he endure to feign an affection and fill her heart with unrealisable hopes? It was disloyal of him, and cruel to her.

She, a woman of infinite tact and finesse, had suffered bitterly from the harsh words he had spoken weeks ago, yet she had never upbraided him. She had suffered in patience and in silence, as the true woman does when the man she loves causes her unhappiness. Jealousy may engender fury; but the woman whose soul is pure and whose heart is honest in her love is always patient and long-suffering, always willing to believe that her ideal is represented by the man she loves. And it was so with Claudia. Gossips had tried to injure her good name by alleging things that were untrue, yet she had never once complained. “Tiens!” she would exclaim. That was all. It was true that she had allowed herself to flirt with the young Russian because, being a woman, she could not resist that little piece of harmless coquetry. Nevertheless she had never for a single instant forgotten the sacred love of her youth.

She was essentially a smart woman, whose doings were chronicled almost daily in the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers; and every woman of her stamp may always be sure of being persecuted by malignant gossips. Were she a saint she could not escape them. The eternal feminine is prolific of aspersions where a pretty member of its own sex is under examination, and especially if she be left lonely and unprotected while she is still quite young. It was so with Claudia Nevill. She allowed people to talk, and was even amused at the wild and often scandalous tales whispered about her, for she knew that the man she loved would give no credence to them.

Dudley had loved her long ago in her schoolgirl days, and she knew that he loved her now. For her, that was all-sufficient.

But his preoccupied manner that night caused her considerable apprehension. He was not his old self. Once, while at dinner, she had caught a strange, haunted look in his eyes.

“Tell me, Dudley,” she urged, holding his hand and looking earnestly up to him. “Be frank with me, and tell me what ails you.”

“Nothing,” he laughed uneasily, carrying her soft hand to his lips. “But whatever made you ask such a question?”

“Because you seem upset,” she answered, smoothing his hair tenderly from his brow. “If there is any matter that is worrying you, why not confide in me, as you have done so often before, and let me help you.”

“No, really,” he protested with a forced laugh.

“Nothing worries me—only matters down at the House.”

She looked at him in silence. In those dark, brilliant eyes of hers was a love-look that was unmistakable. She was a woman believed by men to be utterly frivolous and heartless, yet she loved Dudley Chisholm with all the fierce passion possible to her ardent soul. His face told her that he had been suffering in her absence, and she strove to discover the reason.

“Why, Dudley,” she exclaimed at last, “now that I reflect, you have not been quite the same since the midnight visit paid you at the castle by the mysterious man who was so very careful that his presence should not be made known! You have never told me who he was, or what was his business.”

He started so quickly that she could not fail to notice it. This set her wondering.

“Oh!” he replied with affected carelessness next moment, “the tall shabby man who called on the night of the dance you mean? He was a confidential messenger, that was all.”

“I suppose I was mistaken, but his face and voice both seemed quite familiar to me,” she remarked. “I meant to tell you before, but it entirely slipped my memory. The likeness to some one I have met was very striking, but I cannot recollect where I’ve met him before. Is he an official messenger?”

“Yes,” answered her lover vaguely, although alarmed that she should so nearly have recognised Cator; “he’s attached to the Foreign Office. I urged him to stay the night, but he was compelled to return at once to town.”

“And he brought you some bad news? Admit the truth, dear.”

“He certainly brought some official intelligence that was not altogether reassuring,” her lover said.

“Are you quite certain that it was official, and did not concern yourself?” she asked in a low voice which sounded to him full of suspicion.

“Certain? Why, of course,” he laughed. “Whatever strange ideas are you entertaining, Claudia?”

“Well,” she answered, “to tell the truth, Dudley, I have a notion that he came to see you on some private business, because ever since that night you have been a changed man.”

“I really had no idea that. I had changed,” he said. “You surely don’t mean that I have changed towards you?”

“Yes,” she answered gravely, her small hand trembling slightly in his nervous grasp,—“yes, I think you have changed—even towards me.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Contrasts Two Loves.

When a woman of Claudia Nevill’s passionate temperament loves, it is with her whole soul. The women with dark flashing eyes, red lips, arched brows, and oval countenances can never do things by halves. They either love fiercely, or else are as cold as ice; they hate with all the vindictiveness of hell, or are patient, forbearing and forgiving to the end. Dudley Chisholm knew this well enough, and was aware how deep and devoted was the love of the true-hearted woman from whom he had tried to part, but without whom there seemed a void in his life.

Because gossips had maligned them he had striven, for her sake as well as his own, to put an end to their affection. His words had pained him and had stabbed her cruelly, but they had turned out; to be inconclusive. Their lives were bound together, as she had so frequently declared.

Now that she had approached the subject, he longed to tell her of the secret in his heart. But how could he when he had made that strange, unholy compact with that woman, her rival, who now held his future in her hands?

With an effort he put such thoughts aside, and with feigned carelessness strove to assure her that he was in no wise changed. When, however, a woman really loves, it is difficult to deceive her. She reads man’s innermost thoughts as clearly as though they were written upon an open page. The wavering of the eyes, the twitching of the lips, the slight movement of the muscles of the face, and the well nigh imperceptible swelling at the temples, although entirely unobserved by the woman who is not in love, are plain and open declarations of the truth to her who loves the face exhibiting these subtle signals. Truly the feminine intuition is marvellous and inexplicable.

Dudley knew that to lie to her was impossible. Little by little he managed to convince her that his mysterious visitor had come from the Foreign Office. At length he succeeded in turning their conversation into a different channel.

At his request she crossed to the grand piano at the end of the magnificent room in which there were so many signs of her exquisite taste, seated herself at the instrument, and played Mendelssohn’s “Rondo capriccioso” and Chopin’s “Valse Op. 70.”

Though he made an attempt to turn over the leaves of the music, he found it difficult to keep himself from becoming absorbed in reverie. What, he wondered, could she suspect? Surely the woman into whose hands he had given himself had told her nothing. No. Had she not promised in the most emphatic manner that no word of his terrible secret should pass her lips? As she had already exhibited marvellous cleverness and diplomatic finesse, he felt confident of her discretion and silence.

He looked down at the dark-haired woman seated at the piano and thought how her loveliness would have delighted Greuze. As her slim fingers, laden with sparkling gems, ran swiftly and dexterously over the keys, her lawny bosom rose and fell, the diamonds at her throat glittered with iridescent fire, and the sweet odour of the violets added one more to the many charms thus spread for him. She had taken three or four of the flowers from her breast, and with a single leaf had made up a tiny bouquet, afterwards placing it in the lappel of his coat, as was her tender habit when they were alone. And he was actually deceiving this affectionate woman, who had been his friend, confidante, and adviser ever since their days of childhood!

He stood behind her, clenching his teeth, hating himself for his duplicity.

Did he really love her, he asked himself for the thousandth time? Yes, he did. She was all in all to him. Their love had always been idyllic. In his eyes no woman was half as fair to look upon; none so full of innate grace and chic; none so sweet in temperament or so full of charms. Fate had parted them, it was true, and she had married Dick Nevill, his best friend. Yet he had never ceased to love her—though to her dead lord she had been a model wife during their too brief period of wedded happiness.

When Dick died he had, at Claudia’s own request, gone back to her to become her platonic friend, to cheer her in her loneliness, and to advise her in the hundred and one matters which concerned her future. And again she had grown to love him; again she had worshipped him as her ideal.

She had finished the valse, and, turning slowly, raised her perfect face, slightly tragic in its dark beauty, with a mute invitation for his caress. He placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and bent until his lips touched hers. And as he did so, he saw in her bright eyes that calm expression of tranquil content which comes to such a woman in the thrill engendered by her lover’s kiss.

She rose from the music-stool. Once more he held her in his arms, as he had so often done of old, while she, in that soft voice he knew so well, tried to teach him the height and breadth and depth of her love.

“I know what people say, Dudley!” she exclaimed, hoarsely. “Tant mieux! I know that odious reports have reached you regarding me, but surely you will trust me? Cannot you see for yourself, dear, that I am yours—entirely yours?”

“Words are unnecessary, Claudia,” he answered, kissing her. “That you love me I have never doubted; I give no credence to anything I hear. I trust in you implicitly.”

“Then if that is so, dear, why not be perfectly frank and tell me the reason of your sadness?” she urged.

“I am not sad, Claudia,” he protested with a feigned air of gaiety. “How can I be sorrowful when I know that I possess your love?”

“It is not sufficient that you have my affection,” she answered. “I wish to continue to be your confidante and friend. Recollect that a woman’s wit is often of value to a man engaged in public life as you are.”

“I know my debt to you is more than I can ever repay,” he declared frankly. “To your good counsels and personal interest all my success is due. I owe all to you—everything.”

“And in return you have given me your love, the sum of my desire,” she said contentedly, slowly raising her lips and kissing him. “You are mine, Dudley, and you will ever remain so—won’t you?” He held his breath for an instant. Then, as he twined his arm round her slender waist, he said:

“Of course, darling, I shall ever remain yours, always—always.”

He lied to her. Faugh! he hated himself. For the first time he had uttered a deliberate falsehood concerning their love; and he felt positive she knew that he had not spoken the truth. So close had been their association for many years, unbroken save for the few months of her married life, that they read each other’s unuttered thought and knew each other’s innermost secrets.

Long ago she had laid bare her whole heart to him, concealing nothing, and not seeking to excuse herself for any of those flirtations which from time to time had been the talk of the town. He knew everything, and had in return repeated his declaration of love for her. Indeed, after that long friendship the life of each was void without the other. When parted from her by reason of her country visits, there somehow seemed a blank in his existence, and he found himself thinking of her night and day. Until her last absence in Paris it had been their custom to write to each other every second day.

How; would she act if she knew the truth? What would she think of him if she were aware that he had promised himself to another woman, and one who had come into his life so suddenly, if she continued to shield him from the exposure of his guilty secret? Her dark eyes, those splendid eyes everywhere so greatly admired, were turned upon him. There was an air of sweet sadness in their expression. His eyes fell: he could not meet her gaze.

“Do you know, Dudley,” she exclaimed at last in the soft, sweet voice he was never tired of hearing, the voice that had so often consoled him and encouraged him to strive after high ideals,—“do you know, dear, I have lately thought that your people are endeavouring to part us. You recollect your sudden refusal to see me last autumn? Your cruel action put fear into my heart. I am dreading always that I may lose you—that you will listen to the well-meant counsels of your relations and cast my love aside.”

He saw by her countenance how terribly in earnest she was, and hastened to reassure her.

“No, darling. All that is a foolish fancy. You may rest quite assured that as I have not already listened to the advice of people who are in ignorance of the platonic nature of our friendship, I shall never do so. We have been lovers ever since our teens, and we shall, I hope, always so remain.”

She sprang upon him, clasping her soft arms around his neck, and, kissing him with a fierce and fervent passion, exclaimed:

“Thank you, Dudley! Thank you for those words! You know how fondly I love you—you know that I could not live without frequent sight of you, without your good counsels and guidance—for I am but a woman, after all.”

“The best and bravest little woman in all the world,” he declared in words that came direct from his heart. Then, pressing her closer to him, he went on: “You surely know how deep and complete is my affection, Claudia. The test of it is shown by the fact that were it not for my love for you I should have forsaken you months ago in order to save my reputation—and yours.”

“It was a foul calumny!” she cried quickly. “The lie was probably started by some woman who envied me. But a scandal is like a snowball—it increases as it is rolled along. We invited gossip, and lent colour to the report by being seen so much together. I know it too well, and I have regretted it bitterly for your sake. With a public man like yourself a scandal is very apt to put an end for ever to all chances of high position. Knowing that, I, too, tried hard to cut myself adrift from you. Ah! you cannot know, Dudley, what I suffered when I attempted self-sacrifice for your own dear sake. You can never know!” she went on, panting and trembling. “But you misjudged me—you believed me fickle. It was what I intended, for I wanted you to cast me aside and save yourself.”

“Well?”

“They spoke of my flirtations en plein jour at Fernhurst,” she continued, looking up into his face with an expression full of passionate love. “The report, with exaggerations, reached you as I had hoped it would, but although it caused you pain it made no difference to your affection. Therefore, I failed, and we were compelled to accept the inevitable.”

“Yes, Claudia. What I heard from Fernhurst did pain me terribly,” he answered very gravely. “Yet I could not believe without absolute proof that you, whom I knew to be an honest, upright woman, would deliberately create a scandal, knowing well that it would be reflected upon me. I knew that you loved me; I knew that our lives were firmly linked the one to the other, and that our mutual confidence and affection were based upon a sure foundation. That is why I refused to give credence to the scandalous gossip.”

Her small hands trembled with emotion, and as she pressed her lips to his, mutely thanking him for his forbearance and refusal to believe ill of her, she burst into tears.

“I know, dearest, how terribly you have suffered,” he said in a low voice as he tried to console her. “I know well that your position as a smart woman supplies your enemies with opportunities for wounding your reputation. In the clubs men will, with an idle word, take away a woman’s good name, and often think it a huge joke when they hear the despicable calumny repeated. Indeed, it seems an unwritten law nowadays, that the woman who is not talked about and who does not hover between sacraments and scandals, is not to be considered smart. If she gives dinners and supper-parties at the Carlton or Prince’s, her name is usually coupled with one of her favourite guests. No woman is really in the running without gossip having ungenerously given her a lover.”

“Yes,” she answered, “that is only too true? Dudley. I know quite well that the happiness of many a smart woman, as well as her domestic comfort has been utterly wrecked by the eternal chatter which follows public entertaining. A short time ago we gave dinners in our own houses, as our mothers used to do; but that is all of the past. The glitter of the big restaurants has attracted us. To be chic one must engage a table at Prince’s or the Carlton, smother it with flowers, and dine with one’s guests in the full glare of publicity in a hot and crowded room, where the chatter is so incessant that one can scarcely hear one’s own voice. The Italian waiters rush through the courses as if they wish to get rid of you at the earliest possible moment; there is clatter, noise, an inordinate perfume of cooked food, and a hasty gobbling up of gastronomic masterpieces. I am compelled to give my dinners amid such surroundings, but how I hate it all! For me it is only an ordeal—just as are your political dinners with your friendly working-men.”

He smiled as he recollected what he had so often suffered from the “tuppenny smokes” of his constituents.

“The restaurant dinner of Aristocrats and Anonymas is a terrible feast,” he said. “I suppose the new fashion of entertaining was started by the nouveaux riches because after the public feast there appeared in what are called the fashionable columns of the papers paragraphs, supplied by the restaurants, informing London’s millions that Mrs So-and-So had been entertaining a big party, among the guests at which were Lady Nobody, who was exquisitely dressed in black velvet and old lace, and Lord Somebody, who was looking younger than ever. You know the style.”

She laughed outright at his candid criticism, which was so thoroughly well deserved. Half the dinners, she declared, were given by adventurers from the City to needy men with titles, which were wanted to lend lustre to prospectuses. And the whole affair had been so cleverly engineered by the manager of the restaurants, who nightly gave paragraphs to the journalists, thus glorifying the givers of feasts and flattering the guests, that a mode had actually been created, and even the most exclusive set had been compelled to follow it, royalty itself being often among the diners.

At his request she re-seated herself at the piano, and to disperse the melancholy that had settled upon him she sang with infinite zest the latest song of the Paris café-concerts which had been made famous by the popular chanteur, Paulus, at the Ambassadeurs’. The chorus ran as follows:

“Ah! Monsieur Chamberlain, ça n’etait pas malin, Les femmes de l’Angleterre ell’s manqu’nt de militaires D’leur absenc’ tout l’mond’ se plaint. Car ils sont rigolos, avec leurs p’tits polos. A London je le confess’ on admir’ leur gentiless Quand ils march’nt entortillant, en entortillant leur... yes.”

The grave-faced Jackson entered and with pompous ceremony served him with a whiskey and soda, as was usual; then, after she had sung to him another chanson, he rose to go. As it was already late, and as he was obliged to return to the House, he was compelled to take leave of her.

“You really love me, Dudley?” she asked in a low, intense voice, as they stood locked in each other’s arms just before he left. “Tell me that you do. Somehow I am so apprehensive, foolishly so, perhaps; but your words always reassure me. I feel happier and a better woman after hearing them.”

“Love you, Claudia?” he cried, his hand stroking her beautiful hair; “how can you ever doubt me? I swear by all I hold most sacred that no tender thought of any woman save yourself ever enters my heart. I am wholly and entirely yours.” And he kissed her with all the fervent passion of an ardent lover.

“And you will never desert me—never? Promise!” she said, in tones breathing anxiety and earnestness.

“I promise,” he answered. His voice had lost a little of its resonance, but she did not notice the slight change. He made a promise which he himself knew to be incapable of fulfilment. Hers no longer, he was now helpless in the inexorable toils of that mysterious woman who alone held his secret.

She kissed him again in fond farewell. Outside in the great hall, which was famous for its fine marble columns and statuary, the man helped him on with his coat, while Claudia stood above upon the terrace of the upper hall, laughing gaily and wishing him “good-bye” as was her wont. Then he went forth in a dazed condition, walking along Knightsbridge in search of a passing hansom to take him down to the House.

As the door closed behind him when he emerged from the great portico into the foggy night, the short, dark figure of a rather thin man in a soft deer-stalker hat and dark overcoat slunk quickly out of the shadow of a doorway almost opposite, crossed the road, and hurried after him with laboured breath.

Of a sudden as Dudley, having gone a hundred yards or so, turned to glance behind him for an approaching cab, he came face to face with the fellow who, if the truth were told, had for nearly two hours been patiently awaiting his appearance.

“Pardon, signore!” exclaimed the black-haired, sharp-featured man, speaking with a decided Italian accent. He was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt termination of his rather clumsy efforts at espionage. “I beg the signore a thousand pardons, but may I be permitted to have a parolina (little word) with him?”

Chapter Twenty Five.

In which the Stranger states his Mission.

“Well, what do you want?” Chisholm inquired sharply, glancing keenly at the foreigner, and not approving of his appearance.

“I want a word with the signore,” the man who had accosted him answered, with an air almost of authority.

“I don’t know you,” replied the Under-Secretary, “and have no desire to hold intercourse with perfect strangers.”

“It is true that I am unknown to the signore,” said the man in very fair English, “but I am here, in London, on purpose to speak with you. I ascertained that you were visiting at yonder palazzo; therefore, I waited.”

“And why do you wish to speak with me? Surely you might have found a more fitting opportunity than this—you could have waited until to-morrow.”

“No. The signore is watched,” said the man as he began to walk at Dudley’s side among the throngs of people, for in Knightsbridge there is always considerable movement after the theatres have closed and the tide of pleasure-seekers is flowing westward. “I have waited for this opportunity to ask the signore to make an appointment with me.”

“Can’t you tell me your business now?” inquired Chisholm suspiciously, not half liking the fellow’s look. He spoke English fairly well, but his rather narrow face was not a reassuring one. An Englishman is always apt, however, to judge the Italian physiognomy unjustly, for those who look the fiercest and the most like brigands are, in the experience of those who live in Italy, generally the most harmless persons.

“To speak here is impossible,” he declared, glancing about him. “I must not be seen with you. Even at this moment it is dangerous. Give me a rendezvous quickly, signore, and let me leave you. We may be seen. If so, my mission is futile.”

“You have a mission, then. Of what character?”

“I will tell you everything, signore, when we meet. Where can I see you?”

“At my house in St. James’s Street—in an hour’s time.”

“Not so. That is far too dangerous. Let us meet in some unfrequented café where we can talk without being overheard. I dare not, for certain reasons, be seen near the signore’s abode.”

The man’s mysterious manner was anything but convincing, but Dudley, perceiving that he was determined to have speech with him, told him at last to follow him. The stranger instantly dropped behind among the crowd without another word, while the master of Wroxeter continued on his way past Hyde Park Corner and along Piccadilly, where gaiety and recklessness were as plentiful as ever, until making a quick turn, he entered a narrow court to the left, which led to Vine Street, the home of the notorious police-station of the West End. Half-way up the court was a wine-bar, a kind of Bodega, patronised mostly by shopmen from the various establishments in Regent Street. This he entered, looked round to see which of the upturned barrels that served as tables was vacant, and then seated himself in a corner some distance away from the men and women who were drinking port, munching biscuits, and laughing more and more merrily as closing time drew near. Then, about ten minutes later, the stranger slunk in, cast a quick suspicious glance in the direction of the merrymakers, walked across the sanded floor and joined him.

“I hope we have not been seen,” were his opening words as he seated himself upon the stool opposite Chisholm.

“I hope not, if the danger you describe really exists,” Dudley replied. After he had ordered a glass of wine for his companion he scrutinised for a few seconds the narrow and rather sinister face in front of him. With the full light upon him, the stranger looked weary and worn. Chisholm judged him to be about fifty, a rather refined man with a grey, wiry moustache, well-bred manners, and a strange expression of superiority that struck Dudley as peculiar.

“You are Tuscan,” he said, looking at the man with a smile.

The other returned his glance in undisguised wonderment.

“How did the signore know when I have only spoken in my faulty English?” he asked in amazement.

Chisholm laughed, affecting an air of mysterious penetration, with a view to impressing his visitor. The man’s rather faded clothes were of foreign cut, and his wide felt hat was un-English, but he did not explain to him that the unmistakable stamp of the Tuscan was upon him in the tiny object suspended from his watch-chain, a small piece of twisted and pointed coral set in gold, which every Tuscan in every walk of life carries with him, either openly, or concealed upon his person, to counteract the influence of the Evil Eye.

“It is true that I am Tuscan,” the man said. “But I must confess that the signore surprises me by his quickness of perception.”

“I have travelled, and know Italy well,” was all the explanation Dudley vouchsafed.

“And I arrived from Italy this evening,” said the stranger. “I have been sent to London expressly to see the signore.”