Chapter 11
“My name really doesn’t matter at present. Later, Miss Ranscomb, you will no doubt know it. I am only acting in the interests of Henfrey.”
Again she looked at him. His face was smiling, and yet was sphinx-like in the moonlight. His voice was certainly that of the white cavalier which she recollected so well, but his personality, so strongly marked, was a little overbearing.
“I know you mistrust me,” he went on. “If I were in your place I certainly should do so. A thousand pities it is that I cannot tell you who I am. But--well--I tell you in confidence that I dare not!”
“Dare not! Of what are you afraid?” inquired Dorise. The man she had met under such romantic circumstances interested her keenly. He was Hugh’s go-between. Poor Hugh! She knew he was suffering severely in his loneliness, and his incapability to clear himself of the terrible stigma upon him.
“I’m afraid of several things,” replied the white cavalier. “The greatest fear I have is that you may not believe in me.”
“I do believe in you,” declared the girl.
“Excellent!” he replied enthusiastically. “Then let us get to business--pardon me for putting it so. But I am, after all, a business man. I am interested in a lot of different businesses, you see.”
“Of what character?”
“No, Miss Ranscomb. That is another point upon which I regret that I cannot satisfy your pardonable curiosity. Please allow your mind to rest upon the one main point--that I am acting in the interests of the man with--the man who is, I believe, your greatest and most intimate friend.”
“I understood that when we met in Nice.”
“Good! Now I understand that your mother, Lady Ranscomb, is much against your marriage with Hugh Henfrey. She has other views.”
“Really! Who told you that?”
“I have ascertained it in the course of my inquiry.”
Dorise paused, and then looking the man of mystery straight in the face, asked:
“What do you really know about me?”
“Well,” he laughed lightly. “A good deal. Now tell me when could you be free to get away from your mother for a whole day?”
“Why?”
“I want to know. Just tell me the date. When are you returning to London?”
“On Saturday week. I could get away--say--on Tuesday week.”
“Very good. You would have to leave London by an early train in the morning--if I fail to send a car for you, which I hope to do. And be back again late at night.”
“Why?”
“Why,” he echoed. “Because I have a reason.”
“I believe you will take me to meet Hugh--eh? Ah! How good you are!” cried the girl in deep emotion. “I shall never be able to thank you sufficiently for all you are doing. I--I have been longing all these weeks to see him again--to hear his explanation why he went to the woman’s house at that hour--why----”
“He will tell you everything, no doubt,” said her mysterious visitor. “He will tell you everything except one fact.”
“And what is that?” she asked breathlessly.
“One fact he will not tell you. But you will know it later. Hugh Henfrey is a fine manly fellow, Miss Ranscomb. That is why I have done my level best in his interest.”
“But why should you?” she asked. “You are, after all, a stranger.”
“True. But you will know the truth some day. Meanwhile, leave matters as they are. Do not prejudge him, even if the police are convinced of his guilt. Could you be at King’s Cross station at ten o’clock on the morning of Tuesday week? If so, I will meet you there.”
“Yes,” she replied. “But where are we going?”
“At present I have no idea. When one is escaping from the police one’s movements have to be ruled by circumstances from hour to hour. I will do my best on that day to arrange a meeting between you,” he added.
She thanked him very sincerely. He was still a mystery, but his face and his whole bearing attracted her. He was her friend. She recollected his words amid that gay revelry at Nice--words of encouragement and sympathy. And he had travelled there, far north into Perthshire, in order to carry the letter which she had thrust into her pocket, yet still holding it in her clenched hand.
“I do wish you would tell me the motive of your extreme kindness towards us both,” Dorise urged. “I can’t make it out at all. I am bewildered.”
“Well--so am I, Miss Ranscomb,” replied the tall, elegant man who spoke with such refinement, and was so shrewd and alert. “There are certain facts--facts of which I have no knowledge. The affair at the Villa Amette is still, to me, a most profound mystery.”
“Why did Hugh go there at all? That is what I fail to understand,” she declared.
“Don’t wonder any longer. He had, I know, an urgent and distinct motive to call that night.”
“But the woman! I hear she is a notorious adventuress.”
“And the adventuress, Miss Ranscomb, often has, deep in her soul, the heart of a pure woman,” he said. “One must never judge by appearance or gossip. What people may think is the curse of many of our lives. I hope you do not misjudge Mr. Henfrey.”
“I do not. But I am anxious to hear his explanation.”
“You shall--and before long, too,” he replied. “But I want you, if you will, to answer a question. I do not put it from mere idle curiosity, but it very closely concerns you both. Have you ever heard him speak of a girl named Louise Lambert?”
“Louise Lambert? Why, yes! He introduced her to me once. She is, I understand, the adopted daughter of a man named Benton, an intimate friend of old Mr. Henfrey.”
“Has he ever told you anything concerning her?”
“Nothing much. Why?”
“He has never told you the conditions of his father’s will?”
“Never--except that he has been left very poorly off, though his father died in affluent circumstances. What are the conditions?”
The mysterious stranger paused for a moment.
“Have you, of late, formed an acquaintance of a certain Mrs. Bond, a widow?”
“I met her recently in South Kensington, at the house of a friend of my mother, Mrs. Binyon. Why?”
“How many times have you met her?”
“Two--or I think three. She came to tea with us the day before we came up here.”
“H’m! Your mother seems rather prone to make easy acquaintanceships--eh? The Hardcastles were distinctly undesirable, were they not?--and the Jameses also?”
“Why, what do you know about them?” asked the girl, much surprised, as they were two families who had been discovered to be not what they represented.
“Well,” he laughed. “I happen to be aware of your mother’s charm--that’s all.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about us,” she remarked. “How is it?”
“Because I have made it my business to know, Miss Ranscomb,” he replied. “Further, I would urge upon you to have nothing to do with Mrs. Bond.”
“Why not? We found her most pleasant. She is the widow of a wealthy man who died abroad about two years ago, and she lives somewhere down in Surrey.”
“I know all about that,” he answered in a curious tone. “But I repeat my warning that Mrs. Bond is by no means a desirable acquaintance. I tell you so for your own benefit.”
Inwardly he was angry that the woman should have so cleverly made the acquaintance of the girl. It showed him plainly that Benton and she were working on a set and desperate plan, while the girl before him was entirely ignorant of the plot.
“Now, Miss Ranscomb,” he added, “I want you to please make me a promise--namely, that you will say nothing to a single soul of what I have said this evening--not even to your friend, Mr. Henfrey. I have very strong reasons for this. Remember, I am acting in the interests of you both, and secrecy is the essence of success.”
“I understand. But you really mystify me. I know you are my friend,” she said, “but why are you doing all this for our benefit?”
“In order that Hugh Henfrey may return to your side, and that hand in hand you may be able to defeat your enemies.”
“My enemies! Who are they?” asked the girl.
“One day, very soon, they must reveal themselves. When they do, and you find yourself in difficulties, you have only to call upon me, and I will further assist you. Advertise in the _Times_ newspaper at any time for an appointment with ‘Silverado.’ Give me seven days, and I will keep it.”
“But do tell me your name!” she urged, as they moved together from the pathway along the road in the direction of Perth. “I beg of you to do so.”
“I have already begged a favour of you, Miss Ranscomb,” he answered in a soft, refined voice. “I ask you not to press your question. Suffice it that I am your sincere friend.”
“But when shall I see Hugh?” she cried, again halting. “I cannot bear this terrible suspense any longer--indeed I can’t! Can I go to him soon?”
“No!” cried a voice from the shadow of a bush close beside them as a dark alert figure sprang forth into the light. “It is needless. I am here, dearest!--_at last_!”
And next second she found herself clasped in her lover’s strong embrace, while the stranger, utterly taken aback, stood looking on, absolutely mystified.
FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
THE NAMELESS MAN
“Who is this gentleman, Dorise?” asked Hugh, when a moment later the girl and her companion had recovered from their surprise.
“I cannot introduce you,” was her reply. “He refuses to give his name.”
The tall man laughed, and said:
“I have already told you that my name is X.”
Hugh regarded the stranger with distinct suspicion. It was curious that he should discover them together, yet he made but little comment.
“We were just speaking about you, Mr. Henfrey,” the tall man went on. “I believed that you were still in Belgium.”
“How did you know I was there?”
“Oh!--well, information concerning your hiding-place reached me,” was his enigmatical reply. “I am, however, glad you have been able to return to England in safety. I was about to arrange a meeting between you. But I advise you to be most careful.”
“You seem to know a good deal concerning me,” Hugh remarked resentfully, looking at the stern, rather handsome face in the moonlight.
“This is the gentleman who sought me out in Nice, and first told me of your peril, Hugh. I recognize his voice, and have to thank him for a good deal,” the girl declared.
“Really, Miss Ranscomb, I require no thanks,” the polite stranger assured her. “If I have been able to render Mr. Henfrey a little service it has been a pleasure to me. And now that you are together again I will leave you.”
“But who are you?” demanded Hugh, filled with curiosity.
“That matters not, now that you are back in England. Only I beseech of you to be very careful,” said the tall man. Then he added: “There are pitfalls into which you may very easily fall--traps set by your enemies.”
“Well, sir, I thank you sincerely for what you have done for Miss Ranscomb during my absence,” said the young man, much mystified at finding Dorise strolling at that hour with a man of whose name even she was ignorant. “I know I have enemies, and I shall certainly heed your warning.”
“Your enemies must not know you are in England. If they do, they will most certainly inform the police.”
“I shall take care of that,” was Hugh’s reply. “I shall be compelled to go into hiding again--but where, I do not know.”
“Yes, you must certainly continue to lie low for a time,” the man urged. “I know how very dull it must have been for you through all those weeks. But even that is better than the scandal of arrest and trial.”
“Ah! I know of what you are accused, Hugh!” cried the girl. “And I also know you are innocent!”
“Mr. Henfrey is innocent,” said the tall stranger. “But there must be no publicity, hence his only chance of safety lies in strict concealment.”
“It is difficult to conceal oneself in England,” replied Hugh.
The stranger laughed, as he slowly answered:
“There are certain places where no questions are asked--if you know where to look for them. But first, I am very interested to know how you got over here.”
“I went to Ostend, and for twenty pounds induced a Belgian fisherman to put me ashore at night near Caister, in Norfolk. I went to London at once, only to discover that Miss Ranscomb was at Blairglas--and here I am. But I assure you it was an adventurous crossing, for the weather was terrible--a gale blew nearly the whole time.”
“You are here, it is true, Mr. Henfrey. But you mustn’t remain here,” the stranger declared. “Though I refuse to give you my name, I will nevertheless try to render you further assistance. Go back to London by the next train you can get, and then call upon Mrs. Mason, who lives at a house called ‘Heathcote,’ in Abingdon Road, Kensington. She is a friend of mine, and I will advise her by telegram that she will have a visitor. Take apartments at her house, and remain there in strict seclusion. Will you remember the address--shall I write it down?”
“Thanks very much indeed,” Hugh replied. “I shall remember it. Mrs. Mason, ‘Heathcote,’ Abingdon Road, Kensington.”
“That’s it. Get there as soon as ever you can,” urged the stranger. “Recollect that your enemies are still in active search of you.”
Hugh looked his mysterious friend full in the face.
“Look here!” he said, in a firm, hard voice. “Are you known as Il Passero?”
“Pardon me,” answered the stranger. “I refuse to satisfy your curiosity as to who I may be. I am your friend--that is all that concerns you.”
“But the famous Passero--The Sparrow--is my unknown friend,” he said, “and I have a suspicion that you and he are identical!”
“I have a motive in not disclosing my identity,” was the man’s reply in a curious tone. “Get to Mrs. Mason’s as quickly as you can. Perhaps one day soon we may meet again. Till then, I wish both of you the best of luck. _Au revoir_!”
And, raising his hat, he turned abruptly, and, leaving them, set off up the high road which led to Perth.
“But, listen, sir--one moment!” cried Hugh, as he turned away.
Nevertheless the stranger heeded not, and a few seconds later his figure was lost in the shadow of the high hedgerow.
“Well,” said Hugh, a few moments later, “all this is most amazing. I feel certain that he is either the mysterious Sparrow himself, or one of his chief accomplices.”
“The Sparrow? Who is he--dear?” asked Dorise, her hand upon her lover’s shoulder.
“Let’s sit down somewhere, and I will tell you,” he said. Then, re-entering the park by the small iron gate, Dorise led him to a fallen tree where, as they sat together, he related all he had been told concerning the notorious head of a criminal gang known to his confederates, and the underworld of Europe generally, as Il Passero, or The Sparrow.
“How very remarkable!” exclaimed Dorise, when he had finished, and she, in turn, had told him of the encounter at the White Ball at Nice, and the coming and going of the messenger from Malines. “I wonder if he really is the notorious Sparrow?”
“I feel convinced he is,” declared Hugh. “He sent me a message in secret to Malines a fortnight ago forbidding me to attempt to leave Belgium, because he considered the danger too great. He was, no doubt, much surprised to-night when he found me here.”
“He certainly was quite as surprised as myself,” the girl replied, happy beyond expression that her lover was once again at her side.
In his strong arms he held her in a long, tight embrace, kissing her upon the lips in a frenzy of satisfaction--long, sweet kisses which she reciprocated with a whole-heartedness that told him of her devotion. There, in the shadow, he whispered to her his love, repeating what he had told her in London, and again in Monte Carlo.
Suddenly he put a question to her:
“Do you really believe I am innocent of the charge against me, darling?”
“I do, Hugh,” she answered frankly.
“Ah! Thank you for those words,” he said, in a broken voice. “I feared that you might think because of my flight that I was guilty.”
“I know you are not. Mother, of course, says all sorts of nasty things--that you must have done something very wrong--and all that.”
“My escape certainly gives colour to the belief that I am in fear of arrest. And so I am. Yet I swear that I never attempted to harm the lady at the Villa Amette.”
“But why did you go there at all, dear?” the girl asked. “You surely knew the unenviable reputation borne by that woman!”
“I know it quite well,” he said. “I expected to meet an adventuress--but, on the contrary, I met a real good woman!”
“I don’t understand you, Hugh,” she said.
“No, darling. You, of course, cannot understand!” he exclaimed. “I admit that I followed her home, and I demanded an interview.”
“Why?”
“Because I was determined she should divulge to me a secret of her own.”
“What secret?”
“One that concerns my whole future.”
“Cannot you tell me what it is?” she asked, looking into his face, which in the moonlight she saw was much changed, for it was unusually pale and haggard.
“I--well--at the present moment I am myself mystified, darling. Hence I cannot explain the truth,” he replied. “Will you trust me if I promise to tell you the whole facts as soon as I have learnt them? One day I hope I shall know all, yet----”
“Yes--yet--what?”
He drew a deep breath.
“The poor unfortunate lady has lost her reason as the result of the attempt upon her life. Therefore, after all, I may never be in a position to know the truth which died upon her lips.”
For nearly two hours the pair remained together. Often she was locked in her lover’s arms, heedless of everything save her unbounded joy at his return, and of the fierce, passionate caresses he bestowed upon her. Truly, that was a night of supreme delight as they held each other’s hands, and their lips met time after time in ecstasy.
He inquired about George Sherrard, but she said little. She hesitated to tell him of the incident while fishing that morning, but merely said:
“Oh! He was up here for two or three days, but had to go back to London on business. And I was very glad.”
“Of course, dearest, your mother still presses you to marry him.”
“Yes,” laughed the girl. “But she will continue to press. She’s constantly singing his praises until I’m utterly sick of hearing of all his good qualities.”
Hugh sighed, and replied:
“All men who are rich are possessed of good qualities in the estimation of the world. The poor and hard-up are the despised. But, after all, Dorise,” he added, in a changed voice, “you have not forgotten what you told me at Monte Carlo--that you love me?”
“I repeat it, Hugh!” declared the girl, deeply in earnest, her hand stealing into his. “I love only you!--_you_!”
Then again he took her in his arms, and imprinted a fierce, passionate kiss upon her ready lips.
“I suppose we must part again,” he sighed. “I am compelled to keep away from you because no doubt a watch has been set upon you, and upon your correspondence. Up to the present, I have been able, by the good grace of unknown friends, to slip through the meshes of the net spread for me. But how long this will continue, I know not.”
“Oh! do be careful, Hugh, won’t you?” urged the girl, as they sat side by side. The only sound was the rippling of the burn deep down in the glen, and the distant barking of a shepherd’s dog.
“Yes. I’ll get away into the wilds of Kensington--to Abingdon Road. One is safer in a London suburb than in a desert, no doubt. West London is a good hiding-place.”
“Recollect the name. Mason, wasn’t it? And she lives at ‘Heathcote.’”
“That was it. But do not communicate with me, otherwise my place of concealment will most certainly be discovered.”
“But can’t I see you, Hugh?” implored the girl. “Must we again be parted?”
“Yes. It seems so, according to our mysterious friend, whom I believe most firmly to be the notorious thief known by the Italian sobriquet of Il Passero--The Sparrow.”
“Do you think he is a thief?” asked the girl.
“Yes. I am convinced that your friend is none other than the picturesque and romantic criminal whose octopus hand is upon almost every great theft in Europe, and whom the police always fail to catch, so elusive and clever is he.”
She gave him further details of their first meeting at Nice.
“Exactly. That is one of his methods--secrecy and generosity are his two traits. He and his accomplices rob the wealthy, and assist those wrongly accused. It must be he--or one of his assistants. Otherwise he would not know of the secret hiding-place for those after whom a hue-and-cry has been raised.”
He recollected at that moment the girl who had been his fellow-guest in Genoa--the dainty mademoiselle who evidently had some secret knowledge of his father’s death, and yet refused to divulge a single word.
Ever since that memorable night at the Villa Amette, he had existed in a mist of suspicion and uncertainty. Yet, after all, he cared little for anything so long as Dorise still believed in his innocence, and she still loved him. His one great object was to clear up the mystery of his father’s tragic end, and thus defeat the clever plot of those whose intention it, apparently, was to marry him to Louise Lambert.
On every hand there was mystification. The one woman--notorious as she was--who knew the truth had been rendered mentally incompetent by an assassin’s bullet, while he, himself, was accused of the crime.
Hugh Henfrey would have long ago confessed to Dorise the whole facts concerning his father’s death, but his delicacy prevented him. He honoured his dead father, and was averse to telling the girl he loved that he had been found in a curious state in a West End street late at night. He was loyal to his poor father’s memory, and, until he knew the actual truth, he did not intend that Dorise should be in a position to misconstrue the facts, or to misjudge.
On the face of it, his father’s death was exceedingly suspicious. He had left his home in the country and gone to town upon pretence. Why? That a woman was connected with his journey was now apparent. Hugh had ascertained certain facts which he had resolved to withhold from everybody.
But why should the notorious Sparrow, the King of the Underworld, interest himself so actively on his behalf as to travel up there to Perthshire, after making those secret, but elaborate, arrangements for safety? The whole affair was a mystery, complete and insoluble.
It was early morning, after they had rambled for several hours in the moonlight, when Hugh bade his well-beloved farewell.
They had returned through the park and were at a gate quite close to the castle when they halted. It had crossed Hugh’s mind that they might be seen by one of the keepers, and he had mentioned this to Dorise.
“What matter?” she replied. “They do not know you, and probably will not recognize me.”
So after promising Hugh to remain discreet, she told him they were returning to London in a few days.
“Look here!” he said suddenly. “We must meet again very soon, darling. I daresay I may venture out at night, therefore why not let us make an appointment--say, for Tuesday week. Where shall we meet? At midnight at the first seat on the right on entering the part at the Marble Arch? You remember, we met there once before--about a year ago.”
“Yes. I know the spot,” the girl replied. “I remember what a cold, wet night it was, too!” and she laughed at the recollection. “Very well. I will contrive to be there. That night we are due at a dance at the Gordons’ in Grosvenor Gardens. But I’ll manage to be there somehow--if only for five minutes.”
“Good,” he exclaimed, again kissing her fondly. “Now I must make all speed to Kensington and there go once more into hiding. When--oh, when will this wearying life be over!”
“You have a friend, as I have, in the mysterious white cavalier,” she said. “I wonder who he really is?”