From the point of view of the onlooker there could have been nothing
suspicious in the attitude of the pseudo waiter with his tray. He could
see Beatrice leaning back as if the pain in her head had made her
oblivious to everything else. As a matter of fact, Beatrice was racking
her brains for some way out of the difficulty. The self-elected waiter
could not stay there much longer, in any case, at least not unless the
suspicious Richford took it in his head to return to the dinner-table
again.
"It is so good of you to come," Beatrice said, still with her head
thrown back in the air. "That man has followed me, though Heaven knows
what he has to be suspicious about. Go away for a few minutes, as if you
had forgotten something, and then return again."
Mark Ventmore assented with a low bow. Scarcely had he left the
conservatory by a door leading to the corridor than Richford strolled
in.
"Feeling better now?" he asked ungraciously. "Funny things, women's
headaches!"
"For Heaven's sake go away," Beatrice exclaimed. "Why do you come and
torture me like this? You are the very last I want to see just now.
Don't drive me over the border. Go back to the others, and leave me in
peace."
With a sullen air, Richford lounged away; Colonel Berrington was
crossing the drawing-room, and Beatrice's heart beat high with hope.
She might have known that the gallant soldier would help her if
possible. With unspeakable relief she saw Richford tactfully drawn away
and disappear. Very quickly Beatrice changed her seat, so that she could
command a view of the drawing-room without herself being seen. The side
door opened, and Mark Ventmore came in again. He carried a tray still,
but he no longer looked like a waiter. With one quick glance around him
he advanced to Beatrice and knelt by the side of her chair.
"My darling," he whispered. "Oh, my dear little love! Am I too late?"
Beatrice said nothing for a moment. She was content only to forget her
unhappy lot in the knowledge that the one man she had ever cared for was
by her side. Ventmore's arm stole about her; her head drooped to his
shoulder. There was a faint, unsteady smile on the girl's lips as
Ventmore bent and kissed her passionately.
"Why did you not come before?" she asked.
"My dearest, I could not. I was away from my quarters, and I did not get
your letter. I am only here quite by chance. But is it too late?"
"Oh, I fear so; I fear so," Beatrice murmured. "If you had come a week
ago I should have asked you to marry me and take me away from it all.
And yet, if I had done so, my father would have been ruined and
disgraced."
Mark Ventmore moved his shoulders a little impatiently.
"So Sir Charles says," he replied. "Sir Charles was always very good at
those insinuations. He has played upon your feelings, of course,
sweetheart."
"Not this time, Mark. He has mixed himself up in some disgraceful City
business. A prosecution hangs in the air. And I am to be the price of
his freedom. My future husband will see my father through after I become
his wife. Even now there are private detectives watching my father. It
is a dreadful business altogether, Mark. And yet if you had come a week
ago, I should have risked it all for your sake."
Ventmore pressed the trembling figure to his heart passionately. Under
his breath he swore that this hideous sacrifice should never be. Was
this white-drawn woman in his arms, the happy laughing little Beatrice
that he used to know? They had parted cheerfully enough a year since;
they had agreed not to write to one another; they had infinite trust in
the future. Mark was going to make his fortune as a painter, and
Beatrice was to wait for him. And now it was the girl's wedding eve, and
the fates had been too strong for her altogether.
"Leave your father to himself and come," Mark urged. "I am making enough
now to keep us both in comfort; not quite the income that I hoped to ask
you to share with me, but at least we shall be happy. I will take you to
a dear old friend of mine, and to-morrow I will buy a license. After
that no harm can molest you."
Beatrice closed her eyes before the beatitude of the prospect. Just for
the moment she felt inclined to yield. Mark was so strong and good and
handsome, and she loved him so. And yet she had given her word for the
sake of her father.
"I cannot," she said. Her voice was very low but quite firm. "I have
promised my father. Oh, yes, I know that I had promised you first. But
it is for the sake of my father's honour. If I do what you wish he will
go to jail--nothing can prevent it. I only knew to-night."
"And you are sure that Sir Charles is not--not ... you know what I
mean?"
"Lying to me?" Beatrice said bitterly. "Not this time. I always know
when he is making an effort to deceive me. Mark, don't press me."
Mark crushed down his feelings with an effort. Blindly and passionately
in love as he was, he could see that duty and reason were on the side of
the girl. She would have to be sacrificed to this scoundrelly father,
and to please the other rascal who coveted her beauty and her fair white
body all the more because Beatrice kept him so rigidly at a distance.
"It seems very, very hard," Mark said thoughtfully. "Terribly hard on
both of us."
"Yes, but it is always the woman who suffers most," Beatrice replied.
"There is no help for it, Mark. I must see this thing out to the end. If
you had only come before!"
"My darling, I came as quickly as I could. I am staying here to-night,
and my room is in the same corridor as that of Sir Charles. I shall see
him to-night, or early to-morrow, and tell him a few of the things that
I have discovered. Perhaps when I open his eyes to the truth as to his
future son-in-law, he will change his mind."
"He will never do so," Beatrice said mournfully. "My father can always
justify himself and his conscience where his own interests are
concerned. But how did you know----"
"That you were in trouble? It came to me quite by accident. I was in
Paris a day or two ago to see a wealthy American who wants some of my
work. And as I was alone in the evening, I went to one of the theatres.
There were two English ladies by me in the stalls and presently they
began to talk about _you_. I could not help hearing. Then I heard
everything. Do you know a tall, elderly lady with dark eyes and white
hair, a lady all in silver grey?"
Beatrice started. Surely Mark was describing the Slave of the Bond, as
the grey lady whom Beatrice had encountered earlier in the evening had
called herself.
"I know her, and I don't know her," the girl cried. "She came into the
dining-room here before dinner quite by accident. I thought she was some
adventuress at first. But her face was too good and pure for that. I
asked her who she was, and she said she was the Slave of the Bond. Is
this a coincidence, or is there something deeper beyond? I don't know
what to think."
"Something deeper beyond, I should imagine," Mark said. "Be sure that in
some way or another this grey lady is interested in your welfare. But I
am absolutely sure that she did not know me."
"And so you came on at once, Mark?" Beatrice asked.
"As soon as possible, dear. I heard about the dinner whilst I was in the
theatre. My train was very late, and I could not possibly carry out the
programme that I had arranged. My next difficulty was to get speech with
you. Happily, a half sovereign and an intelligent waiter solved that
problem. When Richford followed you I had to borrow that tray and the
rest of it and disburse another half sovereign. Then I saw that my old
friend Berrington had come to my rescue. Did you tell him, Beatrice?"
"He saw the message on the wine card and recognized your handwriting.
But I shall not be able to stay much longer, Mark. Those people may come
into the drawing-room at any moment. This must be our last meeting."
"I am not going to be so sure of that, Beatrice. What I have to say to
your father must move him. The idea of your being the wife of that
man--but I will not think of it. Oh, love will find the way even at this
very late hour."
Mark would have said more, only there was the flutter of a dress in the
drawing-room beyond, and the echo of a laugh. The dinner guests were
coming into the drawing-room. With a quick motion, Mark snatched the
girl to his heart and kissed her passionately.
"Good night, darling," he whispered. "Keep up your courage. Who knows
what may happen between now and twelve o'clock to-morrow? And after I
have seen your father----"
Another kiss, and the lover was gone. Beatrice lay back in her chair
striving to collect her thoughts. Everything seemed to have happened so
suddenly and unexpectedly. There were people about her now who were
asking smoothly sympathetic questions in the hollow insincerity of the
world.
"I'm no better," Beatrice said. "If my aunt is ready I should like to go
home. My father will stay and see that you get your bridge all right."
Beatrice had gone at length with Lady Rashborough, the rest of the
guests had finished their bridge, and the party was breaking up. Mark
Ventmore was sitting, smoking cigarettes in his bedroom, waiting for the
chance to see Sir Charles. It was getting very late now, and all the
guests had long since been in their rooms. With his door open Mark could
see into the corridor.
Then he gave a little whistle of astonishment as the door of Sir
Charles's sitting-room opened and the grey lady, the Slave of the Bond
of Silence, came out. She was dressed just as Mark had seen her before;
as she walked along, her face was calm and placid. She came at length to
the end of the corridor and disappeared quietly and deliberately down
the stairs. With a feeling of curiosity, Mark crossed over and tried the
handle of Sir Charles's door. To his great surprise it was locked.
For a little time Mark pondered over the problem. As he did so, his head
fell back and he slept. It was the sound sleep of the clean mind in the
healthy body, so that when the sleeper came to himself again it was
broad daylight; the hotel was full of life and bustle. With a sense of
having done a fearful thing, Mark looked at his watch. It was ten
minutes past eleven!
"This comes of having no rest the night before," he muttered. "And to
think that the fate of my little girl should be hanging in the balance!
If Sir Charles has gone!"
But Sir Charles had not gone, as one of the waiters was in a position to
assure Mark. He had not retired to bed until past three, and at that
time was in a state of hilarity that promised a pretty fair headache in
the morning.
"Well, there is time yet," Mark thought, grimly. "And Sir Charles must
be moving by this time, as the wedding is to take place at twelve."
But the minutes crept on, and it was pretty near to that hour when Sir
Charles's man came down the corridor with an anxious expression on his
face. He had been hammering at the bedroom door without effect.
A sudden idea thrilled Mark, an idea that he was ashamed of almost
before it had come into his mind. He stood by idly, listening. He heard
a clock somewhere strike the hour of midday. He stepped up to the little
knot of waiters.
"Why don't you do something?" he demanded. "What is the use of standing
stupidly about here? Call the manager or whoever is in attendance. Break
down the door."
With all his force Mark thrust himself against the stout oak. The hinges
yielded at last.