I pulled up the car just this side of Barham Bridge, and turned her
on to the strip of level grass that ran parallel with the road.
Mercia seemed to have chosen a pleasantly isolated meeting-place.
Away to my right, on the top of a small hill, stood an old
weather-beaten, half-ruined windmill; but with this exception,
nothing broke the flat monotony of the far-stretching Suffolk
pastures.
Opening the gate, I made my way up the rough track, which in more
spacious days had apparently been the miller's roadway. It struck me
that if Mercia was playing me false, I was offering a really
beautiful target to anyone in the mill; but I don't think it can have
been this reflection that was sending the blood dancing so cheerfully
through my veins.
Anyhow, I strode on briskly till I reached the top, where I took a
final glance back to see if I was till unobserved. Then, as I looked
round again, I found Mercia. She was standing in the doorway of the
mill, pale and beautiful as ever, and at the sight of her my heart
gave a great jump that seemed almost like a shout of triumph. It was
only with a big effort that I stopped myself from picking her up in
my arms and kissing her.
"Ah, it's good to see you again," I said, holding out my hands.
She drew back with a quick, frightened gesture.
"You have not been followed?" she whispered.
I stepped inside. "No," I said; "I came in the car. It's down at
the bottom of the hill."
She gave a little gasp of relief. "I was so afraid. I thought they
suspected. It's madness our meeting like this."
"Then I pray God I shall never be sane," I said, with a low, reckless
laugh. "Oh, Mercia,--my sweet, white, wonderful Mercia,--do you
think life has anything for me that I wouldn't throw away with both
hands for the sake of seeing you!"
The passion in my voice brought a faint tinge of colour into her
face. She leaned against the side of the mill and put up her hands
with a little pleading gesture.
"Ah, don't, don't!" she whispered.
I shook my head, smiling down at her tenderly. "Anything else,
Mercia mine," I said; "but you might as well tell the sun not to
shine as tell me not to love you."
I tried to take her hand, but she wrenched herself free.
"You mustn't say these things to me," she cried, half sobbing.
"Isn't it enough that I should have tried to save you? Are you quite
merciless? Oh, go, while there's yet time. Go out of my life, and
let me forget you."
"I won't," I said obstinately. "I love you with every beat of my
heart, Mercia, and all the murdering half-castes in South America
shan't come between us."
She looked at me piteously. "Do you know what you are saying? Don't
you understand how impossible it is that the daughter of Manuel
Solano can ever be anything to you?"
"No," I said stoutly, "I don't. I've already sworn to you that I had
no hand in your father's death, and you believe me--I know that you
believe me."
She raised her eyes to mine. "Yes," she said, more calmly, "I do
believe you. Should I be here if I didn't? I believe you against my
own eyes, against the evidence of all San Luca, against reason
itself. That is why I am trying to save you from the others."
A thrill of triumph shot through me at her words.
"Mercia," I whispered softly, "Mercia."
She lifted her hands again, as though to motion me back.
"But if you did not kill my father," she went on, "you know who did.
Tell me the truth--ah, for God's sake, tell me the truth!"
The broken pleading of that piteous cry nearly shattered my resolve.
But I had pledged my word to Northcote, and with a great effort I
steeled myself to be true to it.
"I know nothing for certain," I said. "If the others believe me
guilty, they are wrong. But why not leave them to take their own
vengeance? They seem quite capable of it."
She drew herself up with a shudder. "It is too late now. There is
only one escape from the League--death. When they came to me and
told me that you were still alive, I joined them gladly, recklessly.
I thought that at least I should be able to avenge my father. Then
that night in Park Lane I learned, for the first time, that I was
wrong. I deceived them, I lied to them. It would have been no good
my telling them the truth: they would never have believed it. Even
now, I think they suspect me."
Her half-incoherent sentences gave me my first glimpse of the real
truth.
"Mercia," I said, "who do you think I am?"
She stared at me in bewilderment.
"You are Ignace Prado," she said slowly.
"Before God," I answered, "I am nothing of the kind."
There was a moment of strenuous silence. Then, with a wild,
impulsive gesture, she laid her hand on my arm.
"Who are you?" she whispered fearfully. "Speak, tell me! I feel as
if I was going mad."
I caught her hands and drew her towards me. "Mercia, my heart," I
said, holding her tightly in my arms and looking down into her dear,
startled eyes, "you must give me your trust, as I have given you my
love. We have got caught up, you and I, into a tangle of the Devil's
own spinning, and God knows how it's all going to end. Listen. I
swear by my love for you that I am not Ignace Prado, and that I know
nothing of your father's death. More than that I can't tell you for
the present, but you must believe me, Mercia--you _shall_ believe
me," I added, almost savagely, as she freed herself from my embrace
and leaned back panting and pale against the wall.
"I feel that you are speaking the truth," she gasped, "but oh! you
are in terrible danger. Guarez and the others will kill you, as
surely as the sun rises, unless you leave here at once--unless you
disappear altogether. They at least are convinced that you are
Ignace; and your cousin, Maurice Furnivall--he is the man that has
betrayed you--it was he who first told the League that you were in
London."
"Yes," I said grimly, "I fancied I was indebted to Master Maurice for
that kindness."
"And you will go, you will go immediately?"
"I shall go, Mercia," I said, "at precisely the same time that you
do. If you imagine I am going to clear out and leave you alone with
that cheerful gang of cut-throats, you're making a mistake."
"Oh, but you must," she said beseechingly. "I am in no danger.
Really, I am in no danger."
"I don't believe you," I said bluntly. "Does Sir Henry Tregattock
know where you are?"
She looked confused "He--he thinks I am with friends," she stammered.
"I am going back there in a day or so. I will go directly you have
disappeared."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," I said. "If I go, you'll come with
me. I won't stir a step from Woodford unless it's to take you back
to London."
She gazed at me despairingly. "What's the use?" she cried. "They
will only kill us both."
"Will they?" I said. "At present, I think they've got their hands
full in trying to kill me."
She shook her head. "The League never fails. It's only a matter of
time. Within a week, you will be dead--you and your friend too. Oh,
you don't know what danger you are in. Listen. There were four
others besides Prado and Lopez whom the Council condemned, and every
one of them has been killed since. You know what happened to Lopez."
"I don't," I said. "I know nothing about the infernal business
except that they've bungled me three times, and that somehow or other
they've managed to get hold of the wretched Milford. I should stick
it out now in any case, if only for the sake of revenging him."
"Milford," she repeated, looking at me in horror. "Is that the man
they tried to poison?"
"Yes," I said. "He vanished two days ago, and Heaven knows what's
happened to him by now."
She drew a deep breath. "Ah," she whispered, "that explains the
disappearance of Da Costa. He was watching the house, and he was to
write to Guarez every day. We have heard nothing."
I gave an exclamation of surprise. "By Jove!" I cried, "perhaps
Milford's--"
A sudden sound of voices outside pulled me up abruptly.
Instinctively, I whipped my hand to my pocket, and for a moment we
stood there in absolute silence. Then came the noise of footsteps,
followed almost immediately by a remark in a man's voice, and the
little trill of a woman's laugh. I recognised the latter at once,
and in a flash I had made up my mind.
"Come, Mercia," I whispered quickly. "It's two of our own party from
Ashton. We must see this through. Leave it to me to explain."
She made no answer, and we stepped out through the doorway into the
sunshine.
About ten paces away, York and Lady Baradell were coming up the hill
towards us. As we appeared in the opening they stopped, and for a
moment all four of us stood looking at each other in a prettily
embarrassed silence.
York was the first to speak. "Then it was you, Northcote!" he
observed. "Lady Baradell declared it must be your car."
"Lady Baradell was right," I returned cheerfully. "Let me introduce
you all. Miss de Rosen, Lady Baradell, Captain York."
Lady Baradell, who had favoured Mercia with one swift, incisive
scrutiny, smiled sweetly.
"We were walking over to the Cuthberts'," she remarked, "and we
happened to see your car standing on the grass. I had no idea you
were an antiquary, Mr. Northcote."
"No," I said coolly; "I have so many hidden talents."
York, who seemed to feel that the atmosphere was strained, made a
tactful effort to clear it.
"Car all right?" he inquired sympathetically.
"I was just testing it," I said, "and, in the course of doing so, I
as nearly as possible slaughtered Miss de Rosen."
Mercia smiled with delightful composure. "I have always told Mr.
Northcote he drives much too fast. I thought I should be safe from
him in the wilds of Suffolk, however."
"You're staying here?" put in Lady Baradell, in a smooth voice.
"Quite close by with some friends," answered Mercia carelessly, "and
that reminds me I ought to be getting back, or they'll be wondering
what's happened to me. Good-bye, Mr. Northcote; thank you so much
for your ride. You must come over and see us before you go away.
Good-bye."
She smiled graciously to the others, and turned as if to go.
"May I have the pleasure of seeing you back, Miss de Rosen?" I
suggested. "I have been guilty of bringing you all this way out of
your road."
"Oh no," she said, laughing. "I can take a short cut across the
fields. I am quite used to walking about the country alone, really."
She gave me a little wave of her hand, and set off at a brisk pace
across the hill. Her coolness left me flabbergasted.
Lady Baradell, who had been looking at me with a kind of malicious
amusement, smiled mockingly.
"What a popular man you are, Mr. Northcote," she observed. "You
can't get away from your friends, even in Suffolk."
"No," I said. "The country seems to be sown with them. Next time I
want a little seclusion, I shall stop in London."
"Pretty girl, that," said York, looking approvingly after Mercia's
retreating figure.
I was not going to be drawn into any further confidence.
"Suppose I motor you on to the Cuthberts'?" I suggested. "I'll
promise to drive carefully."
"That's a sound idea," answered York, with enthusiasm.
"Well, it must be very carefully," said Lady Baradell. "You
fortunate men aren't bothered with clothes and hair. I don't want to
arrive looking like a suffragette after a fight with a policeman."
It was so impossible to conceive Lady Baradell in such a condition
that we both laughed.
"There is no danger," I said. "You saw how unruffled Miss de Rosen
was."
"It was quite remarkable," admitted her ladyship sweetly.
Down the hill we went, and two minutes later, with York beside me and
Lady Baradell ensconced in the back I was carefully steering the car
over Barham Bridge and along the winding Suffolk road, which twisted
in and out between the lush meadows and small coppices.
York, of course, knew the way, and following his directions, we soon
came in sight of an old Jacobean mansion rather the worse for wear,
standing back in pleasantly timbered grounds.
"How are you going to get back?" I asked.
"Furnivall and my sister are coming over in the carriage," said York,
"and there'll be plenty of room for us."
"In that case," I said, "I think I'll desert you basely at the door."
"Oh, come along in," protested York. Then, turning to Lady Baradell,
he added laughingly: "Tell him he's got to; he'll obey you."
She shook her head. "I am afraid I sympathise with him. I am sure
he can find a much more pleasant way of spending his time than
talking about turnips and the vicar."
York groaned. "Well, I call it uncommon mean of you, Northcote," he
grumbled, as we turned in at the lodge. "You and Vane have both
shied off."
"It's the privilege of age," I said, slowing up the car as we came
round to the front door. "I'll meet you at dinner, and hear all
about it."
Any remark York may have wished to make was cut short by the
appearance of the butler.
Lady Baradell, looking extremely unlike a suffragette, stepped
daintily out, and in another minute I was speeding away again down
the drive on my way back to Woodford.
I was burning to tell Billy about my latest discoveries, but when I
reached the Plough I discovered, as I had feared would be the case,
that he had not yet returned from his man-hunting expedition on the
marshes. I put the car away in the garage, and hung about for the
best part of an hour and a half in the vain hope that he would turn
up. Finally, I went into the lounge and wrote him a short note,
which I gave to the barmaid. I told him that I had made some novel
and highly interesting additions to our stock of knowledge, and
begged him to turn up at Ashton next morning without fail. Then,
feeling that I had already been long enough away to excite Maurice's
suspicions, I set off on my way back to the house.
I reached Ashton, curiously enough, just at the same time as the
carriage. As a matter of fact, it passed me in the drive, and when I
got up to the front door, I found Maurice and the others standing
round the porch.
"Well, I hope you are properly ashamed of yourself, Northcote," cried
York, with a laugh. "Here we are, four hopeless wrecks, while you
and Vane and Baradell have been selfishly enjoying yourselves."
"Was it as bad as that?" I asked sympathetically. "How is the vicar,
and how are the turnips?"
"The vicar's all right," returned Miss York, with a wry face. "He
was there at tea."
"Was that the vicar?" observed Lady Baradell dryly. "I thought it
was one of the turnips."
There was a general laugh, which was interrupted by the appearance of
Maurice's man, carrying a telegram on a silver tray.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he observed, "but this came this afternoon
just after you had left. I thought it might be important."
Maurice took the wire, and as he began to open it we resumed our
conversation, Miss York demanding a laughing explanation as to how I
had been spending my afternoon.
In the middle of my answer, which I must admit was not of a wholly
truthful nature, I happened to look up in Maurice's direction.
Over the top of the wire I got a glimpse of his eyes, staring at me
with a kind of devilish mixture of hatred, triumph and incredulity.
It was only for an instant. As our glances met the expression
vanished from his face as though it had been wiped off by a sponge,
and with a short laugh he crushed the wire in his hand.
"Well, this is a pretty sort of nuisance," he remarked.
There was a chorus of, "What's the matter?"
"I am afraid I shall have to go up to London to-night.
There's--there's some confounded trouble about a trusteeship or
something--I don't quite understand from the wire; but they want me
to come and talk it over as soon as possible."
Everybody, except myself, hastened to express their sympathy.
"Oh, it doesn't really matter," said Maurice. "I have no doubt I
shall be able to get down again to-morrow, or at the latest the day
after. You mustn't think of breaking up the party--any of you. I
dare say this silly business won't keep me more than a few hours,
after all, and Aunt Mary will be only too delighted to look after
you. Ah, here she is."
Aunt Mary, who had just joined us from the hall, was immediately
acquainted with the news.
"Must you really go, Maurice dear?" she said. "What a horrid
nuisance! I suppose you have to catch the 9.50 from Woodford. Of
course, I won't hear of anyone cutting short their visit. Stuart
will play host for you while you are away, and we'll manage to amuse
ourselves somehow."
"Yes," said Maurice, looking at me with a friendly smile. "You'll
see to things, won't you, old chap? I'll just run in now and put my
traps up. Dinner at the usual time, of course."
As he spoke, the dressing gong sounded, and we all trooped into the
house.
I made my way up to my own room, where I lit a cigarette and sat down
on the bed.
"Now what the dickens," said I to myself, "can have been in that
wire?"