On going up to town with Sir John Freise and Mr. Atkins to engage
in the search for Neva Wynde, who had so strangely and mysteriously
disappeared, Lord Towyn had left orders with the steward of his marine
villa to forward to him in London without delay any and all letters
that might arrive to the address of the young earl. And so, while
he prosecuted his researches with desperate energy, Lord Towyn half
expected by every post some news from his young betrothed.
The three guardians of Neva’s estate were sadly puzzled and thoroughly
alarmed, but for Neva’s own sake they kept the mystery to themselves.
Mr. Atkins urged that no detectives be taken into their confidence, and
that no newspapers be permitted to publish the strange story.
“We shall do as well as any detectives,” said the attorney, “and if
there is any game afoot, we will not set the villains who are at work
in it upon their guard.”
“Villains?” echoed Sir John Freise disapprovingly. “The thing is
mysterious, Mr. Atkins, but it is susceptible of explanation. Had it
not been for Miss Wynde’s promise to write daily to Lord Towyn, and
her failure to comply with that promise, we should have suspected no
harm. ‘Villains’ is a strong word to apply to Miss Wynde’s companions.
Miss Wynde may have fallen ill on the way to Wynde Heights, or the plan
of the tour may have been changed. In fact, one of these alternatives
doubtless contains the truth. But ‘villains,’ Mr. Atkins--the word
troubles me. To whom do you apply it? Certainly not to the beautiful
lady who was the wife of our friend Sir Harold Wynde, and who was so
loved and trusted by him that he constituted her the sole personal
guardian of his beloved daughter?”
“And who so appreciated her husband’s love and noble qualities,” said
Mr. Atkins dryly, “that in one year from his tragic death she was
receiving the loving attentions of a Craven Black, and in fifteen
months after Sir Harold’s death became the wife of a Craven Black! Bah!
I was never deceived in Lady Wynde, not even when Sir Harold brought
her home to Hawkhurst. She is a bold, designing, unscrupulous creature,
and it is as well that Sir Harold died before she broke his heart.”
“Mr. Atkins, your harsh judgment amazes me--”
“I imagine, Sir John Freise,” said the attorney, “that in your secret
soul your opinion of Mrs. Craven Black is much higher than mine.
Have you been blind to the insatiable vanity, and the vulgarity and
ill-taste of the widow of Sir Harold Wynde, who, fifteen months after
losing the noblest husband the sun ever shone on, converts that
husband’s house into a ball-room, and sets his church bells ringing and
his tenantry dancing at her marriage with a gambler and adventurer,
unworthy even to breathe the same air with Sir Harold’s pure young
daughter? You look shocked, Sir John. If it were necessary, I could
give you my further opinion concerning Mrs. Craven Black, but you are
sufficiently shocked already.”
“You said, Mr. Atkins,” said Lord Towyn, “that you thought Mrs. Black
unscrupulous. I cannot believe her as base as you think, but I have
a question to submit to you and Sir John. When I asked Miss Wynde to
become my wife, she told me that it had been her father’s last wish
that she should marry Rufus Black--”
“Impossible!” cried Sir John and Mr. Atkins, in a breath.
“Miss Wynde showed me a letter purporting to have been written by Sir
Harold the night before his sudden death,” said Lord Towyn. “I have the
letter with me, and a study of it may throw light upon a matter that
certainly looks dark to me. I could almost make oath that the deceased
baronet never wrote this letter. It deceived Neva completely, if it
prove, as I have declared it, a forgery.”
He produced the letter, and gave it into the hands of Mr. Atkins. The
attorney read it aloud, weighing each phrase and turn of sentence.
“Sir Harold wrote it,” declared Sir John Freise, without hesitation. “I
have heard him express himself in those quaint, oddly turned sentences
a hundred times. Those pet names for his daughter, so tender and
poetical, were surely written by him. Miss Wynde accepted the letter as
genuine, and I do the same without question.”
“And you, my lord?” inquired Atkins.
“It seems to me a forgery,” said Lord Towyn. “Rufus Black confessed to
Neva that he had had no personal acquaintance with Sir Harold Wynde.”
“That is odd,” declared Sir John, puzzled. “Perhaps Sir Harold was not
quite in his right mind when he wrote the letter. His presentiment
of approaching death may have unsettled his judgment; but that is
preposterous. I can’t explain the incongruities, but I persist in my
opinion that Sir Harold Wynde wrote the letter.”
“What is your opinion, Mr. Atkins?” demanded Lord Towyn.
“Where is Rufus Black?” asked the lawyer abruptly.
“Down at Hawkhurst. He remains there during the absence of the bridal
party,” answered the young earl in surprise.
“And Rufus Black has confessed to Miss Wynde that he was not personally
acquainted with Sir Harold Wynde?” mused the attorney. “My opinion
about young Black is, that he is a well-meaning but weak-souled lad,
just the person to be made a dupe or instrument in the hands of more
unscrupulous and daring souls. I don’t dislike the boy. If he were his
own master, or had a different father, he’d be a decent fellow.”
“What do you think of his father, Atkins?” inquired Sir John.
“I think he’s a villain.”
“And what do you think of this letter, Atkins?” asked Lord Towyn.
“I think,” said Atkins quietly, “that it is a forgery. More, I know
that it is a forgery. Sir Harold Wynde was too tender a father to
attempt to control his daughter’s choice of a husband in a manner
so singular. The truth is, Craven Black has begun some sort of game
against the Wyndes, and if it don’t date further back than Sir Harold’s
death, I am mistaken. I see you look distressed, Sir John, so I will
keep my ideas to myself until I can prove their value. Lord Towyn, will
you allow me to retain this letter for the present, to study at my
leisure?”
The young earl assented, and Atkins secured the letter on his person.
“And now what are we to do?” asked Sir John.
“I shall take a turn up into Yorkshire, and have a look at Wynde
Heights for myself,” said Atkins. “You had better remain here, Sir
John, and not expose yourself to useless fatigue.”
“I shall go with you, Atkins,” declared the young earl.
Sir John Freise was anxious to accompany them, but he was scarcely able
to bear the fatigue of so hurried a journey, and permitted himself to
be overruled. He agreed to remain at their hotel, the Langham, until
the return of his friends from the north, and that very evening Lord
Towyn and Mr. Atkins departed for Yorkshire.
They arrived in due time at Wynde Heights, a lofty hill, crowned with
a beautiful, wide spreading villa, built after the Italian style, and
having long colonades. There were ample grounds attached to the villa,
a hundred acres or more in extent. Lord Towyn and Mr. Atkins drove out
to the place in a cab, and alighting at the carriage porch rang loudly
for admittance.
An old housekeeper, a Yorkshire woman, with a broad face and quiet
manners, and with but little of the usual Yorkshire burr in her speech,
opened the door cautiously after a long delay, and peeped out at them
with apparent timidity.
“How do you do, ma’am?” said the lawyer, raising his hat to her
respectfully. “We have called to see Miss Wynde and Mrs. Craven Black.”
“The leddies are not here, sir,” answered the housekeeper.
“Not here!” exclaimed Atkins. “But Mrs. Black said they were coming
here.”
“Her leddyship wrote to me to have the house ready for her, after her
new marriage,” said the housekeeper, “and to engage servants, which I
did. And about two weeks ago I got a letter from her leddyship, telling
me to dismiss the servants and shut up the house, as her leddyship had
decided not to come to the Heights, and I obeyed orders.”
“Will you show us that letter?” demanded the lawyer. “We are the
guardians of Miss Wynde’s estate, and find it necessary to see the
young lady at the earliest possible moment. We expected to find her
here, but the letter may afford us some clue to her whereabouts. This
gentleman is Lord Towyn, and I am William Atkins, the attorney of the
Wynde family.”
The housekeeper threw wide open the door of the house. Both names were
familiar to her, and she welcomed the visitors as those having a right
to the hospitalities of the place.
“Come in, my lord; come in, sir,” she exclaimed. “I will get the letter
for you.”
The visitors followed her into a cool, unused parlor, and seated
themselves, while the woman hurried away in quest of the letter of
which she had spoken.
“I had an idea that the Blacks might be stopping here secretly,” said
Atkins, in a low voice; “but I’ve changed my mind, my lord. They have
not been here. The housekeeper’s face is honesty itself. We’ll have to
look elsewhere. I’m sorry we’ve wasted time on the wrong tack.”
The housekeeper reappeared with the letter. Lord Towyn and Mr. Atkins
read it. It had been written by Mrs. Craven Black, and was to the
effect that she had changed her mind, and that the bridal party would
not come north that season, and ordering the newly engaged servants to
be dismissed, and the house to be again closed.
Atkins sighed, as he restored the letter to the housekeeper.
“We are much obliged to you ma’am,” he said, “and now we must hasten
back to London. If you hear from your mistress, be kind enough to drop
me a line at my address. There’s my card. But it’s not likely you will
hear from Mrs. Black before we do.”
The visitors bade the housekeeper good morning, and hurried back to the
railway station in their cab, catching the down train, and speeding on
their way to London.
“I don’t believe our party is in England,” said Atkins musingly, as
they steamed swiftly down the line to the southward. “It would be like
the Blacks, if they had any game afoot, to make for the Continent.
Our next point is to make inquiries at the docks, or at the railway
stations.”
They arrived in London in the morning, and hastened to the Langham
hotel, where they had an interview with Sir John Freise, who was
looking worn and ill under all this suspense and anxiety. The three
gentlemen devoted the day to visiting the various railway stations
and offices of the Continental boats. They visited also the foreign
packet-boats lying in dock, and toward evening learned from the steward
of an Ostend boat, that a party such as was described, consisting of
two ladies and one gentleman, had crossed the Channel to Ostend at
about the time indicated by Atkins.
“Thank Heaven! We are on the track!” breathed Sir John.
“Atkins and I will start for Ostend by way of Dover this very night,”
said Lord Towyn, all ardor and impatience.
Atkins drew out a golden sovereign, which he held tantalizingly before
the eyes of the steward.
“Answer a few more questions,” said the attorney, “and this is yours,
my good fellow. Describe the gentleman who accompanied the two ladies.”
The steward hesitated, eyeing the coin with greedy eyes.
“He was tall and fair, with mustaches,” he said slowly, as if fearing
the description would not suit his interlocutor, “and he was dressed in
black.”
“That would describe Craven Black well enough,” murmured Sir John.
“And the ladies?” questioned Atkins. “How did they look?”
“One was some years older than the other, and was dark, with black
eyes. The young lady had lighter hair. They were going on to Brussels,
and I took it that the elder lady and gentleman were newly married,”
said the steward, “they were that sickish, begging your pardon.”
“There’s no doubt we are on the right track,” cried Sir John, in a tone
of relief.
Atkins paid the steward the promised sovereign, and led the way ashore
and to the waiting cab.
“To the hotel,” he ordered.
The gentlemen entered the vehicle and hastened back to the Langham.
Atkins was very thoughtful and silent during the journey, but as they
drove up to the hotel he said:
“We are tired Lord Towyn, and must have rest. I propose that we sleep
here to-night, and go on to Dover and Ostend in the morning. I know how
anxious and impatient you are, but we must not overtask our strength.
You look quite worn out.”
“It is with anxiety then,” said the young earl. “I am eager to go on,
Mr. Atkins, but will wait till morning as you counsel.”
The three gentlemen ascended to their private parlor which they shared
in common. As they entered the room, a man who was standing at one of
the windows, looking out, turned and came forward to meet them.
He was the steward of Lord Towyn’s marine place.
“You here, Sewel?” exclaimed the young earl. “Is anything the matter?”
The steward, an elderly man, with a rugged countenance, as gnarled as
an old oak, yet full of kindly warmth, shook his head as he answered:
“There’s nothing wrong, my lord; but you ordered any letters to be sent
to you, and knowing how anxious you were, I feared the letter might
miscarry, and here it is. I brought it myself.”
“A letter!” cried the three gentlemen in chorus, having no thought of
any letter save the one they so much desired.
“It’s in a lady’s hand, and that’s why I brought it,” said the steward.
He took out his pocket-book and drew from it a small square envelope,
daintily addressed and sealed.
Lord Towyn uttered a cry of joy, recognizing the handwriting at once.
“It is from Neva!” he ejaculated.
He hurried with it to a window, turning his back on his friends, and
tore open the envelope, disclosing a four-page letter, signed with the
name of Neva Wynde.
“Ah!” he cried aloud. “It is dated Brussels.”
“We were on the right track then,” said Atkins exultantly.
The young earl perused his letter with a glad heart.
It was very tender and very sweet, full of delicate allusions to
their betrothal, and was indeed such a letter as only a woman could
write, yet the young lover was not satisfied. The letter lacked the
straightforward simplicity that distinguished Neva, and it seemed to
Lord Towyn to lack also sincerity. It had been written from the head
rather than from the heart, and his first great joy and gladness gave
way to a sudden and terrible sense of disappointment.
The steward, seeing that he was not wanted, went quietly from the room,
intent upon securing his dinner.
Mr. Atkins and Sir John Freise approached our hero, and the baronet
laid a kindly hand upon the young earl’s shoulder.
“Forgive us for interrupting your happy reverie, Lord Towyn,” he said,
“but we are very anxious. Miss Wynde writes from Brussels, and in good
spirits? We have been troubling ourselves for nothing?”
The young earl did not look around, nor did he speak. He only clutched
the letter tighter in his fingers.
“We have got into a panic for nothing,” said Atkins, smiling. “We
will keep the joke to ourselves. I would not have Mr. Black curling
his cynical lips over our folly, not for worlds. No doubt Miss Wynde
satisfactorily explains her previous silence, my lord, and we are free
to return home again, wiser if not better men?”
The young earl turned to his companions now, and they started when
they saw how deadly pale he was, and what a look of terror and anguish
gleamed from his warm blue eyes.
“Miss Wynde is not ill?” cried Sir John.
Lord Towyn raised his arm, waving the letter in the air.
“This letter is in Neva’s handwriting, and signed with her name,” he
said, in a strained voice. “It purports to come from her, but, before
God, I believe it to be a forgery! My instinct tells me that Neva never
wrote it. We are upon the wrong track. Neva is not at Brussels. Perhaps
she is not out of England. She is in the hands of her enemies, who have
formed some foul conspiracy against her, and we, O God! are powerless
to save her!”