Vera's very direct questions took me aback, though I had expected them
sooner or later. "Who told me?" I said, echoing the words in order to
gain time for thought, my arms still about her. "Oh, I'm sure I can't
remember. I seem to have known it a long time."
"It can't have been such a _very_ long time," she answered, still
looking at me in that queer way that made me feel uncomfortable.
"Surely you must remember who told you. It is hardly the sort of thing
one would be told every day--or even twice in one's life, is it?"
"Honestly," I said with quick decision, "I can't tell you how I came to
know it."
"Your `cannot' means `will not,'" she said, and her lip twitched in the
curious way that I knew meant she was nettled.
However, after that she dropped the subject, and I felt relieved. I
hated deceiving her, yet I was compelled. I am not an adept in the art
of what Lamb calls "walking round about a truth," at least, not for more
than a minute or two at a time, and my love had such quick intelligence
that it is no easy matter--as I had several times discovered, to my
discomfiture--to mislead her.
For the first time since we had met in the house in Belgrave Street, our
conversation became purely personal.
I had almost feared the events of the past weeks might have altered her
regard for me, and it afforded me intense relief to find I was mistaken.
For I was desperately in love with her, more so than I cared to admit
even to myself. And now I found to my joy that my love for her was
apparently fully reciprocated.
And yet why should she care for me? This puzzled me, I confess, though
I know as a thoroughgoing man of the world and as a cosmopolitan that
women do take most curious likes and dislikes. I am neither clever,
good-looking nor amusing, nor, I believe, even particularly "good
company" as it is called. There are scores upon scores of men just like
myself. You meet them everywhere, in town and in the country. Society
teems with them, and our clubs are full of them. Men, young and middle
aged, who have been educated at the public schools and Universities, who
have comfortable incomes, are fond of sport, who travel up and down
Europe, who have never in their lives done a stroke of work--and don't
intend ever to do one if they can help it--who live solely for amusement
and for the pleasure of living.
What do women see in such men, women who have plenty of money and
therefore do not need to marry in order to secure a home or to better
themselves? What did--what could Vera Thorold see in me to attract her,
least of all to tempt her to wish to marry me?
"Vera, my dearest," I said, when we had talked of each other's affairs
for a considerable time, "why not marry me now? I can get a special
licence! Then you will be free of all trouble, and nobody will be able
to molest you. I shall have a right to protect you in every way
possible."
"Free of all trouble if I marry you, Richard?" she answered,
reflectively, evading my question, and looking at me queerly.
"And why not?" I asked. I felt rather hurt, for her words seemed to
imply some hidden meaning. "Don't you think I shall be good to you and
treat you properly?"
"Oh, that would be all right," she answered, apparently amused at my
misconstruing her meaning. "I am sure, Dick, that you would be good to
any girl. I have already heard of your spoiling two or three girls, and
giving them presents they had no right to accept from you--eh?" she
asked mischievously.
I am afraid I turned rather red, for, to be candid, I am something of a
fool where women are concerned. At the same time I was surprised at her
knowing the truth, and I suppose she guessed this, for, before I had
time to speak again, she went on--
"You must not forget that I am a modern girl, my dear old Dick. I know
a great deal that I suppose I have no business to know, and when I hear
things I remember them. Don't for a moment flatter yourself that I
think you perfect. I don't. My frank opinion of you is that you really
are an awfully good sort, kind, sympathetic, unselfish--singularly
unselfish for a man--generous to a fault, and extravagant. In short, I
like you far, far better than any man I have ever met, and I love you
very much, you dear old boy--but there it ends."
"I should rather say it did!" I answered. "If you really think all
that of me, I am more than satisfied."
"On the other hand," she continued quickly, "I don't pretend to think--
and you needn't think I do--that you are not just like most other men in
some respects, in one respect in particular."
"What is the one respect?"
"You are dreadfully susceptible--oh, yes, Dick, you are! There is no
need for any one to tell me that. I can see it in your face. Your eyes
betray you. You have what I once heard a girl friend of mine call,
`affectionate eyes.' She said to me: `Never trust a man who has
"affectionate eyes," and I never have trusted one--except you.'"
"I am flattered dear. Then why not do what I suggest?" I asked,
raising her soft hand to my lips.
"It wouldn't be safe, Dick, it really wouldn't. We must wait until--
until Paulton is dead."
"Until Paulton--is--until he--is dead!" I gasped. "Good Heavens! that
may not be for years!"
She smiled oddly.
"He may live for years, of course," she answered drily.
"What do you mean?" I asked, staring at her in amazement.
"I mean," she said, looking straight at me, and her voice suddenly grew
hard, "that when he is dead, the world will be rid of a creature who
ought never to have been born."
Her eyes blazed.
"Ah! Dick--Ah! Dick!" she went on with extraordinary force, sighing
heavily, "if you only knew the life that man has led--the misery he has
caused, the horrors that are traceable to his vile diabolical plots. My
father and mother are only two of his many victims. He is a man I
dread. I am not a coward, no one can call me that, but--but I fear Dago
Paulton--I fear him terribly." She was trembling in my arms, though
whether through fear, or only from emotion, I could not say. Nor could
I think of any apt words which might soothe her, except to say--
"Leave him to me, dearest. Yet from what you tell me," I said after a
pause, "I can only suppose that some one is--how shall I put it?--going
to encompass Paulton's death."
"Who knows?" she asked vaguely, looking up into my eyes.
I shrugged my shoulders, but said nothing. There was nothing I could
say. This much I had suspected at any rate--Paulton had been
responsible for the chauffeur's death--or Vera believed him to have
been.
When I left my beloved late that night, and returned to King Street, I
was not satisfied with my discoveries. So many mysteries still remained
unsolved. What was the danger that had threatened her when she had rung
me up at my flat, and begged me to help her? Where had she been
staying? What danger threatened her now? What hold had the man Paulton
over her, and why did she fear to disobey him? Most perplexing of all--
what was her father's secret, and why had he fled from Houghton?
There were many minor problems, too, which still needed solution. Who
was Davies; what was his true name, and why was he so intimate with Sir
Charles?
Again I seemed to see that curious stain on the ceiling of the room in
Belgrave Street, and once more I wondered what had caused it. It might
be, of course, merely a stain caused by some leaking pipe, and yet--
I thought of that remarkable conversation I had heard in the hall of the
unoccupied house. What had they meant when they said they must "bring
Vera to her senses"? Also, why had they seemed averse from calling in a
doctor to see the old man Taylor, and to--
Taylor! I had been so much engrossed with Vera and her bondage of
terror for the past few hours that I had forgotten all about him.
Taylor. Had he recovered consciousness, I wondered, or had he--
A cold shiver ran through me as this last thought occurred to me.
It must have been quite two o'clock in the morning before I fell asleep.
I am not an early riser, and my first feeling when I was awakened by
John shaking me rather roughly, was one of annoyance. With difficulty I
roused myself thoroughly. My servant was standing by the bedside,
looking very pale.
"There are two police-officers downstairs," he said huskily. "They have
come--they say they have come, sir--"
"Well, out with it," I exclaimed wrathfully, as he checked himself
abruptly. "What have they come for? Do they want to see me?"