"You must not speak of love," she whispered. "You are an honest man who has been entrapped and compelled to act dishonestly as you do. I know it all, alas! I--I know----" and she burst into tears. "I have discovered," she sobbed, "that my father is a thief!"
"We cannot help that, Lola," I said, in deep sympathy at her distress.
"No. Unfortunately we can"t," she replied faintly, in a voice full of emotion. "But it would be fatal to us both if we loved each other.
Surely, George, you can see that!"
"I don"t see it, dearest," I exclaimed, bending and kissing her fondly on the cheek for the first time. We had halted in the forest path, and now I held her in my arms, though she resisted slightly. "I love you, darling!" I cried. "_I love you!_"
"No! No!" she protested. "You must not--you cannot love me. I am only the daughter of a man who, at any moment, might be arrested--a man for whom the police are ever in search, but cannot find."
"I know all that; but you, dearest, are not a thief!" I urged, for I loved her with all the strength of my being--with all my soul.
She trembled and sobbed, but did not reply. Her tearful face was hidden upon my shoulder.
"Do you care for me in the least?" I whispered to her. "Tell me, dear, do."
She was silent.
I repeated my question, until at last she raised her face to mine, and, though she did not speak, I knew with joy that her answer was in the affirmative. And then I poured out my secret to her, how ever since I had first seen her I had loved her to distraction; and how the knowledge that she reciprocated my affection had rendered me the happiest man in the world.
For a long time we remained locked in each other"s arms. How long I cannot tell.
Suddenly, when she had dried her tears, she seemed full of apprehension concerning my welfare.
"Oh! do be careful of yourself, George!" she cried. "I am always so anxious about you when you are away. Father sends you on those strange and highly dangerous missions because he trusts you, and you, alas!
are compelled to do his bidding. But do take care. You know well what the slightest blunder would mean--and you would never clear yourself, you know!"
I promised I would take great care always, and again we moved along.
It was not, however, until dusk that we returned to the Manor.
I could not help wondering how Lola had discovered her father"s true character and the nature of his secret "business," but on the whole I felt it was just as well that she knew, for she herself would exercise great care. And then I thought in ecstasy, "She is mine--_mine_!"
Just before midnight, soon after I had retired, the door of my room opened, and I found Rayne in his pajamas.
He placed his finger upon his lips with a gesture of silence. Then, closing the door noiselessly, he drew me to the opposite side of the room, and, showing me a photograph, said:
"Look at this well, George. You"d recognize him, wouldn"t you?"
It was a cabinet photograph of a good-looking gentlemanly, clean-shaven man of about twenty-five.
"Note his tiepin--a single moonstone!" added Rayne.
"Yes," I said, as I gazed at the photograph.
"Well, to-day is Monday," he said. "Next Thursday night I want you to take Madame from London in the Rolls. Go out on the Portsmouth Road by way of Kingston and Ditton, through Cobham, and on to Ripley. There, about twenty miles from London, you will find on the left-hand side an old-fashioned hotel called the Talbot. Stop there at half-past nine, and, leaving Madame in the car, go in and have a drink. Edward Houston will be awaiting you. Madame is just now at the Carlton. You will pick her up at half-past eight."
"And Lola?" I asked, wondering if his daughter was to play any part in this new piece of trickery, whatever it might be.
"She is going to Scarborough on Thursday afternoon," was her father"s reply.
"And when I meet this Mr. Houston," I asked, "what then?"
"You will not meet openly. When you"ve had your drink and he has seen you, you will drive a little way along the road and there await him.
He does not wish to be seen with you. He"s rather shy, you see!" and the pleasant-faced man who controlled the most dangerous criminal gang in Europe smiled sardonically. "He has his instructions, and you will follow them. Take a suit-case with you, for you may be away a few days, or longer."
I wondered what devilry he had now planned. I tried to obtain from him some further details, but his replies were sharp and firm.
"Act just as I"ve told you, Hargreave. And please don"t be so infernally inquisitive." Then, wishing me good night, he turned and left my room.
I longed there and then to defy him and refuse to obey, yet I dared not, knowing full well the fate that would await me if I resisted.
Moreover, I had Lola to consider, and if I defied her father he most certainly would not allow his daughter to marry me.
Next morning we left Enderby by train and returned to Overstow in the late afternoon.
Duperre had gone up to Glasgow upon some mysterious business--crooked without a doubt--so that night, after dining together, Rayne and I played a game of billiards. While we were smoking in the library prior to turning in, the footman tapped at the door and entered with a note.
Rayne tore it open, and as he read it, I noticed that his countenance fell. A second later I saw that he was extremely annoyed.
He rose from his chair and for a few moments hesitated. Then, in a rather thick voice, said:
"Show him in." After the servant had gone he turned to me, and in a changed voice said: "Remain here, George. But never breathe a word of what you hear to a living soul! Remember that!"
In a few moment a well-dressed, narrow-faced, bald-headed, rather cadaverous man was shown in. He clicked his heels together and bowed with foreign politeness and with a smile upon his sinister countenance.
"I have the honor to meet Signor Rayne?" he asked, with a distinctly Italian accent.
"That is my name," replied Rudolph inquiringly.
"Good! Then you will recognize me, and my name upon my letter in which I have asked for this private interview."
"No. I certainly do not," he said. "I have no knowledge of ever meeting you before!"
"Ah!" laughed the stranger. "The signore"s memory is evidently at fault. I--I hesitate to refresh it--before this gentleman," and he glanced at me.
"Oh! you need not mind. Mr. Hargreave is my secretary, and knows all my confidential affairs," said Rayne, a.s.suming an air of _bonhomie_, though I knew he was greatly perturbed by his visitor.
"Then may I be permitted to remind you of our meeting at the Bristol Cafe, in Copenhagen, on that July night two years ago, and what happened to Henri Gerard, the Ma.r.s.eilles shipowner, later that same night? True, we never spoke together, for you posed as a stranger to my friends. But you were pointed out to me. You surely cannot ignore it?"
"I have never been to Copenhagen in my life," protested Rayne. "What do you suggest?"
"The truth; one that you know well, signore, notwithstanding your denials. You are the man known as "The Golden Face,"" declared the stranger bitterly, pointing his finger at him. "You neither forget me nor my name, Luigi Gori, for you have much cause to remember it--you and your friend Stevenson, otherwise Duperre."
Rayne turned furiously upon his visitor, and said:
"I am in no mood to discuss anything with you. So get out! You wished to see me privately, and I have granted you this interview. I don"t know your name or your business, nor do I want to know them! You seem to be trying to claim acquaintance with me, and----"
"Pardon me, but I do so, Signor Rayne," laughed the dark-eyed man. "It has taken me two years to trace you, and at last I find you here! I came at this hour because I thought I would find you apart from your honorable family."