“I cannot say, definitely,” she replied, with a sigh. “She is a silent girl. But I fancy she feels that the Count knows something—she believes that Gregory met with foul play.”
Frank leaned forward.
“My own idea!” he said, quietly.
Lady Dinsmore surveyed him with faint, good-humoured scorn.
“You do not know Gregory,” she said, after a pause.
“But—I do not follow you! If it was not murder it must have been suicide. But why should Mr. Farrington kill himself?”
“I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so unselfish,” returned Lady Dinsmore, composedly.
“Then what—”
“Why are you so absolutely sure that he is dead?” she asked softly.
Frank stared at her in blank amazement.
“What do you mean?” he gasped. Was she mad also?
“Simply that he is no more dead than you or I,” she retorted, coolly. “What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For when did Gregory ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No, depend upon it, he is not dead. For purposes of his own, he is pretending to be. He has decided to exist—surreptitiously.”
“Why should he?” asked the bewildered young man. This was the maddest theory of all. His head swam with a riot of conflicting impressions. He seemed to have been hurled headlong into a frightful nightmare, and he longed to emerge again into the light of the prosaic, everyday world.
The door at the farther end of the room opened. He looked up eagerly, half expecting to see Farrington himself, smiling upon the threshold.
It was Doris. She stood there for a moment, uncertain, gazing at them rather strangely. In her white morning dress, slightly crumpled, and her dark hair arranged in smooth bandeaux, she was amazingly like a child. The somewhat cold spring sunlight which streamed through the window showed that the event of the night had already set its mark upon her. There were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.
Frank came forward hastily, everything blotted from his mind but the sight of her white, grief-stricken face. He took both her hands in his warm clasp.
The girl gave him a long, searching scrutiny, then her lips quivered, and with a smothered sob she flung herself into his arms and hid her face on his shoulder.
Frank held her tenderly. “Don’t,” he whispered unsteadily—“don’t cry, dear.”
In her sorrow, she was inexpressibly sweet and precious to him.
He bent down and smoothed with gentle fingers the soft, dusky hair. The fragrance of it filled his nostrils. Its softness sent a delicious ecstasy thrilling from his fingertips up his arm. All his life he would remember this one moment. He gazed down at her tenderly, a wonderful light in his young face.
“Dear!” he whispered again.
She lifted a pallid face to him. Her violet eyes were misty, and tiny drops of dew were still tangled in her lashes.
“You—you are good to me,” she murmured.
At his answering look, a faint colour swept into her cheeks. She gently disengaged herself and sat down.
Lady Dinsmore came forward, and seating herself beside the girl upon the divan, drew her close within the shelter of her arms.
“Now, Frank,” she said, cheerily, indicating a chair opposite, “sit down, and let us take counsel together. And first of all,”—she pressed the girl’s cold hand—“let me speak my strongest conviction. Gregory is not dead. Something tells me that he is safe and well.”
Doris turned her eyes to the young man wistfully. “You have heard something—later?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There has been no time for fresh developments yet. Scotland Yard is in charge of the affair, and T. B. Smith has been put upon the case.”
She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.
“He said he was going to arrest him—how strange and ghastly it all is!” she whispered. “I—I cannot get it out of my head. The dark river—my poor uncle—I can see him there—” She broke off.
Lady Dinsmore looked helplessly across to the young man.
It was at that moment that a servant brought a letter.
Lady Dinsmore arched her eyebrows significantly. “Poltavo!” she murmured.
Doris darted forward and took the letter from the salver. She broke the seal and tore out the contents, and seemed to comprehend the message at a glance. A little cry of joy escaped her. Her face, which had been pale, flushed a rosy hue. She bent to read it again, her lips parted. Her whole aspect breathed hope and assurance. She folded the note, slipped it into her bosom, and, without a word, walked from the room.
Frank stared after her, white to the lips with rage and wounded love.
Lady Dinsmore rose briskly to her feet.
“Excuse me. Wait here!” she said, and rustled after her niece.
Frank Doughton paced up and down the room distractedly, momentarily expecting her reappearance. Only a short half-hour ago, with Doris’ head upon his breast, he had felt supremely happy; now he was plunged into an abyss of utter wretchedness. What were the contents of that brief note which had affected her so powerfully? Why should she secrete it with such care unless it conveyed a lover’s assurance? His foot came into contact with a chair, and he swore under his breath.
The servant, who had entered unobserved, coughed deprecatingly.
“Her ladyship sends her excuses, sir,” he said, “and says she will write you later.”
He ushered the young man to the outer door.
Upon the top step Frank halted stiffly. He found himself face to face with Poltavo.
The Count greeted him gravely.
“A sad business!” he murmured. “You have seen the ladies? How does Miss Gray bear it? She is well?”
Frank gazed at him darkly.
“Your note recovered her!” he said, quietly.
“Mine!” Surprise was in the Count’s voice. “But I have not written. I am come in person.”
Frank’s face expressed scornful incredulity. He lifted his hat grimly and descended the steps, and came into collision with a smiling, brown-faced
