“Lady Dinsmore is always right,” he said, lightly; “it is one of the privileges of her age and position. But in what respect was she right?”
The girl shook her head.
“I do not think it is loyal of me to tell you, but I must. She always thought Mr. Farrington was engaged in some shady business and has warned me time after time.”
“An admirable woman,” said Poltavo, with a sneer.
“In three days,” he went on, thoughtfully. “Well, much may happen in three days. I must confess that I am anxious to know what would be the result of this marriage not taking place.”
He did not wait for an expression of her views, but with a curt little bow he ushered himself out of the room.
“Three days,” he found himself repeating, as he made his way back to his house. “Why should Farrington be in such a frantic hurry to marry the girl off, and why should he have chosen this penniless reporter?”
This was a matter which required a great deal of examination.
Two of those three days were dream days for Frank Doughton; he could not believe it possible that such a fortune could be his. But with his joy there ran the knowledge that he was marrying a woman who had no desire for such a union.
But she would learn to love him; so he promised himself in his optimism and the assurance of his own love. He had unbounded faith in himself, and was working hard in these days, not only upon his stories, but upon the clue which the discovery of the belated letter afforded him. He had carefully gone through the parish list to discover the Annies of the past fifty years. In this he was somewhat handicapped by the fact that there must have been hundreds of Annies who enjoyed no separate existence, married women who had no property qualification to appear on ratepayers’ lists; anonymous Annies, who perhaps employed that as a pet name, instead of the name with which they had been christened.
He had one or two clues and was following these industriously. For the moment, however, he must drop this work and concentrate his mind upon the tremendous and remarkable business which his coming marriage involved. He had a series of articles to write for the Monitor, and he applied himself feverishly to this work.
It was two nights before his marriage that he carried the last of his work to the great newspaper office on the Thames Embankment, and delivered his manuscript in person to the editor.
That smiling man offered his congratulations to the embarrassed youth.
“I suppose we shall not be looking for any articles from you for quite a long time,” he said, at parting.
“I hope so,” said the other. “I do not see why I should starve because I am married. My wife will be a very rich woman,” he said quietly, “but so far as I am concerned that will make no difference; I do not intend taking one penny of her fortune.”
The journalist clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good lad,” he said, approvingly; “the man who lives on his wife’s income is a man who has ceased to live.”
“That sounds like an epigram,” smiled Frank.
He looked at his watch as he descended the stairs. It was nine o’clock and he had not dined; he would go up to an eating house in Soho and have his frugal meal before he retired for the night. He had had a heavy day, and a heavier day threatened on the morrow. Outside the newspaper office was a handsome new car, its lacquer work shining in the electric light. Frank was passing when the chauffeur called him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, touching his cap, “are you Mr. Frank Doughton?”
“That is my name,” said Frank, in surprise, for he did not recognize the man.
“I have been asked to call and pick you up, sir.”
“Pick me up?” asked the astonished Frank—“by whom?”
“By Sir George Frederick,” said the man, respectfully.
Frank knew the name of the member of Parliament and puzzled his brain as to whether he had ever met him.
“But what does Sir George want with me?” he asked.
“He wanted five minutes’ conversation with you, sir,” said the man.
It would have been churlish to have refused the member’s request; besides, the errand would take him partly on his way. He opened the door of the landaulet and stepped in, and as the door swung to behind him, he found he was not alone in the car.
“What is the—” he began, when a powerful hand gripped his throat, and he was swung backward on the padded seat as the car moved slowly forward and, gathering speed as it went, flew along the Thames Embankment with its prisoner.
XV
In the rectory at Great Bradley, Lady Constance Dex arose from a sleepless night to confront her placid brother at the breakfast table. The Reverend Jeremiah Bangley, a stout and easy man, who spent as much of his time in London as in his rectory, was frankly nonplussed by the apparition. He was one of those men, common enough, who accept the most extraordinary happenings as being part of life’s normal round. An earthquake in Little Bradley which swallowed up his church and the major portion of his congregation would not have interested him any more than the budding of the trees, or a sudden arrival of flower life in his big walled garden. Now, however, he was obviously astonished.
“What brings you to breakfast, Constance?” he asked. “I have not seen you at this table for many years.”
“I could not sleep,” she said, as she helped herself at the sideboard to a crisp morsel of bacon. “I think I will take my writing pad to Moor Cottage.”
He pursed his lips, this easy going rector of Little Bradley.
“I have always thought,” he said, “that Moor Cottage was not the most desirable gift the late Mr. Farrington could have made to you.” He
