“I think not. A sudden coolness arose between them, and the young fellow went away without so much as shaking hands with me.”
“I fear an irreparable breach has occurred between the Cleeves and yourself on account of dear René’s extraordinary treatment of Gordon,” said Mrs. Greenhow sweetly.
“There was no extraordinary treatment,” said Mr. Golding, now almost in anger. “My daughter and Mr. Cleeve were good friends—nothing more, I assure you—until one day René saw him cruelly thrashing one of his setters, and after that she cut him dead—would have nothing whatever to do with him.”
“Maddalena told Inspector Ramsay,” said Mrs. Greenhow, sweetly still, “that on the evening before Gordon Cleeve left Langford dear René received a note from him—”
“Which she tossed unopened into the fire,” finished Mr. Golding.
“Who is Maddalena?” interrupted Loveday.
“My daughter’s maid. I brought her over from Naples twelve years ago as nurse, and as René grew older she naturally enough fell into her duties as René’s maid. She is a dear, faithful creature; her aunt was nurse to René’s mother.”
“Is it possible for Maddalena to be told off to wait upon me while I am in the house?” asked Loveday, turning to Mrs. Greenhow.
“Certainly, if you wish it. At the same time, I warn you that she is not in a particularly amiable frame of mind just now, and will be very likely to be sullen and disobliging,” answered the lady.
“Maddalena is not generally either one or the other,” said Mr. Golding deprecatingly; “but just now she is a little unlike herself. The truth is, all the servants have been a little too rigorously cross-examined by the police on matters of which they could have absolutely no knowledge, and Ramsay made such a dead set at Lena that the girl felt herself insulted, grew sullen, and refused to open her lips.”
“She must be handled judiciously. I suppose she was brokenhearted when Miss Golding did not return from her morning’s walk?”
A reply was prevented by the entrance of a servant with a telegram in his hand.
Mr. Golding tore it open, and, in a trembling voice, read aloud as follows:
“Someone answering to the description of your daughter was seen yesterday in the Champs Élysées, but disappeared before she could be detained. Watch arrivals at Folkestone and Dover.”
The telegram was dated from Paris, and was from M. Dulau, of the Paris police. Mr. Golding’s agitation was pitiable.
“Great heavens! is it possible?” he cried, putting his hand to his forehead as if stunned. “I’ll start for Dover—no, Paris, I think, at once.” He staggered to his feet, looking around him in a dazed and bewildered fashion. He might as well have talked of starting for the moon or the north star.
“Pardon me,” said Loveday, “Inspector Ramsay is the right person to deal with that telegram. It should be sent to him at once.”
Mr. Golding sank back in his chair, trembling from head to foot.
“I think you are right,” he said faintly. “I might break down and lose a possible chance.”
Then he turned once more to the man, who stood waiting for orders, and desired him to take the fastest horse to the stables and ride at once with the telegram to the Inspector.
“And,” he added, “on your way back call at the Castle, see Lord Guilleroy, and give him the news.” He turned a pleading face towards Loveday. “This is good news—you consider it good news, do you not?” he asked piteously.
“It won’t do to depend too much on it, will it?” said Mrs. Greenhow. “You see, there have been so many false alarms—if I may use the word.”—This was said to Loveday.—“Three times last week we had telegrams from different parts of the country saying dear René had been seen—now here, now there, I think there must be a good many girls like her wandering about the world.”
“The dress has something to do with it, no doubt,” answered Loveday; “it is not a very distinctive one. Still, we must hope for the best. It is possible, of course, that at this very moment the young lady may be on her way home with a full explanation of what has seemed extraordinary conduct on her part. Now, if you will allow me, I will go to my room. And will you please give the order that Maddalena shall follow me there as quickly as possible?”
Loveday’s thoughts were very busy when, in the quietude of her own room, she sank into an easy chair beside the fire. The case to which she had so unwillingly devoted her attention was beginning to present some interesting intricacies. She passed in view the dramatis personae of the little drama which she could only hope might not end in a tragedy. The brokenhearted father; the would-be-stepmother, with her feline affinities; the faithful maid; the cruel-tempered lover; the open-faced, energetic one; each in turn received their meed of attention.
“That man would be one to depend on in an emergency,” she said to herself, allowing her thoughts to dwell a little longer upon Lord Guilleroy than upon the others. “He has, I should say, a good head on his shoulders and—”
But here a tap-tap at the door brought her thinking to a standstill, and in response to her “come in” the door opened and the maid Lena entered.
She was a tall, black-eyed, dark-skinned woman of about thirty, dressed in a neat black stuff gown. Twelve years of English domestic life had considerably modified the outer tokens of her nationality; a gold dagger that kept a thick coil of hair in its place, and a massive Roman-cut cameo ring on the third finger of her right hand, were about the only things that differentiated her appearance from that of the ordinary
