“Yes,” said Mr. Warden, sadly, “Amy was a pale likeness (if I may use the expression) of her mother in mind and body. She resembled her in form and outline, so to speak, but lacked the full, brilliant colouring which made her mother so dangerously fascinating. Strange to say, the likeness was never so apparent to me as when she was lying cold and lifeless in her coffin; then I felt tempted to ask myself, is this Amy, or is it her mother?”
“And I, too,” said Lord Hardcastle, quietly, “saw a look in Amy’s face then I had never seen before. Mr. Warden, I have now but one object in life, to rescue Amy dead, as I would have rescued her living, from scorn or dishonour. I want to write the name she has a right to bear, on her now nameless tomb. I want to be able to hold up the picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and purity, and beauty, and to say to all the world, ‘this is the one I have loved in life, whom I love in death, and whom I shall love after death, through eternity!’ ”
Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then he said very quietly—
“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never really known you until today. Yes, I will go with you to Le Puy or anywhere else you may choose. I feel equal to it, and after all, for an old man like me it doesn’t much matter in what corner of the world he may lay his bones!”
X
Before starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:—
“Sir—
“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged.
“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received a letter enclosing another, evidently foreign. The outside envelope was too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint very different men for foreign work.
To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply—
“Sir—
“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from another quarter.
The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his wedding-day, and ran as follows:—
“Dear Hardcastle—
“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it would be impossible. I am only writing to enclose a small packet—a blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it behind the fire.
“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose life has been best worth living!”
And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said a long goodbye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue.
“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any place home again.”
What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his own mind—
“What will our coming back here be like?”
Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and their destination even kept secret. Mr. Warden had informed his agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his health, and had given various postes restantes in France to which his letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction.
It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s strength
