The detective notes the movement, smiles again, and goes on:

"Let us advance a step; you _have_ a secret."

"Why--do you--say that?"

"Because you have yourself told me as much. We never feel that uneasy sense of _espionage_, so well described by you, madam, until we have something to conceal--the man who carries no purse, fears no robber. You have a secret. This has made you watchful, and, being watchful, you discover that you have--what? An enemy, or only a tormentor?"

"Both, perhaps," she says sadly.

"My task, then, is to find this enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I shall not touch your secret; at the same time I warn you in this search it is likely to discover itself to me without my seeking. Rest a.s.sured that I shall respect it. First, then, you have a secret. Second, you have an enemy.

Mrs. Warburton, I should ask fewer questions if I could see your face."

Springing up suddenly, she tears off her mask, and standing before him says with proud fierceness:

"And why may you not see my face! There is no shame for my mask to conceal! I _have_ a secret, true; but it is not of _my_ making. It has been forced upon me. I am not an _intriguante_: I am a persecuted woman.

I am not seeking it to conceal wrong doing, but to protect myself from those that wrong me."

The words that begin so proudly, end in a sob, and, covering her face with her white, jeweled hands, Leslie Warburton turns and rests her head against the screen beside her.

Then impulsive, unconventional d.i.c.k Stanhope springs up, and, as if he were administering comfort to a sorrowing child, takes the two hands away from the tear-wet face, and holding them fast in his own, looks straight down into the brown eyes as he says:

"Dear lady, trust me! Even as I believe you, believe _me_, when I say that your confidence shall not be violated. Your secret shall be safe; shall remain yours. Your enemy shall become mine. If you cannot trust me, I cannot help you."

"Oh! I do trust you, Mr. Stanhope; I _must_. Ask of me nothing, for I can tell you no more. To send for you was unwise, perhaps, but I have been so tormented by this spy upon my movements ... and I cannot fight in the dark. It was imprudent to bring you here to-night, but I dared not meet you elsewhere."

There is a lull in the music and a hum of approaching voices. She hastily resumes her mask, and Stanhope says:

"We had better separate now, madam. Trust your case to me. I cannot remain here much longer, otherwise I might find a clue to-night,--important business calls me. After to-night my time is all yours, and be sure I shall find out your enemy."

People are flocking in from the dancing-room. With a gesture of farewell, "Sunlight" flits out through the door just beside the screen, and a moment later, the G.o.ddess of Liberty is sailing through the long drawing-rooms on the arm of a personage in the guise of Uncle Sam.

"What success, my friend?"

"It's all right," replies the G.o.ddess of Liberty; "I have seen the lady."

A moment more and her satin skirts trail across the toes of a tall fellow in the dress of a British officer, who is leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, intently watching the crowd through his yellow mask. At sight of the G.o.ddess of Liberty, he starts forward and a sharp exclamation crosses his lips.

"Shades of Moses," he mutters to himself, "I can't be mistaken; that _is_ d.i.c.k Stanhope's Vienna costume! Is that d.i.c.k inside it? It is! it must be! What is he doing? On a lay, or on a lark? d.i.c.k Stanhope is not given to this sort of frolic; I must find out what it means!"

And Van Vernet leaves his post of observation and follows slowly, keeping the unconscious G.o.ddess of Liberty always in sight.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Dear lady, trust me! Your secret shall be safe; your enemy shall become mine!"--page 75.]

Pa.s.sing through a net-work of vines, the British officer comes upon two people in earnest conversation. The one wears a scarlet and black domino, the other a coquettish Carmen costume.

"That black and red domino is my patron," mutters the officer as he glides by unnoticed. "He does not see me and I do not wish to see _him_ just at present." A few steps farther and the British officer comes to a sudden halt.

"By Heavens!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, half aloud; "what a chance I see before me!

It would be worth something to know what brought d.i.c.k Stanhope here to-night; it would be worth yet more to _keep_ him here _until after midnight_. If I had an accomplice to detain _him_ while I, myself, appear at the Agency in time, then the C---- street Raid would move without him, the lead would be given to _me_. It's worth trying for. It _shall_ be done, and my patron in black and red shall help me."

He turns, and only looks back to mutter:

"Go on, d.i.c.k Stanhope; this night shall begin the trial that, when ended, shall decide which of the two is the better man!"

And the British officer hurries straight on until he stands beside the black and scarlet domino.

CHAPTER IX.

"A FALSE MOVE IN THE GAME."

Pretty, piquant Winnifred French was the staunch friend of Leslie Warburton.

When Winnie was the petted only daughter of "French, the rich merchant,"

she and Leslie Uliman had been firm friends. When Leslie Uliman, the adopted daughter of the aristocratic Uliman's, gave her hand in marriage to Archibald Warburton, a wealthy invalid and a widower with one child, Winnie was her first bridesmaid.

Time had swept away the fortune of French, the merchant, and death had robbed Leslie of her adopted parents, and then Winnifred French gladly accepted the position of salaried companion to her dearest friend.

Not long after, Alan Warburton had returned from abroad, and then had begun a queer complication.

For some reason known only to himself, Alan Warburton had chosen to dislike his beautiful sister-in-law, and he had conceived a violent admiration for Winnie,--an admiration which might have been returned, perhaps, had Winnie been less loyal in her friendship for Leslie. But, perceiving Alan's dislike for her dearest friend, Winnie lost no opportunity for annoying him, and lavishing upon him her stinging sarcasms.

On her part, Leslie Warburton loved her companion with a strong sisterly affection. As for her feelings toward Alan Warburton, it would have been impossible to guess, from her manner, whether he was to her an object of love, hatred, or simple indifference.

When Winnie and Alan turned their backs upon the scene in the anteroom, and entered the dancing hall, the girl was in a particularly perverse mood.

"I shall not dance," she said petulantly. "It's too early and too warm,"

and she entered a flowery alcove, and seated herself upon a couch overhung with vines.

"May I sit down, Winnie?"

"No."

"Just for a moment's chat." And he seated himself as calmly as if he had received a gracious permission.

"You are angry with me again, Winnie. Is my sister-in-law always to come between us?"

She turned and her blue eyes flashed upon him.

"Once and for all," she said sharply, "tell me why you hate Leslie so?"

"Tell _me_ why she has poisoned your mind against me?" he retorted.

"_She!_ Leslie Warburton! This goes beyond a joke, sir. Leslie Warburton _is_ what Leslie Uliman was, a _lady_, in thought, word, and deed. Oh, I can read you, sir! Her crime, in your eyes, is that she has married your brother. Is she not a good and faithful wife; a tender, loving mother to little Daisy? You have hinted that she does not love her husband--by what right do you make the a.s.sertion? You believe that she has married for money,--at least these are _fashionable_ sins! Humph! In all probability I shall marry for money myself."

"Winnifred!"