"Because of your mother. She would probably have been a little inquisitive. Let us go into some place--a tea-room--where we can talk,"

she suggested. "I have come to see you concerning Mr. Henfrey."

"Where is he?" asked Dorise, in an instant anxious.

"Quite safe. He arrived in Malines yesterday--and is with friends."

"Has he had my letters?"

"Unfortunately, no. But do not let us talk here. Let's go in yonder,"

and she indicated the Laurel Tea Rooms, which, the hour being early, they found, to their satisfaction, practically deserted.

At a table in the far corner they resumed their conversation.

"Why has he not received my letters?" asked Dorise. "It is nearly a month ago since I first wrote."

"By some mysterious means the police got to know of your friend's intended visit to Brussels to obtain his letters. Therefore, it was too dangerous for him to go to the Poste Restante, or even to send anyone there. The Brussels police were watching constantly. How they have gained their knowledge is a complete mystery."

"Who sent you to me?"

"A friend of Mr. Henfrey. My instructions are to see you, and to convey any message you may wish to send to Mr. Henfrey to him direct in Malines."

"I'm sure it's awfully good of you," Dorise replied. "Does he know you are here?"

"Yes. But I have not met him. I am simply a messenger. In fact, I travel far and wide for those who employ me."

"And who are they?"

"I regret, but they must remain nameless," said the girl, with a smile.

Dorise was puzzled as to how the French police could have gained any knowledge of Hugh's intentions. Then suddenly, she became horrified as a forgotten fact flashed across her mind. She recollected how, early in the grey morning, after her return from the ball at Nice, she had written and addressed a letter to Hugh. On reflection, she had realized that it was not sufficiently rea.s.suring, so she had torn it up and thrown it into the waste-paper basket instead of burning it.

She had, she remembered, addressed the envelope to Mr. G.o.dfrey Brown, at the Poste Restante in Brussels.

Was it possible that the torn fragments had fallen into the hands of the police? She knew that they had been watching her closely. Her surmise was, as a matter of fact, the correct one. Ogier had employed the head chambermaid to give him the contents of Dorise's waste-paper basket from time to time, hence the knowledge he had gained.

"Are you actually going to Malines?" asked Dorise of the girl.

"Yes. As your messenger," the other replied with a smile. "I am leaving to-night. If you care to write him a letter, I will deliver it."

"Will you come with me over to the Empress Club, and I will write the letter there?" Dorise suggested, still entirely mystified.

To this the stranger agreed, and they left the tea-shop and walked together to the well-known ladies' club, where, while the mysterious messenger sipped tea, Dorise sat down and wrote a long and affectionate letter to her lover, urging him to exercise the greatest caution and to get back to London as soon as he could.

When she had finished it, she placed it in an envelope.

"I would not address it," remarked the other girl. "It will be safer blank, for I shall give it into his hand."

And ten minute later the mysterious girl departed, leaving Dorise to reflect over the curious encounter.

So Hugh was in Malines. She went to the telephone, rang up Walter Brock, and told him the rea.s.suring news.

"In Malines?" he cried over the wire. "I wonder if I dare go there to see him? What a dead-alive hole!"

Not until then did Dorise recollect that the girl had not given her Hugh's address. She had, perhaps, purposely withheld it.

This fact she told Hugh's friend, who replied over the wire:

"Well, it is highly satisfactory news, in any case. We can only wait, Miss Rans...o...b.. But this must relieve your mind, I feel sure."

"Yes, it does," admitted Dorise, and a few moments later she rang off.

That evening Il Pa.s.sero's _chic_ messenger crossed from Dover to Ostend, and next morning she called at Madame Maupoil's, in Malines, where she delivered Dorise's note into Hugh's own hand. She was an expert and hardened traveller.

Hugh eagerly devoured its contents, for it was the first communication he had had from her since that fateful night at Monte Carlo. Then, having thanked the girl again, and again, the latter said:

"If you wish to write back to Miss Rans...o...b..do so. I will address the envelope, and as I am going to Cologne to-night I will post it on my arrival."

Hugh thanked her cordially, and while she sat chatting with Madame Maupoil, sipping her _cafe au lait_, he sat down and wrote a long letter to the girl he loved so deeply--a letter which reached its destination four days later.

One morning about ten days afterwards, when the sun shone brightly upon the fresh green of the Surrey hills, Mrs. Bond was sitting before a fire in the pretty morning room at Shapley Manor, a room filled with antique furniture and old blue china, reading an ill.u.s.trated paper. At the long, leaded window stood a tall, fair-faced girl in a smart navy-suit. She was decidedly pretty, with large, soft grey eyes, dimpled cheeks, and a small, well-formed mouth. She gazed abstractedly out of the window over the beautiful panorama to where Hindhead rose abruptly in the blue distance. The view from the moss-grown terrace at Shapley, high upon the Hog's back, was surely one of the finest within a couple of hundred miles of London.

Since Mrs. Bond's arrival there she had had many callers among the _nouveau riche_, those persons who, having made money at the expense of our gallant British soldiers, have now ousted half the county families from their solid and responsible homes. Mrs. Bond, being wealthy, had displayed her riches ostentatiously. She had subscribed lavishly to charities both in Guildford and in Farnham, and hence, among her callers there had been at least three magistrates and their flat-footed wives, as well as a plethoric alderman, and half a dozen insignificant persons possessing minor t.i.tles.

The display of wealth had always been one of Molly Maxwell's games. It always paid. She knew that to succeed one must spend, and now, with her recently acquired "fortune," she spent to a very considerable tune.

"I do wish you'd go in the car to Guildford and exchange those library books, Louise," exclaimed the handsome woman, suddenly looking up from her paper. "We've got those horrid Brailsfords coming to lunch. I was bound to ask them back."

"Can't you come, too?" asked the girl.

"No. I expect Mr. Benton this morning."

"I didn't know he was back from Paris. I'm so glad he's coming," replied the girl. "He'll stay all the afternoon, of course?"

"I hope so. Go at once and get back as soon as you can, dear. Choose me some nice new books, won't you?"

Louise Lambert, Benton's adopted daughter, turned from the leaded window. In the strong morning light she looked extremely charming, but upon her countenance there was a deep, thoughtful expression, as though she were entirely preoccupied.

"I've been thinking of Hugh Henfrey," the woman remarked suddenly. "I wonder why he never writes to you?" she added, watching the girl's face.

Louise's cheeks reddened slightly, as she replied with affected carelessness:

"If he doesn't care to write, I shall trouble no longer."

"He's still abroad, is he not? The last I heard of him was that he was at Monte Carlo with that Rans...o...b..girl."

Mention of Dorise Rans...o...b..caused the girl's cheeks to colour more deeply.

"Yes," she said, "I heard that also."