"Let's sit down somewhere, and I will tell you," he said. Then, re-entering the park by the small iron gate, Dorise led him to a fallen tree where, as they sat together, he related all he had been told concerning the notorious head of a criminal gang known to his confederates, and the underworld of Europe generally, as Il Pa.s.sero, or The Sparrow.

"How very remarkable!" exclaimed Dorise, when he had finished, and she, in turn, had told him of the encounter at the White Ball at Nice, and the coming and going of the messenger from Malines. "I wonder if he really is the notorious Sparrow?"

"I feel convinced he is," declared Hugh. "He sent me a message in secret to Malines a fortnight ago forbidding me to attempt to leave Belgium, because he considered the danger too great. He was, no doubt, much surprised to-night when he found me here."

"He certainly was quite as surprised as myself," the girl replied, happy beyond expression that her lover was once again at her side.

In his strong arms he held her in a long, tight embrace, kissing her upon the lips in a frenzy of satisfaction--long, sweet kisses which she reciprocated with a whole-heartedness that told him of her devotion.

There, in the shadow, he whispered to her his love, repeating what he had told her in London, and again in Monte Carlo.

Suddenly he put a question to her:

"Do you really believe I am innocent of the charge against me, darling?"

"I do, Hugh," she answered frankly.

"Ah! Thank you for those words," he said, in a broken voice. "I feared that you might think because of my flight that I was guilty."

"I know you are not. Mother, of course, says all sorts of nasty things--that you must have done something very wrong--and all that."

"My escape certainly gives colour to the belief that I am in fear of arrest. And so I am. Yet I swear that I never attempted to harm the lady at the Villa Amette."

"But why did you go there at all, dear?" the girl asked. "You surely knew the unenviable reputation borne by that woman!"

"I know it quite well," he said. "I expected to meet an adventuress--but, on the contrary, I met a real good woman!"

"I don't understand you, Hugh," she said.

"No, darling. You, of course, cannot understand!" he exclaimed. "I admit that I followed her home, and I demanded an interview."

"Why?"

"Because I was determined she should divulge to me a secret of her own."

"What secret?"

"One that concerns my whole future."

"Cannot you tell me what it is?" she asked, looking into his face, which in the moonlight she saw was much changed, for it was unusually pale and haggard.

"I--well--at the present moment I am myself mystified, darling. Hence I cannot explain the truth," he replied. "Will you trust me if I promise to tell you the whole facts as soon as I have learnt them? One day I hope I shall know all, yet----"

"Yes--yet--what?"

He drew a deep breath.

"The poor unfortunate lady has lost her reason as the result of the attempt upon her life. Therefore, after all, I may never be in a position to know the truth which died upon her lips."

For nearly two hours the pair remained together. Often she was locked in her lover's arms, heedless of everything save her unbounded joy at his return, and of the fierce, pa.s.sionate caresses he bestowed upon her.

Truly, that was a night of supreme delight as they held each other's hands, and their lips met time after time in ecstasy.

He inquired about George Sherrard, but she said little. She hesitated to tell him of the incident while fishing that morning, but merely said:

"Oh! He was up here for two or three days, but had to go back to London on business. And I was very glad."

"Of course, dearest, your mother still presses you to marry him."

"Yes," laughed the girl. "But she will continue to press. She's constantly singing his praises until I'm utterly sick of hearing of all his good qualities."

Hugh sighed, and replied:

"All men who are rich are possessed of good qualities in the estimation of the world. The poor and hard-up are the despised. But, after all, Dorise," he added, in a changed voice, "you have not forgotten what you told me at Monte Carlo--that you love me?"

"I repeat it, Hugh!" declared the girl, deeply in earnest, her hand stealing into his. "I love only you!--_you_!"

Then again he took her in his arms, and imprinted a fierce, pa.s.sionate kiss upon her ready lips.

"I suppose we must part again," he sighed. "I am compelled to keep away from you because no doubt a watch has been set upon you, and upon your correspondence. Up to the present, I have been able, by the good grace of unknown friends, to slip through the meshes of the net spread for me.

But how long this will continue, I know not."

"Oh! do be careful, Hugh, won't you?" urged the girl, as they sat side by side. The only sound was the rippling of the burn deep down in the glen, and the distant barking of a shepherd's dog.

"Yes. I'll get away into the wilds of Kensington--to Abingdon Road. One is safer in a London suburb than in a desert, no doubt. West London is a good hiding-place."

"Recollect the name. Mason, wasn't it? And she lives at 'Heathcote.'"

"That was it. But do not communicate with me, otherwise my place of concealment will most certainly be discovered."

"But can't I see you, Hugh?" implored the girl. "Must we again be parted?"

"Yes. It seems so, according to our mysterious friend, whom I believe most firmly to be the notorious thief known by the Italian sobriquet of Il Pa.s.sero--The Sparrow."

"Do you think he is a thief?" asked the girl.

"Yes. I am convinced that your friend is none other than the picturesque and romantic criminal whose octopus hand is upon almost every great theft in Europe, and whom the police always fail to catch, so elusive and clever is he."

She gave him further details of their first meeting at Nice.

"Exactly. That is one of his methods--secrecy and generosity are his two traits. He and his accomplices rob the wealthy, and a.s.sist those wrongly accused. It must be he--or one of his a.s.sistants. Otherwise he would not know of the secret hiding-place for those after whom a hue-and-cry has been raised."

He recollected at that moment the girl who had been his fellow-guest in Genoa--the dainty mademoiselle who evidently had some secret knowledge of his father's death, and yet refused to divulge a single word.

Ever since that memorable night at the Villa Amette, he had existed in a mist of suspicion and uncertainty. Yet, after all, he cared little for anything so long as Dorise still believed in his innocence, and she still loved him. His one great object was to clear up the mystery of his father's tragic end, and thus defeat the clever plot of those whose intention it, apparently, was to marry him to Louise Lambert.

On every hand there was mystification. The one woman--notorious as she was--who knew the truth had been rendered mentally incompetent by an a.s.sa.s.sin's bullet, while he, himself, was accused of the crime.

Hugh Henfrey would have long ago confessed to Dorise the whole facts concerning his father's death, but his delicacy prevented him. He honoured his dead father, and was averse to telling the girl he loved that he had been found in a curious state in a West End street late at night. He was loyal to his poor father's memory, and, until he knew the actual truth, he did not intend that Dorise should be in a position to misconstrue the facts, or to misjudge.