"I had another good look at the safe this morning," the man went on presently. "It is one of the best makes, and would resist anything, except, of course, the electric current."

"To force it would be to put Henry on his guard," Lady Heyburn remarked, "If we are to know what secrets are there, and use our knowledge for our own benefit, we must open it with a key and relock it."

"Well, Winnie, we must do something. We must both have money--that's quite evident," he said. "That last five hundred you gave me will stave off ruin for a week or so. But after that we must certainly be well supplied, or else there may be revelations well--which will be as ugly for yourself as for me."

"I know," she exclaimed. "I fully realise the necessity of getting funds. The other affair, though we worked it so well, proved a miserable fiasco."

"And very nearly gave us away into the bargain," he declared. "I tell you frankly, Winnie, that if we can't pay a level five thousand in three weeks' time the truth will be out, and you know what that will mean."

He was watching her handsome face as he spoke, and he noticed how pale and drawn were her features as he referred to certain ugly truths that might leak out.

"Yes," she gasped, "I know, James. We'd both find ourselves under arrest. Such a _contretemps_ is really too terrible to think of."

"But, my dear girl, it must be faced," he said, "if we don't get the money. Can't you work Sir Henry for a bit more, say another thousand.

Make an excuse that you have bills to pay in London--dressmakers, jewellers, milliners--any good story will surely do. He gives you anything you ask for."

She shook her head and sighed. "I fear I've imposed upon his good-nature far too much already," she answered. "I know I'm extravagant; I'm sorry, but can't help it. Born in me, I suppose. A few months ago he found out that I'd been paying Mellish a hundred pounds each time to decorate Park Street with flowers for my Wednesday evenings, and he created an awful scene. He's getting horribly stingy of late."

"Yes; but the flowers were a bit expensive, weren't they?" he remarked.

"Not at all. Lady Fortrose, the wife of the soap-man, pays two hundred and fifty pounds for flowers for her house every Thursday in the season; and mine looked quite as good as hers. I think Mellish is much cheaper than anybody else. And, just because I went to a cheap man, Henry was horrible. He said all sorts of weird things about my reckless extravagance and the suffering poor--as though I had anything to do with them. The genuine poor are really people like you and me."

"I know," he said philosophically, lighting another cigarette. "But all this is beside the point. We want money, and money we must have in order to avoid exposure. You--"

"I was a fool to have had anything to do with that other little affair,"

she interrupted.

"It was not only myself who arranged it. Remember, it was you who suggested it, because it seemed so easy, and because you had an old score to pay off."

"The woman was sacrificed, and at the same time an enemy learnt our secret."

"I couldn't help it," he protested. "You let your woman's vindictiveness overstep your natural caution, my dear girl. If you'd taken my advice there would have been no suspicion."

Lady Heyburn was silent. She sat regarding the toe of her patent-leather shoe fixedly, in deep reflection. She was powerless to protest, she was so entirely in this man's hands. "Well," she asked at last, stirring uneasily in her chair, "and suppose we are not able to raise the money, what do you antic.i.p.ate will be the result?"

"A rapid reprisal," was his answer. "People like them don't hesitate--they act."

"Yes, I see," she remarked in a blank voice. "They have nothing to lose, so they will bring pressure upon us."

"Just as we once tried to bring pressure upon them. It's all a matter of money. We pay the price arranged--a mere matter of business."

"But how are we to get money?"

"By getting a glance at what's in that safe," he replied. "Once we get to know this mysterious secret of Sir Henry's, I and my friends can get money easily enough. Leave it all to me."

"But how--"

"This matter you will please leave entirely to me, Winnie," he repeated with determination. "We are both in danger--great danger; and that being so, it is inc.u.mbent upon me to act boldly and fearlessly. I mean to get the key, and see what is within that safe."

"But the girl?" asked her ladyship.

"Within one week from to-day the girl will no longer trouble us," he said with an evil glance. "I do not intend that she shall remain a barrier against our good fortune any longer. Understand that, and remain perfectly calm, whatever may happen."

"But you surely don't intend--you surely will not--"

"I shall act as I think proper, and without any sentimental advice from you," he declared with a mock bow, but straightening himself instantly when at the door was heard a fumbling, and the gray-bearded man in blue spectacles, his thin white hand groping before him, slowly entered the room.

CHAPTER XIV

CONCERNS THE CURSE OF THE CARDINAL

Gabrielle and Walter were seated together under one of the big oaks at the edge of the tennis-lawn at Connachan. With May Spencer and Lady Murie they had been playing; but his mother and the young girl had gone into the house for tea, leaving the lovers alone.

"What's the matter with you to-day, darling?" he had asked as soon as they were out of hearing. "You don't seem yourself, somehow."

She started quickly, and, pulling herself up, tried to smile, a.s.suring him that there was really nothing amiss.

"I do wish you'd tell me what it is that's troubling you so," he said.

"Ever since I returned from abroad you've not been yourself. It's no use denying it, you know."

"I haven't felt well, perhaps. I think it must be the weather," she a.s.sured him.

But he, viewing the facts in the light of what he had noticed at their almost daily clandestine meetings, knew that she was concealing something from him.

Before his departure on that journey to j.a.pan she had always been so very frank and open. Nowadays, however, she seemed to have entirely changed. Her love for him was just the same--that he knew; it was her unusual manner, so full of fear and vague apprehension, which caused him so many hours of grave reflection.

With her woman's cleverness, she succeeded in changing the topic of conversation, and presently they rose to join his mother at the tea-table in the drawing-room.

Half-an-hour later, while they were idling in the hall together, she suddenly exclaimed, "Walter, you're great on Scottish history, so I want some information from you. I'm studying the legends and traditions of our place, Glencardine. What do you happen to know about them?"

"Well," he laughed, "there are dozens of weird tales about the old castle. I remember reading quite a lot of extraordinary stories in some book or other about three years ago. I found it in the library here."

"Oh! do tell me all about it," she urged instantly. "Weird legends always fascinate me. Of course I know just the outlines of its history.

It's the tales told by the country-folk in which I'm so deeply interested."

"You mean the apparition of the Lady in Green, and all that?"

"Yes; and the Whispers."

He started quickly at her words, and asked, "What do you know about them, dear? I hope you haven't heard them?"

She smiled, with a frantic effort at unconcern, saying, "And what harm, pray, would they have done me, even if I had?"

"Well," he said, "they are only heard by those whose days are numbered; at least, so say the folk about here."

"Of course, it's only a fable," she laughed. "The people of the Ochils are so very superst.i.tious."