Walter Murie was in London. While Gabrielle had been at Durham he had travelled up there, spent the night at the "Three Tuns," and met her next morning in that pretty wooded walk they call "the Banks." Devoted to her as he was, he could not bear any long separation; while she, on her part, was gratified by this attention. Not without some difficulty did she succeed in getting away from her friends to meet him, for a provincial town is not like London, and any stranger is always in the public eye. But they spent a delightful couple of hours together, strolling along the footpath through the meadows in the direction of Finchale Priory. There were no eavesdroppers; and he, with his arm linked in hers, repeated the story of his all-conquering love.

She listened in silence, then raising her fine clear eyes to his, said, "I know, Walter--I know that you love me. And I love you also."

"Ah," he sighed, "if you would only be frank with me, dearest--if you would only be as frank with me as I am with you!"

Sadly she shook her head, but made no reply. He saw that a shadow had clouded her brow, that she still clung to her strange secret; and at length, when they retraced their steps back to the city, he reluctantly took leave of her, and half-an-hour later was speeding south again towards York and King's Cross.

The opening day of the partridge season proved bright and pleasant. The men were out early; and the ladies, a gay party, including Gabrielle, joined them at luncheon spread on a mossy bank about three miles from the castle. Several of the male guests were particularly attentive to the dainty, sweet-faced girl whose charming manner and fresh beauty attracted them. But Gabrielle's heart was with Walter always. She loved him. Yes, she told herself so a dozen times each day. And yet was not the barrier between them insurmountable? Ah, if he only knew! If he only knew!

The blind man was left alone nearly the whole of that day. His daughter had wanted to remain with him, but he would not hear of it. "My dear child," he had said, "you must go out and lunch. You really must a.s.sist your mother in entertaining the people."

"But, dear dad, I much prefer to remain with you and help you," she protested. "Yesterday the Professor sent you five more bronze matrices of ecclesiastical seals. We haven't yet examined them."

"We'll do so to-night, dear," he said. "You go out to-day. I'll amuse myself all right. Perhaps I'll go for a little walk."

Therefore the girl had, against her inclination, joined the luncheon-party, where foremost of all to have her little attentions was a rather foppish young stockbroker named Girdlestone, who had been up there shooting the previous year, and had on that occasion flirted with her furiously.

During her absence her father tried to resume his knitting--an occupation which he had long ago been compelled to resort to in order to employ his time; but he soon put it down with a sigh, rose, and taking his soft brown felt-hat and stout stick, tapped his way along through the great hall and out into the park.

He felt the warmth upon his cheek as he pa.s.sed slowly along down the broad drive. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only I could once again see G.o.d's sunlight! If I could only see the greenery of nature and the face of my darling child!" and he sighed brokenly, and went on, his chin sunk upon his breast, a despairing, hopeless man. Surely no figure more pathetic than his could be found in the whole of Scotland. Upon him had been showered honour, great wealth, all indeed that makes life worth living, and yet, deprived of sight, he existed in that world of darkness, deceived and plotted against by all about him. His grey countenance was hard and thoughtful as he pa.s.sed slowly along tapping the ground before him, for he was thinking--ever thinking--of the declaration of his French visitor. He had been betrayed. But by whom?

His thoughts were wandering back to those days when he could see--those well-remembered days when he had held the House in silence by his brilliant oratory, and when the papers next day had leading articles concerning his speeches. He recollected his time-mellowed old club in St. James's Street--Boodle's--of which he had been so fond. Then came his affliction. The thought of it all struck him suddenly; and, clenching his hands, he murmured some inarticulate words through his teeth. They sounded strangely like a threat. Next instant, however, he laughed bitterly to himself the dry, harsh laugh of a man into whose very soul the iron had entered.

In the distance he could hear the shots of his guests, those men who accepted his hospitality, and who among themselves agreed that he was "a terrible bore, poor old fellow!" They came up there--with perhaps two exceptions--to eat his dinners, drink his choice wines, and shoot his birds, but begrudged him more than ten minutes or so of their company each day. In the billiard-room of an evening, as he sat upon one of the long lounges, they would perhaps deign to chat with him; but, alas! he knew that he was only as a wet blanket to his wife's guests, hence he kept himself so much to the library--his own domain.

That night he spent half-an-hour in the billiard-room in order to hear what sport they had had, but very soon escaped, and with Gabrielle returned again to the library to fulfil his promise and examine the seal-matrices which the Professor had sent.

To where they sat came bursts of boisterous laughter and of the waltz-music of the pianola in the hall, for in the shooting season the echoes of the fine mansion were awakened by the merriment of as gay a crowd as any who a.s.sembled in the Highlands.

Sir Henry heard it. The sounds jarred upon his nerves. Mirth such as theirs was debarred him for ever, and he had now become gloomy and misanthropic. He sat fingering those big oval matrices of bronze, listening to Gabrielle's voice deciphering the inscriptions, and explaining what was meant and what was possibly their history. One which Sir Henry declared to be the gem of them all bore the _ma.n.u.s Dei_ for device, and was the seal of Archbishop Richard (1174-84). Several doc.u.ments bearing impressions of this seal were, he said, preserved at Canterbury and in the British Museum, but here the actual seal itself had come to light.

With all the enthusiasm of an expert he lingered over the matrice, feeling it carefully with the tips of his fingers, and tracing the device with the nail of his forefinger. "Splendid!" he declared. "The lettering is a most excellent specimen of early Lombardic." And then he gave the girl the t.i.tles of several works, which she got down from the shelves, and from which she read extracts after some careful search.

The sulphur-casts sent with the matrices she placed carefully with her father's collection, and during the remainder of the evening they were occupied in replying to several letters regarding estate matters.

At eleven o'clock she kissed her father good-night and pa.s.sed out to the hall, where the pianola was still going, and where the merriment was still in full swing. For a quarter of an hour she was compelled to remain with the insipid young a.s.s Bertie Girdlestone, a man who patronised musical comedy nightly, and afterwards supped regularly at the "Savoy"; then she escaped at last to her room.

Exchanging her pretty gown of turquoise chiffon for an easy wrap, she took up a novel, and, switching on her green-shaded reading-lamp, sat down to enjoy a quiet hour before retiring. Quickly she became engrossed in the story, and though the stable-chimes sounded each half-hour she remained undisturbed by them.

It was half-past two before she had reached the happy _denouement_ of the book, and, closing it, she rose to take off her trinkets. Having divested herself of bracelets, rings, and necklet, she placed her hands to her ears. There was only one ear-ring; the other was missing! They were sapphires, a present from Walter on her last birthday. He had sent them to her from Yokohama, and she greatly prized them. Therefore, at risk of being seen in her dressing-gown by any of the male guests who might still be astir--for she knew they always played billiards until very late--she took off her little blue satin slippers and stole out along the corridor and down the broad staircase.

The place was in darkness; but she turned on the light, and again when she reached the hall.

She must have dropped her ear-ring in the library; of that she felt sure. Servants were so careless that, if she left it, it might easily be swept up in the morning and lost for ever. That thought had caused her to search for it at once.

As she approached the library door she thought she heard the sound as of some one within. On her opening the door, however, all was in darkness.

She laughed at her apprehension.

In an instant she touched the switch, and the place became flooded by a soft, mellow light from lamps cunningly concealed behind the bookcases against the wall. At the same moment, however, she detected a movement behind one of the bookcases against which she stood. With sudden resolution and fearlessness, she stepped forward to ascertain its cause.

Her eyes at that instant fell upon a sight which caused her to start and stand dumb with amazement. Straight before her the door of her father's safe stood open. Beside it, startled at the sudden interruption, stood a man in evening-dress, with a small electric lamp in his clenched hand. A pair of dark, evil eyes met hers in defiance--the eyes of James Flockart.

"You!" she gasped.

"Yes," he laughed dryly. "Don't be afraid. It's only I. But, by Jove!

how very charming you look in that gown! I'd love to get a snapshot of you just as you stand now."

"What are you doing there, examining my father's papers?" she demanded quickly, her small hands clenched.

"My dear girl," he replied with affected unconcern, "that's my own business. You really ought to have been in bed long ago. It isn't discreet, you know, to be down here with me at this hour!"

"I demand to know what you are doing here!" she cried firmly.

"And, my dear little girl, I refuse to tell you," was his decisive answer.

"Very well, then I shall alarm the house and explain to my father what I have discovered."

CHAPTER XIX

SHOWS GABRIELLE DEFIANT

Gabrielle crossed quickly to one of the long windows, which she unbolted and flung open, expecting to hear the shrill whir of the burglar-alarm, which, every night, Hill switched on before retiring.

"My dear little girl!" exclaimed the man, smiling as he strolled leisurely across to her with a cool, perfect unconcern which showed how completely he was master, "why create such a beastly draught? Nothing will happen, for I've already seen to those wires."

"You're a thief!" she cried, drawing herself up angrily. "I shall go straight to my father and tell him at once."

"You are at perfect liberty to act exactly as you choose," was Flockart's answer, as he bowed before her with irritating mock politeness. "But before you go, pray allow me to finish these most interesting doc.u.ments, some of which, I believe, are in your very neat handwriting."

"My father's business is his own alone, and you have no right whatever to pry into it. I thought you were posing as his friend!" she cried in bitter protest, as she stood with both her hands clenched.

"I am his friend," he declared. "Some day, Gabrielle, you will know the truth of how near he is to disaster, and how I am risking much in an endeavour to save him."

"I don't believe you!" she exclaimed in undisguised disgust. "In your heart there is not one single spark of sympathy with him in his affliction or with me in my ghastly position!"

"Your position is only your own seeking, my dear child," was his cold response. "I gave you full warning long ago. You can't deny that."

"You conspired with Lady Heyburn against me!" she cried. "I have discovered more about it than you think; and I now openly defy you, Mr.

Flockart. Please understand that."

"Good!" he replied, still unruffled. "I quite understand. You will pardon my resuming, won't you?" And walking back to the open safe, he drew forth a small bundle of papers from a drawer. Then he threw himself into a leather arm-chair, and proceeded to untie the tape and examine the doc.u.ments one by one, as though in eager search of something.

"Though Lady Heyburn may be your friend, I am quite sure even she would never for a moment countenance such a dastardly action as this!" cried the girl, crimsoning in anger. "You come here, accept my father's hospitality, and make pretence of being his friend and adviser; yet you are conspiring against him, as you have done against myself!"

"So far as you yourself are concerned, my dear Gabrielle," he laughed, without deigning to look up from the papers he was scanning, "I offered you my friendship, but you refused it."

"Friendship!" she cried, in sarcasm. "Your friendship, Mr. Flockart!

What, pray, is it worth? You surely know what people are saying--the construction they are placing upon your friendship for Lady Heyburn?"