The Hour of Love! How full of burning love and sentiment! She stopped, reflecting on the meaning of those words.

She was not like the average miss who, parrot-like, knows only a few French or Italian songs. Italian she loved even better than French, and could read Dante and Petrarch in the original, while she possessed an intimate knowledge of the poetry of Italy from the mediaeval writers down to Carducci and D'Annunzio.

With a sigh, she glanced around the small room, with its old-fashioned furniture, its antimaca.s.sars of the early Victorian era, its wax flowers under their gla.s.s dome, and its gipsy-table covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. It was all so very dispiriting. The primness of the whatnot decorated with pieces of treasured china, the big gilt-framed overmantel, and the old punch-bowl filled with pot-pourri, all spoke mutely of the thin-nosed old spinster to whom the veriest speck of dust was an abomination.

Sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashioned instrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and, playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade:

Di questo cor tu m'hai ferito il core A cento colpi, piu non val mentire.

Pensa che non sopporto piu il dolore, E se segu cosi, vado a morire.

Ti tengo nella mente a tutte l'ore, Se lavoro, se velio, o sto a dormre ...

E mentre dormo ancora un sonno grato, Mi trovo tutto lacrime bagnato!

While she sang, there was a rap at the front-door, and, just as she concluded, the prim maid entered with a letter upon a salver.

In an instant her heart gave a bound. She recognised the handwriting. It was Walter's.

The moment the girl had left the room she tore open the envelope, and, holding her breath, read what was written within.

The words were:

"DEAREST HEART,--Your letter came to me after several wanderings. It has caused me to think and to wonder if, after all, I may be mistaken--if, after all, I have misjudged you, darling. I gave you my heart, it is true. But you spurned it--under compulsion, you say! Why under compulsion? Who is it who compels you to act against your will and against your better nature? I know that you love me as well and as truly as I love you yourself. I long to see you with just as great a longing.

You are mine--mine, my own--and being mine, you must tell me the truth.

"I forgive you, forgive you everything. But I cannot understand what Flockart means by saying that I have spoken of you. I have not seen the man, nor do I wish to see him. Gabrielle, do not trust him. He is your enemy, as he is mine. He has lied to you. As grim circ.u.mstance has forced you to treat me cruelly, let us hope that smiling fortune will be ours at last. The world is very small. I have just met my old friend Edgar Hamilton, who was at college with me, and who, I find, is secretary to some wealthy foreigner, a certain Baron de Hetzendorf. I have not seen him for years, and yet he turns up here, merry and prosperous, after struggling for a long time with adverse circ.u.mstances.

"But, Gabrielle, your letter has puzzled and alarmed me. The more I think of it, the more mystifying it all becomes. I must see you, and you must tell me the truth--the whole truth. We love each other, dear heart, and no one shall force you to lie again to me as you did in that letter you wrote from Glencardine. You wish to see me, darling. You shall--and you shall tell me the truth. My dear love, _au revoir_--until we meet, which I hope may be almost as soon as you receive this letter.--My love, my sweetheart, I am your own WALTER."

She sat staring at the letter. He demanded an explanation. He intended to come there and demand it! And the explanation was one which she dared not give. Rather that she took her own life than tell him the ghastly circ.u.mstances.

He had met an old chum named Hamilton. Was this the Mr. Hamilton who had s.n.a.t.c.hed her from that deadly peril? The name of Hetzendorf sounded to be Austrian or German. How strange if Mr. Hamilton her rescuer were the same man who had been years ago her lover's college friend!

She pa.s.sed her white hand across her brow, trying to collect her senses.

She had longed--ah, with such an intense longing!--for a response to that letter of hers, and here at last it had come. But what a response!

He intended her to make confession. He demanded to know the actual truth. What could she do? How should she act?

Holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room in utter despair.

He loved her. His words of rea.s.surance brought her great comfort. But he wished to know the truth. He suspected something. By her own action in writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. She regretted, yet what was the use of regret? Her own pa.s.sionate words had revealed to him something which he had not suspected. And he was coming down there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth! He might even then be on his way!

If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? She dare not tell him the truth. There were now but two roads open--either death by her own hand or to lie to him.

Could she tell him an untruth? No. She loved him, therefore she could not resort to false declarations and deceit. Better--far better--would it be that she took her own life. Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamilton had not plunged into the river after her. If her life had ended, Walter Murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a disgraceful truth. Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the thought.

She loved him with all the fierce pa.s.sion of her young heart. He was her hero, her idol. Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose, a sweet memory of what had been. Tender remembrances of his fond kisses still lingered with her. She recollected how around her waist his strong arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her in his arms in silent ecstasy.

Alas! that was all past and over. They loved each other, but she was now face to face with what she had so long dreaded--face to face with the inevitable. She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.

She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting inertly upon the keys. Then she lifted her pale face again to the window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent, so uninteresting. The thought of Mr. Hamilton--the man who held a secret of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril in which Felix Krail had placed her--again recurred to her. Was it not remarkable that he, Walter's old friend, should come down into that neighbourhood? There was some motive in his visit! What could it be? He had spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a strange fascination. Was it not quite likely that, being Walter's friend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the exciting incident of the river? Had he seen Krail? And, if so, did he know him?

Those two points caused her the greatest apprehension. Suppose he had recognised Krail! Suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and her defiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!

She bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves in desperation.

Why should all this misfortune fall upon her, to wreck her young life?

Other girls were gay, careless, and happy. They visited and motored and flirted and danced, and went to theatres in town and to suppers afterwards at the Carlton or Savoy, and had what they termed "a ripping good time." But to her poor little self all pleasure was debarred. Only the grim shadows of life were hers.

Her mind had become filled with despair. Why had this great calamity befallen her? Why had she, by her own action in writing to her lover, placed herself in that terrible position from which there was no escape--save by death?

The recollection of the Whispers--those fatal Whispers of Glencardine--flashed through her distressed mind. Was it actually true, as the countryfolk declared, that death overtook all those who overheard the counsels of the Evil One? It really seemed as though there actually was more in the weird belief than she had acknowledged. Her father had scouted the idea, yet old Stewart, who had personally known instances, had declared that evil and disaster fell inevitably upon any one who chanced to hear those voices of the night.

The recollection of that moonlight hour among the ruins, and the distinct voices whispering, caused a shudder to run through her. She had heard them with her own ears, and ever since that moment nothing but catastrophe upon catastrophe had fallen upon her.

Yes, she had heard the Whispers, and she could not escape their evil influence any more than those other unfortunate persons to whom death had come so unexpectedly and swiftly.

A shadow pa.s.sed the window, causing her to start. The figure was that of a man. She rose from the piano with a cry, and stood erect, motionless, statuesque.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

IS ABOUT THE MAISON LeNARD

The big, rather severely but well-furnished room overlooked the busy Boulevard des Capucines in Paris. In front lay the great white facade of the Grand Hotel; below was all the bustle, life, and movement of Paris on a bright sunny afternoon. Within the room, at a large mahogany table, sat four grave-faced men, while a fifth stood at one of the long windows, his back turned to his companions.

The short, broad-shouldered man looking forth into the street, in expectancy, was Monsieur Goslin. He had been speaking, and his words had evidently caused some surprise, even alarm, among his companions, for they now exchanged glances in silence.

Three of the men were well-dressed and prosperous-looking; while the fourth, a shrivelled old fellow, in faded clothes which seemed several sizes too large for him, looked needy and ill-fed as he nervously chafed his thin bony hands.

Next moment they all began chatting in French, though from their countenances it was plain that they were of various nationalities--one being German, the other Italian, and the third, a sallow-faced man, had the appearance of a Levantine.

Goslin alone remained silent and watchful. From where he stood he could see the people entering and leaving the Grand Hotel. He glanced impatiently at his watch, and then paced the room, his hand thoughtfully stroking his grey beard. Only half an hour before he had alighted at the Gare du Nord, coming direct from far-off Glencardine, and had driven there in an auto-cab to keep an appointment made by telegram. As he paced the big room, with its dark-green walls, its Turkey carpet, and sombre furniture, his companions regarded him in wonder. They instinctively knew that he had some news of importance to impart. There was one absentee. Until his arrival Goslin refused to say anything.

The youngest of the four a.s.sembled at the table was the Italian, a rather thin, keen-faced, dark-moustached man of refined appearance.

"_Madonna mia!_" he cried, raising his face to the Frenchman, "why, what has happened? This is unusual. Besides, why should we wait? I've only just arrived from Turin, and haven't had time to go to the hotel. Let us get on. _Avanti!_"

"Not until he is present," answered Goslin, speaking earnestly in French. "I have a statement to make from Sir Henry. But I am not permitted to make it until all are here." Then, glancing at his watch, he added, "His train was due at Est Station at 4.58. He ought to be here at any moment."

The shabby old man, by birth a Pole, still sat chafing his chilly fingers. None who saw Antoine Volkonski, as he shuffled along the street, ever dreamed that he was head of the great financial house of Volkonski Freres of Petersburg, whose huge loans to the Russian Government during the war with j.a.pan created a sensation throughout Europe, and surely no casual observer looking at that little a.s.sembly would ever entertain suspicion that, between them, they could practically dictate to the money-market of Europe.

The Italian seated next to him was the Commendatore Rudolphe Cusani, head of the wealthy banking firm of Montemartini of Rome, which ranked next to the Bank of Italy. Of the remaining two, one was a Greek from Smyrna, and the other, a rather well-dressed man with longish grey hair, Josef Frohnmeyer of Hamburg, a name also to conjure with in the financial world.

The impatient Italian was urging Goslin to explain why the meeting had been so hastily summoned when, without warning, the door opened and a tall, distinguished man, with carefully trained grey moustache, and wearing a heavy travelling ulster, entered.

"Ah, my dear Baron!" cried the Italian, jumping from his chair and taking the new-comer's hand, "we were waiting for you." And he drew a chair next to his.

The man addressed tossed his soft felt travelling hat aside, saying, "The 'wire' reached me at a country house outside Vienna, where I was visiting. But I came instantly." And he seated himself, while the chair at the head of the table was taken by the stout Frenchman.