The mater knows I'm supposed to be taking Nan for a run this afternoon.

You'd better say I'm coming straight back to fetch the car, as we're starting earlier."

Kitty nodded and hurried off to the telephone.

"It's all right," she announced, when she returned. "Aunt Eliza took it all in, and merely remarked that I spoilt you!" She succeeded in summoning up a faint smile.

"Then that coast's clear," said Sandy. "Who else? There's Roger.

What shall you do if he comes over to-day?"

"He won't. Lady Gertrude had a heart attack yesterday, and as Isobel Carson's away, Roger, of course, has to stay with his mother. He 'phoned Nan last night."

"I think that safeguards everything this end, then," replied Sandy, heaving a sigh of relief. "Allah is very good!"

After that, being a man with a long journey in front of him, he sensibly applied himself to the consumption of bacon and eggs, while Kitty, being a woman, made a poor attempt at swallowing a cup of tea.

Half an hour later he was ready to start for home.

"It's the slenderest chance, Kitty," he reminded, her gravely. "They may not go near London. . . . But it's the _only_ chance!"

"I know," she a.s.sented with equal gravity.

"And in any case I can't get her back here till the morning. . . .

Good heavens!"--a new thought striking him. "What about the mater?

She'll be scared stiff if I don't turn up in the evening! Probably she'll ring up the police, thinking we've had a smash-up in the car.

That would settle everything!"

"Don't worry about it," urged Kitty. "I'll invent something--'phone her later on to say you're stopping here for the night."

Sandy nodded soberly.

"That'll do it, and I'll--Oh, hang! What about your servants? They'll talk."

"And I shall lie," replied Kitty valiantly. "Nan will be staying the night with friends. . . . Each of you stopping just where you aren't!"--with a short strained laugh. "Oh, leave things to me at this end! I'll manage, somehow. Only bring her back--bring her back, Sandy!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

KEEPING FAITH

It was not until Sandy was actually in the express heading for London that he realised quite all the difficulties which lay ahead. He was just a big-hearted, impulsive boy, and, without wasting time in futile blame or vain regrets, he had plunged straight into the maelstrom which had engulfed his pal, determined to help her back to sh.o.r.e.

But, a.s.suming he was right in his surmise that Rooke would take Nan first of all to London, he doubted his own ability to persuade her to return with him, and even if he were successful in this, there still remained the outstanding fact that by no human means could she reach Mallow until the small hours of the morning. He could well imagine the consternation and scandal which would ensue should she arrive back at the Court about five o'clock A.M.!

In a place like Mallow, where there was a large staff of indoor and outdoor servants, it would be practically impossible to secure Nan's return there un.o.bserved. And as far as the neighbourhood--and Roger Trenby--were concerned, she might just as well run away with Maryon Rooke as return with Sandy McBain at that unG.o.dly hour! She would be equally compromised. Besides, Kitty would have informed her household that she was not expecting Miss Davenant back that night.

Sandy began to see that the plans which he and Kitty had hastily thrown together in the dire emergency of the moment might serve well enough by way of temporary cover, but that in the long run they would rather complicate matters. Lies would have to be bolstered up with other lies. For example, what was he to do with Nan if he succeeded in persuading her to return? Where was she really to spend the night? It looked as though a veritable tissue of deceit must be woven if she were to be shielded from the consequences of her mad act. And Sandy was not a bit of good at telling lies. He hated them.

Suddenly into his hara.s.sed mind sprang the thought of Mallory. Of all men in the world, surely he, who loved Nan, would find a way to save her!

From the moment this idea took hold of him Sandy felt as though part of the insuperable load of trouble and anxiety had been lifted from his shoulders. His duty was now quite simple and straightforward. When he reached down he had only to seek out Peter, lay the whole matter before him, and then in some way or other he believed that Nan's errant feet would be turned from the dangerous path on which they were set.

There was something rather touching in his boyish faith that Peter would be able, even at the last moment, to save the woman he loved.

With unwonted forethought, born of the urgent need of the moment, he despatched the following telegram to Peter:

"_Coming to see you. Arrive London to-night seven-thirty. Very urgent. Sandy McBain._"

"Well, young Sandy McBain?"

Peter looked up from a table littered with ma.n.u.script. His face, a moment before rather troubled and stern, relaxed into a friendly smile, although the fingers of one hand still tapped restlessly on a sheet of paper that lay beside him--a cablegram from India which had evidently been the subject of his thoughts at the moment of Sandy's arrival.

"What's the urgent matter? Have you got into a hole and want a friendly haul-out? If so, I'm your man."

Sandy looked down wretchedly at the fine-cut face with its kind eyes and sensitive mouth.

"Oh, don't!" he said hastily, checking the friendly welcome as though it hurt him. "It--it isn't me. . . . It's Nan."

Peter sat quite still, only the hand that held his pen tightened in its grip.

"Nan!" he repeated, and something in the tone of his voice as he uttered the little name seemed to catch at Sandy's heart-strings and sent a sudden unmanageable lump up into his throat.

"Yes, Nan," he answered. Then, with a rush: "She's gone . . . gone away with Maryon Rooke."

The penholder snapped suddenly. Peter tossed the pieces aside and rose quietly to his feet.

"When?" he asked tensely.

"Now--to-day. If they've come to London, they'll be here very soon.

They were in his car--I saw them on the London road. . . . And she left a letter for me. . . . Oh, good G.o.d, Mallory! Can't you save her--can't you save her?" And Sandy grabbed the older man by the shoulder and stared at him with feverish eyes.

Throughout the whole journey from Exeter to London he had been revolving the matter in his mind, thinking . . . thinking . . .

thinking . . . to the ceaseless throb and hum of the train as it raced over the metals, and now he felt almost as though his brain would burst.

Peter pushed him down into a chair.

"You shall tell me all about it in a minute," he said quietly.

Crossing the room to a cupboard in the wall, he took down a decanter and gla.s.s and poured out a stiff dose of whisky.

"There--drink that," he said, squirting in the soda-water. "You'll be all right directly," he added.

In a few minutes he had drawn the whole story from Sandy's eager lips, and as he listened his eyes grew curiously hard and determined.

"So we've just one chance--the house in Westminster," he commented.

"We'll go there, Sandy. At once."