He had arranged with the woman into whose hands he had given himself unreservedly, providing that she placed him in a position to overthrow his enemies, that she should write to him at his club, the Carlton; but as the weeks crept on and he received no letter he began to be uneasy at her silence.

In the _Morning Post_ he had noticed two lines in the fashionable intelligence, which ran as follows:

"Sir Henry and Lady Meldrum with Miss Muriel Mortimer have left Green Street for the Continent." The announcement was vague, but purposely so, he thought. He tried to calm himself by plunging with redoubled energy into the daily political struggle.

Claudia after leaving the castle had gone to Paris with her almost inseparable friend, the d.u.c.h.ess of Penarth, gowns being the object of the visit. _Hors de Paris_, _hors du monde_ was Claudia's motto always.

They usually went over together, without male enc.u.mbrances, twice or three times yearly, stayed at the Athenee, and spent the greater part of their time in the _ateliers_ of Doeuillet and Paquin, or shopping in the Vendome quarter, that little area of the gay city so dear to the feminine heart.

The visit had lasted a fortnight, and Claudia was back again at Albert Gate. She had sent him a brief note announcing her arrival, but he had not called, for, truth to tell, because of the fresh development springing from Muriel Mortimer's policy he felt unable to continue his fervent protestations of love. The web of complications was drawing round him more tightly every moment. He tried to struggle against it, but the feeble effort was utterly hopeless.

One evening, however, he accepted, under absolute compulsion, her invitation to dine. In that handsome, well-remembered room, with its snowy cloth, its shining gla.s.s, its heavy plate and big silver epergne of hot-house flowers, he sat with her _tete-a-tete_, listening to the story of her visit to the French capital, her account of the pretty evening gowns which were on their way to her--new and exclusive "models"

for which she had been compelled to pay terribly dear--all about her meeting with the old Comtesse de Montigny while driving in the Avenue des Acacias, and the warm invitation, which she had accepted, to the latter's _salon_, one of the most exclusive in all Paris. Moreover, she and the d.u.c.h.ess had dined one evening with Madame Durand, one of her old companions at the pension at Enghien, and now wife of the newly appointed Minister of the Interior. Yes, in Paris she had, as usual, a most enjoyable time. And how had he fared?

As Jackson, the solemn-faced and rather pompous butler, who had been in poor d.i.c.k Nevill's service for a good many years, was pouring out his wine, he hesitated to speak confidentially until he had left.

Claudia certainly looked charming. She was dressed in black, and had a large bunch of Neapolitan violets in her low corsage. They were his favourite flowers, and he knew that she wore them in honour of his visit.

"I wrote to you twice from Paris, and received no reply, Dudley," she said, leaning toward him when the man had gone. "Why didn't you answer?"

"Forgive me, Claudia," he answered, placing his hand upon hers and looking into her handsome face. "I have been so very busy of late--and I expected you back in London every day."

"You have only written to me once since I left Wroxeter," she said, pouting. "It is really too bad of you."

"I can only plead heavy work and the grave responsibilities of office,"

he answered. "I've been literally driven to death. You've no doubt seen the papers."

"Yes, I have seen them," she answered. "And my candid opinion is, Dudley, that the Government has not come out particularly well in regard to the question of Crete. I'm quite with you as to your declaration in the House last night, that we are not nearly strong enough in the Mediterranean."

Jackson entered again, and, as their conversation was of necessity prevented from taking on an intimate tone, they kept to a discussion of matters upon which Dudley had been speaking in the House during the past week. She had always been his candid critic, and often pointed out to him his slips and shortcomings, just as she had criticised him in their youthful days and stirred within him the ambition to enter public life.

If she knew of the secret compact that he had made with Muriel Mortimer what would she say? He dreaded to contemplate the exposure of the truth.

"Have you heard anything of the Meldrums?" he inquired, as the thought flashed into his mind that from her very probably he might be able to learn their whereabouts.

"Oh! they're abroad," she replied. "They left us very suddenly at the castle, for what reason I've not yet been able to make out. Do you know, I've a horrible suspicion that Lady Meldrum was offended, or something, but what it was I really have no idea. She was scarcely civil when we parted."

"That's very strange," he said, p.r.i.c.king up his ears and looking at her in astonishment. "Who was the culprit? One of the guests, I suppose."

"I suppose so," his hostess answered. "But at any rate, whatever the cause, she was gravely offended. The excuse to leave was a palpably false one, for there chanced to be no letters for her that morning."

"Where are they now?"

"They first went up to Dumfries, and then came to town and left for Brussels. I heard from Muriel a week ago from Florence."

"From Muriel!" he exclaimed. "Then she is with them?"

"Yes. Her letter says that they were contemplating taking a villa there for the winter, but were hesitating on account of Lady Meldrum's health.

It appears that her London doctor did not recommend Florence on account of the cold winds along the Arno."

In Florence! It was strange, he thought, that if she could write civilly to the woman who was her rival, whom she had scarcely saluted at parting, she did not send a single line to him. Then the strange thought flitted through his mind that Archibald Cator was attach in Rome. Could her visit to Italy have any connection with the task which she had taken upon herself to fulfil?

In the blue drawing-room later, after they had taken their coffee and were alone, she rose slowly and stood with him before the tiled hearth.

She saw by his heavy brow that he was preoccupied, and without a word she took his hand and raised it with infinite tenderness to her lips.

He turned his eyes upon her, uttering no word, for he hated himself for his duplicity. Why had he been persuaded to visit her? How could he endure to feign an affection and fill her heart with unrealisable hopes?

It was disloyal of him, and cruel to her.

She, a woman of infinite tact and _finesse_, had suffered bitterly from the harsh words he had spoken weeks ago, yet she had never upbraided him. She had suffered in patience and in silence, as the true woman does when the man she loves causes her unhappiness. Jealousy may engender fury; but the woman whose soul is pure and whose heart is honest in her love is always patient and long-suffering, always willing to believe that her ideal is represented by the man she loves. And it was so with Claudia. Gossips had tried to injure her good name by alleging things that were untrue, yet she had never once complained.

"Tiens!" she would exclaim. That was all. It was true that she had allowed herself to flirt with the young Russian because, being a woman, she could not resist that little piece of harmless coquetry.

Nevertheless she had never for a single instant forgotten the sacred love of her youth.

She was essentially a smart woman, whose doings were chronicled almost daily in the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers; and every woman of her stamp may always be sure of being persecuted by malignant gossips. Were she a saint she could not escape them. The eternal feminine is prolific of aspersions where a pretty member of its own s.e.x is under examination, and especially if she be left lonely and unprotected while she is still quite young. It was so with Claudia Nevill. She allowed people to talk, and was even amused at the wild and often scandalous tales whispered about her, for she knew that the man she loved would give no credence to them.

Dudley had loved her long ago in her schoolgirl days, and she knew that he loved her now. For her, that was all-sufficient.

But his preoccupied manner that night caused her considerable apprehension. He was not his old self. Once, while at dinner, she had caught a strange, haunted look in his eyes.

"Tell me, Dudley," she urged, holding his hand and looking earnestly up to him. "Be frank with me, and tell me what ails you."

"Nothing," he laughed uneasily, carrying her soft hand to his lips.

"But whatever made you ask such a question?"

"Because you seem upset," she answered, smoothing his hair tenderly from his brow. "If there is any matter that is worrying you, why not confide in me, as you have done so often before, and let me help you."

"No, really," he protested with a forced laugh.

"Nothing worries me--only matters down at the House."

She looked at him in silence. In those dark, brilliant eyes of hers was a love-look that was unmistakable. She was a woman believed by men to be utterly frivolous and heartless, yet she loved Dudley Chisholm with all the fierce pa.s.sion possible to her ardent soul. His face told her that he had been suffering in her absence, and she strove to discover the reason.

"Why, Dudley," she exclaimed at last, "now that I reflect, you have not been quite the same since the midnight visit paid you at the castle by the mysterious man who was so very careful that his presence should not be made known! You have never told me who he was, or what was his business."

He started so quickly that she could not fail to notice it. This set her wondering.

"Oh!" he replied with affected carelessness next moment, "the tall shabby man who called on the night of the dance you mean? He was a confidential messenger, that was all."

"I suppose I was mistaken, but his face and voice both seemed quite familiar to me," she remarked. "I meant to tell you before, but it entirely slipped my memory. The likeness to some one I have met was very striking, but I cannot recollect where I've met him before. Is he an official messenger?"

"Yes," answered her lover vaguely, although alarmed that she should so nearly have recognised Cator; "he's attached to the Foreign Office. I urged him to stay the night, but he was compelled to return at once to town."

"And he brought you some bad news? Admit the truth, dear."

"He certainly brought some official intelligence that was not altogether rea.s.suring," her lover said.

"Are you quite certain that it was official, and did not concern yourself?" she asked in a low voice which sounded to him full of suspicion.

"Certain? Why, of course," he laughed. "Whatever strange ideas are you entertaining, Claudia?"

"Well," she answered, "to tell the truth, Dudley, I have a notion that he came to see you on some private business, because ever since that night you have been a changed man."