"But surely we ought always to try and evade it?"

"If you are foredoomed to misfortune, it cannot be evaded," he declared.

"That is exactly my argument," she replied. "I feel that one day ere long a dark shadow, perhaps of suspicion, I know not what, will fall between us."

"And that we shall be parted!" he cried, starting. "You are certainly cheerful to-day." And he smiled.

"I ought to be, after your lovely present," she said, touching the pearls upon her neck with her white hand. "But I confess to you, dearest, I am not. I am too supremely happy, and for that reason alone I dread lest it may pa.s.s as all things in our life pa.s.s, and leave only bitter regrets and sad disappointments behind."

"You speak in enigmas, Jean," he said, bending earnestly to her again.

"Tell me what really distresses you. Do you fear something real and tangible, or is it only some vague foreboding?"

"The latter," she responded. "I seem always to see a grim, dark shadow stretched before my path."

Bracondale remained silent in wonder for some time.

Then with words of comfort and rea.s.surance, he again pressed his lips to hers, and urged her to enjoy her happiness to its full extent, and to let the future take care of itself.

"Have no care to-day, darling," he added. "It is your birthday, and I am with you."

"Ah, yes, you are here--you, my own dear husband!"

And raising her lips, she smiled happily, and kissed him of her own accord.

CHAPTER XX.

CROOKED CONFIDENCES.

About noon on the same day which Jean and her husband spent so happily together by the Devon sea, two men of about thirty-five met in the cosy little American bar of a well-known London hotel.

Both were wealthy Americans, smartly dressed in summer tweeds, and wore soft felt hats of American shape.

One, a tall, thin, hard-faced man, who had been drinking a c.o.c.ktail and chatting with the barmaid while awaiting his friend, turned as the other entered, and in his p.r.o.nounced American accent exclaimed:

"Halloa, boy! Thought you weren't coming. Say, you're late."

The other--dark, clean-shaven, with a broad brow, and rather good-looking--grasped his friend's hand and ordered a drink. Then, tossing it off at one gulp, he walked with his friend into the adjoining smoking-room, where they could be alone.

"What's up?" asked the newcomer, in a low, eager voice.

"Look here, Hoggan, my boy," exclaimed the taller of the two to the newcomer, "I'm glad you've come along. I 'phoned you to your hotel at half-past ten, but you were out. It seems there's trouble over that game of poker you played with those two boys in Knightsbridge last night.

They've been to the police, so you'd better clear out at once."

"The police!" echoed the other, his dark brows knit. "Awkward, isn't it?"

"Very. You go, old chap. Get across the Channel as quick as ever you can, or I guess you'll have some unwelcome visitors. Don't go back to the hotel. Abandon your traps, and clear out right away."

Silas P. Hoggan, the man with the broad brow, had no desire to make further acquaintance with the police. As a cosmopolitan adventurer he had lived for the past six years a life of remarkable experiences in Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and Rome. He posed as a financier, and had matured many schemes for public companies in all the capitals--companies formed to exploit all sorts of enterprises, all of which, however, had placed money in his pocket.

Two years before he had been worth thirty thousand pounds, the proceeds of various crooked businesses. At that moment he had been in San Francisco, when, by an unlucky mischance, a scheme of his had failed, ingenious as it was, and now he found himself living in an expensive hotel in London, with scarcely sufficient to settle his hotel bill.

Since the day when he had stolen those notes from the coat pocket of his accomplice, and locked him in the trap so that the police should arrest him, and thus give him time to escape--for Silas P. Hoggan and Ralph Ansell were one and the same person--things had prospered with him, and he had cultivated an air of prosperous refinement, in order to move in the circle of high finance.

After his escape across the Seine, he had sought refuge in the house of a friend in the Montmartre, where he had dried the soddened bank-notes and turned them into cash. Then, after a week, he had taken the night _rapide_ to Switzerland, and thence to Germany, where in Berlin he had entered upon financial undertakings in partnership with a "crook" from Chicago. Their first venture was the exploiting of a new motor tyre, out of which they made a huge profit, although the patent was afterwards found to be worthless. Then they moved to Russia, and successively to Austria, to Denmark, and then across to the States.

Losses, followed by gains, had compelled him of late to adopt a more certain mode of living, until now he found himself in London, staying at one of its best hotels--for like all his cla.s.s he always patronised the best hotel and ate the best that money could buy--and earning a precarious living by finding "pigeons to pluck," namely, sc.r.a.ping up acquaintanceship with young men about town and playing with them games of chance.

As a card-sharper, Silas P. Hoggan was an expert. Among the fraternity "The American" was known as a clever crook, a man who was a past-master in the art of bluff.

Yet his friend's warning had thoroughly alarmed him.

The circ.u.mstance which had been recalled was certainly an ugly one.

He had found his victims there, in a swell bar, as he had often found them. About many of the London hotels and luxuriously appointed restaurants and fashionable meeting places are always to be seen young men of wealth and leisure who are easy prey to the swindler, the blackmailer, or the sharper--the vultures of society.

A chance acquaintanceship, the suggestion of an evening at cards, a visit to a theatre, with a bit of supper afterwards at an hotel, was, as might be expected, followed by a friendly game at the rooms of the elder of the two lads at Knightsbridge.

Hoggan left at three o'clock that morning with one hundred and two pounds in his pocket in cash and notes, and four acceptances of one hundred pounds each, drawn by the elder of the two victims.

Five hundred pounds for one evening's play was not a bad profit, yet Hoggan never dreamed that the London police were already upon his track.

What his friend had suggested was the best way out of the difficulty. As he had so often done before he must once again burn his boats and clear.

The outlook was far too risky. Yet he was filled with chagrin. In the circ.u.mstances, the acceptances were useless.

"I shall want money," he remarked.

"Well, boy, I guess I haven't any cash-money to spare just at the moment, as you know," replied his accomplice. "We've been hard hit lately. I'm sorry we came across on this side."

"Our luck's out," Hoggan declared despondently, as he selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. "What about little Lady Michelcoombe? She ought to be good for a bit more."

"I'll try, if you like, boy. But for Heaven's sake clear out of this infernal city, or you'll go to jail sure," urged Edward Patten, his friend.

"Where shall I go, Ted? What's your advice?"

"Get over to Calais or Ostend, or by the Hook into Holland. Then slip along to some quiet spot, and let me know where you are. Lie low until I send you some oof. You can go on for a week or so, can't you?"

"For a fortnight."

"Good. Meanwhile, I'll touch her ladyship for a bit more."

"Yes. She's a perfect little gold-mine, isn't she?"

"Quite. We've had about four thousand from her already, and we hope to get a bit more."