Englishman receive for his services?"
"He would receive at the hands of the president of the company a packet of papers, formally the property of Sergeant Tom Mannis, of her Britannic Majesty's – th Fusiliers, lately deceased."
"And what would prevent the philanthropic but muscular Englishman from wringing the neck of the low-down sneak who has proposed this plan to him, and taking the papers out of his inside pocket?"
"Because, Excellency, they are now in the safe of the manufacturing company."
"And the president of that company?"
"Is a guest at your Excellency's wedding."
Darcy clenched his hands nervously. He was battling silently, skilfully, not to betray the dread which was unnerving him. The music floated out from the house – fitful and discordant.
"An Englishman," he said slowly, "never gives way to a threat, but of course, if he could be brought to see the purely philanthropic side of the argument, and receive – well, say, five per cent. of the bullion carried, for his travelling expenses, he might see his way to sacrifice his personal interests for the good of his adopted country."
"Good," said the stranger. "The president will meet you the day after to-morrow, at three o'clock in the afternoon, at the capital in the San Carlos Club."
"Very well," said Darcy. "Go. Someone's coming!"
The figure of the stranger faded into the darkness, and a moment later the soft footsteps of a woman approached.
"Ah, mia carrissima," he said, taking her in his arms. "You have missed me."
"Yes," she said, with a little sigh of satisfied relief, as she felt his strong embrace about her. "But why did you leave me? I do not understand."
"The air of the room oppressed me. I came out to breathe."
"I did not know," she said. "I was frightened." And as she raised her face to him, he saw that she had been crying.
She might well have commanded any man's attention. Tall and slight, lissome in every movement of her exquisitely shaped figure, barely thirty, and very fair withal. Even the tears which sparkled on her long lashes could not obscure the superb black eyes full of a passion which betrayed Castilian parentage as surely as did those finely-chiselled features, and that silky crown of hair which, unbound, must have descended to her feet. Half Spanish, half Greek, she was a woman to be looked upon and loved.
"But, Inez, surely you trusted me?" came the suave tones of expostulation from her husband.
"Trusted you, my knight? Have I not trusted you this day with my soul, with my whole life? You have been so near to death's door, and I have been so near to losing you, that I fear now, every moment you are out of my sight."
"Oh, I don't think there is any danger," he said, laughing. "I am strong enough now, though I daresay I should never have pulled through without such a plucky nurse."
"Ah, yes," she said. "I can shut my eyes and see you now, how frightfully ill and worn you were, when you came to my father's house that night, three months ago, invalided home from India."
"Yes," he said. "It was the greatest stroke of luck in my life that I should have lost my way and have been obliged to beg your hospitality for the night."
"And then the fever. The next morning you were delirious. For days you knew nothing, understood nothing, yet you talked, talked, always."
Colonel Darcy shifted uneasily.
"One generally does that," he said. "The raving of delirium."
"You said things that meant nothing usually. But one name you were always repeating, a strange English name of a woman."
"And it was?" he murmured, stroking her hair.
"Belle. La Belle, I think you meant. And the other name, I do not remember. It sounded harsh, and I did not like it."
He laughed nervously.
"There is nothing for you to be jealous about, cara mia," he said. "It was the name of a playmate of my childhood. I had not heard or thought of it for years. But that is the way in fever. The forgotten things, the things of no importance come uppermost in the mind."
"And then," she went on, "came that happy day when you knew us, and then you grew stronger and better, and I realised that you would be going away from us for ever."
"Did you think?" he asked softly, "that I could ever have forgotten my nurse?"
"I had been unhappy and very lonely. I feared to hope for joy again, till the day that you told me you loved me." And she hid her face on his shoulder to hide her blushes.
"Come," he said. "We must think of the present. I have a little surprise for you. I have been going over my affairs, and I do not think it will be necessary to take you away from home for so long a time as I had first thought. I hope that in six months we may be able to return."
"Oh!" she cried. "That is indeed good news! I dread your England. It is so far away, and so strange."
"I shall try to teach you to love it. But we must be returning to the house. Our guests will miss us."
"Oh, yes," she replied. "I meant to have told you. The president of some great manufacturing company has arrived to pay his respects, and is anxious to speak with you."
CHAPTER II
WANTED – A CHAPERON
Aloysius Stanley, Secretary of a South American Embassy, was not happy. Yet he was counted one of the most fortunate young men in London. Of good family, and large fortune, he had attained a social position, which not a few might envy. His rooms faced the park, he belonged to the swellest and most inane club in town, was ex officio a member of the Court, and knew at least two duchesses, not perhaps intimately, but well enough to speak to at a crush. He had been christened Aloysius, because his father owned a large plantation in a South American Republic – no, it was a Dictatorship then – and had named his son after the saint on whose day he had been born, out of consideration for the religious prejudices of the community.
His name, then, was Aloysius Stanley, and this was the reason his intimates called him "Jim." His other titles were "my dear colleague," when his brethren in the diplomatic corps wanted anything of him, and "Mr. Secretary" when his chief was wroth.
Having shown no special aptitude for growing sugar he had been early put into diplomacy, under the erroneous impression that it would keep him out of mischief.
He was, on the evening on which he is first introduced to us, standing in the immaculate glory of his dress suit, on the top step of the grand staircase of the Hyde Park Club.
His party, a very nice little party of six, had all arrived save one, and that one was his chaperon. The two young ladies, safe in harbour of the cloak-room, awaited her coming to flutter forth; the two gentlemen wandered aimlessly about the now nearly deserted reception-room, for dinner was served and most of the brilliant parties had already gone to their respective tables.
Surely she would come, he told himself; something unavoidable had detained her. Lady Rainsford was much too conscientious to leave an unfortunate young man in the lurch without sending at least a substitute – yet, with it all, there was the sickening suspicion that she might
