there is some one in the house to answer the bell.”
“I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it,” responds Stuggins in a conciliatory voice. “Has no one called yet, Stuggins?” “No one, my lord.”
“Well, he’ll be here at any moment now. Mind he is shown up without any delay.” “Certainly, my lord.”
And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling. Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the door-bell. Lord Westray starts and listens. “It’s he!” he ejaculates briefly. And in a few minutes the “he” is politely waved in by Stuggins.
“Mr. Trackem, my lord.”
“All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home if any one else calls.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes the new-comer by the hand.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem,” he observes heartily. “Began to fear you were not coming. A little late, eh?”
“A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed.”
“Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem?”
“Yes,” responds this latter solemnly.
Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly.
“Where?” he asks eagerly.
“Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by shadowing Mr. D’Estrange.”
“Capital!” exclaims Lord Westray, with a laugh. “And does she still go under the name of Mrs. de Lara?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now, Mr. Trackem, what are your plans?”
Mr. Trackem puts on a mysterious look, walks quickly to the door of the sanctum, and opens it suddenly. “What do you want?” he inquires sharply of some one without.
“If you please, sir, I was just coming in to see if his lordship had rung,” answers Stuggins stolidly, who had never quitted the outside of the door since we last saw him, and who had been listening intently all the time.
“Lord Westray did not ring,” answers Mr. Trackem, coldly, “and you are not required.”
“Oh! very good, sir,” and Stuggins retires defeated, and much put about.
Mr. Trackem watches the butler’s retreating, form till it is out of sight, then he closes the door softly, and returns to his original place near Lord Westray.
“These are my plans, my lord. I propose to take down two of my men by rail. Two will be ample, as more might attract attention and be in the way. I shall send a brougham and smart pair of trotters the day before. I have ascertained by observation that Mrs. de Lara invariably goes for a walk in the evening by herself, that her servants do not sit up for her, as she writes in her study late at night, and I have further ascertained that she is frequently in the habit of leaving the house before any one is up, and coming up to town. This is a most valuable point, as her absence will attract no attention. But to be safe I have possessed myself of some of her writing paper and a sample of her writing, and a note will be duly left, apprising her maid of her departure, and intention to remain in London for a few days.”
“By Jove, Mr. Trackem, you are a smart one! I don’t see how your plan can fail,” exclaims the wicked earl with a laugh.
“I never fail, my lord, in any of these little businesses,” answers Mr. Trackem, with a suave smile.
“But ain’t you afraid of the police finding you out?” inquires Lord Westray, just a little nervously.
Mr. Trackem laughs outright. “Police!” he ejaculates . contemptuously. “What’s the good of them? Think they know a lot, know nothing. Why, my lord, the police are useless in matters of this sort; and as for detectives, why, it’s easy to green them up the wrong way. I don’t fear them. I’m a match for every noodle detective in and around Scotland Yard, I am,” and Mr. Trackem gives a self-satisfied laugh.
“Well, Mr. Trackem, when is it to be?” inquires the earl anxiously, after a short lull in the conversation.
“It’s to be the day after tomorrow,” answers Mr. Trackem. “To-morrow my men go down. I shall follow, and just give them a squint at the place, and then they’ll be all prepared for the next day. Never fear, my lord; by Wednesday she shall be in your power.”
“In my power!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly, through the ground teeth of the man whom Speranza de Lara had called, and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be amply and surely revenged.
“Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. Is not that so?”
“It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly.
Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving.
“Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell. “A glass of sherry, brandy-and-soda, or what?”
“No thank you, my lord, nothing,” answers Mr. Trackem. “Must keep a clear head in my business. Thanks all the same.”
They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, both intent on a base and ruffianly deed, yet one of them is regarded as a gentleman, is received and welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the Government of the day, and accounted a clever man and useful statesman. Clothed in these mantles of virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will not bar Society’s doors against him, or lose him his high preferments. Is he not a man, one of the dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore, is he not free to do as he pleases?
The day has come,—a hot July one. Down upon the dusty country roads the sun has burnt fiercely all day long. The cattle and beasts of the field have eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the torturing flies that ever haunt their presence, but evening has fallen at last, and with it relief has come.
It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old Thames. The silver streak glides sluggishly along, with the moon’s pale light playing softly upon it. The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief sweet reign; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of sleep.
A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and clinging ivy, peeps forth upon that scene. The smooth lawns around it gleam white as the driven snow beneath the moon’s soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise up behind in ebony framework, making an efficient background, while through the still air trembles and quivers the nightingale’s exquisite song.
It
