a light left in one of the rooms on the ground-floor. Suddenly a pair of window-doors in it are flung open, and a tall, graceful woman steps out through them. Her head is uncovered, the moon gleams down upon the thick masses of pale gold hair that cover it, and shines in her glittering eyes of turquoise-blue. It is Speranza de Lara.
“What a glorious night!” she soliloquises to herself. “I suppose my darling is speaking now. She said it would be about ten o’clock. Oh, Harry I my precious long-lost love, would that you could see our child now!”
She has pressed the ring with its glittering brilliants to her lips,—the only ring she wears. The stones flash and sparkle in the moon’s light like gems of living fire, beautiful, pure, and shining as the love that is next her heart. Much more than a score of years have passed away since Harry Kintore died in her arms, but if she lived through countless scores of years that love would burn just the same. She wanders along the gravel carriage drive, her thoughts busy with the past. Anon they fleet forward to the future, and then a light of triumph dances in her eyes. But it is with the past that she is chiefly occupied this night, for it is the 14th of July, the anniversary of the day on which her darling died.
She has passed along the shady avenue, and entered a tiny straggling path, shut in by tall dark trees. It is a glade upon which the gardener has not been allowed to bestow his fostering care. He has been forbidden this spot by his mistress, who loves to leave it in possession of the primrose and violet, the wild anemone or dark blue hyacinth that Nature has scattered so plentifully around. It is Speranza’s safe retreat, away from the outside world, the spot where she best loves to roam.
All is quiet; not a sound disturbs the tenor of her thoughts as she walks quietly along. Suddenly, how-ever, her eye is arrested by a gleam of light in front of her. The next moment two dark forms spring forward in her path, and she sees that they are men.
Speranza is no coward. We already know that well. Screaming is without her ken, she has no knowledge of it. Of fear, she only knows the name. If it is a thrill that permeates the body from head to foot, and sends the blood rushing through the system with irresistible impetus, then Speranza knows what that strange, mysterious sensation called fear is. But then it only makes her feel defiant. She has no thought of fleeing. Her impulse is to stand and face the danger, whatever it may be.
“Who are you?” she asks in a quiet, measured voice; “and what do you want here?”
“You,” is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes her by the arm, and deftly getting behind her, endeavours to draw her two elbows together. The pain is excruciating, but Speranza’s blood is up. She is no weakly woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and want of muscle power. She is strong and flexible as wire, and makes her assailant feel this too, as with a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward behind him, facing them both once more. With a foul oath the man who had first attacked her bares a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does so as well.
“No use resisting!” exclaims this latter. “If you do you’ll get a taste of these. Better come quietly.”
She does not even answer them. Her lovely head is thrown back, her blue eyes shoot defiance, even while in them trembles the look of despair. Her hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails for a second.
They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. She seizes the blades with both her hands, and holds them with the grim clutch of a last great effort. With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and the sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed palms. Out pours the rich, dark blood from the cruel, gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the first that has escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to the ground. In another moment the gag is on her mouth, tight straps are round her arms and ankles, and she is a prisoner at their feet.
“Come on quick, now!” exclaims one of the men. “My, Bill! she be a strong, plucky one, and no mistake! If it ‘adn’t been for that there root we shouldn’t have mastered her so easily—no, nor we should.”
The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of a fallen tree. Against this Speranza’s head had struck in falling, rendering her senseless. No wonder they tied her so easily.
They lift her between them, and carry her across the copsewood towards a low hedge, outside which lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and then lay her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, low whistle.
There is an answering whistle down the road, a tumbling and stamping as of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a carriage dashes up.
“Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out.
“Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer.
“Well, put her in! Look sharp; no time to lose. I thought I heard footsteps as I came along,” and Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open the door.
They obey his orders without more ado, and then he jumps in.
“Now then! look alive, men! One on the box, one in with her and me.”
It is done. The men are “sharp uns.” They know their master, and he knows his men. The next moment the carriage is bowling along towards Windsor, en route for London.
Who will track them, who discover them? Not the detectives of Scotland Yard!
IX
THERE has been a late sitting in the House of Commons. A protracted debate on the crowded condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that most wonderful city of the world, London, has kept members fully occupied. But twelve o’clock, midnight, has struck, and the Commons are dispersing. It has been a great night for Hector D’Estrange. He has spoken for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; for does it not know full well that the subject of that night’s discussion is one in which he is no novice, it having been undertaken on his own motion?
He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told them many things. Has he not a right to do so? None like him have dived into those terrible slums, have visited night after night, as he has done, those abodes of crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. He knows them well, and has depicted them as they are, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in language of which he alone is master.
He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which he has depicted so vividly, yet not even he knows some of the depths of infamy that exist in that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another experience to incur.
“Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of yours!” exclaims the Duke of Ravensdale, who, having been an attentive listener during the debate, has run down to join his friend as the latter leaves the Commons. “Come across to Montragee House, and let us have a little supper. Wish you would stay there the night, old man!”
“I can’t, Evie,” replies Hector. “I have to go down to Windsor by an early train, and must go home and order my things to be packed up; but I’ll come across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as I went without my dinner.”
They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards White-hall, and as they do so Big Ben chimes out the hour of half-past twelve.
“How time flies, to be sure!” remarks the young duke thoughtfully. “Funny thing time is—eh. Hector?”
“It is,” answers this latter gravely;
