four-wheeler at the door. They all three get in quickly. As Rita does so she gives the order, “Whitechapel. Quick,” she adds, “and you shall be paid well!”
The cab-horse trots swiftly along. The hope of a substantial fare has given the cabby wings. No well-bred brougham horse could go quicker. He flies along does that old cab-horse.
On the outskirts of Whitechapel Rita calls a halt. “We must get out here,” she observes. “Mr. D’Estrange, please give the cabman a sovereign, and tell him to wait.”
He obeys her. He can trust her, can Hector D’Estrange. Ever since the day when, at Evie Ravensdale’s request, he had appointed her as his own and his mother’s secretary, Rita Vernon has served him with a fidelity and painstaking exactitude of which he knows no parallel. She leads the way through dark, uninviting streets. She knows the locality well. She learnt it years ago, before Evie Ravensdale came there to save her from a doom far more terrible than death. She had declared then that she would willingly die for him. The same feeling animates her now. For Evie Ravensdale Rita Vernon would deem it a happiness to die.
They have passed through courts and filthy alleys, through streets well and ill-lighted. Very few people are about. Only a policeman or two on their beats pass them as they move along. Now they are turning into a sort of crescent or half square, with houses superior to those of the localities they have traversed. As they do so Rita turns to the two men following her, and pointing to a house at the further end, exclaims, “There !”
There are no lights in the windows; the place is silent and dark.
“How shall we get in?” asks the duke.
There is a bitter smile on Rita’s face as she replies.
“I will show you, but remember you must play your part. I shall pretend I am bringing you here, and that there’s another woman coming. I’ll order a room, and once in there I know how to find her.”
She says no more, but passes swiftly along the pavement, they close at her heels. On reaching the house she pulls the bell softly.
The door is opened cautiously, and a woman’s face peers out.
“What’s wanted?” she inquires suspiciously. “I’ve brought these gentlemen here,” answers Rita. “We want a room. Your best if it’s empty.”
“Can’t have you to-night,” replies the woman. “The whole house is took.”
She is about to shut the door when Rita springs into the opening. The next moment she has the woman by the throat. “Quick!” she cries in a low voice. “Gag her, tie her hands and feet!”
No need to speak further. Both Hector D’Estrange and Evie Ravensdale have obeyed. Three hand-kerchiefs suffice to gag the woman, tie her ankles together, and her wrists behind her. Then they look at Rita.
“Put her in here!” exclaims this latter, opening a door on the right. “It’s dark. Never mind; I know the place; she’s safe there.”
They lift her in, and lay her on the floor. Rita closes the door, and locks it. A dim light is burning in the hall, but no one is stirring; only in the distance they think they catch a sound of voices.
“Come on,” she says excitedly. “I am sure I can find them. They’ll be in the best room. Follow me.”
She goes up the stairs quietly, her companions as noiselessly following. On reaching the landing she turns down a passage to the right, and comes to a halt opposite a door.
“Listen,” she says in a low tone. “You two should know that voice.”
But she has no time to say more. Pale with fury, with murder in his eyes, Hector D’Estrange has burst open the door. A flood of light almost blinds him as he enters, but through it all he sees the mother that he loves.
Speranza de Lara is stretched on a sofa. Her ankles are still tightly secured, her wrists likewise. Around her, like a cloak of gold, falls her lovely hair. There is a mad, wild look in her eyes terrible to behold, but her lips are mute and speechless, for she is gagged. And beside her stands that monster, that petted roué of Society, that “fiend in human shape,”—the Earl of Westray.
There is a loud cry as a shot rings through the silent house.
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