CHAPTER XLV.
A TRIP TO EUROPE.
While Alan Warburton, closeted with Mr. Follingsbee, was slowly lowering the crest of the Warburton pride, and reluctantly submitting himself to the mysterious guidance of an unseen hand,—Winnie French, sitting beside her mother, was perusing Leslie’s note.
It was brief and pathetic, beseeching Mrs. French to go at once to Warburton Place; to dwell there as its mistress; to look upon it as her home, and Winnie’s, until such time as Leslie should return, or Mr. Follingsbee should indicate to her a change of plan. Would Mrs. French forgive this appearance of mystery, and believe and trust in her still? Would she keep her home open for Alan, and a welcome ever ready for the lost Daisy, who must surely return some day? Everything could be arranged with Mr. Follingsbee; and Leslie’s love and gratitude would be always hers.
This note was somewhat incoherent, for it was the last written by Leslie, and her nerves had been taxed, perhaps, in the writing of the longer epistle to Mr. Follingsbee.
Brief and fragmentary as it was, it furnished to Winnie and her mother food for much wonderment, long discussion, and sincere sorrow.
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie, choking back a sob, “some terrible trouble has come upon Leslie; and Alan Warburton is at the bottom of it!”
“My child!”
“I tell you he is!” vehemently. “And only yesterday Leslie would have told me all, but for him.”
“Winnie, compose yourself; try and be calm,” said Mrs. French soothingly.
“I can’t compose myself! I won’t be calm! I want to be so angry when Alan Warburton returns for me, that I can fairly scorch him with my contempt! I want to annihilate him!” And Winnie flung herself upon her mother’s breast, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing.
Sorely puzzled, and very anxious, Mrs. French soothed her daughter with gentle, motherly words, and gradually drew from her an account of the events of the past two days, as they were known to Winnie.
“And so, between his interruption and your refusal to listen to him afterward, you are quite in the dark as to this strange misunderstanding between Leslie and Mr. Warburton?” said Mrs. French musingly.
“Misunderstanding! You give it a mild name, Mamma. Would a mere misunderstanding with any one, bring such a look to Leslie’s face as I saw there when I left her alone with him? Would it leave her in a deathly faint at its close? Would it drive her from her home, secretly, like a fugitive? Would it cause Alan Warburton to address such words to me as those he uttered in his study? Because of a simple misunderstanding, would he implore me to judge between them? Mamma, there is more than a misunderstanding at the bottom of all this mystery. Somewhere, there is a monstrous wrong!”
But discuss the mystery as they would, there seemed no satisfactory, no rational explanation. The evening wore on, and the ringing of the door-bell suddenly apprised them of the lateness of the hour.
“It’s Alan!” exclaimed Winnie, starting nervously. “Mamma, we can’t, we won’t, go with him.”
But it was not Alan. It was a servant, bearing a message from Mr. Follingsbee. A matter of importance had suddenly called Mr. Warburton away. Mr. Follingsbee would wait upon the ladies in the morning.
It was very unsatisfactory, but it was all. And Winnie and her mother, after exhausting for a second time their stock of conjectures, were constrained to lay their puzzled heads upon their pillows, and to await in restlessness and sleepless anxiety the coming of morning and Mr. Follingsbee.
It comes at last, the morning, as morning in this world or another surely will come to all weary, restless watchers. And just as it is approaching that point of time when we cease to say “this morning,” and supply its place with “to-day,” Mr. Follingsbee comes also.
He comes looking demure, unhurried, without anxiety; just as he always does look whenever he has occasion to withhold more than he chooses to tell.
“I hope you have not been anxious, ladies,” he says, serenely, as he deposits his hat upon a table and extends a hand to each in turn.
But Winnie’s impatience can no longer be held in check. “Oh, Mr. Follingsbee!” she cries, seizing his hand in both her own, “where is Leslie?”
Mr. Follingsbee smiles reassuringly, places a chair for Mrs. French with old-time gallantry, leads Winnie to a sofa, and seating himself beside her, says his say.
To begin with, the ladies must not expect a revelation; not yet. It will come, of course; but Mrs. Warburton, for reasons that seemed to her good, and that he therefore accepted, desired to keep her movements, for a time, a secret. There had been a slight misunderstanding between Mrs. Warburton and her brother-in-law; but, fortunately, that was now, in a measure at least, adjusted. It was, in part, this misunderstanding, and in part, some facts which Mrs. Warburton thought she had discovered concerning the unaccountable absence of Daisy Warburton, that had caused her to adopt her present seemingly strange course. It was owing to these same causes that Mr. Warburton had suddenly determined to absent himself from the city—in fact from the country. Mr. Warburton had taken passage in the Steamer Clytie, for Europe. This movement might seem abrupt, even out of place at this particular time, but it was not an unwarrantable action; indeed, it was a thing of necessity.
Mr. Follingsbee said much more than this, and ended his discourse thus:
“And now, ladies, I solicit, on behalf of my clients, your friendship, your aid, and your confidence. While I am not at liberty to explain matters fully, I promise you that you will not regret having given your confidence blindly. I, who know whereof I speak, assure you of this. Alan Warburton, while at this moment he is an innocent man, is menaced by serious danger. Leslie has gone on a Quixotic mission. The trouble will soon end, I trust, and we shall all rejoice together. In the meantime—” He paused abruptly and turned an enquiring gaze upon Mrs. French.
“In the meantime, sir,” said that lady, with quiet decision, “you desire our passive coöperation. You have it.”
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie exultantly, “I was sure you would say that. I was sure you would not desert poor Leslie!”
“It will be an equal favor to Mr. Warburton,” interposed the lawyer, with the shadow of a twinkle in his grey eye.
To which Winnie responded only by her heightened color, and a half perceptible shrug.
And so Mrs. French and Winnie were escorted by Mr. Follingsbee to the bereaved and deserted mansion: were fully instructed in the small part they were to play; and were left there in possession,—knowing only that Leslie and Alan were both in danger, and menaced by enemies, that their absence was necessary to their safety, and might also result in the restoration of little Daisy.
In the face of this mystery their faith remained unshaken. They accepted Mr. Follingsbee’s assurances, and also the part allotted to them, the part which so commonly falls to women, of inactive waiting.
Meantime, Van Vernet, in a state of exceeding self-content, was perfecting his latest plan.
He had failed in overtaking and identifying the troublesome Organ-grinder, who, he was more than ever convinced, was a spy, though in what interest, or in whose behalf, he could not even guess. But he had failed in nothing else. His ruse had been most successful. He had been admitted to the sanctum of Alan Warburton; had seen his face, heard his voice, noted his movements. And his last doubt was removed; rather, the last shade of uncertainty, for he could scarcely be said to have been in doubt at any time.
Alan Warburton, and not Archibald, had been his patron on the night of the masquerade. It was Alan Warburton who, in the guise of a Sailor, had killed Josef Siebel on that selfsame night. There was much that was still a mystery, but that could now be sifted out.
Why had Alan Warburton secured his services to shadow his sister-in-law? He could not answer this question; but it was now plain to him that he had been summarily dismissed from the case, on the following morning, because Alan Warburton, having recognized him in the hovel, had feared to meet him again.
Why had he sought the Francoise abode on that especial night? And why had he killed Josef Siebel? These were problems to the solution of which he could now turn his attention—after he had secured his prisoner.
He had consumed some time in his hot chase after the Organ-grinder, and then he had hastened to set a fresh guard upon the Warburton house. And this guard had just reported.
No one had left, no one had arrived, until this morning, when two ladies, escorted by an elderly gentleman, had driven to the door. The ladies had remained; the gentleman had departed almost immediately.
Vernet was more than satisfied. He sent a messenger to summon to his aid his favorite assistants, made some other necessary preparations, and sat down to scan the morning paper while he waited.
His quick eye noted everything of a personal nature, births, deaths, marriages, arrivals, departures, social items. Suddenly he flung the paper from him and bounded to his feet, uttering a passionate imprecation.
Then he snatched up the paper, and, as if for once he doubted his own eyes, reperused the startling paragraph. Yes, it was there; it was no optical illusion.
Alan Warburton, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Archibald Warburton had taken passage for Liverpool, on board the Clytie. And the Clytie was to sail that morning!
In one moment, Vernet was in the street. In five, he was driving furiously through the city. In half an hour, he had reached his destination.
Too late! The Clytie had cleared the harbor, and was already a mere speck in the distance.
“So,” he muttered, turning sullenly away, “he thinks he has outwitted me. God bless the Atlantic cable! When my aristocratic friend arrives in Liverpool, he shall receive an ovation—from Scotland Yards!”
While Vernet thus comforted himself, Mr. Follingsbee, seated in a cosy upper room of his own dwelling, addressed himself to a gentleman very closely resembling Mr. Alan Warburton.
“So here we are,” he said, with a chuckle. “The Clytie has sailed before now; you are on your way to Europe. Mr. Vernet will head you off, of course. In the meantime, we gain all that we wanted, time.”