He had almost given her up as hopeless, had frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.
Society has a conveniently short memory on occasions, and those members of it, who knew the history of the Dales and the story of the convict brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and successfully disappeared from the country, quickly forgot all about him. Those who had not heard asked no questions. Miss Dale was young, rich, beautiful, and apparently well-bred. That was enough. Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed no signs of it.
But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him to play his last card. A desperate one and a dangerous.
That was why he now glanced impatiently at the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually deepened. That morning he had commenced to unload—to sell his shares in the radium mine. He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm the public. It was important that no one should know that he was clearing out of the venture until he had realised every penny he possibly could. As soon as the shares began to drop he knew there would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell. And eventually there would be a scramble by the public to get rid of the shares that he believed were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy shillings. By that time Despard hoped to be out of the country—travelling for his health! And he fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with him, too. As his wife—or, if she proved obstinate, he intended to try what force would do.
He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should never have her. For he hated him. And he had good reason. Jim had kept his promise to Ruby Strode and had left no stone unturned to try and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.
But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald's suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion.
The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.
He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably.
He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment's notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case—in Mr. Despard's own language—"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months' change of air the better.
He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father's sake.