When the tea-things were cleared away, and Jane and Martha had finally retired for a gossip in the kitchen, Arthur got up and closed the door with great care. "Now, Mrs. Grey," he said, crossing over to where she sat looking out upon the moonlight, "I must really have it out with you. Are you a magician? Please give us the secret of your power?"
Margaret smiled: "A serious accusation, Sir Knight. Before committing myself in any way, I must hear upon what it is founded."
"You have bewitched that wretched old landlady of yours. Why, I declare I never in my life saw the like of it. When I was last here I felt once or twice an insane desire to say something that would astonish her, I was so angry at the cool impertinence of her manner. Now, good gracious! no humble slavey could be more obsequious. She seems actually affectionate—has the appearance of a devoted family servant. What have you done to arouse enthusiasm? Come, Mrs. Grey, confess!"
"You must confess, first," answered Mrs. Grey, more gravely, it seemed, than the occasion warranted, "that such a thing is possible as to be mistaken, even when we think our observation has been of the keenest. You thought and I thought that Jane Rodgers was wholly without a heart. I have discovered my mistake, and found a way to her heart; that is all the mystery. Thank you, a thousand times, for your kind thoughtfulness in sending Mrs. Foster. She is a charming old woman, and I was delighted to receive her, but my landlady and I are perfectly d'accord."
Arthur shrugged his shoulders: "The mystery remains a mystery still, however; even in her changed attitude your landlady is not a lively subject, to me especially, for she was the cause of a severe nightmare which kept me awake for hours only a very short time ago. We'll change it. What I want to tell you is, that all being well I start for Moscow to-morrow night."
Margaret clasped her hands and looked straight before her into the night. "Then you have heard of him?" she said in a low voice.
"I have heard something, dear Mrs. Grey." Arthur spoke slowly, a certain sadness in his voice. It was as it should be. She loved her husband. He was nothing to her but an intermediary, an instrument. "But do not raise your hopes too high," he continued. "It may be a long and tedious business. The last address given by Mr. Grey to his solicitor—who, I suppose you know, is not the same as yours—for letters and remittances, was that of an agent in Moscow. It is more than probable he has left that place himself. He seemed to wish to keep his ultimate destination a secret. I shall go to Moscow myself, and see this agent. He will probably be able to give me some information."
"And what if he refuse?"
"I have a key. Russians are proverbially open to bribery and corruption."