“Was it also a coincidence,” Wolfenden continued, “that in reply to a letter attempting to bribe my father’s secretary, Mr. Blatherwick, it was she, Miss Merton, who kept an appointment with him?”
“That,” Mr. Sabin answered, “I know nothing of. If you wish to question Miss Merton you are quite at liberty to do so; I will send for her.”
Wolfenden shook his head.
“Miss Merton was far too clever to commit herself,” he said; “she knew from the first that she was being watched, and behaved accordingly. If she was not there as your agent, her position becomes more extraordinary still.”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Sabin said, with an air of weariness, “that I am not the man of mystery you seem to think me. I should never dream of employing such roundabout means for gaining possession of a few statistics.”
Wolfenden was silent. His case was altogether one of surmises; he could prove nothing.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I have been precipitate. It would appear so. But if I am unduly suspicious, you have yourself only to blame! You admit that your name is an assumed one. You refuse my suit to your niece without any reasonable cause. You are evidently, to be frank, a person of much more importance than you lay claim to be. Now be open with me. If there is any reason, although I cannot conceive an honest one, for concealing your identity, why, I will respect your confidence absolutely. You may rely upon that. Tell me who you are, and who your niece is, and why you are travelling about in this mysterious way.”
Mr. Sabin smiled good-humouredly.
“Well,” he said, “you must forgive me if I plead guilty to the false identity—and preserve it. For certain reasons it would not suit me to take even you into my confidence. Besides which, if you will forgive my saying so, there does not seem to be the least necessity for it. We are leaving here during the week, and shall in all probability go abroad almost at once; so we are not likely to meet again. Let us part pleasantly, and abandon a somewhat profitless discussion.”
For a moment Wolfenden was staggered. They were leaving England! Going away! That meant that he would see no more of Helène. His indignation against the man, kindled almost into passionate anger by his mother’s story, was forgotten, overshadowed by a keen thrill of personal disappointment. If they were really leaving England, he might bid farewell to any chance of winning her; and there were certain words of hers, certain gestures, which had combined to fan that little flame of hope, which nothing as yet had ever been able to extinguish. He looked into Mr. Sabin’s quiet face, and he was conscious of a sense of helplessness. The man was too strong and too wily for him; it was an unequal contest.