“Who is this Rufus Black?”
“A weak-souled, kindly young fellow, the son of a villain, and a ready instrument in the hands of his father. He loves Miss Neva, and proposed to her. She, however, loves Lord Towyn—”
“Lord Towyn! My old college-mate?”
“No; his son. Arthur has come into the title and property, and is as noble a young man as any in England. Miss Neva favored him, and the result is, Lady Wynde and Craven Black conceived a hatred of your daughter, and determined to bend her to their will. Sir Harold, as God hears me, Lady Wynde is a wicked, unscrupulous woman.”
Sir Harold’s face was deathly white. The letter, still held in his trembling hands, was proof of his wife’s wickedness, and he began to be convinced that he had been cruelly deceived by an unprincipled woman.
“It would have been better if I had died in India!” he moaned.
“Not so. Sir Harold, there is more to hear. Can you bear another blow?”
Sir Harold bowed; he was too broken to speak.
“A month ago, Lady Wynde, with her new husband and Miss Wynde, went away, ostensibly to Wynde Heights. But they did not go there. A letter came from Brussels to Lord Towyn, purporting to be from Miss Wynde, but Lord Towyn went to Brussels, and discovered that the young lady and her enemies have not been there. We have had detectives at work for weeks; Lord Towyn is at work day and night scarcely knowing rest, and I have done all that I could, but the fact remains. Craven Black and his wife have abducted Miss Wynde, and God alone, besides her enemies, knows where she is.”
The baronet leaped to his feet.