“What, and put that sharp old ferret Craven Black on his guard!” ejaculated Ryan, in astonishment. “No, sir. We’ve got an uncommon pair to deal with. Mr. Black and his lady are as shrewd and keen as any old stagers I ever knew. It wouldn’t do to let them suspect that we are on their track, or they would outwit us yet, and perhaps put this young lady in peril. People do a many things when they get desperate that will do them no good, and is sure to harm them if found out.”
A stifled groan came from Sir Harold. Ryan shot a quick, suspicious glance at him.
“Then you are at a stand-still, Ryan,” said Mr. Atkins impatiently. “You have treed the game and sat down to wait for us?”
“By no means, sir,” answered Ryan deliberately. “I saw the cabby after Rufus Black had gone to bed, and arf-a-crown drew out of the fellow all that he knew. Mind you my lord, that gold and silver make the best cork-screws in existence. The cabby owned up all he knew, as I said, and a pity it wasn’t more. He drove out with his fare to an estate called Heather Hills, between this and Nairn, on the coast, and a wild, bleak spot it is, according to cabby. They went up a long drive and stopped in a carriage porch, and Rufus Black he knocked and rung, and a house-maid came to the door, and he asked her something, and she pointed down the coast. And, telling cabby to wait, young Black went down the bluffs and struck across the fields. Cabby put an oil-cloth on his horse, for the wind was blowing free and strong from the sea, and sat there on his box, and sat there till it began to grow dark and he began to swear a blue streak; and then, at last, young Black came back with a young lady dressed in black upon his arm, a hanging on to him so very fond, and a looking up at him so very tender, that cabby saw that they were lovers.”
“Impossible!” cried Lord Towyn, turning pale. “I will stake my very soul on Miss Wynde’s courage, and her fidelity to me. No personal fears, no cruelty even, could drive her into accepting Rufus Black. I know her brave and glorious nature; I know that she could never know a moment of weakness or yielding. The cabman has deceived you, Ryan.”
“No, my lord,” said the detective doggedly. “I’ll stake anything your lordship likes on his good faith. Rufus Black hung over the lady as if the ground wasn’t good enough for her to walk on, and she smiled up at him as loving as—as a basket of chips,” said Ryan, at fault for a simile, and concluding his comparison rather ignominiously. “The lady saw cabby, and says she, blushing and smiling, ‘The gentleman will stay to dinner, and you can put up your horses in the stable,’ says she, ‘and go into the servants’ hall and get a glass of ale and your dinner.’ And cabby put up his horses, and went into the kitchen.”
“A queer story,” muttered Atkins. “Perhaps Miss Wynde was playing a part—pretending to love Rufus Black in order to throw her jailers off their guard, and so obtain a chance of escape?”
The young earl’s face now flushed.
“I can’t understand it,” he said. “It is not like Miss Wynde to play such a part, even to effect her escape from her enemies. She is truth incarnate. She could never summon to her lips those false smiles; she could never for one moment allow Rufus Black to consider himself her favored lover.”
“The earl is right,” said Sir Harold. “Neva could never play such a part. She is too truthful and straightforward.”