Rufus hesitated, with a quick glance at Sir Harold’s muffled face and figure. Then he said bravely, resolving to act upon his new principles of straightforwardness and courage:
“It is an odd story, Lord Towyn. I have been married before to my wife to whom I was married this morning. My father separated me from her and I read in a London paper that she was dead. I discovered my mistake the other day in London. I met her in a picture-shop. She came off to Scotland that night, and I found her yesterday. She is an heiress now, my lord, but the same true and loving wife she used to be. I was desperate at her loss; I was half mad, I think, when I asked Miss Wynde to marry me. I never loved any one but my own wife, and I beg you to say to Miss Wynde for me, that I send my best wishes for her happiness, and I should be glad to witness her marriage with you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Rufus. But where is Miss Wynde?”
A look of genuine surprise appeared in Rufus Black’s eyes.
“Why, she is at Wynde Heights, with my father and her step-mother,” he answered.
“She is not there. They have not been there. They have conveyed her to some lonely place, where they hope to subdue her into consenting to marry you,” said Lord Towyn. “Can you give us no clue to their whereabouts?”
“None whatever, my lord. My father said they were going to Wynde Heights, and ordered me to hold myself in readiness to come to him at a moment’s warning. I have not heard from him since he left Hawkhurst. I am now of age, and have flung off my father’s authority forever. I know no more than you do, my lord, where my father can have gone. But one thing is sure. When he sees the announcement of my marriage in the Times, he’ll give up the game, and bring Miss Wynde back to her home.”
“He may not dare to do that,” said Atkins. “He has carried matters with too high a hand, and has gone too far to make an easy retreat. Has your father any property, Mr. Black?”
“About three hundred a year,” said Rufus. “His wife is rich.”
“I mean, does he own any real estate?”