"Are you going?" asked Dick.
The Count looked at him steadily, as if trying to divine his state of mind—to know if he had changed his purposes since the previous evening.
"Naturally," he replied.
"You have settled on your train?"
"Yes; I go by the 10.43."
"Then I will see that a car is in readiness."
As may be imagined, Dick had spent a well-nigh sleepless flight, and he was in a nervous condition; but upon one thing he had decided. He would be studiously polite to the Count, and would in no way refer to the happenings of the previous night. Even yet he had not made up his mind about his visitor, except that he agreed with Beatrice Stanmore. The man still fascinated him; but he repelled him also. There was something mysterious, evil, about him; but the evil was alluring; it was made to seem as though it were not evil.
"Should you alter your mind," said the Count on leaving, "this address will find me. After to-night at ten o'clock, it will be useless to try to find me."
Dick looked at the card he had placed in his hand, and found the name of one of the best hotels in London.
When he had gone, the young man felt strangely lonely and fearfully depressed. The air seemed full of foreboding; everything seemed to tell him of calamity. As the morning passed away, too, he, more than once, found himself questioning his wisdom. After all, the Count had asked nothing unreasonable. Why should he not promise to be guided by a man who was so much older and wiser than himself? One, too, who could so greatly help him in the future.