“Yes! that’s the way. I’ve got the old rout in my power! Only needs one step more to secure him. And he shall give me whatever I ask—even to a title!”
“I know he can’t make me a lord; but he can a knight or a baronet. It would be all the same to her; and with ‘Sir’ to my name, she will no longer deny me. With that, I shall get Julia Girdwood and her two hundred thousand pounds!”
“By heaven! I care more for her, than her money. The girl has got into my heart. I shall go mad, if I fail to get her into my arms?”
Thus wildly reflecting, he continued to traverse the streets: down Bond Street, along Piccadilly, into the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.
As if the devil had turned up to aid him in his evil designs, an episode occurred in exact consonance with them. It seemed an accident—though who could tell that it was one; since it might have been prearranged?
He was standing by the lamp-post, in the centre of the Piccadilly Circus, when a cab drove past, containing two fares—a lady and gentleman.
Both were keeping their faces well back from the window; the lady’s under a thick veil; while that of the gentleman was screened by a copy of the Times newspaper held cunningly in hand, as if he was intensely interested in the perusal of some thundering leader!
In spite of this, Swinton recognised the occupants of the cab—both of them. The lady was his own wife; the gentleman his noble patron of Park Lane!
The cab passed him, without any attempt on his part to stay it. He only followed, silently, and at a quick pace.
It turned down the Haymarket, and drew up by the door of one of those quiet hotels, known only to those light travellers who journey without being encumbered with luggage.