"Yes, sir." The gold had impressed her.
"Very well. Now I want you to keep on here as if nothing had happened. You shall have your money regularly. Look after your mistress's things carefully, and if any one calls here, any visitors, men, or—or strangers, let me know. There, that card will give you my address. If I'm not there my secretary will take any message for me. I'm afraid some accident must have happened to your mistress. I am going to find out with the help of the—police. Do you understand? Whatever you do, don't talk."
By the time he had finished the poor woman was thoroughly alarmed, and showed it.
"My, sir, I do 'ope nothin' 'as 'appened serious-like. She was allus a venturesome one, as you might say, goin' about, an' I allus was a-tellin' of 'er——"
"Yes, yes; that's all right. The thing is, I've got to find out. Now, you see and do as I have said, and your mistress will thank you. Nor shall I forget. Remember, if any one calls for her, get their names and remember their faces, and—don't talk."
He hurried away, and passed down the uninviting stairs at a run. Two minutes later he was in a taxi, driving at a breakneck speed for Smith Square.
Arrived there, he ordered his own car, and, while awaiting its arrival, gave a string of instructions to Heathcote. Within another twenty minutes he was in his car, threading his way through the London traffic with the reckless inconsequence only to be found in an ex-naval chauffeur urged by an equally reckless employer.
A nightmare of apprehension pursued Ruxton over the switchback Oxford road. With a mind clear and incisive he had thought at almost electric speed, and planned the course to be pursued. In his brief twenty minutes with his secretary he had carefully detailed all his requirements. Now he could only lie back in his car, while the sailorman, driving him, obeyed the reckless instincts which have made him and his comrades a byword for devotion. Ruxton demanded speed, and the keen-eyed chauffeur gave it him. Heavy car as it was, it danced over the greater part of the journey with the fantastic and dangerous irresponsibility of a runaway. But the man at the wheel knew his machine. The pride and joy of his life was that he was the driver of eighty horse-power. This was the first time he had ever been permitted to test the accuracy of the maker's claims.
But to Ruxton the speed was a snail gait, and it seemed to him, on that brief journey to Wednesford, that he lived through centuries of despairing anxiety and doubts. Had these devils got at Vita? The burden of his cry was based on all the experiences of the late war. Yet what could they do? What would they dare do, here in England? He tried to reassure himself. But it was a vain attempt. He knew, only too well, the ruthless audacity of these people. Then he blamed himself that he had not insisted that Vita should have abandoned her home in Buckinghamshire when she first told him of Von Salzinger's visit. Was not that sufficient warning for any sane mind? Did it not clearly prove that Vita was watched? And, if she were watched, did it not point the purpose in the Teutonic mind to act if it suited it? Of course it did. He was to blame, seriously to blame—if anything had happened to her. He remembered Vassilitz and the inspiration his doings had awakened in him. He must have been mad not to think further—mad or incompetent.
So his feverish imagination ran on and tortured him as no other anxiety could have tortured him. And then came the relief of further action.