"Dear Mr. Farlow:
"I never knew your wonderful coast could be so interesting, even absorbing. I feel I owe you personal thanks for a delightful time, simply because you live—where you live. I have discovered a most wonderful spot. I say discovered, but probably you have known it from the days when you were first able to toddle about by yourself. However, I must tell you of it. It is an old, old, ruined mill, regarded by the folks on your coast as an evil place which is haunted by the spirits of the smugglers who once upon a time used it as the headquarters for their nefarious trade. But the incredible part of it is we unearthed a secret in it which has remained hidden for generations, possibly centuries. Now listen carefully and I will tell you of this secret. In the middle of the stone chamber under the mill there is the entrance to a passage which communicates with that villainous cove over which the evil eye of the old mill forever gazes. Six inches beneath the surface of the debris on the floor there is a slate slab, and, on raising this, you will discover a stone staircase which goes down, down,—follow it, and you shall see what you shall see. I have since discovered that this is the only means of reaching the beach of the cove—unless you possess wings. But I began this note with the intention of only telling you how much I am looking forward to seeing you again on Thursday evening at eight o'clock. I do hope you are taking full advantage of your vacation from parliamentary work, and are storing up plenty of good health upon your wonderful, wonderful moors.
"Yours very sincerely,
"Vita Vladimir."
Ruxton refolded the letter and put it away. He understood it was the final summons to that great adventure which was to tell him of the threat overshadowing his beloved country.
He had obeyed it readily, eagerly, and now that the reality of the whole thing was developing he paused to consider the motives urging him.
He was going to witness things first hand. He was glad. His understanding of duty assured him that it was the only means by which he could hope to convince others, when the time came. But was this his sole motive? Was this the motive which had inspired that feeling of exaltation when he first read the perfumed note, so carefully written lest it should fall into wrong hands? He knew it was not.
His eyes were raised to the glistening sea away beyond the cove. He was gazing straight out through the narrow opening of the cove where the precipitous cliffs rose sheer out of the blue waters and marked the entrance which the country-folk sensationally loved to call "Hell's Gate." His mind was searching and probing the feelings which inspired him, and he knew that the beckoning hand of the woman was exercising a greater power than any sense of duty. He did not blind himself. He had no desire to. Those dark Slavonic eyes of his were wide and bright, and the half smile of them was full of an eager warmth. The idealist mind behind them was widely open to its own imagery. He saw through those Hell's Gates the perfect, palpitating figure which had poured out its burden of soul to him on the edge of those very cliffs; and she was—beckoning.
The youth of him had been engulfed in the soul of the woman. Nor, as yet, did he realize the extent of the power she was exercising. All he knew was that he had neither the power nor desire to resist the summons, and herein lay the distinguishing mark of those whom Destiny claims.
After a few moments he glanced at his watch. And at once the alertness of the man was displayed. It was twenty minutes to eight, and shortly after eight it would be low tide. The appointment had been made with regard to that, and that while he approached from the land, she would come by water. Therefore he must not delay.
Dismissing every other consideration he turned back to the mysterious stairway he had unearthed and began its descent, aided by the light of the lantern he had discovered secreted upon the top step, ready for his use.