Dorise breathed more freely when he had gone.
George Sherrard had arrived from London quite unexpectedly at nine o’clock on the previous morning. She had been alone with her mother after the last guest of a gay house-party had departed, when, unknown to Dorise, Lady Ranscomb had telegraphed to her friend George to “run up for a few days’ fishing.”
Lady Ranscomb’s scheme was to throw the pair into each other’s society as much as possible. She petted George, flattered him, and in every way tried to entertain him with one sole object, namely, to induce him to propose to Dorise, and so get the girl “off her hands.”
On the contrary, the girl’s thoughts were for ever centred upon Hugh, even though he remained under that dark cloud of suspicion. To her the chief element in the affair was the mystery why her lover had gone on that fateful night to the Villa Amette, the house of that notorious Mademoiselle. What had really occurred?
Twice she had received letters from him brought to her by the mysterious girl-messenger from Belgium. From them she knew how grey and dull was his life, hiding there from those who were so intent upon his arrest.
Indeed, within her blouse she carried his last letter which she had received three weeks before when in London—a letter in which he implored her not to misjudge him, and in which he promised that, as soon as he dared to leave his hiding-place and meet her, he would explain everything. In return, she had again written to him, but though three weary weeks had passed, she had received no word in reply. She could neither write by post, nor could she telegraph. It was far too dangerous. In addition, his address had been purposely withheld from her.
Walter Brock had tried to ascertain it. He had even seen the mysterious messenger on her last visit to England, but she had refused point-blank, declaring that she had been ordered to disclose nothing. She was merely a messenger.
That her correspondence was still being watched by the police, Dorise was quite well aware. Her maid, Duncan, had told her in confidence quite recently that while crossing Berkeley Square one evening she had been accosted by a good-looking young man who, having pressed his attentions upon her, had prevailed upon her to meet him on the following evening.
He then took her to dinner to a restaurant in Soho, and to the pictures afterwards. They had met half a dozen times, when he began to cleverly question her concerning her mistress, asking whether she had letters from her gentleman friends. At this Duncan had grown suspicious, and she had not met the young fellow since.
That, in itself, showed her that the police were bent on discovering and arresting Hugh.