They had talked lightly of many things. Most of their conversation pertained to the beauty of everything around. Hilda had thrown away the paper that she had found under the window of her bedroom, but in spite of her determination to forget the incident, some strange impulse impelled her to allude to it now, although many days had passed. So she said: “Oh, I say, Raife! In my room, the first night I was here, I picked up a piece of paper. On it was typewritten something like this: ‘It is dangerous to rob.’ It was placed under the window that opens on to the balcony. I suppose some one who stayed there before me was fond of texts and that sort of thing, but it struck me as strange.”
Raife’s face clouded. The supreme happiness of that spring morning, with its exquisite environment, had vanished. He had practically forgotten his chase after the elusive Apache the night before. He had been happy for a brief period while among his own on a superb spring morning—and he now counted Hilda among his own. Why should he be persistently pursued by a malevolent fate? He laughed at the incident, and said: “Yes, I expect that is so. You see, I have been away so long. I expect mother has had some dear old lady staying here, and she dropped one of her texts, and the maid did not notice it.”
Doctor Malsano sat in his den. It might be called a studio, a library, a laboratory, for he was a master of many crafts. A maid knocked at his door and announced, “There is a man named Lesigne wishes to see you, sir.”
“Ask him in,” snapped the doctor.
A pale-faced young man, whose features resembled a combination of cunning and all that is decadent in human physiognomy, entered deferentially. The doctor glared at him.
“Have you bungled again?” the doctor asked.
“No, monsieur! I have not bungled. I left the note, as you told me, under the young lady’s window—the window of the young lady at Aldborough Park. Since then I visited the place again and the man, Sir Remington, he chased me across the park. I escaped and I fired at him. He fired at me. It was difficult. I enter the car. I get away. I am here. I await instructions. I am at your service, sir!” Doctor Malsano took this narration of an exciting incident, as he would have cracked an egg at breakfast-time. The young man stood deferentially, as the old man spoke. “Lesigne, you are a bungler, but you seem to have done this rather well. Go to your room and sleep. I may want you at any moment.”
The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under the control of this Machiavelli—the person whose evil influence controlled the fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.