One day, on entering Rayne’s study, I found him in conversation with a tall, dark, fashionably dressed foreign woman—Spanish, I believed her to be. As I went in unexpectedly she seemed to have risen and assumed a fierce defiant attitude, while he, seated at his writing-table, was smoking one of his favorite expensive cigars and contemplating her with amusement.
“My dear Madame,” he said, laughing, “pray sit down and let us discuss the matter coolly. I do not wish you to act in any way to jeopardize yourself. I have made certain plans; it is for you and your friends to carry them out. And I know how clever is your friend Louis Larroca. So there is no need for apprehension. Besides, if you trust me, as you have done hitherto, you will find the whole affair works quite easily—and without the least risk to yourselves.”
Next second he realized that I had entered, and turning to me, said quite quietly:
“I’m engaged just now, Hargreave.”
So I was forced to withdraw, full of wonder as to the nature of the latest conspiracy.
I found that a hired car from a garage at Thirsk was awaiting the lady, who, I learned from the young footman, had given her name as Madame Martoz.
A quarter of an hour later she drove away without, so far as I could discern, having seen either Duperré or his wife.
Next day Rayne, whom I drove into York in the new two-seater Vauxhall, told me as we went along that he was having a small house-party on the following Thursday.
“Just a few personal friends,” he added.