“Spain, then? Good hotels in Madrid and Barcelona. In Madrid there is a small circle of English society, good opera, and lots of interesting places to visit by motor,” Rayne suggested, for, as a rapid traveler all over Europe, he knew every Continental city of importance.
The old man was rather struck by the latter suggestion.
“I certainly am rather tired of Bournemouth and Colwyn Bay and Hove in winter,” he admitted. “I’ve never been to Madrid.”
“Then go, my dear fellow. Go by all means. The journey is quite easy. Just the train by day to Paris, and then by sleeping-car on the Sud Express right through to Madrid.”
“Yes. But it’s an awful trouble,” replied the rich old man.
“No trouble at all!” laughed Rayne as he pulled at his cigar. “I don’t like to see you in this rut of hotels. It’s bad for you! It only leads to drinks in the bar till late and bad headaches in the morning. You must buck up and get out of it.”
“Well, I’ll see,” replied the old fellow, and then we all three rose and rejoined the ladies.
Oh, what a farce the whole thing was! I longed—I yearned to yell my disclosures against the man who like an octopus had now placed his tentacles around me. But I saw that it was futile to kick against the pricks. I had only to wait and to watch.
For a whole week things proceeded in good, well-ordered regularity. Mr. Lloyd was our guest and everyone made themselves pleasant towards him. Lola, with whom I had frequent chats in secret, had somehow become disarmed. She no longer suspected her father of any sinister intent, the reason being that he had taken the old man as his dearest and most intimate confidant.
One night after I had beaten old Mr. Lloyd at billiards and he had gone to bed, I passed by the door of the library and saw a streak of light beneath the door.