“Your father seems to be returning quite unexpectedly to England,” I said presently, after she had been admiring the reflection of the moon upon the glittering waters.
“Yes. I was quite surprised. He gave me no warning. Poor old dad is always so very erratic. He told me to meet him at the Metropole in Milan, and hardly gave me time to get there. I had to leave the house within an hour of receiving his wire.”
“Did he telegraph from Rome?”
“No. From Ancona, on the Adriatic.”
So he had escaped at once to the other side of Italy without returning to Rome.
“What has Ella told you in her letter?”
“Nothing more than what I have already explained. She makes no mention of—of the man whom we need not name.”
“I am now going home to expose him,” I said determinedly. “I have fully considered all the risks, and am prepared to run them.”
“Ah!” she cried, turning to me in quick alarm, “do not do anything rash, I beg of you, Mr Leaf! There is some mystery—a great mystery which I am, as yet, unable to fathom—but to speak at this juncture would assuredly only implicate her. Of that I feel sure from certain information already in my possession.”
“You’ve already told me that. But surely you don’t think I can stand by and see her go headlong to her ruin without stretching forth a hand to save her. It is my duty, not only as her lover but also as a man. The fellow is a thief and a scoundrel.”