“All cleverly planned by her enemies,” I declared. “She was misled, and fell into some very cunningly-baited trap, without a doubt. Do you believe she is still in Eastbourne?”
“No.”
“Neither do I,” was my assertion. “She went to London, no doubt, for there she would be easily concealed—if death has not already overtaken her—as it has overtaken poor Madame de Rosen.”
“I trust not,” he said very thoughtfully. Then he added: “I have been thinking whether we might not again approach Danilovitch?”
“He is our enemy and hers. He will give us no satisfaction,” I said. “Certainly, whatever plot suggested by Markoff arose in his fertile brain. And his plots usually have the same result—the death of the victim. It may be so in this case,” I added reflectively; “but I sincerely trust not.”
Hartwig drew a long breath. His face clouded.
“Remember,” he said, “it is to Markoff’s advantage—indeed to him her death means the suppression of some disgraceful truth. If she lives—then his fall is imminent. I have foreseen this all along, hence my constant precaution, which, alas! was relaxed last Monday, because I had to go to London to consult the Ambassador. They evidently were aware of that.”
I explained the failure of my errand, whereat he drew a long breath and said:
“It almost seems, Mr Trewinnard, that our enemies have secured the advantage of us, after all. I really feel they have.”
“You fear that the trap into which Her Highness has fallen is a fatal one—eh?” I asked, glancing at him quickly.