“It’s your own invention, I take it? Nothing to do with the Company—eh?”
“At present—no. But the Company controls all wireless patents that are worth anything at all. They will control mine,” was Geoffrey’s reply.
“Well, I hope yours will bring you in a lot of money. It certainly must be of the greatest use in the merchant service, and you are to be heartily congratulated.”
Geoffrey turned the conversation to the Fitzwilliam Hunt, and the several runs in which both had taken part, hoping that he might mention May Farncombe. But he refrained. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to recall his stay at Stamford. Perhaps it was because he had suspicion that Geoffrey knew that the name he had gone under at the George Hotel was not the one he was now using.
That night they had a pleasant dinner at Jules’, but more than ever it became impressed upon Geoffrey’s mind that the man had some sinister influence over the girl, hence her tears on the previous afternoon. There was a mystery somewhere, but what it was he was utterly unable to solve. Still, no man could have been more genial and light-hearted than that man who, leading a life of luxury, seemed to be surrounded by many friends.
On the following Tuesday night Falconer was again at Mrs. Beverley’s to bid May Farncombe good-bye, as she was leaving for Paris on the following morning. At dinner she seemed anxious to get away from London, and Geoffrey guessed the reason. She longed to extricate herself from some invisible net which the man Paget had cast about her. Apparently, for some secret reason, she was entirely in his power.
“Well, Miss Farncombe,” he said, as they stood together in the hall just before he departed, “I wish you bon voyage, and I hope we shall see you back in London again very soon.”
At that moment they were alone in the big wide hall.
“Hush!” she whispered. “I shall pretend to go to Paris—but I shall only go as far as Dover. Where can you see me alone—in secret—to-morrow night?”
“Anywhere you like,” he replied, much surprised.