had called, and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be amply and surely revenged.
“Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. Is not that so?”
“It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly.
Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving.
“Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell. “A glass of sherry, brandy-and-soda, or what?”
“No thank you, my lord, nothing,” answers Mr. Trackem. “Must keep a clear head in my business. Thanks all the same.”
They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, both intent on a base and ruffianly deed, yet one of them is regarded as a gentleman, is received and welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the Government of the day, and accounted a clever man and useful statesman. Clothed in these mantles of virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will not bar Society’s doors against him, or lose him his high preferments. Is he not a man, one of the dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore, is he not free to do as he pleases?
The day has come,—a hot July one. Down upon the dusty country roads the sun has burnt fiercely all day long. The cattle and beasts of the field have eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the torturing flies that ever haunt their presence, but evening has fallen at last, and with it relief has come.
It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old Thames. The silver streak glides sluggishly along, with the moon’s pale light playing softly upon it. The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief sweet reign; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of sleep.
A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and clinging ivy, peeps forth upon that scene. The smooth lawns around it gleam white as the driven snow beneath the moon’s soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise up behind in ebony framework, making an efficient background, while through the still air trembles and quivers the nightingale’s exquisite song.
It would seem, at a first glance, as if all were asleep in that cottage; but no, there is yet a light left in one of the rooms on the ground-floor. Suddenly a pair of window-doors in it are flung open, and a tall, graceful woman steps out through them. Her head is uncovered, the moon gleams down upon the thick masses of pale gold hair that cover it, and shines in her glittering eyes of turquoise-blue. It is Speranza de Lara.
“What a glorious night!” she soliloquises to herself. “I suppose my darling is speaking now. She said it would be about ten o’clock. Oh, Harry I my precious long-lost love, would that you could see our child now!”
She has pressed the ring with its glittering brilliants to her lips,—the only ring she wears. The stones flash and sparkle in the moon’s light like gems of living fire, beautiful, pure, and shining as the love that is next her heart. Much more than a score of years have passed away since Harry Kintore died in her arms, but if she lived through countless scores of years that love would burn just the same. She wanders along the gravel carriage drive, her thoughts busy with the past. Anon they fleet forward to the future, and then a light of triumph dances in her eyes. But it is with the past that she is chiefly occupied this night, for it is the 14th of July, the anniversary of the day on which her darling died.
She has passed along the shady avenue, and entered a tiny straggling path, shut in by tall dark trees. It is a glade upon which the gardener has not been allowed to bestow his fostering care. He has been forbidden this spot by his mistress, who loves to leave it in possession of the primrose and violet, the wild anemone or dark blue hyacinth that Nature has scattered so plentifully around. It is Speranza’s safe retreat, away from the outside world, the spot where she best loves to roam.
All is quiet; not a sound disturbs the tenor of her thoughts as she walks quietly along. Suddenly, how-ever, her eye is arrested by a gleam of light in front of her. The next moment two dark forms spring forward in her path, and she sees that they are men.
Speranza is no coward. We already know that well. Screaming is without her ken, she has no knowledge of it. Of fear, she only knows the name. If it is a thrill that permeates the body from head to foot, and sends the blood rushing through the system with irresistible impetus, then Speranza knows what that strange, mysterious sensation called fear is. But then it only makes her feel defiant. She has no thought of fleeing. Her impulse is to stand and face the danger, whatever it may be.
“Who are you?” she asks in a quiet, measured voice; “and what do you want here?”
“You,” is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes her by the arm, and deftly getting behind her, endeavours to draw her two elbows together. The pain is excruciating, but Speranza’s blood is up. She is no weakly woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and want of muscle power. She is strong and flexible as wire, and makes her assailant feel this too, as with a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward behind him, facing them both once more. With a foul oath the man who had first attacked her bares a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does so as well.
“No use resisting!” exclaims this latter. “If you do you’ll get a taste of these. Better come quietly.”
She does not even answer them. Her lovely head is thrown back, her blue eyes shoot defiance, even while in them trembles the look of despair. Her hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails for a second.
They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. She seizes the blades with both her hands, and holds them with the grim clutch of a last great effort. With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and the sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed palms. Out pours the rich, dark blood from the cruel, gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the first that has escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to the ground. In another moment the gag is on her mouth, tight straps are round her arms and ankles, and she is a prisoner at their feet.
“Come on quick, now!” exclaims one of the men. “My, Bill! she be a strong, plucky one, and no mistake! If it ‘adn’t been for that there root we shouldn’t have mastered her so easily—no, nor we should.”
The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of a fallen tree. Against this Speranza’s head had struck in falling, rendering her senseless. No wonder they tied her so easily.
They lift her between them, and carry her across the copsewood towards a low hedge, outside which lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and then lay her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, low whistle.
There is an answering whistle down the road, a tumbling and stamping as of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a carriage dashes up.
“Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out.
“Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer.
“Well, put her in! Look sharp; no time to lose. I thought I heard footsteps as I came along,” and Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open the door.
They obey his orders without more ado, and then he jumps in.
“Now then! look alive, men! One on the box, one in with her and me.”
It is done. The men are “sharp uns.” They know their master, and he knows his men. The next moment the carriage is bowling along towards Windsor, en route for London.
Who will track them, who discover