Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“Soon. But you must be discreet—and you must ask no questions. Just place yourself in my hands—that is, if you can trust me.”

“I do, even though I am ignorant of your name.”

“It is best that you remain in ignorance,” was his reply. “Otherwise perhaps you would hesitate to trust me.”

“Why?”

But the tall, good-looking man only laughed, and then he said:

“My name really doesn’t matter at present. Later, Miss Ranscomb, you will no doubt know it. I am only acting in the interests of Henfrey.”

Again she looked at him. His face was smiling, and yet was sphinx-like in the moonlight. His voice was certainly that of the white cavalier which she recollected so well, but his personality, so strongly marked, was a little overbearing.

“I know you mistrust me,” he went on. “If I were in your place I certainly should do so. A thousand pities it is that I cannot tell you who I am. But—well—I tell you in confidence that I dare not!”

“Dare not! Of what are you afraid?” inquired Dorise. The man she had met under such romantic circumstances interested her keenly. He was Hugh’s go-between. Poor Hugh! She knew he was suffering severely in his loneliness, and his incapability to clear himself of the terrible stigma upon him.

“I’m afraid of several things,” replied the white cavalier. “The greatest fear I have is that you may not believe in me.”

“I do believe in you,” declared the girl.

“Excellent!” he replied enthusiastically. “Then let us get to business—pardon me for putting it so. But I am, after all, a business man. I am interested in a lot of different businesses, you see.”

“Of what character?”

“No, Miss Ranscomb. That is another point upon which I regret that I cannot satisfy your pardonable curiosity. Please allow your mind to rest upon the one main point—that I am acting in the interests of the man with—the man who is, I believe, your greatest and most intimate friend.”

“I understood that when we met in Nice.”

“Good! Now I understand that your mother, Lady Ranscomb, is much against your marriage with Hugh Henfrey. She has other views.”

“Really! Who told you that?”

“I have ascertained it in the course of my inquiry.”

Dorise paused, and then looking the man of mystery straight in the face, asked:

“What do you really know about me?”

“Well,” he laughed lightly. “A good deal. Now tell me when could you be free to get away from your mother for a whole day?”

“Why?”

“I want to know. Just tell me the date. When are you returning to London?”

“On Saturday week. I could get away—say—on Tuesday week.”

“Very good. You would have to leave London by an early train in the morning—if I fail to send a car for you, which I hope to do. And be back again late at night.”

“Why?”

“Why,” he echoed. “Because I have a reason.”

“I believe you will take me to meet Hugh—eh? Ah! How good you are!” cried the girl in deep emotion. “I shall never be able to thank you sufficiently for all you are doing. I—I have been longing all these weeks to see him again—to hear his explanation why he went to the woman’s house at that hour—why–”

“He will tell you everything, no doubt,” said her mysterious visitor. “He will tell you everything except one fact.”

“And what is that?” she asked breathlessly.

“One fact he will not tell you. But you will know it later. Hugh Henfrey is a fine manly fellow, Miss Ranscomb. That is why I have done my level best in his interest.”

“But why should you?” she asked. “You are, after all, a stranger.”

“True. But you will know the truth some day. Meanwhile, leave matters as they are. Do not prejudge him, even if the police are convinced of his guilt. Could you be at King’s Cross station at ten o’clock on the morning of Tuesday week? If so, I will meet you there.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But where are we going?”

“At present I have no idea. When one is escaping from the police one’s movements have to be ruled by circumstances from hour to hour. I will do my best on that day to arrange a meeting between you,” he added.

She thanked him very sincerely. He was still a mystery, but his face and his whole bearing attracted her. He was her friend. She recollected his words amid that gay revelry at Nice—words of encouragement and sympathy. And he had travelled there, far north into Perthshire, in order to carry the letter which she had thrust into her pocket, yet still holding it in her clenched hand.

“I do wish you would tell me the motive of your extreme kindness towards us both,” Dorise urged. “I can’t make it out at all. I am bewildered.”

“Well—so am I, Miss Ranscomb,” replied the tall, elegant man who spoke with such refinement, and was so shrewd and alert. “There are certain facts—facts of which I have no knowledge. The affair at the Villa Amette is still, to me, a most profound mystery.”

“Why did Hugh go there at all? That is what I fail to understand,” she declared.

“Don’t wonder any longer. He had, I know, an urgent and distinct motive to call that night.”

“But the woman! I hear she is a notorious adventuress.”

“And the adventuress, Miss Ranscomb, often has, deep in her soul, the heart of a pure woman,” he said. “One must never judge by appearance or gossip. What people may think is the curse of many of our lives. I hope you do not misjudge Mr. Henfrey.”

“I do not. But I am anxious to hear his explanation.”

“You shall—and before long, too,” he replied. “But I want you, if you will, to answer a question. I do not put it from mere idle curiosity, but it very closely concerns you both. Have you ever heard him speak of a girl named Louise Lambert?”

“Louise Lambert? Why, yes! He introduced her to me once. She is, I understand, the adopted daughter of a man named Benton, an intimate friend of old Mr. Henfrey.”

“Has he ever told you anything concerning her?”

“Nothing much. Why?”

“He has never told you the conditions of his father’s will?”

“Never—except that he has been left very poorly off, though his father died in affluent circumstances. What are the conditions?”

The mysterious stranger paused for a moment.