“Yes. She’s making her home with
Mrs. Bond for the present. She returns here to-morrow.”
As he said this, he watched the young man’s
face. It was sphinx-like.
“Oh! That’s jolly!” he replied,
with well assumed satisfaction. “It seems
such an age since we last met—nearly a year
before my father’s death, I believe.”
In his heart he had no great liking for the girl,
although she was bright, vivacious and extremely good
company.
Next afternoon the pair met in the hall after the
car had brought her from Guildford station.
“Hallo, Hugh!” she cried as she grasped
his hand. “Uncle wrote and told me you
were here! How jolly, isn’t it? Why—you
seem to have grown older,” she laughed.
“And you younger,” he replied, bending
over her hand gallantly. “I hear you’ve
been all over the world of late!”
“Yes. Wasn’t it awfully good of Mrs.
Bond? I had a ripping time. I enjoyed New
York ever so much. I find this place a bit dull
after Paris though, so I’m often away with friends.”
And he followed her into the big morning-room where
Mrs. Bond, alias Molly Maxwell, was awaiting her.
That afternoon there had been several callers; a retired
admiral and his wife, and two county magistrates with
their womenfolk, for since her residence at Shapley
Mrs. Bond had been received in a good many smart houses,
especially by the nouveau riche who abound in
that neighbourhood. But the callers had left
and they were now alone.
As Louise sat opposite the woman who had taken her
under her charge, Hugh gazed at her furtively and
saw that there was no comparison between her and the
girl he loved so deeply.
How strange it was, he thought. If he asked her
to be his wife and they married, he would at once
become a wealthy man and inherit all his father’s
possessions. True, she was very sweet and possessed
more than the ordinary chic and good taste
in dress. Yet he felt that he could never fulfil
his dead father’s curious desire.
He could never marry her—never!
THE MAN WITH THE BLACK GLOVE
On his way out of London, Hugh had made excuse and
stopped the car at a post office in Putney, whence
he sent an express note to Dorise, telling her his
change of address. He though it wiser not to post
it.
Hence it was on the morning following Louise’s
arrival at Shapley, he received a letter from Dorise,
enclosing one she had received under cover for him.
He had told Dorise to address him as “Mr. Carlton
Symes.”
It was on dark-blue paper, such as is usually associated
with the law or officialdom. Written in a neat,
educated hand, it read:
“DEAR MR. HENFREY,—I hear that you
have left Abingdon Road, and am greatly interested
to know the reason. You will, no doubt, recognize
me as the friend who sent a car for you at Monte Carlo.
Please call at the above address at the earliest possible
moment. Be careful that you are not watched.
Say nothing to anybody, wherever you may be. Better
call about ten-thirty P.M., and ask for me. Have
no fear. I am still your friend,
