all that is decadent in human physiognomy, entereddeferentially. The doctor glared at him.
"Have you bungled again?" the doctor asked.
"No, monsieur! I have not bungled. I left the note, as you told me,under the young lady's window--the window of the young lady atAldborough Park. Since then I visited the place again and the man, SirRemington, he chased me across the park. I escaped and I fired at him.He fired at me. It was difficult. I enter the car. I get away. I amhere. I await instructions. I am at your service, sir!" DoctorMalsano took this narration of an exciting incident, as he would havecracked an egg at breakfast-time. The young man stood deferentially, asthe old man spoke. "Lesigne, you are a bungler, but you seem to havedone this rather well. Go to your room and sleep. I may want you atany moment."
The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under thecontrol of this Machiavelli--the person whose evil influence controlledthe fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
They were merry days at Aldborough Park on the occasion of the weddingof Hilda Muirhead to Sir Raife Remington. Again the church bellspealed, and the tenants and retainers met for a feast, at which therewas much rejoicing. Edgson, the old butler, was not there. It was hisprivilege to be at the house in Mayfair, and there he took his place,honoured in the rank of servitors, which had been swelled from those atAldborough Park.
Mr Muirhead, with an aptitude which belongs to the aristocrats of theUnited States, took his part remarkably well. Lady Remington wasgracious and kindly to all. These were Raife's happiest moments. Hisinnate modesty made him the more attractive to every one, for there wasthe dominating personality of a strong, active man pervading the wholesituation. Hilda had no doubts. There was no sense of perturbation.She was radiant, happy, and beautiful. She accepted everything. LadyRemington tendered every loving service to her, personally, and she wasnot allowed time to reflect on the "other woman." The "other woman" wasonly known to herself and Raife. The others knew not of her. Raife andherself did not speak of this dread apparition which had by somemysterious means crossed the path of their perfect love several times.
A wedding at St George's, Hanover Square, is frequently an impressiveceremony. On the day of Raife's wedding there was more than the usualcrowd of bystanders. The church was filled with a smartly-dressednumber of society women and men. There were no white horses, but aRolls-Royce and a Mercedes car took their place. The pages, dressed inthe Tudor costume of the period of Edward the Sixth, were there, and athrong of people who represented many grades of the peerage. Hilda wasdressed as the best Court dressmakers of London, alone, can dress awoman for an occasion. Raife, with the help of a Cork Street tailor,was immaculate, and his best man was Edward Mutimer, his old collegechum, who was with him on the front at Southport when he met GildaTempest for the first time.
The ceremony of marriage was complete. The choir had sung. Theorganist had played the Bridal March from "Lohengrin." It was not anoccasion for Mendelssohn's Wedding March. The rice had been thrown andthe gaping crowd of onlookers were satisfied. Raife and Hilda werealone, for a few moments, in the Rolls-Royce car. They were thebriefest moments of his short lifetime. They did not talk, for therewas too much cause for thought.
Smartest among the well-dressed women in St George's, Hanover Square,was Gilda Tempest. It was not hard, with the confidence and skill whichhad served her on so many occasions, for Gilda to join the guests whowere invited to the reception that followed the wedding. The occasionwas quite conventional, and Hilda had left to prepare for departure onthe honeymoon. Every one was chatting merrily and Raife was leaving theroom, when, to his intense surprise, he was confronted by Gilda.
"You here?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Raife. I am here. I must talk to you, I am so sad--so alone.Let me talk to you. It will probably be the last time. Let me talk toyou--"
Unobserved by the merry crowd of guests who were bandying commonplacesto the sipping of champagne and various wines, Raife led Gilda into aconservatory which overlooked a drab old London garden--or backyard,with a lilac bush in full blossom.
Raife spoke harshly: "What do you want? Why do you come here, to-day?--to-day of all days! Why do you come here?"
Gilda Tempest spoke. In short, staccato accents she said: "Raife!Raife, I must speak to you. You are the only person in this wide world,to whom I can speak. Let me speak to you. Raife! I must talk, justfor the briefest while."
All the old and strange fascination of this extraordinary girl returned.Raife stood entranced by this absorbing figure. The scene thatfollowed was unparalleled in the history of a wedding-day. Her beautyhad returned to her. She was no longer haggard, and there were no linesto mar her face. Her whole soul appealed to him, and, in spite of allthe conventions, he responded.
Raife Remington fell--and fell in a most inconceivable manner.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The time drew near for the departure of the wedded couple. Hilda,looking charming in her travelling-dress, was going round and sayinggood-bye to the guests. The last farewell spoken, she looked round forher husband. A sudden premonition of something disastrous, somethingawful, assailed her and communicated itself to the others. Where wasRaife? A dozen voices cried out. There was a hurried search in everyroom where he could possibly be. A few moments of agonised suspense andwonder, and then the horrible truth was revealed.
The bridegroom had disappeared!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the cliffs of Cromer were a hat and coat. The local police had beenduly informed of the event, and the inspector, with a sergeant, wereinvestigating the circumstances.
"Looks like suicide," said the inspector. "It's a good coat, too.Well, let's get to work. What's in the pockets? We shall have thenewspaper men round presently, and we must be ready for them when theyget here. Curse the newspapers! Our job would be much easier if itwere not for them. They smell out a tragedy like a fly finds treacle."
First came a silver card-case, with coronet and initials inmulti-coloured jewels, "R.R." The cards were inscribed "Sir RaifeRemington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells." This was acard-case presented by Hilda Muirhead in the happy days of courtship,which ended in marriage.
A letter, in brief, rasping sentences, was the next discovery. "Kismet!Allah wills it. It was not to be. There is a curse in my life, andnow I abandon my life." The letter was not signed.
The inspector tossed the letter to the sergeant, who, having read it,remarked, laconically: "Ten to one, there's a woman in the case."
The newspapers were very busy for many days after Raife's coat and hathad been found on the cliffs at Cromer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Again Doctor Malsano sat in his den, and there was an expression oftriumph on his face. Gilda Tempest was there, and the doctor spokesoothingly.
"Gilda, we are approaching the end. You played your part very well theother day at the wedding ceremony."
Gilda shuddered. The full force of the crime that she had beencompelled to commit, confronted her.
Case-hardened, and soaked in the jaundiced atmosphere of criminality,the doctor continued to smile.
"Ha! ha! Remington thought he would escape. Your father killed him andhe killed your father. But I am here, and his son shall not escape.Gilda, you must complete the ruin of that young fool. The vendetta isnot complete."
Gilda writhed as the old man murmured these hateful words. She lovedRaife, and, in her sane moments, would have given more than her life forhim. The baneful influence of her uncle had led her to wield a fatefulpower over the man she loved.
The scene that followed the disappearance of the bridegroom on thewedding-day in Mayfair does not admit of description.
Lady
Remington, chastened by a sequence of sad events, remained stately,and carried off the situation with a grace that softened thedifficulties of those trying moments.
The pride of Hilda Muirhead--Lady Remington--had been sorely tried. MrReginald Pomeroy Muirhead would have, unhesitatingly, shot RaifeRemington if they had met.
Easy is the Avernian descent, and Raife had yielded to the malignantcontrol of Doctor Malsano.
A newspaper sensation does not last very long, and the disappearance ofSir Raife Remington no longer occupied the space that would be given toa Cabinet crisis.
The newspaper man on "a crime story" is not easily set aside. Theintelligence of the police is far beyond that which they are paid for.There were certain discrepancies in the circumstantial evidence whichwent to show that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide.
A paragraph appeared in the daily papers to the