From his remarks it wasapparent that he had known her lover for a long time, and held him inhigh esteem.
"As soon as Frank's telegram arrived, I rushed out," said the younggirl. "It was a great surprise, for I believed him to be on his way toCopenhagen."
"They'll probably miss you at home, won't they?" he asked, with a glanceof admiration at the girl's sweet face.
"Well," she laughed, "my father doesn't know I'm out. Laura, the maid,will leave the door unbolted and I've got the latch-key."
The man seated at her side smiled, turning away his head lest she mightwonder.
Acquainted as Gwen was with the streets of the West End, she saw thatthe course taken by the "taxi" was through Brompton Road andKnightsbridge to Hyde Park Corner, then straight up South Audley Streetand across one of the squares, Grosvenor Square she believed it to be.
"Why isn't Frank at his own rooms in Half Moon Street?" she asked withsome curiosity.
"Because, having discovered the secret, he is now in fear of his rivals,so is compelled to go into hiding. I, alone, his best friend, know hiswhereabouts. Quite romantic, isn't it?" he laughed.
"Quite. Only--well, only--Captain Wetherton, I do wish you would tellme what has really occurred. I feel that you are keeping something fromme."
"I certainly am, Miss Griffin," was his prompt reply, a reply whichcontained more meaning than he had intended. "Frank, in sending me toyou, made the stipulation that he should have the pleasure of tellingyou himself. All I can say is that I believe the knowledge of thesecret will be the means of bringing to him wealth undreamed of, and anotoriety world-wide."
He was purposely keeping her engrossed in conversation, in order thatthey might cross Oxford Street; hoping that in the maze of turningsbeyond that main thoroughfare she might lose her bearings.
Suddenly the "taxi" pulled up with a jerk before a closed shop, in adark, rather unfrequented but seemingly superior street, and the Captainopened the side door with his latch-key, disclosing a flight ofred-carpeted stairs.
"Here are my rooms," Wetherton explained. "Frank has sought refuge withme here. He is upstairs."
Gwen ascended the stairs quickly to the second floor, where the Captainopened the door with his key, and a moment later she found herself in alarge, well-furnished bachelor's sitting-room where the electric lampswere shaded with yellow silk.
It was evidently the room of a man comfortably off, for the furniturehad been chosen with taste, and the pretty knick-knacks and quaintcurios upon the table showed the owner of the place to be a man of somerefinement.
"Where is he?" inquired the girl, looking around blankly, her cheeksflushed with excitement.
The man turned upon her, and laughed roughly in her face.
She drew back in horror and alarm when, in an instant, she realised howutterly helpless she now was in the stranger's hands. He had closed thedoor behind him and pushed back the bolt concealed beneath the heavyportiere.
"He is not here!" she gasped. "You've--you've lied to me. This is atrick!" she gasped.
"Pray calm yourself, my dear little girl," he said, coolly lighting acigarette. "Sit down. I want to have a quiet chat with you."
"I will not, sir!" she answered, with rising anger. "Allow me, please,to go. I shall tell your friend Mr Farquhar of this disgraceful ruse."
"You can tell him, my dear girl, whatever you please," the fellowlaughed insolently. "As a matter of fact, your lover does not know mefrom Adam. So you see it's quite immaterial."
"It is not immaterial," she declared, with a fierce look of resentment:"You shall answer to him for this!"
"Possibly it will be you who will be compelled to answer to him, when heknows that you have accompanied me here alone to my rooms, at eleven atnight--eh? What will your lover say to that, I wonder?"
"I have the telegram," she cried, opening the little bag she carried.
It was not there!
"See," he laughed. "I have the telegram!" And before her eyes hetossed it into the fire.
She bent to snatch it from the flame, but he seized her white wristroughly and threw her backward upon the hearthrug. He had extracted themessage from her bag as they had sat together in the darkness of thecab.
Struggling to her feet she screamed for help, and fought franticallywith the man who had decoyed her there; fought with the fierce strengthof a woman defending her dearest possession, her honour.
She saw how the man's countenance had changed. There was an evilexpression there which held her terrified.
She begged mercy from him, begged wildly upon her knees, but he onlylaughed in her face in triumph. She saw, now that the telegram wasdestroyed, that this man who had posed as Frank's friend could make hisvile story entirely complete.
She was helpless in the hands of a man whose very face betrayed his vileunscrupulousness.
In the struggle she felt his hot foetid breath upon her cheek. Herblouse of pale blue _crepe-de-chine_ was ripped right across the breastas she endeavoured to wrench herself from his grasp.
"Ah! Have mercy on me!" she screamed. "Let me go! Let me go! I'llgive you anything--I--I--I'll be silent even--if you'll only let me go!Ah! do--if you are a gentleman!"
But the fellow only laughed again, and held her more tightly.
Her bare chest heaved and fell quickly before him. Her breath came andwent.
"You think," he said in a cruel hard voice, "you think your lover willnot believe me. But I see upon your flesh a mark--a natural blemishthat you cannot efface. Listen to me quietly. Hear me, or else I shalltell him of its existence, and urge him to discover whether or not Ihave spoken the truth. Perhaps he will then believe me!"
"You brute!" cried the girl in sudden and breathless horror. "Youblackguard! you intend to ruin me in Frank's eyes. Let me go, I say!Let me go." Again she struggled, trying to get to the window, but withhis strong arms encircling her she was helpless as a child, for with asudden effort he flung her backwards upon the couch, inert andsenseless.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
REVEALS THE RIVALS.
Sir Felix Challas, Baronet the well-known financier and philanthropist,was seated in his cosy library in Berkeley Square, dictating letters tohis secretary between the whiffs of his mild after-breakfast cigar. Hewas a man of middle age, with slight side whiskers, a reddish face, andopulent bearing. In his frock-coat, fancy vest, and striped trousers,and white spats over his boots, he presented the acme of style as far asdress was concerned. The whole world knew Sir Felix to be something ofa dandy, for he had never, for the past ten years or so, been seenwithout a flower in his buttonhole. Like many another man in London hehad amassed great wealth from small beginnings, until he was now a powerin the world of finance, and as a philanthropist his name was ahousehold word.
From a small leather shop somewhere in the Mile End Road he had risen tobe the controlling factor of several of the greatest financialundertakings in the country; while the house of Challas and Bowen inAustin Friars was known in the City as one of the highest possiblestanding.
Though he owned that fine house in Berkeley Square, a beautiful domainin Yorkshire which he had purchased from a bankrupt earl, a villa atCannes, racehorses, motors, and a splendid steam-yacht, he was still abachelor, and a somewhat lonely man.
The papers mentioned his doings daily, gave his portrait frequently, andrecorded with a flourish of trumpets his latest donation to thischarity, or to that. Though he made enormous profits in his financialdeals, yet he was a staunch churchman, his hand ever in his pocket forthe various institutions which approached him. Indeed, if the truthwere told, he, like others, had bought his birthday Baronetcy by makinga princely donation to the Hospital Fund. This showed him to be ashrewd man, fully alive to the value of judicious advertisement.
In the years gone by he had mixed with many of the shady characters ofthe complex world of the City, but now, in his opulence, he hadapparently cut himself adrift from them all, and prided himself upon hiseminent respec
tability.
As he sat there that winter's morning, leaning back in his big leatherarmchair before the fire, he was dictating a letter to the governors ofa great orphanage at Bristol, promising to defray the cost of building amuch needed wing of the institution.
Then, having done so, he added to his secretary, a rather smug lookingman in black:
"And you might also write a paragraph to-day, Stone, and send it to thePress Association. You know what to say--`magnificent gift,' and allthat sort of thing. They'll send it out to the newspapers."
"Yes, Sir Felix," answered the man, making a note in shorthand.
"Let's see, what else is there? Ah! The Malms Syndicate! Write sayingthat I withdraw,"