watched the car flying down the avenue. Theold man turned to his daughter with a grunt.
"Might have given us another couple of days, I think. But I know what'sin his mind. He is running down to Eastbourne after that minx."
He always alluded to Isobel Clandon as "that minx," owing to hisunreasonable prejudice against her.
Mary spoke with spirit.
"Very natural under the circumstances, I should think. He would want tosee something of the girl he loves before he left."
Lord Saxham turned on her angrily.
"Mary, I have always thought you a sensible woman. Do you mean to tellme you are going to aid and abet him in his folly."
Lady Mary answered him in a few words.
"I don't call it folly, father."
She walked out of the room, with a resolute expression on her face, anduplifted chin. She would have been the last to admit it, but she hadinherited no small share of the family obstinacy.
CHAPTER TWO.
Mrs Hargrave sat in her pretty flat in Mount Street, absorbed in deepthought. On her lap lay an open letter, and it was a passage in thatletter just received which accounted for her preoccupation.
She was a pretty woman, _petite_ and slender, with clear-cut, refinedfeatures and delicate colouring. She had soft, candid blue eyes, and awealth of fair hair which was always arranged in the most becomingfashion.
In a strong and searching light, a keen judge would have guessed herreal age, just a little over the wrong side of thirty. But she wasquite a clever person, and she always avoided strong lights as much aspossible. Under favourable conditions, most people took her to be atleast four or five years younger. She owned herself to twenty-six.
There was no getting at the truth of the matter. Since she first cameto London, four years ago, having been married abroad to her husband,Jack Hargrave, a young man of good family, but a bit of a _mauvaissujet_, she had made many acquaintances. But she appeared to have noold friends who could throw any light on her real age or herantecedents.
Her husband's relatives received her with scant cordiality, there wastoo much reticence about her previous history to incline them in herfavour. As a matter of fact, they were not over-fond of Jack himself.There had been certain early episodes in his career which had notendeared him to right-thinking persons.
It was well-known that he was in no sense of the word a wealthy man.Yet he kept an expensive flat, he was always immaculately dressed, andhis wife, to judge by her costly costumes, must have had a very liberalallowance.
They entertained a great deal, and they had bridge parties every nightwhen they were at home. Knowing people whispered amongst themselvesthat it was their winnings at bridge which enabled them to make such abrave show. They were certainly both very skilful players. Not a fewpersons thought they were a bit too skilful, too uniformly successful.
Two years after their marriage, Jack Hargrave died suddenly ofpneumonia, the result of a neglected chill. Strange to say, he left nowill. His widow explained this by the fact that he had made all hisproperty over to her, by deed of gift, soon after their marriage, as hedid not want her to be burdened with death duties.
Things were not altered in any way by Jack's death. His widow kept onthe expensive flat in Mount Street. When a decent period of mourninghad elapsed, she appeared in her usual tasteful costumes, and resumedher bridge parties.
There was nothing to wonder at in this. If Jack Hargrave had made overall his property to her, she was as well-off after his death as before.Rather better, as there was only one to spend the income instead of two.
A certain thing, however, did occur which made some people suspicious.Her husband's relatives, who had never been more than coldly civilduring Jack's lifetime, now dropped her altogether.
Jack, who was a few years younger than his wife, had been at Eton andOxford with Guy Rossett, and they were old friends. When Hargravereturned from abroad with his pretty bride, he had hunted up Guy andinduced him to become a frequent visitor in Mount Street.
Guy was considerably attracted by the young hostess. Of course, he knewthat his friend was looked at askance by many people, and he knewnothing more than the rest about Mrs Hargrave's antecedents.
When the fair young widow resumed her normal existence, and her bridgeparties, young Rossett again became a frequent visitor. And now thatthere was no obstacle in the shape of a husband, he allowed her to seethat her attraction for him had grown very considerably.
She met him more than half-way. There was no doubt that the attractionwas mutual. But there were other reasons that weighed strongly withher. Guy had a small allowance from his father, but it was supplementedby a very handsome one from his great-aunt, an old lady of eighty, whowould also leave him her very considerable private fortune.
In every sense, he was a most eligible person. He was handsome,distinguished-looking and charming, with the perfect manners of theyoung diplomatist. And one day, and it could not be a very long onenow, he would be a rich man by the death of Lady Henrietta.
For many months, Guy Rossett went to the flat in Mount Street, losing aconsiderable sum of money at bridge to his hostess and various membersof her circle.
There was a certain strain of caution in him, a certain recognition ofthe fact that he would require to know a good deal more than he didabout the charming widow's past, before he committed himself definitely,that kept the sense of attraction on his side within reasonable bounds.
Still, there is no knowing what might have happened, but for theoccurrence of a certain event. Mrs Hargrave was very charming, verysubtle, equipped with all the wiles of a clever and experienced woman.One day, his self-control might have given way, her fascination mighthave overpowered his prudence, and he would have committed himselfbeyond recall.
Then something happened which switched away his thoughts for ever fromthe flat in Mount Street and its fascinating owner. At a certaincountry house he met Isobel Clandon, the daughter of a retired general,a widower who lived at Eastbourne.
He took her in to dinner the first night of his arrival, and he knew hehad found the woman of his dreams. Isobel was a lovely girl oftwenty-two, a little above the middle height, a vision of beauty andgrace.
Her fresh and virginal charm, her spontaneous gaiety, drove out allrecollection of the more artificial attractions of the older woman. Theone suggested the brightness and freshness of spring, the other fadingtints of summer.
It was love at first sight on both sides, and Guy knew that he had neverreally loved before. And Isobel had not even flirted with a man beforeshe saw him. She came to him whole-hearted, and he came as littlescarred as a man might be who has lived twenty-seven years in the world,and seen and known many women.
Mrs Hargrave roused herself from her reverie, and took up the letterfor the second time. It was from an intimate acquaintance, and theenvelope bore the Eastbourne post-mark. Again she read that particularparagraph which had so perturbed her.
"I have at last succeeded in meeting your Miss Clandon at a garden-party. I made myself as pleasant as I could, and you know I can make myself pretty well liked when I try. I think she has taken a fancy to me, and that we shall be great friends presently. I am going to tea with her to-morrow, and will let you know if I can get anything definite out of her.
"She is twenty-two, and certainly a lovely girl, also a very charming one. I introduced Mr Rossett's name, of course, and she just looked a little shy. But I could not get her to say much, only this, that he is coming down to Eastbourne directly, and that he has just secured an important appointment abroad, at the British Embassy in Spain.
"She wears no engagement ring, so they are not publicly betrothed. But I am sure there is a very good understanding between them."
The widow threw the letter down on her lap, with a fierce exclamation.
"Twenty-two, and a lovely girl," she muttered angrily. "Some pink andwhite beauty, I suppose, immature, knowing nothing of life. And theseare t
he women who catch men of the world with their youth andinnocence."
Her face grew hard, she looked almost plain, and for the moment herthirty years showed themselves unmistakably.
She tore the offending note into fragments, and threw them into a daintylittle waste-paper basket--everything about the flat was dainty.
"But I will get even with Mr Guy Rossett before long," she criedvindictively, as she returned to her seat.
It was somewhere about ten o'clock in the morning when she indulged inthese bitter reflections, when she had to admit, in the face of thatletter, that her ambitious schemes had gone astray.
At the same hour, a tall and corpulent gentleman, attired in an elegantmorning coat and silk hat, descended the steps of his house at Walton,stepped into the Rolls-Royce car waiting for him, drove to the station,and took the train to London.
He was known in his business, and in the neighbourhood, as Mr Jackson,although his foreign appearance and swarthy complexion gave the directlie to his