Chapter Thirteen. Into a Trap and Out of it.

When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.

Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic power that was convincing—at least to him. Again she had taken possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and passion were for her.

On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the passers-by, of whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl, and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person for whom he had waited.

An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and said: “Well! where are they? Have you got them?”

In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: “No, I have not got them.”

With a half-suppressed howl, he said: “What! you have not got them? You lie! You are deceiving me.”

Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:

“No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you what happened.”

In spite of the blue glasses the old man’s face assumed a contorted expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a vicious grip, he almost shrieked: “Again I tell you, you lie! Where are they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took.”

“Hush!” she whispered. “You will be heard. Yes! I bungled.”

Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl who was so dearly loved by the “intended victim.” To have stolen any property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but to attempt, with all the skilled burglar’s art, to steal those valuable jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe keeping—that was to place him in the most invidious position. It sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest dye was the cause of this young girl’s downfall, and he was furious at her failure.

With a resumption of his usual self-control he hissed: “Those jewels are worth thirty thousand pounds. You were clumsy to miss such a prize. Now listen to me. That young fool’s father killed your father.”

Gilda shuddered, and tears trickled down the cheeks which had been skilfully lined to disguise their youthful beauty.

Again, stooping towards her, his words were reduced almost to a whisper as he said: “Look at me straight in the eyes, Gilda, and listen. You must make love to that man. He cannot, and shall not resist you. He must marry you, and you—must—ruin—him. That shall be your revenge. It shall be my revenge—and your father’s revenge.”

Then, springing to his feet with extraordinary vigour, he added:

“Come now! Remember what I have said. It must be. It shall be.”

People turned to look at this peaceful and distinguished-looking “old” couple sauntering down the front to their hotel.

There is an unscrupulous type of villain in this world, whose power for harm is unbounded. Even as the weasel, the stoat, and certain of her types of ferocious animals, kill for the lust of killing, so these evil-minded people pursue their depredations. The worst of this type exercise a curious fascination over women.

It is not essential to discuss the possibilities of hypnotism, mesmerism, or any other forms of mind influence, or thought transference. A perusal of the newspapers, and even a general observation of those around us is sufficient to satisfy us of the existence of this power. Curiously, it would more generally seem to be exercised for evil rather than good. Doctor Danilo Malsano exercised his malicious influence over Gilda Tempest with all the malignancy of the type of predatory blood-sucking animals, to which allusion has been made.

It was easy, therefore, for plans to be made to encompass the downfall and ruin of Raife Remington. Subterfuge brought clandestine meetings between the young couple. The clandestine element is that which appeals most strongly to the ordinary lover. Raife Remington loved Gilda Tempest with a fierce passion, which he could not control, but, in many senses, he was an ordinary lover.

He was now well aware of Gilda’s skill as a “thief”—a burglar. The thought rankled in his mind, but still he could not stave off the desire for her company. A smile from her chased away the hateful reminiscence of the night in the library at Aldborough Park, when she was fully revealed as a thief. There were other mysterious circumstances that, in his ordinary mood, he could not explain away, but when Gilda smiled and looked at him with her appealing eyes, all doubt vanished.

He was certain of one thing—Doctor Malsano was a blackguard, and he hated him. Again, his sense of reason—nay of duty—impelled him to give information to the police that would lead to the arrest and conviction of this arch-criminal—a criminal who used his uncanny powers to employ, as a dupe, a sweet, beautiful girl whom he called his niece.

His influence appeared almost supernatural, and yet, his cowardice was evident in the fact that he adopted such foul methods. So, in spite of all this, when Gilda smiled, that baneful person, her uncle, was safe from arrest as far as Raife was concerned.

There were many incongruities in this courtship. Their first meeting, and each subsequent meeting, had been quite unconventional—yet there was nought but pure thought as far as this couple were concerned when they met.

The baleful influence of the doctor at other times alone made for trouble.

In all these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that the quaint, old-world, white room of the “Blue Boar” at Tunbridge Wells should have become the rendezvous when it was the only opportunity that served.

Raife Remington’s sense of proportion had restrained him for a week or two, and he had not met Gilda. Doctor Malsano was not the type of man to allow his victim to elude his machinations for long. Gilda was, therefore, compelled to adopt the disguise of a hospital nurse, and, with full instructions from information obtained by the doctor, visited Tunbridge Wells. On the pretext of a patient who was expected from town, she obtained a room at the “Blue Boar.” It was not hard to invent a ruse to ensure Raife’s attendance at the “Blue Boar.” When Gilda met him on the staircase, her old influence returned, and under the chaperonage of the landlord, Mr Twisegood, they started the interview. The astute, old Twisegood chuckled as he discreetly left the room, but, at the same time, he had no real knowledge of the state of affairs. Nor was Raife aware that this “accidental” meeting had been cunningly planned by Doctor Malsano.

For long they talked. Gilda exercised her fascinating arts, and Raife succumbed more completely than ever. The conquest was complete, and Raife arranged to meet her in town, where they should run less risk of observation, and each should enjoy their own society unmolested by the inquisitive.

During all this strange courtship the ordinary caresses, in which lovers freely indulge, had been few indeed. Now, to-day, when Fate seemed propitious, their caresses were less restrained, and, for the first time, Raife kissed Gilda passionately. The fire of youthful kisses will destroy discretion. The sight of a neatly-costumed nurse being passionately embraced by the youthful owner of Aldborough Park would have made an interesting film for a cinema. In real life the casual or accidental witness of such a scene, is liable to be shocked. In this instance the genial old landlord of the “Blue Boar” was ascending the stairs, and saw sufficient of the impassioned incident, through a mirror, to encourage him to give a loud and friendly cough. The process of disentanglement was instant and complete. Most of us are familiar with it. With a discreet tap at the door, which had been, with an inadvertence which was frequent on such occasions, left partly open, the old man announced: “If you please, Sir Raife, Lady Remington is coming upstairs and would like to see you.”

Raife merely exclaimed, in a tone that indicated panic, and the exclamation consisted of one word only—a characteristically English utterance, “What!” Hastily pushing the old man out of the room, and, closing the door, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then Raife ejaculated in short, disjointed sentences: “Good heavens! The mater! What brings her here? How did she know?”

Gilda stood calmly. She had been well trained to avoid panic in an emergency.

A man ceases to be an aristocrat when he allows panic to be more than momentary. Sir Raife Remington, Bart., was an aristocrat. Gilda’s practised eye looked at the window and calculated the drop.

With a discretion inherited through generations of “service,” Twisegood had descended the old staircase.

Lady Remington, with the instinct of a mother, ascended the staircase. Her rather “exalted” tones sounded from without:

“Is this the room, Twisegood?” Her hand was upon the handle of the door.

Then did inspiration seize Raife.

Whispering hurriedly: “You go down this staircase,” pointing to the secret exit, “into the loose box at the bottom and wait your chance.”

To Gilda, who had shown such dexterity in descending by a silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, it was easy to find a “way out” by a staircase, even if it did lead her into a loose box in a stable!

When Lady Remington explained that the horse in her brougham had cast a shoe, and that Twisegood’s man was attending to it—and that Twisegood had said that Sir Raife was upstairs, it became easier to understand why Lady Remington was climbing those stairs at that unpropitious moment.

Sir Raife expressed his opinion of affairs to Twisegood at a later date.