Chapter Twenty Two. Another Mysterious Visitor in the Night.

Long after Hilda had retired to bed one night, Raife and Mr Muirhead having put on their heavy motor coats, sat enjoying the moonlight, and chatting over the events of the day. There was much to talk of, for there were many questions of settlements, entailing long consultations with lawyers. No reference was made between the two men to Raife’s jealousy of the last few days. An interview was arranged with Mr Kellaway, the family solicitor, and the late Sir Henry Remington’s old friend. The services of Messrs Gordon and Gordon, the solicitors of Edinburgh, whom the late Sir Henry Remington had chosen to make his will, would have to be enlisted.

Mr Muirhead explained that, whereas, he did not own valuable estates like Aldborough Park, his financial interests in American securities were extensive and sound. He proposed to endow Hilda with enough of his worldly wealth to enable her to play the Lady Bountiful among Raife’s peasantry and elsewhere, and, at the same time, support herself in those directions in which every independent-minded American girl is accustomed.

They were talking earnestly in this manner, when Mr Muirhead remarked, “Your servants are about late, to-night. I suppose that’s a gamekeeper. I haven’t much knowledge of such things. We don’t preserve game in the United States—at least,” he added, “not to the extent that you appear to do.”

Raife glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a figure creeping stealthily in the dark shadows of the clump of cedars and pines. “That is not a gamekeeper,” he said.

He rose, followed by Mr Muirhead, and started in the direction of the retreating figure, which immediately commenced to run. Raife threw off his motor coat, exclaiming: “Heavens! I wish I had my revolver.”

Mr Muirhead, as is the practice of many Americans, had his. It was an old-fashioned Deringer. He handed it to Raife, saying: “Take mine.”

Then began a chase, but the retreating figure had, by now, a good start. Down the beech avenue for a hundred yards, then through a gap into a croft, skirting a hedgerow and over a gate at the end, Raife arrived in time to see his quarry jump into a grey car. There were two shots, one at Raife as he clambered over the gate, and one from Raife as the car sped down a side lane that led to the main road. Raife was near enough to see that the figure he had hunted was the omnipresent phantom Apache, who had haunted him half-way over Europe and Egypt.

In the morning Hilda appeared fresh and bright, garbed in a gown of grey tweed. She and Raife were strolling down a long, straight path, where nectarines and peaches were trained against a high, grey-red brick wall, buttressed and lichen-covered on top. On the other side were espalier apple-trees and all those things which go to make an old English garden. They passed through an arch in the wall into an orchard. The blossom of an orchard in springtime is the most inspiring sight that humanity can wish for. There is hope in every petal.

They had talked lightly of many things. Most of their conversation pertained to the beauty of everything around. Hilda had thrown away the paper that she had found under the window of her bedroom, but in spite of her determination to forget the incident, some strange impulse impelled her to allude to it now, although many days had passed. So she said: “Oh, I say, Raife! In my room, the first night I was here, I picked up a piece of paper. On it was typewritten something like this: ‘It is dangerous to rob.’ It was placed under the window that opens on to the balcony. I suppose some one who stayed there before me was fond of texts and that sort of thing, but it struck me as strange.”

Raife’s face clouded. The supreme happiness of that spring morning, with its exquisite environment, had vanished. He had practically forgotten his chase after the elusive Apache the night before. He had been happy for a brief period while among his own on a superb spring morning—and he now counted Hilda among his own. Why should he be persistently pursued by a malevolent fate? He laughed at the incident, and said: “Yes, I expect that is so. You see, I have been away so long. I expect mother has had some dear old lady staying here, and she dropped one of her texts, and the maid did not notice it.”

Doctor Malsano sat in his den. It might be called a studio, a library, a laboratory, for he was a master of many crafts. A maid knocked at his door and announced, “There is a man named Lesigne wishes to see you, sir.”

“Ask him in,” snapped the doctor.

A pale-faced young man, whose features resembled a combination of cunning and all that is decadent in human physiognomy, entered deferentially. 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 at Aldborough Park. Since then I visited the place again and the man, Sir Remington, 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 am here. I await instructions. I am at your service, sir!” Doctor Malsano took this narration of an exciting incident, as he would have cracked an egg at breakfast-time. The young man stood deferentially, as the old man spoke. “Lesigne, you are a bungler, but you seem to have done this rather well. Go to your room and sleep. I may want you at any moment.”

The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under the control of this Machiavelli—the person whose evil influence controlled the fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.

They were merry days at Aldborough Park on the occasion of the wedding of Hilda Muirhead to Sir Raife Remington. Again the church bells pealed, and the tenants and retainers met for a feast, at which there was much rejoicing. Edgson, the old butler, was not there. It was his privilege 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 at Aldborough Park.

Mr Muirhead, with an aptitude which belongs to the aristocrats of the United States, took his part remarkably well. Lady Remington was gracious and kindly to all. These were Raife’s happiest moments. His innate modesty made him the more attractive to every one, for there was the dominating personality of a strong, active man pervading the whole situation. Hilda had no doubts. There was no sense of perturbation. She was radiant, happy, and beautiful. She accepted everything. Lady Remington tendered every loving service to her, personally, and she was not allowed time to reflect on the “other woman.” The “other woman” was only known to herself and Raife. The others knew not of her. Raife and herself did not speak of this dread apparition which had by some mysterious means crossed the path of their perfect love several times.

A wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, is frequently an impressive ceremony. On the day of Raife’s wedding there was more than the usual crowd of bystanders. The church was filled with a smartly-dressed number of society women and men. There were no white horses, but a Rolls-Royce and a Mercedes car took their place. The pages, dressed in the Tudor costume of the period of Edward the Sixth, were there, and a throng of people who represented many grades of the peerage. Hilda was dressed as the best Court dressmakers of London, alone, can dress a woman for an occasion. Raife, with the help of a Cork Street tailor, was immaculate, and his best man was Edward Mutimer, his old college chum, who was with him on the front at Southport when he met Gilda Tempest for the first time.

The ceremony of marriage was complete. The choir had sung. The organist had played the Bridal March from “Lohengrin.” It was not an occasion for Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The rice had been thrown and the gaping crowd of onlookers were satisfied. Raife and Hilda were alone, for a few moments, in the Rolls-Royce car. They were the briefest moments of his short lifetime. They did not talk, for there was 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 which had served her on so many occasions, for Gilda to join the guests who were invited to the reception that followed the wedding. The occasion was quite conventional, and Hilda had left to prepare for departure on the honeymoon. Every one was chatting merrily and Raife was leaving the room, 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 to you—”

Unobserved by the merry crowd of guests who were bandying commonplaces to the sipping of champagne and various wines, Raife led Gilda into a conservatory 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, just for the briefest while.”

All the old and strange fascination of this extraordinary girl returned. Raife stood entranced by this absorbing figure. The scene that followed was unparalleled in the history of a wedding-day. Her beauty had returned to her. She was no longer haggard, and there were no lines to mar her face. Her whole soul appealed to him, and, in spite of all the 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 saying good-bye to the guests. The last farewell spoken, she looked round for her husband. A sudden premonition of something disastrous, something awful, assailed her and communicated itself to the others. Where was Raife? A dozen voices cried out. There was a hurried search in every room where he could possibly be. A few moments of agonised suspense and wonder, 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 been duly informed of the event, and the inspector, with a sergeant, were investigating 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 the newspaper men round presently, and we must be ready for them when they get here. Curse the newspapers! Our job would be much easier if it were not for them. They smell out a tragedy like a fly finds treacle.”

First came a silver card-case, with coronet and initials in multi-coloured jewels, “R.R.” The cards were inscribed “Sir Raife Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells.” This was a card-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, and now 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 hat had been found on the cliffs at Cromer.

Again Doctor Malsano sat in his den, and there was an expression of triumph on his face. Gilda Tempest was there, and the doctor spoke soothingly.

“Gilda, we are approaching the end. You played your part very well the other day at the wedding ceremony.”

Gilda shuddered. The full force of the crime that she had been compelled 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 and he 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 is not complete.”

Gilda writhed as the old man murmured these hateful words. She loved Raife, and, in her sane moments, would have given more than her life for him. The baneful influence of her uncle had led her to wield a fateful power over the man she loved.

The scene that followed the disappearance of the bridegroom on the wedding-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 the difficulties of those trying moments.

The pride of Hilda Muirhead—Lady Remington—had been sorely tried. Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead would have, unhesitatingly, shot Raife Remington if they had met.

Easy is the Avernian descent, and Raife had yielded to the malignant control of Doctor Malsano.

A newspaper sensation does not last very long, and the disappearance of Sir Raife Remington no longer occupied the space that would be given to a Cabinet crisis.

The newspaper man on “a crime story” is not easily set aside. The intelligence of the police is far beyond that which they are paid for. There were certain discrepancies in the circumstantial evidence which went to show that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide.

A paragraph appeared in the daily papers to the effect that: “It is reported that Sir Raife Remington, who so mysteriously disappeared on the day of his wedding, has been seen in Paris.”