"Good girl!" he said, clasping her in his embrace. "I've got a cab waiting, for you shall ride to-night. Didn't you think it was time I came?"

She did not answer, but acted still like one in a dream, as he watched from the door, withdrawing more than once with a muttered oath as Artingale and Magnus kept parading about the place.

He was about to start again and again, but he always seemed to hesitate till their steps were heard once more, when he would close the door and stand listening, with the trembling girl clasped tightly in his arms.

At last he seemed to be satisfied that the ground was clear, and with a smile of triumph on his lip he stepped out, drawing Julia after him; but as he reached the pavement he heard the steps of the two gentlemen once more, and uttering a fierce oath he hurried his prize along faster and faster, as he felt that their evasion had been seen.

"Quicker, my la.s.s, quicker!" he said, gruffly; and she had to obey him.

But she was growing faint. She held up, though, till she reached the cab, into which he hurried her. And now for the first time the reality of her position seemed to force itself upon her, and she started up with a wild cry.

Too late! With one hand he thrust her back into the seat as with the other he drew up the window, and her next feeble cry was drowned by the noise of the jangling panes.

In his agony of grief and horror the Rector could hardly believe in the possibility of that which Artingale reluctantly told; for when he appealed to his child he could not get a word from her, but hysterical cries for her sister, whom she accused herself of having neglected and allowed to go.

It was impossible, the Rector declared, and after a long discussion he insisted upon the matter being kept quiet, refusing to take any steps in the way of pursuit till he had seen his son.

It would all come right, he was sure, he said; and finding that nothing could be done, Artingale left the house, after hearing from the doctor, who had been sent for, that he need be under no apprehension concerning Cynthia.

"What next?" he said to Magnus.

"To find her," said the artist, "wherever she is, and to bring her back--poor lost lamb! Oh, Harry, they have driven the poor girl mad!"

"I'm with you, Magnus," said Artingale, "to the end. Come on; we have lost much valuable time, but I could not stir till I saw what her father intended to do."

He hailed a cab.

"Scotland Yard!" he shouted, and the man drove on. "If it costs me all I've got I'll have her back. I look upon her as a sister. Poor girl!

poor girl! she must have been mad indeed."

"Harry," whispered Magnus, "what are you going to do?" and his voice sounded hoa.r.s.e and strange.

"Put the best dogs to be had upon the trail to run them down."

"And then?"

"Get the scoundrel transported for life. And you?"

"I'm going with you to-night, or this morning, or whatever it is; to-morrow I'm going to buy a pistol."

"And blow out your brains?" cried Artingale. "Bah! what's the use of that?"

"No," said Magnus, turning his haggard face to his friend, "to shoot him as I would a rabid dog."

"And be put on your trial for murder. No; my plan's best."

"Your plan!" said Magnus, fiercely. "What can you do? You forget the circ.u.mstances of the case. Before we can reach them the scoundrel will have married her. You cannot touch him."

Artingale ground his teeth as he seemed to realise the truth of what was said. Then, turning, he urged the man on to greater speed.

All was quiet and orderly in the great office at Whitehall, and a quiet, thoughtful official heard their business, raised his eyebrows a little, and then made a few notes.

"You will keep the matter as quiet as possible," said Artingale, "for the sake of the young lady's family; but at all costs she must be brought back."

"We'll soon find the scoundrel, my lord; but from your description he is not a London man."

"London, no; he is one of those scoundrels who live more by poaching than anything."

"All right, sir. I'll take your address--and yours, sir. Can I find you here--at what time?"

"Time!" cried Artingale; "I have no time but for this affair. I'll stay here with you and your men--live here--sleep here. Damme, I'll join the force if it will help to bring the poor child back. It is horribly bad!

She was to have been married this morning."

"All that can be done, sir, shall be done," said the officer, quietly.

"And now, gentlemen, if you'll take my advice you'll go home and have a good sleep."

"What!" cried Artingale. "Go and sleep? No, I want to be at work."

"Exactly, sir; then go and have a rest, and be ready for when I want you. If you stop here you can do no good--only harm, by hindering me."

"But, d.a.m.n it all!" cried Artingale, furiously, "you take it so coolly."

"The only way to win, sir--my lord, I mean. But we are wasting time.

By now I should have had the telegraph at work, and the description flying to every station in London."

"In G.o.d's name, then, go on," cried Artingale, "take no notice of us, only let us stay."

The officer nodded, and in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time it was known all over London and the districts round of the elopement or abduction, and a couple of the keenest officers were at work to track the fugitives down.

It took some time; but a clever net was drawn all over London. The early morning trains were watched, the yards where the night cabs were housed were visited; the various common lodging-houses had calls, and every effort was made to trace Jock Morrison, and had he been a known London bird the probabilities are that the police would have placed their hands upon him; but they had to deal with a man whose life had been one of practised cunning, and he had so made his plans that the police were at fault.

They found the cabman in a very short time, and he testified to having driven the great fellow and the lady with him to Charing Cross.

That was all.

The net spread over London missing that which it was intended to catch, its meshes were lessened, and it was stretched out wider, and from every police-station in the country, and in every provincial town, the description of the fugitives went forth; but still they were not found.

So cleverly had the scoundrel made his plans that no tidings whatever were obtained, and by degrees the pursuit waxed less hot. First one and then another _cause celebre_ took the attention of the police. Then Artingale grew less keen, for the months were gliding by, and he had devoted himself heart and soul to the cause for long enough without result.

Then more months pa.s.sed, and still no news. The strange disappearance of Julia Mallow became almost historical, and it was only revived a little as a topic of conversation, when it was announced that Mr Perry-Morton had returned with his sisters from their long sojourn in Venice, and soon after it was rumoured in paragraphs that the talented leader of a certain clique was about to lead to the altar the daughter of a most distinguished member of the artistic world.

Luke Ross had been consulted by Magnus and Lord Artingale, and had helped them to the best of his power, counselling the enlistment of Tom Morrison and his wife upon their side; but he could do no more, and the matter was pushed from his mind by the hard study and work upon which he was engaged, till he read in the morning papers the announcement of Cynthia's marriage to Lord Artingale, quite two years after Julia's disappearance, the Mallows having again been a long time abroad.

Then, saving to a few, Julia was as one that is dead.

PART TWO, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A MEETING--AND PARTING.