I saw how horrified she was at its reappearance, and what a terrible impression it had produced upon her already overwrought nerves. I knew that she would not again retire that night--and indeed, feeling that some unknown evil was present, I slipped on my clothes and spent the remainder of the night in an armchair, reading a French novel.

Dawn came at last, and as soon as the sun rose I descended, and went out for a long, invigorating walk beside the Rhone.

On my return I met Asta strolling alone under the trees in the Place near the hotel, and referred to the weird incident of the night.

"Ah, Mr Kemball, please do not recall it!" she implored. "It is too horrible! I--I can't make out what it can be--except that it is a sign to us of impending evil."

"A sign to us both," I said. "But whom are we to fear?"

"Perhaps that woman."

"Is she still in Lyons, I wonder?"

"Probably. About seven o'clock this morning Dad sent an express message to somebody. He called a waiter, and I heard him give the letter, with instructions that it was to be sent at once."

I said nothing, but half an hour later, by the judicious application of half a louis to the floor waiter, I ascertained that the note had been sent to a Madame Trelawnay, at the Hotel du Globe, in the Place Bellecour.

Trelawnay was, I recollected, one of the names used by the pseudo Lady Lettice Lancaster. Therefore, after my _cafe au lait_ I excused myself, stepped over to the hotel, and there ascertained that Madame, who had been there for two days, had received the note, packed hurriedly, and an hour later had left the Perrache Station by the Paris express.

On returning I told Asta this, and at eleven o'clock we were again on the white dusty highway--that beautiful road through deep valleys and over blue mountains, the Route d'Italie, which runs from Lyons, through quiet old Chambery, to Modane and the Alpine frontier. In Chambery, however, we turned to the left, and ere long found ourselves in that scrupulously clean and picturesque summer resort of the wealthy, Aix-les-Bains.

Shaw, who was in the best of spirits, had laughed heartily over Asta's adventure with the rat, and as we arrived at our destination he turned to me, expressing a hope that we all three would enjoy "a real good time."

I had been in Aix several years before, and knew the life--the bains, the casino, the Villa des Fleurs, the fetes and the boating on the Lac du Bourget, that never-ending round of gaiety amid which the wealthy idler may pa.s.s the days of warm sunshine.

And certainly the three weeks we spent at the old-fashioned Europe--in preference to a newer and more garish hotel--were most delightful. I found myself ever at Asta's side, and noted that her beauty was everywhere remarked. She was always smartly but neatly dressed--for Shaw was apparently most generous in the matter of gowns, some of which had come from a well-known dressmaker in the Place Vendome.

I wondered sometimes, as we sat together in the big _salle a manger_ or idled together under the trees in the pretty garden, whether she still thought of poor Guy Nicholson--or whether she was really pleased when alone with me. One fact was quite plain--that the visit had wrought a beneficial change in her. Her large dark eyes were again full of life and sparkle, and her lips smiled deliciously, showing how she enjoyed the brightness and gaiety of life.

Shaw had met accidentally at the Grand Cercle a Frenchman he knew named Count d'Auray, who had a chateau on the edge of the Lake, and one day he went over to visit him, leaving us to have luncheon together alone.

As we sat on the verandah of the hotel to take our coffee afterwards, I glanced at her. Never had I seen her looking so charming. She was entirely in cream serge, relieved with the slightest touches of pale blue, with a large white hat, long white gloves, and white shoes,--the personification of summer itself. Ah, yes! she was exquisite, I told myself. Yet how strange that she should be the adopted daughter of a man who, though actually a Justice of the Peace, was nevertheless an undesirable.

Time after time had I tried to induce her to reveal to me the reason why Shaw went in such terror of arrest. But she would not betray his secret. For that I admired her--for was she not devoted to him? Did she not owe everything to his kindness and his generosity? Like many another man, I suppose he had been fooled or tricked by a woman, and had, in consequence, to lead a celibate life. In order to bring brightness and youth into his otherwise dull home, he had adopted little Asta as his daughter.

We had been speaking of a forthcoming fete on the following day when, of a sudden, she turned in her chair towards me, and with a calm, serious look upon her face said--

"Do you know, Mr Kemball, I am greatly worried?"

"Over what?" I asked quickly.

"Well, this morning, when I was walking back from the milliner's, I saw Earnshaw--that woman's husband. Fortunately, he did not see me. But she is, I suspect, here in Aix-les-Bains."

"Why should you fear even if she is?" I asked.

"I--well, I really do not know," she faltered.

"Only--to tell you in confidence--I believe some evil work is in progress--some base conspiracy."

"What causes you to suspect that? You do not believe that your father is implicated in it?"

"How can I tell?" she exclaimed in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I am filled with fear always--knowing in what peril he continually exists."

"I know," I said. "Why he does not act more judiciously I cannot think.

At home, at Lydford, he is surely unsuspected, and in security."

"I am always telling him so, but, alas! he will not listen."

"You said that he is now under the influence of that woman."

"I fear so," was her low reply, as she sighed despairingly.

We rose and strolled out together to the car which was waiting to take us for a run over the hills and among the mountains by the Pont de la Caille to Geneva, seventy kilometres distant. The afternoon was glorious, and as we sat side by side we chatted and laughed merrily, both of us forgetting all our apprehensions and our cares.

Ah, yes! those days were truly idyllic days, for I loved her devotedly, and each hour I pa.s.sed in her society the bond became stronger and more firmly forged.

But could she reciprocate my affection? Ay, that was the great and crucial question I had asked myself--yea, a thousand times. I dared not yet reveal to her the secret of my heart, for even still she thought and spoke of that honest, upright fellow whose untimely end was so enshrouded in mystery.

We dined at Geneva, in the huge _salle a manger_ of the Beau Rivage, which overlooked the beautiful lake, tranquil and golden in the sunset, with Mont Blanc, towering and snow-capped, showing opposite against the clear evening sky. We strolled for half an hour on the terrace, where the English tourists were taking their coffee after dinner, and then, in the fading twilight, Harris drove us back again to Aix, where we arrived about ten o'clock, after a day long to be remembered.

Asta held my hand for a moment in the hall, raising her splendid eyes to mine, and then wishing me good-night, mounted in the lift to her room.

Afterwards I went along to the _fumoir_ to find Shaw, but could not discover him. Later, however, the hall-porter said he had complained of feeling unwell, and had gone to his room.

I threw myself into a cane chair in the hall, and lit a cigar, for it was yet early. I suppose I must have remained there perhaps half an hour, when a waiter brought me a note. Tearing it open, I found in it a scribbled message, in pencil, from Asta.

"There is danger, as I suspected," she wrote. "Be careful. Do not approach us, and know nothing. Destroy this.--Asta."

I crushed the letter in my pocket and dismissed the servant. What could it mean?

Not more than a quarter of an hour later, as I still sat smoking and pondering, a tall, dark-bearded, pale-faced, rather elegant-looking Frenchman, wearing the crimson b.u.t.ton of the Legion d'Honneur in his coat, entered the hall from the street, and glancing round quickly, advanced to the bureau.

A moment later he came towards me and, halting, bowed and exclaimed in good English--

"Pardon, m'sieur, but I have the honour to speak with Monsieur Kemball.

Is that not so?"

"That is my name," I replied.

"I have something of importance to communicate to Monsieur," he said, very politely, holding his grey felt hat in his hand and glancing quickly around. "May I speak with you privately?"

"Certainly," I replied; and recollecting a small salon off the hall on the left, led the way thither, and switched on the light.

Then, when he had carefully closed the door and we were alone, he said with a pleasant smile--

"I had perhaps better at once introduce myself to Monsieur. I am Victor Tramu, inspector of the first division of the _brigade mobile_ of Paris, and I have called at the risk of inconveniencing you to put a few questions concerning two a.s.sociates of yours living in this hotel-- namely, Monsieur Harvey Shaw and Mademoiselle Asta Seymour."

"a.s.sociates!" I echoed resentfully. "They are my friends!"