The mystery of it all somehow aroused my suspicions. Was she deceiving me? Had she invented this nameless lover with some ulterior object? No man can ever fathom the ingenuity of a woman who intends to deceive.

"Permit me to say so, Ella, but you are not frank with me," I exclaimed reproachfully. "Why do you not tell me the whole truth, and allow me to take what steps I think proper? Cannot you realise all I feel at the thought of losing you again--for the second time? The past has been black enough, but the future for me will be even darker if I go away in the knowledge that you are the victim of a man unworthy of you. Tell me, dearest, do you doubt my love?"

"No," she sighed. "I have never doubted it, G.o.dfrey. I know how pa.s.sionate is your affection; that you love me truly and well. Yet it is all to no purpose. We have met again, it is true, and under the strangest circ.u.mstances. It would almost seem as though Fate has brought us together, merely in order to tear us apart. For us, G.o.dfrey, there, alas! can be no happiness," she added sadly, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"Why not?"

For a few moments she did not reply. I repeated my question, again kissing the cold lips.

"Because--because," she faltered, "I am compelled to marry this man."

"He is compelling you, eh?" I asked, between my teeth.

"Yes."

"And may I not stand as your champion? May I, who love you so dearly, extricate you from this trap?"

She shook her head slowly.

"It is not a trap, G.o.dfrey," she answered. "Rather call it force of circ.u.mstances. Those who told you I was dead lied to you, while I, hearing nothing from you, naturally concluded that you had forgotten.

Therefore it is best for us to part again at once--to-night--for the memories of the past are to us both too painful."

"Part from you, Ella!" I cried. "Never--never. You must be mad.

While you breathe and live I shall remain near you as your friend, your protector, nay, your lover--the man who loves you better than his own life!" I declared, taking her small hand and raising it reverently to my lips. "It is cruel of you, darling, to suggest us parting."

"No, it is the more merciful to both of us. We must part--so the sooner the better."

"You told me this on that never-to-be-forgotten night in London," I said reproachfully. "Therefore I cannot think that you are now in earnest."

"I am, G.o.dfrey," she declared quickly. "I do not deny to you that I love you, but love between us is debarred. I am unhappy--ah! G.o.d alone knows what trials I have borne--what horrors have been mine to witness-- and now to fill the cup of my grief I have met you only to find that you still love me," she cried hoa.r.s.ely, in a voice broken by emotion.

I held her trembling hand, and again kissed her cold, hard lips.

But she drew herself from me firmly, saying in a low, broken voice, full of pathos:--

"No, G.o.dfrey. Let us say good-night here. Let both of us go our own way, as we have done before; both of us, however, now confident in each other's love, even though our lives lie far apart. Remember me only as an unhappy woman who, through no fault of her own, is prevented from becoming your wife. Think of me still as your Ella of the old sweet days, and I will remember you, my G.o.dfrey--the--the man I love. I--"

But she could utter no further word, for she burst into a flood of bitter tears.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

INTRODUCES MR GORDON-WRIGHT.

Next morning, after a night of dark reflections, spent at the dormer window of the village inn, I called at the Manor House as early as the convenances would permit.

Lucie, cool in a white blouse and pique skirt, met me in the hall, and, to my surprise, told me that Ella had already departed. At seven o'clock she asked that she might be driven back to Swanage to rejoin her father, as they were leaving early on the motor-car.

She was as surprised as I myself was at this sudden decision to leave, for she expected that she would remain there for another day at least, now that we had again met.

"Didn't she tell you that she was leaving early?" Lucie asked, looking me straight in the face.

"No. I certainly expected to find her here," I said, as she led me into the old-fashioned morning-room sweet with the odour of pot-pourri in the big Oriental punch-bowls.

I was utterly taken aback by her announcement.

When I had parted from my love she had declared that to meet again was useless, but I had a.s.sured her that in the morning I would call--that now we had met I would not again leave her. Had she not confessed her love for me? Did we not love each other with a fond, mad pa.s.sion? And yet my darling had, it appeared, fallen beneath the influence of some nameless fellow, who was, no doubt, a scoundrel and an adventurer!

Should I calmly stand by and allow her to ruin her life and mine? No.

A thousand times, no. And as I stood there in silence in the low-ceilinged old room with Lucie Miller at my side, I made a firm and furious resolve that my Ella should not again escape me. Our love, however, seemed ill-fated. The remembrance of that night in Bayswater ever arose within my memory. Again how curious it was, that through the dead I had found the living. By the death of Nardini I had rediscovered my lost love.

I wondered whether I should confide in Lucie and explain what my love had told me, or whether it was best to allow her, at least for the present, to remain in ignorance? I decided, after due reflection, upon the latter course.

"I, of course, thought that she had wished you good-bye, and made an appointment for another meeting," Lucie said. "In fact, both my father and myself were greatly surprised when she came and asked that the horse might be put to. And yet--" and without finishing her sentence, she looked mysteriously into my face.

"And yet what?" I asked.

For a few moments she was silent, hesitating to explain. I saw by her face that something had puzzled her. We had so quickly become friends, and our friendship had been cemented by our mutual acquaintanceship with Ella Murray, that we had found ourselves speaking perfectly frankly as though we had known each other for years.

"Well--will you pardon me for asking you a rather impertinent question, Mr Leaf?" she said.

"Why, certainly."

"You'll perhaps think me curiously inquisitive, but how long were you with Ella in the avenue after you left last night?"

"About half an hour."

"Not more?"

"No. I can fix it, because I noted the time by that long grandfather clock in the hall as we went out, and I looked at my watch when I got back to the inn. I was three-quarters of an hour in getting back to Studland."

"That's rather strange," she remarked, with a distinct note of suspicion in her voice.

"Why?"

"Well--because Ella was gone nearly two hours and a half. My father went to bed, and I remained up for her. Wasn't she with you?"

"Certainly not," was my prompt answer, much surprised at her statement.

"Then something must have occurred after she left you," my companion said.

"After she left me! What do you mean?"

"A very long time elapsed before her return," Lucie remarked. "She may have been alone--but I think not."

"Who was with her?"

"How can we tell?"

"But what causes you to think that Ella was not alone?"