"Charge dismissed; I congratulate you, Mr. Wynn," he said genially.

"There wasn't a shred of real evidence against you; though they tried to make a lot out of that bit of withered geranium found in your waste-paper basket; just because the housekeeper remembered that Ca.s.savetti had a red flower in his b.u.t.tonhole when he came in; but I was able to smash that point at once, thanks to your cousin."

He bowed towards Mary, who, as soon as she saw me recovering, had slipped away, and was pretending to adjust her hat before a dingy mirror.

"Why, what did Mary do?"

"Pa.s.sed me a note saying that you had the b.u.t.tonhole when you left the Cecil. I called her as a witness and she gave her evidence splendidly."

"Lots of the men had them," Mary put in hurriedly. "I had one, too, and so did Anne--quite a bunch. And my! I should like to know what that housekeeper had been about not to empty the waste-paper basket before.

I don't suppose he's touched your rooms since you left them, Maurice!"

"It might have been a very difficult point," Sir George continued judicially; "the only one, in fact. For Lord Southbourne's evidence disposed of the theory the police had formed that you had returned earlier in the evening, and that when you did go in and found the door open your conduct was a mere feint to avert suspicion. And then there was the entire lack of motive, and the derivative evidence that more than one person--and one of them a woman--had been engaged in ransacking the rooms. Yes, it was a preposterous charge!"

"But it served its purpose all right," drawled Southbourne, strolling forward. "They'd have taken their time if I'd set them on your track just because you had disappeared. Congratulations, Wynn. You've had more than enough handshaking, so I won't inflict any more on you. Wonder what sc.r.a.pe you'll find yourself in next?"

"He won't have the chance of getting into any more for some time to come. I shall take care of that!" Mary a.s.serted, with pretty severity.

"Put his collar on, Jim; and we'll get him into the brougham."

"My motor's outside, Mrs. Cayley. Do have that. It's quicker and roomier. Come on, Wynn; take my arm; that's all right. You stand by on his other side, Cayley. Sir George, will you take Mrs. Cayley and fetch the motor round to the side entrance? We'll follow."

I guess I'd misjudged him in the days when I'd thought him a cold-blooded cynic. He had certainly proved a good friend to me right through this episode, and now, impa.s.sive as ever, he helped me along and stowed me into the big motor.

Half the journalists in London seemed to be waiting outside, and raised a cheer as we appeared. Mary declared that it was quite a triumphant exit.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WITH MARY AT MORWEN

"It's terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, from her, or her father, just to say she was alive, I wouldn't mind so much."

"She may have written and the letter got lost in transit," I suggested.

"Then why didn't she write again, or wire?" persisted Mary. "And there are her clothes; why, she hadn't even a second gown with her. I believe she's dead, Maurice; I do indeed!"

She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not know what to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as to what had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; for that would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it was imperative that she should be spared any extra worry, and, if possible, be rea.s.sured about her friend.

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "You'd have heard soon enough if anything had happened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father's a wealthy man, and, when she found the things didn't arrive, she'd just buy more.

Depend upon it, her father went to meet her when he left the hotel at Berlin, and they're jaunting off on their travels together all right."

"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily. "Anne would have written to me again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if one letter went astray it's impossible that they all should. But you--I can't understand you, Maurice! You're as unsympathetic as Jim, and yet--I thought--I was sure--you loved her!"

This was almost more than I could stand.

"G.o.d knows I do love her!" I said as steadily as I could. "She will always be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never see or hear of her again. But I'm not going to encourage you in all this futile worry, nor is Jim. He's not unsympathetic, really, but he knows how bad it is for you, as you ought to know, too. Anne's your friend, and you love her dearly--but--remember, you're Jim's wife, and more precious to him than all the world."

She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to look directly at her.

"Yes, I--I know that," she said, almost in a whisper. "And I'll try not to worry, for his,--for all our sakes. You're right, you dear, kind old boy; but--"

"We can do nothing," I went on. "Even if she is ill, or in danger, we can do nothing till we have news of her. But she is in G.o.d's hands, as we all are, little woman."

"I do pray for her, Maurice," she avowed piteously. "But--but--"

"That's all you can do, dear, but it is much also. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Keep on praying--and trusting--and the prayers will be answered."

She looked at me through her tears, lovingly, but with some astonishment.

"Why, Maurice, I've never heard you talk like that before."

"I couldn't have said it to any one but you, dear," I said gruffly; and we were silent for a spell. But she understood me, for we both come from the same st.u.r.dy old Puritan stock; we were both born and reared in the faith of our fathers; and in this period of doubt and danger and suffering it was strange how the old teaching came back to me, the firm fixed belief in G.o.d "our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." That faith had led our fathers to the New World, three centuries ago, had sustained them from one generation to another, in the face of difficulties and dangers incalculable; had made of them a great nation; and I knew it now for my most precious heritage.

"_I should utterly have fainted; but that I believe verily to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O tarry thou the Lord's leisure; be strong and He shall comfort thy heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord._

"_Through G.o.d we will do great acts; and it is He that shall tread down our enemies._"

Half forgotten for so many years, but familiar enough in my boyhood,--when my father read a psalm aloud every morning before breakfast, and his wrath fell on any member of the household who was absent from "the reading,"--the old words recurred to me with a new significance in the long hours when I lay brooding over the mystery and peril which encompa.s.sed the girl I loved. They brought strength and a.s.surance to my soul; they saved me from madness during that long period of forced inaction that followed my collapse at the police court.

Mary, and Jim, too,--every one about me, in fact,--despaired of my life for many days, and now that I was again convalescent and they brought me down to the Cornish cottage, my strength returned very slowly; but all the more surely since I was determined, as soon as possible, to go in search of Anne, and I knew I could not undertake that quest with any hope of success unless I was physically fit.

I had not divulged my intention to any one, nor did I mean to do so if I could avoid it; certainly I would not allow Mary even to suspect my purpose. At present I could make no plans, except that of course I should have to return to Russia under an a.s.sumed name; and as a further precaution I took advantage of my illness to grow a beard and mustache.

They had already got beyond the "stubby" and disreputable stage, and changed my appearance marvellously.

Mary objected strenuously to the innovation, and declared it made me "look like a middle-aged foreigner," which was precisely the effect I hoped for; though, naturally, I didn't let her know that.

Under any other circ.u.mstances I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay with her and Jim at the cottage, a quaint, old-fashioned place, with a beautiful garden, sloping down to the edge of the cliffs, where I was content to sit for hours, watching the sea--calm and sapphire blue in these August days--and striving to possess my soul in patience. In a way I did enjoy the peace and quietude, the pure, delicious air; for they were means to the ends I had in view,--my speedy recovery, and the beginning of the quest which I must start as soon as possible.

We were sitting in the garden now,--Mary and I alone for once, for Jim was off to the golf links.

I had known, all along, of course, that she was fretting about Anne; but I had managed, hitherto, to avoid any discussion of her silence, which, though more mysterious to Mary than to me, was not less distressing. And I hoped fervently that she wouldn't resume the subject.

She didn't, for, to my immense relief, as I sat staring at the fuchsia hedge that screened the approach to the house, I saw a black clerical hat bobbing along, and got a glimpse of a red face.

"There's a parson coming here," I remarked inanely, and Mary started up, mopping her eyes with her ridiculous little handkerchief.

"Goodness! It must be the vicar coming to call,--I heard he was back,--and I'm such a fright! Talk to him, Maurice, and say I'll be down directly."

She disappeared within the house just as the old-fashioned door-bell clanged sonorously.

A few seconds later a trim maid-servant--that same tall parlor-maid who had once before come opportunely on the scene--tripped out, conducting a handsome old gentleman, whom she announced as "the Reverend George Treherne."

I rose to greet him, of course.

"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Treherne," I said, and he could not know how exceptionally truthful the conventional words were. "I must introduce myself--Maurice Wynn. My cousin, Mrs. Cayley, will be down directly; Jim--Mr. Cayley--is on the golf links. Won't you sit down--right here?"