Since that day months ago when he had declared his affection, he had never spoken directly of love, but only uttered it in those divers ways and words, those charms of touch and elegance of grace which are love's subtlest, truest, and most perilous language.

Slowly, as she turned her beautiful eyes to his, he took her soft little hand, raising it gallantly to his lips.

"Elma," he said after a long silence, "I have brought you here to tell you something--something that perhaps I ought to leave unsaid."

"What?" she asked with sudden interest, her eyes opening widely.

"I want to say that I dislike your friend Mr Rutherford," he blurted forth.

"Mr Rutherford!" she echoed. "He is father's friend--not mine!"

"When I was at Park Lane the other night I noticed the marked attention he paid you--how he--"

"Oh! you are awfully foolish, Mr Homfray--Roddy! He surely pays me no attention."

"You did not notice it, but I did!" cried the young man, whose heart was torn by fierce jealousy.

"Well, if he did, then I am certainly quite unaware of it."

His hand closed fast and warm upon hers. "Ah!" he cried, his eyes seeking hers with eager wistfulness, "I do not wonder. Once I should have wondered, but now--I understand. He is rich," he said softly and very sadly. "And, after all, I am only an adventurer."

"What are you saying?" cried the girl.

"I know the truth," he replied bitterly. "If you ever loved me you would one day repent, for I have nothing to offer you, Elma. I ought to be content with my life--it is good enough in its way, though nameless and fruitless also, perhaps. Yes, it is foolish of me to object to the attentions which Mr Rutherford pays you. He returned from Paris specially last Wednesday to be at your party."

"I cannot understand!" she declared. "I do not want to understand! You are foolish, Roddy. I have no liking for Mr Rutherford. None whatever!"

"Are you quite certain of that?" he cried, again looking eagerly into her face with a fierce expression such as she had never seen before upon his handsome countenance.

"I am, Roddy," she whispered.

"And you really love me?"

"I do," she whispered again. "I shall be content anyhow, anywhere, any time--_always_--with you!"

He let go her hands--for him, almost roughly--and rose quickly to his feet, and silently paced to and fro under the high hedgerow. His straw hat was down over his eyes. He brushed and trampled the wild flowers ruthlessly as he went. She could not tell what moved him--anger or pain.

She loved him well--loved him with all the simple ardour and fierce affection of one of her young years. After all, she was not much more than a child, and had never before conceived a real affection for any living thing. She had not yet experienced that affinity which comes of maturer years, that subtle sympathy, that perfect pa.s.sion and patience which alone enable one heart to feel each pang or each joy that makes another beat.

Roddy's moods were often as changeful as the wind, while at times he was restless, impatient and depressed--perhaps when his wireless experiments gave no result. But it was often beyond her understanding.

Seeing him so perturbed, Elma wondered whether, in her confession of affection, she had said anything wrong. Was he, after all, growing tired of her? Had that sudden fit of jealousy been a.s.sumed on purpose to effect a breach?

She did not go to him. She still sat idly among the gra.s.ses.

A military aeroplane from Farnborough was circling overhead, and she watched it blankly.

After a little while her lover mastered whatever emotion had been aroused within him, and came back to her.

He spoke in his old caressing manner, even if a little colder than before.

"Forgive me, dearest," he said softly. "I--I was jealous of that man Rutherford. That you really love me has brought to me a great and unbounded joy. No shadow has power to rest upon me to-day. But I--I somehow fear the future--I fear that yours would be but a sorry mode of existence with me. As I have said, my profession is merely that of a traveller and adventurer. Fortune may come in my way--but probably not.

We cannot all be like the Italian beggar who bought the great Zuroff diamond--one of the finest stones in existence--for two soldi from a rag-dealer in the Mercato Vecchio in Ravenna."

"You have your fortune to make, Roddy," she said trustfully, taking his hand. "And you will make it. Keep a stout heart, and act with that great courage which you always possess."

"I am disheartened," he said.

"Disheartened! Why?"

"Because of the mystery--because of these strange mental attacks, this loss of memory to which I am so often subject. I feel that before I can go farther I must clear up the mystery of those lost days--clear myself."

"Of what?" she asked, his hand still in hers.

"Of what that woman made me--compelled me to do," he said in a harsh, broken voice. He had not told her he had discovered where he had been taken. He felt that he was always disbelieved.

"Now, Roddy, listen!" she cried, jumping up. "I believe that it is all hallucination on your part. You were kept prisoner at that house--as you have explained--but beyond that I believe that, your brain being affected by the injection the devils gave to you, you have imagined certain things."

"But I did not imagine the finding of Edna Manners!" he cried. "Surely you believe me!"

"Of course I do, dear," she said softly.

"Then why do you not tell who she was? At least let me clear up one point of the mystery."

"Unfortunately I am not allowed to say anything. My father has forbidden it."

"But what has your father to do with it? I know he has put the matter into the hands of ex-inspector Fuller. But why?"

"Father knows. I do not."

"But he told me that much depended upon discovering her," said her lover. "Why does he search when I know that she died in my arms?"

"You have never told him so. He wishes to obtain proof of whether she is dead, I think," said the girl.

"Why?"

"That I cannot tell. He has his own motives, I suppose. I never dare ask him. It is a subject I cannot mention."

"Why?"

"He forbade me ever to utter Edna's name," she replied slowly.

"That is very curious, when he told me that he must find her. And he employed the famous Fuller to search for trace of her. But," he added, "trace they will never find, for she is dead. If I told him so he would certainly not believe me. They all think that I am half demented, and imagine weird things!" And he drew a long breath full of bitterness.

"Never mind," she said. "It would be infamous to be melancholy, or athirst for great diamonds on such a glorious day."

"True, my darling, true!" he said. "Let us sit down again. There!

Lean back so as to be in the shade, and give me your hand. Now I want to kiss you."