"Sit down, Belton," said Clive eagerly now. "What news?"

"Shall I--er--"

"Yes, of course. I have no secrets from Major Gurdon."

The old lawyer pa.s.sed his silk handkerchief over his forehead, glanced keenly at the Major, and then went on.

"Well, there is no doubt about one thing: a Mr Wrigley, a scheming, money-lending solicitor--rather shady in reputation, but a man who can command plenty of capital--has been buying up every share he could get hold of."

"Then it is a conspiracy," cried Clive.

"Not a doubt about it."

"Then, what to do next. Surely we can have a prosecution."

"Humph! What for? Sort of thing often going on in the money market, I believe. What have you got to prosecute about?"

"I?"

"Yes; you haven't lost. Poor old Praed now, he has something to shout about."

"But scandal, libel, defamation of the property."

"Let those who have lost risk a prosecution if they like. So long as I am your legal adviser, my dear boy, I shall devote myself to keeping you out of litigation."

"But surely you would advise something."

"Yes. Go back to your mine and make all you can, and be careful not to get into trouble over any underground trespa.s.sing."

"Well, if I go to the west, here is my neighbour. You'll forgive me, sir?"

"Of course, of course, my boy," said the Major hurriedly.

Mr Belton looked at him searchingly as he went on.

"The shares will recover their position in time, and the sellers will be pretty angry then, of course. There's no doubt about the conspiracy, my boy, but don't you meddle in the matter. We have done all that was necessary to restore confidence. You saw, I suppose, that the letters and advertis.e.m.e.nts were in the evening papers?"

"Oh yes."

"They'll be in all the morning papers, of course."

"And how long will it be before confidence is restored?"

"Not for long enough, but that will not affect your returns from the mine. But the poor old Doctor; I am sorry that he should have let himself be bitten."

"A great pity," said Clive drily; "but never mind that. You will continue to make inquiries."

"Eh? about the conspiracy? Of course. I have a good man at work--a man who is pretty intimate with the stockbroking set, and I daresay I shall hear more yet."

"There: now let's change the subject. You will dine with us to-night, Belton?"

"Well, you see, my dear boy, I--er--"

"You must," said Clive decisively. "I go back into the country again directly. I have some letters to write now. Seven punctually."

"Seven punctually," said the old lawyer, rising. He was punctual to the minute, and he and the Major got on famously as they chatted over old times, but somehow or other the old gentleman would keep reverting to the losses over the shares sustained by Doctor Praed, with the result that the Major did not enjoy his dinner.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AT BAY.

Dinah Gurdon stood for a time grasping the back of a chair, battling with a fit of trembling and the strange sense of dread, which rapidly increased till in the enervation it produced, her eyes half-closed, the light upon the table grew dull, and a soft, many-hued halo spread round the flame as she was about to sink helpless upon the floor.

Then mind mastered matter, and with an effort she drew a long catching breath, her eyes opened widely with the pupils dilated in the now clear light. Then she looked wildly at the door and window, whose panes seen against the darkness merely reflected the comfortable kitchen interior, where she stood. But all the same she felt sure that there was a face looking in at her--a face she knew only too well.

Then, tearing away her eyes from where they had rested upon the lower corner, fascinated and held for a time in spite of her will, she turned and gazed at the door, which she now saw was unfastened, while the bolts at top and bottom showed plainly in the light, waiting to be shot into their sockets.

Four steps would have taken her there; but that face was watching her, and she felt fixed to the spot, her heart beating with heavy throbs, and something seeming to force the conviction upon her that the moment she stirred to go to that door, her watcher would spring to it, fling it open, and seize her.

So strong was this feeling upon her that for minutes she could not stir.

Then fresh imaginings crowded in upon her brain, and she saw that the face she had conjured up was no longer there at the window, but there was a faint rustling outside, and a low sighing, whistling noise, and a regular pat--pat--pat as of footsteps.

The feeling of enervation came back, and the light grew dim and obscured by dancing rays, while the latch of the door appeared to quiver, slowly rise up and up, to stop at the highest point, and the door slowly moved towards her.

"Imagination!" she exclaimed, and in an instant she had darted to the door, thrust in both bolts, and then drawn down the window-blind, to stand now breathing heavily but feeling master of herself, and ready to act again in any way which she might find necessary.

The pallor had gone now from her cheeks, which became flushed by a couple of red spots, as she felt irritated and indignant at her childish fears. But all the same she could not conceal from herself the fact that there was peril; and now, full of energy, she went quickly from room to room and made sure that every window and door was really secure, before hurrying up to the different chambers and examining the cas.e.m.e.nt fastenings. She then descended to the lower floor of the little fortress to stand and think, asking herself whether her alarms were childish and only the effect of imagination after all.

But she was fain to confess that they were not. She had too strong grounds in fact for her dread, and the incidents of the previous night and that evening showed her that the man she dreaded was as unscrupulous as he was daring.

At last came bitter repentance for her weakness. Had she summoned up the courage to speak, and told all to her father, he would have taken steps to guard her from future danger.

She shuddered at the thought, and the colour in her cheeks deepened as she conjured up scenes such as she had heard of in the past.

Too late now; and she felt this, but that if the trouble were repeated she could not have acted otherwise. And now it was of the present that she had to think. There was no help to be expected from Martha, but, in the energy of despair, she went to the woman's side, shook her, and spoke loudly with lips close to her ear. Then fetching water, she bathed the sleeper's temples, for, rid of the sensation that her acts were watched, she worked with spirit.

But all was in vain; Martha slept heavily, her breathing sounding regular and deep.

Two or three times over Dinah ceased her efforts, and stood listening, startled by the different sounds of the storm gathering in the mountains. But she grew firmer now minute by minute, and quietly a.n.a.lysed each sound she heard. This was only the drip of the rain from the eaves on the stones below, although it resembled wonderfully the fall of feet. That was no rustling of a body forcing a way through the shrubs, but the work of a gust of wind bending down the little cypress, and making the clematis stream out upon the black darkness.

There was every token of a rough night in the hills, for ever and anon after a lull, the wind hissed and whistled at the windows, and rumbled in the chimneys after the fashion familiar in winter. But as she told herself, there was nothing in this to fear.

Feeling that Martha must be left to finish her heavy sleep, and after seeing that she could not injure herself if alone, Dinah went back with the light to the little drawing-room, where, after an uneasy glance at the window, she satisfied herself that she could not, by any possibility, be watched, and sat down to read.

The effort was vain: not a line of the page was understood, but scenes and faces were called up. Clive's looking lovingly into her eyes, with that frank, manly gaze, before which her own fell and her cheeks reddened. Then that meeting on the mountain path, when on her way home and alone, for the dog had left her and gone off in pursuit of a hare.

She shuddered as she recalled it all, and hurriedly forced herself to think of her father and his anger that morning against Clive, who was, of course, all that was true and just--her lover--her protector--to whom some day she could tell everything--some day when safe in his arms and quite at rest. It was impossible now.