"If you go to England, you will keep out of his way," she said.

"Rather!" said Derrick, grimly. "If I go to England--and, of course, I shall if you wish it--I shall keep out of everybody's way. I shall use my a.s.sumed name, Sydney Green."

"It will be well to do so," she said, gravely. It was evident that she was considering the matter with all a woman's acuteness. "Yes; I wish you to go to England. There are other reasons--it will be better for you to see the machinery."

"All right, your Excellency," said Derrick, promptly; for he felt as if he had placed himself in her hands. "When would you like me to start?"

"To-morrow," she said. She raised her eyes and looked at him wistfully.

"If you are to go, it is better for me--for you--for affairs, that you go at once."

As she spoke, she opened a despatch-box lying on the table beside her and took out two packets. She held one out to him.

"In this you will find some money; sufficient, I hope, to pay all expenses; if it is not, if you should need more, you will address yourself to the branch of the Bank of Spain in England, where I shall place some to your credit. Do not hesitate to use the money; I do not mean for the machinery only, but for any purpose for which you may want it. It is at your entire disposal. You will write to me----"

"Of course," said Derrick. "I shall send your Excellency a regular report at frequent intervals."

"The carriage is ordered, and you will be driven to the station to-morrow. Write to me as soon as you arrive."

Derrick rose to bid her good-bye; but she stayed him with a slight, hesitating gesture and held out the second packet.

"Take this," she said. "It contains instructions for your conduct in--in certain events."

"Sealed instructions," said Derrick, with a smile, as he noticed that the package was thus secured.

"Yes," she said. "You will break the seals and read the enclosed instructions if, at any time, during your absence, you should be in any great difficulty or danger. Do you think this is very strange--mysterious?" she asked, her eyes fixed upon him with a half-apprehensive regard.

"I've not the least doubt you have good reasons for giving me this,"

said Derrick; "I will not open it unless, as you say, I am in a fix."

"That is well," she said. "You have good reason--a reason I cannot explain," she added hurriedly, and with some agitation, "for trusting me."

"I'd trust you with my life," said Derrick, impelled to the burst of fervour by something in her manner and voice.

She held out her hand, and Derrick took it and pressed it; there was something so melting in the tenderness of her gaze that again he was impelled by a strange influence, and he bent and kissed the hand. As he did so, she laid her other one upon his bent head; it was a touch soft as thistle-down, as caressing as that of a mother; and as he felt it, something tugged at Derrick's heart-strings. He turned away and left the room quickly.

Some time after he had reached his own quarters, and had pondered over the singular emotion which had been aroused in him during the scene, he opened the first packet. It contained a large sum of money, greatly in excess of his possible needs. The generosity of this great lady was amazing. He stowed the notes in his belt and then turned to the other packet. This he sewed up inside his waistcoat; it was too precious to be committed to so commonplace a depository as the purse of a belt.

The following morning, as he stepped into the carriage--Donna Elvira's own carriage of state!--he looked round on the chance and in the hope of seeing her. She was nowhere in sight as the carriage started; but when it was turning the bend of the road, still looking back earnestly, he saw the tall figure standing on the steps of the patio. From the black mantilla which shrouded her, she waved a hand.

CHAPTER XX

Derrick reached London on one of those mornings when she is at her very best, and he felt his heart grow warm within him as he strode the familiar pavements, and inhaled the air which seemed to him laden, not with smoke but with the flowers which were blooming bravely in the parks and squares. He had seen some beautiful places during his wanderings, but it seemed to him that none of them could compare with this London which every Englishman, abuse it as he may, regards sometimes with an open and avowed affection, sometimes with a sneaking fondness.

Derrick was so full of the love of life, so thrilling with that sense of youth and health for which millionaires would barter all their gold, that it seemed to him difficult to believe that he was the same man who, only a few months ago, had paced the same streets, weighed down by misery and despair; indeed, as he thought of all that had happened, the events took to themselves the character of a phantasmagoria in which Mr.

Bloxford, the circus people and Donna Elvira moved like insubstantial shadows. But, standing out clearly in his mind, was the fact that he was in London, with his pockets full of money and with one desire, one hope predominating over all others, the desire, the hope of seeing the girl at Brown's Buildings.

He would have made straight for "the Jail"; but Derrick's sense of duty had not deserted him, and with a sigh of resignation, he betook himself to an engineering firm, whose offices were in that Victoria Street down which he had almost slunk the night he had left London, a fugitive. He presented his credentials, transacted his business, and then, with a fast-beating heart, walked--he could not have sat in a taxi, though it should exceed the speed limit--to the Buildings.

So great was the emotion that a.s.sailed him as he stepped into the cool shadow of the stone pa.s.sage, that he actually trembled. The whole scene of that eventful night rose before him so plainly that it might have been the preceding one, instead of months ago; in imagination, he could see her face, as she bent over the rail and whispered her good-bye.

It was the hour at which the Buildings is most quiet, and as Derrick went up the stone stairs, he did not meet any one; he stood for a moment or two opposite Celia's door, actually afraid to knock; for, though he had said to Donna Elvira that the girl might be married, that he might have lost sight of her for ever, he had always pictured her as behind that door, and always cherished the conviction that, if ever he should return, he should find her there. At last, he knocked. No response came.

He knocked again, and the sound of the diminutive knocker echoed prophetically amidst the stone walls; still there was no response. His heart sank within him, and he leant against the iron hand-rail, gnawing at his lip with a keen disappointment, a blank dismay. He tried to tell himself that her absence might be only temporary, that she would return: it was ridiculous to suppose that she should not go out sometimes, that she should be sitting there within the room, waiting for him: absolutely ridiculous!

He lit a cigarette and waited on the merely improbable chance of her return; the minutes grew into half an hour before he realised that he might wait hours, and that it would be easy to inquire if she were still living there. All the same, he lingered, as if he were loath to take his eyes from that door through which she had come to him as an angel of rescue--no, far better, as a pure, a brave woman.

Presently he heard the sound of slow footsteps ascending the stairs.

They paused on the floor beneath him, and Derrick, descending quickly, saw the thin, bent figure of an old man; he held a violin-case and a small parcel of grocery under his arm, and was on the point of unlocking the door immediately beneath that of the girl. The old man turned his head as Derrick came down upon him, and Derrick, notwithstanding the state of his mind, was struck by the n.o.bility and dignity of the thin, wasted face and the dark, penetrating eyes.

"I beg your pardon," said Derrick. "Can you tell me----?"

He stopped, for the old man had dropped the parcel and stood looking, not at it, but at Derrick. Derrick hastened to pick it up, and, instinctively, raised his hat as he handed the small package.

"I'm afraid I startled you, sir," he said, with that note of respect and deference which came into Derrick's voice when he was addressing women and the aged: it was just one of those little characteristics which attracted people to the young man, and made them take to him at first acquaintance. "I wanted to ask you a question about a young lady, the young lady who lives in the room above this." For the life of him, he could not bring himself to ask the question straight out.

Mr. Clendon regarded him with a calm and courteous scrutiny, which, for all its courteousness, had a note of guardedness and caution. "What do you wish to ask about her?" he inquired. He unlocked the door as he put the question, and waving his long, white hand towards the room, added, "Will you not come in?"

Derrick stepped into the plain, meagrely-furnished room, and took the seat to which Mr. Clendon motioned him. The old man set the parcel and violin-case on the table and, taking a chair, sat with his back to the light and waited in silence.

"I am afraid I am intruding," said Derrick, still with that deferential note in his voice. "I shall be glad if you can tell me if the young lady is still living above you."

"Why do you ask?" said Mr. Clendon. "Forgive me, you have not yet mentioned her name."

"I don't know it," said Derrick; "but I may say that I am a friend of hers. I have every reason to be, for she did me a great service. One moment, sir"--as Mr. Clendon opened his lips--"this must seem rather extraordinary to you, but I am sure that she would be glad to see me."

Mr. Clendon's eyes seemed to pierce Derrick through and through; then, removing his gaze, as if he were satisfied, Mr. Clendon said:

"The name of the young lady is Grant--Celia Grant; she is not now living in the Buildings."

Derrick's eyes dropped, and he drew a long breath; his disappointment was so obvious that Mr. Clendon said:

"Is your business with Miss Grant one of importance, may I ask?"

"The greatest importance--to me," said Derrick, who felt somehow inspired to confidence; there was something in this old man's manner and att.i.tude, in the low, rhythmic voice, that harmonized with Derrick's mood and influenced him in a fashion strange and puzzling.

"I am afraid I can't tell you the whole--well, you may call it 'story'; but I may say that I am deeply indebted to Miss Grant, and that I am very desirous of paying that debt--no; I can't do that!--but of seeing her and telling her that her kindness, her goodness, to me were not thrown away."

"An amiable sentiment," said Mr. Clendon, with dignified simplicity. "No doubt, Miss Grant would be glad to hear it from your lips; but she is not here, she has gone."

"I am sorry, sir," said Derrick, rising, and the genuineness of his a.s.sertion was attested by the deep sigh which accompanied it. "I don't like to ask you----" he hesitated--"but you would be rendering me a very great service, greater than you can imagine, if you would, if you could, tell me where to find her."

There was a silence. Mr. Clendon sat perfectly immovable; but his eyes were searching Derrick's face, and the young man stood meeting the gaze honestly, candidly, unshrinkingly.

"I do not know whether I should be doing right in giving you Miss Grant's address," said Mr. Clendon at last. "But I will admit that I am tempted to do so."