Part 43 (1/2)

”Since the day of your arrival here, sir,” Ruxton cried. ”I wired her a message, and it remained unanswered.”

”Tell me of it.” The puzzled expression remained, but there was more confidence in the Prince's manner. He was grasping his folded letter in his hand. He had remembered its contents, and the promise it had demanded.

Ruxton briefly told him of the search he had embarked on. He told of the services of Scotland Yard he had employed. And he told of the negative result of all his efforts. Then he broke out in the pa.s.sionate pain of the strong soul within him. He told this father the simple story of his love. It was simple, and big, and strong. And the Prince, in the simplicity of his own soul, understood and approved.

”I know. I have understood it, guessed it--what you will. I know, and it gives me happiness.” He sighed nevertheless. It seemed to Ruxton as though his sigh were a denial. The grey head was inclined. His eyes were bent upon the letter in his hand. He seemed to be considering deeply. Suddenly he raised a pair of troubled eyes to Ruxton's.

”But she is at home. She is at Redwithy. Our enemies have not laid hands upon her. She is not without her fears, but she is well, and unmolested in her home. I had this letter from her only this morning.

It came through your father. It must have been written last night. So she was at Redwithy last night. See, here is the heading. It is her writing. I would know it in a thousand. There is a mistake. It must be a mistake.”

Ruxton had no answer for him. That which he saw and heard now was incredible. He half reached out to take the letter, but he drew back.

He was burning to read and examine that letter, but the Prince gave no sign of yielding it up; and he knew, in spite of all his anxiety, he had no right to claim such a privilege.

Perhaps Von Hertzwohl understood something of that which was pa.s.sing in the younger man's mind. Perhaps the appeal to his sympathy was more than he could resist. He opened the letter. Then he folded it afresh so that the heading and the signature were alone visible. He held it out.

”Look. You know her writing. There it is--and her signature.”

Ruxton leant forward eagerly. He examined the writing closely.

Amazement grew in his eyes.

”Yes,” he said, as he sat back in his chair. ”It is hers--undoubtedly.”

And he realized by the manner in which the father had displayed these things to him that it was his way of a.s.suring him that he was not to be permitted to know the contents of the letter.

In consequence, a silence fell between them. And each knew it was a silence of restraint. Ruxton was endeavoring to discover a possible reason for the Prince's att.i.tude, and he felt that his reticence must be attributable to Vita's wish. If it were her wish there must be some vital reason. What reason could there be unless----? Was she avoiding him purposely? Was her absence from Redwithy her own doing? Was it that now, her work completed, she wished to----? A sweat broke out upon his broad forehead, and he stirred uneasily.

Then, in the midst of his trouble, the other spoke, and his words helped to corroborate all his worst apprehension. The old man's words were gently spoken. They were full of a deep and sincere regret. But they were equally full of an irrevocable decision.

”Mr. Farlow,” he said, in his quaintly formal manner, ”I must leave here. I must leave England. There is danger--great danger in my remaining. Oh, not for me,” he went on, in response to a question in the other's eyes. ”I do not care that for danger to my life.” He flicked his fingers in the air. ”Danger? It is the breath of life. No, it is not that. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of the project which is so dear to my heart--to my daughter's heart, as well as mine. My presence here can only add jeopardy to others. I can serve no purpose. I have your promise that the work will go on to its finish.

It is all I can ask. And in that my services are not needed. I shall leave for some part of America. That is all.”

Ruxton's thoughtful eyes were searching. He was exercising great restraint.

”Will you be safer in any other part of the world?”

The other hesitated. The awkwardness of his excuses troubled him. He finally shrugged.

”It is not for myself. This place is alive with spies searching for me.

I know it. I--far more than the s.h.i.+pyards--am the magnet that draws them here. It is not good for the work. It is not good for you--or your father. Who knows----?”

”How do you know they have traced you here?”

The Prince's thin cheeks flushed.

”I know it,” he said, and the manner of his a.s.sertion warned Ruxton that it was useless to proceed further in the matter.

He knew beyond a doubt that some influence was at work, the secret of which he was not to be admitted to. He knew beyond question that that secret had been communicated to her father in Vita's letter. He knew that it was something vital and pressing which she desired kept from him. What was it? For him there was only one explanation. For some incomprehensible reason she meant to abandon him. But was it incomprehensible? Was it? She was a woman--a beautiful, beautiful woman. There were other men, doubtless hundreds of men, who might possess greater attractions for her than he could ever hope to possess.

And yet--no, he could not, would not believe it.