The Storm Breaks E-Book

Arthur Gask

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An attractive and aristocratic-looking girl of apparently quite ordinary origin has always had good reason to believe she was not the daughter of her mother's husband. Losing both her parents, she seeks her fortune in London, makes her way into the social world and marries into a titled family. Then, through no fault of her own, she becomes involved in the death of a scoundrel who was attempting to blackmail her. Thanks to the help of the one-time great detective, Gilbert Larose, she at first eludes the law, though Scotland Yard is quite certain that she is the guilty woman.

Leseprobe

The Storm Breaks

By

Arthur Gask

(1949)

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835134

Contents

Chapter I.—Recompense

Chapter II.—The Great Adventure

Chapter III.—Birds of Prey

Chapter IV.—The Precipice Side

Chapter V.—The First Step on the Ladder

Chapter VI.—The Turn of the Wheel

Chapter VII.—Ghosts

Chapter VIII.—The Missing Kerchief

Chapter IX.—The Hounds Upon the Trail

Chapter X.—The Majesty of the Law

Chapter I.—Recompense

“Mr. Larose,” said the aristocratic-looking young woman, with a choke in her voice, “I have come to you for advice. Two days ago I killed a man. He attacked me and had been intending to blackmail me. His body lies hidden in a pond. Should I give myself up to the police, or say nothing in the hope that I may not be found out? You remember me, don't you? We met at Blackston Manor a little while ago.”

It would be difficult for the generation of to-day, or even, perhaps, for middle-aged people, to realise the social conditions prevailing in England sixty to seventy years ago. It was an age of class-distinctions appalling in their bitterness and stupidity.

The so-called upper classes regarded all who were not born to lives of idleness and pleasure as being of different flesh and blood from those who had to work for their living; and, looking back now, it seems almost incredible that their snobbery and exclusiveness could have been of such a silly and childish nature.

Those engaged in trade in any form were never admitted to society or considered eligible to be presented at Court. The disadvantage, too, of their father's calling was passed down to the children, and boys whose fathers owned businesses were automatically debarred from many of our best public schools, with their social inferiority being rubbed into them during all their adolescent years.

In country towns this prevailing snobbishness was even worse than in the big towns, but it was not without its humorous side. There—families high up in the social scale might be deeply in debt to the local tradespeople, but it was considered to be quite all right to pretend not to see them, or cut them dead when they were met out in the street. Recognition, it was believed, would have been lowering to the dignity of those who possessed birth and breeding.

As for the labouring classes, the contempt in which so many held them was exemplified by a story current then of a titled young lady of extremely ancient lineage who took to herself a husband of an equally exalted birth and, gratified with the privileges of married life, is said to have remarked to her husband, “And is marriage the same for the common people, Adolphus, because, if so, it is much too good for them!”

With the nation divided into the historic upper, middle and lower classes, the snobbery of the upper one in turn affected the middle one, now, however, taking on an entirely different form, as it was the possession of money there which so lifted a man above his fellows. Anyone with a shilling in his pocket regarded himself as greatly superior to one with only sixpence. So it followed therefore that the gulf between the well-to-do and poorer middle class was every bit as wide and deep as that between the people of society and those engaged in commerce. In middle-class circles it was a man's income, every time, which determined his position in his social world.

Mary Hinks's father was a £4-a-week clerk in a firm of wholesale clothiers in the city, and, though his salary was considered quite a good one, he mixed neither with those who were earning more nor with those earning less.

With a wife and six children, the family lived in Manor Park, an East End suburb of London close to Wanstead Flats, and enjoyed, or rather endured, the usual drab monotonous lives common to those in their position in the comparatively speaking uneventful years from the late 'seventies almost to the coming of the first Great War.

There were no pictures in those days; theatres were far too much a luxury for families with small means, and music-halls were considered as improper for young people. In consequence, a concert arranged by the church the Hinkses attended, a very occasional jaunt by tram to Epping Forest, or a rare visit to the Zoo, were the main highlights of their existence, and, with so few outside interests for the parents, it was not to be wondered at that the Hinks children were so generously begotten.

The Hinks family, as with the great majority of their class, was eminently respectable, conforming religiously to all the conventions of the day. Neatly, though it might have been poorly, dressed, and with clean hands and faces and hair nicely brushed, all who were old enough to go attended church twice every Sunday. Mr. Hinks did not swear or bet or frequent public houses, and his only luxuries were his pipe and morning and evening papers.

The Sunday paper was read exclusively by Mrs. Hinks and himself. It was invariably kept out of the way of the younger members of the family.

At that time divorce cases were fully reported, and when the divorce courts were sitting the Sunday papers vied with one another in providing full and spicy details for their readers. So, with divorce almost wholly the privilege of the wealthy classes, “What the footman saw through the crack in the blinds,” and “What the butler heard through the keyhole,” often constituted the general type of headlines.

The intense interest the middle classes always showed in the doings of the classes above them was also catered for by a very lively red-covered mid-weekly journal known as Modern Society, and within reach of everyone at the price of one penny. It had a very wide circulation and, from backstairs information and kitchen tittle-tattle undoubtedly supplied by the domestic staff of certain of 'the great houses', it was notorious for its scandal and innuendoes about many society people.

Now it cannot be too strongly insisted that, with all their smug respectability and narrow-mindedness, right down from the Victorian era the middle classes had been the very backbone of the country's morality. Their eldest born did not arrive until the proper time, their marriage vows were rarely broken, and their daughters, in course of time, entered matrimony in the virgin state.

It is true that in their days of adolescence the male scions of the family often set their feet upon unlawful and forbidden ways, but it seemed to be a point of honour with them never to bring misfortune upon a girl of their own class. In the main it was the servant girl who was their target, she being held to be good hunting, and materfamilias with a pretty one in her service had to keep a vigilant and unclosing eye upon the youthful males of the family.

Mrs. Hinks, however, was spared all anxiety there, as she was never well enough off to keep a maid. Always in poor health, she kept Mary, the eldest of the children, at home to be the family help. A girl of gentle disposition and uncomplaining nature, though she would certainly have much preferred to go out and earn her own living, Mary did not grumble and accepted the conditions as a matter of course.

Her father was as generous with her as he could afford to be and, when eighteen years of age, she was receiving the weekly wage of five shillings. With this she had to dress herself and provide all luxuries such as sweets, papers and books. With books she did not trouble much, but she always bought two weekly papers, one, the Family Herald, a weekly fiction magazine of twenty-four pages which could be purchased for a penny, and another, Bow Bells Novelette, at the same price. This latter magazine was not high-class, but for all that was most satisfying for those sentimentally inclined. A monotonous life Mary's might certainly have been, but it was one endured by many hundreds of thousands such as she, and never having known anything different they did not complain.

Of medium height and decidedly pretty, with her perfect little figure, she was undoubtedly an attractive girl. She always looked fresh and clean and had a nice colouring, a good complexion and frank, clear blue eyes.

Her father, however, was very strict and never allowed her out at night. Added to that, he insisted they were not well enough off to entertain and, moreover, the house was not large enough for company. Accordingly, Mary had no opportunities of making friends.

Of course she had her dreams and hoped that one day she would make a good marriage and perhaps—oh, how beautiful the thought was—live in the country among the trees and flowers. Then she would keep fowls and ducks and might even have a pony and trap!

When she was approaching her twentieth birthday it seemed to her that her chance had come at last, though there was certainly not much romance about it. A man nearly as old as her father fell violently in love with her, and being in a good position with a good salary, her parents also backing him up, had little difficulty in persuading her to become his wife.

By name of Birtle Dane, he was quite ordinary-looking, with a long and rather solemn face and grave, unsmiling eyes. She made his acquaintance one August Bank Holiday when her father, in a burst of extravagance, had taken the whole family down to Southend for the day.

They first noticed him when, after their picnic meal, the children and Mary were building castles upon the sands. He was seated upon the promenade above them and seemed interested in watching all they were doing. Presently he walked down to them and, raising his hat politely, asked if Mr. Hinks would kindly tell him the time, as he did not think his own watch was correct.

A conversation ensued, he admired the children and remarked how healthy they all looked, and expressed surprise to learn that they did not always live by the sea, but, as with himself, were only excursionists down for the day. It was remembered afterwards that, though it was mostly about the children he talked, his eyes never left Mary for very long. And certainly she was worth looking at, with her blue eyes sparkling in animation, her face so delicately flushed by her exertions and her pretty hair looking its best under the bright sun.

Presently, this agreeable stranger suggested that he and Mr. Hinks should stroll away in search of some liquid refreshment, and in the bar of the Grand Hotel more conversation ensued, names and addresses were exchanged in the most friendly way, and to his astonishment Mr. Hinks learnt that his new acquaintance was staying not a mile away from Manor Park, indeed quite near in Forest Gate.

At length returning to the family, Mr. Dane passed the rest of the afternoon with them, and finally returned to town in the same railway carriage.

He told them quite a lot about himself, how he was only upon a holiday in England, how his work lay with a big firm of wine merchants in the wonderful city of Bordeaux and how, as a bachelor, he lived in a big house upon the bank of the beautiful Garonne river, and was looked after by a housekeeper with a maid under her. Life in France, he said, was much brighter and gayer than in England.

In parting he asked if he might call one evening at Manor Park and continue the conversation; he knew no one but his mother with whom he was staying in Forest Gate and he was very lonely.

Permission being readily given—Mr. Hinks had been greatly impressed with his prosperous appearance—he called the following evening, and from the very first there was no doubt that it was Mary who was his main attraction. He took her and Mrs. Hinks to see his mother, and later Mary went alone with him to Madame Tussaud's and several theatres. The young girl was thrilled at the attention she was receiving, and when one night they had the three-and-sixpenny dinner at the Holborn Restaurant, and she sat listening to the soft and gentle strains of the orchestra, she was sure that at last she was indeed seeing life.

It was a whirlwind courtship, with the climax coming one evening only ten days after she had first come to know her ardent admirer. With the connivance of her parents, she found herself alone with Dane, and in their shabby little parlour, with his voice choking in his eagerness, he asked her to become his wife.

She had been warned by her mother what was coming and, demurely turning down her eyes in the fashion approved of in the Bow Bells Novelette,whispered that she would.

She knew quite well she was not in love with him, as she was experiencing none of those exquisite feelings which, again according to the Bow Bells Novelette, should have been running up and down her spine at such a thrilling moment. She was just consenting to marry him to get away from the drab and dull monotony of her life at Manor Park.

In the joyful excitement of buying new clothes she gave practically no thought to the sex side of marriage.

As Dane's holiday was quickly running out, they were married by special licence at the church in Manor Park. When the ceremony was over, as there was no reception following, they were driven straightway to the Regent Palace Hotel where they were to stay until the morrow when they would take the boat-train to Southampton and sail for Bordeaux.

For Mary Dane, ignorant and all unprepared, the victim of her parents' reticence and prudery, the beginning of her wedded life was a great shock to her, when what marriage really meant burst like a clap of thunder upon her.

She had sold her young body, with all its possibilities of ecstasy and passion, for the sixteen thousand francs a year which was her husband's salary, the big house upon the banks of the Garonne and the servants who went with it! All romance for her was finished, and she would never know the fulfilment of those fierce hopes and longings which, she had so often read, were the heaven-sent gifts to all young life!

An angry resentment surged through her. Her father and mother should never have encouraged her to marry such a husband. They had sold her like a slave, just as if their only thought had been to get rid of her as quickly as they could.

The next day they boarded the boat for Bordeaux, and to her great delight Mary found herself to be a good sailor, quite unaffected by the rough sea they encountered directly they reached open water. Everything was most enjoyable for her and she was able to go down to all the meals. Not so her husband, however, as he started being sick at once and, during the whole crossing, lay moaning and groaning in their cabin. A dreadful green colour, with his face all sunken in without his dental plates, he looked a horrible, unsavoury old man, and poor Mary shuddered as she thought that now he was always going to be her bedfellow.

When eventually they arrived at Bordeaux, Dane was so exhausted that he had almost to be carried off the boat, and Mary realised only too well that a time of tribulation for her had begun.

Then followed three very unhappy years for her when she never ceased to regret her foolish and hasty marriage. Certainly at first her husband had made a great fuss over her and shown himself thrilled in her possession. However, it had not lasted very long, and very soon his middle-aged passion had begun to flag, within a few months manifesting itself in only very occasional short and sharp flares-up which were never anything but most distressing to her.

With his interest in his wife waning, his character was soon to show itself in a very different light from the courteous and so charming suitor of Manor Park. His temper was exceedingly irritable and he was mean and petty in many ways, expecting Mary to account for every sou he gave her. Also, in a surly and bullying fashion, he expected her to fall in line with all his confirmed bachelor habits.

Meals must never be one minute late, and the food was monotonous in its lack of variety and only consisted of what he himself fancied. Mary vexed him greatly, too, by showing no appreciation of good wine and always preferred, as he styled them, horrible cups of tea, taken at all hours of the day whenever she could obtain them.

A hypochondriac of long standing, he was always imagining he was upon the verge of some serious illness and for ever dosing himself with different drugs. Upon the slightest cold in the head, Mary had to put poultice after poultice upon his chest to prevent, as he said, things getting worse. He had a horror of draughts of fresh air of any kind, and wherever he was, both night and day, the doors and windows had to be kept shut.

The house and domestic arrangements, too, were disappointing to Mary, not being upon anything like so grand a scale as her husband had made out. It was true he lived in a large house of three stories, but the whole of the ground floor was occupied by the business part of the firm. Then, the housekeeper and maid he had spoken of were really nothing more than two general servants. They were two sisters, the elder of them only about seven and twenty, and as well as attending to the residential part they acted as cleaners to the offices. They were hard workers, doing much more, Mary thought, than any English servants would have done, getting up at five every morning and at work down below again every evening after the clerks had gone.

Dane had no friends, and no strangers were ever brought in to meals. He hardly ever went out, and expected Mary to lead the same uninteresting and monotonous life. Even when he had apparently lost all interest in her, he was yet extremely jealous, introducing her to as few people as possible, and after she had returned from her daily walk, never failing to ask where she had been, to whom she had spoken and whom she had seen.

From the very first the two maids, Jeanne and Lucille, had been most kind to her and anxious to do anything they could for her. They smiled all over their bright red faces whenever they saw her, and, even before she had picked up enough French words to hold any conversation with them, she realised from their manner how sorry they were for her. When Dane was not upstairs it was a great joke with them to bring her many cups of the so discredited and almost forbidden cups of tea. She knew it was a wonder to them how she had ever come to marry their master.

Another sorrow for Mary was that Dane was deliberately attempting to cut her away from her family. He would not allow her to return to England for the briefest of holidays, and when she once timidly suggested he should invite her father or two of the older children to visit her, he refused so disagreeably that she never dared ask him again.

So was Mary, after three years of married life, a sad and dispirited woman, her vivacity and brightness all gone, living a dull and monotonous life with apparently no hopes whatever of any happiness in the future. Sometimes she used to look in the mirror and think how old and worn she was growing. No wonder, she would sigh, for she had nothing worth living for, and to put a crown upon her misery her conscience told her she had come to positively hate her husband. She loathed the very sight of him.

Then, suddenly, and as if at last in pity for her, Fate opened a window in the clouds and romance came into her life, real romance such as she had read of in those far-off days in the Bow Bells Novelette.

She first met him one sunny afternoon in the public gardens. She was sitting upon one of the seats there, idly watching the ducks swimming in the ornamental water, when she noticed a young fellow passing by and it struck her at once how handsome he was. She judged him to be a little older than herself. He was refined and distinguished looking, with his expression, however, quite a boyish one. He was walking slowly and she noted he gave her a quick appraising glance as he passed.

He did not go very far away, but, turning to retrace his steps and drawing level with her, raised his hat politely and asked if she would very kindly tell him the time. He spoke in French and she replied in the same language, though her words were halting and she knew her accent was not good.

“Oh, you're English!” he exclaimed with a bright smile. “I thought so when I passed just now. I'm English, too. Do you mind if I have a little chat with you? It's so nice to speak in one's own language for a change.”

He seated himself down and quite an animated little conversation followed, or rather the animation was at first almost entirely upon his side. Mary was shy and confused, though greatly thrilled he should have thought her attractive enough to want to speak to her. Still, gradually, she lost her shyness and could look him straight in the face without getting hot.

He told her he had come from London upon a holiday, but he knew no one in Bordeaux and didn't find it so much fun as he had thought it would be, being all by himself. He never had been a great one for sight-seeing. In return, Mary told him she, too, was a Londoner, and in many ways would rather be living there now, but then, she added with a blush, she was married, and her husband having his work here, of course there was no help for it.

The conversation lasted only a few minutes, and then he left her with the smiling hope that perhaps he might be seeing her again in the next day or two, as he generally came to the gardens in the afternoon.

Of course he did see her again. Mary had lain awake half the night thinking of him, and the following afternoon had seated herself upon the same seat, almost exactly at the same time. She learnt afterwards that he had been watching from among the trees, and he came up to her within a couple of minutes of her arrival.

Their conversation was more personal this time. They exchanged names, and she thought how well his unusual Christian name of Athol suited him. It had such a distinguished sound. He told her he had just come down from Cambridge where he had taken his degree. He had not yet made up his mind what occupation to follow.

In return, Mary told him something of herself, how she had come to Bordeaux as a bride three years ago, and had seen none of her relations since. She had no real friends in France and often felt very lonely. She had no little ones and it was something of a grief to her she was so far from home. She often felt very lonely.

They met again the next day, and after a few minutes' talk Athol suggested they go for a little walk. For a few moments Mary hesitated, but then replied with a certain tremor in her voice, “All right, but up the other end of the gardens, please.” She laughed a little nervously. “You see, my husband is much older than I and might be annoyed if he came to know about it. He is rather old-fashioned in his ways.”

“Oh, you'll be quite safe with me,” laughed back Athol, “I wouldn't eat you, though the prospect there”—he gave her an admiring glance—“might be by no means an unpleasant one.”

They had their little walk among the trees, exchanging more confidences as they went along. Mary was thrilled at being alone with him and certain now that no inquisitive eyes were watching them. Their conduct, however, could not have been more correct, as Athol treated her with the greatest respect and never ventured upon the slightest familiarity. Even when once he took her hand to help her over a stile, he did not hold it for the fraction of a second longer than was necessary. Mary was very sorry when at length she had to hurry away to be home before half-past five. Beyond that time things might be awkward, as, if her husband came upstairs, and found her away, he might become curious and start questioning her. She knew only too well how easily she gave herself away.

So things went on for a fortnight. They met every afternoon somewhere, but with no apparent warming up of their relations. Of course, by now she had told him all about her unhappy marriage, but to all appearances he had only the deepest sympathy for her loveless life.

As for Mary—she had apparently no deeper feelings for him than he had for her. It had just been a relief to her to tell her troubles to someone who she was sure would feel sorry for her. She knew it must be that he would quickly pass out of her life again, but it would remain for ever an abiding and cherished memory that someone had once been so kind and understanding.

Thus was everything upon the surface, but underneath and in their reality things were very different. In no way a philanderer and never having had much to do with the other sex, for this lonely and unhappy little woman Athol had come to conceive a deep and passionate regard, and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her in the way only a lover could.

As for Mary, she made no pretence to herself that she was not deeply in love with this good-looking and kindly-natured boy. Regardless of all conventions and her marriage vows, she would have given herself to him with no care of any consequences. He was in her thoughts night and day, and she was dreading the time that must so soon come when he would be leaving her. She felt as she imagined a condemned criminal would feel when awaiting the morning of his execution. Back she would go to misery and loneliness, and her unhappiness, she was sure, would now be the more poignant as she had at last learnt what love really meant for such a few short hours before it was going to be snatched from her.

One afternoon a fierce thunderstorm came over the city and, as they were near a big church at the time, they took refuge in it until the rain was over. The light was very dim inside and they appeared to be the only persons present. They seated themselves in one of the pews and started whispering together.

Presently a verger appeared from the direction of the vestry, and as he passed by several times Athol thought he eyed them curiously. So slipping a couple of francs into his hand, he asked him what time evensong was held. The man told him and then, with a pleasant smile, suggested they should go and sit in the lady chapel. “You will be out of the draughts there, Monsieur,” he said, “and can whisper as much as you want to without disturbing anybody.”

So they moved their seats to where he led them behind a big pillar, and directly he had gone Athol remarked carelessly, “A very understanding man that”—his voice shook ever so little—“and at last I've got you all to myself.” He gave a quick glance round to make sure that no one could see them and then, without a moment's hesitation, put his arm round Mary and, drawing her to him, gave her a long and lingering kiss full upon the lips.

There was no drawing back on Mary's side, and she was as ready with her kiss as he was with his. For many minutes no words passed between them. Time stood still and they were just man and woman in the first ecstasies of the avowal of their passion.

All about them so lent itself to their mood. The dark church was so hushed and still that they might almost have been alone in the world together. They had no thoughts except about each other. Past and future meant nothing to them and they lived only in the present.

Soon the soft notes of the organ broke through their dreams, and hand in hand they sat through the evening service. When it was over they left the building with the friendly verger giving them a farewell beaming smile.

The next morning Dane announced he had caught a chill. His temperature was slightly up and he stayed in bed. Mary had a hurried meeting with Athol, which she snatched upon going out to the chemist's.

Athol had bad news for her and she thought her heart would stop beating when she heard it. He had received a telegram and would have to leave for home by the early morning's boat on the morrow.

“But I must say good-bye to you, darling,” he pleaded. “Couldn't you get out and meet me to-night? I have such a lot of things I want to say to you.”

For a long moment Mary hesitated. “I might,” she replied, feeling very frightened at the thought, “but it'll have to be very late. He's always ringing his bell for me, and I can't come until he's well asleep. I shall have to wait, too, until the maids are in bed. Then it mustn't be far away, as I can't be out for more than ten minutes.”

So it was arranged they should meet on one of the quays only about three hundred yards distant from the house, at eleven o'clock, and he was to wait for her until one. If she were not there by then he'd know something had prevented her getting out.

She had a terribly anxious time all the evening, and thought her husband would never drop off to sleep, but at last, after well doping himself with his tablets, he did, and at nearly half-past eleven, muffling her head in a shawl lest she might be recognised, she slipped out, leaving the catch of the street door up so that she could get in again.

Then it seemed as if all possible ill-fortune was dogging the lovers, for a boat was coming up the river and there were a lot of people about. Added to that a heavy rain storm set in and there was no place where they could take shelter and be alone. Their clothes were soon wet through.

So, very reluctantly and in great disappointment, Mary decided she could not stay out any longer and must return home. Athol insisted upon accompanying her to the door so that he might be able to snatch a last kiss.

At the very moment, however, when they reached the door, they saw two men coming up the street from the opposite direction and Mary exclaimed in great fright, “Oh, I'm sure that big one there is our porter! Quick, come inside! He mustn't see us standing here,” and, hurriedly opening the door, she dragged Athol in and closed the door behind him.

For a few moments they stood in the darkness with bent heads and holding their breath, listening. The footsteps and voices passed and Athol whispered gleefully, “Just what we wanted! It couldn't be better,” and he made to take Mary in his arms.

“No, not here,” she whispered back. Her voice shook. “Wait—let me think.”

Her thinking, however, was very short, and she felt for his hand in the darkness and pulled at it to lead him up the passage. “I know it's very wicked,” she choked, “but I don't care what happens now you're leaving me. But oh, do tread so carefully on the stairs. We'll have to pass his room—and the door's open—to get to mine.”

It was a fearsome journey and both their hearts were in their mouths, but at length they reached the safety of Mary's room. She pushed the door to very quietly. “I dare not shut it,” she whispered, “in case his bell rings. But reach up and take out that globe. Then we shall feel safer,” and with hands that trembled violently, she began stripping off her wet clothes.

Mary awoke with a start. The faint glow of dawn was stealing through the window. She flung Athol's arm from her. “Oh, darling,” she exclaimed in terrified tones, “we've slept much too long. Look—it's nearly five o'clock! Quick, quick, you haven't a second to spare. The girls will be about any moment now. No, don't stop to kiss me. Quick, put on your clothes. I'll help you.”

It was a merciful ending to those wonderful hours. Not a moment of time given them to grieve that they were parting, and no harrowing agony in a last long lingering embrace. Just action, quick decisive action, every moment.

She bustled him into his clothes, stuffed his tie and collar in his pocket and laced up one shoe while he laced up the other. Then, throwing a dressing-gown over her night-dress and still in her bare feet, she preceded him out of the room.

They passed down the stairs meeting no one, but then at the bottom and just as they were both drawing in deep breaths of relief—Jeanne came into the passage and caught them.

“N'ayez-pas peur, ma cherie,” she exclaimed emphatically. “Je ne sais rien. N'ayez-pas peur,” and then, for the benefit of Athol whom she realised at first glance was not a countryman of hers and therefore probably English, she added beamingly, “No, I say nussing, Monsieur. I not speak a word.”

Athol beamed back at her. “Good girl!” he exclaimed fervently in fluent French, and he was putting his hand in his breast pocket to feel for his wallet when the indignant look upon the girl's face stopped him.

“No, Monsieur,” she said, drawing herself up with dignity, “nothing of that.” Her face was at once all smiles again. “I rejoice that Madame is having a little happiness”—she pointed with her thumb to the floor above—“away from that old ogre up there.”

A hurried kiss, and Athol had gone.

Strangely enough in the succeeding days Mary was not nearly so depressed as it might have been thought she would have been. She had experienced a great happiness, and the memory of it she determined should last her all her life. In some strange way, however, she was sure she would one day meet her lover again. She had no fear that she was now going to have a baby by him, as nothing had happened before from her husband and she felt sure she must be a woman who was never intended to have a family.

Still, in the week which followed she had good cause to be worried, and then, all suddenly, her fears that her husband would learn she had not been true to him were swept away. He was ordered by his firm to go to Bayonne on business and, though he had long since ceased to be interested in her, his jealous temperament made him take her with him.

They were away a fortnight, and, the change seeming to do him good, he was much more agreeable to her, with one of his old moods of tenderness actually taking possession of him again. His attentions were a great trial to Mary, but she realised sadly they had their good side, and shortly after their return home she told him she was sure she was going to have a baby.

He received the news with something of an incredulous frown and at first was obviously more annoyed than pleased. However, upon consideration it was evident he realised there would be some recompense for him in his coming fatherhood.

When those three years back he had returned with a wife, he had been made the butt of many sly jokes among his acquaintances, and in his hearing they had talked about the foolishness of people buying good books which their sight was not good enough for them to read. Also, there had been casual mention of the undesirability of mating old roosters with young hens.

Now, however, he had the laugh of them and, throwing out his chest, he strutted about as if he had suddenly become a clever and very important man.

Jeanne and her sister were kinder than ever to Mary, with the former never referring to the meeting that morning with the handsome stranger upon the stairs.

So in due time was born Dora Jacqueline Dane, as lovely a baby as anyone could have wished, and who will say it was not sent by heaven as some recompense for the tragic marriage of her poor little mother?

For the first time since her wedding day Mary was supremely happy.

Chapter II.—The Great Adventure

At eighteen years of age, Dora was undoubtedly one of the prettiest girls in Bordeaux. With her mother's perfect colouring, she had aristocratic clear-cut features and beautiful serene grey eyes. She carried herself proudly, and from early childhood days there had been a certain dignity about her which discouraged patronage from anyone.

Of a much stronger character than her mother, she had plenty of courage and a determined will. Afraid of no one, upon occasions she did not hesitate to speak her mind, never, however, in any argument losing her temper. With a general contempt for authority and convention, she complied with rules and regulations only because it profited her to do so.

Outwardly of a cold and reserved nature, and making few friends at the convent school where she was a weekly boarder, her outspoken opinions nevertheless carried not a little weight with the other girls, often rather to the distress of the Sisters in charge.

“You know sometimes I am rather afraid for Dora,” said one of the teaching Sisters one day to a colleague. “She has great influence with the other girls, but is not always the best example for them. For one thing, she hasn't the reverence she should have for the Fathers, and last week after Monseigneur Herblay's address she said openly in class that he made her feel tired. She asked, too, what could an old and unmarried man like Monseigneur know about the feelings and hopes of young girls. I was very sharp with her, because I could see the others in the class were smiling and giving one another sly nods.”

The other Sister sighed deeply. “And she's so pretty,” she said, “that if Monseigneur came to learn what she had said he'd probably only smile, too.” She sighed again. “I notice all the Fathers who come here take more notice of her than of anyone else.”

“But you shouldn't have allowed yourself to imagine you had noticed such things,” reproved the first Sister sharply. “Your conscience and your training must have told you you were wrong. To the Fathers, all our girls here are only souls to be guided in the right way. All earthly thoughts about them, however pretty they may be, have no existence at all.”

The second Sister sighed again, but, had her vows permitted, it might have been she would have smiled as she had just been told the girls in class had done.

Now if Dora were so admired and looked up to by the other convent girls, she was simply idolised by her mother. From babyhood to childhood and on to girlhood, down all the years she had filled Mary's life, giving to her a happiness she had never thought she would ever experience.

She would gaze and gaze at her for long minutes at a time, thinking fondly what a little aristocrat she was and what a beautiful woman she would one day be. And was it not natural, she told herself, for had not she the best of English blood in her veins? Had not Athol told her that his mother was a daughter of a peer of the realm, with the barony going back for hundreds and hundreds of years?

So Mary's dreams for her daughter's future were full and ambitious ones. When Dane was dead—and, a quickly ageing man with many ailments, she was sure he could not live for very long, she would take her to England, and search out her father so that he could help her to make a good marriage and take a rightful position among his own class of people.

She had never heard from Athol since that morning when he had so hurriedly gone away, but she had hardly expected she would. They had agreed it would be far too dangerous for him to write or attempt to get in touch with her in any way. Still, she often sighed to herself that she was sure had he only become aware that she had borne a child of whom he was the father he would have wanted to risk everything to set eyes upon his own flesh and blood.

Her faith in him had never wavered, and she knew he would never have forgotten her. What a surprise it would be for him when she brought him face to face with Dora! He would know instantly that she was his daughter, as she was very like him, with the same profile, the same eyes and the same beautifully-shaped hands. Why, even that slight crook in one of her little fingers was exactly like the crook in one of his!

Of course, she would sigh again, Athol would have married long ago. She must expect that, but she consoled herself with thinking that no wife, however highly born, could have given him a daughter anything like as beautiful as was Dora.

Then, unbeknown to Dane and paying for them out of the housekeeping money, she began to take in some of the best illustrated English society journals, hoping that one day she might read in them something about Athol or his mother, and perhaps even see their photographs.

She and Dora used to pore over these journals at week-ends, and whisper animatedly together of the wonderful times they would one day have when they went home together and would see, and perhaps speak to, some of these great people. Dora, of course, had no idea how it would come about, but in time the expectation came to form not a small part of her day-dreams.

All along Dora had had a great affection for her mother and never given her any of those cold and distant looks which so often she bestowed upon others. As she had grown older, too, it was as if in her much stronger nature she had thrown a mantle of protection over her, for when she was present it seemed to Mary as if Dane never dared to be quite so unpleasant as when they were by themselves. Undoubtedly he was always a little bit afraid of Dora with her sharp words and contemptuous looks.

Dane had not improved with the passing of the years and, now approaching sixty, was more bad-tempered and crotchety than ever. He never showed the slightest affection or consideration for Mary and, taking as little notice of her as possible, seemed to regard her as only one of the servants to manage the affairs of his house.

Mary hated him with as deep a hate as her weak nature would allow. She had never forgiven him for his treatment of her family. Of them she had never seen anything since her wedding day, as they had all been killed in one of the few bad bombing raids the Germans had made upon London in the first Great War. They had moved from their house in Manor Park to one in a part of East Ham, newly built ones, and one night only a few weeks later a bomb had fallen there and wiped out nearly the whole of the little terrace.

It had been many weeks before Mary had been able to find out what had happened to them, and then only upon writing to the Superintendent of Police in East Ham. He had replied that hers was one of nine families that had been completely wiped out, either by the bomb or the fierce conflagration which had followed. No trace of any of them had ever been found.