The Golden Face Part 26

"Peggy. I--I have something to say to you. I--I have to go back to London."

"To London--why?" gasped the girl in dismay.

"Because--well, because I can't bear to be here with the glaring truth ever before me--that I----"

"What do you mean?" she asked, laying her hand upon his arm.

"I mean, dearest," he said in a low, hard voice, "I mean that we can never marry. There is a barrier between us--a barrier of disgrace!"

"Of disgrace!" she gasped. "Oh! do explain, dear."

"The explanation is quite simple," he replied in a tone of despair.

"You asked me in Paris what worried me. Well, Peggy, I'll confess to you," he went on, lowering his voice, his eyes downcast. "I am not worthy your love, and I here renounce it, for--for I am a thief!"

"A thief!" she echoed. "How?"

"I've been hard up of late, and at the motor show I sold three cars, for which I have not accounted to the firm. The books will be audited next week and my defalcations discovered. I have no means of repaying the four thousand five hundred pounds, and therefore I shall be arrested and sent to prison as a common thief. That's briefly the position!"

The girl was speechless at such staggering revelations. Charlie--a thief! It seemed incredible.

"But have you no means whatever of raising the money?" she asked at last, her face pale, while the gloved hand that lay upon his arm trembled.

"None. I've tried all my friends, but money is so difficult to raise nowadays. No, Peggy," he added with suppressed emotion, "let me go my own way--and try to forget me. Now that I am in disgrace it is only right that I should make a clean breast of it to you, and then you alone will understand why I have made excuse to Lady Teesdale and left."

"Oh, you mustn't do that, dear," she urged. "Stay over the week-end!

Something will turn up. Do please me by staying."

"I feel that I really can't," he answered. "I'm an outsider to have thus brought unhappiness on you, but it is my fault. I am alone to blame. You must have your freedom and forget me. I took the money to pay a debt of honor, thinking that I could repay it by borrowing elsewhere. But I find I can't, therefore I must face the music next week. Even if I ran away I should soon be found and arrested."

"Poor boy!" sighed the girl, stroking his cheek tenderly, while in her eyes showed the light of unshed tears. "Don't worry. Stay here with me--at least till Monday."

But he shook his head sadly.

"I couldn't bear it, my darling," he answered in a low voice. "How can I possibly enjoy dancing and fun when I know that in a few days I shall go to prison in disgrace. My firm are not the kind of people to let me off."

"Four thousand five hundred!" the girl repeated as though to herself.

"Yes. And I haven't the slightest prospect of getting it anywhere. If I could only borrow it I could sail along into smooth waters again.

But that is quite out of the question."

Peggy remained silent for a few moments. Then, of a sudden, she looked straight into her lover's eyes, and taking his hand in hers said:

"Poor dear! What can I do to help you?"

"Nothing," was his low reply. "Only--only forget me. That's all. You can't marry a man who's been to prison."

Again a silence fell between them, while the dead leaves whirled along the path.

"But you will stay here over the week-end, won't you, dear?" she urged. "I ask you to do so. Do not refuse me--will you?"

He tried to excuse himself. But she clung to him and kissed him, declaring that at least they might spend the week-end together before he left to face the worst.

Her lover endeavored to point out the impossibility of their marriage, but she remained inexorable.

"I still love you, Charlie--even though you are in such dire straits.

And I do not intend that you shall go back to London to brood over your misfortune. Keep a stout heart, dear, and something may turn up after all," she added, as they turned and went slowly back over the rustling leaves towards the park.

He now realized that she loved him with a strong and fervent affection, even though he had confessed to her his offense. And that knowledge caused his burden of apprehension the harder to bear.

That night there were, after the day's shooting, merry junketings at Hawstead, and Charles Otley bore himself bravely though his heart was heavy. Ever and anon when Peggy had opportunity she whispered cheering words to him, words that encouraged him, though none of the gay party dreamed that they were chatting and dancing with a man who would in a few days stand in a criminal dock.

Next day was Sunday. The whole house-party attended the village church in the morning, and in the afternoon the guests split up and went for walks.

Soon after dinner Otley, whose seat had been between the steel magnate's wife and her daughter, went outside on the veranda alone. He was in no mood for bridge and preferred a breath of air outside. As he let himself out by one of the French windows of the small drawing-room in the farther wing of the house, a dark figure brushed past him swiftly, and next second had vaulted over the ironwork of the veranda and was lost in the dark bushes beyond.

As the stranger had paused to leap from the veranda, a ray of light from the window had caught his countenance. It was only for one brief second, yet Charlie had felt convinced that the countenance was that of a Chinaman. Besides the stealthy cat-like movement of the man was that of an Oriental. Yet what could a Chinaman be doing about that house?

He was half inclined to tell his host, yet on reflecting, he thought the probability was that it was some stranger who, attracted by the music and laughter within, had been trying to get a glimpse of the gay party.

That night, as the auction bridge proceeded, Otley withdrew from it and went to his room, where he sat down and wrote two notes--one to Peggy and the other to his hostess. In the latter he apologized that he had been suddenly recalled to London on some very urgent business, and that he would leave Malton by the first train in the morning.

The note to Peggy he placed in his pocket, and returning to the room where they were now dancing, found her in a flimsy cream gown, sleeveless and cut low--a dress that suited her to perfection--dancing with apparent merriment with young Eastwood, though he knew that her heart was sad. But her face was flushed by excitement, and she was entering thoroughly into the country-house gayety. Presently, however, he was able to slip the note into her hand and whisper a good-by.

"I shall be in London on Tuesday and will call at Bennett Street in the evening. We will then talk it all over, dear. Don't despair--for my sake--don't despair!" she said.

And compelled to slip back to the ballroom, she crushed the note into her corsage.

Early next morning a car took Charlie to the station, and soon after luncheon he reentered his rooms. The day was Monday, wet and dreary.

All hope had left him, for his defalcations must be discovered and the directors would, without a doubt, prosecute him. Hence he went about London interested in nothing and obsessed by the terrible disgrace which must inevitably befall him.

On the evening of his sudden departure from Hawstead, at about half-past six, the house-party was thrown into a state of great concern by the amazing announcement that Mrs. Bainbridge had lost her jewels--the unique string of precious stones which had once belonged to the late Sultan Abdul Hamid! Mrs. Bainbridge's maid discovered the loss when her mistress went to dress for dinner.

She declared that on the previous evening she had placed them out upon a little polished table set against the heavy red-plush curtains and close to the dressing-table. She believed that her mistress had worn them upon her corsage on the Sunday night, and that on retiring she had locked them in her jewel-box. On the contrary, Mrs. Bainbridge did not wear them, a fact to which everyone testified. The millionaire's wife had left the Sultan's famous jewels upon the little polished table when she descended for dinner on Sunday night, and naturally concluded that her maid--who had been with her over twelve years--would see them and place them in safety.

Suspicion instantly fell upon Charles Otley. Old Mr. Bainbridge was, of course, furious, whereupon Lord Teesdale took it upon himself to go at once to London to see Otley.

This he did, and when that afternoon Sanford showed his lordship unexpectedly into the room, the young man stood aghast at the news.

"Tell me, Otley--if you know nothing of this affair--why, then, did you leave Hawstead so suddenly?" he demanded.

"Because I had business here in town," was his reply. Instantly across his mind flashed the recollection of the incident of the fleeting figure which he believed to be that of an Oriental. He related to his late host the exact facts. But Lord Teesdale listened quite unimpressed. As a matter of fact, he felt, in his own mind, that the young fellow was the thief.

The story of the Chinaman was far too fantastic for his old-fashioned mind. He had heard of the Chinese, the opium traffic and suchlike things, and he saw in Otley's statement a distinct attempt to mislead him.

The police were not called in because Mr. Bainbridge did not desire to bring the Teesdales' house-party into the newspapers, and, moreover, both he and his wife were confident that young Otley was the thief.

Peggy hearing her lover denounced so openly, was naturally full of indignation, though she hardly dared show it.