The Golden Web Part 40

In the cab they scarcely spoke. She had the air of a person utterly exhausted,--indifferent to anything that might happen.

"Tell me," he asked, soon after they started, "what made you go to that house?"

"The letter from you," she answered. "I was a fool, of course, but I went. It doesn't matter, does it?"

"I suppose not," he answered.

The despair in her face nerved him to further speech. "I am afraid," he said, "that you are worrying about that deed--or rather the loss of it.

I am sorry that I came too late, but it couldn't be helped. You did all that you could! I am sure of that."

"Of course!" she interposed impatiently. "And I have failed! That is the end of it!"

He looked out of the window, looked with stern, unseeing eyes upon the pa.s.sing people. The sun had ceased to shine, his heart was heavy as lead. He seemed suddenly to realize the reason of her dejection. She believed in the deed. She believed that he was indeed a pauper. It was for the wreck of her hopes that she was lamenting. The rest went for nothing. He was a poor man--no longer of any interest to her! His manner unconsciously stiffened as the thought came rushing home to him. He drew away from her, and he remained silent until the cab stopped in front of her hotel. She stepped out quickly, and almost ran across the pavement.

"To-morrow," she said, holding out her hand as though to prevent his following.

He bowed and turned away. Her deshabille was without doubt an embarra.s.sment Already he was beginning to find excuses for her.

Nevertheless, he watched the slim, swaying figure, as the doors closed upon her, with something of apprehension. Was it ominous that she should pa.s.s away without a backward glance? Was she indeed nothing but an adventuress, deprived of her prey?...

He paid the cab and walked slowly back to his rooms. His solicitor had already rung up. Two of his directors were waiting to see him, a reporter b.u.t.tonholed him upon the pavement. From all of which things Deane knew that Ruby Sinclair had lost no time, that the first note of battle had been sounded!

CHAPTER XIX

MISS SINCLAIR'S OFFER

Miss Rowan had left two hours ago, and had taken all her luggage and paid her bill. Apparently she had no idea of returning,--at any rate, she had not reserved any rooms. The hall-porter of the little hotel looked at Deane with some curiosity as he answered his rapid questions.

The manageress came rustling out of her office and beamed on Deane, who had once stayed there for several weeks. She confirmed the information which he had already received, and supplemented it with a few further details.

"Miss Rowan paid her bill?" Deane asked.

"Certainly, sir," the manageress answered. "Miss Rowan was exceedingly particular about paying her accounts the moment they were presented."

"And she left no message?" Deane asked.

"None at all, sir," was the answer.

He noticed the gleam of curiosity in her eyes, and promptly altered his tactics. "Thank you very much," he said, turning away. "I quite understood that Miss Rowan was not leaving until this afternoon. My mistake, I daresay. By the bye, have you any instructions with regard to letters?"

"None," the manageress replied. "If any come, we shall keep them until we hear from her."

Deane turned away and reentered his brougham. "I shall find a note at my rooms, I daresay," he remarked. "Good morning, Mrs. Merrygold."

His words were prophetic. He called at his rooms on his way to the club for lunch, and found a note there addressed to him in Winifred's handwriting:

Wednesday morning.

You will understand, of course, that this is the end. The jewels which you gave me I have returned to-day by registered post. One ring I have kept. It is, I think, the least valuable of any, but I did not wish to part with it. If you insist, however, it is always at your disposal.

I am going back where I belong--to the world which I should never have quitted. Everything has been a great mistake. Please understand that you are absolutely and entirely free in every way. I only trust that I may live long enough to atone in some measure for my folly.

WINIFRED ROWAN.

Deane read this letter over a dozen times. One thing alone seemed clear.

She had deserted him. She had not even waited for the final issue. She had fled from the sinking ship with a haste almost indecent. She had made no terms, suggested no compromise. Deane, when he thought the whole matter over, was still puzzled. Such precipitancy was not logical. If his hand was no longer strong enough to open the gates of the promised land, it could at least have lifted her up from the miseries of her past life. He found himself, after a study of her few lines, curiously depressed. She had gone--willingly--apparently without regret except for her wasted opportunities. He felt an emptiness in his life which he failed to understand. There had been nothing of the sort when Lady Olive had held out her hand and bidden him farewell. Was he getting sentimental? He set his teeth. Absurd! It was an episode happily concluded! Outside there was thunder in the air--a storm for him to face!...

His solicitor did not beat about the bush. "In the face of that doc.u.ment, Mr. Deane," he said, "the Treasury do not propose to proceed with the prosecution of Hefferom. Its existence, of course, throws altogether a different light upon the whole situation, whatever may be its exact legal worth. Hefferom was simply engaged upon a task of compromise. He had something solid behind him. There is not a shadow of evidence against him."

"Very well," said Deane, "let Hefferom go. I confess that when I sent to Scotland Yard I never antic.i.p.ated that this particular doc.u.ment would ever come into evidence."

"You knew of its existence?" the lawyer asked.

"Sinclair himself showed it to me," Deane answered calmly. "So far as Sinclair himself was concerned the affair was a swindle, for it was he who recommended me to jump the claim--said he thought that there was some stuff there, but he had no money to work it. I let him off a hundred pounds he owed me, and took his advice. But that is ancient history. The mine is my property all right--or rather it was."

Mr. Hardaway listened with a grave face. "Deane," he said, "I hope and believe that you may be speaking the truth, but the original deed is in the hands of unscrupulous people. We had a notification this afternoon that a suit is about to be commenced against your corporation."

"The sooner the better," Deane answered. "We'll know where we are, at any rate. I claim that by the statute laws of the country that claim was forfeit. If it was not, then the inducing me to sink capital and work the claim was a d.a.m.nable conspiracy."

"Your corporation fight with you, of course?" the lawyer asked.

"Of course," Deane answered. "What else could they do? We fight to the end!"

That night, shares in the Incorporated Gold-Mines a.s.sociation stood at 90. At closing time the following day they stood at 74. A few lines in the paper had done it. An action had been started by Hefferom, and the legatees of the estate of the late Richard Sinclair, claiming as their property the Little Anna Gold-Mine. The thing had been talked about for some time, but now that it had actually occurred, people seemed none the less staggered. The city believed in Stirling Deane--it had believed in him so implicitly that in its heart it had never placed any faith in this cloud of rumors. Yet there it was now in black and white. It was no longer possible to speak of compromise. The matter was to be fought out in the open courts, and failure could spell nothing but ruin to one of the richest corporations in London. Deane's photograph was in all the papers--also the menu of a famous dinner which he gave to his directors.

He sent a cheque for five thousand pounds to a hospital, and was reported to be going on the turf. The lawsuit he treated everywhere as a joke. He was careful always to wear the usual bunch of violets in his b.u.t.tonhole, and to affect something of the dandy in his attire. His personal demeanor kept his shares at least ten points higher than they would otherwise have been.

But Deane, nevertheless, was in h.e.l.l! He was badgered by his directors, worried by his lawyers, and underneath it all, and apart from his financial responsibilities, he was suffering from a sense of personal loss, a wound whose pain left him but little peace. He never stopped to admit to himself exactly what his suffering was. He sat for hours lost in thought, and his thoughts were always of that pale lady of his dreams who had stolen so abruptly from his arms, the girl who had played for a few weeks so strange a part in his life. He tried to find what had become of her, but in vain; she seemed to have completely vanished. He puzzled over her behavior until the lines in his face grew set and hard.

Was she indeed ingrate--ready to abandon her strange bargain at the first whisper of disaster? Or had she some other reason? He had accepted her terms because of the power which she held--what if, at the loss of that power, she had taken it for granted that their bargain was cancelled, and had hurried away to avoid the shame of dismissal from him! It was just what she would do--perhaps just what she had done!

Deane was careful, during these days of probation, to attend at his office regularly, and to shrink from none of his customary duties. One afternoon his clerk brought him in a card.

"A young lady to see you, sir!" he announced.

Deane's heart gave a jump, the blood rushed through his veins, he was scarcely able to read the card which he had taken into his fingers with well-affected carelessness. Then the pain came, the black disappointment which seemed to turn his heart into a stone. It was not she! He found it hard to take any interest in this caller, and yet he felt that her coming was significant.

_Miss Ruby Sinclair._

"You can show the young lady in, Gray," Deane ordered.

When she arrived, Deane scarcely knew her. She was expensively dressed from head to foot. She carried herself with an a.s.surance which was almost overdone. The fashion of her dress and hat were certainly not chosen with a view to being overlooked. She was very modern--she reminded him exactly of a young lady in a musical comedy with whom he had once had a slight acquaintance. He would scarcely have been surprised had he found, when she lifted her veil, that her eyebrows were blackened.

"You didn't expect to see me, of course," she said, holding his hand for a moment, and looking at him steadfastly. "May I sit down?"

"Of course," he answered.