The Lost Million. Le Queux William

her great wide-open eyes was perhaps just a trifle too shrewd, and she seemed, as I began to chat with her, possessed of a ready wit and a quaint philosophy.

      Of her wondrous and striking beauty there could be no two opinions. She was perfect, from the crown of her neat little straw motor-bonnet to the top of her brown glacé shoe. Her hands were small and well-gloved, and her pointed chin gave to her sweet delicate face an air of piquant irresponsibility that added greatly to her attractiveness.

      Between the smart chauffeur and ourselves the window was closed; therefore we could converse without being overheard.

      “Mr Shaw told me how generously you assisted him when you met at Totnes,” she exclaimed at last. “Ah, Mr Kemball!” she added, suddenly growing very serious, “you cannot tell how great a service you rendered us then.”

      “Us?” I echoed. “Then I presume you are a relation?”

      “His daughter,” she replied, “or, to be quite correct, his adopted daughter. My name is Asta – Asta Seymour. So perhaps I may be permitted to thank you, Mr Kemball, for the generous assistance you gave in securing my foster-father’s escape.”

      “No thanks are needed, Miss Seymour, I assure you,” I declared. “But tell me, why is he in dread of the police?”

      “Of that you will learn soon enough, I fear,” she replied in a hard, changed voice, which had a distant touch of sadness in it.

      “Yes. But is there not a grave danger in returning to England?”

      “He was compelled to do so – first in order to meet you at Totnes, and now for a second reason, in connection with the unfortunate death of poor Mr Melvill Arnold.”

      “You, of course, knew Mr Arnold,” I said. “It is your hand that has placed those fresh flowers upon his grave.”

      She was silent. Then in a low voice she said —

      “I admit that I have done so, for he was always my friend – always. But please say nothing to my father regarding what I have done.”

      “To me a great mystery enshrouds Mr Arnold,” I said. “Cannot you tell me something concerning him – who and what he was? By my very slight knowledge of him, I feel instinctively that he was no ordinary person.”

      “And your estimate was surely a perfectly correct one, Mr Kemball. He was one of the most remarkable of men.”

      “You knew of his death. How?”

      “I knew he was in London, for he scribbled me a note telling me his address, but requesting me to reveal it to nobody, not even my father,” she said, in a low, hoarse voice. “I called to see him upon some urgent business – because he wished to see me, but, alas! they told me at the hotel that he had died only a few hours before. So I went away, fearing to reveal myself to you, who they told me was his friend. Two days later I made inquiries, and learned where they had buried him. Then, in tribute to the memory of the man of whose greatness of heart and remarkable attainments the world has remained in ignorance, I laid flowers upon his grave.”

      “Why did you fear to reveal yourself to me, Miss Seymour?” I asked earnestly, looking straight into her soft brown eyes as the car rushed along.

      But she avoided my gaze, while a flush overspreading her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.

      “Because – well, because I did not know how far you might be trusted,” was her frank, open response, after a moment’s hesitation. “Indeed, I do not even now know whether you would still remain our friend and preserve the secret if the ugly truth became revealed to you!”

      Chapter Seven

      Dawnay Makes Confession

      Her curious reply greatly puzzled me. What could be “the ugly truth” to which she had referred?

      At her side I sat in silence for some time. The car was tearing along a wide straight main road between dusty hedges and many telegraph wires, and as I glanced at her I saw that she was staring straight before her fixedly, with a strange hard look upon her beautiful countenance.

      Perhaps I might have been mistaken, but at my mention of the dead man I felt certain that I saw in her eyes the light of unshed tears.

      Through the busy town of Northampton we went, and out again on the road to lettering – a road I knew well, having motored over it many times. In the centre of the latter town we turned sharply to the left, and, taking the Oakham Road, soon passed through the village of Great Oakley, and suddenly descending a very steep hill, on the summit, of which a castle was perched, we found ourselves in the wide straggling main street of Rockingham village.

      My fair companion spoke but little. She seemed suddenly to have become strangely preoccupied. Indeed, it struck me as though she had been seized by some sudden apprehension, by a thought which had crossed her mind for the first time. Her manner had completely changed.

      “Your father has been away in France since I met him?” I remarked, for want of something else to say.

      “Yes,” she responded; “he has been moving rapidly from place to place for reasons to which I need not refer.”

      “But why has he returned if there is still danger?” I queried.

      “I scarcely think there is further danger – at least at present,” she answered. I was puzzled at her reply, but not for long, as I will relate.

      The car slipped through Rockingham, and when about two miles farther on swung abruptly through a handsome pair of lodge-gates and into a broad, well-timbered park, at last pulled up before a long, old-fashioned Jacobean mansion which commanded from its grey stone terrace fine views of the green undulating hills and rich pastures around. The old ivy-clad place, with its pointed gables and mullioned windows, was a good type of the stately English home, and as the car drew up at the porch the great door was flung open by a neat man-servant, who bowed low as we entered the fine hall, where the stone slabs were, I noticed, worn hollow by the tread of generations.

      The place was built in a quadrangle, two-storeyed, with handsome heraldic devices in the stained windows. There seemed to be roomy corridors, leading by stout oak doors to roomier apartments within, some oak-panelled, others with moulded ceilings and carved stone fireplaces. The whole place had a cloak and rapier look about it, built probably when the old Cavalier was poor and soured and had sheathed his sword, but nevertheless was counting the months when the King should come to his own again.

      I followed Asta Seymour along the hall, and turning into a corridor on the left, suddenly found myself in a pleasant sitting-room wherein the man I knew as Dawnay stood, his hands behind his back, awaiting me.

      As we entered she closed the door behind us. The room bore an old-world air, with chintz-covered furniture and filled with the perfume of pot-pourri.

      “At last, Mr Kemball! At last?” cried the fugitive, crossing quickly to me and taking my hand in warm welcome. “So Asta found you all right, eh?”

      “Her appearance was certainly a surprise,” I said. “I expected you to meet me yourself.”

      “Well,” he laughed, his small narrow-set eyes filled with a merry twinkle. “It would hardly have been a judicious proceeding. So I sent Asta, to whom, I may as well tell you, I entrust all matters of strictest confidence. But sit down, Mr Kemball. Give me your hat and stick.”

      And he drew forward for me a comfortable chair, while the girl, excusing herself, left us alone.

      When she had gone, my friend looked me in the face, and burst out laughing, exclaiming —

      “I suppose, Mr Kemball, this is rather a surprise to you to find that Harvey Shaw, the occupier of Lydford Hall, and Alfred Dawnay are one and the same person, eh?”

      “It is,” I admitted. “I have passed the edge of your park many times in my car, but I never dreamed that you lived here.”

      “Well,” he said, “I rely upon your secrecy. You were extremely good to me the other day, so I see no reason why I should not be just a little frank with you.”

      “Your