And then I stopped suddenly. This casual reference to America recalled something to me (like casual references often do to all of us) that I had quite forgotten. It was nothing less than a connection with America which both Lord Fotheringay and the dead priest, Father Alphonse Calasanctius, had in common. Could it – I now asked myself – could it really happen that Don José Casteno had also come from that same South American Republic – the Republic of Mexico? And could those faded parchment rolls relate to some secret which the Earl of Fotheringay had discovered whilst he was in Mexico, and in regard to which he had procured the assistance of Zouche, one of the finest, most noted palaeographists and experts in mediaeval cypher that the British Museum has ever employed?
“I don’t care,” put in Doris firmly, “I don’t care about this point of view of yours. I’ve a strong intuition that no good will come to you or to me by your association with this foreigner, Casteno. Believe me at least in this, that my father is not a man to speak or to act lightly, and he who really knows all, remember, says most solemnly that you must give this man’s friendship up now – at once.”
“I won’t,” I snapped decisively.
“For my sake,” she pleaded, and her eyes were lustrous with unshed tears.
“I have given my word,” I repeated, throwing my shoulders back with an effort.
“Break it. It was obtained from you by fraud,” suggested this gentle casuist. “’Twould be no sin.”
“But the money,” I cried, and the thought restored my determination to its full strength.
Even Doris wavered. The temptation was indeed cruel.
“The money will do us no good,” she replied at length. “I prefer we should wait.”
“But I don’t,” I retorted, setting my chin firmly and clenching my fists. “I am tired of being treated as a little less than your friend, dear heart, and a little more than an acquaintance. I want you – your father – ay, all the world,” I went on wildly, “to recognise me as your accepted lover. And inasmuch as José Casteno assists me to that end, I say now, once and for all, that I will not give him up for your father or anybody else. Besides, aren’t we told there’s a tide in the affairs of men? Well, I now put my intuition boldly against yours – against Colonel Napier’s – even against the vamped-up stories of the ugly old Hunchback of Westminster – and I say that this tide of fortune has at last come to me, and that I will take it at the full flood no matter who may raise their hand in protest.”
“You are quite determined?” gasped poor Doris, with a little shiver.
“Quite,” I answered, and my teeth again closed with a snap.
“Then,” said she, with a little gulp of terror, turning towards the door, “I – I must hurry back. I promised father that I would leave you at once if you refused, and I too must keep my word. Let me, however, whisper one word to you.”
And still burning with self-righteousness I bent down.
“Mizpah,” said she in a low voice, almost like a prayer: “The Lord watch between you and me when we are absent one from the other. Only He can protect us both. Please heaven He will.” And kissing me hurriedly on the cheek she darted away.
Next instant she had sprung into a passing hansom and had vanished from my sight, leaving me for a second quite dumbfounded.
Chapter Four.
The House at Hampstead
Thus began my powerful fight for Don José Casteno’s rights!
Looking back to-day I, of course, can see quite clearly how very foolish and headstrong I then was, how I refused to be warned, even by the best friend man ever has – the woman who loves him. But there! we can all be wise after the event, can’t we?
Oddly enough though, I did not meet Casteno in my offices that day at midnight as we had both so carefully arranged. True, I immediately made my way to Stanton Street, and by then eight o’clock had actually boomed forth from Big Ben, but no sooner did I reach my desk than I found thereon a telegram which had been despatched at 4:30 PM from the Charing Cross Telegraph Office by the mysterious Spaniard, cancelling the appointment, and calling upon me to:
“Come immediately to St. Bruno’s, Chantry Road, Hampstead. I know all. – Casteno.”
As a consequence of this I was soon speeding half across London in that swift ten-horse Panhard of mine, which had been given to me a month previously in a burst of generosity by a foolish client, an old man, whom I had succeeded in delivering from a gang of needy blackmailers without scandal. Indeed, in less than an hour from receipt of his message, I had reached the long, winding, and secluded thoroughfare which he had specified.
As a matter of fact, too, if anybody sought a spot where he could hide effectually from police and public in London, he could never choose a better or a more suitable district than the aristocratic portions of Hampstead. Much of the wild character of the heath still lingers in those avenues, and the dwellers in those parts are curiously few, select, and quite indifferent to what goes on outside their own ken.
St. Bruno’s, I discovered, was one of the finest of the many fine but solitary-looking mansions that still exist in Chantry Road. It stood at the far end of the thoroughfare in a cul de sac, in which but one gas lamp burned feebly, throwing into more striking relief the dense, dark character of the surrounding trees and moss-grown pavement. The only entrance to the place I could find was a small oaken door in a lofty wall of stone, like those we see built so often for the vestries of our parish churches, and when I pulled an old and rusty iron bell-ring there was a disquietening pause of some minutes before I heard the movement of any servant. Even then the door itself did not open, but a small panel about nine inches square was thrust apart at a point about the height of the average man and commanding a good view of the stranger’s face and form.
“What seek you, my son?” asked a clear, refined voice like a priest’s, but when I answered; “Don José Casteno – he has sent for me,” all was changed. The space beyond seemed flooded with light – the door itself was thrown open wide – and I found myself being escorted by a man in the habit of a Benedictine monk, across a flagged courtyard to a fine building, the entrance to which was commanded by two huge wooden doors.
“This is the home of the Order of St. Bruno,” said my guide, who was old and decrepit, apparently about sixty years of age. His tones were those of courteous conversation as used by a man of culture, and he swung to and fro an old lantern he was carrying to light my path as we both waited patiently for somebody inside the building to unbar this formidable-looking entrance. “We St. Bruno-ites,” he added, “have houses in many quarters – in Delhi for instance, in Sydney, in America – but this is our principal place.”
“Roman Catholic, of course,” I remarked, buttoning up my overcoat, for I felt chilled after my brisk ride. “Or High Church?” I ventured as I saw his bright eyes frown.
“Not at all,” the man returned with some asperity. “We are of neither of those sects.” But he never explained what their religion was. Just then the doors of the main house opened and we were ushered into a magnificent hall, decorated with dark oak panels, and relieved half-way by a finely-wrought gallery which ran on three sides of this spacious apartment. On the fourth wall was a wrought-iron bracket on which stood an immense statue of a woman carved out of white marble, decorated with rare exotic flowers, and cunningly lit by a series of candles, with reflectors which depressed all the light on features beautiful only with the passionless splendour of a Venus de Milo.
Down the