“I am not mistaken,” whispers that lady, glancing about her as if fearing an eavesdropper; “you are – ”
“First,” interrupts a mellow voice from behind the starry mask, “are you Mrs. Warburton?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am Richard Stanhope.”
CHAPTER VIII.
VERNET “CALLS A TURN.”
Leslie Warburton had replaced her mask, but the face she concealed was engraven upon the memory of her vis-a-vis.
A pure pale face, with a firm chin; a rare red mouth, proud yet sensitive; a pair of brown tender eyes, with a touch of sadness in their depths; and a broad low brow, over which clustered thick waves of sunny auburn. She is slender and graceful, carrying her head proudly, and with inherent self-poise in gait and manner.
She glances about her once more, and then says, drawing still nearer the disguised detective:
“I have been looking for you, Mr. Stanhope, and we have met at a fortunate moment. Nearly all the guests have arrived, and everybody is dancing; we may hope for a few undisturbed moments now. You – you have no reason for thinking yourself watched, or your identity suspected, I hope?”
“None whatever, madam. Have you any fears of that sort?”
“No; none that are well grounded; I dislike secrecy, and the necessity for it; I suppose I am nervous. Mr. Stanhope,” with sudden appeal in her voice, “how much do you know concerning me, and my present business with you?”
“Very little. During my drive hither with Mr. Follingsbee, he told me something like this: He esteemed you very highly; he had known you for years; you desired the services of a detective; he had named me as available, and been authorized by you to secure my services. He said that he knew very little concerning the nature of your business with me, but believed that all that you did would be done wisely, discreetly, and from the best of motives. He pointed you out to me when we entered the house. That is all, madam.”
“Thank you. Mr. Follingsbee is, or was, the tried friend, as well as legal adviser, of my adopted father, Thomas Uliman, and I know him to be trustworthy. When he spoke of you, Mr. Stanhope, he knew that I desired, not only a skillful detective, but a true-hearted man; one who would hold a promise sacred, who would go no further than is required in the matter in hand, and who would respect an unhappy woman’s secret – should it become known to him.”
Her voice died in her throat, and Stanhope rustled his garments uneasily. Then she rallied and went on bravely:
“Mr. Follingsbee assured me that you were all I could desire.”
“Mr. Follingsbee does me an honor which I appreciate.”
“And so, Mr. Stanhope, I am about to trust you. Let us sit here, where we shall be unobserved, and tolerably secure from interruption.”
She turns toward the divan behind the screen and seats herself thereon, brushing aside her glittering drapery to afford the disguised detective a place beside her.
He hesitates a moment, then takes the proffered seat and says, almost brusquely:
“Madam, give me my instructions as rapidly as possible; the very walls have eyes sometimes, and – I must be away from here before midnight.”
“My instructions will be brief. I will state my case, and then answer any questions you find it necessary to ask.”
“I shall ask no needless questions, madam.”
“Then listen.” She nerves herself for a brave effort, and hurries on, her voice somewhat agitated in spite of herself. “For three months past I have been conscious that I am watched, followed, spied upon. I have been much annoyed by this espionage. I never drive or walk alone, without feeling that my shadow is not far away. I begin to fear to trust my servants, and to realize that I have an enemy. Mr. Stanhope, I want you to find out who my enemy is.”
Behind his starry mask, her listener smiled at this woman-like statement of the case. Then he said, tersely:
“You say that you are being spied upon. How do you know this?”
“At first by intuition, I think; a certain vague, uneasy consciousness of a strange, inharmonious presence near me. Being thus put on my guard and roused to watchfulness, I have contrived to see, on various occasions, the same figure dogging my steps.”
“Um! Did you know this figure?”
“No; it was strange to me, but always the same.”
“Then your spy is a blunderer. Let us try and sift this matter: A lady may be shadowed for numerous reasons; do you know why you are watched?”
“N – no,” hesitatingly.
“So,” thought the detective, “she is not quite frank, with me.” Then aloud: “Do you suspect any one?”
“No.”
“Madam, I must ask some personal questions. Please answer them frankly and truly, or not at all, and be sure that every question is necessary, every answer important.”
The lady bows her head, and he proceeds:
“First, then, have you a secret?”
She starts, turns her head away, and is silent.
The detective notes the movement, smiles again, and goes on:
“Let us advance a step; you have a secret.”
“Why – do you – say that?”
“Because you have yourself told me as much. We never feel that uneasy sense of espionage, so well described by you, madam, until we have something to conceal – the man who carries no purse, fears no robber. You have a secret. This has made you watchful, and, being watchful, you discover that you have – what? An enemy, or only a tormentor?”
“Both, perhaps,” she says sadly.
“My task, then, is to find this enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I shall not touch your secret; at the same time I warn you in this search it is likely to discover itself to me without my seeking. Rest assured that I shall respect it. First, then, you have a secret. Second, you have an enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I should ask fewer questions if I could see your face.”
Springing up suddenly, she tears off her mask, and standing before him says with proud fierceness:
“And why may you not see my face! There is no shame for my mask to conceal! I have a secret, true; but it is not of my making. It has been forced upon me. I am not an intriguante: I am a persecuted woman. I am not seeking it to conceal wrong doing, but to protect myself from those that wrong me.”
The words that begin so proudly, end in a sob, and, covering her face with her white, jeweled hands, Leslie Warburton turns and rests her head against the screen beside her.
Then impulsive, unconventional Dick Stanhope springs up, and, as if he were administering comfort to a sorrowing child, takes the two hands away from the tear-wet face, and holding them fast in his own, looks straight down into the brown eyes as he says:
“Dear lady, trust me! Even as I believe you, believe me, when I say that your confidence shall not be violated. Your secret shall be safe; shall remain yours. Your enemy shall become mine. If you cannot trust me, I cannot help you.”
“Oh! I do trust you, Mr. Stanhope; I must. Ask of me nothing, for I can tell you no more. To send for you was unwise, perhaps, but I have been so tormented by this spy upon my movements … and I cannot fight in the dark. It was imprudent to bring you here to-night, but I dared not meet you elsewhere.”
There is a lull in the music and a hum of approaching voices. She hastily resumes her mask, and Stanhope says:
“We had better separate now, madam. Trust your case to me. I cannot remain here much longer,