Chapter 2

Doreen's bright face lost a little of its color and much of its gayety
as her father disappeared. The doctor felt sorry for her.

"Come, come; cheer up, my dear," he said. "If he loves you honestly, and
I don't know how he can fail to do so, a few words with your father will
put matters all right. There is nothing to look so sad about, I think."

But Doreen gave him one earnest, questioning look, and then her eyelids
fell again.

"You don't know," she said, in a low voice. "Papa doesn't understand
Dudley; but I think I do. He is very sensitive and rather reserved about
himself. If papa interferes now, he will offend him, and Dudley may very
likely go off at once, and perhaps never come near me again. He is
proud--very proud."

"But if he could behave like that," replied the doctor, quickly, "if he
could throw over such a nice girl as you for no reason worth speaking
of, I should call him a nasty-tempered fellow, whom you ought to be glad
to be rid of."

"Ah, but you would be wrong," retorted Doreen, with a little flush in
her face. "It is quite true that he has neglected me a little lately,
written short letters, and not been down to see me so often. But I am
sure there was some better reason for his conduct than papa thinks. And
if I feel so sure, and if I am ready to trust him, why shouldn't papa
be?"

The doctor smiled at her ingenuousness.

"Your father is right in claiming that he ought to be made acquainted
with the young man's reason for conduct which looks quite unwarrantable
on the face of it," said he.

But Doreen gave a little sigh.

"I don't think that a man has a right to turn inquisitor over another
man, just because the second man is ready to marry the first man's
daughter," said she. "And I'm sure papa wouldn't have stood it when
_he_ was young."

The doctor laughed.

"He ought to put up with any amount of questioning rather than lose the
girl of his choice," said he decisively. "And if he has the stuff of a
man in him he will do so."

"But he is unhappy. I know it," said Doreen.

"Unhappy!" cried the doctor, indignantly. "And what's he got to be
unhappy about, I should like to know? He ought to be thanking Heaven on
his knees all day long for getting such a nice girl to promise to marry
him. That's the attitude a young man used to take when I was young."

"Did you go down on your knees all day long when Mrs. Haselden promised
to marry you?" asked Doreen, recovering her sauciness at the notion.
"And why should he do it till he knows what sort of a wife I am going to
make? And why should he go down on his knees more than I on mine? When
there are more women in the world than men, too!"

The doctor shook his head.

"Ah, there is no arguing with you saucy girls," said he. "But I know
that I, for my part, don't know of a man in the whole world who is
worthy to marry one of my daughters."

As the doctor finished speaking, the door was opened quickly, and Mr.
Wedmore came in, looking white and worried.

Doreen ran to him with an anxious face.

"What have you done, papa, what have you done? Did you see him? What did
you say? What did you say?"

Mr. Wedmore put his arm around his daughter, and kissed her tenderly.

"Don't trouble your head about him any more, my dear child," said he in
a husky voice. "He isn't worth it. He isn't worthy of you."

Doreen drew away from her father, looking into his face with searching
eyes and with an expression full of fear.

"Papa, what do you mean? You have sent him away?"

Mr. Wedmore answered in a loud and angry voice; but it was clear enough
that the anger was not directed against his daughter.

"I did not send him away. He took himself off. I had hardly begun to
speak to him--and I began quite quietly, mind--when he made the excuse
of a letter which he found waiting for him, to go back to town. Without
any ceremony, he rushed out of the study into the hall, and snatched up
his hat and coat to go."

"And is he gone?" asked Doreen, in a low voice, as she staggered back a
step.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. And a good riddance, too. There was no letter at
all for him, I suppose."

"Yes, there was a letter!" faltered Doreen.

She gave a glance round her; seemed to remember suddenly the presence of
a third person, for she blushed deeply on meeting the doctor's eyes;
then, without another word, she sprang across the room to the door.

"Where are you going?" cried her father, as he followed her into the
hall.

But she did not answer. The hall-door was closing with a loud clang.

Doreen was not the girl to lose her lover for want of a little energy.
She was fonder of Dudley than people imagined. There is always an
inclination in the general mind to consider that a person of lively
temperament is incapable of a deep feeling. And Mr. Wedmore had only
shown a common tendency in believing that his beautiful and brilliant
daughter would easily give up the lover whom he considered unworthy of
her. But he was wrong. Much too high-spirited and too happy in her
temperament and surroundings to brood over her lover's late negligence,
she was perhaps too vain to believe that she had lost her hold upon his
heart. At any rate, she liked him too well to give him up in this
off-hand fashion without making an effort to discover the reason of his
present mysterious conduct.

That letter which he had used as an excuse for his sudden departure had
arrived at The Beeches by the afternoon post. Doreen had seen it with
her own eyes; had noted with some natural curiosity that the direction
was ill-spelled, ill-written; that the chirography was that of an almost
illiterate female correspondent; and that the post-mark showed that it
came from the East End of London. Rather a strange letter for the smart
young barrister to receive, perhaps. And the thought of it made Doreen
pause when she had got outside the door on the broad drive between the
lawns.

Only for the moment. The next she was flying across the rougher grass
outside the garden among the oaks and the beeches of the park. She saw
no one in front of her, and for a few seconds her heart beat very fast.
She thought she had missed him.

There was no lodge at the park entrance; only a modest wooden gate in
the middle of the fence. Doreen was hesitating whether to go through or
to go back, when she saw the figure of Dudley Horne coming toward the
gate from the stables.

So she waited.

As he came nearer, she, hidden from his sight by the trunk of an old
oak-tree, grew uneasy and shy. Dark though it was, dimly as she could
see him, Doreen felt convinced, from the rapid, steady pace at which he
walked, that he was intent upon some set purpose, that he was not driven
by pique at her father's words.

He came quite close to her, so that she saw his face. A
dark-complexioned, strong face it was, clean-shaven, not handsome at
all. But, on the other hand, it was just such a face as women admire;
full of character, of ambition, of virility. Doreen had been debating
with herself whether she dared speak to him; but the moment she got a
full look at his face, her courage died away.

It was plain to her that, whatever might be the subject of the thoughts
which were agitating his mind, she had no share in them.

So she let him pass out, and then crept back, downcast, shocked,
ashamed, up the slope to the house.

She got in by the billiard-room, at the window of which she knocked.
Max, her brother, who was playing a game with Queenie, his younger
sister, let her in, and cried out at sight of her white face:

"Hello! Doreen, what's up? Had a row with Dudley? Or what?"

"I have had no 'row' with any one," answered the girl, very quietly.
"But--you must all know all about it presently, so you may as well hear
it at once--Dudley has gone away."

"What?"

Max stopped in the act of trying for a carom, and stared at his sister.

"Why, he only came when I did, ten minutes ago!"

"He's gone, I tell you!" repeated Doreen, stamping her foot. "And--and
listen, Max, I'm frightened about him! He's got something on his mind.
When he went away, I saw him; I was standing by the gate; he looked
so--so _dreadful_ that I didn't dare to speak to him. _I!_ Think of
that!"

"Had papa been speaking to him?" put in the shrewd younger sister, who
was chalking her cue at the other end of the room.

The younger sister always sees most of the game.

"Ye--es, but--I don't know--I hardly think it was that," answered Doreen
quickly. "At any rate, Max, I want you to do this for me; I want you to
go up to town to-morrow and see him. I shan't rest until I know
he's--he's all right--after what I saw of his face and the look on it.
Now, you will do this, won't you, won't you? Without saying anything to
anybody, mind. Queenie, you can hold your tongue, too. Now, Max, there's
a dear, you'll do it, won't you?"

Max told her that she was "off her head," that he could do no good, and
so on. But he ended in giving way to the will of his handsome sister,
whom he adored.

Max Wedmore was a good-looking fellow of five-and-twenty, with a
reputation as a ne'er-do-weel, which, perhaps, he hardly deserved. His
father had a great idea of bringing the young man up to some useful
calling to keep him out of mischief. Not very terrible mischief, for the
most part: only the result of too much leisure and too much money in
inexperienced hands. The upshot of this difference of opinion between
father and son was that while Mr. Wedmore was always finding mercantile
situations for his son, Max was always taking care to be thrown out of
them after a few weeks, and taking a rest which was by no means well
earned.

This errand of his sister's was by no means unwelcome to him, since it
took him back to town, where he could amuse himself better than he could
in the country.

So, on the following morning, he found some sort of excuse to take him
up, and started on his journey with the blessings of Doreen, and with
very little opposition from his father, who was subdued and thankful to
have got rid of Dudley with so little trouble.

It was soon after three when Max arrived at Dudley Horne's chambers in
Lincoln's Inn. Of course, Dudley was out; so Max scribbled a note for
his friend and left it on the table while he went to the Law Courts to
look for him. Not finding him anywhere about, Max filled up the day in
his own fashion, and returned to Dudley's room at about seven o'clock,
when he supposed that his friend would either return to dinner or look
in on his way to dine elsewhere.

He waited an hour, then went away and filled up his time at a
music-hall, and returned once more at a quarter to eleven. Dudley, so he
was told by the old woman who gave him the information, had not, as far
as she knew, been in his rooms since the morning.

Max, who was a great friend of Dudley's, and could take any liberty he
pleased in his precincts, lit the gas and the sitting-room fire, and
installed himself in an arm-chair with a book. He could not read,
however, for he was oppressed by some of Doreen's own fears. He was well
acquainted with all his friend's ways, and he knew that for him to be
away both from his chambers and from the neighborhood of the Courts for
a whole day was most unusual with that particularly steady, plodding
young man. He began to worry himself with the remembrance that Dudley
had not been himself of late, that he had been moody, restless and
unsettled without apparent cause.

Finally, Max worked himself into such a state of anxiety about his
friend that when he at last heard the key turned in the lock of the
outer door, he jumped up excitedly and made a rush for the door.

Before he reached it, however, he heard footsteps in the adjoining
bedroom, the heavy tread of a man stumbling about in the dark, the
overthrowing of some of the furniture.

Surely that could not be Dudley!

Max stood still at the door, listening. He thought it might be a thief
who had got hold of the key of the chambers.

As he stood still, close by the wall, the door which led from the one
room to the other was thrown open from the bedroom, almost touching him
as it fell back; and there staggered into the sitting-room, into the
light thrown by the gas and the fire, a figure which Max could scarcely
recognize as Dudley Horne. His face was the grayish white of the dead;
his eyes were glassy; his lips were parted; while the grime of a London
fog had left its black marks round his mouth and eyes, giving him an
appearance altogether diabolical. He was shaking like a leaf as he
stumbled against a chair and suddenly wheeled round to the light.

Then, unbuttoning his overcoat quickly, he looked down at his clothes
underneath. He passed his hand over them and held it in the light, with
a shudder.

Max uttered a sharp cry.

The stain on Dudley's hand, the wet patches which glistened on his dark
clothes, were stains of blood.