that
you, too, are in peril. Therefore I have decided to remain near you."

"No," she cried breathlessly. "Ah! you do not know the great risk you
are running! You must go--do go, Mr. Biddulph--go, for--_for my
sake_!"

I shook my head.

"I have no fear of myself," I declared. "I am anxious on your behalf."

"Have no thought of me," she cried. "Leave, and return to England."

"And see you no more--eh?"

"If you will leave to-day, I--I will see you in England--perhaps."

"Perhaps!" I cried. "That is not a firm promise."

"Then, if you really wish," she replied in earnestness, "I will
promise. I'll promise anything. I'll promise to see you in
England--when the danger has passed, if--if disaster has not already
fallen upon me," she added in a hoarse whisper.

"But my place is here--near you," I declared. "To fly from danger
would be cowardly. I cannot leave you."

"No," she urged, her pale face hard and anxious. "Go, Mr. Biddulph; go
and save yourself. Then, if you so desire, we shall meet again in
secret--in England."

"And that is an actual promise?" I asked, holding forth my hand.

"Yes," she answered, taking it eagerly. "It is a real promise. Give me
your address, and very soon I shall be in London to resume our
acquaintanceship--but, remember, not our friendship. That must never
be--_never_!"

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PERIL BEYOND

My taxi pulled up before my own white-enamelled door in Wilton Street,
off Belgrave Square, and, alighting, I entered with my latch-key.

I had been home about ten days--back again once more in dear, dirty
old London, spending most of my time idling in White's or Boodle's;
for in May one meets everybody in St. James's Street, and men
foregather in the club smoking-room from the four ends of the earth.

The house in Wilton Street was a small bijou place which my father had
occupied as a _pied-a-terre_ in town, he being a widower. He had been
a man of artistic tastes, and the house, though small, was furnished
lightly and brightly in the modern style. At Carrington he always
declared there was enough of the heaviness of the antique. Here, in
the dulness of London, he preferred light decorations and modern art
in furnishing.

Through the rather narrow carpeted hall I passed into the study which
lay behind the dining-room, a small, cosy apartment--the acme of
comfort. I, as a bachelor, hated the big terra-cotta-and-white
drawing-room upstairs. When there, I made the stud