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If, however, it ever does get despatched and you receive it, will you do me one last favor a favor to an unfortunate girl who is friendless and helpless, and who will no longer trouble the world? It is this: Take this letter to London, and call upon Mr. Martin Woodroffe at 98 Cork Street, Piccadilly.
The note was delivered into her hand, but although I waited in suspense nearly all day she sent no reply. While Woodroffe was in the hotel I dared not show myself lest he should recognize me, therefore I was compelled to sham indisposition and to eat my meals alone in my room. Both the means by which she had met Martin Woodroffe and the motive were equally an enigma.
But when I discovered that the fellow who called himself Woodroffe the man who had represented himself as the owner of the Lola, and who, no doubt, had had a hand in breaking open Hutcheson's safe in the Consulate was engaged to Muriel, I became full of suspicion." "Well?" "Woodroffe, after meeting me, disappeared went to Hamburg, they said, on business. Then other things occurred.
Her only thought was of the man she loved. "I always believed that you were engaged to Mr. Woodroffe," I said one day, when I called to tell her of Jack's latest bulletin. "It is true that he asked me to marry him," she responded. "But there were reasons why I did not accept." "Reasons connected with his past, eh?" She smiled, and then said: "Ah, Mr.
Woodroffe whispered some words to the Baron, after which I went to Muriel's cabin and wished her good-bye, and we went ashore, taking the train first to Colle Salvetti, thence to Pisa, and afterwards to the beautiful old city of Siena, which I had so longed to see.
Her own words told me that she was perplexed; that she longed to confide and seek advice of someone, yet by reason of some hidden and untoward circumstance her lips were sealed. I tried to question her further regarding Woodroffe, of what profession he followed and of his past. But she evidently suspected me, for I had unfortunately mentioned the Lola.
For several hours I sat at my window watching the life and movement down in the street below, my mind full of wonder and dark forebodings. Was Martin Woodroffe playing her false? Just after half-past six o'clock the waiter entered, and handing me a note on a salver, said "Mademoiselle has, I believe, only this moment been able to write in secret." I tore it open and read as follows:
"I don't think you are acquainted," she said to me with a smile. "This is Mr. Martin Woodroffe Mr. Gordon Gregg." I bowed to him in sudden resolve to remain silent in pretense that I doubted whether the man before me was actually my host of the Lola. I intended to act as though I was not sufficiently convinced to openly express my doubt.
She wanted to speak to me in confidence, and yet she would reveal to me nothing absolutely nothing. Martin Woodroffe did not rejoin the house-party at Rannoch. Although I remained the guest of my uncle much longer than I intended, indeed right through the shooting season, in order to watch the Leithcourts, yet as far as we could judge they were extremely well-bred people and very hospitable.
"Then their passports were viséd here on embarking?" I exclaimed. "What was the name upon that of the Englishman?" "I have it here written down, Excellency. I cannot pronounce your difficult English names." And he produced a scrap of dirty paper whereon was written in a Russian hand the name "Martin Woodroffe."
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