Guy read it through and then looked up with a sort of incredulous bewilderment.
"When did this come?" he asked.
Tony shrugged his shoulders. "My dear Guy—I don't know any more about it than you do. I suppose someone must have put it in the letter-box while we were having our pleasant little chat with Congosta."
"But—but—" He stared at it again in frowning uncertainty—"Good Heavens, Tony!" he exclaimed, "do you mean to say that Da Freitas took the trouble and the risk of sending you this while he was actually—?" He broke off as if unable to complete the sentence.
"Looks like it, doesn't it?" said Tony cheerfully. "My respect for the Marquis increases every hour—in fact I'm beginning to feel quite fond of him."
Guy's lips tightened into an expression of restrained exasperation.
"Look here, Tony," he began with forced calmness. "For goodness' sake let's get this thing quite clear. Did you really mean what you said to Congosta?"
Tony took back Da Freitas' note, and put it carefully in his pocket.
"I meant most of it," he replied. "I am going down to Southampton to-night, and I shall start for Livadia the moment the Betty is ready to sail."
Guy knew him well enough to understand that for once he was speaking in absolute sincerity.
"You mean to fight then? You are going to join this man—what's his name—General Almaida?"
There was a short pause.
"Somehow or other," said Tony, "I am going to get Isabel back. It's no good asking me exactly how I shall do it, because at the present moment I don't know. The only thing I have quite made up my mind about is that I shall either come back with her, or else I shan't come back at all." He looked up smilingly at Guy. "Now you understand what I meant when I said I didn't want to drag you into it."
A faint flush mounted into Guy's naturally pale face.
"Do you think I am a coward, Tony?" he inquired very deliberately.
"Of course not," returned Tony. "Any man who has a cold bath as you do every morning must be brave. Still that's no reason why you should run a quite unnecessary risk of getting shot—especially as you have disapproved of the whole business ever since the start."
"Who could help disapproving of it?" burst out Guy feelingly. "It's the maddest and most impossible affair in which any sane person was ever mixed up." He paused as if to recover himself. "All the same," he added quickly, "I should like to come with you, Tony, if you think I could be of any use."
Tony patted him approvingly on the shoulder. "Any use!" he repeated. "Why, my dear old Guy, I would rather have you with me than the Seven Champions of Christendom. I am sure you would be a lot more reliable in a really tight corner."
"Have you got any sort of a plan at all?" inquired Guy a little hopelessly.
"Well, I've an idea," said Tony. "It's hardly a plan yet, but it may be by the time I get back."
"You're going out?"
Tony nodded. "I shan't be long, and meanwhile you can fix up the arrangements here. In the first place I want you to get on to Simmons on the telephone. You had better ring up the Grand Hotel, Southampton, and say you're me, and ask them very prettily and nicely if they'll send round someone to fetch him from the yacht. Tell him that we are coming down to-night or early to-morrow morning—you and I and Bugg—and that he must be ready to start directly we arrive. Say that we have changed our minds about South America and that we are going to Braxa instead."
Guy stepped to the table and made a note of these instructions.
"Anything else?" he inquired.
"Nothing more," replied Tony. "Just see that Spalding packs our things, and that Jennings has the car ready—the Rolls of course. Any spare time you have after that I should devote to making your will."
He picked up his coat off the chair on which it was lying.
"Where are you going to?" asked Guy.
There was a short pause while Tony lighted himself a cigarette.
"I am going to a matinée," he said, "at the Gaiety Theatre."
For a moment Guy stared at him in amazement.
"A matinée!" he repeated. "What on—" Then suddenly light seemed to dawn on him. "Why, of course, that girl—Molly Monk—I had forgotten her." He paused. "Do you think she can be of any help?"
Tony walked to the door. "She might lend us a sheet of note-paper," he said. "Anyhow I mean to ask her."
If there is one profession in this world more likely than the rest to induce a certain slight cynicism with regard to human motives, it is probably that of being stage door-keeper at the Gaiety Theatre. When therefore a quarter of an hour later, Tony presented his card at the open pigeon-hole with a request that he might see Miss Monk immediately on a matter of urgent importance, the uniformed gentleman inside contented himself with a weary smile.
"I'll send it up, sir," he remarked, "but between ourselves it ain't no good. The Guv'nor don't allow visitors in the dressin' rooms—not while the show's on."
Tony, who had been fingering a sovereign, laid it down beside the card.
"What a pity!" he replied thoughtfully.
At the sight of the gold piece the janitor's world hardened face lit up with an expression that was almost beautiful.
"I'll take it up meself, sir," he observed hastily, climbing down from his stool. "Of course if it's a matter o' urgent importance—" He emerged from his rabbit hutch, card in hand, and pushing open a swing-door disappeared from view up a winding flight of stairs.
After a decent interval he returned with the air of one who has triumphed over great odds.
"S'orl right," he remarked in a confidential whisper. "She's orf now, sir. You foller me, sir."
He conducted Tony up the stairs, to the first landing, where he tapped cautiously on the second door he came to. It was opened at once by a secretive looking lady, who appeared to be lunching on pins, and at the same moment Molly's voice remarked with its usual pleasant distinctness: "If that's you, Tony, come along in.”
Complying with the request Tony found himself in a small, brightly lit apartment, the principal furniture of which appeared to be a vast mirror, a long narrow dressing-table, a comfortable easy-chair, and an inspiriting collection of foamy undergarments, suspended from a row of pegs.
In the chair sat Molly. She was dressed in the simple and practical costume of a milkmaid, as visualized by producers of musical comedy. It consisted of a charmingly décolletté creation of white muslin and blue ribbon, completed by a large "baby" hat, a skirt that just reached her knees, white silk stockings and high-heeled shoes.
"Oh, Tony!" she exclaimed; "thank goodness you've come." Then turning to the dresser she added kindly: "You can shove off, Jane. I want to talk to him alone."
Acting on the hint the lady of the pins withdrew from the room, and hardly waiting until the door had closed behind her, Molly jumped up from the chair.
"Have you anything to tell me, Tony?" she asked in a voice that shook a little with excitement. "I know nothing yet except what I've seen in the paper. I have tried to ring you up twice, but——"
"How long have you got now?" inquired Tony.
She glanced at the little silver clock on the dressing-table.
"About ten minutes. Then I have to go on and sing a song, and after that there's the interval."
"I can tell you everything I know in ten minutes," said Tony, "if there are no interruptions."
Molly moved quickly to the door and turned the key in the lock.
"Fire ahead," she observed.
A week earlier Tony would have found it quite impossible to crowd the somewhat eventful history of the last twenty-four hours into the short time at his disposal. Practice, however, had been improving his powers as a story-teller, and without omitting any really important detail, he actually accomplished the feat with something like a minute and a half to spare.
Molly was certainly an excellent audience. Standing motionless at the door, her lower lip caught tight between her white teeth, she listened to him with rapt attention that never wavered or varied. Even when he had finished she still remained silent for a moment; then with a sudden movement she came towards him, her blue eyes shining with excitement.
"Tony," she said, speaking with a sort of forced calmness, "are you absolutely serious about following them? Do you really mean to sail for Braxa to-night?"
"I do," replied Tony with quite unusual sobriety. "You see I have just found out that I am really fond of Isabel, and I don't see any other possible chance of getting her back."
"Do you think this is a possible chance?" She put the question with an earnestness that robbed it of any suggestion of sarcasm.
"Well, it's a bit thin," admitted Tony frankly, "but after all one never knows." He paused. "To a certain extent, Molly," he added, "it depends upon you."
She drew in her breath sharply. "Me?"
Tony nodded. "You're my trump card," he said encouragingly. "You know that signed pass our friend Peter was obliging enough to give you—the one which he said would take you anywhere if he ever got back to Livadia as king?"
"Yes," said Molly slowly.
"Well, if you're not using it for the moment," continued Tony, "I'd be awful obliged if you'd lend it to me. If it will really do half of what he said it would it might come in devilish handy."
There was a moment's pause, and then a clatter of footsteps came hurrying down the passage outside, and someone rapped loudly on the door.
"Miss Monk, please," shouted a shrill and penetrating voice.
Molly looked round in the direction of the summons.
"All right, Charles," she called out tranquilly: then turning back she took a momentary glance at herself in the long mirror that hung against the wall.
"I shall be up again in a minute or two, Tony," she said, skilfully smoothing out a disordered ribbon. "Have a cigarette, and don't worry yourself about the pass. That will be quite all right."
"You'll lend it to me?" exclaimed Tony gratefully.
Molly paused on the threshold and looked back at him with a sort of mischievous elation.
"No," she said. "I won't lend it to you; but I'll bring it with me."
And with this somewhat staggering announcement she opened the door and disappeared from view.
Whatever effect her remark may have had upon Tony, he appeared to have recovered from it fairly successfully by the time that she returned. At all events she found him reclining in the easy-chair, enveloped in cigarette smoke, and looking precisely as comfortable and unruffled as when she had left him.
"Was your parting shot serious, Molly?" he asked in that pleasantly serene voice of his.
As he spoke he got up from the chair, and Molly, who was a little out of breath, dropped into the vacant seat.
"It was," she said; "dead, absolute serious. If you want Peter's letter you'll have to take me with you to Livadia." She paused and looked up at him. "Say yes, Tony," she added almost fiercely. "Don't you see that I mean it."
Tony who was gazing down at her with a sort of dispassionate admiration, nodded his head.
"I see you mean it all right, Molly," he said quietly; "but it's a bit of a bomb-shell you know. This won't be exactly a healthy trip if we happen to mess things up."
Molly leaned across to the dressing-table and helped herself to a cigarette.
"Tony dear," she observed. "I know I'm a musical comedy actress, but it doesn't necessarily follow that I'm a complete idiot. I understand perfectly that we're taking on about as risky and hopeless a job as any one could possibly tackle. If Da Freitas finds out I should think the odds are about twenty to one that neither of us will ever come back." She struck a match and lighted her cigarette. "Now are you satisfied?" she inquired.
"Well, you seem to have a fairly sound grip of the situation," admitted Tony. "Still that doesn't make it any the less of a large order." He paused. "Good Lord, Molly, why it's madness—stark staring madness!"
"I don't see it," returned Molly obstinately. "A wife's place is by her husband's side—especially when he has run away with another woman."
In spite of himself Tony laughed. "But supposing we reach Livadia—suppose we actually get into Portriga—what can you do even then?"
"What's the good of asking me that?" demanded Molly. "I don't know any more than you do—not till the time comes. The only thing is—" She broke off, as though not quite sure how to continue.
"Well?" said Tony encouragingly.
"It's just an idea—nothing else at present, but—but you have told me several times that this girl and I are almost exactly alike."
Tony nodded. He was staring at her with a sudden expression of freshly aroused interest.
"Well, don't you see?" Molly threw away her cigarette and rose to her feet. "Surely it's just possible that somehow—by some sort of a chance—we might be able to make use of this to help us." She laughed almost hysterically. "Oh, I know it sounds wild and mad, but what notion have you got that's any better?"
Tony took a couple of paces to the door, and back to where she was standing.
"By Jove, it's an idea, Molly!" he said slowly. "If we could get you there without being found out——"
"I have thought of that," she interrupted. "I was thinking of it all the time I was on the stage." She paused. "Tony—you remember that song I was singing a couple of years ago—the one in which I used to dress up as a curate?"
He nodded.
"Well, I've still got the things I wore—the clothes and the wig and the spectacles—in fact the whole get-up. It was so good that once, just for a joke, I went out into the street in it. I walked the whole way down the Strand, and not a soul spotted that there was anything wrong."
The old gleam of mischievous amusement leaped into Tony's eyes.
"Good Lord, Molly!" he said. "And you propose to take the trip—in those?"
"Why not?" she demanded. "I can carry it through all right—really and truly I can. After all there's no reason you couldn't have a curate on board, is there?"
"None at all," said Tony. "Oh, none at all." He leaned against the wall and began to laugh, gently and joyously.
Molly faced him with shining eyes. "Then you'll take me?" she exclaimed.
Again Tony nodded his head. "I'll take you, Molly," he answered, "if it's only for the sake of seeing Guy's face."
There was another clatter and shuffle of footsteps outside, and the voice of the call-boy came echoing down the passage.
"Beginners, Act two, please!"
Tony stopped laughing. "How about your work? How about your part here at the theatre?" he asked.
"Oh, damn the theatre," said Molly simply. "I've got a very good understudy, and they'll have to put up with her." She glanced again rapidly at the clock. "Listen, Tony—we've got exactly two minutes, and then I must start changing. I shall have to have the dresser in, and we can't talk in front of her. Tell me now—right away—just what you want me to do."
For a moment Tony reflected rapidly.
"I think the best plan will be for you to motor down with me," he said. "I can send Guy and Bugg in one car with Jennings, and call for you at your place with the other. I shan't tell Guy anything about it until you're safe on board."
"Why?" asked Molly. "Do you think he'll mind?"
"I am sure he will," said Tony cheerfully. "But it will be too late for him to do anything then unless he tries to throw you into the sea." He paused. "Can you be ready by nine-thirty sharp?"
Molly nodded. "I won't keep you waiting," she said.
There was a knock at the door, and having been granted permission to enter, the secretive looking dresser reappeared on the scene.
"Beg pardon for hinterrupting, Miss," she observed apologetically, "but it's time you was startin' to change."
"Quite right, Jane," said Molly. She turned to Tony and held out her hand. "Well, thanks for coming and looking me up, Tony," she added. "See you again quite soon, I hope."
Tony raised her hand and kissed the tip of her fingers. "Why, yes," he said; "we'll probably run across each other before long."
* * * * * * *
It was just twenty minutes later when Lady Jocelyn's pretty parlourmaid opened the door of the drawing-room at Chester Square, and in a slightly agitated voice, for such a well trained retainer, announced the arrival of Sir Antony Conway.
Tony, who had followed hard upon her heels, came straight up to the sofa, where, as usual, his aunt was sitting. She looked older and very frail, and her thin hands trembled a little as she stretched them to greet him.
"Tony!" she exclaimed, "my dear boy!"
He sat down beside her, holding her hands in his.
"Aunt Fanny," he said severely; "you have been breaking my rules. You know that you're never allowed to look unhappy or worried."
"It wasn't altogether my fault it happened, Tony," she said. "I would have given my stupid useless old life twice over to have stopped it."
In a tender, half jesting fashion he slipped his arm round her. "You mustn't talk like that, Aunt Fanny dear," he said. "In fact you mustn't talk at all. You must just sit still and listen to me. There is no time for anything else."
Lady Jocelyn clasped her hands in her lap. "Go on," she said quietly.
All the way from the Gaiety to the house, Tony had been pondering in his mind just how much of the truth it would be advisable to tell. Knowing his aunt, he was not afraid that she would try to dissuade him from his purpose, however dangerous it might appear; he was merely anxious to present it in as favourable a light as possible, so as to spare her any avoidable anxiety.
With this idea he omitted all reference to the attempt upon the Betty, confining himself entirely to a description of Congosta's visit. He repeated the latter's story of what had happened to Isabel, and went on to relate how the plan for a possible rescue had been promptly and happily conceived. By means of a little judicious colouring he was able to make it appear a far more feasible proposition than when it had originally presented itself in the hall of Goodman's Rest.
Of his subsequent visit to the Gaiety he said nothing at all. Molly's presence on board the Betty in the guise of a curate might or might not be of assistance, but from the point of view of inspiring confidence in the enterprise, it seemed to be one of those features which were better suppressed.
Lady Jocelyn listened to him without interruption. Her face betrayed nothing of what she was feeling, and for a moment after he had finished speaking, Tony was under the impression that his well meant efforts had been entirely successful. Then, with her faint kindly smile, she laid her hand upon his sleeve.
"Thank you, Tony dear," she said. "It was good of you to come and tell me all this, and it was nicer still of you to have told it in the way you have. Of course I don't really believe you. I am quite sure it's a much more dangerous business than you make out, but as long as there is the shadow of a chance of helping Isabel I should be the last to try and dissuade you. Go, Tony, and do what you can for her; and God bless you and help you."
There was a short pause, and then Tony bent forward and kissed her.
"I am glad you love Isabel," he said simply.
"She is the sweetest and bravest girl I have ever known," answered Lady Jocelyn. "If you can't save her from this marriage, Tony, I think it will break my heart."
Tony got up from the sofa, and buttoned his coat.
"Don't you worry about that, Aunt Fanny," he said. "Peter won't get her—not if I have to shoot him at the altar rails."