XVII

When the English mail came in that day, it brought with it for Clive the letter over which Juliet had spent so many hours.

He read it aloud to Lord Culvers from its first to its last word. It commenced with an earnest⁠—one might almost say a heartbroken⁠—entreaty that Clive would use his utmost endeavour to persuade Lord Culvers to call in the aid of the police, and to move heaven and earth to discover her darling sister. Her lips, unsealed now by terror as to what might be that sister’s fate, told fully and freely the story of her own conjectures and fears, and then went on to explain the part she had already played in the matter.

“My impression, at first,” she wrote, “was, that Ida and Sefton had had some desperate quarrel on their way to the churchyard, and that Ida had made the visit to mother’s grave an excuse for escaping from him. I fancied that she had gone to the house of some people whom she had met in Florence, and whose exact address I did not know. I thought that possibly she was corresponding⁠—circuitously, not giving her address⁠—with Sefton, trying to make him come to terms⁠—that is to say, trying to make him consent to her living apart from him, provided she handed over to him a large portion of her fortune. I fancied she would not write to father, for fear he should interfere, and insist on her giving in; but I expected a line from her at any moment, telling me what part I was to take in the matter. When none came, I concluded that she was afraid to write for fear Peggy or father might get hold of her letter, and so trace her out. Then there occurred to me a safe way in which we might carry on our correspondence⁠—a way, indeed, which we had planned together in the old days, when we found out how fond Peggy was of peeping into our letters. You know our dear old Goody lives in a cottage overgrown with a big yellow rose. She hates Peggy like poison, and would lay down her life for Ida and me. More than once we have had our letters addressed to us at the cottage under cover to Goody.

“When Ida went off to Biarritz two years ago, we agreed on a signal that would tell her when we were at Dering, and she could write to me at Goody’s cottage. It was that I should seal a letter or newspaper wrapper, or, in fact, anything I liked to send, with our grandmother’s seal. That seal I always keep in my writing-desk and carry about with me. It is an amethyst, cut with a rose surrounded with the motto: ‘Sub signo et sub rosa.’ It is horrid to be driven to such devices, but, as you know, we girls were never safe from Peggy’s prying eyes. I’ve known her take my blotting paper to the looking-glass, and, in that fashion, read what and to whom I had written. So the idea occurred to me now, that, as I couldn’t send Ida a letter sealed with grandmother’s seal, if I put the motto of the seal as an advertisement in all the newspapers, it would be sure to catch her eye, tell her that we were at Dering, and that she could write to me anything she pleased under cover to Goody as before. This advertisement Arthur Glynde inserted at my request⁠—you may have seen it⁠—in all the leading English and Continental journals. No letter, however, has as yet come to me through Goody, and, though I stay on here on the chance of getting one, little by little all hope is leaving me. I am convinced now that my theory, from beginning to end, has been all wrong, and that Sefton is as much in the dark as I am as to Ida’s fate. I am all terror and anxiety as to what has become of my darling sister.

“Oh, Clive, dear, dear Clive, I beg, I implore you, do not let my father hush the matter up any longer! I entreat you give him no rest till he has called in the aid of the police, and left not a stone unturned to end this fearful suspense.

“Only do this for me, and I shall be everlastingly grateful to you. I will do anything and everything that lies in my power to make you happy. I will⁠—what more can I say⁠—at once release you from your engagement to me. I will promise never, under any circumstances, to become your wife; but will remain,

Clive folded the letter and laid it on one side.

The writer and her more than half ironical promise of reward dwindled in importance before the communications she had had to make.

“The advertisements, of course, are accounted for now,” said Clive, slowly; “but not Captain Culvers’s keen interest in them. There’s something that wants explanation there.”

Lord Culvera grew thoughtful.

“Let me think,” he said, presently. “Juliet’s grandmother and Sefton’s are one and the same person⁠—my mother.”

“Ah‑h,” said Clive, drawing a long breath, “and, naturally enough, to Sefton, as well as to Juliet, would come some of her jewellery. That is suggestive.”

“I had entirely forgotten,” Lord Culvers went on, “the seal to which Juliet refers. It was given to the girls, with a number of old trinkets, when they were little more than children.”

“Similar trinkets may have been given to Sefton by his father.”

“No doubt. Now I think of it, there was a ring⁠—what became of it, I wonder? It was a jasper set with diamonds, a long, coffin-shaped thing. Let me think who had that?”

Not for worlds would Clive have interrupted Lord Culvera’s train of thought now.

“Yes, I’m sure it was given to my brother⁠—Sefton’s father, that is,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “and now I think of it, there was some device on it⁠—a rose, I fancy; but I can’t be sure what the motto was. It would be very likely to be the same as on the seal. No doubt there was some reason for my mother’s fancy for the device, or it may have been handed down to her.”

“Sefton most probably received that ring from his father,” said Clive, slowly summing up the case, as it were, and thinking out his ideas as he spoke them. “Now it is possible that he, in his turn, may have given the ring to someone else under circumstances that made the gift of importance;” he broke off for a moment, then added, with a sudden energy, “there is a great deal behind all this, I am convinced. I should like amazingly to know to whom, and under what circumstances, Captain Culvers has given that ring.”

The questions to whom, and under what circumstances Sefton Culvers had given the ring, with its device of a rose, were to be answered in a manner Clive little expected, for at that moment the door opened, and Sefton himself entered the room.

Entered, not in his usual slow, languid manner, and with eyeglass ready to uplift wherewith to stare out of countenance anyone who presumed uninvited to address him; but with a hurried step, and with a white face, and eyes with a startled look in them as of a man suddenly sobered by astounding or terrible news.

He lost no time in greeting or handshaking, but going straight to Clive, laid his hand upon his arm, saying:

“Help me! I want your help.”

Clive stared at him, his bright, prominent eyes seeming almost to start from his head. Help him! Why, if he had entered the room pistols in hand, and said, “Choose your weapon!” it would have seemed far more natural.

Sefton did not give him time to speak his astonishment. He drew a letter from his pocket, and bade him read it.

Its seal, though broken, showed plainly enough the device of a rose, surrounded by a motto. The envelope bore no postmark, and it was addressed to “Captain Culvers,” in Ida’s handwriting.

“It was left at my rooms about half an hour ago⁠—but by whom I haven’t the remotest idea,” continued Sefton.

Clive tore the letter from its envelope, and read as follows:

“Alta Lauria.

“Come without a moment’s delay, and receive back your ring from dying hands.

The paper dropped from his nerveless hand.

“Does it mean⁠—” he began, hoarsely, and then his own words seemed to choke him.

Lord Culvers picked up the letter and read it, then he, too, turned a white, stricken face towards Sefton.

“Tell us, quickly, for Heaven’s sake!” cried Clive, “does she refer to her wedding-ring, or to what?”

He had thought that the mere sight of Ida’s writing once more would be bound to send them all down on their knees in gratitude to Heaven; but there was nothing to thank Heaven for in such a letter as this.

Sefton answered slowly and gloomily:

“I know no more than you do to what ring she refers, whether to her wedding-ring or to the ring which sealed that letter, and which was given by me to⁠—to someone else. Nor do I know whether the dying hands she speaks of are her own or that other person’s. I only know for certain that Alta Lauria is the last place in the world for my wife to be in⁠—for special reasons⁠—reasons that you must know now⁠—that I must tell⁠—”

He broke off abruptly, he was evidently driving himself to speak.

“Never mind about your special reasons,” said Clive, brusquely, “tell us where this place is, and how we can get to it without a moment’s delay.”

“Unfortunately there must be hours of delay before we can even start for it. It is in Calabria, among the mountains, and not a train will leave for Naples before six tonight. I know the road to that accursed place only too well,” said Sefton, gloomily as before.

“Sefton, answer me this,” said Lord Culvers, in an agitated tone. “Was the person to whom you gave that ring a woman, and was your faith due to her?”

Sefton turned and faced him defiantly.

“Don’t ask me any questions,” he said, fiercely. “I’ll tell you all⁠—all, that is, you need know. It’s a long story; but, unfortunately, there’s time enough and to spare to tell it before we can start.”

But Clive had to be convinced of this⁠—had to fetch and to study railway guides, and maps, and lines of route before he could be persuaded that a weary three hours must elapse before they could so much as take the first step in a journey that might end Heaven only knew how.