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<h5>A TEMPTING OFFER.</h5> Naturally, under the pressure of Ida's imploring letter, Colonel Towton was not anxious to remain inactive in London. He wished to go to Bowderstyke himself and learn the exact truth. Maunders said one thing and Ida another, so if the two were confronted the absolute facts of the case would certainly come to light. Towton assuredly believed Ida rather than Maunders, but it seemed strange to him that Miss Hest should champion Constantine, and strange also that Maunders should wish him to come down to Gerby Hall, where, if Ida spoke correctly, his presence would not be welcome either to Miss Hest or her co-conspirator. And Maunders was far too clever a man to do anything without having some object in view. What that object might be Colonel Towton as yet could not fathom. For this last reason, and because his rival so pointedly advised him to go to Gerby Hall, the Colonel remained in London. Whatever Maunders' plans might be, they would assuredly be thwarted by the absence of Towton, and, later, the Colonel determined to go, even before Vernon lured Diabella from her hiding-place. Meanwhile, as Maunders had stated that he was himself going to Gerby Hall on the invitation of Miss Hest, the Colonel sought the young man's rooms on Sunday afternoon in order to see if he had kept his promise, as he fancied that the proposed visit might be some trick. On inquiry, however, the Colonel learned that Constantine had departed on the previous day and had left notice with the caretaker of his chambers that he would not return until an entire week had elapsed. Evidently he had meant what he said, namely, to accept Miss Hest's hospitality. This knowledge, however, only made Towton the more anxious to go also, as the idea that Maunders was having it all his own way and was subjecting Ida to persecution made him restless. He wished to ride forth like a knight of old to rescue his lady-love, who certainly, if her letter was to be believed, seemed to be in great peril. It said a great deal for Towton's disciplinarian instincts that he obeyed Vernon, as one more professionally clever at such cases, rather than his own desires. In the meantime, having satisfied himself with regard to Maunders' whereabouts, the Colonel took up his usual life for, at all events, a week. He relieved his mind by writing to Ida saying that he would come down to The Grange at the termination of that period. Vernon had not thought fit to impart to Towton how he proposed to inveigle Diabella into the open for the very simple reason that he was puzzled himself how to act. Several times he had been to the Bond Street rooms, only to find that they were in the hands of decorators, rapidly transforming the weird Egyptian hall into a cosy English cottage. Mrs. Hiram G. Slowcomb was already advertising that "Granny!" would foretell the future after the fashion of the renowned Mother Shipton, and already had seen several of Diabella's old clients, desirous of novelty. To these she told wonderful things in a strong American accent, which did not suit the thrum cap or the tartan shawl or the general looks of an ancient rustic dame. However, she was succeeding very well, and there was no doubt that when her _mise-en-scene_ was prepared that she would become the fashion for a few months. She professed to know nothing of Diabella, and as she was quite frank in answering questions Vernon saw no reason why he should not believe a story which certainly appeared, on the face of it, to be true. The lawyer of the landlord still refused to say anything about Isabella Hopkins since Vernon declined to state why the knowledge was required. And, of course, as he was suspicious rather than certain he could say absolutely nothing. In this dilemma, and wondering how he was to come face to face with the woman, Vernon decided, on the Sunday when Towton went to seek Maunders, to pay an afternoon call. This errand took him into the luxurious drawing-room of Lady Corsoon. By this time the month of grace allowed by The Spider was nearing its end, and Vernon, having accomplished nothing definite, considered it necessary to reassure the millionaire's wife. Naturally, he expected to find her haggard and hysterical, but was truly surprised to behold a perfectly composed person, comely and content. Her brown eyes sparkled when the footman announced the newcomer, and she swept forward--the word is necessary to exactly describe Lady Corsoon's imposing gait--to welcome him with ill-concealed eagerness. "How are you, Mr. Vernon?" she asked in her best society manner, and then dropped her voice to a confidential whisper, "I should have called at your office to-morrow had you not come." "I am quite well, thank you," replied Vernon, for the benefit of the surrounding guests, and lowered his voice likewise: "Any news, good or bad?" "Yes; both. Wait till everyone goes," she said softly, and again spoke gracefully in her character of hostess. "You poor man, you really must have a cup of tea. Go to Lucy and ask nicely." Vernon needed no second command, but thrust his way through a crowd of well-dressed people to find a bamboo table covered with tea-things, over which a pretty, fresh-coloured damsel presided. She received him with a shy blush, which made her look like a dewy rose. Lucy Corsoon could not be called lovely, nor would she have attracted attention in any marked degree. A bright, sweet English girl was all she claimed to be, and, having the bloom of youth, she really appeared more charming than she really was. In a very plain white frock and without a single ornament, she looked like a modest violet, almost hidden by its leaves. The ardent gaze in her lover's dark eyes made her blush more than ever as she handed him a cup of tea. "Without sugar," she said in a gentle voice; "I know your tastes." "Who else should?" inquired Vernon smiling, and sipped his Bohea. "This tea is delightful and exactly what a thirsty man requires." "I hope you are hungry also. Mr. Hest, please pass the cakestand to Mr. Vernon." The lover wheeled when the name was mentioned, to find himself facing the counterpart of Ida's companion. He would have guessed the relationship even if Lucy had held her peace. Mr. Hest smiled at the amazed look of the young man, and swung forward the bamboo cakestand with a soft laugh. "Don't say what you are going to say, Mr. Vernon," he remarked pleasantly. "I know exactly how astonished you are to see that I am so like my sister." "You are indeed," breathed Vernon, mechanically taking bread and butter. "I should have taken you for Miss Hest in disguise but for----" he hesitated. "But for this scar?" finished Hest, laying a finger on a cicatrice which ran in a thin crimson line from the right temple to the corner of the mouth. "I got that in Paris years ago; the knife of an Apache scored me in this way. It is just as well, if only to distinguish me from Frances. I rarely come to London, but when I do everyone stares at me, as you did." Mr. Hest shrugged his shoulders. "It's rather a nuisance being a twin." "You are not so tall as your sister," ventured Vernon, while Lucy laughed at the idle jest of the Yorkshire squire. "There's very little difference. Frances looks taller because she wears petticoats. If I dressed in her clothes and could hide this," he laid his finger again on the scar, "you would not be able to tell the difference." "Your voices are different," said Vernon after a pause. "I really begin to think you must be a detective, Mr. Vernon, since you are so very observant. Yes, our voices are different and in the wrong way." "The wrong way?" "Ah, you are not so observant as I thought. Yes; Frances has a deep contralto voice, somewhat heavy for a woman, whereas my voice, as you hear, is rather thin in quality. Nature mixed up the voices as we are twins, maybe." It was as he said. Hest's voice had not the volume or the richness of his sister's, but it certainly had a less serious note. Vernon, recalling what Towton had told him of Ida's remark in her letter as to Francis being dismal and misanthropic, wondered that she could have been so mistaken. He was really more cheerful than Frances, and did not seem to treat life in her aggressively sober manner. Besides, that he was a philanthropist was in itself an argument against his being of a gloomy disposition. Vernon judged that Mr. Hest was much more of an optimist than was his sister, and that he lacked in some measure that sterling common sense which, to put it plainly, made her company rather dull. If Frances had been the man and Francis had been the woman their temperaments would have suited the change of sex ever so much better. But, perhaps, as Mr. Hest had just observed, since the two were twins nature had got mixed. Vernon would rather have spoken to Lucy, but could not do so, and every now and then fresh guests came to be served. He was therefore left to the society of Hest, and took advantage of the opportunity to learn if the man was in love with Ida. "Did you leave Miss Dimsdale in good health?" he asked. "Oh, yes. She is ever so much brighter, Mr. Vernon. The air of our Yorkshire moors has picked her up wonderfully and has brought colour to her cheeks." "And your sister?" Hest shrugged his shoulders again. "Oh, Frances is always in robust health, Mr. Vernon. I find her company too exhausting for my health. She always wants me to be doing something or saying something, and is never at rest." "You do a good deal yourself in the way of philanthropy?" "Well, I do," said Hest, his dark face lighting up, "but it is really selfish on my part. There is nothing I love so well as to help the unfortunate. I have quite changed the parish of Bowderstyke, and instead of being a Rip Van Winkle sort of place it is now in lively touch with the twentieth century. If you are ever down our way, Mr. Vernon, come and stop at the Hall and you shall see my _opus magnus_--the Bolly Reservoir. Miss Dimsdale was quite amazed when she beheld the strength of the dam." "I have heard of that great work from your sister. She was quite enthusiastic over the enterprise." "What! Frances enthusiastic over anything of that sort? You surprise me, Mr. Vernon, you do, indeed. Frances cares nothing about such things. Poetry and society and a general aimless life is her idea of living, But then she is a woman, and we must not be hard on women." "It's strange," said Vernon, musingly, with his eyes on Hest. "What is, if I may ask?" "The life you mention would suit your nature rather than hers, I should think, considering what I have seen of both of you. You are not so serious as Miss Hest, so far as I can judge." Hest laughed. "Well, you see, Frances takes her pleasures seriously and in a very ponderous manner. I take my work lightly and as a hobby. That is all the difference, save that I am sure I get more amusement out of life than she does. Wait till you hear us argue." "You are stopping in town long?" "Only for a few days. I may go to Paris or I may return to Gerby Hall. It all depends upon Miss Dimsdale." Vernon looked surprised. "On Miss Dimsdale? In what way?" "Well," Hest hesitated, "it's rather a private matter to----" "Oh, I beg your pardon." "Not at all. You know Frances and Miss Dimsdale so very well that I don't mind telling you. The fact is my sister thinks that I ought to be married at my age--I shan't tell you how old I am because that would give away Frances, who, like all women, doesn't want her age to be known. But the long and short of it is that she wants me to marry Miss Dimsdale. I saw very plainly that Miss Dimsdale didn't want to marry me, so I ran away." This explanation appeared to be clear enough, and Vernon drew a long breath of relief. Ida had been right; Frances had wished her brother to marry the girl and secure the fortune. Now that Francis declined to entertain the idea Miss Hest had invited Maunders down to try his luck. But Vernon could not see what interest the former could have in bringing about the marriage with the latter. He lifted his eyes from the carpet to again address his companion, but found that Mr. Hest had slipped away to talk to an old lady with an ear-trumpet. "You might speak to _me_," hinted a low voice at his ear, and he turned to smile at Lucy's injured face. "You are so busy." "There is a lull now in the tea-drinking. Why haven't you been to see me lately, Arthur?" "I have been very busy, also I have been out of town." "You should be with me--always," pouted Miss Corsoon. "What would your mother say to that?" he asked, smiling broadly. "She would be annoyed," returned Lucy promptly. Vernon started. "Surely you are mistaken," he said anxiously, stopping to almost whisper in her ear. "Your mother gave her consent, and when I was last here she said in your presence that she did not mind my----" Lucy interrupted with a flush. "I think she has another opinion now. For some time she appeared to be pleased that we should marry, but the day before yesterday she hinted that there might be obstacles." "Ah, your father?" "No. Mother can manage father in any way not connected with money. Mother has changed her mind on her own account." "But for what reason?" asked Vernon, much perplexed. "I wish you could find out," mourned Miss Corsoon. "She refuses to tell me in any way. But I love you, and I won't give you up. I'd run away with you if you were not so poor." "Shortly I'll be poor no longer," said Vernon quickly, "and then we can run away whenever you like." "You will be poor no longer?" questioned Lucy doubtfully. "No, dear. My uncle, Sir Edward Vernon, of whom we spoke when I was here last, has become reconciled to me and has made me his heir. I shall have the title and something like three thousand a year." "Oh, how delightful. But perhaps it's wrong to say that since it means your uncle's death." "I think Sir Edward will be glad to go," replied Vernon candidly. "He has lived a long life, and the latter part of it is very weary and dreary. He told me himself that he was looking forward to the great release." "And then you will be rich?" "Yes; and you will be Lady Vernon." "It seems too good to be true." "I don't think so, dear. Even your father can scarcely object to our marriage when I have an assured position." Lucy looked down at the tea-cups. "It's mother I'm thinking about." "I shall see Lady Corsoon before I leave," said Vernon compressing his lips, and sending a glance in the direction of his hostess. She caught his eye and smiled graciously: so graciously indeed that he bent again down to Lucy. "You must be mistaken, darling," he whispered. "Your mother is quite friendly, and I am sure will not object in any way." "She has changed her mind," answered Miss Corsoon obstinately, "at least, she told me not to count on marrying you." "Strange. She gave no explanation?" "None, and was quite cross when I asked for one." This view of Lady Corsoon's attitude was supported by the fact that on seeing Vernon conversing so earnestly with Lucy she called to the girl to come to her. Ostensibly this was to present her daughter to a fashionable countess who had lately arrived, but Vernon guessed that she really wished to end the _tête-à-tête_. This was curious, considering the conversation which he had held with his proposed mother-in-law at the office of Nemo. It was evident that she had changed her mind once more, and as Lady Corsoon was not a weathercock, Vernon wondered what powerful cause could have brought about the alteration. However, he gave up speculation as he wandered about the room, speaking to his friends, and promised himself a full explanation when the company departed. As Lady Corsoon had asked him to remain it was evident that she intended to let him know what was the matter. And Vernon determined not to leave the house until he _did_ know. Shortly the young man was captured by a flippant lady, voluble and somewhat silly, who gave him a surprising piece of information. "Oh, Mr. Vernon, I am so glad to see you," she babbled gushingly, "you really must come to the--the bazaar--the great bazaar." "Never heard of it, Mrs. Crimer." "You silly man; don't you read the papers? One of the Princesses is to have a stall, and no end of actresses and society people. It's to be held at The Georgian Hall in aid of Homeless Hindoos." "Really!" said Vernon idly, "why are they homeless?" "Oh, I don't exactly know," gushed Mrs. Crimer vaguely; "it's a flood, or a fire, or a blizzard." "I don't think they have blizzards in India." "Perhaps they don't; how clever you are, Mr. Vernon. But all I do know is that the poor things want money, and we hope to make heaps by this bazaar. There will be lovely things sold, and games and flower stalls and sweets and fortune-telling," babbled the flippant lady incoherently. "Fortune-telling?" Vernon, paying little attention, only caught the last word with any degree of clearness. "Of course. What would bazaars be without fortune-telling? And this time it's really genuine. Diabella----" "What!" Vernon spoke so loudly that several people jumped, and the flippant Mrs. Crimer put her gloved hands to her ears with a pretty gesture of pain. "You dreadful man, how you bellow! Yes; Diabella has a tent in the grounds at the back of The Georgian Hall--we hope it will be a sunny afternoon, you know--and intends to charge everyone ten shillings. You know, she usually charges a guinea, but we think we'll get more by asking less." "But I thought," Vernon carefully commanded his voice, "I thought, that Diabella had retired from business?" "So she has. That delightful Granny has taken her business. I'm going to see her and ask about my Affinity." "Your husband?" "Oh, no," said Mrs. Crimer airily; "he's only my husband, you know. But I must have an Affinity: someone who is a spiritual lover. And Granny----" Vernon ruthlessly cut her short. "How did you get Diabella?" "Really, I don't know," murmured Mrs. Crimer vaguely. "Someone asked her, or she asked herself. I don't know which. But she is to be there in her Egyptian dress and wearing an Egyptian mask and in an Egyptian tent. Do go and have your fortune told." "I shall," said Vernon grimly, and inwardly rejoicing over the chance that was placing Diabella in his power. "And do you----" "No." Mrs. Crimer spread out her hands with a shrug. "I really can't talk to you any more. Everyone is going and I have heaps and heaps of dear, delightful people to see. Good-bye! so glad you will come to the bazaar. Quite angelic it will be--quite--quite." And the flippant lady babbled her way to the hostess, who was now taking rapid leave of her various guests. Lucy had disappeared, as Vernon soon learned by a glance round the room, so he sat down and waited until Lady Corsoon could give him her promised ten minutes' explanation. He would have liked to have had a chat with Sir Julius, if only to enlist him in favour of the marriage by dropping a hint regarding the expected inheritance. But the financier rarely put in an appearance at his wife's "At Homes," finding them far too frivolous for a man of his capacity. So Vernon decided that if Lady Corsoon's explanation did not prove satisfactory he would interview Sir Julius and formally ask for the hand of Lucy. With the credentials of a soon-coming title, a lordly mansion and three thousand a year, he hoped to have his proposals well received. At a former interview the baronet had scoffed at his pretensions; but now things were changed for the better, and the chances were that all would go well. "Now, Mr. Vernon," said Lady Corsoon, when the last guest had shaken hands and departed, "we are alone and can have a talk. What news of your search?" "I have no news," replied Vernon placing a chair for the lady. "The Spider cannot be found." "Only seven days remain and I must give my answer then, Mr. Vernon. You know the terms: either I pay two thousand pounds or my husband," she winced, "is informed that I sold those family jewels to pay my Bridge debts." "I am sorry, Lady Corsoon, but as yet I have not caught the man." She made a gesture of despair. "Oh, what is the good of being sorry? I came to you as a practised detective," this time it was Vernon who winced; "at least, Mr. Maunders assured me that you were," she hastened to say. "Very kind of Mr. Maunders," said Vernon sarcastically. "Go on." "Well, I came to you for assistance, and you have done nothing." "I have done everything that I could do," said Vernon drily, "but The Spider is too clever for me. As he has baffled the entire police force it is no shame for me to confess as much." "What do you intend to do?" "I can't say," said Vernon, thinking of a possible meeting with Diabella at The Homeless Hindoos' Bazaar. "In a few days I may have news." Lady Corsoon shook her head. "I can't afford to wait, since the time is so short. Of course, you know that your marriage with Lucy depends upon your getting me out of this unpleasant position?" Vernon felt inclined to say that she had placed herself in the said position, but he restrained himself, as it was useless to make an enemy of her, and merely bowed. "Very good," went on the lady sharply, "if you don't catch this Spider and close his mouth and regain those jewels which he got from the pawnshop you don't marry Lucy. In any case you are not a good match." "I am now, Lady Corsoon. My uncle has been reconciled to me and has made me his heir. Soon I shall be Sir Arthur Vernon, with a good income." "Oh, my dear man," Lady Corsoon waved a jewelled hand impatiently, "there are plenty of baronets and knights with moderate incomes who would be glad to marry Lucy for herself, let alone her expectations from her father. My conditions are that you should get me out of this trouble. Can you?" "I shall try; I can say no more." "Then listen to me," said the lady firmly. "A few days ago I received a letter from The Spider." "Ah!" Vernon nursed his chin and swung his leg. "So that is why you have changed your mind with regard to my wooing of Lucy?" "Who told you that I had changed my mind, sir?" she asked abruptly. "Lucy hinted something, and then I saw that you separated us in----" "There, there! I understand." Lady Corsoon waved her hand again. "You are right. I have changed my mind, as The Spider has given me another chance; but, of course, if you can catch him and make him hold his peace and can recover the family jewels I pawned, I am willing to keep to my agreement with you and support you in marrying my daughter." "The Spider has given you another chance," repeated Vernon sitting up. "And what may that be? Have you the letter?" "It's locked away. As I did not expect you to-day I did not put it in my pocket. But I can tell you what he says." "The Spider?" "Yes, of course," said Lady Corsoon quickly. "He tells me that if I will pay him ten thousand pounds in twelve months he will place me in receipt of that amount a year by proving that I am entitled to my late brother's money. Strange, is it not, since my niece Ida is Martin's daughter?" "Very strange," replied Vernon mechanically. This news proved to him more conclusively than ever that Diabella was connected with The Spider, and, if not the blackmailer herself, worked in concert with him. But until he could lay hands on the woman he determined to say nothing to Lady Corsoon about the matter. "How long does he give you to answer this new demand?" "Two months," said Lady Corsoon, triumphantly; "so at least I have gained time, and much may happen." "As you say, much may happen. How does he propose to place you in possession of this income. Does he say?" "No." Lady Corsoon wrinkled her brows. "He simply makes the offer. Certainly Ida inherits as next-of-kin, but it may be that this Spider--who seems to know everything--has found a will giving the income to me. Then," she hesitated, "there is another condition." "What is it?" "One you won't like. If I get this money I am to consent to the marriage of Lucy with--with----" "With whom?" asked Vernon jumping up. "Don't keep me in suspense." "With Constantine Maunders," said Lady Corsoon coolly. <h4>CHAPTER XIII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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