Whither Thou Goest

by William Le Queux

him very much.There was a time when liking might have been converted into a warmerfeeling. But, speaking in vulgar parlance, Maurice had failed throughhis over-scrupulousness, his too nice weighing of possibilities andprobabilities, to strike while the iron was hot.

  And then Guy Rossett, ardent, impetuous, the beau ideal of a lover, hadcarried her off her feet, and her cousin was hardly a memory, so muchdid she live in the radiance of the present.

  He had a most dainty dinner. Isobel was a wonderful housekeeper, andcould accomplish wonders on a very limited income. Maurice, his desiresharpened by his forebodings, thought what a perfect wife she wouldmake, uniting the decorative with the practical.

  After dinner she left the men alone to their wine and cigars. Farquharwas not long in coming to the point. It was typical of his rather staidand old-fashioned way of regarding things that, even in the delicatematter of love, the correct method was to approach the parent first.

  "I wonder, uncle, if you have ever thought of me in the light of afuture son-in-law?"

  The General looked a little embarrassed. Not very long ago, that aspectof his nephew had presented itself to him, and the prospect was notunpleasing. He had a shrewd notion that Maurice was very attached tohis pretty cousin, and was marking time for some quite honourable andjustifiable reasons.

  Of Isobel he was not at all sure. Maurice had every good quality from aman's point of view, but he was not quite the stuff out of whichromantic and compelling lovers are made. And her father was certainthat Isobel was full of romance.

  The General answered slowly, and with a caution worthy of Mauricehimself. "I might have thought about it some time ago, my boy. Ifancied then that you were greatly attached. Let me see, it was somethree or four years ago that I formed that opinion, I think."

  "Yes," said Maurice, speaking with a quiet bitterness. "I suppose itwas about then that I showed my feelings, as far as I am capable ofshowing them, plainly. But there were reasons why I did not speak then,reasons that I still think good ones."

  "I am sure of that, my dear boy," said the uncle kindly. He guessed nowthe reason of this visit, that sudden telegram.

  "At that time I was making headway, it is true, but my position was byno means assured. You know the smallness of my patrimony, and what Iearned outside was inconsiderable. I did not feel justified in asking agirl to wait, on the chance of prospects that might never come tofruition."

  "Quite right, quite honourable!" murmured the poor General, dreading theinevitable end of this discourse. Maurice was stating the case, ratheras if he were addressing a jury, but there was no doubt he meantbusiness. Even a man of his cautious temperament could now safely allowhimself the luxury of matrimony, that was evident from this preamble.

  "It has always been my one thought to marry Isobel, assuming that shewould have me, the moment I was in a position to take a wife. Thatmoment has now arrived; I have no fears of the future. The questionarises, am I too late?"

  The General was terribly embarrassed by this direct question. He was amost straightforward man, he loathed subterfuge.

  But what was he to do? The engagement of his daughter to Guy Rossettwas a secret one. He was, in honour bound, to give neither of themaway.

  He temporised weakly. "Have you spoken to Isobel about this?"

  "No," came the answer. "I thought it was right to approach you first."

  "Exactly, exactly," stammered the poor father. "Very right and proper,of course. But you had better put it to Isobel, and see what she says.Of course, you understand there is no opposition on my part."

  Farquhar looked at him keenly. Yes, Moreno's suspicions were justified.There was a secret engagement. The General had thrown the onus on hisdaughter. She could tell as much or as little as she pleased.

  "Thanks," he said quietly. "I will speak to Isobel to-morrow morning."

  The next day, in a little sheltered arbour in the not too extensivegarden, he asked his cousin to marry him. He explained to her, as hehad explained to her father, the reasons which had held him back.

  She listened to him with composure. She was dimly aware that, a fewyears ago, this declaration of love would have set her cheeks aflame,her heart beating. To-day, it left her regretful, but cold.

  "I am dreadfully sorry, Maurice. I am very, very fond of you, but notin that way. I look upon you as a brother, a very dear brother."

  There was decision and finality in the low, gentle tones. It was abitter disappointment. He had always fancied in his masculine optimismthat Isobel was waiting ready to fall into his arms, when he had made uphis mind to ask her.

  It was a bitter disappointment, but he bore it with his usual stoicism.Ambition was the greater factor in his life; love would always play asubordinate part. Still, Isobel's refusal had taken something away thatcould never be replaced.

  There was a long pause. He was the first to break the silence.

  "Your affections are engaged. You are in love with somebody else?"

  A vivid flush overspread the fair face. "It is quite true, I lovesomebody else."

  "The man you were dining with, Guy Rossett?" replied Farquhar quietly.

  "Ah, you have guessed! But it is quite a secret. My father knows. Hissister knows. His father is obstinate and prejudiced; he wants him tomarry a woman in his own world. We are waiting for his consent."

  "I quite understand," said Farquhar gloomily. "I am too late, I cansee. Honestly, Isobel, had I asked you, say, a year ago, would youranswer have been different?"

  Her frank and candid gaze met his steadfast glance. "I fancy I shouldhave said yes, Maurice. But I am not certain it would have been reallove; you see, I have known so few men. Guy has revealed a new world tome."

  Farquhar sighed. He was eloquent enough in the courts, but he was dumbin the presence of women. This handsome young diplomatist had spoken toher in a language that she readily understood.

  He silently said good-bye to his dream, the fair dream of the futurewhich was to be glorified by Isobel Clandon's gracious presence.

  "So that is all over. Well, Isobel, I hope you will always allow me tobe your very good friend." She reached out her hand impulsively andlaid it on his.

  "Oh, yes, please, Maurice. You will always be a dear, kind brother,won't you?"

  "Perhaps some day I may be able to help you. I have just learned thereis some danger threatening Guy Rossett."

  Her face blanched. She turned to him an imploring glance.

  "Danger threatening Guy. Oh, please tell me, quickly."

  With a bitter pang, he realised in that anguished utterance a full senseof the love which he had lost, of the youthful heart which he hadallowed another man to capture.

  In a few brief sentences, he told her what Moreno had related to him.

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  At the period at which this story opens, there stood in Gerrard Street,Soho, a small, unpretentious restaurant, frequented almost exclusivelyby foreigners. Over the front was written the name of Maceda.

  Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefullytrimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard,with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. Themajority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen whofound their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the sametime, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept awary eye upon Maceda and his friends.

  It was about half-past six on the evening following the interviewbetween Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified,looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door ofthe small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners.

  He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept avigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiringof his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made hiscustomers his friends.

  Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at adozen di
fferent places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda's.The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always somespecial Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards atheart.

  The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand.

  "How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look afteryour patrons so well."

  For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno,through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, thejournalist spoke a single word--it was a password, that Macedaunderstood instantly.

  A sudden light came into the proprietor's eyes. He smiled genially, butgravely, as was his wont.

  "So you are with us, at last," he said. "A thousand welcomes, myfriend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new memberto-night, but the name was not divulged. This way."

  The