<h2><SPAN name="XIII" id="XIII"></SPAN>XIII</h2>
<p>That night Stephen dreamed troubled dreams about
Victoria. All sorts of strange things were happening
behind a locked door, he never quite knew what,
though he seemed forever trying to find out. In
the morning, before he was dressed, Mahommed brought
a letter to his door; only one, on a small tray. It was
the first letter he had received since leaving London—he,
who had been used to sighing over the pile that
heaped up with every new post, and must presently be
answered.</p>
<p>He recognized the handwriting at a glance, though he had
seen it only once, in a note written to Lady MacGregor. The
letter was from Victoria, and was addressed to "Mr. Stephen
Knight," in American fashion—a fashion unattractive to
English eyes. But because it was Victoria's way, it seemed to
Stephen simple and unaffected, like herself. Besides, she
was not aware that he had any kind of handle to his
name.</p>
<p>"Now I shall know where she was last night," he
said to himself, and was about to tear open the envelope,
when suddenly the thought that she had touched the
paper made him tender in his usage of it. He found
a paper-knife and with careful precision cut the
envelope along the top. The slight delay whetted his
eagerness to read what Victoria had to tell. She
had probably heard of the visit which she had missed,
and had written this letter before going to bed. It
was a sweet thought of the girl's to be so prompt in<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></SPAN></span>
explaining her absence, guessing that he must have
suffered some anxiety.</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Knight,</span>"</p>
</div>
<p>he read, the blood slowly mounting to
his face as his eyes travelled from line to line,</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"I don't know
what you will think of me when I have told you about the thing
I am going to do. But whatever you may think, don't think
me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I am not that. I hate to go
away without seeing you again, yet I must; and I can't even
tell you why, or where I am going—that is the worst. But if
you could know why, I'm almost sure you would feel that I
am doing the right thing, and the only thing possible. Before
all and above all with me, must be my sister's good. Everything
else has to be sacrificed to that, even things that I value
very, very much.</p>
<p>"Don't imagine though, from what I say, that I'm making
a great sacrifice, so far as any danger to myself is concerned.
The sacrifice is, to risk being thought unkind, ungrateful, by
you, and of losing your friendship. This is the <i>only</i> danger
I am running, really; so don't fear for me, and please forgive
me if you can. Just at the moment I must seem (as well as
ungracious) a little mysterious, not because I want to be mysterious,
but because it is forced on me by circumstances. I
hate it, and soon I hope I shall be able to be as frank and open
with you as I was at first, when I saw how good you were about
taking an interest in my sister Saidee. I think, as far as I can
see ahead, I may write to you in a fortnight. Then, I shall
have news to tell, the <i>best of news</i>, I hope; and I won't need to
keep anything back. By that time I may tell you all that has
happened, since bidding you and Mr. Caird good-bye, at the
door of his beautiful house, and all that will have happened by
the time I can begin the letter. How I wish it were now!</p>
<p>"There's just one more word I want to say, that I really
can say without doing harm to anybody or to any plan. It's
this. I did feel so guilty when you talked about your motoring<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></SPAN></span>
with Mr. Caird to Tlemcen. It was splendid of you both to be
willing to go, and you must have thought me cold and half-hearted
about it. But I couldn't tell you what was in my
mind, even then. I didn't know what was before me; but
there was already a thing which I had to keep from you. It
was only a small thing. But now it has grown to be a very
big one.</p>
<p>"Good-bye, my dear friend Mr. Knight. I like to call you
my friend, and I shall always remember how good you were
to me, if, for any reason, we should never see each other again.
It is very likely we may not meet, for I don't know how long you
are going to stay in Africa, or how long I shall stay, so it may
be that you will go back to England soon. I don't suppose
I shall go there. When I can leave this country it will be to
sail for America with my sister—<i>never without her</i>. But I
shall write, as I said, in a fortnight, if all is well—indeed, I
shall write whatever happens. I shall be able to give you an
address, too, I hope very much, because I should like to hear
from you. And I shall pray that you may always be happy.</p>
<p>"I meant this to be quite a short letter, but after all it is
a long one! Good-bye again, and give my best remembrances
to Lady MacGregor and Mr. Caird, if they are not disgusted
with me for the way I am behaving. Gratefully your friend,</p>
<p style="{text-align: right;}">"<span class="smcap">Victoria Ray.</span>"</p>
</div>
<p>There was no room for any anger against the girl in Stephen's
heart. He was furious, but not with her. And he did not
know with whom to be angry. There was some one—there
must be some one—who had persuaded her to take this step
in the dark, and this secret person deserved all his anger and
more. To persuade a young girl to turn from the only friends
she had who could protect her, was a crime. Stephen could
imagine no good purpose to be served by mystery, and he could
imagine many bad ones. The very thought of the best among
them made him physically sick. There was a throat some<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></SPAN></span>where
in the world which his fingers were tingling to choke;
and he did not know where, or whose it was. It made his
head ache with a rush of beating blood not to know. And
realizing suddenly, with a shock like a blow in the face, the
violence of his desire to punish some person unknown, he
saw how intimate a place the girl had in his heart. The
longing to protect her, to save her from harm or treachery,
was so intense as to give pain. He felt as if a lasso had been
thrown round his body, pressing his lungs, roping his arms
to his sides, holding him helpless; and for a moment the
sensation was so powerful that he was conscious of a severe
effort, as if to break away from the spell of a hypnotist.</p>
<p>It was only for a moment that he stood still, though a thousand
thoughts ran through his head, as in a dream—as in the
dreams of last night, which had seemed so interminable.</p>
<p>The thing to do was to find out at once what had become
of Victoria, whom she had seen, who had enticed her to leave
the hotel. It would not take long to find out these things. At
most she could not have been gone more than thirteen or fourteen
hours.</p>
<p>At first, in his impatience, he forgot Nevill. In two or three
minutes he had finished dressing, and was ready to start out
alone when the thought of his friend flashed into his mind. He
knew that Nevill Caird, acquainted as he was with Algiers,
would be able to suggest things that he might not think of
unaided. It would be better that they two should set to work
together, even though it might mean a delay of a few minutes
in the beginning.</p>
<p>He put Victoria's letter in his pocket, meaning to show it
to Nevill as the quickest way of explaining what had happened
and what he wanted to do; but before he had got to his friend's
door, he knew that he could not bear to show the letter. There
was nothing in it which Nevill might not see, nothing which
Victoria might not have wished him to see. Nevertheless it
was now <i>his</i> letter, and he could not have it read by any one.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>He knocked at the door, but Nevill did not answer. Then
Stephen guessed that his friend must be in the garden. One
of the under-gardeners, working near the house, had seen the
master, and told the guest where to go. Monsieur Caird was
giving medicine to the white peacock, who was not well, and
in the stable-yard Nevill was found, in the act of pouring something
down the peacock's throat with a spoon.</p>
<p>When he heard what Stephen had to say, he looked very
grave.</p>
<p>"I wish Miss Ray hadn't stopped at that hotel," he said.</p>
<p>"Why?" Stephen asked sharply. "You don't think the
people there——"</p>
<p>"I don't know what to think. But I have a sort of idea
the brutes knew something last night and wouldn't tell."</p>
<p>"They'll have to tell!" exclaimed Stephen.</p>
<p>Nevill did not answer.</p>
<p>"I shall go down at once," Stephen went on.</p>
<p>"Of course I'll go with you," said his friend.</p>
<p>They had forgotten about breakfast. Stopping only to get
their hats, they started for the town.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span></p>
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