"And to-night's doings are to remain a secret?"
"Of course. Nobody is to know anything. They may conjecture as much as they like. Good heavens, if any one in the house were to know what I have told you to-night, all my work would be undone. You are my instrument, by which I ward off danger without attracting attention to myself. You are the unsuspecting boy, who by sheer good luck foils the enemy. Keep it up, keep it up; for so long as you appear young and unsophisticated, there is less of the deadly danger."
Geoffrey was slightly puzzled but, like a good soldier, he asked no questions. More and more he was coming to recognize that it was Ralph's to command and his to obey. Doubtless Ralph had some good reason when he treated his nephew like a puppet, but then the puppet was a long way from a fool, and as the days went on, it came home to him with an increasing force that he had a master mind to deal with.
He had been told off this afternoon to lurk more or less concealed at the top of the steep pitch leading to the village, and there wait until something happened. It came at the end of a few minutes in the shape of a lady in perfect cycling costume, wheeling a machine up the hill towards Jessop's farm. As she came nearer to the spot where Geoffrey was smoking, a ragged nomad sprang from the hedge and demanded alms. The man was coarse and threatening, he was by no means sober, and his demands took the by no means modest form of a shilling.
A second later there was a slight scream and Geoffrey darted forward. The sight of a woman in distress sufficed for him; Ralph was forgotten in an instant. There was a scuffle and a plunge, a rapid exit of the nomad and, hat in hand, Geoffrey was receiving the thanks of a beautiful woman, who was pleased to assure him that he was her preserver.
"It is nothing," Geoffrey stammered, "nothing, really."
It was not usual for him to be confused like this. But then he was standing face to face with the handsome stranger who had taken Mr. Jessop's rooms, the lady with the love of white flowers, the woman who employed Oriental servants, who were given to strange incantations, the creature in whom Ralph Ravenspur had taken so vivid an interest.