So Mrs. Jiro’s unconscious device had undoubtedly saved Brett from a murderous attack, and Ooma had probably seen him leave the Northumberland Avenue Hotel more than once whilst waiting to waylay David Hume.  Hence, too, the partial recognition by Ooma when they met by night in Middle Street.

The barrister could not help being milder in tone as he said: 

“I believe you are both telling the truth.  But this is a very serious matter.  You must never again communicate with Ooma in any way.  Avoid him as you would shun the plague, for within three or four days he will be in gaol, and you will be called upon to give evidence against him.”

CHAPTER XXIX

MARGARET’S SECRET

At his chambers Brett found Holden awaiting him, with the tidings that Capella had gone to Whitby.  The Italian’s agents, Messrs. Matchem & Smith, had evidently ferreted out Margaret’s whereabouts.  Her husband, full of vengeful thoughts and base schemings, hastened after her, rejoicing in the knowledge that her cousins and Miss Layton would also be present.

“As I knew exactly where he was going, and assumed his object to be a domestic quarrel, I did not think it necessary to accompany him until I had first consulted you, sir,” said the imperturbable Holden.

“You acted quite rightly.  Wait until the little beast returns to London!” exclaimed the barrister, with some degree of warmth.

Capella’s conduct reminded him of a spiteful child which deserved a sound spanking.  He telegraphed to Hume to inform him of the fiery visitor who might be expected at the hotel that evening.

Oddly enough, Helen, David, and the Rev. Mr. Layton, tempted by a marine excursion to Scarborough and back, left Whitby Harbour on a local steamer at 11 a.m., and were timed to return about 9 p.m.  Margaret was not a good sailor, so Robert Hume-Frazer remained with her, the two going for a protracted stroll along the cliffs.

During their walk, the golden influences of the hour unlocked Margaret’s heart.  She was overwhelmed with the consciousness of the wretched mistakes of her life.  She could not help contrasting the manly, gallant, out-spoken sailor by her side with the miserable foreigner whom she had espoused under the influence of a genuine but too violent passion.  The knowledge that Robert might, under happier conditions, have been her husband was crushing and terrible.

There came to her some half-defined resolve to show her cousin how unworthy she was of his affections.  Stopping defiantly at a moment when he casually called her attention to a lovely glimpse of rock-bound sea framed in a deep gorge, she said to him: 

“Robert, I have something to tell you.  I was on the point of telling Mr. Brett the last time I saw him in London, but he would not permit it.  You are my cousin, and ought to know.”

“My dear girl,” he cried, “why this solemnity?  You give me shivers when you speak in that way!”