CHAPTER XIII.
TRUTH OR FANTASY?
Dr. Truman, who, with his colleague Dr. Greig, of Hampton Wick, made an autopsy, came to the conclusion that the man Farmer’s death was due to natural causes—heart disease.
At the inquest duly held he gave evidence to that effect.
“Did the deceased make any statement to you before he died?” inquired the white-headed Coroner. “I ask this because rumors are afloat concerning certain mysterious happenings previously in the Guest House.”
“Well, he certainly made a rambling and rather fantastic statement,” replied the doctor. “I regarded it as imagination.”
“Please tell us what he said,” said the Coroner, pausing with his pen in his hand as he sat facing the thirty or so interested members of the public who attended out of curiosity, as people always do at inquests.
“He told me how, on the previous day, a short old gentleman, who gave his name as Bettinson and announced himself to be a collector of antique furniture, presented himself at the door, and that, contrary to the orders he had received from his employers, Shalford & Co., the estate-agents, he had taken him through the rooms,” said the doctor. “The man admired several pieces of furniture, and then left. Late that afternoon, however, just as it was growing dark, he returned and asked to be allowed another look at a piece in the upstairs drawing-room. It being dark, the deceased went to obtain a lamp, when, on gaining the upstairs room, he found the old stranger throwing his arms about and uttering some weird incantations—‘cursing the house,’ he described it.”
“Curious,” remarked the Coroner. “And what else?”
“The deceased told me that his visitor appeared to have suddenly gone mad, and, turning to him, cursed him also, using some language which he had never heard before. The stranger declared that he was invulnerable, but the deceased said he took him by the collar and dragged him to the head of the stairs. Thereupon the old man expressed sorrow at what his fate would be—death!”
There was a moment’s silence when the doctor had concluded.
“Yes, I quite agree. A most fantastic story. He must have imagined it,” said the Coroner. “A stranger uttering incantations and predicting death to those who dare to lay hands upon him! Most absurd. The result of your post-mortem was, I take it, that death was due to heart disease?”
“It was.”
Hence the Coroner registered the verdict, and the proceedings closed, not, however, without a good deal of wagging of tongues among those who had been present. Indeed, the story told by the doctor was published in that evening’s papers, but everyone regarded it as the delirious imaginings of a dying man.
George Askew, the constable’s brother, a tall, thin young fellow who had been employed to do odd jobs in a garage at Molesey, was engaged by Mr. Gray to take his friend’s place as caretaker at the Guest House. His brother did not fail to warn him of the weird happenings in the place, but he smoked his eternal “gaspers” and laughed the whole thing to scorn.
“I don’t believe in curses, or spooks, or anything else,” George declared to his brother on the first night, when, at a late hour, the constable, being on duty, dropped in to see him.
George had changed his quarters to the library; he had erected a little camp-bed which he had hired, and lived among the piles of tied-up parcels of old brown-bound books which lay heaped everywhere, ready for the sale.
“Well, I advise you to be careful,” the other replied warningly. “Poor old Farmer laughed at the evil, and see where he is now!”
“But what is this evil influence, or whatever you call it, in this house?” asked the young matter-of-fact fellow, who had distinct political views with a leaning towards Communism.
“How do I know? We don’t know the cause, George. We only know the results. I pity the young couple who are coming to live here.”
“Bosh! The decorators will clean out all the dirt and cobwebs and it will be fresh and wholesome again,” his brother laughed. “It’s musty enough now, in all conscience,” he added, as his brother, with a glance at the dead man’s timepiece, put on his helmet, and, buttoning his coat to the throat, walked out.
Meanwhile Sibell Dare and Brinsley Otway were having a wonderful time at winter sports.
Fresh snow had fallen upon the mountains around Gurnigel. They found there a gay little world running riot with harmless fun and merriment, and the mountain slopes re-echoed with shouts and laughter of the open-air. Young English and American men and girls who, attracted by the lure of the snow, came there to enjoy the healthful recreation of ski-ing, bobbing, or lugeing, while their elders found ample sport in the quieter games of curling, or gliding across the perfectly kept ice-rinks on skates.
For the variety of ski-runs, and the constant round of amusements by day, and the gaiety at night, the place was unequalled. There were ski-races for novices and experts, team races, ladies’ races, and ice gymkhanas, and lastly “tailing”—little luges sufficient for one person to sit on are tied in a string of half a dozen or more behind a two-horse sleigh—which is a merry sport along the flat roads down in the valley to the homely little villages of Riggisberg or Guggisberg, where one has such wonderful teas and cakes.
Gurnigel in winter is a veritable paradise for young people. No spot in all the Oberland offers so many attractions, outdoor sport by day, and the indoor fun at night. The spirit of merriment is infectious, and ski-ing is an incomparable sport. No Alpine resort has a better average of second-class ski-runners, while there are polite English skiers, many of them experts, who soon put the novice into the way of passing their third-class test. The talk in Gurnigel in winter is mainly the jargon of ski-ing, of “stemming,” “Christianias,” “telemarks,” and such-like turns, while the famous “John” gives advice and instruction to those who need it.
One day General Horton, an athletic man who was among the first to introduce ski-ing from Norway into Switzerland, was chatting with Otway and Lady Wyndcliffe.
“Of course there are many—the nouveau riche and the overdressed, the people who take Bond Street and Dover Street in their innovation-trunks—who sneer at the Oberland, and prefer the Engadine,” he said. “But those are the exotics. I know Switzerland, and am an old hand at ski-ing, and I know the advantages of the various resorts, and vice versa. I admit that the Cresta is the finest bob-run, and that Mürren is only notable for its increasing prices, its inferior accommodation, and its high excellence of ski-ing, to the detriment of the beginner. The Kandahars constitute for the main part the snobbery of ski-ing, and everyone else in Mürren seems to take a back seat. At Wengen the winter-sport enthusiast is far better treated, getting better value for his money without that superior snobbery which seems to have sprung up with good ski-ing, and he is allowed to enjoy himself just as he wishes. Then Engelberg is good, and so is Gstaad, and, at the end of the season, Sannenmöser. But here in Gurnigel one can get all one wants—a better hotel than in any other place I know in the Oberland, good snow, merriment without women constantly changing their frocks, and—well, what does one want more?”
And the slim, sporty old officer in his dark-blue ski-ing suit laughed merrily as he gave his expert opinion, with which two well-known skiers, who stood listening, heartily agreed.
That night there was another event. The winter fun in the handsome ballroom, with its colored festoons and gay balloons, was being broadcast to the world. It was a Swiss evening. The celebrated yodelers from Interlaken—the best in the Oberland—arrived, together with an expert upon the hand-organ, the national Swiss instrument, and a remarkable programme had been arranged by Mr. Gordon Mitchell, who, as President of the Amusements Committee, was responsible for the entertainment.
For many hours three radio engineers were busy fitting up a room as a studio, with a microphone, all carefully blanketed for the accommodation of the announcer. Then a cable was laid through the hotel and attached to the telephone-line to the great radio station at Munchenbuchsee, outside Berne, while another microphone was placed high upon a tripod near the orchestra in the ballroom—preparations watched with great interest by Lady Wyndcliffe, her niece, and the young doctor.
At last, about six o’clock, after the tea-dancing had ended, Mr. Mitchell stood in the centre of the ballroom, and in his ordinary voice, said: “Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Hulloa, Radio, Berne! Test number one.” And then he counted the numbers one to ten, and afterwards backwards.
The two engineers listening upon the valve receiving set of the hotel reported excellent results, but on a second and third test being made, it became clearer and stronger, owing to the modulation at the Berne station.
Thus by dinner-time all was in readiness to broadcast across Europe the winter fun at gay Gurnigel, and many of the visitors, who had let their friends in England know of the broadcasting, became highly excited and interested.
That night the ballroom was crowded, and at half-past nine, the usual dancing having commenced, Mr. Mitchell went into the silence of the improvised studio, where he opened the microphone and made a short introductory speech, beginning:
“Hulloa, the British Isles! Hulloa, everybody! This is Gurnigel, in Switzerland, calling. We are about to give you some idea of a Swiss evening at a gay winter sports centre. Hulloa, the British Isles! Gurnigel, in Switzerland, calling!”
Then, having paused for a few moments, he spoke in a clear radio voice—for he was used to speaking into the microphone—as follows:
“Here we are, far above the clouds and rain of winter, enjoying by day glorious sunshine and bright, crisp, starlit nights. The mountain heights are covered with deep snow, where our young people by day disport themselves ski-ing, tobogganing, lugeing, or going for long, healthy walks through the beautiful pine forests. We say among the young people that the man ‘she’s’ and the girl ‘he’s’! Be it at a new winter-sports place like this, or at one of the old ones, everywhere the enchanting scenery and the delightfully pure atmosphere, not forgetting the exuberant feeling of well-being which possesses everyone, lends itself to numerous flirtations and snow romances.
“Winter sports are essentially for young people, for they are full of fun and merriment, and a young girl looks her best in her smart ski-costume of black gabardine with trousers, and a guide’s peaked cap.
“Here at Gurnigel, as well as at most of the well-known winter sports places in Switzerland, there is a merry crowd assembled. In my long experience of winter sports I have never known a brighter season. This open-air life in a clear atmosphere as invigorating as champagne, and the call of the snow—which, once experienced, draws the winter holiday-makers back to Switzerland, nature’s mountain fairyland—are responsible for the gay crowds filling the Swiss hotels. If the days are spent out of doors in the healthiest possible way, the long winter evenings are not, as some people may think, in the least dull and uninteresting. On the contrary, the evenings at a winter-sports place are most enjoyable in that no trouble is ever spared in giving the hotel guests all kinds of amusements, such as concerts, dances, indoor-games, etc.
“We are about to show our listeners what a merry evening at a Swiss winter-sports place can be. To-night we are enjoying at Gurnigel a Swiss evening—that is, a concert consisting mainly of Swiss music and songs.
“The Interlaken yodelers are going to give you several peasant songs such as are sung by the shepherds in the Bernese Oberland when leading their herds of cows to the pastures to the accompaniment of the lovely and famous Swiss cow-bells.
“After this you will hear dance music played on a hand-harmonica, the most popular instrument in the Swiss mountains. The hotel orchestra will play some dance music. We are also very fortunate to count amongst our guests Madame Gruscha, dramatic soprano of the States Opera House in Vienna. Madame Gruscha has kindly consented to give two songs. To crown the evening’s entertainment, joyful members of ‘Ye Ancient Order of Froth-Blowers,’ a society well known to all English listeners—who, by the way, are nothing loath to blow the froth off good old Swiss beer—will thunder out their accustomed hymn. The rule of ‘Drinks all round’ for those Blowers listening-in and not wearing their cuff-links will not be enforced to-night.
“Well, I hope everybody will enjoy this concert, broadcast for the first time from a Swiss winter-sports resort, and which we hope will help our listeners to form some idea of the fast and furious fun which goes on at this high altitude, amongst the glorious scenery.” And then Mr. Mitchell added, as though an afterthought: “I may say that those who intend to visit Switzerland for winter sports will find late January and February the finest time, and the Swiss will welcome you.”
Then the Swiss announcer said in German, French, and English:
“The first item will be the yodel of the Emmenthal Valley, where the Swiss cheeses come from, sung by the Interlaken yodelers.”
Next moment the microphone was switched over to the ballroom, where upon the platform stood the ten celebrated singers of the Bernese peasant songs, in their short black velvet jackets trimmed with scarlet and silver lace, and their leather skull-caps, the Sunday attire of the cowherds. At a signal from Mr. Mitchell, they sang that sweet melody which one hears at dawn and at sunset in summer, echoing in the high mountains, as they chant to each other across the fertile valleys.
The applause was loud and enthusiastic, and over a radius of two thousand miles or so, hundreds of thousands of listeners, who had picked up Mr. Mitchell’s introductory speech, instantly became interested.
In the British Isles thousands were listening to the unusual programme.
Madame Gruscha, whose marvellous voice rang out through the huge ballroom, then gave a selection from La Tosca, in which she had, only a week before, been singing at the Vienna Opera, and was greeted with thunders of applause. Then the peasant with his hand-organ took the centre of the orchestra and began to play a Swiss national dance, to which the yodelers danced with the English guests in a kind of village dance, greatly to everyone’s amusement.
Sibell was being whirled around by a stout, good-looking Swiss yodeler who was an express engine-driver on the Simplon line, when the concierge motioned to her and handed her a telegram. It was from the Richmond estate-agents—Messrs. Shalford, Stevens & Gray—stating that the caretaker Farmer had died under very mysterious circumstances, though a verdict had been registered that he had died from natural causes.
CHAPTER XIV.
UNCLEAN HANDS
Notwithstanding the verdict of the Hampton Coroner, the police, whose interest was aroused by the curious reports of strange happenings at the Guest House, commenced to make inquiries regarding the deceased man’s strange visitor.
The record of the romance and history of the place, as published in the Richmond newspaper, had drawn their attention to it, inasmuch as Mr. Gray was questioned by the Richmond police and reluctantly admitted his strange attack and narrow escape.
The Criminal Investigation Department explored all sorts of channels to discover the old man Bettinson, who had been fairly clearly described to the doctor by his patient. There were two well-known collectors of antique furniture of that name, it was found—one a dealer having a shop in Chester, who was a man of thirty-five who had recently succeeded to the business of his dead father; a second was a solicitor in Plymouth, who was well-known and of ample means, but in no way resembled the odd old fellow who had appeared at the Guest House; while a third, a man living near Harwich, was reported to have purchased some old furniture for an ancient house he had bought outside Ipswich.
The search was, after all, only a half-hearted one, for on the face of it the dead man’s statement was rather too fantastic to be credited by many, while it seemed certain that if the old man had actually paid a visit to the house of mystery with any evil intent he would hardly have given his real name.
When Etta Wyndcliffe had been shown the telegram by her niece, she had merely shrugged her shoulders, and said:
“That house is evidently a house of evil, my dear! I can’t see how you can possibly live in it.”
She had been watching with critical eyes the enjoyment of the happy pair at winter sports. Thanks to the expert tuition of John, the guide, they were now able to ski quite well, and do “stem turns” and “telemarks” in very fair fashion. Indeed, they had both passed their third-class test, and now each morning they took the yellow automobile up to the Seelibühl peak, and then ran down over the powdery snow through the Happy Valley back to the hotel, a spin of wild delight as the snow hissed beneath their skis.
Etta Wyndcliffe was not at all pleased at the turn which events were taking. She remembered those parting words of Albert Ashe, her exemplary butler, the man who held such a strange influence over her. She remembered, too, old Routh’s declaration that Sibell must marry Gussie Gretton, and did not fail to foresee that such a union would bring them both a handsome profit.
Etta Wyndcliffe was out for money always. Smart, clever, and utterly unscrupulous from the time she was at school, she took the fat checks from the mothers of the girls she chaperoned, and was hawk-like in her efforts to get them married, with further pecuniary profit to herself. In this she was not unique in London society. There were fully a dozen like her, hard-up women with old titles and without money, ready to do any dirty, underhand action, or to sell a girl, body and soul, in the marriage market so long as it brought them a substantial check which would most certainly be frittered away at baccarat and “chemmy.”
That afternoon, as she sat at tea in the big hall with the young North London doctor and her pretty niece, her active mind reverted to that parting with Ashe in West Halkin Street, when in secret the man had whispered to her, “I’ll meet you again soon, Etta. We’re out for a big stake. And we’ll win—never fear.”
She glanced through her cigarette smoke at the handsome, happy pair at the table before her and wondered. Would they win? She doubted it.
The check which she knew Gussie Gretton would slip into her hand, on the day of his marriage to Sibell, was daily disappearing into the ether. Time after time she had tried by most subtle means to sow dissension between the pair, but all to no purpose. Their affection was complete; and, to her fear, it would be lasting.
Brinsley Otway was always charming to her, though instinctively he knew that she was no friend of his. He studiously gave her every attention, dancing with her each night, and never failing to behave with the acme of courtesy and charm.
Etta Wyndcliffe had written to old Gordon Routh a long letter in which she realized the hopelessness of parting the pair, and asked his advice and suggestions. On the other hand, Ashe, after his vague threat on the last occasion they had met, had entirely disappeared. She had written him on the second day of their arrival at Gurnigel, but had had no acknowledgment.
This fact caused her great apprehension. Was he really playing the game? She knew his hard, bitter nature, his unreliability, his quick resentment, and his ready shiftiness. She had trusted him for several years, and he knew certain secrets of hers. But of late she had slowly realized that he would hesitate at nothing, or even sacrifice her, in order to gain his own despicable ends. And his estimate of her was a very similar one.
That night she sent a marconigram to him, addressed to an obscure sporting club in the Adelphi, where he went every day for his letters. Next day at noon she received a reply which ran:
“Meet me at the Schweizerhof Hotel in Berne on Thursday at noon. Important.”
Hence, on the Wednesday evening, pleading to the happy couple that she had some shopping to do in Berne and also had to make a call upon an English lady friend who was married to a Swiss doctor, she took the car down the sixteen miles of winding, snowy road to the capital and put up at the Schweizerhof, that big hotel facing the railway station. She engaged a private sitting-room and bedroom, so that their interview should be a secret one. That night, as she ate her dinner alone, she wondered with what object he was travelling so suddenly out to see her.
Wyndcliffe had arrived in New York a week before, and she hoped he would remain there, for there was not the slightest spark of affection between them. When in London he was only an incubus. True, he meandered around with her to the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and Belgravia, just for the appearance of the thing, but he was always pestering her for money and deploring the cost of everything.
Money had come to her niece, it was true, but how could she profit by the sudden turn of fortune?
Impatiently she awaited from her window the arrival of the Oberland express from Boulogne, until at last she descried Ashe’s tall, burly figure in a dark overcoat, followed by a hotel porter carrying his suitcase, crossing the wide square to the hotel.
Five minutes later he entered her sitting-room, and, throwing off his travelling-coat, cast himself into a chair.
He explained that he had breakfasted on the train after passing the frontier at Delle, and then lit a cigarette.
“Well?” she asked, leaning against the table and facing him. “What’s the matter?”
“A lot,” he snapped. “Lock the door and speak in whispers.”
When she had crossed the room and bolted the door, he looked straight into her face, and said in a low, serious voice:
“We’re in an infernally tight corner, Etta!”
“How?” she asked apprehensively.
“Rupert is in London!”
“Rupert!” she gasped, and in an instant her lips blanched as a look of terror overspread her face.
“Yes,” he whispered. “And he knows a lot—a damned lot more than is good for us!”
“You’ve seen him, eh?” she gasped.
“I’ve seen him. But he hasn’t seen me.”
“That’s good. What are we to do?”
“I’ve come here to talk the matter over with you, my dear Etta,” said the ex-butler. “We’ve got to face the music. That’s plain.”
“How?”
Her visitor paused for some moments, his dark, narrow eyes set upon hers.
“For God’s sake,” she cried, “don’t look at me like that, Albert!”
“Do you forget how we parted in that little hotel in Norfolk Street?” he asked, still gazing at her intently.
“You threatened to—to——” And she paused.
“I simply pointed out to you the only way in which we could save ourselves if Rupert came to London,” he said quietly. “Well—he’s come! It’s now up to us to take the initiative. You know what I mean, don’t you?” And he looked steadily into her eyes.
“You mean what you hinted at when we last met!” she cried suddenly, covering her face with her white, bejewelled hands.
“You defied me! You told me that you forbade it, Etta,” he said quite quietly. “Well, if you wish to have the whole sordid story exposed in a criminal court and go to prison perhaps for the remainder of your life, you can do so,” he went on, with an air of nonchalance. “Personally, I intend to save myself, whatever your decision may be.”
“No, Albert, don’t desert me; no, I beg of you,” cried the unhappy peeress. “I’ve always stuck to you.”
“Except when you grow chicken-hearted, as you did at Norfolk Street, and—and once when you thought you could feather your nest without my help.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in instant defiance.
“Oh, nothing,” he said sneeringly.
“I demand to know what is passing through your mind!” she cried, her fists clenched as she stood before him.
“Only one simple little incident,” he answered, with a faint smile. “The tragic death of that poor little American girl Heula Murray on board the Nile boat an hour before it was moored at Assouan. She died of pneumonia, didn’t she?”
“You swine!” she cried, striking him full in the face with her fist. “I know what you insinuate,” she cried. “But it’s a lie—a damned lie, and you shall prove it. You’ve hinted at that before. You were with me!”
“I was—as your servant. But, my dear Etta, don’t get excited,” he said, his face reddened where she had struck him. “I don’t intend to give you away, even though I have retained a certain little capsule which was hermetically sealed before you broke it open. No, my dear girl, don’t worry. It isn’t worth while. Please understand that we’re both sailing in the same boat, and if you go on the rocks I’ll go with you. But we are going to steer clear, into smooth waters, or I’m much mistaken.”
“How?” asked Lady Wyndcliffe, with frantic effort to calm herself.
“By taking matters in our own hands. You will have to meet Rupert.”
“Meet him! Never!” she cried, horrified at the mere thought.
“He’s in search of you; let him find you, and become friendly with him. Disarm his suspicion, and then——” And he paused.
“And then? Ah! I know what you mean.”
“Well, that’s the only way, my dear Etta. Believe me, it is.”
“I can’t. It would be impossible. I couldn’t do it, Albert,” she declared decisively.
“Very well. Then I fear you’ll have to face the consequences, if you don’t make up the quarrel,” Ashe said. “He’s in London in search of you, and he’ll send you to penal servitude. You’ll go there as sure as my name’s Albert, if you don’t try and save yourself. Just think!” he went on. “Aren’t we both on the brink of disaster? You’ve allowed young Otway to carry off our only decent asset, the girl Sibell. If Gussie Gretton had married her you’d have got a fat commission out of it. But, as it is, there’s nothing for us.”
“But there may be,” said Lady Wyndcliffe. “If a quarrel arose between the pair and they parted, Gussie might easily step into the breach and console her for the falsity of this young medico. And Gussie, on marrying a rich wife, would double his commission to us. Don’t forget that.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Ashe. “I never thought of that. You’re darned clever, Etta—one of the cleverest women I know. The worst of it is that after the affair of that little American girl in Egypt, which reaped you in a full five thousand pounds, you are so very punctilious over dealing with an enemy.”
“Because I now trust nobody,” she snapped. “Once I trusted you, but I have ever since had occasion to regret it.”
“Thanks, my dear girl, you are really most polite,” he laughed, with mock courtesy. “But, you see, I, too, don’t put any faith in you. Nevertheless, if you don’t stick by me, you can do the reverse. I shall leave Berne to-night, and I sha’n’t care for you, or for the future. I know how to save myself. I prepared my channel of escape long ago.”
The Countess of Wyndcliffe took her gold cigarette-case from her bag, and, opening it, slowly selected a cigarette. She tapped it quietly and then lit it, first going to the window to gaze out on the trams passing across the square before the station.
When she had repassed across the room she suddenly halted before the man who, though posing as her obsequious butler in West Halkin Street, seemed now to be her master, and said:
“Well, Albert. Let me hear your suggestions.”
“I have two. The one carries with it the other. The first is that you must resume your relations with Rupert—in pretence of courage. The second is that Sibell and young Otway must be parted at all hazards—by you.”
“Then the girl must be part of the sacrifice, eh?” asked her aunt, with knit brows.
“It can’t be helped. There’s no money for us if they marry. And old Routh is also out for profit. I saw him in London the other day, and he’s dead against the marriage and Sibell’s money slipping away from us all.”
“But about Rupert? Do you think he can be kept quiet, after all that’s happened?”
“Only by you,” he said, with a sudden change in his voice from defiance to softness. “You know what a seductive little devil you can be when you like, Etta. God! you can charm any man of any age.”
“And without—without a tragedy. Assure me of that?” she said eagerly.
Albert Ashe remained silent for a few moments. He was asked for an assurance which he had not expected he would be called upon to give.
“Well,” he said evasively at last, “if you call the parting of Sibell from her lover a tragedy, that can’t be avoided. The girl is rich, and she’ll soon console herself with the smart and popular Gussie, who is such a splendid dancer, so good-looking, and with whom dozens of girls are madly in love. He’s essentially a lady’s man, not like that big-headed, big-eyed, thoughtful doctor out at Golder’s Green. All that I leave to you,” he went on. “But time presses. Leave the turtledoves at Gurnigel for the present, and slip back to London to meet Rupert and make it up with him. We can deal with the lovers later on. It will only be a question of a week or two.”
“But, Albert, I—I really don’t know how to act—what to do—how I can possibly——”
“Rot!” he cried angrily. “Let me guide you, and let’s both climb out of the soup as soon as possible with a nice little bank balance to the credit of both of us—instead of appearing side by side at the Old Bailey, as we will certainly do if you act the fool any longer. Don’t you agree?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Yes,” she said in a low, hoarse whisper. “I do agree, Albert. I see that I must. Sibell must be parted from Brinsley.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’m glad you at last see reason. So go to work with your clever woman’s wiles as soon as you possibly can. Get back to London at once and meet dear Rupert, and greet him with regret as his long-lost friend. He must never suspect that I’m in England. But I will be behind you to advise you and bring you to triumph.”
And he put out his well-manicured hand, which the Countess of Wyndcliffe grasped in an unholy contract for the sale of an innocent girl’s soul.
CHAPTER XV.
THE SECRET CAVALIER
That evening the Countess of Wyndcliffe appeared at dinner, in the gay restaurant at Gurnigel, looking radiant in a pretty cyclamen gown and wearing her pearls—bought, by the way, out of the check which came to her after the tragic death from pneumonia of an American girl she had been chaperoning up the Nile.
To the handsome young pair she gave a glowing description of her old friend Nellie Price, who had married a well-known Swiss heart specialist, and how she had, after her visit, had her shingled hair trimmed by a Spaniard who was an artist, at a coiffeur’s close to the station.
Her ex-butler was still in Berne, and was leaving by the ten o’clock express for Calais that night—a fact which of course she withheld from the happy pair. They had been out on a ski picnic with the expert runner, Mr. Mallins, who had taken out a party, and to whom the visitors at the hotel were all indebted for kindly advice and help.
In every winter-sports hotel there crop up English nobodies, mostly with a military title, who proclaim themselves skiers or bob-runners, who put on immaculate winter-sports suits and sweaters, and pose as experts, only to be driven out by those who really can ski or bob. It was so at Gurnigel, just as at all winter-sports centres—centres, alas! of petty jealousies, and where men and women make fools of themselves.
After all, when one leaves Dover for gaiety on the Continent, what matters? What mattered, indeed, when at a winter-sports hotel at Mürren the visitors were once invited by a notice posted in the hall to subscribe to an amusement fund, and the visitors were at once lavish in their gifts? What mattered when, a few nights later, there was bought a handsome prize for the best dress at a midnight carnival, and lo! the proprietress of the hotel won it, and carried away the prize her visitors had subscribed for?
What matters? Nobody cared. Happily, that was unique. Only such an incident is actively discussed when visitors to Switzerland return to London and chat over their reminiscences in their own drawing-rooms. Yet there remains the fact that Switzerland is the winter playground of Europe, and it well deserves to be so till the end of time.
It was a gala night at Gurnigel, a masked ball, with a midnight supper in the interval. So after dinner Sibell put on the sari of an Indian lady of high caste, a wonderful garment of shot orange, gold and green tissue, with her scarlet marriage brand upon her brow, but masked of course, while Brinsley Otway was dressed as an Arab sheik, with darkened face, also masked, and daggers stuck in his belt; but Lady Wyndcliffe was too tired to put on one of her fancy costumes.
The great ballroom was the scene of mad gaiety that night. As fancy dresses were not put on till after dinner, the maskers could be recognized only by their friends.
After two fox-trots with her lover, Sibell suddenly looked up and saw a rather tall, masked man in the costume of a cavalier bowing and sweeping his plumed hat across his knees, and at the same time, in a low half-whisper, he invited her to dance.
She accepted, and instantly knew what an excellent dancer he was.
They went around the ballroom without exchanging words with each other, until suddenly he whispered into her ear:
“I know you, Miss Dare. When we have finished this dance, will you allow me to sit with you for a few moments? I want to tell you something in strictest confidence.”
Much intrigued, the girl, wondering who the cavalier might be and what he desired to say, assented. Therefore, when the dance had ended, instead of continuing in the encore, they both strolled away to the big lounge adjoining the dance-room, and sat down apart from the rest.
“Miss Dare,” he said, “you have no idea of my identity, and you will never know. I am speaking quite seriously. I may as well say that I am no friend of yours, not even an acquaintance, but simply the bearer of an urgent message to you. Before I deliver it, however, I must have your solemn assurance that you breathe not a word of it to a soul—not even to Dr. Otway, to whom you are engaged.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed in slight alarm. “I don’t follow you! At least you can disclose your name.”
“My Christian name is Edward—simply that. Just think of me as Edward,” was his answer.
“Edward what?”
But he only chuckled to himself behind his mask, replying:
“That does not matter. Will you give me the undertaking I seek? Please do, as we cannot sit here together very long without arousing your fiancé’s interest in me. And I am not anxious for that.”
“Why should Dr. Otway be kept in ignorance?” she asked resentfully, with natural curiosity.
“Because I am instructed that it should be so,” the stranger replied. “As I have told you, I am merely acting as the mouthpiece of another.”
“You are indeed very mysterious! Surely you can be more explicit!” she protested. “You ask me to keep a secret from the man whom I am about to marry. It’s hardly fair, is it?”
“If you give me your undertaking you will, on hearing what I have to say, quickly realize that, in the circumstances, silence will be best. Really, Miss Dare,” he went on, “I regret to say so, but there is no time for argument. I see that the doctor is already in search of you.”
“Very well,” said the girl hastily. “I give my undertaking to tell him nothing.”
“Good. Then my message, sent you in secret by one who wishes you well, and will help you in dire necessity, is to the effect that there is a conspiracy—a subtle and damnable plot—to part you from Dr. Otway. So be forewarned.”
“A plot!” gasped the girl. “By whom?”
“I’m sorry, but I unfortunately have no information upon that point,” replied the mysterious stranger in the exquisite garb of a cavalier. “My only duty has been to warn you. I beg of you to take precautions. Of how the coup will be effected I have no knowledge, neither has, I believe, the person whose mouthpiece I am. It was not deemed safe to write to you, hence this present subterfuge of mine.”
“But how can we possibly be separated, devoted as we are to each other?” she asked, her nervous fingers toying with her jewelled wrist-watch.
“Other lovers, as devoted as you both are, have, alas! been victims of wicked cunning and despicable plots. Parents and relatives are often to blame where it is a question of money, or of social advancement.”
“But my aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, heartily approves of Brinsley,” she declared.
“If you are quite certain of that, then I fear I can make no further suggestion,” he said, in a voice that sounded curious.
“What do you mean? Do you know my aunt?”
“Not from Adam.”
“She’s sitting over there, in a cyclamen frock, with those two elderly men”; and the girl indicated the trio.
“Oh!” he said. “So that’s Lady Wyndcliffe! How very interesting. I’ve heard of her, of course—of her gay dances at Claridge’s, and her luncheons and dinners at the Ritz. She’s always in the limelight, it seems.”
“You seem to hint, Mr. Edward, that she is not quite so favorable to my marriage with Dr. Otway as she makes out, eh?”
“My dear Miss Dare, I hint at nothing. I have merely delivered my message, in the hope that you will heed it, and keep both eyes and ears open.”
“What you have said has entirely mystified me,” she remarked. “Who is this unknown friend of mine who keeps his or her identity a secret?”
“It is a friend who desires to remain unidentified. But do believe me when I tell you that, although your friend has never seen you—only photographs of you—you nevertheless have a true friend.”
The girl paused. The more the stranger said the more deeply did she become intrigued.
“Well,” she exclaimed, after reflection, “if you refuse to disclose the identity of this unknown friend of mine, please present to him my compliments and thanks. Tell him that I am much mystified.”
“Naturally,” laughed her companion. “Take my advice, Miss Dare, and be prepared for any untoward circumstance that might lead to a breach between your lover and yourself. As I have already suggested to you, be forearmed against any contretemps.”
“Will it come soon, do you think?” she inquired in a low, tremulous voice, her eyes showing narrowed and anxious through her mask.
“Ah! How can we tell?” he asked, drawing a slight sigh, which she in an instant regarded as a sign of sympathy. “When the blow falls you will be expecting it, and be able to stave it off.”
“And may I not warn Brinsley?” she begged. “It isn’t fair to him to keep him in the dark.”
“I agree. But I can give no permission myself, Miss Dare,” he replied seriously. “I have to obtain it. This I will do. Look in the personal column of The Times of next Monday for a message addressed to ‘S,’ and the word will be either ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ And if the latter, you will know that the decision is inexorable. Your friend wishes you well, but he is compelled, because of certain contingencies, to exercise the greatest caution. He sends you word through myself of the clever plot against your happiness, in order that you may expect and frustrate it.”
“But is my aunt implicated in it? Surely not?”
“I am entirely ignorant of the details,” was the mysterious masquerader’s quiet response. “However, I would ask you one question which your unknown friend is anxious to know”; and, after he had paused for a few moments, he inquired: “Did your aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, once have in her service a butler named Ashe?”
“Ashe!” she echoed. “Of course she had! He was discharged for impertinence not very long ago.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “That is all my friend wishes to know.”
“Surely Ashe has nothing to do with my affairs!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“How can he? A mere servant,” he said; and as at that moment the man in the garb of an Arab sheik was seen approaching, the mysterious cavalier rose, bowed courteously, waved his plumed hat across his knees again, and, strolling away, was seen in the ballroom no more.
“Who’s your gay cavalier?” asked Brinsley with natural inquisitiveness, as he rejoined his fiancée.
“I—well, I really don’t know. Quite a nice man he seems, but he made himself mysterious. That’s all!”
“He seemed to be talking to you very seriously.”
“Yes,” she said, her woman’s innate wit coming to her rescue on the instant. “He seems to be a very sad person. A new arrival, I suppose. He was telling me of his wife. They were both here last season, but she has left him, and he seems inconsolable, poor fellow!”
“I wonder who he is,” exclaimed Brinsley in sympathy, his jealousy quite disarmed by Sibell’s explanation. “Take good stock of him, and let’s try and identify him afterwards. Did he tell you his name?”
“Of course not, Brin. He was masked. And why should I want to know the man’s name?” she laughed.
As a waltz was just commencing, they rose together and joined in the dancing. Little did Brinsley Otway dream of those warning words which had been whispered into Sibell’s ear, or little did the pair suspect the fatal pitfall which had been opened before them by the base and unscrupulous machinations of those bent upon feathering their own nests at the expense of a girl’s love and happiness.
The mad dance proceeded. Balloons and serpentines were everywhere. The electroliers were festooned with thousands of yards of multicolored paper ribbon, and thousands of yards of the same clung to the feet of the dancers. Confetti was half an inch deep everywhere, and, to the strains of the amateur jazz-band which had temporarily relieved the professional orchestra, the lovers fox-trotted around the room, watched furtively by the young-looking peeress in cyclamen.
Sibell’s brain was awhirl. What could the stranger have meant by his dark hints of conspiracy against her happiness? As she danced in her lover’s arms she tried to recall all that he had said; all those meaning words he had used; all the hints and warnings. The latter were certainly serious enough, but why had he, a perfect stranger, who admitted that he had never met her before that evening, made such a curious inquiry as he had done regarding her aunt’s discharged manservant, Albert Ashe?
She recollected that, although the fellow had always been most polite and courteous, even to obsequiousness, yet she had always instinctively disliked him, and was secretly very glad when he had been discharged for impertinence. Nevertheless, it was indeed strange that the mysterious masquerader should know of him.
That there was a conspiracy afoot, a secret plot, conceived by an enemy, to part her from Brinsley, was the main point. What she had heard from the masked man’s lips held her stunned and stupefied, yet, by reason of her promise to divulge nothing to her lover, she was now held dumb and powerless.
Who could possibly be jealous of her happiness? Bliss such as she was now experiencing amid these unsullied snows had never been hers before in all her life. Why should it all end? Who was there in the world who could conspire to prevent their union?
The dance was concluded, and supper was announced. They went to a long table in the big dining-room, where they joined a party of about twenty others with whom they had formed friendships in the hotel. Chatter and loud peals of laughter sounded on every hand, masks were lifted, champagne corks popped, and serpentines came hurtling through the air and fell upon the table. But Sibell had lost interest in it all.
Her keen eyes were diligently searching everywhere to discover her secret cavalier. But from the moment he had bowed so courteously and left her, he had disappeared. He had delivered his mysterious message, and his mission was apparently at an end.
Not far away from her, at a table-à-deux in a corner, was seated a middle-aged man in the brown habit of a Capuchin monk, chatting merrily with a pretty, fair-haired girl dressed as a Columbine.
Now and then the man raised his brown eyes, and watched Sibell furtively, but so changed was he in appearance that it was not surprising that she failed to again recognize him.
CHAPTER XVI.
MAN AND WOMAN
Etta Wyndcliffe, the incomparable chaperon, of dainty frock and exquisite etiquette, entered Sibell’s room just after finishing her coffee and rolls, as she was in the act of taking up her strong, well-oiled ski-boots. To get into ski-ing kit is always a troublesome operation for a girl; the heavy socks, the “turn-overs,” the Norwegian bindings at the ankles, all go to irritate the wearer in the early morning.
“Drat this infernal lace!” Sibell exploded aloud just as her aunt opened the door.
“Do you know, dear, I’ve just had a wire, and I must go to London this afternoon!” exclaimed her ladyship fussily. “Isn’t this the limit, just when I was enjoying myself so very much here? Yet I’m ever so glad we came to Gurnigel. I shall come again.”
“Is it very urgent, auntie? Can’t you wait till Friday week? We’re due to go down to the Riviera then, aren’t we?”
“No. I must go to-day. I’ve some urgent business with my bank, my dear. You and Brinsley can remain here, and I’ll meet you on the Riviera. There is no need whatever for you to return to London.”
“But it’ll be so horribly dull here without you, auntie,” the girl said.
“Well, dear, I’m afraid I must go. It’s imperative,” she said. “I’m just going to pack. I’ll get the concierge to ’phone down to Berne for a sleeper to-night. The motor-car to Berne goes at half-past three, I hear.”
“Yes, auntie. But all this is very disappointing!” declared the pretty girl, in ignorance of the real reason of her aunt’s sudden desire to return to London.
“I know, dear. But those horrible bankers have a nasty habit of calling your immediate attention to any little overdraft you may happen to have. And one can’t afford to neglect to call upon the good-looking manager and cajole him into straightening things out.”
And she smiled at the many recollections of how she had borrowed money upon all sorts of frail security.
“Well, we’re going out for an hour’s run with John,” said her niece, “so we’ll be back before noon. Can I help you to pack?”
“Not at all. Bevan is seeing to everything,” her ladyship replied, and then left the room to go down to the concierge.
That gay little snow-bound world of winter sports, notwithstanding all the petty jealousies and bickerings of little, unknown people, was a world of its own, a happy coterie of devotees of winter sports.
The one man in the whole hotel who laughed at it all was Mr. Gordon Mitchell. He was a stout, smiling, hail-fellow-well-met man, to whose initiative was due the opening of Gurnigel in winter. He was a popular artist whose work adorned one of the best London illustrated papers, an irresponsible Bohemian bachelor who had not a single care in the world, and who moved up and down Europe as Society went from pillar to post throughout the four seasons.
He always dubbed himself “the looker-on,” for he sketched assiduously and saw most of the games, whether it be at Deauville, Le Touquet, Dinard, or Biarritz in summer, the Riviera in spring, Scotland in the autumn, or winter in the Engadine or the Bernese Oberland. It was he who, one spring day, had passed Gurnigel in his car and, looking up at the huge white façade of the colossal hotel, wondered why it had never been opened in winter.
His chauffeur told him that it was a summer resort only.
“Well,” he said, “it must be opened in winter. I will see that it is opened.”
And he saw to it, with the result that at that moment all the four hundred odd rooms were occupied, while the servants’ quarters were also invaded by visitors.
The other Swiss hôteliers had stood aghast at Gurnigel’s brilliant success. Some resorts had not been half full that season. Indeed, two winter-sports centres had not opened at all. And yet Gurnigel was overflowing.
But it was due, they all knew, to Mr. Gordon Mitchell, the lover of Switzerland, and they knew that, being a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan, he was open to do his best to advertise and attract visitors to every place in turn in the glorious Bernese Oberland.
In that spirit Mr. Gordon Mitchell watched the course of events. He was one of those old-young travellers, wanderers to and fro across Europe, who loved to see young folk enjoy themselves, and, though something of an old fogey and stickler for etiquette, could perform to perfection the duties of a floor-manager of any ballroom. Indeed, his performances upon the drum in an amateur band were well known in every resort in Switzerland.
At half-past three that afternoon, as Lady Wyndcliffe descended the snowy steps to enter the big, yellow automobile of the Swiss Federal Post—one of those long, powerful motor-cars of the mountains—Mr. Mitchell, bare-headed, bowed over her hand and wished her bon voyage.
“You have my address,” her ladyship said with a merry smile. “Now if you don’t call on me, I’ll never forgive you, Mr. Mitchell! As I’ve told you, I know lots of artistic friends of yours of the Savage and the Ham Bone. You’ll call? Promise me. And do look after Sibell and Brinsley for me, won’t you?” she added mischievously.
The others heard it, and were much impressed.
“We’ll look after Mr. Mitchell for you, auntie!” cried Sibell in defiance, waving her hand merrily as Etta, in her magnificent sable coat, climbed into the big autobus.
Shouts, hand-waves, and a low bow from the black frock-coated concierge with keys upon his shoulders, and the post automobile, with heavy chains on all four wheels, started down the steep, slippery hill on the long, winding highroad to the Swiss capital.
Then, when Lady Wyndcliffe had gone, Sibell and her lover took a luge and, seated together upon it, started down the steep run at an exhilarating pace, both yelling “Achtung!” as warning to any pedestrians in their path.
Yet all day Sibell could not put from herself the remembrance of that dark man of mystery who, dressed as a cavalier, had told her such a strange, remarkable story. A hundred times she wondered why he had made that queer inquiry regarding the identity of Albert Ashe. What could he know of her aunt’s butler?
At luncheon she had scrutinized every table, but had failed to identify her masked informant. Some visitors had left by the early morning autobus at eight o’clock, so she concluded that he must have been among them.
She longed to be able to tell Brinsley of what the stranger had said, but she saw that she would be compelled to await the cryptic message in the personal column of The Times.
So the days passed—bright, sunlit days, with cloudless skies and perfect snow, and frosty nights, brilliant and starlit, most perfect weather for winter sports. At last one afternoon the post came in. She saw the page carry The Times to the reading-room, and pounced eagerly upon it. Yes, the message was there at the top of the second column, addressed to her. But it was in the negative.
Brinsley Otway was to be kept in ignorance of the plot against them!
That same afternoon was dark and rainy in London, as Lady Wyndcliffe climbed the stairs of some bachelor chambers in Duke Street, St. James’s, and rapped upon a door, which was quickly opened by her ex-butler, Ashe.
“Well, Etta?” he asked, and, having ushered her into a cosy little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning, and placed a chair for her, he said, “How did you get on?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the pretty woman wearily, throwing her furs carelessly upon the couch. “The fact is, I haven’t screwed up enough courage to face it.”
“What?” cried the man, glaring at her. “Don’t be a fool! Why, don’t you see that every day brings us nearer disaster? Every hour! Suppose he goes to the police? They’ll soon find you, and it will then be too late for him to withdraw. You must see him to-night—at once.”
“I can’t! I—I really can’t,” cried the white-faced woman in desperation. “Suppose he turns hostile, and gives me into custody?”
“He won’t do that if you are clever and don’t lose your head, Etta. You know he was in love with you, and may still be for all we know,” he said.
“Not after what has passed,” she replied, shaking her head. “I ruined him!”
“He’s not the only man ruined by a woman, my dear girl,” replied Ashe lightly. “Put on your best smile and a little sob-stuff, and he’ll soon forgive. Tell him you have come to him to make amends.”
“How can I possibly make amends for it all?” she asked bitterly.
“Pretend penitence and make all sorts of promises,” he urged. “Get on the right side of him, and he won’t harm you. But you must see him. Don’t let him hunt you out. You are not at West Halkin Street, are you?”
“No, I’m at the Grosvenor, under another name—Mrs. Wilcox.”
“As I’ve told you, he is at the Carlton,” said Ashe.
“No. He’s left there—gone to Manchester, and staying at the Midland. I was told so this morning when I rang them up.”
“Then you must go to Manchester to-night. Stay at the Midland, and see him in the morning. That’s my advice,” said the man, who was standing with arms akimbo on the hearthrug before her.
“But what am I to say?” she cried in despair. “What can I say?”
“Say that you heard he was back in England, and that you travelled at once from Switzerland to see him and to ask his forgiveness, and beg him to allow bygones to be bygones. He’ll do so, no doubt, if you play your cards cleverly. Once he becomes friendly, then we shall be able to deal with him and settle accounts.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that, Albert. It horrifies me,” she cried, covering her face with her hands, a habit of hers whenever she heard anything unpleasant.
“Well, my dear girl, we’ve got to face the music, haven’t we? It’s no use trying to evade the issue,” he said. “The first step is for you to appease him. And in order to do so, you must follow him to Manchester. Send a page to his room with a message that Mrs. Wilcox wishes to see him on a private matter. When a strange woman calls upon a man, he always becomes intrigued. Don’t announce yourself, as he might resent it.”
“But he might refuse to see me,” she protested.
“He won’t. He’s essentially a lady’s man, as you know.”
“But is there no other way?” she asked. “I feel so terrified lest he should call in the police and give me into custody. Think of the scandal of it all!”
“He won’t do that, provided you give him the real sob-stuff. And you know how to do that all right. I recollect one or two encounters you had with Wyndcliffe. You’re a damned fine actress, Etta, when you think it worth your while. And it is well worth it in this case, I assure you. Upon your trip to Manchester depends the liberty of us both, so the sooner you screw up courage the better.”
“Couldn’t you go and face him for me?”
“I!” cried the man, staring at her. “Why, I’d be bundled into the police-station within five minutes. Dear Rupert doesn’t love me—and never will!”
The woman paused for some minutes, her dark, apprehensive eyes gazing thoughtfully into the fire.
“But how can I make it up with him?” she faltered at last in a dull, broken voice quite unusual to her. “Think how I have treated him; of the sacrifice he made for me!”
“Oh, don’t wax romantic, my dear Etta,” he laughed. “Simply ask his forgiveness, say you still love him and all that, and——”
“And suppose he has discovered that I’ve married Wyndcliffe. What then, eh?” she interrupted.
The man pulled a wry face, but, after a moment’s silence, replied:
“I don’t see how he can know. You did not use your own name when you became Lady Wyndcliffe. Besides, you are Mrs. Wilcox, a widow, now.”
“But suppose he has discovered it, how am I to act?” she demanded. “What excuse can I make?”
“He won’t have found it out—not yet, at least. Therefore if you act at once and boldly you’ll hold all the honors in your hands. Take my advice and leave by the diner to Manchester this evening, sleep calmly at the Midland to-night, and look your prettiest and brace yourself up for to-morrow morning.”
“I dread the ordeal, Albert,” declared the unhappy woman.
“I have no doubt you do, my dear girl. But, as I have already said, we must call the music and Rupert must dance to our tune—if we are to get out of this unholy tangle.”
“He may have seen my portrait in the illustrated papers,” she remarked.
“No. He’s been in America all the time, in a place where he didn’t see papers”—and he grinned.
The woman drew a long breath, and he noticed that her jaw was twitching. Her nerves were unstrung. So he poured her out some brandy, which she swallowed at a gulp.
“It all remains with you, Etta,” he said very seriously, putting his hand upon her shoulder and bending over her. “Get him out of his present hostile mood. Promise him everything—to return to America with him if he wants you to do so; anything. Because once he resumes his friendship—and he will do so if you play the game properly—then all will be plain sailing for us in the future.”
“You mean—I know what you mean!” she whispered hoarsely, staring at him with horrified eyes. “You mean that I am to—to lure him to his death!”
CHAPTER XVII.
EXPLANATION AND APOLOGY
“Mr. Kimball says he’s very busy, madam. But he’ll see you for a few moments. Will you please come up to his sitting-room?” said the small boy in uniform.
Etta Wyndcliffe, wearing her daintiest little hat and her sable coat, stepped into the lift, and, piloted by the page, at last stood before a door upon which the lad rapped.
“Come in!” cried a gruff voice from within. The page opened the door, and next second Etta and her arch-enemy, Rupert Kimball, stood face to face.
The man—tall, burly, and clean-shaven, a typical American business man, upright and shrewd—removed his cigar in amazement, and, after staring at her for a second, exclaimed:
“Etta! And pray what the hell brings you here?”
“I came to meet you,” the woman faltered in a low voice, still standing upon the threshold.
“H’m! Thought it best to come to me, did you?” he growled, while his expression instantly altered, and there was a gleam of hatred in his sharp, dark eyes.
A well-dressed man of about fifty with iron-grey hair, his sunken eyes told of some deep sorrow, illness, or perhaps business failure.
“I don’t want to see you, woman!” he flared up, speaking with a forced American accent. “The very sight of you is hateful to me. Get out!” he added roughly.
“But, Rupert!” she cried piteously, closing the door behind her and advancing into the room. “Don’t send me away before you give me a chance to tell you—to tell you the truth”; and she put out her hands imploringly.
“The truth!” he laughed with sarcasm. “The truth from a woman like you!”
And he turned from her in disgust and walked across to the window.
“Don’t you remember the past? Don’t you ever think of——”
“I think of the hell’s witch that you are, and how you played me false!” he snapped between his teeth. “I tell you frankly that I’m here in England to bring you to justice.”
“But, Rupert, for God’s sake hear me!” she implored. “Before you take action against me, listen to what I have to say. I’ve rushed back from Switzerland to see you. Maudie Ashley wrote to me saying that you had left St. Louis and were on your way to London. I rang up the Carlton yesterday, and they told me you were here. I—I wanted to see you—to——”
“And I don’t want to see you. That’s the difference,” he snarled. “You came up here on false pretences—Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Because I feared that you would refuse to see me,” declared the unhappy woman with truth.
“I should certainly have refused. The past is all too horrible. Your face brings back to me all your foul plots and the evil worked against me. All my misfortunes I owe to your damnable cunning.”
“Rupert!” she said in a changed, intense voice. “I have come to you to try and atone for what I did. I know I was a swine to you. But I stand before you, and—and I humbly ask your forgiveness!”
Then before the man was aware of it she had sunk upon her knees before him, grasped his hand, and was kissing it fervently.
He tried to snatch his hand from her, but she held his wrist tightly with both hands.
“No, Rupert, no!” she cried frantically. “Forgive me, I implore you. Let us talk it all over.”
“There’s nothing to talk over,” he replied savagely. “You wrecked my life because I foolishly listened to your wicked scheming. You formed the plot out of your own evil brain; I listened to you, and did what you suggested. Then, when you had secured your own ends, you secretly gave me away for the reward, and left me to face disgrace and punishment. But now I’m free again, woman, I mean to at least be even with you! Forgive you! Never!” And he snatched his hand from her so roughly that she rolled to the floor at his feet.
“I got no reward!” she protested angrily. “It’s a lie.”
“Then that man who was behind your evil schemes took it. They told me all afterwards!”
“I know nothing about it, Rupert,” she said. “I admit that I have been your enemy. I now, however, want to stand as your friend—to help you to a new life.”
“Because you’re in mortal fear of me!” he laughed triumphantly. “You don’t think I’m a lovesick fool any longer? You surely don’t think that I believe a single word you say?”
“I can’t help that. What I say now, I mean.”
“Become very honest all of a sudden, it seems!” he sneered. “You look prosperous enough—more than you did six years ago. What are you doing for a living just now? That coat of yours must have cost a tidy few dollars.”
“I’m living honestly, at any rate,” was her sharp reply.
“For the first time in your life,” he laughed. “When I first met you, you were Snakey Toulmin, the decoy of Bud Taylor and his precious gang of sharpers working the Atlantic ferry. And an infernally smart little rogue you were. Those who made your acquaintance were always thousands of dollars the poorer on the trip. I was one of your pigeons.”
“That’s all of the past. Let’s wipe it out, Rupert.”
“H’m! You appear to think you can change your damned black soul as easily as you can change your frock,” he growled. “No, I have the past always with me. I had it for those years in a prison cell.”
“Forget it all,” urged the pretty but unhappy woman. “I know I’m utterly worthless, Rupert. But I’ve never had a single chance to be honest in my life till now. My father was a card-sharper, as you well know, and I was brought up from childhood to exercise my woman’s wiles upon men. I’m not wholly to blame.”
“You are wholly to blame for my ruin,” he answered. “You induced me to knock the bank-messenger on the head on that winter day in New York and steal his wallet. I very nearly committed murder at your instigation in order to provide you with a fine house and fine clothes, as I thought. But you in turn stole the money from me, gave me away to the police, and then escaped, leaving me to face prosecution and punishment. You didn’t think of me, Etta, did you? No, only of yourself and that swine who haunted you like a black shadow. I’ll hunt him out one day soon, never fear. I know he’s here in England, and then it will be my triumph when we meet,” he said savagely.
“My dear Rupert, I know all that you must feel, and how hostile and bitter you must be against me,” she said, assuming a softer attitude towards him. “I deserve it all. I don’t endeavor to excuse myself one iota for what I did. I only desire to atone for it all.”
“Atone!” exclaimed the man looking sternly into her face. “How?”
“By trying to help you, and perhaps to make you happy.”
“How can you help me? Got any money?” he asked.
“You can’t want money if you can afford to stay at the Carlton in London, and have a sitting-room here,” she ventured to remark.
“I’m doing some business up here,” he explained. “So I’ve had to have a sitting-room.”
“I hope it’s a profitable business.”
“Oh, it’s quite a square deal,” he said. “A bit of agency work for a New York wireless firm—component parts for amateurs’ sets. These English seem to have gone crazy on radio. It has taken America to show them the way.”
He smiled, and she instantly saw that his hostile attitude was slowly decreasing, though he naturally could not at once overlook her dastardly behavior in stealing from him those bundles of bank-notes and negotiable securities, which he had filched from the messenger whom he had knocked senseless at the street corner in Park Avenue.
“Yes,” she said. “The English are horribly slow to take up any innovation. Little old New York puts a polish on any new invention or labor-saving device before London can rub its eyes even to look at it. I hope you’ll do good business in radio, Rupert. And if I can be of any help, why, I’m right there at once.”