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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
This carefully edited collection has been designed and formatted to the highest digital standards and adjusted for readability on all devices. Edgar Wallace (1875 - 1932) was an English writer. As well as journalism, Wallace wrote screen plays, poetry, historical non-fiction, 18 stage plays, 957 short stories and over 170 novels, 12 in 1929 alone. More than 160 films have been made of Wallace's work. Table of Contents: The Nine Bears Silinski - Master Criminal (new revised version of The Nine Bears) The Fellowship of the Frog The Joker The Twister The India-Rubber Men White Face
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The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition)
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Table of Contents
The Nine Bears
1. N.H.C
It was a bad night in London, not wild or turbulent, but swathed to the eyes like an Eastern woman in a soft grey garment of fog. It engulfed the walled canyons of the city through which the traffic had roared all day, plugged up the maze of dark side streets, and blotted out the open squares. Close to the ground it was thick, viscous, impenetrable, so that one could not see a yard ahead, and walked ghostlike, adventuring into a strange world.
Occasionally it dispersed. In front of the opera house, numbers of arc-lights wrought a wavering mist-hung yellow square, into which a constant line of vehicles like monstrous shiny bugs emerged from the outer nowhere, disgorged their contents, and eclipsed again. And pedestrians in gay processional streamed across the ruddy glistening patch like figures on a slide.
Conspicuous in the shifting throng was a boy, ostensibly selling violets, but with a keen eye upon the arriving vehicles. Suddenly he darted to the curb, where an electric coupe had just drawn up. A man alighted heavily, and turned to assist a young woman.
For an instant the lad’s attention was deflected by the radiant vision. The girl, wrapped in a voluminous cloak of ivory colour, was tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist, and sparkling now with amusement.
“Watch your steps, auntie,” she warned laughingly, as a plump elderly little lady descended stiffly from the coupe. “These London fogs are dangerous.”
The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root in the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
“Voylets, lidy? Wear your colours. You ain’t allowed to trot without.”
The girl gazed at him, her blue eyes bright as stars on a windy night. An enchanting dimple twinkled about her curved lips in gay hide-and-seek, and when she laughed, fled upward to her eyes.
“Father,” she said, “will you buy my colours from this bold sporting gentleman?”
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face, beneath the tall hat, was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close-set and of a turbid grey.
“It’s him,” the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
“So you are a sporting man,” the girl rallied him gaily, adjusting the flowers.
The boy nodded, responding instantly to her mood.
“Only,” he swept her with shrewd, appraising eyes, that noted every detail of her delicate beauty and sumptuousness, “I don’t trot in the two-minute class myself.”
The girl laughed a clear silvery peal; and turned impulsively to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his hansom and joined the group.
It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward the older man.
“N.,” he said in a soft but distinct undertone. The man’s face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large, white-gloved palm, slipped jingling to the pavement.
The young messenger stooped and caught it up dextrously.
“N.,” he whispered again, insistently.
“H.,” the answer came hoarsely. The man’s lips trembled.
“C.,” finished the boy promptly and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the other’s hand. Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort, and turning, was lost in the throng.
The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the four were seated in their box, and the throbbing strains from the overture of I Pagliacci came floating up to them.
“I wish I were a little street gamin in London,” said the girl pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. “Think of the adventures! Don’t you, Cord?”
“Don’t I wish you were?” Cord Van Ingen looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.
“No,” he said softly, “I do not!”
The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.
“For a young diplomat, Cord, you are too obvious — too delightfully verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse — study Poltavo!” At the name the boy’s brow darkened.
“Study the devil!” he muttered under his breath.
“That too, for a diplomat, is necessary!” she murmured sweetly.
“He isn’t coming here tonight?” Van Ingen asked in aggrieved tones.
The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“What you can see in that man, Doris,” he protested, “passes me! I’ll bet you anything you like that the fellow’s a rogue! A smooth, soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore,” he appealed to the older woman, “do you like him?”
“Oh, don’t ask Aunt Patricia!” cried the girl.
“She thinks him quite the most fascinating man in London. Don’t deny it, auntie!”
“I shan’t,” said that lady calmly, “for it’s true! Count Poltavo,” she paused to inspect through her lorgnettes some newcomers in the opposite box, “Count Poltavo is the only interesting man in London. He is a genius.” She shut her lorgnettes with a snap. “It delights me to talk with him. He smiles and murmurs gay witticisms and quotes Talleyrand and Luculhis, and all the while in the back of his head, quite out of reach, his real opinions of you are being tabulated and ranged neatly in a row, like bottles on a shelf.”
“I’d like to take down some of those bottles,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Maybe some day I shall.”
“They’re probably labelled poison,” remarked Van Ingen, a little viciously. He looked at the girl with a growing sense of injury. Of late she had seemed absolutely changed toward him; and from being his dear friend, his childhood’s mate, with established intimacies, she had turned before his very. eyes into an alien, almost an enemy, more beautiful than ever, to be true, but perverse, mocking, impish. She flouted him for his youth, his bluntness, his guileless transparency. But hardest of all to bear was the delicate derision with which she treated his awkward attempts to express his passion for her, to speak of the fever which had taken possession of him, almost against his will, and which at sight of her throbbed madly at his wrists and temples. And now, he reflected bitterly, with this velvet fop of a count looming up as a possible rival, with his savoir faire, and his absurd penchant for literature and art, what chance had he, a plain American, against such odds? — unless, as he profoundly believed, the chap was a crook. He determined to sound her father.
“Mr. Grayson,” he asked aloud, “what do you think — halloo!” He sprang up suddenly and thrust out a supporting arm.
Grayson had risen, and stood swaying slightly upon his feet. He was frightfully pale, and his countenance was contracted as if in pain. He lifted a wavering hand to his brow.
“I — I feel ill,” he said faintly. His hand fell limply to his side. He took a staggering step toward the door.
Van Ingen was beside him instantly.
“Lean on me, sir,” he urged quietly. He passed a steadying hand through Grayson’s, and guided him toward the passage.
“We’ll have you out of this in a jiffy,” he said cheerfully. “It’s the confounded stifling air of these places! It’s enough to make a grampus faint! Lady Dinsmore, will you look after Doris?”
“No! No!” the girl exclaimed. Her face was white and strained and fear darkened her eyes. In her distress she had risen, and stood, clasping tightly her father’s arm.
“We’ll all go together! Please, dear!” Her voice and eyes pleaded. She seemed trying to convey a hidden meaning, a secret urgency.
“Nonsense!” Grayson, still pallid and frowning, leaned heavily upon Van Ingen’s shoulder. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his temples but his voice was stronger.
“Don’t make a scene, my girl.” He nodded toward the stalls, where already curious lorgnettes were beginning to be levelled at their box.
“Sit down!”
Doris obeyed mutely, her mobile lips quivering as she sought to suppress her emotion. She was conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her heart throughout her limbs. The oppression of a nameless fear took possession of her; it weighed her down. She sat very still, gripping her fan.
“I’ll be around fit as ever in the morning. ‘Night, Lady Dinsmore. Take care of my girl.”
Grayson spoke jerkily with a strong effort.
Lady Patricia Dinsmore regarded him coldly. She disliked the man cordially, and made no bones of it. In her heart she had never forgiven him for wedding her foolish younger sister, the family beauty, who had died at Doris’ birth far away from her kith and kin in the desolate wilds of New York.
“Goodnight, Gerald,” she said drily. “Try to get a little sleep.” She turned to the younger man. “Put him to bed, Cord, and cut all the wires around the Savoy, so he won’t call up those wretched brokers. I think he’s trying to gobble the whole English market.”
She marked sharply the effect of her shaft. Grayson turned a shade paler. He clutched Van Ingen’s arm.
“Get me out of here!” he whispered hoarsely. Lady Patricia viewed their departing backs with a fleeting ironical smile.
“Your father, my dear,” she murmured to Doris, “is a very remarkable man.”
Out in the fresh air, Grayson revived amazingly. His feebleness disappeared as if by magic, and he stepped out briskly. He nodded to a hansom in the rank and the man drew in to the opening.
“The Savoy,” cried Grayson.
He sprang in hastily.
Van Ingen made as if to follow, but Grayson held the apron door securely.
“No need in the world for you to accompany me, dear boy,” he exclaimed, smiling. “Go back. I feel quite braced already. It was that devilish stuffiness inside — a momentary seizure. Goodnight!”
He waved his hand and sank back. The hansom started forward with a jerk, and the young man retraced his steps to the theatre, frowning thoughtfully.
Ten minutes later Grayson thrust up the trap.
“You may drop me here,” he called. He descended and paid his fare. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he remarked casually.
“Bit thickish on foot tonight, sir,” offered the driver respectfully. “Better let me set you down at the hotel.” But his fare was already lost in the enveloping gloom.
Grayson wrapped his muffler closely about his chin, pulled down his hat to shadow his eyes, and hurried along like a man with a set destination. Presently he halted and signalled to a cab, crawling along close to the curb. Grayson scrutinised it keenly. The horse looked strong.
“Can you take me some distance?” he asked the driver.
“Take ye far’s you got the coin!”
Grayson glanced about him furtively. “As far as this?” He stepped forward and gave an address in a carefully lowered voice.
The driver leaned far down from his high box and peered into his fare’s face.
“Not there!” he muttered.
Grayson held out a sovereign silently. The driver shook his head.
“It’s fair worth a man’s life on a night like this.”
Two sovereigns gleamed in Grayson’s bare outstretched palm.
“I’ll double it if you drive fast,” he offered.
“All right, sir,” answered the man at length, a bit sullenly. “Jump in.” He turned his horse round and drove rapidly toward the river.
2. A Business Consultation
The fog was still heavy and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the yellow mist when the young messenger, the first half of his mission performed, struck briskly riverward to complete his business. He disposed of his violets at a corner stand, hailed a passing hansom boldly, and after a low consultation with the driver, got in. They drove steadily for an hour. The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk.
“Here ye be,” he called huskily.
The boy sprang to the ground and peered about him. “It’ll do,” he announced, and then briefly, “Wait ‘arf an hour.”
He plunged down a dark and crabbed way, glancing warily behind him now and then to see if he was being followed.
Here, between invisible walls, the fog hung thick and warm and sticky, crowding up close, with a kind of blowsy intimacy that whispered the atmosphere of the place. Occasionally, close to his ear, snatches of loose song burst out, or a base, coarse face loomed head-high through the reek. But the boy was upon his native heath and scuttled along, whistling softly between closed teeth, as, with a dexterity born of long practice, he skirted slush and garbage sinks, held around the blacker gulfs that denoted unguarded basement holes, and eluded the hideous shadows that lurched by in the gloom.
Hugging the wall, he presently became aware of footsteps behind him. He rounded a corner, and turning swiftly collided with something which grappled him with great hands. Without hesitation, the lad leaned down and set his teeth deep into the hairy arm.
The man let go with a hoarse bellow of rage, and the boy, darting across the alley, could hear him stumbling after him in blind search of the narrow way.
Thin shivers of excitement rippled up and down his spine and his blood crinkled in his veins. Squatting close to the sloppy wall, he thrust out one leg and waited. He could feel the quarry come on, the big blowing body of him, the groping, outstretched arms. His leg stiffened rigid as a bar of iron. With a crash the man fell headlong across it. The boy laughed aloud and sheered aside, barely missing a knife which hurtled past and stuck quivering in the opposite wall.
As he sped along, a door suddenly opened in the blank wall beside him, and a stream of ruddy light gushed out, catching him square within its radiance, mud-spattered, starry-eyed, vivid.
A man stood framed in the doorway.
“Come in,” he commanded briefly.
The boy obeyed. Surreptitiously he wiped the wet and mud from his face and tried to reduce his wild breathing.
The room which he entered was meagre and stale-smelling, with bare floor and stained and sagging wallpaper; unfurnished save for a battered deal table and some chairs.
He sank into one of them and stared with frank curiosity past his employer, who had often entrusted him with messages requiring secrecy, past his employer’s companion, to the third figure in the room. A prostrate figure which lay quite still under the heavy folds of a long dark ulster with its face turned to the wall.
“Well?” It was a singularly agreeable voice which aroused him, softly modulated but with a faint foreign accent. The speaker was his employer, a slender dark man, with a finely carved face, immobile as the Sphinx. He had laid aside his Inverness and top hat, and showed himself in evening dress with a large buttonhole of Parma violets, which sent forth a faint, delicious fragrance.
Of the personality of the man the messenger knew nothing more than that he was an aristocratic young nob, eccentric in a quiet way, who lived in a grand house near Portland Place, and who rewarded him handsomely for his occasional services.
He related his adventures of the evening, not omitting to mention his late pursuer. “The keb’s waitin’ now, outside, sir,” he concluded. The man listened quietly, brooding, his elbows upon the table, his inscrutable face propped in the crotch of his hand. A ruby, set quaintly in a cobra’s head, gleamed from a ring upon his little finger. Presently he roused.
“That’s all tonight, my boy,” he said gravely.
“You’ve served me well.”
He drew out his purse, extracted two sovereigns, and laid them in the messenger’s hand.
“And this,” he said softly, holding up a third gold piece, “is for — discretion! You comprehend?”
The boy shot a swift glance, not unmixed with terror, at the still, recumbent figure in the corner, mumbled an assent, and withdrew. Out in the dampness of the fog, he took a long, deep breath. After all, he reflected, such affairs were not in the province of a night-messenger. They belonged to Scotland Yard. And certainly the man paid well.
As the door closed behind him, his employer leaned back in his chair, and smiled into the sombre eyes of his companion.
“At last!” he breathed softly. “The thing moves. The wheels are beginning to revolve!”
His friend nodded gloomily, his glance straying off toward the corner of the room.
“They’ve got to revolve a mighty lot more before the night’s done!” he replied with heavy significance.
He was a tall, lean man and wore a brown overcoat with the collar turned up sharply about his throat, and a derby hat still glistening from the mist. His voice, which was flat and rasping, betrayed his transatlantic origin.
“It’s my opinion,” he continued bluntly, “that you stick right here at this end of the line and see the game through. You can present your excuses to Lady Dinsmore tomorrow. I needn’t tell you that we must move in this venture with extreme caution. A single misstep at the outset, the slightest breath of suspicion, and pff! the entire superstructure falls to the ground.”
“That is doubtless true, Mr. Baggin,” murmured his companion pleasantly. He leaned down to inhale the fragrant scent of the violets. “But you forget one little thing. This grand superstructure you speak of — so mysteriously—” he hid a slight smile, “I know it not. You have seen fit, in your extreme caution, to withhold all knowledge of it from me.”
He paused and regarded his companion with a level, steady gaze. A faint, ironical smile played about the corners of his mouth.
“Is it not so, my friend?” he asked softly. “I am — how you say — left out in the cold?”
His countenance was serene and unruffled, and it was only by his slightly quickened breathing that an acute observer might have said that the conversation held any unusual significance.
The American stirred uneasily in his chair. A dull flush mounted to his temples.
“There are some financial matters—” he muttered sullenly.
“You admit it, then — this high scheme has to do with finance, with the finance of nations — the finance of the world!”
“Hush!” whispered Baggin hoarsely. He glanced about, half-fearfully.
The younger man ignored the outburst. He laid a persuasive hand upon his companion’s arm.
“My friend,” he said gravely, “let me give you a bit of good advice. Believe me, I speak disinterestedly. Take me into your counsels. As a Russian nobleman and distant kinsman of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar, I have the entree to the most exclusive houses of London. Politics I know a little, and the politicians extremely well. Twice I have been a guest at Sandringham. I am a person of diplomacy, resolution, power. In brief, Mr. Baggin, I am intelligent,’and I know too little or too much for you. Too much for an outsider, too little for a friend and — ah — conspirator. With half my knowledge, I could make you, or break you like glass. Candidly, I have not the heart for the latter. I would be rather a — a friendly power.”
He leaned forward suddenly. “Make me,” he said softly, “a member of your Committee of Nine.”
Baggin shrank back. “You — you know that?” he gasped.
“I know many things,” was the quiet reply, “but not all.”
The American looked at him doubtfully. The man seemed limpid. Was he, in truth, as Grayson had once said, as deep as the bottomless pit?
Grayson, he knew, had favoured him.
“You have no money,” he objected, finally.
“I have something better.”
“What?” In Baggin’s mouth the question was an insult.
“Genius!” returned the young man simply.
He disregarded Baggin’s scornful ejaculation, and continued impersonally, as if reading aloud from a book.
“Genius, my friend! Genius is as high above mere money as the stars wheeling in their celestial courses are above the earth. It is human electricity — the motive power of the world. With my power, the spark I feel within me here” — he touched his white shirt-front— “I could wipe out kingdoms and principalities, change the map of Europe more drastically than Napoleon — and bloodlessly! Think of it a moment, my prosaic, financial friend! I who sit here in this room, with you and a dead man, can do these things! Just one little pawn in the game is missing. Money. A few million pounds for running expenses and for salaries to my — er — myrmidons! That item, Mr. Baggin, I expect to be supplied by you.”
He laughed outright at Baggin’s frowning, mistrustful face, crossed one leg over the other, and clasped his silk-clad ankle with a shapely hand. Baggin noted the boyish action. It at once irritated him and determined his course.
“Unfortunately,” he replied drily, “we have already chosen our president and voted upon the immediate use of the fund. The map of Europe, I fear, must for the present remain unaltered—”
He glanced up and added hurriedly, “I — regret this Perhaps at our next meeting The membership, as you perhaps know, is — er — limited.”
The young man sprang to his feet. His face was bronze.
“It is of no consequence, my friend.” He laughed softly. “Simply, the scheme appealed to me. It fired my imagination. I am, as you know, a dreamer.
“‘If you can dream, and not make dreams your master,’” he murmured.
He walked over to the corner of the room, picked up his Inverness, and stood looking composedly down upon the figure which it had concealed.
“Salve, my friend! You go down the river tonight, wiser than all the kings of earth.”
He slipped into his coat and turned toward Baggin, who had also risen.
“You will see that it gets into the morning papers,” he said. “I could wish to write it myself,” he added pensively, drawing on his gloves.
“It has possibilities. So: ‘ Grayson a suicide. Great financier shows himself at the opera, bids the gay world goodnight, and throws himself in the Thames. A flying rumour breathes money troubles as a cause for the tragedy.’ Wait!” he fumbled in his breast pocket, “I’ll write a note to pin to his clothes.”
He scribbled hastily in his memorandum book, tore out the leaf, and handed it to his companion.
“He confesses his sins and commends his soul to ‘le bon Dieu.’” He laid a hand upon the door.
“You will leave me here — alone?” asked Baggin.
“But yes! Nothing can harm you from within, and you bolt the door from without — until the preconcerted signal. It should not be long now.” He drew out his watch.
“But — I wish you to remain — I command it—”
Despite his efforts at composure, Baggin’s voice quavered.
His companion laughed. “A Roland for your Oliver, my friend!” he cried. “Favour for favour! You grant my small request?”
Baggin shook his head.
“You will be king, eh? — and alone? Good!”
He put on his top hat, adjusted his silk muffler about his throat, and with an amiable nod to his companion, stepped out into the night.
The fog had thinned to a nebulous haze, fine as a lady’s veil, and the young man strode along briskly. Ten minutes brought him to the waiting hansom.
“Covent Garden,” he directed the driver. He sprang in and leaned back against the cushions.
“So Baggin would be king!” He smiled with a certain grimness.
3. In Which a Certain Momentous Question Is Asked
At precisely ten o’clock, as the curtain came reefing slowly down upon the first act of I Pagliacci, Lady Dinsmore turned with outstretched hand to greet a newcomer who had just entered the box.
“My dear count,” she exclaimed, “I am disappointed in you! Here I have been paying you really quite tremendous compliments to these young people — which for an old woman, you know, is very proper — and you show your complete indifference to me by committing the worst crime in the calendar!”
“I am desolated!” The stranger who was bowing over her hand, a trifle lower than an Englishman would have done, was slender and distinguished looking, faultlessly dressed, and wearing a bunch of Parma violets. He had a way of looking at one gravely with an air of concentrated attention, as if he were seeing through the words, into the very soul of the speaker. He was, indeed, a wonderful listener, and this quality, added to a certain boyish candour of temperament, accounted perhaps for Count Poltavo’s popularity in society.
“Before I ask you to name the crime, Lady Dinsmore,” he said, “or to inform me if the calendar is a lady’s, permit me to offer my humblest apologies for my lateness.” Lady Dinsmore shook her head at him.
“You are incorrigible!” she declared. “But sit down and make your excuses at your leisure. You know my niece, and I think you have met Mr. Van Ingen. He is one of our future diplomats.” The count bowed and sank into a chair beside his hostess.
Van Ingen, after a frigidly polite acknowledgment, resumed his conversation with Doris rather eagerly, and Lady Dinsmore turned to her companion.
“Now for the explanation,” she exclaimed briskly. “I shall not let you off! Unpunctuality is a crime, and your punishment shall be to confess its cause.”
Count Poltavo bent toward her with bright, smiling eyes.
“A very stupid and foolish business engagement,” he replied, “which required my personal attendance. Shall I give you the details? I warn you in advance they will bore you frightfully! They did me.”
Lady Dinsmore threw up a protesting hand.
“Pray spare me,” she begged. “Business has no charms to soothe my savage breast! Grayson,” she lowered her voice confidentially, “can talk of nothing else. When he was with me, he was forever telegraphing, cabling to America, or decoding messages. There was no peace in the house, by day or by night. Finally I made a stand. ‘Gerald,’ I said, ‘you shall not pervert my servants with your odious tips, and turn my home into a public stock-exchange. Take your bulls and bears over to the Savoy and play with them there, and leave Doris to me.’ And he did!” she concluded triumphantly.
Count Poltavo looked about, as if noting for the first time the man’s absence. “Where is he now?” he enquired.
Lady Dinsmore shrugged her shoulders.
“He is — ill! Frankly, I think he had a slight indisposition, and magnified it in order to escape. He hates music. Doris has been quite distrait ever since. The child adores her father.”
Her companion glanced across to the subject of their remarks. The girl sat in the front of the box, slim and elegant, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She was watching the brilliant scene with a certain air of detachment, as if thinking of other things. Her usual lightness and gay banter seemed for the moment to have deserted her, leaving a soft brooding wistfulness that was strangely appealing.
The count looked long at her.
“She is very beautiful,” he murmured under his breath.
Something in his voice caught Lady Dinsmore’s attention. She eyed him keenly. The count met her look frankly.
“Is — is she engaged to her young friend?” he asked quietly. “Believe me, it is not vulgar curiosity which prompts the question. I — I am — interested.”
His voice was as composed as ever, but a slight pallor spread across his countenance. Lady Dinsmore averted her gaze hurriedly and thought with lightning rapidity.
“I have not her confidence,” she replied at length in a low tone. “She is a wise young woman and keeps her own counsel.” She appeared to hesitate. “She dislikes you,” she added. “I am sorry to wound you, but it is no secret.” Count Poltavo nodded. “I know,” he said simply. “Will you be my very good friend and tell me why?”
Lady Dinsmore smiled. “I will do better than that,” she said kindly. “I will be your very good friend and give you a chance to ask her why. Cord,” she bent forward and tapped the young man upon the shoulder’with her fan, “will you come over here and tell me what your chief means by permitting all this dreadful war-talk with Japan. Is it true that you Americans are going to fight those pleasant little men?”
The count resigned his seat courteously, and took the vacant place beside the girl. A silence fell between them, which presently the man broke.
“Miss Grayson,” he began gravely, “your aunt kindly gave me this opportunity to ask you a question. Have I your permission also?”
The girl arched her brows at him. Her lip curled ever so slightly.
“A question to which you and my Aunt Patricia could find no answer between you! It must be subtle indeed! How can I hope to succeed?”
He ignored her sarcasm. “Because it concerns yourself, mademoiselle.”
“Ah!” She drew herself up and regarded him with sparkling eyes. One small foot began to tap the floor ominously. Then she broke into a vexed little laugh.
“I am no match for you with the foils, count. I admit it, freely. I should have learned by this time that you never say what you mean, or mean what you say.”
“Forgive me, Miss Grayson, if I say that you mistake me utterly. I mean always what I say — most of all to you. But to say all that I mean. — To put into speech all that one hopes or dreams — or dares—” his voice dropped to a whisper—” to turn oneself inside out like an empty pocket to the gaze of the multitude — that is — imbecile.”
He threw out his hands with an expressive gesture.
“But to speak concretely — I have unhappily offended you, Miss Grayson. Something I have done —
“Miss Grayson,” he began gravely, “your aunt kindly gave me this opportunity to ask you a question. Have I your permission also?”
The girl arched her brows at him. Her lip curled ever so slightly.
“A question to which you and my Aunt Patricia could find no answer between you! It must be subtle indeed! How can I hope to succeed?”
He ignored her sarcasm. “Because it concerns yourself, mademoiselle.”
“Ah!” She drew herself up and regarded him with sparkling eyes. One small foot began to tap the floor ominously. Then she broke into a vexed little laugh.
“I am no match for you with the foils, count. I admit it, freely. I should have learned by this time that you never say what you mean, or mean what you say.”
“Forgive me, Miss Grayson, if I say that you mistake me utterly. I mean always what I say — most of all to you. But to say all that I mean. — To put into speech all that one hopes or dreams — or dares—” his voice dropped to a whisper—” to turn oneself inside out like an empty pocket to the gaze of the multitude — that is — imbecile.” He threw out his hands with an expressive gesture.
“But to speak concretely — I have unhappily offended you, Miss Grayson. Something I have done or left undone — or my unfortunate personality does not engage your interest? Is it not true?”
There was no mistaking his almost passionate sincerity now, held in check by the man’s invincible composure.
But the girl still held aloof, her blue eyes cool and watchful. For the moment her face, in its young hardness, bore a curious resemblance to her father’s.
“Is that your question?” she demanded. The count bowed silently. His lips were pale.
“Then I will tell you!” She spoke in a low voice surcharged with emotion. “I will give you candour for candour, and make an end of all this paltry masquerade.”
“That,” he murmured, “is what I most desire.” Doris continued, heedless of the interruption.
“It is true that I dislike you. I am glad to be able to say it to you, openly. And yet, perhaps, I should use another word. I dislike you and fear you in equal parts. I dislike your secrecy — something dark and hidden within you — and I fear your influence over my father.” Her voice faltered over the last word, and she paused.
Lady Dinsmore’s cheerful tones broke across the silence.
“Doris,” she charged, “you are preaching to the count. He is looking quite sulky and bored.”
He shook his head at her, smiling.
“My unfortunate face, it belies me. I was, in truth, deeply interested. Miss Grayson was speaking of her father.” He turned back to the girl. “You will continue the — how you say — arraignment?” he asked gravely. “I would know the worst. I, influence your father for evil — but how?”
Doris looked at him sombrely.
“I don’t know — exactly,” she admitted. “But you are somehow connected with the — the scheme — a terrible illegal scheme,” her voice was only just audible. “That I know to a certainty. Father spoke to me one day of you—”
Count Poltavo started.
“It was after he had decoded a telegram. He looked up and spoke of your brilliance and discretion. He said you had the mind of a Napoleon.”
“It is true that I was able to do your father a service,” he replied slowly. “I did him another tonight.” He smiled with a certain mysticism.
“In truth, it was what delayed me. But as for your — ah — conspiracy, Miss Grayson, believe me, I know little. That a — a committee exists, with a president—”
“Baggin!” breathed the girl. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Ah!” His face was immovable, but a gleam in his eyes betrayed him.
She turned upon him sharply. “You did not know?”
He shook his head. “I know nothing — certainly. I wish I did!” he added simply.
“That is true — you swear it?” She leaned toward him a little, her bosom heaving tumultuously.
He bowed his head in assent.
“If I could believe you!” she faltered. “I need a friend! Oh, if you could know how I have been torn by doubts, beset by fears — oppressions!”
Her voice quivered. “It is illegal, you know, and terrible! If you would help me Wait. May I test you with a question?”
“A thousand if you like.”
“And you will answer — truthfully?” In her eagerness she was like a child.
He smiled. “If I answer at all, be sure it v/ill be truthful.”
“Tell me then, is Mr. Baggin your friend?”
“He is my dearest enemy,” he returned promptly.
She drew a deep breath of relief. “And my father?” The question was a whisper. She appeared to hang upon his reply. The count hesitated. “I do not know,” he admitted finally. “If he were not influenced by Mr. Baggin, I believe he would be my friend.”
“For the first time that evening Doris looked at him with warmth in her manner. “By that,” she said, smiling faintly, “I know you have told the truth. My father likes you, but Mr. Baggin sways him completely.” The smile deepened in her eyes and she laughed a little unsteadily. “You — you will be kind, and forgive my rudeness and — and my anger?” The coldness had departed from her face completely and she was charming.
The count looked hard at her. Her glance wavered, fell, and met his again for a long moment.
Her colour heightened, and her breath came more quickly. A cloud of passion was about them. It brushed them with invisible wings.
He broke the spell.
“I am happy to have convinced you of my — ah — sincerity,” he murmured. “And you do, in truth, believe me?”
She laughed softly. “Yes.”
“And will trust me?”
“Yes.”
He bent nearer to her. His face was quite pale and his eyes burned like living things. “May I put’my original question, then — my personality is not utterly displeasing to you?”
“My dear count,” it was Lady Dinsmore’s voice again, “it occurs to me that you are putting several hundred questions besides the one which I permitted you.”
“It is I who am the culprit, auntie,” exclaimed Doris gaily. “You see it was a game — taking down bottles off the shelf! Each one of us had ten questions which the other must answer truthfully. I finished mine first, and the count had just begun on his!”
“I see,” said Lady Dinsmore drily. “I fear, then, that I interrupted.” Count Poltavo leaned toward her persuasively.
“There is just one more important question, dear Lady Dinsmore,” he said,’” and that I should like to ask you.”
The little lady elevated her brows at him. “Insatiable youth!” she murmured. “What is your question?”
“It is a very small thing,” he replied, “but it has been in my mind for several days. I should like you and Miss Grayson — and Mr. Van Ingen, if he can find the time,” he bowed politely to the young American, “to visit my studio.”
Doris clapped her hands. “Delightful!” she exclaimed. “And will you do a sketch of auntie with her head cocked a bit to one side, like a pert little robin, and that adorable crooked smile?”
Lady Dinsmore patted her hand with a tolerant smile. “It is you that the count wishes to paint, my dear, not a wizened old woman like me.”
“If I might try both of you,” the count replied.
“Sometimes, with people who are my friends, the result is not so bad. The likeness, if it comes at all, comes quickly.”
Lady Dinsmore laughed. “We will come, I promise you! Some afternoon—”
“Morning,” he begged. “The light is better.”
“Some morning, then,” she agreed, “next week.”
The curtain rose upon Nedda and Canio, who sang with love and bitterness and rage. Lady Dinsmore yawned behind her fan. At the end of the act she rose.
“Doris, my dear, I am going to follow the example of your father. This air is stifling, and we have a heavy day before us tomorrow. Cord, will you go for our things?”
It was the count who handed the ladies to their places in the unobtrusively elegant electric coupe, while Van Ingen stood doggedly at his elbow, awaiting a last word with Doris. He was bitterly jealous of his rival, who, to the boy’s inflamed mind, seemed perversely lingering over his farewells. There was some colour for his anger. The count had taken the girl’s hand, and bending down so low that the two dark heads almost touched, was murmuring in her ear.
She smiled, but shook her head.
“Every moment tomorrow is already gone. And the next day also!”
He looked at her steadfastly for a moment. “I shall see you tomorrow,” he reiterated softly.
“Moreover, you yourself will send for me. I prophesy!”
She laughed, and gave her hand to Van Ingen.
“Goodnight, Cord,” she said with frank affection.
“You won’t forget you’re lunching with me tomorrow, Doris?” he begged.
“No, indeed!” she returned mischievously. “I want to see my father. And, Cord, do look him up in the morning and ‘phone me how he is — will you? I wish you could get him off for a walk.”
“I will.” He flushed with pleasure at the request. “I’ll take him out to the zoo.”
He closed the door and turned to rid himself of his companion.
The count stood with bared head, staring after the coupe. The corners of his lips curved in a slight smile, and his eyes were bright, as of one who dreams of pleasant things.
“Goodnight,” said Van Ingen shortly. The count laid a persuasive hand upon the young man’s arm.
“Not yet,” he begged. “You will perhaps stroll with me for a little?”
Van Ingen hesitated, frowning.
“I must insist!” Count Poltavo linked an arm through his companion’s, who perforce fell into step with him. “It is — how you say — a small matter of business!” He laughed softly.
Van Ingen stalked along in absolute silence. The man’s marked, almost insolent preference of Doris, as well as his amazing power over her, filled him with speechless rage. ,Given a pinchbeck title, he reflected viciously, and a glib tongue, and straightway loses her head. “What is your business?” he asked aloud. Poltavo threw back his head and laughed musically. “Ah, you Americans!” he murmured.
“You cut, like a sharp knife, straight to the heart of a matter. One stroke! ‘What is your business?’” He mimicked the young man’s curt speech with delicate precision.
“Your countrywoman, Miss Grayson, she also is direct — and adorable.” He appeared to muse.
“She is natural, with the naivete of a child. She is beautiful. She has charm. The perfect trinity! Have you observe’ her chin — so round, so firm — and her throat—”
Van Ingen disengaged himself roughly. “We will not discuss Miss Grayson,” he said a little hoarsely. “We will, if you please, keep strictly to business.”
The count regarded him with an air of aggrieved reproach.
“You use words like bricks, my friend,” he said gently. “You assault the intelligence. Ver’ good. I retort in kind.” His accent became slightly more pronounced. “You say: keep strictly to business. I say: mademoiselle is the subject of my business. She have told me that she and you are childhood mates — that you live in — how you say — the same bloc with her in New York — and that she have for you great regard, great affection — like a sister, perhaps. And it was this great regard which leads me to speak to you — to confide my hopes. It is my great wish to make Miss Grayson my wife,” he concluded simply.
“You — you are engaged to her?” The universe seemed suddenly wheeling about Van Ingen’s head, and his heart was beating thickly. It appeared, oddly enough, to be beating up in his head, smiting the drums of his ears like iron hammers, and pounding madly at his temples. He fought for composure, the hated ease of his companion. The count’s words came to him dimly, as from a distance.
“Not yet,” he was saying. “In the future — perhaps. But with you, her almost-brother, one may anticipate—”
Van Ingen interrupted him. “I fear I must correct a slight misapprehension upon your part. I am not Miss Grayson’s ‘almost-brother,’ nor,” he laughed grimly, “have I any desire for that particular relationship. You have given me your confidence. I will be equally frank with you. I, too, admire Miss Grayson.”
“Ah!” He looked at Van Ingen with interest. “So you also are making the running! But, my dear boy, are you not — forgive me! — are you not — ah — young?”
Van Ingen flushed to the roots of his hair with sheer rage. It was the very taunt which Doris had flung in his teeth earlier in the evening. “I am twentyfive,” he replied stiffly.
“So old!” exclaimed the count. “Permit me to say that you do not look it! I,” he continued thoughtfully, “am thirty-five. And Miss Doris is older than both of us.”
“She is exactly twenty-two.”
The count shook his head. “Never believe it, my friend. She is as old as Eve. And as eternally young as Spring!” ‘ He turned to the other with a slight laugh. “You are my rival, then? You will do your best to baffle me, to thwart this great desire?”
“That is understood!” Van Ingen retorted. In spite of himself he was coming to admire the man’s coolness and apparent simplicity of nature.
“Excellent! Well, then, it would appear that we are enemies. I have been counted an indifferently good enemy,” he remarked. He held out his hand. “Goodnight! Let us part friends, though we meet as sworn foes in the morning.”
Van Ingen appeared not to perceive the outstretched hand. “Goodnight,” he said coldly.
He lifted his hat and turned away.
The count looked after him thoughtfully.
“Odd!” he muttered. “But I fancy that youngster. He is like her.” With a few swift steps he overtook his late companion.
“Mr. Van Ingen, forgive my insistence. Believe me, it surprises you no more than it does me.
Let me venture to give you a word of advice.”
Van Ingen interrupted him fiercely. “Let me give you a word first,” he exclaimed. “The plain advice of a very plain American. Briefly, mind your own business and permit me to attend to mine.”
The count looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. “So be it, my friend,” he murmured, turning away.
“It was but a momentary weakness.” He drew out his notebook, which afterwards became so famous, and wrote: “To spare is to become a coward.”
4. Which Relates to a Newspaper Suicide
The next morning, at the stroke of ten, Van Ingen, faultlessly clad, sprang from his hansom in front of the American Embassy and tossed the astonished jarvey a sovereign.
“Because it’s a fine morning,” explained Van Ingen gaily, “and also because something nice is going to happen to-day.”
He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh April air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. He caught the scent of lilacs from an adjoining florist shop. Overhead, the sky was faintly blue. He was feeling fit, very fit indeed — he made passes with his cane at an imaginary foe — and he was to lunch with Doris and her father at the Savoy. That was the “something nice” — with perhaps a stroll later along the Embankment with Doris alone.
He turned and took the stairs three at a time, whistling softly to himself.
“Chief in yet?” he enquired of Jamieson, the secretary, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.
“No, he’s not down yet. You’ve broken your record.”
Cord grinned. “I’ve got to get away early.” Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his mail. Half-an-hour later, he leaned back languidly and unfolded his Times, which in his haste he had thrust unread into his pocket.
“Beastly bore, this keeping up with the times,” he grumbled in an aggrieved tone. “Why does the chief make us wade through all this stuff? Make us diplomats, forsooth!”
He yawned and glanced down at the flaring headlines on the front page. With a little horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was suddenly pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
Jamieson swung about in his swivel chair.
“What’s up?” he enquired alertly.
“Grayson!” he muttered huskily. “Gerald Grayson has committed suicide!”
“Yes, so I read,” remarked Jamieson cheerfully.
“Supposed to be a fabulously rich old johnny, wasn’t he, and turned out to be a bankrupt. Friend of yours?” he asked curiously.
Van Ingen lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. “I — I was with him at the opera last night,” he said. Jamieson whistled softly.
“He was slightly indisposed and left early,” continued Van Ingen, “and I thought no more about it.”
He rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. “I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris—” He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.
Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. “Why don’t you go round by the newspaper offices?” he suggested. “There may be new developments — possibly a mistake. You note that the — the body has not been recovered?”
Van Ingen’s face brightened. “A fine idea! Thanks, old man.” He wrung the other’s hand fervently. “I’ll be off at once.”
Out upon the pavement, he caught a passing taxicab. “Drive to the nearest newspaper office,” he directed, “and wait for me.”
At the information desk inside the huge building where he preferred his request, his worst fears were realised. The note was unmistakably in Grayson’s handwriting.
“We verified that, of course,” said the reporter who had been sent out to speak to the young man.
“How?” asked Van Ingen sharply.
“Through his daughter, naturally,” was the calm response. “We sent a man out this morning to her aunt’s house, and she recognised the handwriting at once.” Van Ingen groaned. “Couldn’t you have left her in peace?” he demanded.
“Mr. Van Ingen, you don’t seem quite to realise the importance of this tragedy. Grayson was a financial king — a multimillionaire. Or, at least, he was so considered up to this morning. It now appears that he had speculated heavily during the last few weeks — we gathered this from Lady Dinsmore — who kindly told us what she knew — and lost everything, every penny of his own and his daughter’s fortune. Last night, in a fit of despair, he ended his life.”
Van Ingen looked at him in a kind of stupefaction. Was it of Grayson the man was talking such drivel? Grayson who only the week before had told him in high gratification that within the last month he had added a cool million to his girl’s marriage portion. Grayson who but yesterday had hinted mysteriously of a gigantic financial coup in the near future. He passed a bewildered hand across his eyes. And now all that fortune was lost, and the loser was lying at the bottom of the Thames!
“I think I must be going mad!” he muttered.
“Grayson wasn’t the kind to kill himself. Why, I tell you,” he cried, “that last night, when I bade him goodnight, he was gay, smiling. He looked like a man who goes forth to meet success.”
“You saw him, then?” the reporter queried eagerly. “When? Where? Please give us full details, Mr. Van Ingen. This may turn out to be of tremendous importance.” He pulled out his notebook.
“I was at the opera with his party last night,” replied Van Ingen. He repeated the events of the previous evening.
“Grayson was not meditating suicide when I left him,” he concluded positively. “I could swear it! Rather, he seemed to be reflecting with relish upon some particularly fine joke. May I see that note he is supposed to have written?”
“Certainly!” The reporter vanished into an inner room, and presently returned holding a scrap of white paper in his hand. “Torn from his memorandum book, you see,” he observed quietly. Van Ingen read it through. “It’s his handwriting, right enough,” he admitted. “But somehow, it doesn’t sound like Grayson himself. Too theatrical, dramatic!” He frowned, as if trying to catch some haunting impression. “It sounds like— “He broke off sharply, his face paling.
“Good God, no!” he whispered, “that couldn’t be! And yet “ — his eyes sought the paper again— “it’s the dead ringer of the kind of rot he talks! But why— “He pressed his hand to his temples. “I give it up!” He returned the slip to the reporter, who had been watching him with cool, level eyes.
“You have a clue?” he asked.
“No, no!” replied Van Ingen hurriedly. “The whole affair is utterly inexplicable to me at present. I cannot believe that Grayson deliberately killed himself. The thing is beyond reason! The paper says that his hat and overcoat were found?”
“Together with his wallet and some personal letters. It seems a clear case.” The reporter hesitated a moment. “It is not as yet known to the public, but I think I may tell it to you that Mr. T.B. Smith has been given charge of the matter. He will probably wish to know your address. And in the meantime, if you run across anything—”
“Certainly! I will let you know. Smith is an able man, of course.” Van Ingen gave the number of his chambers, and retreated hastily, glad that the man had questioned him no further.
Out in the fresh air he drew a deep breath of relief, which ended in a sigh. But, at any rate, he had not betrayed his suspicions, if indeed they could be termed suspicions — those wild surmises which had flashed like forked lightning across the blackness of his mind. He found his cab and flung himself wearily back against the cushions. And now for Doris!
But Doris was not visible. Lady Dinsmore met him in the morning-room, her usually serene countenance full of trouble. He took her hand in silence.
“It is good of you, my dear Cord, to come so quickly. You have heard all?”
He nodded. “How is Doris?”
She sank into a chair and shook her head. “The child is taking it terribly hard! Quite tearless, but with a face like frozen marble! She refused quite scornfully to believe the news, until she saw his own handwriting. Then she fainted. She fell to the floor at the man’s feet as if she had been stabbed to the heart.” Lady Dinsmore took out her lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Doris,” she continued in a moment, “has sent for Count Poltavo.”
Van Ingen started. “Why?” he demanded in a low voice.
“I cannot say, definitely,” she replied, with a sigh. “She is a silent girl. But I fancy she feels that the count knows something She believes that Gerald met with foul play.”
Cord leaned forward breathlessly. “My own idea!” he articulated.
Lady Dinsmore surveyed him with faint, good-humoured scorn. “You do not know Gerald!” she said finally.
“But — I do not follow you! If it was not murder it must have been suicide. But why should Grayson kill himself?”
“I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so unselfish,” returned Lady Dinsmore composedly.
“Then what—”
She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.
“Why are you so absolutely sure that he is dead?” she asked softly.
Cord stared at her in blank amazement. “What do you mean?” he gasped. Was she mad also?
“Simply that he is no more dead than you or I,” she retorted coolly. “What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For when did Gerald ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No, depend on it, he is not dead. But, for purposes of his own, he is pretending to be. He has decided to exist — surreptitiously.”
“Why should he?” muttered Cord. This was the maddest theory of all. His head swam with the riot of conflicting impressions. He seemed to have been hurled headlong into a frightful nightmare, and he longed to emerge again into the light of the prosaic, everyday world.
The door at the farther end of the room opened. He looked up eagerly, half expecting to see Grayson himself smiling upon the threshold.
It was Doris. She stood there for a moment, uncertain, gazing at them rather strangely. In her white morning dress, slightly crumpled, and her dark hair arranged in smooth bandeaux, she was amazingly like a child. The somewhat cold spring sunlight which streamed through the window showed her pallid, as though the event of the night had already set its mark upon her. There were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes.
Cord came forward hastily, everything blotted from his mind but the sight of her white, grief-stricken face. He took both her hands in his own warm clasp. All he found to say, huskily, was, “Doris! Doris!”
The girl gave him a wide, deep look. Suddenly her lips dipped and quivered uncontrollably. With a short, smothered sob, she flung herself into his arms and hid her face on his shoulder.
Cord held her tenderly. “Don’t!” he whispered unsteadily. “Don’t cry, dear!”
In her sorrow, she was inexpressibly sweet and precious to him.
The moment recalled vividly an incident in their childhood, when her pet collie had died, and the little girl of seven had flown down the path with streaming eyes to meet him and sobbed out her grief in his arms.
He bent down and smoothed with gentle fingers the soft dusky hair. The fragrance of it filled his nostrils. Its softness sent a delicious ecstasy thrilling from his fingertips up his arm. He trembled throughout his entire frame. All his life, he declared to himself with passionate sincerity, he would love her like this. All his life he would remember this one moment. He gazed down at her tenderly, a wonderful light in his young face.
“Dear!” he whispered again.
She lifted a pallid face tr, him. Her violet eyes were misty, and tiny drops of dew were still tangled in her lashes.
“You — you are good to me,” she murmured.
At his answering look, a faint colour swept into her cheeks. She disengaged herself and sat down.
Lady Dinsmore came forward, and seating herself beside the girl upon the divan, drew her close within the shelter of her arms.
“Now, Cord,” she said cheerily, indicating a chair opposite, “sit down, and let us take counsel together. And first of all,” she pressed the girl’s cold hand, “let me speak my strongest conviction. Gerald is not dead. Something tells me that he is safe and well.”
Doris turned her eyes to the young man wistfully. “You have heard something — later?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There has been no time for fresh developments yet. I came past the newspaper office, and they are doing what they can.
Scotland Yard is in charge of the affair, and T.B. Smith has been put upon the case.”
She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.
“How strange and ghastly it all is!” she whispered. “I — I cannot get it out of my head. The dark river — my father — I can see him there—” She broke off with a low moan.
Lady Dinsmore looked helplessly across to the young man. Tears were in her kind eyes.
The curtain at the lower end of the room parted, and a footman stood framed in the opening.
“A message for Miss Grayson,” he announced discreetly.
Lady Dinsmore arched her eyebrows significantly. “Poltavo!” she breathed.
Doris darted forward and snatched the letter from the man’s hand. She broke the seal and tore out the contents at a glance. A little strangled cry of joy escaped her. Her face, which had been pale, flushed a rosy hue. She bent to read it again, her lips parted. Her whole aspect breathed renewed hope and radiance. She folded the note, slipped it into her bosom, and, without a word, glided from the room.
Cord stared after her, white to the lips with rage and wounded love.
Lady Dinsmore rose briskly to her feet. “Excuse me, dear Cord,” she murmured, “and wait here!” She rustled after her niece.
Van Ingen paced up and down the room distractedly, momentarily expecting her reappearance.
Alternate waves of jealousy and grief inundated his being. Only a short half-hour ago, with Doris’ head pillowed upon his breast, he had felt supremely happy; now he was plunged into an abyss of utter wretchedness. What were the contents of that brief note which had affected her so powerfully? Why should she secrete it with such care unless it conveyed a lover’s assurance? His foot came into contact with a chair, and he swore under his breath. Then he sighed.
The servant, who had entered unobserved, coughed deprecatingly. “Her ladyship sends her excuses, sir,” he said, “and says she will write you later.” He ushered the young man to the outer door.
Upon the top step Van Ingen halted stiffly. He found himself face to face with Poltavo.
The count greeted him gravely. “A sad business!” he murmured. “You have seen the ladies? How does Miss Grayson bear it? She is well?”
Van Ingen gazed at him darkly. “Your note recovered her!” he said with harsh bitterness.
“Mine!” Surprise was in the count’s voice.
“But I have not written. I am come in person.”
Cord’s face expressed scornful incredulity. He lifted his hat grimly and descended the steps.
5. Count Poltavo Offers His Services
The footman who had shown Van Ingen to the door ushered the count into the morning-room, replenished the fire in the grate which had burned low, and departed noiselessly.
The newcomer sank wearily into a deep chair, and closed his eyes. He looked spent and haggard, as if his night had been a sleepless one. The clear olive of his skin showed slightly sallow, and fine wire-lines were etched about his eyes. Perhaps he did not hear the light footfalls which approached. Doris came nearer, soft-footed, and pausing before the fire, regarded him with deep attention.
She had changed into a dark dress which accentuated her youth and slenderness.
