Softly all three of them went down all those flights of stone stairs. Still no sign of anyone, no sound. They themselves were evidently, and as usual, the only occupants of the block who were up so late; but the street door was open.
“That is proof,” whispered Maddelena. “It is always closed at eleven; after that we have to admit ourselves with our pass-key.”
“How many keys to this door have you?” asked Austin, after looking out into the night and closing the door, latching it this time.
“Only one—my uncle has it; and if others are late they must rouse the porter.”
“I wonder who has that missing key—the key you told me just now that Lady Rawson had, and lost,” said Austin, when they had returned to the drawing-room. “Take my advice, Mr. Cacciola, and have a new lock to your front door to-morrow. And don’t leave any spare keys around!”
“Is that all, Mr. Starr?”
“It’s something to go on, isn’t it?” Austin countered. He had decided to take counsel with Snell upon that problem he was endeavouring to solve, and the detective had listened in silence to his account of the interview with Cacciola and Maddelena, and the curious incident that had terminated it.
“Well, if you want my opinion,” said Snell dryly, “it is that you’ve discovered—or created—quite a nice little mare’s nest.”
“Now see here, Snell, you’re simply prejudiced!”
“Not at all, Mr. Starr. If there’s one thing I pride myself on more than another it is on never being prejudiced. And if you think I did not, at the very outset, satisfy myself—yes, and my superiors too—that neither Melikoff and his associates nor the old Signor and his household had anything at all to do with the murder of Lady Rawson, I can only assure you that you’re jolly well mistaken!”
“You’ve got it fixed up in your mind that Roger Carling is guilty, and you won’t look any further,” Austin said bitterly.
“I haven’t. It’s for a jury to decide whetherhe’s guilty or innocent. And if you or anyone else can point to any clue in any other direction that I haven’t followed up and sifted I’ll go to work again instantly. As for the Russians——” He touched an electric button on his table, scribbled a few words on a card, and handed it to the clerk who entered. “As you aren’t inclined to believe me, and as I know you’re to be trusted, I’m going to let you look through the dossiers for yourself. You mustn’t make any notes, of course.”
“That’s very good of you. But what about the person who was in the flat?”
“Old Madam Giulia—queer old girl too;whata fuss she made in the witness-box, even for a foreigner!—or perhaps even Melikoff himself, who thought he’d like to hear what you were all yarning about, and scooted as soon as you moved.”
“Impossible! Neither of them could have got down the long passage and into bed, apparently asleep, in the time. If I’d only thought of the hall door first we should have caught whoever it was. But I didn’t, and we never heard a sound. The tray clattered some as I set it down or I’d have heard the click of the lock. And what about that key that Melikoff gave Lady Rawson and she lost, or gave away?”
“That’s really the only point worth anything at all, and I doubt if it’s worth much. What a fool Melikoff was to give her that key, and the old signor to allow it. That the lot?”—as the clerk re-entered bringing several neatly arranged sets of papers. “All right, leave them for the present. Now, Mr. Starr, here you are. Take your time.”
He pushed the papers across the table to Austin, and resumed his own work.
Rapidly but methodically Austin ran through the dossiers one after another, his heart sinking as he did so. For Snell was right. They provided, with much other information, a complete record of the movements, on the day of the murder, of presumably every one of the group of refugees with whom Boris Melikoff was associated, compiled from personal interrogation of each and verified by further searching investigation. In the face of this no shadow of suspicion could fall on any one of them. Almost mechanically he memorized the names and addresses—one never knew when such information might come in useful.
“Well?” asked Snell laconically as he finished.
“You’re right, of course. I must say you’ve done the thing pretty thoroughly.”
“As usual. Though the public, and some people who might be expected to know better, don’t give us credit for it,” said Snell dryly. “It was easy enough in this case, as they’re all aliens and registered as such. We keep an eye on them all, as a matter of course, and we’ve known all there is to know about this lot ever since they landed. Quite a harmless lot, in my opinion.”
“Yet you didn’t know at the time that Lady Rawson was one of them,” suggested Austin. “You told me so yourself.”
“Quite so; but then she wasn’t registered—not necessary as she became ‘British’ on her marriage.”
“If their meetings were so harmless why did she steal those papers from her husband?”
“Ah, that’s quite another question, Mr. Starr. Her motive doesn’t matter in the least, so far as tracking her murderer is concerned; and if you hark back to the papers as a clue, why they lead straight to the one person—Mr. Roger Carling. And there you are!”
Austin leant his head on his hand in deep dejection.
“I’ll never believe it was Roger Carling!”
Snell glanced at him kindly enough.
“Take my advice, Mr. Starr, don’t go wearing yourself out trying to find fresh trails. They’ll all turn out as false as this one. The only thing to be done is to leave it to the jury—or to chance. I’ve known a lot of mysteries cleared up by what seemed to be pure chance.”
“There’s still the notion of a casual thief,” mused Austin.
“There is. And we’re keeping that in sight I assure you. But I don’t believe it was done by a wrong ’un down on his luck. Whoever it was wore gloves.”
“How in thunder do you know that?” demanded Austin, genuinely surprised.
“Because there were smears on the bag caused by gloved fingers. If they’d been finger prints they’d have been hanging evidence! There were no such smears on the envelope, though.”
“Any finger prints on it?” asked Austin quickly.
“Lots—from Carling’s own to Lord Warrington’s; it had been handled by half a dozen people at least—quite legitimately. Carling’s prints, of course—though they’re the clearest of the lot under themicroscope—won’t be regarded as evidence against him, as he was the first to handle and seal the envelope the night before. All that will be threshed out at the trial.”
“I guess so. Well, I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Snell,” said Austin despondently.
“Wish I’d been able to help you,” Snell responded as they shook hands.
Austin walked slowly along the Embankment in deep and distressed thought. This interview with Snell was a bitter disappointment; and now again he seemed up against a blank wall. There was still the mysterious visitant to the flat to be considered, but if he or she was traced that might prove nothing.
Outside Charing Cross Station he paused indecisively. He had an hour or two to spare. Should he go to Chelsea? He hadn’t seen Winnie for over a week—not since that day at the police court when Roger was committed for trial—as she had been singing at Bristol and only returned yesterday. Or should he go to Cacciola’s on the chance of finding anyone at home?
He would not acknowledge even in his own mind that by “anyone” he meant Maddelena. The girl attracted him most strongly, and in a manner that he did not choose to analyse. He did not love her—of that he was quite sure. He had never been of a susceptible nature where women were concerned; had always held to the high ideals of love and marriage derived from a long line of Puritan ancestors, for he came of a sound New English stock. He loved Winnie Winston; he meant to marry her; would have been profoundly indignant at anysuggestion that he could waver in his allegiance to her.
And yet at intervals ever since he first saw Maddelena Cacciola beside Paula Rawson’s grave, and almost continuously since that evening when he had met and talked with her, that beautiful, vivid face, with its swift, passionate changes of expression, had haunted him, sleeping and waking, in a most perplexing and disturbing way!
He had not seen or spoken to her since, for though he had rung up several times, only Giulia had answered, to the effect that the signor and signorina were out.
As he turned into the station he tried to convince himself that he was going to Rivercourt Mansions merely to ascertain if the girl had been able to get any information from Boris, as she had undertaken to do, and not that he had any desire to meet her again; and all the time, at the back of his honest mind he was quite aware—and ashamed—of the subterfuge.
As he mounted the last of the long flights of stone stairs that led to Cacciola’s eyrie he heard music from within—a glorious tenor voice, pure, passionate, thrilling—singing to a masterly accompaniment of piano and violin.
Outside the door he waited, listening intently and in sheer delight, wishing, indeed, that he had been within; but it was unthinkable to intrude the strident impertinence of an electric bell on that feast of harmony.
The voice ceased. There followed a beautiful little ascending passage on the violin, which he strained his ears to hear, a final grand chord on thepiano. Then silence. He touched the bell at last, and instantly the door was opened by Giulia, who beamed a welcome to him and whispered:
“They make music once more. Go in, signor.”
Thus informally, and unannounced, he entered the big room. Cacciola, seated at the piano, had swung round and was talking with eager animation to Boris and Maddelena, the girl still holding her violin.
As Austin entered she laid down the instrument and ran towards him, giving him both her hands in greeting.
“You! Oh, I am glad! But why did you not come before, so that you could have heard Boris sing? The very first time for so very many weeks—and superbly!”
“I did hear quite a lot from outside—the violin too, Miss Maddelena,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re right, superb is the only word.”
He exchanged greetings with themaestroand Melikoff, who, flushed, smiling, excited, looked an altogether different being from the stricken, morose creature Austin had known hitherto.
“All is coming right, as I told you it would,” said Cacciola delightedly. “The voice is fine as ever. You heard? It is but a matter of time now and our Boris will be known as the world’s greatest tenor, and you, signor, will be able to boast that you are one of the few who has had the privilege of hearing him in private, for he will sing again presently. But come, you have not yet seen an old friend of yours, who happily is also here: my dear young pupil, Miss Winston.”
Why he should have experienced an extraordinary sensation of embarrassment and dismay Austin really did not know, but he certainly did so, as from a big chair in the dusk beyond the grand piano Winnie rose and came towards him.
“Winnie! I didn’t think to meet you here,” he murmured confusedly.
“Nor I you,” said Winnie. “I returned yesterday.”
“I know. I was coming around to see you to-morrow. Did you have a good time, dear?”
“Quite good—thanks. But I must be off now. Good-bye,maestro, and——”
“But no, no, you must not go!” protested Cacciola. “Giulia will bring in tea in one moment now—Maddelena will hasten her—real Russian tea that Boris has taught us to like, and it is so good for the voice too! Also you must sing again presently. We have not got that new song right yet.”
“I’m so tired,maestro, and I couldn’t sing after Mr. Melikoff. How splendid he is!”
“Pouff! Not sing again indeed; you must not talk like an amateur. You are anartiste, and among ourselves we never make comparisons. Though there can never be any comparison with Boris: he is unique! How thankful I am—and so is my Maddelena—that he is recovering himself. Now sit down again, my child, and here is a chair for Mr. Starr.”
Maddelena had taken her uncle’s hint and gone to hurry up Giulia with the tea, and Boris followed her. Austin heard her laugh as they went along the passage. Truly the atmosphere here hadchanged marvellously in these few days. He sat down in the chair Cacciola had pulled up close to Winnie’s, but for once in his life could find nothing to say to her; while she virtually ignored him, and chatted with themaestrotill the tea appeared, brought in procession by Giulia and the two young people.
Maddelena, in the highest spirits, was a charming hostess, and, like her uncle, treated Austin with the easy familiarity of old friendship. It was merely their unconventional, hospitable way, as Winnie at least knew perfectly well, from her long acquaintance with themaestro, though she had never happened to meet Maddelena till now; yet she wondered how often he had been there of late, and why he had said nothing about it.
There was more music after tea. Winnie sang without further demur, at themaestro’sbidding, and was painfully conscious, as were her auditors, that, for her, she sang very badly. She had a beautiful, mezzo-soprano voice, sweet, true and fresh as a song-bird’s, and perfectly trained—Cacciola had seen to that—but to-night it was toneless, lifeless, devoid of expression.
“I’m sorry,maestro,” she murmured apologetically at the end, meeting his gaze of consternation.
“We shall do better to-morrow,” he said consolingly. “Will you come to me at three? Good! It is strange, for it went so well before; but, as you say, you are tired, I should not have insisted. Now, Boris, once more?”
Melikoff, sprawling on the hearthrug and lookingthrough a pile of music, selected a book of Russian songs, and began to rise.
“Not those!” said Maddelena imperatively, snatching the book from him and picking up another. “Mr. Starr wants to hear the Neapolitan ones—with the guitar. I will get it!” As she passed Austin she bent and whispered significantly, “He shall sing no Russian here if I can prevent it,” and he nodded as one who understood.
Winnie could not hear the words, but she saw the incident, and found in it fresh food for thought.
“With a guitar—good; that gives me a rest,” said Cacciola, quitting the piano and settling himself comfortably in his big chair. “They are trifles, these songs, but not unworthy even of Boris. There is the soul of the people in them. Now, my children.”
He was right. Those songs—sung by generations of humble folk for centuries, and famous throughout the world to-day—were a revelation as Boris Melikoff sang them, albeit he was the son of a sterner and sadder race: songs of life, and love, and death, of sunshine and storm, with the sound of the sea as an undertone through all, heard in the thrilling throb of the guitar, which Maddelena played like theartisteshe was.
Austin listened in sheer delight, forgetful of everything else in the world for the moment.
When the last exquisite note died away there was a little interval of silence more eloquent than any words. Maddelena, the guitar on her lap, looked up at Boris with a tremulous smile, her eyes shiningthrough tears, murmuring something in Italian, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her on the lips, just as Cacciola cried, also in Italian:
“Brava! brava!dear children. There can be nothing better in its way!”
Austin joined wholeheartedly in the applause and congratulations.
“How splendidly you accompany him, Miss Maddelena.”
“Yes, does she not?” said Boris. “I do not think I could sing those songs so with anyone but Maddelena. And you would not think it was so long since we practised them together—nearly a year?”
“Yes, a long year!” said Maddelena.
“I must be going,” Winnie announced. “Good-bye, Miss Cacciola; you’ve given me a most tremendous treat, both of you. Now keep up the singing, Mr. Melikoff. We’re all so proud of you, and want you to have the world at your feet, as you will soon! Good-bye,maestro. Three o’clock to-morrow.”
She turned to Austin, with a curious enigmatic little smile, an inquiring lift of her eyebrows.
“I’m coming with you,” he said, and proceeded to make his own adieux.
Cacciola came to the door with them, but scarcely had they descended the first flight of stairs when Maddelena came running after them.
“Mr. Starr!”
Austin turned and came up a few steps to meet her.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered hurriedly,bending her charming face confidentially towards him. “I have not been able to question him about those others, or, more truthfully, I would not do so, for, as you see, he is beginning to forget, and I feared to bring the black shadow upon him again.”
“I understand, Miss Cacciola, and I’ve got some information already, from another source; but what about that key, and——”
“And the person who entered? We do not know. My uncle spoke to Boris next morning. He knew nothing, and says he is sure it was none of his friends. But that key which—she—had has never been found, and we have had the lock changed, as you said. Good-bye. Come again soon.”
She retreated, and he ran down the stairs, overtaking Winnie just outside.
“Great luck to find you, dear,” he said, falling into step beside her.
“Yes? I didn’t know you were so intimate with the Cacciolas.”
“I’m not, except that they’re so friendly and easy to get on with. I’ve only met Miss Maddelena once before—when I went around there one evening.”
“Oh, how interesting!”
She spoke quite gently, but in a tone and manner so cold and dignified that he might have been an utter stranger. He felt hurt, indignant; but his tone was as aloof as her own as he responded:
“Yes, it was interesting—very. I went, as I told you I should, to try and get hold of a clue.”
She turned to him quickly:
“Oh! Did you find out anything?”
“Very little so far. I’ll tell you all about it when we get in. I should have told you before, of course, if you hadn’t been away.”
“There’s a tram stopping,” she said inconsequently, and made for it. “Which way are you going?”
“To take you home, of course.”
“I’m not going home, but to Grace at Buckingham Gate. She’s there now.”
He nodded; it was impossible to talk in the noisy and crowded tram.
“We’ll take a taxi from here,” he suggested meekly when they alighted at the terminus opposite the station.
“Certainly not! I’m going to St. James’s Park,” said Winnie decisively, and hurried recklessly across the road, in imminent danger of being run over.
“Now what in thunder’s wrong?” Austin asked himself, but there was no opportunity of asking her, until at length they reached the quietude of Buckingham Gate, and then he found it difficult to begin.
“I’ve such lots to tell you, but it will have to keep till to-morrow night, for I’ve to go around to the ‘Courier’ now,” he said awkwardly. “Give my love to Grace. And—see here, Winnie—what’s wrong, dear?”
“Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing—or—oh, everything, I think! Never mind. Here we are. Good night, Austin.”
She did give him her hand, but withdrew it quickly, and stepped into the waiting lift, which bore her swiftly out of sight.
Austin stood for a few seconds, frowning; then lighted a cigarette, striking the match with an angry jerk, and went on his way feeling exceedingly ill-used!
There are very few, if any, prisoners, be they innocent or guilty, who, accused of murder, or of any other crime considered too serious to admit of release on bail, do not endure agonies of mind during that terrible interval between their committal and trial.
Possibly the innocent suffer the most; for to all the restraints and humiliations of prison life—less severe, indeed, than those imposed on convicted criminals, but still irksome and wearing to a degree—are added a bitter sense of injustice and often almost intolerable anxiety on account of those, their nearest and dearest, who, innocent as themselves, are yet inevitably involved in the disaster, subjected to all the agonies of separation, of suspense, sometimes of piteous privation. Even the fortitude induced by the inner consciousness of innocence is seldom strong enough to overcome this mental and physical distress.
So Roger Carling suffered—all the more because he strove to show no sign, endeavoured always to appear cheerful and confident in his interviews with his solicitors and counsel, and above all with Grace, whose visits, albeit under the strict regulations as to time, and under more or less official surveillance,were the great events of this grim and dreary period.
Like the blessed sunshine she came into that bare, formal room, always beautifully dressed, with a smile on her dear lips, the lovelight in her eyes; and they would sit hand in hand and chat almost gaily for the prescribed time, which sped all too swiftly, while the dark intervals between dragged on leaden feet.
Only God, Who knows the secret of all hearts, knew what effort that courage required, or how nearly their hearts were breaking!
For the days and weeks were drifting by, and no fresh light whatever had been shed on the mystery of Paula Rawson’s death. The trial was to take place early in the New Year, the first on the list for the session, and Cummings-Browne, K.C., had been secured for the defence. If anyone could secure acquittal on such slight grounds of defence as were at present available it was he. But although the faithful few never wavered in their belief of Roger Carling’s innocence, they knew it would be a stern fight—in fact, almost a forlorn hope.
Only Grace herself would never acknowledge that. How his deliverance would be brought about, his innocence established before all the world, she did not know; but not even in those long nights when she lay awake, thinking of and praying for her beloved in anguish of soul, did she allow herself to doubt that he would be delivered, he would be vindicated.
That sublime faith alone enabled her to endure these dark winter days of loneliness and sorrow.
Always she kept before her the one thought:“When Roger comes home.” On that she shaped her whole life.
That was why she insisted on living alone in the little flat that was to have been their first home, which she told herself should yet be their home together.
Day after day she laboured, putting it in beautiful order, arranging Roger’s writing-table, their chair that was to be his special one, his favourite books, just where she felt sure he would like them to be; and while she was so employed she was almost happy. It seemed as though any moment he might come in.
Only when each day’s task was over, and she strove to concentrate her mind on reading or sewing, the thought of him in his bare prison room was almost more than she could endure, and slow, quiet tears would fall on the work or the page, while in her ears and in her aching heart echoed that haunting strain, last heard in Canterbury Cathedral on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday after their marriage:
Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline thine ear:Consider, O consider the voice of my complaint.
Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline thine ear:Consider, O consider the voice of my complaint.
Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline thine ear:Consider, O consider the voice of my complaint.
Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline thine ear:
Consider, O consider the voice of my complaint.
It seemed now to have been prophetic!
She never spoke to Roger of these her dark hours, nor he to her of his own; but they both knew. There was no need of words.
Rather, in those precious minutes when they were together, they recalled that brief interlude at St. Margaret’s, those “immortal hours” when littleMiss Culpepper had hovered around them like a quaint, tutelary goddess.
“I’ve had another letter from Miss Culpepper,” Grace told him one day. “Full of flourishes as usual, dear old thing. She’s so upset at the idea that I haven’t even one maid that if I said half a word I believe she would come up herself and take charge of me!”
“I wish you would say the half word, darling,” Roger urged, not for the first time.
“I know; but I really can’t. Think of her here in London; it would be like pulling up a little old silver birch from a forest glade and sticking it in Shaftesbury Avenue!”
“I hate to think of your being alone,” he said wistfully.
“You mustn’t think of it! I’m a great deal better by myself than I should be with anyone else in the world just now. And I have lots of visitors: daddy pretty often, of course, and Winnie when she is at home, though she’s been away so much lately—more engagements than ever this winter, and most of them in the country, worse luck!”
“So Austin’s left at a loose end, eh?”
“I suppose so. I haven’t seen him for some days. Winnie will be back for Christmas.”
“You’re going to her then?” he asked quickly.
“I’m going about with her. As usual, we shall have quite a big day—a midday dinner in Bermondsey, high tea and a Christmas tree at Battersea, and a beano for thepadre’spoorest, and possibly blackest, sheep in the evening. Winnie will be a bright particular star, of course—they’d keep her singingfor hours if they could! While I shall be just an all-round helper, in my old canteen get-up.”
“Good! I shall be thinking of you all the time. But don’t wear yourself out, darling,” he said tenderly.
It was no new thing for her to devote herself through most of the season of conventional “festivity” to the poorest of her fellow-creatures, bringing a few hours of mirth and warmth and good fare to the starving and the squalid, giving to many of them fresh hope and strength that perhaps might help them to struggle out of the abyss of misery and destitution into which they had fallen.
Last year he had been with her, and a wonderful experience it was—an utter revelation to him of the grim underworld of humanity here in the greatest city of the world, the very heart of “Christian” civilization! Very many of the guests they had then helped to entertain had passed most of their lives in prison: now the prison walls had closed around himself. He indeed was innocent; he had not sunk into the grim underworld—had not as yet endured the lot of a common convict; but already he could sympathize, as never before, with the prisoners and captives, with all who suffered, whether for their own sins or for the sins of others.
“Oh, I shan’t wear myself out,” Grace assured him. “I shall be happier on duty. Mother is going down to Hove, as usual, and insists on father going too. He doesn’t want to, but it’s less trouble to give way than to argue the point; and the change may do him good. He’s not very fit, poor daddy!”
In fact that poor professor was having a very trying time at home, for Mrs. Armitage furiously resented the fact that he had contributed the utmost amount he could raise to the fund for Roger’s defence, and on the rare occasions when she saw her daughter made Grace writhe under the sense of obligation, that was far more distressing than any consideration of her mother’s utter lack of sympathy; she had been accustomed to that from her early childhood, and it had long ceased to hurt her.
It did seem hard that she should feel more humiliation in accepting this loan from her own people than in accepting those from friends—Austin Starr and the Winstons and the dear jollypadre, Mr. Iverson, who had all been as good as their word. But she never let Roger have a hint of this; kept from him, so far as she could, everything disquieting, even the fact that there was still a lot of money needed, and had begged Mr. Spedding, the lawyer, not to reveal this to him.
“We shall have quite sufficient in good time, by the New Year,” she assured Spedding, on such occasions as the point was raised in the course of their many conferences.
She had already made arrangements to raise the utmost possible on their wedding presents, and everything else of value that they possessed; also, if necessary, to sell up the furniture they had bought so gaily and lovingly in the months before their marriage, and so break up the home which, to “get ready for Roger” had been her great solace in thisawful interval; and where she was now living frugally as any nun, denying herself everything beyond the barest necessaries of life, in order that she might save.
And with all this there would not be enough. Where the balance was to come from she did not know, racked her poor brains to discover, sought to buoy her mind with the faith that her prayers would be answered, that help and guidance would come in time.
She brooded anxiously over it again to-day as she made her way back to Westminster. As usual, after parting with Roger reaction followed the joy of the meeting, and a sense of utter desolation was upon her. If Winnie had been at home she would have gone along to Chelsea before returning to the loneliness of the little flat at the very top of a big block. As it was, she lingered aimlessly outside the station, staring with sad, unseeing eyes into the nearest shop window, then made her way through to St. James’s Park, and sat down on the seat inside the gates by the bridge.
It was a chilly, wistful winter afternoon, the westering sun showing like a dim red ball through the haze. Very few people were about; near at hand there were but two strolling towards her—a young couple in earnest conversation.
She looked at them dully, then with quickened interest, as she recognized the man as Austin Starr, bending from his great height to listen attentively to his companion—a very attractive-looking girl, even in the distance, who was talking with animation. Any casual observer would have imaginedthem a pair of young lovers, and Grace felt an instant and curious sense of dismay.
It flashed to her mind that she had not seen Austin once at the Winstons’ flat during the few days’ interval when Winnie had been at home, though for months before their engagement, which had come about so suddenly in the midst of her own trouble, there was seldom a day that he did not turn up early or late, for a few minutes at least. Also that Winnie had been strangely reticent about him, though, absorbed in her own anxieties, she had not given a second thought to that.
As they drew near she half rose from her seat, but resumed it. They passed, evidently too intent on each other to spare a glance for anyone else, and as they did so she heard the girl say, in a rich, vibrant voice, peculiarly distinct in the quietude:
“It may be as you say, but what does Sir Robert want with him?”
Sir Robert! Of whom were they speaking? Could it be Sir Robert Rawson?
She could not hear Austin’s reply, and though she started up impulsively she did not follow them—merely watched them cross the bridge and disappear from view.
She guessed that the girl was Cacciola’s niece, whom Austin certainly had mentioned when he told her of his visit, and of the disappointing result of his inquiries up to the present, but only in a casual manner. He must have developed the acquaintance swiftly in these few weeks!
She walked slowly back, turning the matter over in her mind perplexedly.
“There’s a lady waiting to see you, ma’am,” said the lift-man, a cheery, grizzled old veteran, and one of her staunch admirers.
“Waiting—where?”
“Why on the landing outside your door, ma’am. Sitting on a box she came with. I wanted her to come down to my missus, knowing you were out, but she wouldn’t.”
He swung open the lift-gates and Grace stepped out.
There, outside her door, as he had said, sitting on a small tin box, with an open basket beside her and something that looked like a little black fur muff cuddled in her arms—cold, tired, travel-stained but quite cheerful—was little Miss Culpepper!
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling, don’t be vexed with me!” cried Miss Culpepper, rising and fluttering towards Grace. “I’ve been fretting so about you being here all alone, and now I’ve had the good fortune to let the cottage for three months, and all the money paid in advance, I felt I must come straight up, without asking your permission. And—and I’ve brought Dear Brutus too. He’s been so good through the journey.”
“You darling!” cried Grace, and just hugged her, kitten and all. “Come in. How cold and tired you must be! And, oh, how glad I am to see you!”
Indeed, there was no one in the world, save Roger himself, whom she would have welcomed more gladly at this moment than the quaint little woman. It was extraordinary how her very presence dispelled that tragic, unutterable loneliness which had always hitherto assailed her when she returned to this her solitary nest, so lovingly prepared for the mate who might never come home to it.
As she flitted about, preparing tea for her unexpected guest, despite Miss Culpepper’s protests that she “hadn’t come to be waited on,” caressing Dear Brutus and laughing at his antics, listening to the old lady’s vivacious account of her journey, of thenew tenants, and of the arrangements made for Cleopatra, whom Miss Culpepper had left as a “paying guest” with her friend at St. Margaret’s, she felt more cheerful than she had done since the day when the black shadow fell on her and Roger, eclipsing their honeymoon, severing them perhaps for ever.
If Miss Culpepper had had her own way she would immediately have taken possession of the diminutive kitchen, and remained there, but that Grace would not hear of for a moment.
“Indeed, I want you to treat me just as an ordinary servant, except that I don’t want any pay or to be a burden on you in any way,” the old lady declared. “You see, I was in service all my life, with very good families, too, till I saved enough money to buy the cottage and set up for myself. So I do know my place, dear Mrs. Carling, and I shouldn’t have assumed to come to you, uninvited, under any other circumstances.”
“You’re going to stay as my dear and honoured and most welcome guest,” Grace assured her. “And I promise you that in every other respect you shall have all your own way, and cherish me as much as ever you like, when you are rested.”
Miss Culpepper’s anxious, loving old eyes had already noted the changes which these weeks of sorrow and anxiety had wrought in the girl since those few days of radiant happiness at the cottage. She looked, indeed, more beautiful than ever, but with a pathetic, etherealized beauty, fragile to a degree.
“It’s high time somebody came to take care of her; she’s on the very verge of a breakdown,” MissCulpepper inwardly decided, and unobtrusively entered on her self-imposed labour of love. Within twenty-four hours she and Dear Brutus were as much at home in the little flat as if they had lived there all their lives—and the cheerful confidence with which she regarded the future, as it concerned Roger and Grace, was an unspeakable comfort to her young hostess, while her amazing phraseology was entertaining as ever, and provided Grace with a new occupation—that of committing to memory the quaintest of the old lady’s expressions in order to retail them to Roger when next she visited him.
“Never fear that everything will be made clear in the long run, and your dear husband triumphantly vitiated,” she declared. “It’s terribly hard for you both now, but keep your courage up,mettez votre suspirance in Dieu: that means ‘put your hope in God,’ as I dare say you know. You’ll wonder where I picked up such a lot of French,” she continued complacently. “It was when I was a girl living in Paris with one of my ladies, and I’ve never forgotten it in all these years.”
She sighed, and lapsed into silence, gazing meditatively into the fire. Grace, lying on the sofa, with Dear Brutus curled up in her arms, watched the wistful, gentle old face, and wondered what the little woman was pondering over.
“How long were you in Paris?” she asked presently.
Miss Culpepper started, and resumed her knitting with a slightly flurried action.
“I’m afraid I wasrelevéein the past,” she confessed. “I was only there for about two years—thevery happiest in all my life: at least the last year was. Then my lady’s husband died suddenly—he was Sir Henry Robinson, who had a post at the Embassy, a very nice gentleman though a little pomptious sometimes—and the establishment had to be broken up. I came back to England, and soon got another place, a very good one—again with a lady of title, where I stayed for many years. And—and that’s all!”
Again she was silent, apparently absorbed in her knitting, but Grace saw two tears roll down her withered cheeks, and wondered more than ever what train of remembrance had roused the old lady’s emotion, though she did not like to question her further.
They both started as the front door bell sounded.
“I’ll go,” said Grace, rising, “I expect it is my father.”
It was not the professor, but a small, spare, very neatly dressed old man, whom at first she did not recognize.
“Mrs. Carling?” he asked. “I must introduce myself, madam. My name is Thomson.”
She knew him then, though she had only seen him once previously, when he had given evidence at the police court on the return of the stolen papers to his master, Sir Robert Rawson.
“Mr. Thomson!” she exclaimed. “You—you have come from Sir Robert Rawson?”
“Not precisely, madam; though I am in Sir Robert’s service. I came on my own account to beg the favour of a few minutes’ conversation.”
“Certainly. Do come in,” she said, her pulsesfluttered with the wild hope that this old servant, whom Roger so liked and trusted, might have something of importance to communicate.
As he followed her through the little hall he glanced with an expression of surprise at a hat and coat hanging there, which he recognized as Roger’s; at several walking-sticks in a rack, at a sling of golf clubs in the corner, and, as he entered the dining-room, looked across at once at the writing-table by the window, and the little table with pipe-rack, tobacco jar, and match stand beside it.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said quickly, “but is Mr. Carling at home—has he been released?”
Grace turned in surprise.
“No. What makes you ask that, Mr. Thomson?”
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, madam; but I saw Mr. Carling’s things in the hall and his table there, just as he liked to have it when he was with Sir Robert, and I thought—I hoped——”
“They are ready for his home-coming,” said Grace. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thomson? This is my friend, Miss Culpepper. Why, do you know each other?”
For Miss Culpepper, who had risen hastily at their entrance, was staring at Thomson in a most curious and agitated manner. “It can’t be—yes, it is!” she gasped. “James—James Thomson—don’t you know me?”
He looked at her inquiringly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, madam, you have the advantage of me. What name did you say?”
“Maria Culpepper, that was maid to LadyRobinson when you were Sir Henry’s valet. I was thinking of you, and of those old days not five minutes ago. You’ve forgotten me years ago, I can see that, but I’ve never forgotten you, James, though you never wrote as you said you would!”
He put up his gloved hand and rubbed his chin meditatively, then removed the glove and extended the hand with conventional politeness.
“To be sure, Miss Maria. I remember you now, though it’s a good many years ago. I’ve been with Sir Robert near forty years. Strange to meet you again like this—very strange; and with Mrs. Carling’s permission I might call some night and have a chat over old times, but I’m a bit pressed for time just now, and have something urgent and private to say to Mrs. Carling.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll go at once,” murmured poor little Miss Culpepper, hastily gathering up her knitting which had fallen to the floor, and making a courageous attempt to recover her wonted dignity. “Good night, James. I—I shall be very glad to see you again, as you say, one of these days.”
Grace accompanied her to the door, dismissed her with a kiss, and whispered a word of sympathy, then returned to Thomson, feeling more bewildered than ever.
“How very extraordinary that you and Miss Culpepper should be old friends,” she said, motioning him to a chair.
“Thank you, madam. Quite so,” he responded, seating himself bolt upright on the extreme edge of the chair, and holding his bowler hat on his knees.“I am sorry I did not remember the old lady at first. She was quite young then, as I was—a very nice young woman, now I come to think of it. Indeed, if I remember rightly, I had the intention at one time of asking her to be Mrs. Thomson, but fate intervened and we drifted apart.”
His manner, formal, precise, irreproachably respectful, yet seemed somehow curiously callous, and exasperated Grace, on behalf of her poor little friend.
“Evidently she has never forgotten you, Mr. Thomson,” she said, with some warmth. “And she is the kindest and most loyal little creature in the world. She would have made a good and most loving wife.”
“Quite so, madam. But even at the time I doubted if I was cut out for matrimony, and I have never seriously contemplated it since.”
“Why did you come to see me?” she asked point blank, as he paused, and sat gazing, not at her, but at the crown of his hat.
“It’s a little difficult to explain, madam,” he said, raising his eyes for a moment, but without meeting her direct gaze. “And first I beg of you not to consider it an impertinence. Then—may I ask if Mr. Carling has ever spoken of me to you?”
“Often—and always in the very highest terms.”
“That was like him,” said Thomson, with more feeling in his dry voice than he had yet exhibited. “Except my master, Sir Robert, there’s no gentleman in the world I respect so much, or who I’d sooner serve than Mr. Carling. He was always thesame, always treated me like a human being and not a servant, or a stock or stone. Madam, I’d do anything in the world that I could to serve him!”
“I believe you, Mr. Thomson. Thank you,” said Grace softly, telling herself that she had misjudged the man.
“This terrible charge that has been brought against Mr. Carling has upset me more than anything has done for years, madam,” he resumed: “that and the fact that my master believes him to be guilty and has turned against him altogether. I can’t understand it. Sir Robert ought to have known him better. I have presumed several times to try to remonstrate with my master, but he won’t hear a word even from me. It’s—well, really, madam, it’s been a great grief to me, for it’s the only serious difference Sir Robert and I have ever had in all the years that I have served him.”
“It’s a great comfort to me—and it will be to my husband—to know that you are so loyal to him, Mr. Thomson,” Grace said earnestly, greatly touched, but wondering more and more what had prompted the old man to come to her now.
“Thank you, madam. Though that is not actually what I took the liberty of coming here to say,” he responded, as if in some uncanny manner he had read her unuttered thought. “It was to ask if you have arranged for Mr. Carling’s defence?”
A wild hope flashed to her mind.
“Mr. Thomson! Is it possible that you know of anything—that you have any information that would help to clear him?”
He shook his head.
“Unfortunately, I know nothing whatever of Mr. Carling’s movements on that fatal day, madam, beyond what I have heard and read as stated in evidence. That was not what I meant. He must have the best defence that money can obtain.”
“Yes. And I hope—I think—we have arranged that Mr. Cummings-Browne, the famous K.C., will undertake the defence.”
“Very good, madam. But I understand that these big legal gentlemen come very costly; and—I’m sure you will pardon me, and take the question as it is meant, as confidential and most respectful I do assure you, but—have you got the money in hand?”
“The greater part of it; and I shall get the rest by the time it is needed.”
“Might I make bold to ask how much is still wanted?”
“About five hundred pounds,” she replied, watching him perplexedly, while he continued to gaze down at his hat.
There was a little pause. Then:
“That’s what I was afraid of, madam, knowing that Mr. Carling couldn’t be by any means wealthy,” he said slowly, and putting his hat on the table, unbuttoned his overcoat and from an inner pocket fetched out a worn and bulky leather case. “That’s just why I came here to-night, madam. I’ve thought about it constant for weeks past, but it was a bit difficult to know how to do it without giving offence—though, in a matter of life and death, which is what this is, a lady like you and a gentleman like Mr. Carling wouldn’t take offence where none wasmeant. I’ve got five hundred and fifty pounds in Bank of England notes; they’re all my own, they’re not a quarter of my savings—for I’ve had good wages these many years and never any expenses to speak of, and I’ve invested well and regular. And now I beg you and Mr. Carling to do me the honour of accepting this as a loan—and as much again and more if it should be wanted—to be repaid any time, it doesn’t matter how many years hence.”
As he spoke he opened the case, extracted a sheaf of crisp white bank-notes, opened, smoothed them, laid them on the table, and rose, adding, “I think you’ll find there are twenty-eight—twenty-seven twenties and one ten.”
Grace had listened, too utterly amazed for speech; and now she, too, rose, in tearful, trembling agitation.
“Oh! Mr. Thomson, what can I say? It is too noble, too generous! But—I—we—can’t really——” she cried incoherently.
“Please, madam, please!” he said, more hurriedly than he had yet spoken, and edging his way towards the door. “I’m not going to take them up nor touch them any more. The—the honour and the privilege is mine, and I’d take it kindly if you wouldn’t mention the matter to Mr. Carling or to anyone; it’s just between you and me, if you don’t mind, madam. My respectful duty to Mr. Carling when you’re able to see him, madam.”
He was now in full retreat across the little hall, his hand actually on the latch of the door.
“Wait one minute,” she pleaded distractedly. “At least let me try to thank you—try to say whatI feel and think; or do come back to see your old friend, Miss Culpepper——”
But he had the door open and was already outside.
“Thank you kindly, madam. I would be very glad to call one evening and have a chat with Maria over old times. And please don’t be so distressed, madam.”
With that he was gone, passing like a grey shadow down the staircase, leaving Grace staring after him through her tears.
“And he didn’t even let me shake hands with him!” she thought, as she went in and shut the door.
When he reached the street Thomson discovered that he had left his right-hand glove in Mrs. Carling’s flat. Not worth returning for it, he decided, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pocket. He would go round as he had suggested some evening and renew his acquaintance with Maria Culpepper—little Maria, whose very existence he had forgotten for so many years. The glove would provide an excuse.
Strange, indeed, to meet her again in their old age, like a ghost of the past. As he walked slowly along Buckingham Gate he deliberately and more or less successfully tried to recall recollections of those youthful days in Paris, and found it quite an interesting experiment—as interesting as turning out some old cupboard full of forgotten relics and rubbish.
“Yes, she was a pretty little creature,” he concluded. “Cheerful as a bird, and a nice hand at cribbage she could play too—very nice. P’r’aps she can still. I wonder where we’d have been now if we hadn’t drifted apart? It was her fault though; for, now I come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I did write, and she never answered. Well, well.”
Still musing, he made his way back to Grosvenor Gardens. It was nominally his “evening out,” aninstitution Sir Robert had recently insisted on reviving. Thomson himself wanted no evening out—wanted nothing but to continue to tend the stricken master whom he served with such silent, dogged, and dog-like devotion. It was still early, only just after eight o’clock, and he meant to spend the remainder of this his leisure evening in his own room, within call if he should be needed.
As he neared the great house, so silent and dark in these days, with the shadow of tragedy still heavy upon it, he saw a motor car before the door, and quickened his pace, fearing that Sir Robert might have had a relapse and that this was the doctor’s car. He was reassured as he recognized the car as Lord Warrington’s Rolls-Royce, but at the same instant experienced a minor shock; for a tall, slender man, wearing a furred overcoat, approaching from the opposite direction, paused, looked up at the house, and then knocked and rang. That man was Boris Melikoff.
Earl Warrington and Melikoff both visiting Sir Robert together! What was in the wind now, he asked himself perplexedly, as, unobserved, he went down the area steps and let himself in at the basement door. Much-privileged servant that he was, he had for years possessed his own latchkey, and came and went as he chose, accountable to none but his master.
By the back staircase he made his way to the first floor and entered his own room—a fair sized, comfortable apartment at the end of the suite occupied by his master, and with a door that led direct into Sir Robert’s bedroom.
Before the fire, in the one easy chair, reading an evening paper, was a nice-looking fresh-complexioned young man, Perkins, the male nurse, who, with Thomson himself, took charge of the invalid.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon, Mr. Thomson,” he said, rising deferentially. “Sir Robert’s had his dinner all right, and there’s a gentleman with him now.”
“Yes—Lord Warrington,” said Thomson, removing his overcoat and hanging it in a cupboard.
“Really, sir? I didn’t know, of course. I gather that he came unexpected. But Sir Robert’s expecting another gentleman directly. I was going to have my supper sent up here as you were out, but now——”
“That’s all right, Perkins, you go and have it downstairs, it’s livelier for you,” said Thomson, kindly enough. “And don’t hurry yourself. I shall be at hand now if anything’s wanted. Tell them to send mine up as usual about half-past nine.”
Seating himself, he picked up the paper, and Perkins promptly retreated. The servants’ quarters were indeed by far the most cheerful in that grim house!
Thomson waited for two or three minutes, then rose, and with his usual noiseless tread passed through into Sir Robert’s bedroom, illuminated only by a cheerful fire, and stood, listening intently.
No sound could be heard from the further room—the “Chinese Drawing-room,” which did not communicate directly with this—where Sir Robert and his visitor were; and Thomson moved to the door, opened it very slightly and stood, again listening.
Soon he heard far off the tinkle of an electric bell, and rightly guessed it a summons to Jenkins, the butler, whose soft footsteps and pursy breathing thereupon sounded ascending the staircase. Then a murmur of voices from the Chinese Room: Lord Warrington’s cheery tones, “Well, good-bye, old man! I’m glad indeed to see you so well on the way to recovery. I’ll look in again soon if I may”; and retreating footsteps on the thick carpet.
Swiftly, Thomson emerged from his retreat, crossed the spacious landing, and entered a door to the left, closing it silently behind him. This room was in darkness, except for the faint greenish, ghostly light from a street lamp that penetrated the jade-green silk curtains, and the air was oppressive with the fragrance of flowers, roses, violets, narcissi.
It was Lady Rawson’s boudoir, kept, by Sir Robert’s orders, exactly as it had been in her lifetime, the flowers frequently renewed, books and magazines placed there daily, as if ready for their mistress. A strange, uncanny atmosphere pervaded the luxurious room. The servants dreaded it, the housemaids whose duty it was to tend it worked in pairs, and scurried away the moment their task was finished. The only exception was Thomson himself, who usually arranged the flowers and periodicals before wheeling his master in for his daily visit, remaining beside him in imperturbable, unobtrusive attendance.
Unerringly, stepping as lightly as a cat on the soft carpet, he made his way across to the opposite wall, where a dark patch showed against the whiteness,portièresof jade-green velvet that masked folding doors leading into the Chinese Room. On the other side the doorway was concealed by magnificent curtains of black and gold embroidery in a dragon design, that had a very curious feature—one that Thomson had discovered by pure accident. The eyes of the dragons were pierced with large eyelet holes, invisible from even a short distance, but through which a perfect bird’s-eye view could be obtained of the room beyond.
The doors were closed but not latched, and it was the work of an instant cautiously to swing them open sufficiently to clear the two nearest peep-holes, just at a convenient level to Thomson’s eyes.
Sir Robert was lying on his wheeled couch before the fire, with his back towards the screened portal and the hidden watcher, who, however, could see his master’s face reflected in a great lacquered mirror on the opposite wall. A remarkable face, aged, drawn, but also refined by these long weeks of suffering and sorrow. Under the short, carefully trimmed white beard which had been allowed to grow during his illness his square jaw was firm and relentless, as his steel-grey eyes were keen as ever beneath their grey penthouse brows.
He turned his head slightly as the door opened and Jenkins announced
“Mr. Boris Melikoff.”
“It is very good of you to come, Mr. Melikoff,” Sir Robert said, with grave courtesy, extending his hand, over which the young man bowed respectfully. “I cannot rise to receive you. I am quite helpless as you see. Will you sit in that chair?”
Boris complied. The chair, as Thomson had already noted, was placed so that the lamplight would fall full on the face of the visitor, leaving that of his host in shadow, an invariable device of the old diplomatist at important interviews.
For a few seconds the old man and the young one looked at each other warily, like a couple of fencers preparing for a bout, then Rawson’s stern gaze softened.
“You are very like my dear wife,” he said quietly, “so like her that you might almost have been brother and sister rather than cousins.”
The Russian’s handsome, sensitive face relaxed responsively.
“Many people have said so, sir, who knew us both,” he replied.
“You wonder why I sent for you?”
“Yes, sir—naturally.”
“Naturally. And yet I myself scarcely know why I did so, except——”
He paused, and Boris waited. Not for long.
“Why didn’t you two trust me?”
Sir Robert’s deep voice quivered with poignant emotion, and, though he controlled his features, his eyes betrayed an agony of regret and reproach.
“I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered Boris. “I think—we—believed—feared that you were the enemy of our unhappy country; that—in your position——”
“Ithe enemy of Russia—of the real Russia? Paula could never have thought that.”
“She did indeed, sir,” said Boris earnestly. “Or perhaps it would be more truthful to say that shebelieved you set your duty to your Government above all personal sympathy.”
“She was right there,” Sir Robert rejoined sternly. “To a man in the position I once held duty must always come first, if he is to be worthy of that position. But if she had trusted me—as I never doubted she did till it was too late—if she had told me what was in her heart, in her mind, and that she was meeting—wishing to aid—her compatriots, her kinsfolk, how gladly, how greatly I could have helped her and them! But she told me nothing—not even of your existence. Yet surely she did not, she could not, have feared me?”
“Not personally, sir,” Boris answered slowly. “Paula was absolutely fearless; also she honoured and—yes, and loved you, though more as a daughter than——”
“Than as a wife. I know that. You are very honest, Mr. Melikoff! Well?”
“But I think—or rather I know—that she wanted to—to play her own hand herself in a way. To take all risks, and not to involve you——”
“Not involve me! Do you realize that by her action—her fatal action in taking those papers—she might have involved the whole of Europe in catastrophe?”
“I knew nothing of that, sir,” said Boris dejectedly.
“Quite so. I have satisfied myself on that point, through sources quite unknown to you; otherwise you would not be here now but in all probability would have been deported weeks ago, to meet whatever fate might be in store for you in your owncountry,” said Sir Robert grimly. “However, let that pass. Tell me this, Mr. Melikoff—I have a right to know: you loved each other, you two foolish and headstrong children?”
Boris met his searching gaze sadly but steadily.
“I lovedher, Sir Robert; and I have loved her ever since we were little children together. But she never loved me. I do not think Paula ever loved any man—not in the sense most of us mean by the word.”
“Again I believe you, and not without evidence.” He drew towards him a carved sandalwood casket that stood on a small table beside him, opened it, and took out a thin packet of letters which Boris recognized as his own. “I have here a number of your letters to her. I have read them all. They are not ‘love letters,’ but I know from them that you loved her, without hope and without reward. Would you like to have them again? In some ways they are dangerous documents to be in any custody but your own.”
He passed the packet to Boris, who took it with a trembling hand.
“Sir Robert, you are too good—too generous! What can I say?”
“Say nothing. And if you will take my advice put them in the fire. It is the safest place for them.”
Simply as a child Boris obeyed on the instant, and in silence they watched the packet consumed to a little mass of black ashes.
“I have but one letter of hers, sir,” said Boris presently. “The last she ever wrote me, andtherefore most precious. It is very brief. Would you—care to read it?”
He unfolded the letter—it was but a half-sheet—with a lingering, reverent touch, and held it towards Sir Robert.
“No, no, keep it, lad. It is yours and sacred,” the old man said after a moment’s hesitation. “As I have said, I believe you and trust you. That was the only one she wrote?”
“Oh, no, sir! There were several others. Mere formal notes like this, in Russian or sometimes in French. I ought to have destroyed them at once—she told me to; and they are lost, or they have been stolen from me.”
“Stolen!”
“I fear so, sir, though when or how I cannot say. I was ill, very ill, for a time after Paula’s—death. They were in an escritoire in my bedroom, and after I recovered I found they were gone.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
Boris shook his head.
“Impossible to suspect the good friend with whom I live, or any of my visitors. I have wondered sometimes whether, in my delirium, I might not myself have destroyed them, on some subconscious impulse, remembering that she had told me to burn them. They could not possibly be of any value, or of any danger, to anyone. Except to myself, they were quite meaningless, and with nothing but the hand-writing itself to show by whom they were written.”
“Strange,” mused Sir Robert. “You are sure they were as harmless, as meaningless, as you say?”
“Quite sure. And may I say this, Sir Robert? I am certain that when Paula took those papers from your safe—as I fear there is no doubt she did—that it was the very first time she had done or attempted to do such a thing: that she yielded to a sudden and overwhelming temptation.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Sir Robert with stern sadness.
“You may believe it, sir, for it is the truth. She would have told me of any such attempt, and I give you my word—believe it or not as you choose—that I should have attempted to dissuade her. I am a fighter—or I was one, when I could fight and could see my enemy—but I am no intriguer, nor was she really. She bewildered me often by her romantic schemes—they were so wild, so vague—but I humoured her in them, because I loved her, because it brought her nearer to me. It—oh, how can I put it?—it was like child’s play, though she herself was so much in earnest.”
“Child’s play!” echoed Sir Robert bitterly. “Child’s play that cost her life, and that will cost the life of the one whom, next to her, I cared for most in this world! I tell you, Melikoff——”
He broke off, and Boris looked at him in surprise and apprehension. But Sir Robert was not looking at him; he was staring into the big, lacquered mirror, and his face had become absolutely expressionless.
“One moment,” he said quietly, and touched a button of an electric bell-stand on the table beside him, without removing his gaze from the mirror.