The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  Ronald made a bound, but the other was too quick, and bolted down the street. He would have followed, but for his uncle.

  Closing the door, he hurried back. Reginald was lying back with his eyes closed, his face purple, and Ronald poured out a stiff brandy and held it to his lips. Reginald drank the liquid, and waved the glass aside. “Diana,” he gasped. “Go to her.”

  Biting horror clutched Ronald with sudden pain. He had been so dumbfounded by the conversation and the revelations, that he had clean forgotten the imminent peril hanging over her. Perhaps while they were talking something had happened. He rushed up the stairs and along the passage which for some reason was in darkness. All his fears gathered round like evil demons. He switched on the light and stood amazed. Outside Diana’s door a man, elderly and bald, was sitting placidly on a chair. The sight was so utterly unexpected that he stood stock-still. The harmless-seeming old man sat there wordless. There was something dreadful about his immobility. Only his eyes had a curious look; they were puckered up as though he- were smiling behind his white moustache.

  A familiar voice broke the silence, “Well, Ronald, you didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

  “Sir Arthur Sinclair, well I’m damned.” Ronald seldom swore, but the occasion called for strong words.

  “I’ve been on guard — it was more important than listening to Ganzani — though not so interesting, perhaps.”

  “Has anyone been here — my sister?” he paused.

  Sinclair laughed. “They might have tried, but then you see I was here. The butler recognised me — I was at your party, you remember, in the same costume. I brought Carstairs and stationed him in the garden. I told him I should be here and he had only to call out. Your sister is asleep — I took the liberty of looking in.”

  “You are a brick, Sir Arthur — but for you she might have been abducted. Ganzani — ”

  “You shall tell me all about that to-morrow. Go to your uncle, now. The danger’s past. I’ll take Carstairs along with me.”

  “But Ganzani — we must tell the police, surely.”

  “What will you tell the police?” Sinclair asked simply.

  Ronald made no answer.

  “He will be gone to-morrow — I know he’s sold up everything. We’ll find him all right in time. Meet me to-morrow at his restaurant, he won’t be there. Twelve o’clock — don’t forget.”

  Reginald Shepherd was sitting up in his chair, supported by a cushion. His breath came in deep gasps.

  “I must fetch a doctor, Uncle.”

  “Nothing of the sort — I’m all right now,” he panted. “I can’t talk much to you to-night, I’m afraid. Tomorrow I will tell you all I know. Perhaps I should have told you before . . . I didn’t think things would come to this.

  “Listen. I’ve often said harsh things about your Father, I’m afraid, but he was a good man — a saint — and there are few of them about nowadays.

  “He married your mother — a strong-minded Scottish woman, and a good wife. It looked as though he would get to the very top — he was a fine scholar, a first-rate man of affairs at that time.

  “As long as your mother lived he was doing well, and I was proud of him. Then she died — the more’s the pity.”

  He paused, and took a strong pull at the brandy and water which Ronald handed to him.

  “Don’t go on if it’s too much,” he said, his arm supporting his uncle.

  “I must tell you — perhaps it’ll be too late to-morrow. No, don’t interrupt. Your father went abroad after that — he was broken- hearted, and I sent him alone — like a fool . . . He had never had much time for travel . . . He wanted to see Greece especially.

  “Somewhere out there — he never told met where — he met Diana’s mother. She was a most beautiful woman, and I suppose he was captivated with her. I don’t suppose we shall ever know the whole truth about that. Anyway, he married her, and brought her home. Everything went right at first for a few months, and then he suddenly retired to Skipton, and . . . then she left him.”

  “You mean?”

  “There’s no good mincing matters. My brother wasn’t Diana’s father. He told me that in this very room. She had left him, after telling him the story of her life — a dreadful story. She was threatened by a great danger. She came back two years later — you were too young to remember — with Diana, a baby, one year old. Your father took her back — forgave her, and all that sort of thing. I had no patience with him. From that time onwards he guarded her and he asked me to look after you both if anything ever happened to him. Then his wife died, and I thought the whole thing was buried. It’s been a shock to me.” He closed his eyes again.

  Something was whirling in Ronald’s head — something that would elude him and return again.

  Then realisation came to him.

  “Then Diana’s not my sister at all?” he blurted out.

  “Legally she is. In actual fact, she’s no relation. I know, my boy, it will be a blow to you. I had made up my mind I must tell you.”

  Ronald sat down and hid his head in his hands.

  “Ganzani said Diana’s father was dead?” he questioned.

  “Ganzani may know the whole truth.”

  “He will never tell me — I kicked him down the steps.”

  Reginald Shepherd remained silent a long time. Then he said, “I must go to bed now, my boy — no, I won’t have a doctor. Just help me. I shall be able to manage. To-morrow I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  When Ronald took his uncle upstairs, the passage light was burning brightly, and there was no sign of Sinclair.

  He saw his uncle safely in bed, and walked slowly to his own. He paused at Diana’s door. Bitterly he thought he could no longer walk in there and talk to her, but he gently opened the door and heard her sleeping. Then he went to his own room. All night he tossed about in agony — what was God doing to allow such a thing! He knew now that he loved her — not as a brother loves — it came to him suddenly like a flash of light, but he knew that no words must pass his lips. The gates of Paradise were shut against him. And yet he must go on living with her — he dared not leave her with this horrible thing hanging over her. He must hear her voice — see her face, be with her — feel the touch of her hand on his. And she would wonder why the little intimacies had gone and put it down to stupid jealousy. Jealousy — Heavens, now he would know what it meant. And he must never show it — perhaps he would see her in love with some man — she might confide in him — ask his advice. He laughed a maniacal laugh. His skin was hot and dry and his whole body ached with the torture of his mind. He pulled himself together with a great effort of will. Perhaps she would hear him if he made any noise, and be frightened.

  And she was sleeping quietly in the next room!

  “Diana,” he cried. “Di — I know now — the longing I had to be with you — to get back to the old days. Gone — forever.”

  Merciful sleep came at last — sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE OWNER OF THE ATHENS HOTEL

  Ronald was the first down in the morning. He felt an utter disgust with life, and a distaste for food. He saw in the glass a haggard face — unlike his own; the night had taken toll of him.

  Diana entered the room with her head held high in a way he knew of old, when someone had upset her. Then she would look more like her mother than when she was her usual laughing self.

  She sat down without a word, and poured out tea.

  “Uncle was taken ill last night,” Ronald said coldly.

  “What! Why didn’t you send to me?” There was a sharp note in her voice which he resented.

  “You were fast asleep, and I looked after him.” He did not wish to quarrel, but would not even meet her half-way — already he felt a rift had come in their lives which would grow wider as time went on.

  “Has the doctor been?”

  “He would not have a doctor — he just had a sort of fainting fit. I saw
him to bed.”

  Her eyes puckered ominously.

  “Just had a sort of fainting fit — and you did not send for a doctor. Did he fall down or what? — you must tell me.”

  He resented her imperious tone.

  “I can’t tell you more — he was reading over his stocks and shares, and appeared faint. He wouldn’t have Simpson. I’ll fetch Dr. Smart to see him. He can examine him and let us know.” He hated lying to her — but there was no choice. How could he tell more without the whole truth coming out?

  “I’ll go and see him,” she said, leaving her breakfast untouched. Ronald swept his plate away. He had said he would fetch Smart on the spur of the moment but the idea was a good one. His uncle would probably refuse to see his own doctor if he brought him, but Smart could come as a friend, and would give a true report of his condition.

  Diana came back. “He is asleep,” she said, “but I don’t like the look of his face. We must have a doctor at once.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Ronald said shortly. Something in his forlorn appearance struck Diana.

  “Yes, do,” she said in a gentler tone. “You’re not eating — Ron, you’re not keeping anything back from me? Is it more serious than you’ve told me? You look ill yourself.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s anything much. It wasn’t a stroke or anything like that. He was talking to me afterwards.”

  “But you?”

  Then she came suddenly round to him. “Ron — is it because — you know — what I said yesterday? I’m sorry.” She put her two soft arms round his neck. “Don’t let’s quarrel, Ron.”

  Before he knew it she had kissed him in the old friendly way, and the bitterness of death came to him.

  “You hurt me, Ron — you know I wouldn’t listen to anyone on that subject — I’m quite happy with you. Let’s forget it all.”

  Forget! Only yesterday he would have laughed with her and suggested a holiday together away from these pestering people. Now he could only stammer out that it was his fault, and that he would not be a brute again.

  “Then eat your breakfast,” she said. “And then go for a doctor. I’ll stay with Uncle.”

  Suppose Reginald talked in his sleep or became delirious?

  She was looking at him with a troubled face. The reconciliation had lacked something. She fancied he was more deeply hurt than she had imagined.

  “Mr. Shepherd would like to see you, sir,” the butler announced.

  “I’ll come at once,” he was glad to get away.

  Ronald found his uncle propped up in bed, looking deadly sick. His first words were, “You haven’t told Diana anything?”

  “Nothing of last night, only that you were ill — I had to tell her that.”

  “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “I should try and forget it. I wish you had been out when that man came . . . Still, you had to know,” he spoke in a slow thick voice which alarmed Ronald.

  “Let me telephone for the doctor. You must see him.”

  “Certainly not. I hate doctors fussing round, and he would only tell me to give up port or some stupid nonsense. No, my boy. Go down to my office, and see my head clerk. I never miss a day if I can help it. There now — off you go.”

  There was something feverish and unnatural about him as though he were afraid that Ronald would reopen the subject of last night’s conversation.

  Ronald hurried round to Dr. Smart, and found him in his laboratory.

  “I will do anything I can to help,” he said, “but, of course, I think you should send for Mr. Shepherd’s own doctor. I am not in regular practice, as you know — it’s unprofessional.”

  “I thought if you came as a friend — you know my uncle — you could just have a talk and see what his state really is.”

  “It was a curious seizure. I suppose he had no sudden shock of any sort?” Smart asked.

  “He did,” Ronald replied, “but I am afraid I cannot tell you what it was.”

  “Ah — a mental shock — it would help if you could tell me that.”

  “Yes — certainly a mental shock.”

  “Well,” Smart said, after carefully considering the matter,” I will come along on one condition. If I think the case warrants it, I shall myself call in your doctor — what’s his name?”

  “Dr. Simpson — he used to live at Skipton when my father was alive — but my uncle took a fancy to him, and induced him to come to Town. He’s an old friend of ours.”

  “Shall I come now?”

  Ronald looked at his watch. “I must go to my uncle’s office and I have an appointment at twelve. I’ll come and pick you up after that.”

  So it was agreed, and Ronald hurried first to the City and then to Frith Street.

  Sinclair was in conversation with a brand-new Italian, who was volubly explaining that he had bought the place and was going to have it conducted on different lines.

  “I get the place cheap — I was a waiter at Pollini’s. It is, as you see, already much improved,” he waved his hand expansively. There was undoubtedly a great change. The windows had been cleaned, and brand new tablecloths covered the tables.

  “How long have you been here?” Sinclair asked, motioning Ronald to sit down.

  “Two weeks, sir. Signer Ganzani he retire to Italy — I think he was much afraid of the police,” he grinned broadly.

  “Really,” Sinclair said dryly. “So he went two weeks ago.”

  “He pack in a hurry, got his passports, and go. But,” he whispered confidentially, “Ganzani, he not own the place — I find out.”

  Sinclair cast a fleeting glance at Ronald. “Who was it?” he asked casually.

  “I must not tell his name — he is an Englishman. But he not like to let his name be known.” He gave a wink at Sinclair, and with apologies hurried off.

  “Now let’s hear all about last night,” Sinclair said, when a bottle of Italian wine had been ordered.

  “Why did you ask me here?” Ronald asked.

  “To get some information from this worthy man — which I got,” he smiled enigmatically.

  Ronald retailed the conversation of the night before in detail. Every word of that strange conversation was stamped for all time on his mind.

  When the tale was told, the old detective put his hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder. “Poor fellow,” he said gently, “it must have been a shock to you.”

  A sudden thought came to Ronald. “Had you any suspicions of this?” he asked.

  Sinclair took his time to answer. “Yes — I knew — part at any rate, and guessed more. When I first saw you two together, I could hardly believe that you were even half-brother and sister, and when I heard the story of Diana’s mother — I think I pieced things together. You see now one reason — though not the only one — why I advised you not to go to the official police. They would have raked out that secret which your poor father tried so hard to hide, and perhaps it would have become public property. There were other reasons, too.”

  “What’s to be done now?” Ronald asked in a broken voice.

  “Several things — you’ve got a very hard part to play, my boy. I know — I am not unobservant.” Ronald started. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, my boy — you’re as clean a type as I have ever met — but if things had gone on much longer I was going to tell you myself. Think only of her now and her safety.”

  He took Ronald’s hand in a firm grip. “Don’t give way to despair. I tell you, hope on and fight on.”

  There was a ring of confidence in Sinclair’s voice. Ronald looked at him in wonder.

  “Suppose,” he said, weighing each word carefully and looking steadily at Ronald. “Suppose Diana’s mother was married already when she met your father — and we can prove it. Your father then would have committed unconscious bigamy.”

  “Good God. Sir Arthur, don’t put ideas like that into my head.”

  He clutched convulsively at the other’s arm.

  “I must see Diana,” Sinclair said decis
ively.

  “You won’t tell her anything. That would make things impossible.”

  “I shall tell her nothing except of the danger, and warn her. It is necessary now after last night. Things are coming to a crisis. You must go about armed.”

  “Armed — in London? It sounds like Mexico.”

  “It is necessary.”

  “What made you come last night? I forgot to ask with all these other matters?”

  Sinclair laughed. “A mere chance,” he said lightly. “I came up from Eastbourne with Teddy Carstairs — a charming fellow by the way — and we dined here. I was disguised as the old gentleman of the party, which seemed to cause him much amusement, and we went on to your house. He knew about the burglary, and when we saw Ganzani go in, we kept watch — as you saw.”

  In spite of the heavy load he was bearing, Ronald laughed. “Sir Arthur — you may think me a fool, but you don’t take me in with that story. I am not asking anything — I know you have your reasons. You’re too deep for me.”

  Sinclair smiled. “It’s the truth — as far as it goes, but you’re sharp, Ronald.”

  “I must go — I have to pick up Dr. Smart and take him home.”

  Ronald drove first to Smart’s house and then to Cromwell Road, where Diana was anxiously waiting.

  “Uncle is better,” she said, “he’s had some food and talks of getting up. Still, if you could see him, Dr. Smart, it would be a relief. Will you go up now with Ronald?”

  Mr. Shepherd, after some grumblings, allowed himself to be examined.

  Ronald and Diana waited in the dining-room. The clouds of the morning seemed to have gone, and Diana was less anxious now.

  Presently Smart came down.

  “Can I speak to you alone, Ronald?” he said.

  Diana intervened: “No — please — if there is anything you want to tell my brother, I wish to hear. Is it about our uncle?”