“You want those papers for something more than a magazine article!” she declared. “There is something behind all this! Victor, I cannot help you; I am powerless. I will take no part in anything which I cannot understand.”
He stood up, leaning a little upon his stick, the dull, green stone of which flashed brightly in the firelight.
“You will help me,” he said slowly. “You will let me into that room at night, and you will see that your husband is not there, or that he does not interfere. And as to that magazine article, you are right! What if it were a lie! I do not fly at small game. Now do you understand?”
She rose to her feet and drew herself up before him proudly. She towered above him, handsome, dignified, angry.
“Victor,” she said firmly, “I refuse; you can go away at once! I will have no more to say or to do with you! You have given me up my letters, it is true, yet for that you have no special claim upon my gratitude. A man of honour would have destroyed them long ago.”
He looked up at her, and the ghost of an unholy smile flickered upon his lips.
“Did I tell you that I had given them all back to you?” he said. “Ah! that was a mistake; all save one, I should have said! One I kept, in case—— Well, your sex are proverbially ungrateful, you know. It is the one on the yellow paper written from Mentone! You remember it? I always liked it better than any of the others.”
Her white hands flashed out in the firelight. It seemed almost as though she must have struck him. He had lied to her! She was not really free; he was still the master and she his slave! She stood as though turned to stone.
“I think,” he said, “that you will listen now to a little plan which has just occurred to me, will you not?”
She looked away from him with a shudder.
“What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
CHAPTER XXVI
MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY
Table of Contents
“I am afraid,” Harcutt said, “that either the letter was a hoax, or the writer has thought better of the matter. It is half an hour past the time, and poor Mr. Blatherwick is still alone.”
Wolfenden glanced towards the distant table where his father’s secretary was already finishing his modest meal.
“Poor old Blatherwick!” he remarked; “I know he’s awfully relieved. He’s too nervous for this sort of thing; I believe he would have lost his head altogether if his mysterious correspondent had turned up.”
“I suppose,” Harcutt said, “that we may take it for granted that he is not in the room.”
“Every soul here,” Wolfenden answered, “is known to me either personally or by sight. The man with the dark moustache sitting by himself is a London solicitor who built himself a bungalow here four years ago, and comes down every other week for golf. The two men in the corner are land speculators from Norwich; and their neighbour is Captain Stoneham, who rides over from the barracks twice a week, also for golf.”
“It is rather a sell for us,” Harcutt remarked. “On the whole I am not sorry that I have to go back to town to-night. Great Scott! what a pretty girl!”
“Lean back, you idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed softly; “don’t move if you can help it!”
Harcutt grasped the situation and obeyed at once. The portion of the dining-room in which they were sitting was little more than a recess, divided off from the main apartment by heavy curtains and seldom used except in the summer when visitors were plentiful. Mr. Blatherwick’s table was really within a few feet of theirs, but they themselves were hidden from it by a corner of the folding doors. They had chosen the position with care and apparently with success.
The girl who had entered the room stood for a moment looking round as though about to select a table. Harcutt’s exclamation was not without justification, for she was certainly pretty. She was neatly dressed in a grey walking suit, and a velvet Tam-o-shanter hat with a smart feather. Suddenly she saw Mr. Blatherwick and advanced towards him with outstretched hand and a charming smile.
“Why, my dear Mr. Blatherwick, what on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “Have you left Lord Deringham?”
Mr. Blatherwick rose to his feet confused, and blushing to his spectacles; he greeted the young lady, however, with evident pleasure.
“No; that is, not yet,” he answered; “I am leaving this week. I did not know—I had no idea that you were in the vicinity! I am very pleased to see you.”
She looked at the empty place at his table.
“I was going to have some luncheon,” she said; “I have walked so much further than I intended and I am ravenously hungry. May I sit at your table?”
“With much pleasure,” Mr. Blatherwick assented. “I was expecting a—a—friend, but he is evidently not coming.”
“I will take his place then, if I may,” she said, seating herself in the chair which the waiter was holding for her, and raising her veil. “Will you order something for me? I am too hungry to mind what it is.”
Mr. Blatherwick gave a hesitating order, and the waiter departed. Miss Merton drew off her gloves and was perfectly at her ease.
“Now do tell me about the friend whom you were going to meet,” she said, smiling gaily at him, “I hope—you really must not tell me, Mr. Blatherwick, that it was a lady!”
Mr. Blatherwick coloured to the roots of his hair at the mere suggestion, and hastened to disclaim it.
“My—my dear Miss Merton!” he exclaimed, “I can assure you that it was not! I—I should not think of such a thing.”
She nodded, and began to break up her roll and eat it.
“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Blatherwick,” she said; “I warn you that I was prepared to be very jealous. You used to tell me, you know, that I was the only girl with whom you cared to talk.”
“It is—quite true, quite true, Miss Merton,” he answered eagerly, dropping his voice a little and glancing uneasily over his shoulder. “I—I have missed you very much indeed; it has been very dull.”
Mr. Blatherwick sighed; he was rewarded by a very kind glance from a pair of very blue eyes. He fingered the wine list, and began to wonder whether she would care for champagne.
“Now tell me,” she said, “all the news. How are they all at Deringham Hall—the dear old Admiral and the Countess, and that remarkably silly young man, Lord Wolfenden?”
Wolfenden received a kick under the table, and Harcutt’s face positively beamed with delight. Mr. Blatherwick, however, had almost forgotten their proximity. He had made up his mind to order champagne.
“The Ad—Ad—Admiral is well in health, but worse mentally,” he answered. “I am leaving for that very reason. I do not conceive that in fairness to myself I should continue to waste my time in work which can bring forth no fruit. I trust, Miss Merton, that you agree with me.”
“Perfectly,” she answered gravely.
“The Countess,” he continued, “is well, but much worried. There have been strange hap—hap—happenings at the Hall since you left. Lord Wolfenden is there. By the bye, Miss Merton,” he added, dropping his voice, “I do not—not—think that you used to consider Lord Wolfenden so very silly when you were at Deringham.”
“It was very dull sometimes—when you were busy, Mr. Blatherwick,” she answered, beginning her lunch. “I will confess to you that I did try to amuse myself a little with Lord Wolfenden. But he was altogether too rustic—too stupid! I like a man with brains!”
Harcutt produced a handkerchief and stuffed it to his mouth; his face was slowly becoming purple with suppressed laughter. Mr. Blatherwick ordered the champagne.
“I—I was very jealous of him,” he admitted almost in a whisper.
The blue eyes were raised again very eloquently to his.
“You had no cause,” she said gently; “and Mr. Blatherwick, haven’t you forgotten something?”
Mr. Blatherwick had sipped his glass of champagne, and answered without a stutter.
“I have not,” he said, “forgotten you!”<
br />
“You used to call me by my Christian name!”
“I should be delighted to call you Miss—Blanche for ever,” he said boldly. “May I?”
She laughed softly.
“Well, I don’t quite know about that,” she said; “you may for this morning, at least. It is so pleasant to see you again. How is the work getting on?”
He groaned.
“Don’t ask me, please; it is awful! I am truly glad that I am leaving—for many reasons!”
“Have you finished copying those awful details of the defective armour plates?” she asked, suddenly dropping her voice so that it barely reached the other side of the table.
“Only last night,” he answered; “it was very hard work, and so ridiculous! It went into the box with the rest of the finished work this morning.”
“Did the Admiral engage a new typewriter?” she inquired.
He shook his head.
“No; he says that he has nearly finished.”
“I am so glad,” she said. “You have had no temptation to flirt then with anybody else, have you?”
“To flirt—with anybody else! Oh! Miss—I mean Blanche. Do you think that I could do that?”
His little round face shone with sincerity and the heat of the unaccustomed wine. His eyes were watering a little, and his spectacles were dull. The girl looked at him in amusement.
“I am afraid,” she said, with a sigh, “that you used to flirt with me.”
“I can assure you, B—B—Blanche,” he declared earnestly, “that I never said a word to you which I—I did not hon—hon—honestly mean. Blanche, I should like to ask you something.”
“Not now,” she interrupted hastily. “Do you know, I fancy that we must be getting too confidential. That odious man with the eyeglass keeps staring at us. Tell me what you are going to do when you leave here. You can ask me—what you were going to, afterwards.”
Mr. Blatherwick grew eloquent and Blanche was sympathetic. It was quite half an hour before they rose and prepared to depart.
“I know you won’t mind,” Blanche said to him confidentially, “if I ask you to leave the hotel first; the people I am with are a little particular, and it would scarcely do, you see, for us to go out together.”
“Certainly,” he replied. “Would you l—like me to leave you here—would it be better?”
“You might walk to the door with me, please,” she said. “I am afraid you must be very disappointed that your friend did not come. Are you not?”
Mr. Blatherwick’s reply was almost incoherent in its excess of protestation. They walked down the room together. Harcutt and Wolfenden look at one another.
“Well,” the former exclaimed, drinking up his liqueur, “it is a sell!”
“Yes,” Wolfenden agreed thoughtfully, with his eyes fixed upon the two departing figures, “it is a sell!”
CHAPTER XXVII
BY CHANCE OR DESIGN
Table of Contents
Wolfenden sent his phaeton to the station with Harcutt, who had been summoned back to town upon important business. Afterwards he slipped back to the hall to wait for its return, and came face to face with Mr. Blatherwick, who was starting homewards.
“I was looking for you,” Wolfenden said; “your luncheon party turned out a little differently to anything we had expected.”
“I am happy,” Mr. Blatherwick said, “to be able to believe that the letter was after all a hoax. There was no one in the room, as you would doubtless observe, likely to be in any way concerned in the matter.”
Wolfenden knocked the ash off his cigarette without replying.
“You seem,” he remarked, “to be on fairly intimate terms with Miss Merton.”
“We were fellow workers for several months,” Mr. Blatherwick reminded him; “naturally, we saw a good deal of one another.”
“She is,” Wolfenden continued, “a very charming girl.”
“I consider her, in every way,” Mr. Blatherwick said with enthusiasm, “a most delightful young lady. I—I am very much attached to her.”
Wolfenden laid his hand on the secretary’s shoulder.
“Blatherwick,” he said, “you’re a good fellow, and I like you. Don’t be offended at what I am going to say. You must not trust Miss Merton; she is not quite what she appears to you.”
Mr. Blatherwick took a step backward, and flushed red with anger.
“I do not understand you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “What do you know of Miss Merton?”
“Not very much,” Wolfenden said quietly; “quite enough, though, to justify me in warning you seriously against her. She is a very clever young person, but I am afraid a very unscrupulous one.”
Mr. Blatherwick was grave, almost dignified.
“Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “you are the son of my employer, but I take the liberty of telling you that you are a l—l——”
“Steady, Blatherwick,” Wolfenden interrupted; “you must not call me names.”
“You are not speaking the truth,” Mr. Blatherwick continued, curbing himself with an effort. “I will not listen to, or—or permit in my presence any aspersion against that young lady!”
Wolfenden shook his head gently.
“Mr. Blatherwick,” he said, “don’t be a fool! You ought to know that I am not the sort of man to make evil remarks about a lady behind her back, unless I knew what I was talking about. I cannot at this moment prove it, but I am morally convinced that Miss Merton came here to-day at the instigation of the person who wrote to you, and that she only refrained from making you some offer because she knew quite well that we were within hearing.”
“I will not listen to another word, Lord Wolfenden,” Mr. Blatherwick declared vigorously. “If you are honest, you are cruelly misjudging that young lady; if not you must know yourself the proper epithet to be applied to the person who defames an innocent girl behind her back! I wish you good afternoon, sir. I shall leave Deringham Hall to-morrow.”
He strode away, and Wolfenden watched him with a faint, regretful smile upon his lips. Then he turned round suddenly; a little trill of soft musical laughter came floating out from a recess in the darkest corner of the hall. Miss Merton was leaning back amongst the cushions of a lounge, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She beckoned Wolfenden to her.
“Quite melodramatic, wasn’t it?” she exclaimed, moving her skirts for him to sit by her side. “Dear little man! Do you know he wants to marry me?”
“What a clever girl you are,” Wolfenden remarked; “really you’d make an admirable wife for him.”
She pouted a little.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “I am not contemplating making any one an admirable wife; matrimony does not attract me at all.”
“I don’t know what pleasure you can find in making a fool of a decent little chap like that,” he said; “it’s too bad of you, Blanche.”
“One must amuse oneself, and he is so odd and so very much in earnest.”
“Of course,” Wolfenden continued, “I know that you had another object.”
“Had I?”
“You came here to try and tempt the poor little fellow with a thousand pounds!”
“I have never,” she interposed calmly, “possessed a thousand shillings in my life.”
“Not on your own account, of course: you came on behalf of your employer, Mr. Sabin, or some one behind him! What is this devilry, Blanche?”
She looked at him out of wide-open eyes, but she made no answer.
“So far as I can see,” he remarked, “I must confess that foolery seems a better term. I cannot imagine anything in my father’s work worth the concoction of any elaborate scheme to steal. But never mind that; there is a scheme, and you are in it. Now I will make a proposition to you. It is a matter of money, I suppose; will you name your terms to come over to my side?”
A look crept into her eyes which puzzled him.
“Over to your side,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Do you mind telling me
exactly what you mean by that?”
As though by accident the delicate white hand from which she had just withdrawn her glove touched his, and remained there as though inviting his clasp. She looked quickly up at him and drooped her eyes. Wolfenden took her hand, patted it kindly, and replaced it in her lap.
“Look here, Blanche,” he said, “I won’t affect to misunderstand you; but haven’t you learnt by this time that adventures are not in my way?—less now than at any time perhaps.”
She was watching his face and read its expression with lightning-like truth.
“Bah!” she said, “there is no man who would be so brutal as you unless——”
“Unless what?”
“He were in love with another girl!”
“Perhaps I am, Blanche!”
“I know that you are.”
He looked at her quickly.
“But you do not know with whom?”
She had not guessed, but she knew now.
“I think so,” she said; “it is with the beautiful niece of Mr. Sabin! You have admirable taste.”
“Never mind about that,” he said; “let us come to my offer. I will give you a hundred a year for life, settle it upon you, if you will tell me everything.”
“A hundred a year,” she repeated. “Is that much money?”
“Well, it will cost more than two thousand pound,” he said; “still, I would like you to have it, and you shall if you will be quite frank with me.”
She hesitated.
“I should like,” she said, “to think it over till to- morrow morning; it will be better, for supposing I decide to accept, I shall know a good deal more of this than I know now.”
“Very well,” he said, “only I should strongly advise you to accept.”
“One hundred a year,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Perhaps you will have changed your mind by to-morrow.”
“There is no fear of it,” he assured her quietly.
“Write it down,” she said. “I think that I shall agree.”
“Don’t you trust me, Blanche?”
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