LADY MORTE-MANNERY HELPS A FRIEND
Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery was in an amiable mood. He had just read a most
complimentary reference to his own perspicacity and genius in a French
journal devoted to the interests of collectors. His gaiety had affected
the other members of the little dinner party and had tempered somewhat
the natural annoyance of the quashing of George Mansingham’s conviction.
That unfortunate man had been released, not because the judges of the
Appeal Court thought that his sentence was excessive, but because, in
summing up, Sir Ralph had outraged most of the canons of good taste
which it is possible for a judge to outrage.
In giving judgment, their lordships had said many bitter things about
Sir Ralph; indeed, so unkind had been some of their comments, that
Hilary George, listening with that air of delighted wonder which was
his normal attitude toward life, had felt a sinking of his heart as he
thought of the humiliation which by his efforts he had brought upon his
sometime friend.
Hilary was too good a man and too good a sportsman to exult in his
victory. He was a strong man, too. None but a strong man would have
taken the first train to Burboro’ and carried the news of the result
to a man who would consider himself as being almost within his legal
rights in slaying the messenger.
There had been a stiff little meeting in the library; later, something
like a reconciliation. Hilary, in terms which his old friendship
permitted, gave the result of the finding, toning down the more
vigorous of the judges’ remarks, and inwardly praying that _The Times_,
in its record of the case, would sub-edit it as mercifully.
Sir Ralph had been prepared for some such upset. He himself was an
excellent lawyer where his prejudices did not interfere with his
judgment. The lawyer in him had told him that his sentence had been
excessive, just as the collector in him demanded as emphatically that
the man should have been hung. But Hilary, with his baby face and his
babbling humour and his readiness to laugh at jokes against himself,
had broken down the reserve of the older man and had been invited to
stay on.
Over the dinner table Sir Ralph even drank his health in facetious
terms. The host’s humour was not of a great quality. But it was quite
sufficient, as indeed it is in the case of all men whose flashes of
humour are few and far between. He insisted on referring to Hilary as
the “enemy” or “my oppressor,” and it gave him considerable amusement
to do so.
“Now, Hilary,” he said, with heavy jocularity, “you must give us all
the news of the best criminal circles. What are the Red Hand doing?
Really, they are killing as many people as the motor buses.”
“Those people who know best,” said Hilary gravely, “are viewing the
inactivity of the Red Hand with some apprehension. I happen to know
the government is rather worried about it. These men are brilliantly
organized, and they will stop at nothing.”
“Has anybody discovered,” asked Marjorie, “why they are rifling the
collections? There was an article in the _Post Herald_ about it the
other day.”
Hilary shook his head.
“I’m blessed if I can understand it,” he said. “There’s something
behind it. I don’t want to bother you, Ralph,” he went on, “but doesn’t
it ever strike you, as a lawyer and as a man of keen perceptions, that
there really might have been some Red Hand move behind that burglary of
yours?”
Sir Ralph shook his head.
“I shouldn’t think it was likely; of course, it might be so,” he
conceded graciously, though in his heart of hearts he was perfectly
satisfied that it was nothing of the sort.
“Their latest exploit,” said Hilary, “was to kidnap one of Tillizini’s
agents. The man was taken away overnight and turned up whole and hearty
in the morning. For some reason they’d given an order for his release,
being, I think, under the impression that they’d killed Tillizini and
there was no necessity to retain his agent. The man could give very
little account of his movements, except that he had been more or less
stupefied by the administration of a drug which somewhat dulled his
powers of recollection. He was unable to assist the police in locating
the house where he had been taken. He was found in a dazed condition
sitting on one of the seats on London Bridge in the early hours of the
morning, and has been in a more or less semi-conscious condition ever
since.”
“That’s very interesting.” Frank, who was seated next to Marjorie,
leaned across the table. “I’ve seen men like that in Italy; it’s a sort
of opium preparation that some of the peasants take. There is a slang
term for it in Italian, an abbreviation of _non mi recordo_.”
“He remembers nothing, anyway,” said Hilary, “except----” He stopped.
“Except what?” asked Vera.
She had been a silent listener to the conversation. She was looking
very beautiful to-night, Hilary thought. She wore a dress of gray
chiffon velvet, one big pink rose in her corsage.
“I forget now,” said Hilary. He remembered that he had received his
information in confidence, and that he himself might be associated in
the case at a later period.
“By the way,” he went on, “I saw you in town the other day.”
Vera raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Really,” she drawled, “that was awfully clever of you. Where was I?”
“You were in Oxford Street,” said Hilary. “That was an awfully swagger
motor car you were driving in. Was it Festini’s?”
She looked at him steadily.
“Festini?” she repeated.
“I thought I saw you with Festini,” he said hastily.
For a man with such a wide knowledge of human creatures, and, moreover,
so versed in the ways of society, he seemed to be making an unusual
number of _faux pas_.
“I do not know Festini,” she said, “if you mean Count Festini, whose
name one sees through the medium of the public press as moving in
exalted circles; nor have I ever been in a motor car in Oxford Street
since I drove with Sir Ralph to Buzzard’s last Christmas.”
“I am sorry,” murmured the barrister.
Vera changed the subject with an easy grace. She was a perfect hostess,
though she required all her self-control to prevent her showing the
anger she felt.
“Go on telling us something about the Red Hand,” she said. “What is
this immense _coup_ one hears about? I am awfully keen to know.”
“Nobody seems to have any information on that subject,” said Hilary,
“not even Tillizini.”
“Not even Tillizini?” she repeated in mock amazement.
“Not even Tillizini,” repeated Hilary. “He seems to be as much in the
dark as any of us.”
“People are getting a little jumpy,” said Sir Ralph, as, at a signal
from Vera, the two women rose from the table. “There was another
article in this morning’s paper. I know the journalists who are
generally behind the scenes in these things expect something pretty big
to happen. The police are guarding all the public buildings, and every
cabinet minister is being shadowed with as much care as though the Red
Hand was a suffragist organization.”
The party laughed politely at Sir Ralph’s little gibe.
“I can confirm that,” said Frank, as he selected a cigar from the box
which Marjorie offered him. “The various corporations responsible for
their safety have asked a number of engineers to make an inspection of
the bridges.”
“Across the Thames?”
He nodded. “There’s a water-guard every night for these,” he said; “all
the signs are pretty ominous.”
Sir Ralph and Hilary strolled away. They were both interested in the
collection, and Vera joined the other two.
“I am not going to stay long with you,” she smiled. “Don’t look so
alarmed, Mr. Gallinford.”
She was genuine in her desire to propitiate him. His attitude toward
her was a little strange and stiff. If she knew the reason, she gave
no indication. In a way, he amused her. He was so open and so English.
She experienced the resentment of her remote ancestry stirring within
her at his dogged, unwavering honesty. Her attitude, to the distress
of Marjorie, was at once polite and antagonistic. She, Marjorie, had
remonstrated with him without effect. With all her pride in her lover,
she desired that he should stand well with others and should inspire in
them the same admiration which she herself felt for him.
Vera’s attempt at conciliation on this occasion was crowned with no
greater success than her previous effort. After awhile she yawned
slightly behind her hand. She apologized laughingly.
“Do not think you poor people are boring me,” she said, “but I’ve had
some rather trying nights lately. Where are you going?” she asked.
“I am going into the billiard room to play Marjorie a hundred up,” said
Frank, with a heroic attempt to be genial.
Vera nodded.
“And I’ve got my accounts to bring up-to-date.”
She made a wry little face. “Pity me,” she demanded, with a smile.
“Can I help you, dear?” asked Marjorie.
Vera shook her head.
“Accounts,” she said, with thinly veiled acrimony, “are mysteries into
which I trust your future husband will never initiate you.”
With a nod she passed out of the room. She returned a few minutes later
as though she had left something behind, and found the room empty. She
made her way to the billiard room; the game had just started, so they
were settled for at least half an hour.
She looked at the jewelled watch on her wrist; it wanted five minutes
to ten. She came back to the hall and went up the stairs slowly, and
as slowly walked past the museum. The iron door was closed, but its
rosewood covering stood ajar. Ralph was engaged in an argument on the
respective values of Renaissance artists which would last for at least
an hour. She quickened her steps. At the other end of the corridor
her own room was situated. Highlawn had been reconstructed to suit
Sir Ralph’s convenience. In a sense it was convenient to her too, for
she had chosen a small room in a wing which was never fully occupied
unless Sir Ralph had an unusually large house party.
She closed the door behind her and locked it. It was a pretty room,
furnished with taste, though it contained little that could by any
stretch of imagination be termed valuable. Sir Ralph had his own
views on the luxury of the age, and the simplicity, not to say the
meanness, of his domestic arrangements was a concrete expression of his
disapproval of modern luxurious tendencies.
The room possessed, what is unusual in English country houses, long
French windows, which opened onto a balcony. She looked at her watch
again, then drew a heavy curtain across her door. A light was burning
dimly. The room might have been a sitting room but for the big white
bed which stood in an alcove, screened from view by thick silk curtains.
She did not trouble to turn on more lights. She looked at the dim
solitary electric bulb for a moment in doubt, and then walked to the
window. Again she looked at the light hesitatingly, and, walking back,
switched it off. She opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony.
It was a mild, pleasant night. The moon was hidden behind a bank
of clouds, but there was sufficient light to distinguish the more
prominent objects in the big, sweet-smelling garden below. She looked
carefully left and right, and saw nothing. She went back to her room to
get a rug, and resumed her vigil. The clock of the village church had
struck ten in its lugubrious tones when she heard a slight sound in the
garden below.
She walked back to her room quickly, opened a cupboard, and took out a
silk ladder; there was a hook attached, and this she fastened with deft
fingers to a socket in the balcony, fixed in the wall, ostensibly to
support the sunblinds when their cover was necessary.
She dropped the ladder over. A dark form rose from the shadow of the
portico beneath and mounted the swaying cordage. He leaped lightly over
the balustrade and stopped for a moment to pull up the ladder after him
and to lay it on the floor of the balcony.
She took his hand and led him into the room, closed the windows,
shuttered them, and pulled the velvet curtains across. Then she
switched on the light and returned to him. She laid her two hands upon
his shoulders and looked hungrily into his face.
Beautiful as she was, the love which shone in her eyes transfigured her
face and intensified her loveliness.
“It is you!” she breathed. “Oh, thank you for coming yourself! I was
afraid that you would send one of those wretched men of yours.”
Festini smiled kindly. He patted her cheek caressingly.
“I had to come,” he said, “though it is not long since I saw you.”
“It is two days,” she said reproachfully.
He nodded.
“So it is,” he smiled. “You got my letter?”
For answer she took a crumpled envelope from her breast.
“You ought to burn that,” he said half seriously. “It is a very
dangerous thing to keep letters, even though they are apparently
innocent.”
“You have come alone?” she asked.
He inclined his head. The hand that rested in his was shaking, but not
from fear.
“I have missed you so. I hate this place,” she said vehemently. “It
is a prison to me. It eats out my heart--this life. Festini,” she
said, and again her two hands were laid on his shoulder, and her face
searched his, “you cannot understand what an existence this is.”
“It is only for a little while, my child,” he said.
She was older than he, but his paternal manner was perfect.
“Later we will go away and leave this dull land for a more pleasant
one. Leave these gray skies for the blue of our Italy, and these drab,
drizzling fields for the sun-washed vineyards of our own land.”
He kissed her lightly again. He was anxious to get to business. None
knew the relations of these two, for Festini kept his secret well. Even
in the innermost council of his association he spoke of her as though
she were the veriest stranger.
“I want to go somewhere,” she said moodily, “out of this! I planned to
see you in Ireland last year, and at the last moment Ralph would not
let me go.”
She turned suddenly to him.
“You must have met Marjorie there.”
“Marjorie?” he said innocently.
“We were going together,” she went on, “and when I found she had to go
alone--after all my planning----”
She shook her head with a sad little smile.
“I dared not send a letter by her, or give you an excuse for falling
in love with her,” she rallied him.
“I don’t remember her. What was she like?” said Festini calmly.
“She remembered you,” said Vera. “She maddened me by her chatter of
you. I am happy to say that she did not like you very much.”
Festini smiled.
“So few people do,” he said.
He slipped off his overcoat.
“We are perfectly safe from interruption here?” he asked.
She inclined her head.
“There is no danger whatever.”
“Now then,” he said briskly, “let us talk for quite five minutes, dear.”
They sat head to head, talking. Five minutes became ten. The young man
spoke quickly, vehemently; and she answered in monosyllables. It was
nothing to her that he asked so much. She would have sacrificed more
than her husband’s possessions to please him.
Every law in the world, save the law of gravitation, is suspended in
the woman in love. Faith, honour, every known principle went by the
board. She had no sense of right or wrong where he was concerned. Only
a desire to serve him.
“You had best make the attempt between three and four,” he said. “I
will be here in the garden, waiting. I have a cycle hidden near by, and
a car will be waiting for me on the London road.”
“I wanted to say something to you,” she said suddenly. “I hate
admitting a failure, and, dearie, I tried so hard.”
His quick intuition divined her meaning.
“Oh, the money,” he said lightly. “Don’t let that bother you. I
managed to get some. We’ve been out of luck lately. This infernal man,
Tillizini, has dammed our usual sources. We had a windfall last week,
and in a month’s time,” he said, and she saw the soft light die from
the eyes and the delicate mouth harden in one straight line, “in a
month’s time,” he repeated, “we shall be very rich! And England will be
very sore.”
With lightning change he brightened again and was his own insouciant
self.
“Don’t let the money worry you. We have quite a lot now,” he said. “I,
somehow, didn’t fancy you’d be able to raise the five hundred.”
He rose to go and she assisted him with his coat.
“By the way,” he said, “that niece of yours--what did you say her name
was?”
“Marjorie.”
“That is the name,” he nodded. “I seem to remember her. Where is she
now?”
He put the question carelessly.
“She’s in the house,” replied Vera.
“What a curious coincidence!” he smiled. “She doesn’t speak about me
nowadays, I suppose?” he asked.
Vera shook her head. It had occurred to the young man that the girl
might have referred to their meeting at Victoria.
“Why, of course, how stupid of me!” he said suddenly. “I saw
her the other day--on some station--I remember her now. A tall,
healthy-looking, robust person.”
His description was not flattering to Marjorie, but it was eminently
pleasing to the woman, who was jealous of every other interest he had
in life.
“That is not kind,” she smiled, “but I think it more or less describes
her.”
“She was with a tall man, I remember.”
“He is in the house too,” she said.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“He is in the house too,” he repeated, and his voice was hard.
She thought he was tired, and moved to the window. Her hand was on the
curtain. She stood waiting; then, with a little sigh, she nestled
close to him.
“I want you so,” she breathed. “My God, I do so want you! You don’t
know what it means--what I feel----”
He laughed, a gentle, tolerant laugh.
He held out his arms. For a second she lay on his breast, her heart
beating wildly--perfectly and divinely happy.
“I must go now,” he said gently. “I am afraid of being caught.”
With some reluctance she opened the window. He stood for a moment on
the balcony, reconnoitring the position.
The coast was clear. In a second he was over the balustrade and had
slipped noiselessly to the ground.