I think it occurred to him then that I might be pointing something at
him--not knowing that my deadliest weapon was a silver fork. For he slid
inside the room with his back against the wall. And there we stood,
backed against opposite corners, staring into the darkness, and I, for
one, totally unable to speak. Finally, he said: "I think it will end
right here."
"I--I don't know what you mean," I quavered, for I was plainly expected
to say something. There was another total silence, which I learned
afterward was inability on _his_ part to speak. Then----
"By Jove!" he exclaimed; and then again, under his breath: "By Jove!"
(That assured me somewhat. "By Jove" is so largely a gentleman's
exclamation. If he had said "Blow me," which is English lower class, or
"Shiver my timbers," I know I should have shivered mine. But "By Jove"
gave me courage.)
He fumbled for and lighted a match then, and took a step forward. We had
a ghastly glimpse of each other before the match went out, and I saw he
was _in tweeds and knickers_, and had one of Daphne's sandwiches in his
left hand. He saw the candle then and, stepping forward, he lighted it
where it stood on the chair. And when he had lighted it and put it on
the table he actually smiled across it.
"I am not sure yet that I am awake," he said easily. "Please don't
disappear. The sandwich seems real enough, but that's the way in dreams.
You find something delectable and wake up before you taste it. You see,
the sandwich is gone already."
"You dropped it," I said as calmly as I could.
"Oh," he said, lowering the candle and peering under the table. "Ah,
here it is. So it isn't a dream! You have no idea how many times I have
dreamed I was finding money--sovereigns, you know, and all that--and
wakened at the psychological moment." He put his revolver on the table,
took a bite of the sandwich and stared at me, at my gown, _and then at
my pearls_. I fancied his eyes gleamed.
I did not speak; I was listening with all my might for the car, but I
could hear nothing but the patter of the rain on the flagstones outside.
"I'm afraid I have startled you," he went on, still looking at me with
uncomfortable intentness. "The fact is, I was asleep. I got in through a
window an hour or so ago after a day and a night on the moor. I had no
idea there was anybody here until you brushed past me in the dark."
The moor! Then of course I knew. It had been dawning on me slowly. For
all I could tell, he might have had the Romney under his coat at that
moment. I put my hands to my throat for air because, although he was
smiling and pleasant enough, everybody knows that the bigger the game a
burglar makes a specialty of the more likely he is to look and act like
a gentleman. So, because he seemed to expect me to do something, I
unclasped my collar with shaking fingers and threw it to him across the
table.
"Oh, please take it and go away," I implored him. "It--it isn't
imitation, anyhow, and Daphne says--the Romney was."
"Oh," he said slowly, staring at the pearls, "so Daphne says the Romney
was, eh?"
He ran the collar through his fingers as if his conscience was troubling
him a little. Then, "I wouldn't care to pit my judgment against that of
a lady," he went on without even a word about the collar, "but--I think
your friend Daphne is wrong." His eyes travelled comprehensively to the
silver on the floor.
"If you don't mind," he said whimsically--(this seems the only word,
although--can a burglar be whimsical?)--"I wish you would tell me how
you opened that cupboard door. It was locked an hour ago."
"I dare say it was very unprofessional," I said boldly--for he didn't
show any sign of trying to choke me, and my courage was returning,
"but--I did it with a hairpin."
"Ah!" He was thoughtful. "And--I suppose that is the way you opened the
front entry door, also?"
"No. Violet had a key----" I began. Then I stopped, furious at myself.
He dropped the sandwich again and took a step forward with his eyes
narrowed.
"Violet!" he said.
It seems extraordinary, looking back, to think I could have mistaken him
for a thief when he was something else altogether. But that wasn't the
only mistake I made. I could scream when I remember. He was not at all
like his picture, and because I hadn't recognised him as Basil Harcourt,
who hated The Cause, I had lost quantities of valuable time.
One thinks quickly in emergencies, and women have one advantage over
men. They can think very hard while they are talking about an entirely
different subject. His next question gave me a cue. He came forward and
leaned on the table, near the candle. I could see he was not very old
after all--not nearly so old as I had expected.
"I know it isn't my affair at all," he began, half smiling, "but--I am
under the impression that the Hall has been closed for some years. And
yet--I find a young woman here alone, surrounded by--er--dust and
decay. It's a sort of reversed Sleeping Beauty and the Prince. _You_
should have been asleep. As you say, it isn't my affair, but--what in
the world brought you here?"
(When I told this afterward Poppy said: "It sounds exactly like him, of
course.")
"I came to steal the silver," I said brazenly.
That was my plan, you see. If he would only take me away and give me in
charge he would be safely out of the way and beyond interfering. And the
next morning, when everything was over, I would tell my real name and be
released, and everything would be over. Something had to be done at
once, for, as Daphne said, "to kidnap the Prime Minister would be a
_coup d'état_, but to try to do it and fail would be low comedy."
When I said I was stealing the silver, which was certainly not worth
five guineas, Mr. Harcourt took a step back and caught hold of a chair.
"Really!" he said. And then: "But what in the world did you intend doing
with it?--if you don't mind the question."
This was unexpected, but I rose to the occasion.
"Melt it," I declared. I thought this was inspired. Don't they always
melt down stolen silver?
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You _are_ experienced!" Then he sat down
suddenly in the chair and coughed very hard into his handkerchief. But
he made no move to arrest me.
"Aren't you going to give me in charge?" I asked in alarm, for time was
flying. He put away his handkerchief.
"Wouldn't that be a horrible thing for me to do?" he asked gravely.
"Perhaps it's your first offence, you know, although I doubt that. You
seem so capable. And if I let you go you may reform. Take my word for
it, there's nothing to a life of crime. I suppose you--er--appropriated
the string of pearls that are not imitation?"
This was unexpected.
"It is mine, honestly mine, Mr. Harcourt," I began. He glanced at me
when I called him by name. Then he took the collar out and looked at it.
"I shall advertise it," he said judicially and slid it back into his
pocket. "If the owner offers a reward I will see that you get it--minus
the newspaper costs, of course."
Then--we both heard it at the same moment--there came the throb of the
machine down the drive. He raised his eyebrows and glanced at me. "More
people after the silver, probably," he said, and picked up the candle. I
slipped after him to the entrance hall.
Just inside the door, with a cordial smile of greeting fading into a
blank, stood a middle-aged English gentleman, rather florid, with a
drooping, sandy moustache and thinnish hair. When he saw me the ghost of
the smile returned.
"I am sure I beg your pardon. A--a thousand apologies. That
cursed--hem--the chauffeur has made a beastly mistake. I was led to
believe--I--that is----"
He was staring at me. Then his eye struck the banner across the hall,
with "Votes for Women" on it, and from there it travelled to Mr.
Harcourt. He had grown visibly paler. He put a hand to his tweed
travelling-cap, gave it a jerk and, turning without warning, he
disappeared through the entry into the storm. I caught Mr. Harcourt by
the arm as he was about to follow, muttering savagely.
"Oh, he's going to run away," I wailed. "And he will take pneumonia or
something like that, and die! I told Daphne how it would be!" Mr.
Harcourt ran down the steps. "Sir George! Sir George!" I called
desperately into the darkness from the doorway. There was no answer, but
Mr. Harcourt stopped and glanced back from the drive.
"Sir George!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"It's the Prime Minister," I called desperately, "and if you care
anything at all about Violet--but, of course, you don't--oh, do find him
and bring him back!"
(Nothing but the excitement of the occasion would have made me mention
Violet to him. I was sorry on the instant, for Mother knew a man once
who had a fainting spell every time he heard his divorced wife's name,
and the only way they could revive him was by sprinkling him with lilac
water, which had been her favourite perfume. Very romantic, I think. But
there was nothing but rain to sprinkle on Mr. Harcourt, even if he had
taken a fit, which he didn't.)
Instead, he turned on his heel and started down the drive. Sir George
had disappeared, and the engine of the motor car had given a final throb
and died in the distance. Sounds of feet splashing through mud and water
came back to me.
For ten minutes I cowered on that miserable settee, with "Votes for
Women" over my head. And I remembered America, and the way I was always
sheltered there, and nobody even thinking of kidnapping the Cabinet. The
President being the whole thing anyhow and always guarded by secret
service men. And besides, imagine abducting nine men! Or is it seven?
After eternities I heard voices outside and Mr. Harcourt appeared, half
leading, half coaxing Sir George. He had him by the arm. The Prime
Minister was oozing mud and he was very pale.
"Terrible!" he was saying. "Unbelievable! Is there anything they won't
do!" Then he caught a glimpse of the seven chairs and the gavel on the
drawing-room table, and tried to bolt again. But the entry door was
closed.
"Now, then," Mr. Harcourt said to me disagreeably. "Tell us what you
know about this thing. It isn't an accident, I presume?"