Half an hour later! Rosemary thought that Jasper was still in his room,
and she had a longing to get away from his nearness and out into the
open. It was still raining and the sky was the colour of lead. She threw
a cape over her shoulders and opened the door of her room. She was
dreading to meet Jasper again, so she listened intently for awhile for
any sound that might betray his presence. From Maurus' apartments at the
opposite end of the gallery there came a buzz of voices, and from down
below where the servants were laying the table in the dining-room for
luncheon a clatter of crockery. Otherwise silence. And no sound from
Jasper's room close by, so Rosemary ran quickly downstairs.
She had just reached the hall intending to go out into the garden when
she heard a strange clatter coming apparently from the smoking-room. It
sounded like a scuffle. Of course it could not be, but that was just
what it sounded like. She stood still to listen. And then she heard
quite distinctly a smothered cry. Something like a curse. And she
thought that she recognized Jasper's harsh voice. At once she ran to the
door of the smoking-room and threw it open.
Jasper was on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. He
appeared dazed, and to be moving with difficulty. His hand was tearing
at his collar, as if he were choking; his clothes were disarranged, his
face looked pallid and blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. But Rosemary did
not scream when she caught sight of him. Something else that she had
seen had paralyzed her limbs and seemed actually to be holding her by
the throat. The tall window which gave on this side of the garden was
wide open, and in a flash, just as she entered the room, Rosemary had
seen Peter in the act of getting over the windowsill. The next second he
had disappeared over the ledge, and she heard his footsteps crunching
the gravel as he ran in the direction of the main gates.
A moment or two later Jasper had recovered his voice and the use of his
limbs.
"Call to the servants!" he cried in a raucous voice. "Curse that
devil--he will get away."
But Rosemary could not move. She could only stand where she was in the
doorway and stare at the open window. Jasper had struggled to his feet,
lurched forward and tried to push past her. He tried to call out, but
the words were choked in his throat. He put his hand up again and tore
at his collar, then he tottered and would have fallen backwards if
Rosemary had not been quick enough and strong enough to catch him and to
guide him to the nearest chair, into which he sank, half fainting. One
of the servants came across the hall from the dining-room. Rosemary
called to him to bring some brandy.
"The gracious lord feels faint," she said. "Be quick, Sàndor, will
you?"
As soon as Sàndor had brought the brandy, Rosemary sent him
peremptorily away. Fortunately neither he nor any of the other servants
had heard anything of the scuffle, and Rosemary, for very life, could
not have said anything to them just then. She knelt down beside Jasper
and made him swallow some of the brandy. Obviously he had not been hurt,
only scared, and the scared look was still in his eyes when he came to
himself.
"You haven't let him go?" were the first words he uttered.
"Let whom go, Jasper?" Rosemary asked quietly. She rose to her feet and
offered him an arm to help him get up.
"That spying devil," Jasper replied, with a savage oath. "Peter
Blakeney."
"What in the world do you mean?"
"You know quite well what I mean. You must have seen him--I told you to
call the servants. Are you in collusion with him, then, that you did not
do it?"
"I heard a scuffle," Rosemary rejoined coldly, "when I reached the hall.
I opened the door and saw you lying on the ground. I only had enough
presence of mind to send for some brandy. Perhaps you will tell me what
else happened."
"What else?" he retorted, with a sneer. He had risen and gone over to
the mirror to readjust his clothes. She could see his face in the glass,
livid with passion, his eyes fixed upon her reflection, while he fumbled
with his tie and collar. But even while she watched him she saw a change
come slowly over his face. The colour came back to his cheeks, his eyes
narrowed, and an indefinable expression crept into them. Perhaps he did
not know that Rosemary was watching him; certain it is that she had
never seen such an expression on his face before--his lips parted above
the teeth, which gleamed sharp and white and gave the mouth a cruel,
wolfish look. It was all over in a moment, the next he had swung round
and faced her, apparently quite himself again, with just the habitual
expression of high-bred weariness which he always affected.
"I was obviously wrong," he said coolly, "to suggest that you were in
collusion with that young devil, and for this I beg your pardon."
"Wouldn't it be best," she retorted equally coolly, "if you were to tell
me what did happen?"
"Peter Blakeney sneaked in through that open window. My back was turned
that way and I heard nothing, as I was intent on reading your
manuscript. He attacked me from behind. I was taken unawares, but I
tried to put up a fight. However, he is younger and more athletic than I
am, and he knocked me down. He had already snatched your manuscript out
of my hand, and he disappeared with it the way he came, through the open
window, at the very moment that you entered the room."
Rosemary had listened to this without moving a muscle. She stood in the
middle of the room as if she had been turned to stone, alive only by her
eyes, which were fixed with such an intensity of questioning on Jasper
that instinctively he turned away, as if dreading to meet her glance.
"That is all, my dear," he said, with a sudden assumption of meekness.
"I was certainly to blame for allowing that precious manuscript to be
taken from me. I should, I know, have guarded it with my life, and so
on, and I have probably sunk very low in your estimation as a coward.
But I was taken entirely unawares, and one is not usually prepared for
daylight robbery in a house filled with servants. So that must be my
excuse----" He paused a moment, then added dryly: "That and the fact
that I warned you more than once that Peter Blakeney was working against
you. Now perhaps you are convinced."
At last Rosemary recovered the use of her tongue, but her voice sounded
strange to herself, toneless and distant, as if it came from beneath the
earth. "You are quite sure, I suppose," she said slowly, "that it was
Peter Blakeney who--who did what you say?"
"Aren't you?" he retorted with a harsh laugh. She made no reply to the
taunt. Outwardly she did not even wince.
"You are quite sure that he got away with the manuscript?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am quite sure," he replied.
"What do you suppose he means to do with it?"
"Sell it to Naniescu, of course."
"In exchange for Philip and Anna's freedom?"
Jasper looked at his wife keenly for a moment or two, and the corners of
his lips curled in a satiric smile. He took out his cigar-case,
carefully selected a weed, struck a match, lit his cigar, and blew out
the flame. Then only did he reply.
"Hardly that, I think, seeing that he was instrumental in getting them
locked up. More probably, I should say, in exchange for a few thousand
pounds."
This time the shaft struck home. Rosemary had some difficulty in
smothering the cry of protest which had risen to her throat. But she
recovered herself in less than a second and said coolly:
"The manuscript must be got back, of course."
Once more Jasper shrugged his shoulders.
"It might have been done at the moment; but I was helpless, and you were
so concerned for my welfare that you did not raise hell to send the
servants after the thief."
"I did not know then--about the manuscript."
"You know now," he retorted, "and have not called the servants yet."
"This is not the business of the servants. I look to you to get me back
the manuscript."
"To me?" he rejoined with a harsh laugh. "Are you not putting too great
a strain on my allegiance? You know my views. Should I not rather be
wishing that damnable spy God-speed?"
"Jasper," she said earnestly, "you must get me back the manuscript."
"How is it to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as
elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes'
advance of us already . . . a car probably waiting for him in the
village. Are you quite sure you can't hear the whirring of a motor now?"
"You could try, at any rate." And now there was a distinct note of
pleading in her voice. "General Naniescu----"
"Make yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear," he broke in
quickly. "Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of
yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember
that with the MSS. there was your covering letter to the editor of the
_Times_, asking for immediate publication. Let me see," he went on
slowly, "this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those
wonderful articles in print in the _Times_ on Wednesday."
"I don't care how it's done," she replied impatiently. "If you won't
help me I'll manage alone."
"What can you do, my dear?"
"Telegraph to the _Times_, for one thing, and start for London this
evening."
"Plucky!" he remarked dryly; "but I doubt if you'll succeed."
"Will you put obstacles in my way?"
"I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will." Then, as without attempting
further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: "And Peter."
To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a
whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her
resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of the _Times_
not to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from
her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately.
Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu's orders, she would be in
London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a
great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely
that so important a paper as the _Times_ would be ready to print her
articles the moment they were received. Yes, she had plenty of time. And
the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and
would certainly prove futile.
The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it
would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become
a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean when
she regained the power to think. It would come to her probably in the
train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by
Peter--shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a
pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth!
Rosemary's gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove
futile--there was plenty of time to subvert it--but it was an evil,
noisome thing that had been. It had existed--and Peter had given it
birth!
Peter!
Never again could the world be bright and beautiful. The thing was so
loathsome that it would taint with its foulness everything that Rosemary
had up to this hour looked on as sweet and sacred and dear. She herself
would remain noisome: a body to execrate, since it had once lain passive
and willing in Peter's arms, since her lips still retained the savour of
his kiss.
Rosemary went out into the village as far as the post office. She wrote
out her telegram to the editor of the _Times_ and asked whether it could
be sent out immediately. In order to stimulate the zeal of the
post-mistress she emphasised her instructions with a hundred lei note.
The post-mistress smiled and thanked the gracious lady for the note, and
she promised that she would send the telegram off within the next few
minutes. Then, as soon as Rosemary had gone out of the stuffy little
office and disappeared down the village street, the woman rang up the
Imrey Palace at Cluj and asked to be allowed to speak with His
Excellency the General.