/To/ do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl,
though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn
the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile,
and indeed he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another
objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe’s side. Margaret
saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George
Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his
famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and
evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of
laughter.
It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They
met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her
way.
“I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman,” he said. “I’m
not giving you any trouble, and I’m ready to apologise for the past.
Could a gentleman be fairer than that?”
“I don’t think you’ve anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini,” she
said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil.
“Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are
you enjoying your stay?”
“It’s perfectly marvellous,” he said conventionally, for he was a man
who loved superlatives. “And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady
staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?”
“She’s a guest: I know nothing about her.”
“What a peach!” he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused.
“And a lady, every inch of her,” he went on. “I must say I’m putty in
the hands of real ladies! There’s something about ’em that’s different
from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you’re a
typist,” he went on hastily. “I regard you as a lady too. Every inch
of one. I’m thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her a drive
round the country. You’re not jealous?”
Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret’s sense of
humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her
office.
Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw
them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than
usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs.
Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his
eyes of an unusual brightness.
“I’m going up to town to-morrow,” he said. “Early train… you needn’t
’phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill.”
He was almost incoherent.
“You’re tired of Larmes Keep?”
“Eh? Tired? No, by God I’m not! This is the place for me!”
He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much
that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until
he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga’s
door. The girl’s room was next to hers.
“Who’s that?” asked a voice sharply.
“Miss Belman.”
The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the
room, so that Olga’s face was in shadow.
“Do you want anything?” she asked.
“Can I come in?” asked Margaret. “There’s something I wish to say to
you.”
Olga hesitated. Then:
“Come in,” she said. “I’ve been snivelling. I hope you don’t mind.”
Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face.
“This damned place depresses me awfully,” she excused herself as she
dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What do you want to see me
about?”
“Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a--crook?”
Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard.
“I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini,” she
said slowly. “Why do you come to tell me this?”
Margaret was in a dilemma.
“I don’t know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it
was very impertinent of me.”
“I think it was,” said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that
Margaret’s face went scarlet.
She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night,
and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human
emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget
there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every
device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful
when…
She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door;
not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and,
getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was
there. The handle turned in her hand.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Let me in, let me in!…”
It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice--Ravini!
“I can’t let you in. Go away, please, or I’ll telephone…”
She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then
the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her
ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the
rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders,
listening, listening…
Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It
was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she
opened the door.… Something attracted her attention.
“A nice morning, miss,” said the fresh-faced country girl brightly.
Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door
again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a
triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the
splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it
in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on
her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If
Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to
go, she would leave for London that night.
As she left her room she met the housemaid.
“That man in No. 7 has gone, miss,” the woman reported, “but he’s left
his pyjamas behind.”
“Gone already?”
“Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”
Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini’s room. His bag was
gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk
pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn.
A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out!