SLIGHTLY FARCICAL
Something bulky was struggling to get through the window. Half hidden in
the shadow, Christabel watched with the deepest interest. If she had been
afraid at first that sensation had entirely departed by this time. From
the expression of her face she might have been enjoying the novel
situation. It was certainly not without a suggestion of the farcical.
The burly figure contrived to squeeze through the narrow casement at
length and stood breathing loudly in the corridor. It was not a pleasant
sight that met Christabel's gaze--a big man with a white, set face and
rolling eyes and a stiff bandage about his throat. Evidently the intruder
was utterly exhausted, for he dropped into a chair and nursed his head
between his hands.
"Now what has become of that fool?" he muttered. "Ah!"
He looked round him uneasily, but his expression changed as his eyes fell
on the Rembrandt. He had the furtive look of a starving man who picks up
a purse whilst the owner is still in sight. He staggered towards the
picture and endeavoured to take it gently from the support. He tried
again and again, and then in a paroxysm of rage he tore at the
frame-work.
"I guess that it can't be done," Christabel said, drawlingly. "See,
stranger?"
Reginald Henson fairly gasped. As he turned round the ludicrous mixture
of cunning and confusion, anger and vexatious alarm on his face caused
the girl to smile.
"I--I beg your pardon," he stammered.
"I said it can't be done," the girl drawled, coolly. "Sandow couldn't do
it. The frame is made of iron and it is fixed to the wall by four long
stays. It's a neat job, though I say it myself; I persuaded Lord Littimer
to have it done. And when I heard you two prowling about down there I was
glad. I've got the other one safe."
"Oh, you've got the other one safe?" Henson said, blankly.
He would have liked to have burst out into a torrent of passion, only he
recognised his position. The thing was shamefully funny. It was anything
but nice for a man of his distinguished position to be detected in an act
suspiciously like vulgar burglary. Still, there must be some plausible
way out of the difficulty if he could only think of it. Only this girl
with the quaint, pretty face and spectacles did not look in the least
like a fool. He would have to try what blandishments would do.
"Are you aware who I am?" he asked, blandly.
"What does it matter? I've got the other one, and no doubt he will be
identified by the police. If he doesn't say too much he may get off with
a light sentence. It is quite easy to see that you are the greater
scoundrel of the two."
"My dear young lady, do you actually take me for a burglar?"
There was a note of deep pain in Henson's voice. He had dropped into a
chair again, with a feeling of utter weakness upon him. The girl's
resolute mien and the familiar way in which she handled her revolver
filled him with the deepest apprehension.
"I am a very old friend and relative of Lord Littimer's," he said.
"Oh, indeed. And is the other man a relative of Lord Littimer's also?"
"Oh, why, confound it, yes. The other man, as you call him, is Lord
Littimer's only son."
Christabel glanced at Henson, not without admiration.
"Well, you are certainly a cool hand," she said. "You are two clever
thieves who have come here for the express purpose of robbing Lord
Littimer of one of his art treasures. I happen to catch one, and he
immediately becomes the son of the owner of the place. I am so fortunate
as to bag the other bird, and he resolves himself into a relative of my
host's. And you really expect me to believe a Hans Andersen fairy story
like that!"
"I admit that appearances are against me," Henson said, humbly. "But I am
speaking the truth."
"Oh, indeed. Then why didn't you come in through the front door? The
violent exercise you were taking just now must be dangerous to a man of
your build!"
"I am afraid I shall have to make a clean breast of it," Henson said,
with what he fondly imagined to be an engaging smile. "You may, perhaps,
be aware that yonder Rembrandt has a history. It was stolen from its
present owner once, and I have always said that it will be stolen again.
Many a time have I urged Lord Littimer to make it secure."
"How grateful you should be to me for having done so!"
"Ah, you are cynical still, which is a bad thing for one so young
and--er--charming. I came down here to see my very noble relative, and
his son accompanied me. I came to try and make peace between father and
son. But that is a family matter which, forgive me, I cannot discuss with
a stranger. Our train was late, or we should have been here long ago. On
reaching the castle it struck me as a good idea to give Lord Littimer a
lesson as to his carelessness. My idea was to climb through the window,
abstract the Rembrandt, and slip quietly into my usual bedroom here. Then
in the morning, after the picture has been missed, I was going to tell
the whole story. That is why Mr. Littimer entered this way and why I
followed when I found that he had failed to return. It was a foolish
thing to do, and the _dénouement_ has been most humiliating. I assure you
that is all."
"Not quite," Christabel drawled. "There is something else."
"And what may that be, my dear young lady?"
"To tell your story to Lord Littimer before you sleep. That kind of
romance may do for Great Britain, but it wouldn't make good family
reading in the States."
"But, my dear young lady, I beg of you, implore you--"
"Come off the grass! I'm to let you go quietly to bed and retire myself,
so that when morning arrives you will be missing together with as much
plunder as you can carry away. No, sir."
Henson advanced angrily. His prudence had gone for the time. As he came
down upon Christabel she raised her revolver and fired two shots in quick
succession over Henson's shoulder. The noise went echoing and
reverberating along the corridor like a crackling of thunder. A door came
open with a click, then a voice demanded to know what was wrong.
"Now I guess the fat is in the fire," Christabel said.
Henson dropped into a chair and groaned. Lord Littimer, elegantly attired
in a suit of silk pyjamas and carrying a revolver in his hand, came
coolly down the corridor. A curious servant or two would have followed,
but he waved them back crisply.
"Miss Lee," he said, with a faint, sarcastic emphasis, "and my dear
friend and relative, Reginald Henson--Reginald, the future owner of
Littimer Castle!"
"So he told me, but I wouldn't believe him," said Christabel.
"It is a cynical age," Littimer remarked. "Reginald, what does
this mean?"
Henson shook his head uneasily.
"The young lady persisted in taking me for a burglar," he groaned.
"And why not?" Christabel demanded. "I was just going to bed when I heard
voices in the forecourt below and footsteps creeping along. I came into
the corridor with my revolver. Presently one of the men climbed up the
ivy and got into the corridor. I covered him with my revolver and fairly
drove him into a bedroom and locked him in."
"So you killed with both barrels?" Littimer cried, with infinite
enjoyment.
"Then the other one came. He came to steal the Rembrandt."
"Nothing of the kind," the wretched Henson cried. "I came to give you a
lesson, Lord Littimer. My idea was to get in through the window, steal
the Rembrandt, and, when you had missed it, confess the whole story. My
character is safe."
"Giddy," Littimer said, reproachfully. "You are so young, so boyish, so
buoyant, Reginald. What would your future constituents have said had they
seen you creeping up the ivy? They are a grave people who take themselves
seriously. Egad, this would be a lovely story for one of those prying
society papers. 'The Philanthropist and the Picture.' I've a good mind to
send it to the Press myself."
Littimer sat down and laughed with pure enjoyment.
"And where is the other partridge?" he asked, presently.
Christabel seemed to hesitate for a moment, her sense of humour of the
situation had departed. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the door.
"I am afraid you are going to have an unpleasant surprise," Henson said.
Littimer glanced keenly at the speaker. All the laughter died out of
his eyes; his face grew set and stern as Frank Littimer emerged into
the light.
"And what are you doing here?" he asked, hoarsely. "What do you expect to
gain by taking part in a fool's trick like this? Did I not tell you never
to show your face here again?"
The young man said nothing. He stood there looking down, dogged, quiet,
like one tongue-tied. Littimer thundered out his question again. He
crossed over, laying his hands on his son's shoulders and shaking him as
a terrier might shake a rat.
"Did you come for anything?" he demanded. "Did you expect any
mercy from--"
Frank Littimer shook off his grasp gently. He looked up for the
first time.
"I expected nothing," he said. "I--I did not come of my own free will. I
am silent now for the sake of myself and others. But the time may
come--God knows it has been long delayed. For the present, I am bound in
honour to hold my tongue."
He flashed one little glance at Henson, a long, angry glance. Littimer
looked from one to the other in hesitation for a moment. The hard lines
between his brows softened.
"Perhaps I am wrong," he muttered. "Perhaps there has been a mistake
somewhere. And if ever I find out I have--pshaw, I am talking like a
sentimental schoolgirl. Have I not had evidence strong as proof of Holy
Writ that ... Get out of my sight, your presence angers me. Go, and never
let me see you again. Reginald, you were a fool to bring that boy here
to-night. See him off the premises and fasten the door again."
"Surely," Christabel interfered, "surely at this time of the night--"
"You should be in bed," Littimer said, tartly. "My dear young lady, if
you and I are to remain friends I must ask you to mind your own business.
It is a dreadfully difficult thing for a woman to do, but you must try.
You understand?"
Christabel was evidently putting a strong constraint on her tongue, for
she merely bowed and said nothing. She had her own good reasons for the
diplomacy of silence. Henson and Frank Littimer were disappearing in the
direction of the staircase.
"I say nothing," Christabel said. "But at the same time I don't fancy I
shall care very much for your distinguished friend Reginald Henson."
Littimer smiled. All his good humour seemed to have returned to him. Only
the dark lines under his eyes were more accentuated.
"A slimy, fawning hound," he whispered. "A mean fellow. And the best of
it is that he imagines that I hold the highest regard for him.
Good-night."