OUTCAST
The room into which a waiting man servant showed them was large and
handsomely furnished. Whisky and soda, wine and sandwiches were upon the
sideboard. The Baroness, stopping only to light a cigarette, moved
towards the door.
"I shall return," she said, "in a quarter of an hour."
She looked for a moment steadily at her friend, and then turned away.
Louise strolled to the sideboard and helped herself to a sandwich.
"Come and forage, won't you?" she asked carelessly. "There are some
_pâté_ sandwiches here, and you want whisky and soda, of course--or do
you prefer brandy?"
"Neither, thanks!" Wrayson answered firmly. "I want what I came for.
Please sit down here and answer my questions."
She laughed a little mockingly, and turning round, faced him, her head
thrown back, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly. The light from a
rose-shaded electric lamp glittered upon her hair. She was wearing black
again, and something in her appearance and attitude almost took his
breath away. It reminded him of the moment when he had seen her first.
"First," she said, "I am going to ask you a question. Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" he asked.
She gave vent to a little gesture of impatience. He must know quite well
what she meant.
"Why did you give evidence at the inquest and omit all mention of me?"
"I don't know," he answered bluntly.
"You have committed yourself to a story," she reminded him, "which is
certainly not altogether a truthful one. You have run a great risk,
apparently to shield me. Why?"
"I suppose because I am a fool," he answered bitterly.
She shook her head.
"No!" she declared, "that is not the reason."
He moved a step nearer to her.
"If I were to admit my folly," he said, "what difference would it
make--if I were to tell you that I did it to save you--the inconvenience
of an examination into the motive for your presence in Morris Barnes'
rooms that night--what then?"
"It was generous of you," she declared softly. "I ought to thank you."
"I want no thanks," he answered, almost roughly. "I want to know that I
was justified in what I did. I want you to tell me what you were doing
there alone in the rooms of such a man, with a stolen key. And I want you
to tell me what you know about his death."
"Is that all?" she asked.
"Isn't it enough?" he declared savagely. "It is enough to be making an
old man of me, anyhow."
"You have a right to ask these questions," she admitted slowly, "and I
have no right to refuse to answer them."
"None at all," he declared. "You shall answer them."
There was a moment's silence. She leaned a little further back against
the sideboard. Her eyes were fixed upon his, but her face was
inscrutable.
"I cannot," she said slowly. "I can tell you nothing."
Wrayson was speechless for a moment. It was not only the words
themselves, but the note of absolute finality with which they were
uttered, which staggered him. Then he found himself laughing, a sound
so unnatural and ominous that, for the first time, fear shone in the
girl's eyes.
"Don't," she cried, and her hands flashed towards him for a moment
as though the sight of him hurt her. "Don't be angry! Have pity on
me instead."
His nerves, already overwrought, gave way.
"Pity on a murderess, a thief!" he cried. "Not I! I have suffered enough
for my folly. I will go and tell the truth to-morrow. It was you who
killed him. You did it in the cab and stole back to his rooms to
rob--afterwards. Horrible! Horrible!"
Her face hardened. His lack of self-control seemed to stimulate her.
"Have it so," she declared. "I never asked you for your silence. If you
repent it, go and make the best bargain you can with the law. They will
let you off cheaply in exchange for your information!"
He walked the length of the room and back. Anything to escape from her
eyes. Already he hated the words which he had spoken. When he faced her
again he was master of himself.
"Listen," he said; "I was a little overwrought. I spoke wildly. I have no
right to make such an accusation. But--"
She held out her hand as though to stop him, but he went steadily on.
"But I have a right to demand that you tell me the truth as to what you
were doing in Barnes' rooms that night, and what you know of his death.
Remember that but for me you would have had to tell your story to a less
sympathetic audience."
"I never forget it," she answered, and for the first time her change to a
more natural tone helped him to believe in himself and his own judgment.
"If you want me to tell you how grateful I am, I might try, but it would
be a very hard task."
"All that I ask of you," he pleaded, "is that you tell me enough to
convince me that my silence was justified. Tell me at least that you had
no knowledge of or share in that man's death!"
"I cannot do that," she answered.
He took a quick step backwards. The horror once more was chilling his
blood, floating before his eyes.
"You cannot!" he repeated hoarsely.
"No! I knew that the man was in danger of his life," she went on, calmly.
"On the whole, I think that he deserved to die. I do not mind telling you
this, though. I would have saved him if I could."
He drew a great breath of relief.
"You had nothing to do with his actual death, then?"
"Nothing whatever," she declared.
"It was all I asked you, this," he cried reproachfully. "Why could you
not have told me before?"
She shook her head.
"You asked me other things," she answered calmly. "So much of the truth
you shall know, at any rate. I have pleaded not guilty to the material
action of drawing that cord around the worthless neck of the man whom you
knew as Morris Barnes. I plead guilty to knowing why he was murdered,
even if I do not know the actual person who committed the deed, and I
admit that I was in his rooms for the purpose of robbery. That is all I
can tell you."
He drew a little nearer to her.
"Enough! Do you know what it is that you have said? What are you?
Who are you?"
She shrugged her shoulders. Somehow, from her side at least, the tragical
note which had trembled throughout their interview had passed away. She
helped herself to soda water from a siphon on the sideboard.
"You appear, somewhat to my surprise," she remarked, "to know that. I
wonder at poor little Edith giving me away."
"All that I know is that you are living here under a false name,"
he declared.
She shook her head.
"My mother's," she told him. "The discarded daughter always has a right
to that, you know."
Her eyes mocked him. He felt himself helpless. This was the opportunity
for which he had longed, and it had come to him in vain. He recognized
the fact that his defeat was imminent. She was too strong for him.
"I am disappointed," he said, a little wearily. "You will not let me
believe in you."
"Why should you wish to?" she asked quickly
Almost immediately she bit her lip, as though she regretted the words,
which had escaped her almost involuntarily. But he was ready enough with
his answer.
"I cannot tell you that," he said gravely. "I never thought of myself as
a particularly emotional person. In fact, I have always rather prided
myself on my common sense. That night I think that I went a little mad.
Your appearance, you see, was so unusual."
She nodded.
"I must have been rather a shock to you," she admitted.
She watched him closely. The fire in his eyes was not yet quenched.
"Yes!" he said, "you were a shock. And the worst of it is--that you
remain one!"
"Ah!"
"You mean to keep me at arm's length," he said slowly, "to tell me as
little as possible, and get rid of me. I am not sure that I am willing."
She only raised her eyebrows. She said nothing.
"You have told me nothing of the things I want to know," he cried
passionately. "Who and what are you? What place do you hold in the
world?"
"None," she answered quietly. "I am an outcast."
He glanced around him.
"You are rich!"
"On the contrary," she assured him, "I am nearly a pauper."
"How do you live, then?" he asked breathlessly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Why do you ask me these questions?" she said. "I cannot answer them.
Whatever my life may be, I live it to myself."
He leaned a little towards her. His breath was coming quickly, and she,
too, caught something of the nervous excitement of his manner.
"There are better things," he began.
"Not for me," she interrupted quickly. "I tell you that I am an
outcast. Of you, I ask only that you go away--now--before the Baroness
returns, and do your best to blot out the memory of that one night
from your life. Remember only that you did a generous action. Remember
that, and no more."
"Too late," he answered; "I cannot do it."
"You are a man," she answered, "and you say that?"
"It is because I am a man, and you are what you are, that I cannot," he
answered slowly.
There was a moment's breathless silence. Only he fancied that her face
had somehow grown softer.
"You must not talk like that," she said. "You do not know what you are
saying--who or what I am. Listen! I think I hear the Baroness."
She leaned a little forward, and the madness fired his blood. Half
stupefied, she yielded to his embrace, her lips rested upon his, her
frightened eyes were half closed. His arms held her like a vice, he could
feel her heart throbbing madly against his. How long they remained like
it he never knew--who can measure the hours spent in Paradise! She flung
him from her at last, taking him by surprise with a sudden burst of
energy, and before he could stop her she had left the room. In her place,
the Baroness was standing upon the threshold, dressed in a wonderful blue
wrapper, and with a cigarette between her teeth. She burst into a little
peal of laughter as she looked into his distraught face.
"For an Englishman," she remarked, "you are a little rapid in your
love affairs, my dear Mr. Wrayson, is it not so? So she has left you
_planté là_!"
"I--was mad," Wrayson muttered.
The Baroness helped herself to whisky and soda.
"Come again and make your peace, my friend," she said. "You will see no
more of her to-night."
Wrayson accepted the hint and went.