A CONFESSION OF LOVE
The Colonel turned bodily round in his chair. The couple to whom Wrayson
had drawn his attention were certainly incongruous enough to attract
notice anywhere. The man was lank, elderly, and of severe appearance. He
was bald, he had slight side-whiskers, he wore spectacles, and his face
was devoid of expression. He was dressed in plain dinner clothes of
old-fashioned cut. The tails of his coat were much too short, his collar
belonged to a departed generation, and his tie was ready made. In a small
Scotch town he might have passed muster readily enough as the clergyman
or lawyer of the place. As a diner at Luigi's, ushered up the room to the
soft strains of "La Mattchiche," and followed by such a companion, he was
almost ridiculously out of place. If anything, she was the more
noticeable of the two to the casual observer. Her hair was dazzlingly
yellow, and arranged with all the stiffness of the coiffeur's art. She
wore a dress of black sequins, cut perilously low, and shorn a little by
wear of its pristine splendour. Her complexion was as artificial as her
high-pitched voice; her very presence seemed to exude perfumes of the
patchouli type. She was the sort of person concerning whom the veriest
novice in such matters could have made no mistake. Yet her companion
seemed wholly unembarrassed. He handed her the menu and looked calmly
around the room.
"Who are those people?" the Colonel asked. "Rather a queer combination,
aren't they?"
"The man is Bentham, the lawyer," Wrayson answered. His eyes were fixed
upon the lady, who seemed not at all indisposed to become the object of
any stray attention.
"That Bentham!" the Colonel repeated, under his breath. "But what on
earth--where the mischief could he pick up a companion like that?"
Wrayson scarcely heard him. He had withdrawn his eyes from the lady with
an effort.
"I have seen that woman somewhere," he said thoughtfully--"somewhere
where she seemed quite as much out of place as she does here.
Lately, too."
"H'm!" the Colonel remarked, leaning back in his chair to allow the
waiter to serve him. "She's not the sort of person you'd be likely to
forget either, is she?"
"And, by Heavens, I haven't!" Wrayson declared, suddenly laying down his
knife and fork. "I remember her now. It was at the inquest--Barnes'
inquest. She was one of the two women at whose flat he called on his way
home. What on earth is Bentham doing with her?"
"You think," the Colonel remarked quietly, "that there is some
connection--"
"Of course there is," Wrayson interrupted. "Does that old fossil look
like the sort to take such a creature about for nothing? Colonel, he
doesn't know himself--where those securities are! He's brought that
woman here to pump her!"
The Colonel passed his hand across his forehead.
"I am getting a little confused," he murmured.
"And I," Wrayson declared, with barely suppressed excitement, "am
beginning to see at least the shadow of daylight. If only you had some
influence with your daughter, Colonel!"
The Colonel looked at him steadfastly. Wrayson wondered whether it was
the light, or whether indeed his friend had aged so much during the last
few months.
"I have no influence over my daughter, Wrayson," he said. "I thought that
I had already explained that. And, Herbert," he added, leaning over the
table, "why don't you let this matter alone? It doesn't concern you. You
are more likely to do harm than good by meddling with it. There may be
interests involved greater than you know of; you may find understanding a
good deal more dangerous than ignorance. It isn't your affair, anyhow.
Take my advice! Let it alone!"
"I wish I could," Wrayson answered, with a little sigh. "Frankly, I would
if I could, but it fascinates me."
"All that I have heard of it," the Colonel remarked wearily, "sounds
sordid enough."
Wrayson nodded.
"I think," he said, "that it is the sense of personal contact in a case
like this which stirs the blood. I have memories about that night,
Colonel, which I couldn't describe to you--or any one. And now this young
brother coming on the scene seems to bring the dead man to life again.
He's one of the worst type of young bounders I ever came into contact
with. A creature without sentiment or feeling of any sort--nothing but an
almost ravenous cupidity. He's wearing his brother's clothes now--thinks
nothing of it! He hasn't a single regret. I haven't heard a single decent
word pass his lips. But he wants the money. Nothing else! The money!"
"Do you believe," the Colonel asked, "that he will get it?"
"Who can tell?" Wrayson answered. "That Morris Barnes was in possession
of valuables of some sort, everything goes to prove. Just think of the
number of people who have shown their interest in him. There is Bentham
and his mysterious client, the Baroness de Sturm and your daughter,
and--the person who murdered him. Apparently, even though he lost his
life, Barnes was too clever for them, for his precious belongings must
still be undiscovered."
The Colonel finished his wine and leaned back in his chair.
"I am tired of this subject," he said. "I should like to get back to
the club."
Wrayson called for the bill a little unwillingly. He was, in a sense,
disappointed at the Colonel's attitude.
"Very well," he said, "we will bury it. But before we do so, there is one
thing I have had it in my mind to say--for some time. I want to say it
now. It is about your daughter, Colonel!"
The Colonel looked at him curiously.
"My daughter?" he repeated, under his breath.
Wrayson leaned a little forward. Something new had come into his face.
This was the first time he had suffered such words to pass his
lips--almost the first time he had suffered such thoughts to form
themselves in his mind.
"I never looked upon myself," he said quietly, "as a particularly
impulsive person. Yet it was an impulse which prompted me to conceal the
truth as to her presence in the flat buildings that night. It was a
serious thing to do, and somehow I fancy that the end is not yet."
"Why did you do it?" the Colonel asked. "You did not know who she was. It
could not have been that."
"Why did I do it?" Wrayson repeated. "I can't tell you. I only know that
I should do it again and again if the need came. If I told you exactly
how I felt, it would sound like rot. But I'm going to ask you that
question."
"Well?"
The Colonel's grey eyebrows were drawn together. His eyes were keen and
bright. So he might have looked in time of stress; but he was not in the
least like the genial idol of the Sheridan billiard-room.
"If I came to you to-morrow," Wrayson said, "and told you that I had met
at last the woman whom I wished to make my wife, and that woman was your
daughter, what should you say?"
"I should be glad," the Colonel answered simply.
"You and she are, for some unhappy reason, not on speaking terms. That--"
"Good God!" the Colonel interrupted, "whom do you mean? Whom are you
talking about?"
"About your daughter--whom I shielded--the companion of the Baroness de
Sturm. Your daughter Louise."
The Colonel raised his trembling fingers to his forehead. His voice
quivered ominously.
"Of course! Of course! God help me, I thought you meant Edith! I never
thought of Louise. And Edith has spoken of you lately."
"I found your younger daughter charming," Wrayson said seriously, "but
it was of your daughter Louise I was speaking. I thought that you would
understand that."
"My daughter--whom you found--in Morris Barnes' flat--that night?"
"Exactly," Wrayson answered, "and my question is this. I cannot ask you
why you and she parted, but at least you can tell me if you know of any
reason why I should not ask her to be my wife."
The Colonel was silent.
"No!" he said at last, "there is no reason. But she would not consent. I
am sure of that."
"We will let it go at that," Wrayson answered. "Come!"
He had chosen his moment for rising so as to pass down the room almost at
the same time as Mr. Bentham and his strange companion. Prolific of
smiles and somewhat elephantine graces, the lady's darkened eyes met
Wrayson's boldly, and finding there some encouragement, she even favoured
him with a backward glance. In the vestibule he slipped a half-crown into
the attendant's hand.
"See if you can hear the address that lady gives her cabman," he
whispered.
The boy nodded, and hurried out after them. Wrayson kept the Colonel back
under the pretence of lighting a fresh cigar. When at last they strolled
forward, they met the boy returning. He touched his hat to Wrayson.
"Alhambra, sir!" he said, quietly. "Gone off alone, sir, in a hansom.
Gentleman walked."
The Colonel kept silence until they were in the street.
"Coming to the club?" he asked, a little abruptly.
"No!" Wrayson answered.
"You are going after that woman?" the Colonel exclaimed.
"I am going to the Alhambra," Wrayson answered. "I can't help it. It
sounds foolish, I suppose, but this affair fascinates me. It works on my
nerves somehow. I must go."
The Colonel turned on his heel. Without another word, he crossed the
Strand, leaving Wrayson standing upon the pavement. Wrayson, with a
little sigh, turned westwards.