The Avenger, E. Phillips Oppenheim [uplifting book club books txt] 📗

and whom subsequently he had assisted to escape from the Mansions, was identical with the original of this portrait. She was the Colonel's daughter. With a flash of horror, he remembered that it had been the Colonel himself who had pointed out the possibility of a woman's hands having drawn that silken cord together! Half dressed he sat down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.

The dinner gong disturbed him. He sprang up, tied his tie with trembling fingers, and hastily completed his toilet. Once more, with a great effort, and an almost reckless resort to his host's champagne, he triumphed over the demons of memory which racked his brain. At dinner his gayety was almost feverish. Edith Fitzmaurice, who was his neighbour, found him a delightful companion. Only the Colonel glanced towards him now and then anxiously. He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him.

There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left alone. The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter, which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.

"If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke in the garden."

Wrayson rose at once.

"I should like it," he said abruptly. "I don't know how it is, but I seem half-stifled to-day."

They passed out into the soft, cool night. A nightingale was singing somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden. The air was sweet with the perfume of early summer flowers. Wrayson drew a long, deep breath of content.

"Let us sit down, Colonel," he said; "I have something to tell you."

The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat. A few stars were out, but no moon. In the dusky twilight, the shrubs and trees beyond stood out with black and almost startling distinctness against the clear sky.

"You remember the girl—I told you about, whom I found in my flat, and afterwards?" Wrayson asked hoarsely.

The Colonel nodded.

"Certainly! What about her? To tell you the truth, I am afraid I—"

Wrayson stopped him with a quick, fierce exclamation.

"Don't, Colonel!" he said. "Wait until you have heard what I have to say. I have seen her picture—to-day."

The Colonel removed his cigar from his mouth.

"Her picture!" he exclaimed. "To-day! Where? My dear fellow, this is very interesting! You know my opinion as to that young—"

Again Wrayson stopped him, this time with an oath.

"In your house, Colonel," he said. "Your daughter showed it to me—in an album!"

The Colonel sat like a man turned to stone. The hand which held his cigar shook so that the ash fell upon his waistcoat.

"Go on!" he faltered.

"I asked who it was. I was told that it was your daughter! Miss Edith's step-sister! Forgive me, Colonel! I had to tell you!"

The Colonel seemed to have shrunk in his place. The cigar slipped from his fingers and fell unheeded on to the grass. His mouth trembled and twitched pitifully.

"My—my daughter Louise!" he faltered. "Wrayson, you are not serious!"

"It is God's truth," Wrayson answered. "I would stake my soul upon it that the girl—I told you about—was the original of that picture! When I look at your daughter Edith I can see the likeness."

The Colonel's head was buried in his hands. His exclamation sounded like a sob.

"My God!" he murmured.

Then there was silence. Only the nightingale went on with his song.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BARONESS INTERVENES

The Baroness trifled with some grapes and looked languidly round the room.

"My dear Louise," she declared, "it is the truth what every one tells me of your country. You are a dull people. I weary myself here."

The girl whom she had addressed as Louise shrugged her shoulders.

"So do I, so do all of us," she answered, a little wearily. "What would you have? One must live somewhere."

The Baroness sighed, and from a chatelaine hung with elegant trifles selected a gold cigarette case. An attentive waiter rushed for a match and presented it. The Baroness gave a little sigh of content as she leaned back in her chair. She smoked as one to the manner born.

"One must live somewhere, it is true," she agreed, "but why London? I think that of all great cities it is the most provincial. It lacks what you call the atmosphere. The people are all so polite, and so deadly, deadly dull. How different in Paris or Berlin, even Brussels!"

"Circumstances are a little against us, aren't they?" Louise remarked. "Our opportunities for making acquaintances are limited."

The Baroness made a little grimace.

"You, my young friend," she said, "are of the English—very English. Quite Saxon, in fact. With you there would never be any making of acquaintances! I feel myself in the bonds of a cast-iron chaperonage whenever I move out with you. Why is it, little one? Have you never any desire to amuse yourself?"

"I don't quite understand you," her companion answered dryly. "If you mean that I have no desire to encourage promiscuous acquaintances, you are certainly right. I prefer to be dull."

The Baroness sighed gently.

"Some of my dearest friends," she murmured, "I have—but there, it is a subject upon which we disagree. We will talk of something else. Shall we go to the theatre to-night?"

"As you will," Louise answered indifferently. "There isn't much that we haven't seen, is there?"

"We will send for a paper and see," the Baroness said. "We cannot sit and look at one another all the evening. With music one can make dinner last out till nine or even half past—an idea, my Louise!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Cannot we go to a music-hall, the Alhambra, for example? We could take a box and sit back."

"It is not customary," Louise declared coldly. "If you really wish it, though, I don't—I don't—"

Her speech was broken off in a somewhat extraordinary manner. She was leaning a little forward in her chair, all her listlessness and pallor seemed to have been swept away by a sudden rush of emotion. The colour had flooded her cheeks, her tired eyes were suddenly bright; was it with fear or only surprise? The Baroness wasted no time in asking questions. She raised her lorgnettes and turned round, facing the direction in which Louise was looking. Coming directly towards them from the further end of the restaurant was a young man, whose eyes never swerved from their table. He was pale, somewhat slight, but the lines of his mouth were straight and firm, and there was not lacking in him that air of distinction which the Baroness never failed to recognize. She put down her glasses and looked across at Louise with a smile. She was quite prepared to approve.

The young man stopped at their table and addressed himself directly to Louise. The Baroness frowned as she saw how scanty were the signs of encouragement in her young companion's face. She leaned a little forward, ready at the first signs of an introduction to make every effort to atone for Louise's coldness by a most complete amiability. This young man should not be driven away if she could help it!

"I have been hoping, Miss Fitzmaurice," Wrayson said calmly, "that I might meet you somewhere."

She shrank a little back for a moment. There flashed across her face a quiver, as though of pain.

"Why do you think," she asked, "that that is my name?"

"Your father, Colonel Fitzmaurice, is one of my best friends," he answered gravely. "I was at his house yesterday. I only came up this morning. I beg your pardon! You are not well!"

Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks. The Baroness touched her foot under the table, and Louise found her voice with an effort.

"How did you know that Colonel Fitzmaurice was my father?" she asked breathlessly.

"I found a picture in your sister's album," he answered.

The answer seemed somehow to reassure her. She leaned a little towards him. Under cover of the music her voice was inaudible to any one else.

"Mr. Wrayson," she said, "please don't think me unkind. I know that I have a great deal to thank you for, and that there are certain explanations which you have almost a right to demand from me. And yet I ask you to go away, to ask me nothing at all, to believe me when I assure you that there is nothing in the world so undesirable as any acquaintance between you and me."

Wrayson was staggered, the words were so earnestly spoken, and the look which accompanied them was so eloquent. He was never sure, when he thought it over afterwards, what manner of reply he might not have made to an appeal, the genuineness of which was absolutely convincing. But before he could frame an answer, the Baroness intervened.

"Louise," she said softly, "do you not think that this place is a little public for intimate conversation, and will you not introduce to me your friend?"

Wrayson, who had been afraid of dismissal, turned at once, almost eagerly, towards the Baroness. She smiled at him graciously. Louise hesitated for a moment. There was no smile upon her lips. She bowed, however, to the inevitable.

"This is Mr. Wrayson," she said quietly; "the Baroness de Sturm."

The Baroness raised her eyebrows, and she bestowed upon Wrayson a comprehending look. The graciousness of her manner, however, underwent no abatement.

"I fancy," she said, "that I have heard of you somewhere lately, or is it another of the same name? Will you not sit down and take your coffee with us—and a cigarette—yes?"

"We are keeping Mr. Wrayson from his friends, no doubt," Louise said coldly. "Besides—do you see the time, Amy?"

But Wrayson had already drawn up a chair to the table.

"I am quite alone," he said. "If I may stay, I shall be delighted."

"Why not?" the Baroness asked, passing her cigarette case. "You can solve for us the problem we were just then discussing. Is it comme-il-faut, Mr. Wrayson, for two ladies, one of whom is almost middle-aged, to visit a music-hall here in London unescorted?"

Wrayson glanced from Louise to her friend.

"May I inquire," he asked blandly, "which is the lady who is posing as being almost middle-aged?"

The Baroness laughed at him softly, with a little contraction of the eyebrows, which she usually found effective.

"We are going to be friends, Mr. Wrayson," she declared. "You are sitting there in fear and trembling, and yet you have dared to pay a compliment, the first I have heard for, oh! so many months. Do not be afraid. Louise is not so terrible as she seems. I will not let her send you away. Now you must answer my question. May we do this terrible thing, Louise and I?"

"Assuredly not," he answered gravely, "when there is a man at hand who is so anxious to offer his escort as I."

The Baroness clapped her hands.

"Do you hear, Louise?" she exclaimed.

"I hear," Louise answered dryly.

The Baroness made a little grimace.

"You are in an impossible humour, my dear child," she declared. "Nevertheless, I declare for the music-hall, and for the escort of your friend, Mr. Wrayson, if he really is in earnest."

"I can assure you," he said, "that you would be doing me a great kindness in allowing me to offer my services."

The Baroness beamed upon him amiably, and rose to her feet.

"You have come," she avowed, "in time to save me from despair. I am not used to go about so much unescorted, and I am not so independent as Louise. See," she added, pushing a gold purse towards him, "you shall pay our bill while we put on our cloaks. And will you ask afterwards for my carriage, and we will meet in the portico?"

"With pleasure!" Wrayson answered, rising to his feet as they left the table. "I will telephone for a box to the Alhambra. There is a wonderful new ballet which every one is going to see."

He called the waiter and paid the bill from a remarkably well-filled purse. As he replaced the change, it was impossible for him to avoid seeing a letter addressed and stamped ready