Pimpernel and Rosemary, Baroness Orczy [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

look. It was all over in a moment, the next he had swung round and faced her, apparently quite himself again, with just the habitual expression of high-bred weariness which he always affected.

“I was obviously wrong,” he said coolly, “to suggest that you were in collusion with that young devil, and for this I beg your pardon.”

“Wouldn’t it be best,” she retorted equally coolly, “if you were to tell me what did happen?”

“Peter Blakeney sneaked in through that open window. My back was turned that way and I heard nothing, as I was intent on reading your manuscript. He attacked me from behind. I was taken unawares, but I tried to put up a fight. However, he is younger and more athletic than I am, and he knocked me down. He had already snatched your manuscript out of my hand, and he disappeared with it the way he came, through that open window, at the very moment that you entered the room.”

Rosemary had listened to this without moving a muscle. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had been turned to stone, alive only by her eyes, which were fixed with such an intensity of questioning on Jasper that instinctively he turned away, as if dreading to meet her glance.

“That is all, my dear,” he said, with a sudden assumption of meekness. “I was certainly to blame for allowing that precious manuscript to be taken from me. I should, I know, have guarded it with my life, and so on, and I have probably sunk very low in your estimation as a coward. But I was taken entirely unawares, and one is not usually prepared for daylight robbery in a house filled with servants. So that must be my excuse⁠—” He paused a moment, then added drily: “That and the fact that I warned you more than once that Peter Blakeney was working against you. Now perhaps you are convinced.”

At last Rosemary recovered the use of her tongue, but her voice sounded strange to herself, toneless and distant, as if it came from beneath the earth. “You are quite sure, I suppose,” she said slowly, “that it was Peter Blakeney who⁠—who did what you say?”

“Aren’t you?” he retorted with a harsh laugh.

She made no reply to the taunt. Outwardly she did not even wince.

“You are quite sure that he got away with the manuscript?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am quite sure,” he replied.

“What do you supposed he means to do with it?”

“Sell it to Naniescu, of course.”

“In exchange for Philip and Anna’s freedom?”

Jasper looked at his wife keenly for a moment or two, and the corners of his lips curled in a satiric smile. He took out his cigar-case, carefully selected a weed, struck a match, lit his cigar, and blew out the flame. Then only did he reply.

“Hardly that, I think, seeing that he was instrumental in getting them locked up. More probably, I should say, in exchange for a few thousand pounds.”

This time the shaft struck home. Rosemary had some difficulty in smothering the cry of protest which had risen to her throat. But she recovered herself in less than a second and said coolly:

“The manuscript must be got back, of course.”

Once more Jasper shrugged his shoulders.

“It might have been done at the moment; but I was helpless, and you were so concerned for my welfare that you did not raise hell to send the servants after the thief.”

“I did not know then⁠—about the manuscript.”

“You know now,” he retorted, “and have not called the servants yet.”

“This is not the business of the servants. I look to you to get me back the manuscript.”

“To me?” he rejoined with a harsh laugh. “Are you not putting too great a strain on my allegiance? You know my views. Should I not rather be wishing that damnable spy Godspeed?”

“Jasper,” she said earnestly, “you must get me back the manuscript.”

“How is that to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes’ advance of us already⁠ ⁠… a car probably waiting for him in the village. Are you quite sure you can’t hear the whirring of a motor now?”

“You could try, at any rate.” And now there was a distinct note of pleading in her voice. “General Naniescu⁠—”

“Give yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear,” he broke in quickly. “Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember that with the MSS. there was your covering letter to the editor of the Times, asking for immediate publication. Let me see,” he went on slowly, “this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those wonderful articles in print in the Times on Wednesday.”

“I don’t care how it’s done,” she replied impatiently. “If you won’t help me I’ll manage alone.”

“What can you do, my dear?”

“Telegraph to the Times, for one thing, and start for London this evening.”

“Plucky!” he remarked drily; “But I doubt if you’ll succeed.”

“Will you put obstacles in my way?”

“I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will.” Then, as without attempting further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: “And Peter.”

To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of the Times not to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately. Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu’s orders, she would be in London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely that so important a paper as the Times would be ready to print her articles the moment they were received. Yes,