A Rogue by Compulsion, Victor Bridges [best books to read for knowledge TXT] 📗

asked. "He seems a pretty acute sort of youth."

"Jack?" she said. "Oh, Jack's all right. He was a model in Chelsea. I took him away from his uncle, who used to beat him with a poker. He doesn't know anything about you, but if he did he would die for you cheerfully. He's by way of being rather grateful to me."

"You always inspired devotion, Joyce," I said, smiling. "Do you remember how Tommy and I used to squabble as to which of us should eventually adopt you?"

She nodded, almost gravely; then with a sudden change back to her former manner, she made a step towards the inner room, pulling me after her.

"Come along," she said. "We'll lunch in there. It's more cheerful than this, and anyway I want to see you in the daylight."

I followed her in through the curtains, and found myself in a small, narrow room with a window which looked out on the back of Burlington Arcade. A couple of chairs, a black oak gate-legged table, and a little green sofa made up the furniture.

Joyce took me to the window, and still holding my arm, made a second and even longer inspection of McMurtrie's handiwork.

"It's wonderful, Neil," she said at last. "You look fifteen years older and absolutely different. No one could possibly recognize you except by the way you speak."

"I've been practising that," I said, altering my voice. "I shouldn't have given myself away if you hadn't taken me by surprise."

She smiled again happily. "It's so good to feel that you're safe, even if it's only for a few days." Then, letting go my arm, she crossed to the sofa. "Come and sit down," she went on. "We've got to decide all sorts of things, and we shan't have too much time."

"I've told you my plans, Joyce," I said, "such as they are. I mean to go through with this business of McMurtrie's, though I'm sure there's something crooked at the bottom of it. As for the rest—" I shrugged my shoulders and sat down on the sofa beside her; "well, I've got the sort of hand one has to play alone."

Joyce looked at me quietly and steadily.

"Neil," she said; "do you remember that you once called me the most pig-headed infant in Chelsea?"

"Did I?" I said. "That was rather rude."

"It was rather right," she answered calmly; "and I haven't changed, Neil. If you think Tommy and I are going to let you play this hand alone, as you call it, you are utterly and absolutely wrong."

"Do you know what the penalties are for helping an escaped convict?" I asked.

She laughed contemptuously. "Listen, Neil. For three years Tommy and I have had no other idea except to get you out of prison. Is it likely we should leave you now?"

"But what can you do, Joyce?" I objected. "You'll only be running yourselves into danger, and—"

"Oh, Neil dear," she interrupted; "it's no good arguing about it. We mean to help you, and you'll have to let us."

"But suppose I refuse?" I said.

"Then as soon as Tommy comes back tomorrow I shall tell him everything that you've told me. I know your address at Pimlico, and I know just about where your hut will be down the Thames. If you think Tommy will rest for a minute till he's found you, you must have forgotten a lot about him in the last three years."

She spoke with a kind of indignant energy, and there was an obstinate look in her blue eyes, which showed me plainly that it would be waste of time trying to reason with her.

I reflected quickly. Perhaps after all it would be best for me to see
Tommy myself. He at least would appreciate the danger of dragging
Joyce into the business, and between us we might be able to persuade
her that I was right.

"Well, what are your ideas, Joyce?" I said. "Except for keeping my eye on George I had no particular plan until I heard from McMurtrie."

Joyce laid her hand on my sleeve. "Tomorrow," she said, "you must go and see Tommy. He is coming back by the midday train, and he will get to the flat about two o'clock. Tell him everything that you have told me. I shan't be able to get away from here till the evening, but I shall be free then, and we three will talk the whole thing over. I shan't make any more appointments here after tomorrow."

"Very well," I said reluctantly. "I will go and look up Tommy, but I can't see that it will do any good. I am only making you and him liable to eighteen months' hard labour." She was going to speak, but I went on. "Don't you see, Joyce dear, there are only two possible courses open to me? I can either wait and carry out my agreement with McMurtrie, or I can go down to Chelsea and force the truth about Marks's death out of George—if he really knows it. Dragging you two into my wretched affairs won't alter them at all."

"Yes, it will," she said obstinately. "There are lots of ways in which we can help you. Suppose these people turn out wrong, for instance; they might even mean to give you up to the police as soon as they've got your secret. And then there's George. If he does know anything about the murder I'm the only person who is the least likely to find it out. Why—"

A discreet knock at the outer door interrupted her, and she got up from the sofa.

"That's Jack with the lunch," she said. "Come along, Neil dear. We won't argue about it any more now. Let's forget everything for an hour,—just be happy together as if we were back in Chelsea."

She held out her hands to me, her lips smiling, her blue eyes just on the verge of tears. I drew her towards me and gently stroked her hair, as I used to do in the old days in Chelsea when she had come to me with some of her childish troubles. I felt an utter brute to think that I could ever have doubted her loyalty, even for an instant.

How long we kept the luckless Jack waiting on the mat I can't say, but at last Joyce detached herself, and crossing the room, opened the door. Jack came in carrying a basket in one hand and a table-cloth in the other. If he felt any surprise at finding Joyce with her hair down he certainly didn't betray it.

"I got what I could, Mademoiselle," he observed, putting down his burdens. "Oyster patties, galatine, cheese-cakes, and a bottle of champagne. I hope that will please Mademoiselle?"

"It sounds distinctly pleasing, Jack," said Joyce gravely. "But then you always do just what I want."

The boy flushed with pleasure, and began to lay the table without even so much as bestowing a glance on me. It was easy enough to see that he adored his young mistress—adored her far beyond questioning any of her actions.

All through lunch—and an excellent lunch it was too—Joyce and I were ridiculously happy. Somehow or other we seemed to drop straight back into our former jolly relations, and for the time I almost forgot that they had ever been interrupted. In spite of all she had been through since, Joyce, at the bottom of her heart, was just the same as she had been in the old days—impulsive, joyous, and utterly unaffected. All her bitterness and sadness seemed to slip away with her grown-up manner; and catching her infectious happiness, I too laughed and joked and talked as cheerfully and unconcernedly as though we were in truth back in Chelsea with no hideous shadow hanging over our lives. I even found myself telling her stories about the prison, and making fun of one of the chaplain's sermons on the beauties of justice. At the time I remembered it had filled me with nothing but a morose fury.

It was the little clock on the mantlepiece striking a quarter to three which brought us back to the realities of the present.

"I must go, Joyce," I said reluctantly, "or I shall be running into some of your Duchesses."

She nodded. "And I've got to do my hair by three, and turn myself back from Joyce into Mademoiselle Vivien—if I can. Oh, Neil, Neil; it's a funny, mad world, isn't it!" She lifted up my hand and moved it softly backwards and forwards against her lips. Then, suddenly jumping up, she went into the next room, and came back with my hat and stick.

"Here are your dear things," she said; "and I shall see you tomorrow evening at Tommy's. I shan't leave him a note—somebody might open it; I shall just let you go and find him yourself. Oh, I should love to be there when he realizes who it is."

"I know just what he'll do," I said. "He'll stare at me for a minute; then he'll say quite quietly, 'Well, I'm damned,' and go and pour himself out a whisky."

She laughed gaily. "Yes, yes," she said. "That's exactly what will happen." Then with a little change in her voice she added: "And you will be careful, won't you, Neil? I know you're quite safe; no one can possibly recognize you; but I'm frightened all the same—horribly frightened. Isn't it silly of me?"

I kissed her tenderly. "My Joyce," I said, "I think you have got the bravest heart in the whole world."

And with this true if rather inadequate remark I left her.

I had plenty to think about during my walk back to Victoria. Exactly what result the sharing of my secret with Tommy and Joyce would have, it was difficult to forecast, but it opened up a disquieting field of possibilities. Rather than get either of them into trouble I would cheerfully have thrown myself in front of the next motor bus, but if such an extreme course could be avoided I certainly had no wish to end my life in that or any other abrupt fashion until I had had the satisfaction of a few minutes' quiet conversation with George.

I blamed myself to a certain extent for having given way to Joyce. Still, I knew her well enough to be sure that if I had persisted in my refusal she would have stuck to her intention of trying to help me against my will. That would only have made matters more dangerous for all of us, so on the whole it was perhaps best that I should go and see Tommy. I had not the fainest doubt he would be anxious enough to help me himself if I would let him, but he would at least see the necessity for keeping Joyce out of the affair. We ought to be able to manage her between us, though when I remembered the obstinate look in her eyes I realized that it wouldn't be exactly a simple matter.

I stopped at a book-shop just outside Victoria, which I had noticed on the previous evening. I wanted to order a copy of a book dealing with a certain branch of high explosives that I had forgotten to ask McMurtrie for, and when I had done that I took the opportunity of buying a couple of novels by Wells which had been published since I went to prison. Wells was a luxury which the prison library didn't run to.

With these tucked under my arm, and still pondering over the unexpected results of my chase after George, I continued my walk to Edith Terrace. As I reached the house and thrust my key into the lock the door suddenly opened from the inside, and I found myself confronted by the apparently rather embarrassed figure of Miss Gertie 'Uggins.

"I 'eard you a-comin'," she observed, rubbing one hand down her leg, "so I opened the door like."

"That was very charming of you, Gertrude," I said gravely.

She tittered, and then began to retreat slowly backwards down the passage. "There's a letter for you in the sittin'-room. Come by the post after you'd gorn. Yer want some tea?"

"I don't mind a cup," I said. "I've been eating and drinking all day; it seems a pity to give it up now."

"I'll mike yer one," she remarked, nodding her head. "Mrs. Oldbury's gorn out shoppin'."

She disappeared down the kitchen stairs, and opening the door of my room I discovered the letter she had referred to stuck up on the mantelpiece. I took it down with some curiosity. It was addressed