Читать книгу The Mystery of Mr Bernard Brown - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Afterwards Helen looked back upon those few moments as the most uncomfortable of her life. She was caught in the very act of a most unwarrantable and even immodest intrusion, which in the eyes of these two men could only appear like the attempted gratification of a reprehensible and vulgar curiosity. She made one spasmodic attempt to kindle her suspicions into a definite accusation, to stand upon her dignity, and demand an explanation of what she had seen. But she failed utterly. Directly she tried to clothe the shreds of this idea of hers with words, and to express them, she seemed to vividly realize the almost ludicrous improbability of the whole thing. One glance into the pale, dignified face which was bent upon her full of unconcerned surprise—and hateful to her with a gentle shade of pity at her confusion already creeping into it—and her attempt collapsed. She felt her cheeks burn with shame, and her eyes drooped before his steady gaze. She began to long feverishly for something to dissolve the situation. The silence was dreadful to her, but she could think of nothing to say. It was Mr. Brown, at last, who spoke.

“I was afraid you would not be able to find your way, Miss Thurwell,” he said quietly. “I must apologize for asking you to come into such a den. The small engraving on the wall is the proof ‘Bartolozzi’ I spoke to you about. The head is perfect, is it not? Some day I should like to show you my ‘Guido.’ I am afraid, just now, I could not expect you to appreciate them.”

She murmured something—what, she scarcely knew, and he did not appear to hear. The cold surprise disappeared from Sir Allan’s face. Evidently he believed in Mr. Brown’s mercifully offered explanation of her presence here.

“What! are you an enthusiast, Miss Thurwell?” he exclaimed. “Well, well, I was worse myself once in my younger days, before my profession made a slave of me. Surely, that is a genuine ‘Velasquez,’ Mr. Brown. Upon my word! Fancy coming across such a treasure here!”

He picked his way across the disorderly chamber, and, adjusting his eyeglass, stood looking at the picture. Helen made a hasty movement towards the door, and Mr. Brown followed her into the adjoining room.

“If I had known that I was to be honoured by a visit from a lady,” he said, “I would have endeavoured——”

She turned suddenly round upon him with flaming cheeks.

“Don’t,” she interrupted, almost beseechingly. “Mr. Brown, you were very good to me just then. Thank you! I was most abominably rude to go into that room without your permission.”

Her eyes were fixed upon the floor, and her distress was evident. It was clear that she felt her position acutely.

“Pray say no more about it,” he begged earnestly. “It isn’t worth a second thought.”

She stopped with her back to one of the great cases filled with books, and hesitated. Should she confess to him frankly why she had gone there, and ask his pardon for such a wild thought? She raised her eyes slowly, and looked at him. Of course it was absurd. She had been out of her mind, she knew that now; and yet——

She looked at him more closely still. He had not seemed in any way disturbed when they had found her in that room—only a little surprised and bewildered. And yet, after all, supposing his composed demeanour had been only assumed. He was certainly very pale, very pale indeed, and there was a slight twitching of his hands which was out of character with his absolute impassiveness. Supposing it should be a forced composure. He looked like a man capable of exercising a strong control over his feelings. Supposing it should be so. Was there not, after all, just a chance that her former suspicions were correct?

The action of the mind is instantaneous. All these thoughts and doubts merely flashed through it, and they left her very confused and undecided. Her sense of gratitude towards him for shielding her before Sir Allan Beaumerville, and the intuitive sympathy of her nature with the delicacy and tact which he had shown in his manner of doing so, were on the whole stronger than her shadowy suspicions. And yet these latter had just sufficient strength to check the impulse of generosity which prompted her to confess everything to him. She did not tell him why she had started on the quest which had come to such an ignominious conclusion. She offered him no explanation whatever.

“It was very good of you,” she repeated. “I did not deserve it at all. And now I must go and look for my father.”

Mr. Thurwell was waiting in the hall, somewhat surprised at her absence. But he asked no questions. His thoughts were too full of the terrible thing which had happened to his friend and neighbour—and withal his daughter’s betrothed.

They walked back across the moor together, saying very little, for there was only one possible subject for conversation, and both of them shrank a little from speaking about it. But when they were more than half-way to their destination, she asked a question.

“Nothing has been discovered, I suppose, of the murderer?”

Her father shook his head.

“Nothing. The dagger is our only clue as yet—except this.”

He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and touched it lightly with his finger.

“What is it? May I see?”

He handed it to her at once.

“It was in his pocket,” he said. “I am keeping it to hand over to the proper authorities. Mr. Brown offered to take care of it, but I felt that, as a magistrate, I was in a measure responsible for everything in the shape of a clue, so I brought it away with me. Read it.”

She opened the half-sheet of notepaper and glanced down it. It was written in a queer, cramped handwriting—evidently disguised.

“Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, you are doing a very rash and foolish thing in coming back to your own country, and thereby publishing your whereabouts to the world. Have you forgotten what hangs over you—or can you be so mad as to think that he has forgiven? Read this as a warning; and if life is in any way dear to you, go back to that hiding which alone has kept you safe for so many years. Do not hesitate or delay for one half-hour—one minute may be too long. If, after reading this, you linger in England, and disregard my warning, take care that you look into your life and hold yourself prepared to die.”

She gave it back to him. There was some one, then, whom he had injured very deeply. It was like an echo from that stormy past of which many people had spoken.

“He had an enemy,” she murmured, passing her arm through her father’s.

“It seems so,” he answered. “A terrible enemy.”