Читать книгу The Kingdom of Earth - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

CHAPTER V

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GRACE heard her visitor announce himself with a sudden start, which almost resembled fear. "Sir William Wilson!" she exclaimed, half incredulously. "Won't you sit down?"

"You are very kind," he answered. "If I may, I will take this easy chair."

He made himself comfortable in a leisurely fashion, crossing his legs, and smiling benevolently at her. Certainly no man in the world could have seemed less likely to inspire the sentiment of fear. He was somewhat short, and inclined toward corpulence; he had gray whiskers and beard, though his upper lip was clean shaven; he was dressed in a respectable frock-coat suit, on the waistcoat of which reposed a heavy gold chain. He looked exactly what he was—a prosperous, middle-aged shopkeeper who, his prosperity having touched the millions, was spoken of everywhere as a merchant prince.

"My dear Miss Pellisier," he said, smiling reassuringly upon her, "I have not come here to take up much of your time, or to ask of you anything very terrible. You are, I know, a member of the society of which I have the honour to be president, but you are a member of only the outside circle, what we call the 'theorists,' so our claim upon you is not a very exacting one. Still, there are certain small ways in which it chances just now that you can be of service to us. Don't think me impertinent, please, or curious. I speak on behalf of larger than personal interests. You had a visitor last night."

Grace started slightly.

"Yes," she answered hesitatingly; "it was a Mr. John Peters."

"The nom de voyage, as I dare say you are aware," he continued, "of John Valentine Peters, Crown Prince of Bergeland."

She bowed her head. "I met him two years ago at St. Moritz," she admitted. "He always called himself Mr. John Peters. It scarcely seems possible to me, even now, that he can be the man of whom all these terrible things are said."

"It is the same man," Sir William declared cheerfully, "the same man, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He is one of the most pestilent rogues in Europe, and has found his way most worthily, I am bound to admit, into a little book we keep, on the cover of which is inscribed, 'Enemies of the People.' It is better for any man, as you may have heard, that he does not find his name written inside that book."

"Why have you come here to talk to me about him?" she asked.

"We feel a certain interest in his movements," Sir William continued, pressing the tips of his fingers gently against each other. "For instance, we should like to know whether he is coming to see you again to-night."

"Yes," Grace answered, with a catch in her breath.

"After the performance?"

"Yes."

Sir William seemed pleased. "Well," he said, "we have a small, a very small commission for you. We should like you to keep him here until half-past one, and to see that he departs as nearly as possible at that time."

"Why?" Grace asked breathlessly.

"There are certain people," Sir William declared, "who desire a little conversation with him."

"Is that all?" she demanded.

"It is all that concerns you," Sir William answered, with the first note of sternness in his voice. Before she could frame another question, he had taken his leave and was gone.

* * *

John Peters detected almost at once that something had happened, that there was some change in her attitude toward him. He had taken care this time to arrive later than she, and had found her sitting in an easy chair drawn up to the fire, reading again the chronicle of his iniquities. She had not changed her gown, and her hat lay on the sofa where she had thrown it. When he entered she started, and her expression puzzled him. Was it his fancy, or was there fear shining out of the dark, somewhat distended eyes which met his.

"You were expecting me, I hope?" he asked, bending over her hand. "You had not forgotten?"

"No," she answered, "I had not forgotten, but I am sorry that you have come. I was hoping that you might have been called away."

"This," he remarked, drawing a chair up near hers, "requires an explanation. I see that you have been reading again that eternal story of my misdeeds. Why?"

"Because," she answered steadily, "I am trying to reconcile the two men, and I can't. I ask myself what my friend, John Peters, can possibly have to do with that scoundrel," she added, pointing to the paper. "I ask myself whether I am mad, that I permit a man like that to be here with me—alone."

"You permit me to be here," he said gently, "because you trust me."

"Then either my trust is misplaced," she declared, "or you are not Valentine, Prince of Bergeland, or those stories are lies."

"Your trust," he answered, "is not misplaced. That is all that I can tell you."

"You drank wine with me last night," she said. "Is it true that you have drunk champagne out of the slipper of a dancing girl?"

He smiled faintly. "I can't seem to recall it," he admitted. "Let us put that down to a stretch of the reporter's imagination."

She pointed eagerly to the newspaper. "The whole report," she exclaimed, "is perhaps exaggerated?"

He shook his head. "Not so very much, I believe. On the whole, I believe it is somewhere near the truth."

She was silent for a moment. Then she turned toward the table. "Very well," she said, "let us have supper."

He took his place, looking at her a little curiously.

"Supposing," he said, "I had been able to deny it?"

"In that case," she said, "I should have sent you away this minute."

"You puzzle me," he declared, filling her glass with wine. "One would imagine that it is a privilege to remain, not to be sent away."

"To-morrow," she answered, "you may think differently. Now talk to me. Tell me of some of your adventures—not the very worst ones, of course. You must have met with some very amusing people in your wanderings."

He smiled. "I meet all sorts," he said, "but they are seldom amusing. I would sooner that we imagined ourselves back at St. Moritz again, and talked as we did then."

"Those days are finished," she answered. "I do not wish to be reminded of them."

"They may come again," he said softly.

"They can never come again," she replied. "They belonged to Mr. John Peters and to me. Now there is a third party who has intervened—and it is finished!"

"A third party?"

"Yes," she answered, "John Valentine, Prince of Bergeland."

They ate and drank almost in silence. Then, as they were finishing, he leaned across the table to her.

"Listen," he said, "it is true that I am John Peters, and it is true that I am John Valentine, Prince of Bergeland. But I will say this to you, and it is more than I have said to any other person on earth: There are a hundred gutter journalists ready to throw mud at the man who plays the fool, and sometimes they miss the mark. Look at me, Grace."

She obeyed him, half unwillingly as it seemed to him.

"I have never drunk wine out of the slipper of a dancing girl. I do not love dancing girls. I have never been drunk in my life. I have thought oftener, and with more pleasure, of a fortnight I spent in St. Moritz two years ago than of any other fortnight before or since."

"If I could only believe you," she murmured, her eyes still intently fixed on his.

"It is always easy," he answered, "to recognize the truth."

She sighed, and glanced toward the clock. Its hands were pointing to one. She held out both her hands.

"I am going to try to believe in you," she said, "and because of that I am going to send you away this moment. Don't ask me any questions. Light that cigarette and go!"

"Isn't this a little sudden?" he remonstrated.

"Never mind that. It is for your own sake I am sending you away. Some day I may explain, but not now!"

"I may come again?"

"Some day, but I will write. Please!" She held the door open.

The obvious earnestness of her manner impressed him. He raised her hand to his lips, and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor.

Grace closed the door, and stood for a moment with her hand to her heart. Then she moved over to the window and threw it open, feeling the need of fresh air. Exactly opposite to her was the clock of St. Martin's in the Fields, and as she stood there it chimed the half-hour. She listened, gazing through the darkness, with distended eyes, at the illuminated dial. Half-past one! She sprang to the mantelpiece, and a sudden horror seized her. The little white marble clock had stopped! She had sent him out at exactly the hour she had been told!