Читать книгу The Edgar Wallace Reader of Mystery and Adventure - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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Margaret was wakened from a dreamless sleep by a hideous view-halloa from the garden below, and, jumping out of bed, she ran to the window and looked down. It was Tom, and, standing before the porch of the house, was an old victoria and the four horses that he had hired from a livery stable. Snow had ceased to fall; the world lay under a thick carpet of white.

"Merry Christmas!" yelled Tom. "Can't you get down and let me in? Nobody seems to be up in this establishment."

In ten minutes she was dressed and downstairs, but one of the servants had already opened the door, and Tom was warming his chilled hands before a hastily kindled fire.

"How do you like Chesney?" asked Tom. "You did stay under the same roof, after all, old girl."

She raised her hand in quiet protest. "I know a little more about Mr. Blackland than I did," she said. "I'm afraid I was rather uncharitable."

"He's a nice-looking fellow," said Tom. "What about having him over for dinner tonight?"

Margaret had already decided that her uncharitable ban should be lifted, and her invitation to "Mr. John" had been given and accepted.

"The governor's worried to death about you," said Tom. "He made me get up in the dark and commandeer this old bus to bring you back to civilization. Hullo, Chesney!"

Chesney was coming downstairs in his dressing-gown.

"I've got to rush my sister back to Oxford: the Colonel is all nerves about her," said Tom. "No, no, I won't stop to breakfast. Something hot to drink, and a bite for the young lady..."

Coffee and rolls were forthcoming almost immediately. They stood before the hall fire talk ing, Tom apparently oblivious to the signs Which his host had given him, until, in desperation, Chesney Blackland said: "I'd like to see you for a moment before you go, Tom. Will you come into the library?"

"Not now, old boy," pleaded Tom, putting down the cup. "You're coming over to dinner—I must get back: there's some more snow coming."

"I wanted to tell you—" said Chesney, but Tom was out in the open, giving directions to the ancient driver of this extemporized four-in- hand. "We dine at seven, but you'll come to tea," said Margaret, as she held out her hand with a smile. "And you really do forgive me?"

"I'm wondering whether you're going to forgive me," groaned Chesney Blackland, as he took her hand in his.

"For what? You mean, for the things you said about father? Of course!"

There was a roaring invitation from Tom outside, and the girl hurried into the victoria. The flakes were beginning to fall again, and there was reason for hurry, Tom explained, as they began their climb to the Witney Road.

"If we can make Witney we shall be all right, but the road is rather like High Street, Siberia."

To their intense relief, they reached the main road without mishap, and in a quarter of an hour Witney lay beneath them, a gray, cheerless town in a hollow.

"That's a quaint place of old Chesney's," said Tom.

"It's a very pretty house: has he had it long?" asked the girl.

"Lord, yes," said Tom, lighting a cigarette with some difficulty. "It's been in the family hundreds of years. It was a gift from King Charles to one of the Blacklands."

Margaret's pretty face came round, the picture of amazement.

"A gift of King Charles? But they're not English: his brother is—"

She stopped. Obviously Tom was not interested in Blackland's confidence.

"His brother!" scoffed Tom. "Why, he never had a brother. I knew the family: I was with Chesney at Eton."

The girl did not speak till they were clear of Witney, and then:

"Are you sure?"

"What about? About Chesney? Why, of course I'm sure. Old man Blackland only had one son and five daughters."

"What nationality was Mr. Everstein?" she asked, with outward calm.

"He was a Swiss Jew."

With an effort Margaret controlled her voice. "Has he any children?" she asked.

"Fourteen, I am told."

"Will you stop the carriage? I want to walk a little way," she said unsteadily.

Tom roared a direction to the driver and got out, a very much perplexed man.

"Now what on earth—?"

"Tom," she said, when they had walked some little distance from the victoria, "you must send to Mr. Blackland and tell him he cannot come to the house."

"Great Moses!" he gasped. "Why?"

"Because—he is a liar! Oh, the brute, the brute! To play on my feelings..."

Bit by bit the story came out. Tom listened, and, to the girl's surprise, did not laugh.

"Yes, that's a lie," said Tom. "Chesney has no brothers. Of course, he told you that story to prevent you from making a fool of yourself, as you undoubtedly would have done."

"He's hateful!" she stormed.

Tom shook his head. "He's not so hateful as you think, Margaret," he said quietly. "And now I'm going to tell you the truth. What he said about father was true."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Father was in the Everstein swindle right up to his neck," Tom went on. "He was a party to the faking of the balance-sheet, and it was only by a fluke that he didn't stand in the dock with Everstein."

She was white and shaking now.

"Is that true" she asked in a low voice.

Tom nodded.

"When Everstein was sent for trial, and Blockland went to Brixton Gaol for consultation, Everstein told Chesney the truth, and said that if he was convicted he'd bring down father... that he wasn't going to suffer alone. And Chesney played the game: he came to see me and told me this. Of course, it was no use telling the governor; anyway, he was in bed, sick with fright."

"But why did—Chesney—take all that trouble?" she asked unsteadily.

Tom's reply was rather like Tom, frank to the point of brutality.

"Because he saw you a few years ago, and, like a chump, fell in love with you. That's the truth! Chesney was unscrupulous in his defense: it was the talk of the Bar. But he fought like a demon to save Everstein from conviction, because he knew father would be involved, and, through father, you."

The snow was falling heavily now. She looked back to the old victoria and the steaming horses. "He is a liar, anyway," she said, as she walked slowly towards the carriage.

"Tom, will there be any shops open in Oxford this morning?" she asked, as the victoria bowled along the homeward road.

"There may be: why?"

"I'd like to buy a present—for Chesney Blackland's niece," she said, with pleasant malice.