Читать книгу The Last Adventure and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 12

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MARY came into the hall as the butler opened the door to him, and he thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. And yet ... was she not a little finer-drawn? And behind the smile could he not trace evidence of distress beyond expression? Her mien and voice were gay enough as she took him into the little drawing room.

“Sit down. I haven’t seen you for a week,” she said, and almost pushed him down on to the settee. “First of all, I want to ask you something. Is it true they have turned you out of your club?”

“I was resigning anyway,” he said airily.

John Calthorpe was not a good liar.

“That’s one thing,” she said. “Another story I heard is that you are keeping bad company.”

“I?”—in amazement.

She nodded, her eyes twinkling.

“They tell me that you have a cannibal valet.”

John laughed softly.

“Quio is not a cannibal; in fact, he’s rather a highly educated Indian,” he said. “Who knows that he may not lead me to one of those undiscovered treasuries of the ancient American people, whose ruined temples fill his part of Paraguay?”

He told her about the man and the queer way in which Quio had come into his fife, but omitted the story of the Indian’s startling appearance at Madame Bonnigea’s.

But this she did not want telling. Alice, the maid, had a sister in rather a gay household, and Mary knew the story of the raid and all that had preceded the appearance of the police, for Alice was something of a gossip, and for the first time in the period of her service had received encouragement to talk.

Mary listened without comment to the lame narrative, and, when he had finished:

“I have written to your club,” she said quietly.

John gasped.

“You’ve written? But, my dear girl—!”

“I’ve written. You can be as angry as you like with me, but I found out the names of the committee of your club, and I have written to every one of them separately, telling them the true story of what happened, why you were in the club and why you were arrested. I know it is an unpardonable thing to do, but you must explain my lack of reticence by the fact that I’m a wild American girl. I have no doubt it is very embarrassing for you to have a strange woman writing to your committee, but, Johnny, I do not intend allowing you to make this sacrifice. You took the blame to yourself because you thought it might spoil Selwyn’s chances of marriage if it were known. Well, I’m marrying him. Please don’t talk. I’m ringing for the tea.”

He sat in silence till the tea-table was wheeled in, and, when the maid had withdrawn, he said:

“Does your father know?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think it was necessary that he should know,” she answered quietly; “and it is equally unnecessary that your—what do you call it?—conviction should be erased. The thing that counts for the moment is your club.”

Again he was silent, until:

“It was splendid of you, Mary, and I really am not embarrassed by your action—that is to say, I suffer no loss of dignity by having the loveliest lady in the world writing on my behalf. When is the marriage to take place?”

“The day after to-morrow,” was her surprising reply—surprising because he had taken it for granted that there would be the usual long engagement, followed by an autumn wedding.

“Daddy may have to go back to America in September,” she said, “and he wants the thing over before he goes. For my own part”—here her voice was a little less steady than it had been—”it cannot be finished and done with too soon—your tea is getting cold.”

“Has Selwyn been here?” he asked. “I met him a little time ago. I hope he didn’t bring the unutterable Bertie to call upon you?”

She shook her head.

“No, that is our arrangement—we do not see each other until the wedding-day. Lady Heverswood was here to lunch. She doesn’t like you.”

A ghost of a smile trembled at the corner of his mouth. “No, she doesn’t,” he admitted. “Did she express her dislike more openly than usual?”

Mary settled herself back in the corner of the settee and laughed.

“You’re the worst man in the world,” she said solemnly. “You have the heart of a murderer and designs upon the title!”

“Good Lord!” gasped John, aghast. That aspect of his iniquities had never occurred to him.

“She is very pleased that the marriage is taking place so soon,” Mary went on. “She feels there ought to be— children”—the word came with difficulty—”to carry on the title. She said you had threatened to murder Selwyn.”

Johnny’s grin was one of sheer delight.

“I certainly told her that we should be looking for a new Earl of Heverswood in certain eventualities,” he admitted, “but I suggested nothing more than “

It was a little difficult to explain that what he had meant was a chastisement which he calculated would bring about a revolution in the character of Selwyn.

“I think that is all the mischief I can do to-day,” she said, a smile in her eyes. “Oh, yes, I must tell you that Selwyn has been borrowing money on the strength of his forthcoming alliance.”

“You don’t mean that?” said John, shocked. “From moneylenders?”

But she was serious.

“One of their agents came to see daddy to confirm the engagement. Fortunately, I was here, and was able to assure him that there would be a most generous settlement.”

“But why on earth does he want money now?” he asked, in perplexity. “I sent him a big cheque a few days ago.”

She sighed.

“I’m afraid Selwyn’s the kind of man who wants money in large quantities all the time.” And then she shook off the unpleasant subject of her thoughts. “You’re coming to the wedding, Johnny?”

He hesitated.

“I—would rather not.”

“Why not?” she challenged.

He could give no direct reply.

“Just now, I was talking about the old temples of the Aztecs, the original inhabitants of the South American continent,” he said slowly. “I believe they were in the habit of offering human sacrifices upon their altars. Had I lived in those days, I feel I should not have received an invitation to one of those functions with any great pleasure.”

Her eyes were fixed on his.

“I am the sacrifice—in a way, yes. You’re weakening, Johnny,” she said softly.

He nodded.

“Yes, I am weakening. It is horrible to think that the wedding-day is so close at hand.”

There was a long silence.

“Suppose”—she was playing with the fringe of a silken scarf that was over her shoulder, and was not looking at him—”suppose it were not Selwyn, Johnny? Suppose that holy of holies, Heverswood, were not involved, and you knew I was going to be married to somebody ... I loathed... and you ... loved me ... what would you do?”

John Calthorpe’s face was white.

“Is it fair to ask me?”

She shook her head gently, and then, raising her eyes, met his.

“It was grossly unfair.” She got up. “It’s a funny world, Johnny, isn’t it? And now I’m sending you away in a great hurry. Are you joining Selwyn’s party at the Albert Hall to-morrow night?”

“Are you going?” he asked.

“Daddy has already a box. It seems a better way of spending one’s wedding-eve than to pass the time in meditation and prayer.”

There was a faint tinge of bitterness in her voice, which she was the first to recognize.

“I’m being sorry for myself,” she said, and held out her hand.