Читать книгу The Caravan Crime - Fergus Hume - Страница 4

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“Oh, b’ jove!” commented the young man, stirred to the core of his appreciative soul by the sight of the exquisite face, delicately perfect, “this is the beauty of the world.”

The praise was superlative, but none the less honest and well deserved. But Dick, very much a gentleman, did not take such pardonable advantage of the situation. After gazing for one glorious moment he hastened to fill a cup at the spring, and was shortly restoring consciousness to this stray Helen. Two splendid blue eyes—Dick guessed from the halo of golden hair that they would be blue—opened slowly with a bewildered expression, which changed suddenly to one of mingled fear and defiance. The girl sat up, drew her rich cloak again around her—but this time not over her face—and shivered at the thought of the isolation. Lawson ascribed this attack of nerves to a matter-of-fact cause. “Foot hurting?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s my ankle,” she retorted, ungraciously.

“Sorry.” He was quite imperturbable. “Ankle hurting?”

It was so smoothly said, yet with such a twinkle in the eyes, that the prostrate lady permitted herself to relieve a smile. Then she frowned; the more so as she became convinced of his good will. “You might do something more useful than stand there laughing at me,” was her unexpected remark.

“So I might,” agreed Dick cheerfully: and stooping. “If you will let me carry you into my caravan and put you on an apology for a bed I think you would be more comfortable.”

“Certainly not. I know nothing about you.”

“Ditto, ditto, so far as you are concerned,” he retorted lightly.

“I am not going to answer any questions.”

“I haven’t asked any.”

“But you will. And I have a brother.”

“Oh. Does he ask questions?”

“No. But I have a—”

“Then I regret to say that I can’t see the connection between—”

This time she interrupted, and petulantly. “Men are so stupid.”

“Granted—and women are so clever. Come now, that is nicely said, isn’t it?”

The girl smiled again and frowned again. “What is the use of talking cleverly? You ought to help me.”

“Good idea. You have only to ask.”

“I want to go to Sarley Grange, two miles from here.”

“Sarley Court,” said man, the supremely stupid, remembering the letter.

“No; Sarley Grange. Don’t you understand?”

“Not-er-exactly,” confessed Lawson, sadly.

“How dense you are. I want to go to Sarley Grange, two miles away. I was walking there when I stumbled over your silly rope.”

Dick surveyed her charming evening frock, which the now open cloak revealed more fully. “Is that you usual costume for walking?”

“Of course not. I came away in a hurry and—and—”

“Yes, yes. That’s all right. I am not asking questions.”

“They won’t be answered if you do ask them!” she cried, crossly; then with delightful inconsistency proceeded to demand information. “What about yourself?”

Dick chuckled at this very feminine turning of the tables. “Well,” he asked, “what about myself?”

“Who are you?”

“A hawker of pots, kettles, pans, brushes.”

“Nonsense; you are a gentleman—”

“Fallen on evil days, if I may venture to complete your sentence.”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“Occasionally, when life is at its best.”

“And now?” she put the question in quite a sympathetic tone.

“It is at its worst. I have a caravan, a horse, another suit of clothes, and a trifle of money. Such is my dismal lot.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Also good looks, youth, strength, hope, brains, and the wide world before you.”

“You assign to me the gifts of the good,” said Lawson, imperturbably, and wondering at her motherly tone of kindly rebuke.

“I think the gods are very good to you,” said the girl, seriously.

“They are—in sending you here.”

“That is not my opinion,” she replied, dryly. “I wish I were elsewhere.”

“Sarley Grange, for instance.”

“Precisely. But how am I to get there with my sprained ankle?”

“B’ Jove, madame—”

“I am not madam,” she interrupted with a snap.

“Sorry, mademoiselle. What I was about to say is that you have heaps of pluck.”

“Thank you!” She blushed and looked more attractive than ever. “I need it.”

“B’ Jove, you do, sitting there talking so delightfully when you are in pain.”

She blushed again and her eyes shone. Really this was a very charming young gentleman, who knew how to turn a compliment, and evidently, acknowledged the undoubted superiority of women. “But,”—she followed up her thoughts in sober speech, “I don’t think that compliments help me much in my present plight.”

“They are as oil to grease the wheels of Life’s chariot,” said Dick, sententiously. “But to take a more practical view—”

“Which is what I have been asking you to do for the last thirty minutes,” she interpolated with a grimace, for her ankle hurt considerably.

“I can drive you to Sarley Grange in my caravan,” went on Lawson, as if she had made no remark.

“Splendid!” The errant damsel clapped her hands. “And you will leave me at the lodge without requesting explanations?”

“On my honor!”

“Oh, you are—er—nice,” sighed his patient. “I don’t suppose we shall ever meet again. Mr.—Mr.—er—”

“Lawson. Richard Maxwell George Henry Lawson.”

“Quite a Royal string of names,” she commented, but did not offer information in return. “But as we won’t meet again, Mr. Lawson, I thank you.”

“Why won’t we—or, why can’t we—meet again?”

“Oh, because—because—because—”

“Three reasons. Go on.”

“No!” She became angry, and looked as tempting as a peach. “You are asking me questions.”

“You asked me questions,” he countered.

“It’s a woman’s privilege. And my ankle is hurting me while you stand there making fun of my sufferings.”

“Oh, no, no.” Dick was shocked, and came towards her. “I shall catch my horse at once, but you must let me take you into my caravan.”

“The horse is only a stone’s throw away,” said the lady, sharply; “you can put me in the caravan when you put the horse between the shafts.”

“Right ho!” Seeing that there was no arguing with her, Dick walked towards the path where he had chanced upon her so unexpectedly. Then he uttered an exclamation of astonishment and dismay. The horse had vanished, only the rope and the halter remaining.

“What is the matter?” called out the girl.

“The horse has escaped—wandered—disappeared. Choose your word.”

“Oh,” there was a distinct note of anxiety in her voice, “it must have slipped its halter.”

“Looks like it.” Lawson untied the rope from the birch tree and advanced towards the fire. “What about a horse thief? Anyone with you?” he shot a keen glance at her which she resented promptly.

“Certainly not,” was her wrathful reply. “I don’t go about with people who steal horses. How silly you are! Go away and catch the horse.”

“Sound advice, mademoiselle. But it will take time to hunt through this fairy wood—near Athens, you know. And you—” he lifted her up, quilt and all, in his strong arms with a promptitude which aroused resentment but not alarm.

“Why? Why? Why?” she babbled, feeling that she could trust him wholly.

“There may be—er—tramps about,” explained Dick, hoping that Selwin would not stumble too suddenly on his romance.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, and allowed him to carry her into the caravan, wrapped in the quilt and grasping the pillow. “Do hurry,” she implored, when he laid her gently on the bed.

“I’ll put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes,” answered Lawson in a gay tone. “Take the torch and don’t be frightened.”

Lawson was puzzled by the escape of the ancient steed. In his remarkably logical mind he was tolerably assured that the halter had been deliberately removed so that the animal might stray. But for what reason, and by whom? Severely as he questioned himself, while groping here and there in this cimmerian wood, he could find no plausible answer to these suggestions. And all the time he wandered, further and further away from the glade, from the caravan, and its precious occupant. The gloom was not altogether cimmerian, he found, when his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, for there was a faint, luminous light lingering amongst the trees, and he managed to scramble along without any marked mishap. The distant clock, struck three-quarters. “Nearly eleven,” muttered Dick, treading cautiously through leagues—as it seemed—of unknown geography. “Damn the horse!”

At that very moment he heard crackling sounds as the beast pushed its way through the close undergrowth and sprang in the direction of the movement. As he did so there came to his ear, faint but distinct, the unmistakable noise indicating the discharge of a revolver. Lawson half-unconsciously promptly wheeled round to fight his way back to the glade. All on fire for rescue of the girl from some unknown danger, he plunged onward blindly like a bull, and brought his head violently into contact with a tree trunk. For the next fifteen minutes or so he took no further interest in life as he knew it.

Recovering his senses with a dull aching in his head, he ploughed through the underwood more cautiously towards the glade—reached it somehow, some time, and noted vaguely that the fire had died down to a smouldering glow. Up the caravan steps he went, flung open the caravan door, and plunged in. There was no answer to his call, and he dropped on his knees to explore, his hand coming into touch with the torch immediately. Clicking on the light he saw a woman lying on the bed, as he expected; but the torch light revealed another face. Dick gasped. The girl had disappeared. In her place was an elderly woman—a complete stranger. And she was dead—shot straight through the heart.