Читать книгу The Corner House - Fred M. White - Страница 9

On the whole, Gordon Bruce was persuaded that the world was a pleasant place to live in. He had youth and intellect and ambition that looked likely to be satisfied. Two years before he had recklessly ventured his small capital on a suite of ground floor rooms in Duke Street, and for some little time he had had a hard struggle to keep up appearances, and pay the instalments as they came due on his somewhat showy furniture.

But it had all come right in the end. He had had a little luck, but his great good fortune, or so it seemed, was when he had been called in to attend little Mamie Lalage. The Countess was just beginning to swim then upon the high tide of popularity. That the woman in her passionate, headstrong way had fallen in love with him Bruce never dreamt. It was only Hetty's woman's eyes and woman's instinct that had found the truth.

But the Countess was the fashion, and her doctor looked like being the fashion, too. A Duchess had taken him up; she had firmly persuaded herself that Bruce had saved the life of one of her children. From a hundred or two, Bruce suddenly found his income expanded to as many thousands. No wonder that his dreams were pleasant as he lay back smoking a cigarette after dinner. There was only one drawback--most of those two thousand pounds were on his books.

Well, his credit was good. If he could lay his hands upon a hundred or two now, he would begin to furnish the house in Green Street at once. Then when the season was over he and Hetty could be married. Yes, on the whole Gordon Bruce's cigarette just then was an enchanting one.

There was a ring at the hall and a servant came in. Gordon hoped that it was not a patient. He was dressed for a party, where he hoped to meet Hetty; not a grand affair, but a few friends in Gilbert Lawrence's luxurious chambers. Bruce looked at the card in his hand.

"I wonder who Herr Max Kronin is?" he muttered. "Ask the gentleman in."

He came, a mild-looking elderly German, heavy grey moustache, and eyes hidden behind a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. He was slow of speech and gasped a great deal as if he had some trouble at his heart.

"You wished to speak to me," said Gordon. "Pray sit down."

The elderly stranger did so, and immediately the atmosphere was impregnated with an odour of strong tobacco.

"It is not as a patient I came," he said. "I take the liberty to occupy some of your valuable time. If you are in one hurry--"

"Not in the least," Bruce replied. "I have half an hour at your disposal. Your case----"

"Ach, but I have no case, I am not what you call a patient. It is another matter--a matter of sentiment."

Gordon bowed again; evidently a lunatic of the harmless type.

"Some days ago you bought a picture," Herr Kronin proceeded. "It was a small picture of the early Dutch School, signed J. Halbin. A woman nursing a sick child, and the father looking on. Not a valuable picture."

"Certainly not," Bruce agreed. "I happen to know an expert who told me so. It took my fancy and I gave ten pounds for it, which, I understand, is about a tenth of its full value."

Herr Max Kronin nodded approvingly.

"That is so. Otherwise I should not be here tonight. As pictures go, £100 is not much. But that picture belonged to my mother's family--in fact, she is descended from the J. Halbin who painted it. It was sold some years ago at a time of great distress. We were sorry. Sentimental, you say, but it would be a bad world without sentiment. My sister, she never ceased to mourn over that picture. When the good time comes she try to get him back. But he has disappeared. Picture my delight when I see him in a little time ago in a shop window. I go home for my chequebook--for I am not a poor man, Herr Bruce, now--and I hurry back to the shop. On my way I send a telegram to my sister to say the picture is found. When I reach the shop you have beaten me by ten minutes."

Herr Kronin paused, overcome by deep distress. His eyes behind the big glasses looked appealingly at Bruce.

"So you want to buy it from me," he suggested encouragingly.

"Oh, that is it, Herr Bruce, beyond doubt, that is it. It will be easier for me, I shall not be so distressed, if you let me make a bargain with you. Herr Bruce, I will give you £200 for the picture."

Bruce hesitated for a moment. But why not? The man was wealthy, and the picture was worth half what he asked, perhaps more, for experts are not always correct. And £200 would mean the beginning of the furnishing of the new house. Dim visions of a happy honeymoon rose before him.

"Very well," he said. "You shall have the picture. It is there on the sideboard wrapped up as my expert friend returned it. Where shall I have the pleasure of sending it for you?"

"I will take him with me." Kronin said eagerly. "It will be good to feel that I have got him, that there will be no more cups slipped from ze lip. Sentiment again! But there is no sentiment about these banknotes, my friend."

He counted out forty £5 Bank of England notes on the table with a hand that trembled strangely. He seemed restless and eager to be away now, as if fearful that Bruce might change his mind. The whole thing might have been a dream save for the crisp crackling notes on the table.

"Never rains but it pours," Bruce smiled as he thrust the notes in his breast pocket. "Tomorrow every penny goes for that wonderful lot of old furniture in Tottenham Court Road. What a pleasant surprise for Hetty!"

It required some strength of mind to keep the secret from the girl, but Bruce managed it. It seemed to him that Hetty looked a little white and drawn, but as the evening went on the happy look came back to her eyes again. There was a small fernery at the back of the dining-room into which Gordon hurried Hetty presently.

"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" he asked.

It was good to be with him there, to feel the pressure of his hand, and to look into his keen, resolute face. With Gordon by her side Hetty felt equal to meeting any terrors. Yet after the lapse of a few hours the whole thing seemed so vague and intangible that she hesitated to speak.

"Is it the corner house again?" Bruce suggested playfully.

"Don't laugh, dear," Hetty whispered. "The place haunts, me. I never seem to be able to get away from the horrors of it. And last night----"

"Go on, darling. I promise you not to laugh again."

By degrees Hetty told her story. It was real enough to her, but to Bruce's practical mind it sounded unsubstantial and shadowy. After all, she might easily have imagined the face at the window, and as to the man in the morning room, he had only been mistily reflected in a dim old mirror.

"But I should recognize him anywhere," Hetty protested.

Bruce thought that she would probably never have the chance, but he did not say so.

"Did Countess Lalage allude to it this morning?" he asked.

"Not a word," Hetty admitted. "She was glad to see me better; she breakfasted with Mamie and myself, and she was altogether charming, but----"

"But? There is much behind that word. You don't like her, Hetty?"

"I am afraid of her; I mistrust her; she frightens me. Call it prejudice if you like, but there is something wrong about that woman. Did she find out anything about us last night, Gordon?"

"I had to tell her, of course," Gordon replied. "She accused me of flirting with you, and I had to speak for your sake."

"And what happened after that?"

"Upon my word I forget. Oh, yes. She sent me at once for an ice, saying that she would think of something pretty by the time I returned. She must have forgotten all about it, for when I got back she had vanished."

It was Hetty's turn to hold her peace now. Leona Lalage had not felt equal to facing Gordon at that moment. Even her iron will and resolution were not quite equal to the strain.

"If I was only out of the house," she said. "If I was only out of that house."

Gordon bent and kissed the quivering lips. His little secret was on the tip of his tongue, but he repressed it.

"It will not be for long, dearest," he whispered. "Courage, darling."

If he had only told her; if he had only spoken then!