Читать книгу A Secret Service - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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Ida, bewildered and confused, almost incapable of following what was said to her stared at Valerie Brune with a pathetic enquiry in her eyes. A few hours before she had been a mere waif and stray, a human derelict floating down the stream of life to a sea of oblivion and darkness. Now here she was caught up suddenly out of the commonplace and thrown into the very vortex of adventure. She did not know whether to feel glad or sorry, eager or ashamed. And yet, with it all, she was conscious of an intense, overpowering curiosity. She was young and strong, for she had not stepped over the dreadful hunger mark, with its hideous temptations, and courage was still with her.

Six months ago she would have looked forward to an adventure like this, and she had been learning things lately, and a sense of peril restrained her.

Valerie glanced at her impatiently.

"Well, you heard what I said." she exclaimed. "There is danger, of course, but if I am any judge of character, you won't mind that. Come, a girl in your position ought not to hesitate. It is no business of mine to enquire how you come to be in your present situation, but I dare swear you were not born to it."

"Does that matter?" Ida asked coldly.

"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have made that remark. But I am sure you have ambition, and cannot wish to be a shop-girl all your life. If you will place yourself in my hands I will make your fortune. You shall go back and live amongst the people whom you have been accustomed to mix with. There's nothing I will not do for you. I am rich. Could I afford to live in a house like this if it were otherwise? And with all my faults my enemies cannot say that I am ungenerous, or that I am not a good friend to those who serve me well."

"Oh, I believe that?" Ida said. "I'm not afraid of danger. I've been on the verge of starvation too long to dread anything except an utter lack of money. What I fear is that you are asking me to do something wrong."

"Do you mean criminal?"

"I do. If you can convince me—" "You must take my word for that. I am not asking you to do anything that should bring you within the meshes of the law. If, by any chance, trouble of this kind arise, I am prepared to take the blame. Now listen to me—by-the-way, you have not told me your name."

"My name is Ida Vanstone."

"Indeed. I expected you would give me quite another name. Pray give me all your attention. I daresay you think I'm to be envied—young, single, rich, good-looking, and full of life, and courage. And yet I am desperately situated, watched, and conspired against, without a friend in the world to help me. If I could only get away from this house to-night for a couple of hours alone. I believe I could save the situation. But I must make no mistake; there must be no possible chance of those who are spying against me guessing my designs. That is why I want you to take my place and go to this dance."

"But the likeness between us is not so great as you think." Ida protested. "Your imagination has colored your judgment. At a short distance we might be taken for one another, and there is where your scheme is weak. Miss Valerie Brune must have scores I of friends, and a good many of them will be at the dance."

"No doubt, but that won't make any difference. I am supposed to be a creature of moods. Rich young women with good looks are allowed these peculiarities. I do not choose to dance; I choose to remain aloof from the rest and sulk. I refuse to speak to anybody, and at two o'clock in the morning I leave by myself. I come back here in a taxi. Or, rather, you return in a taxi, because I am really giving you instructions. I am telling you exactly what has to be done to-night. When you leave Covent Garden you are to arrive here precisely at quarter past 2. I shall be back by that time, and when the cab pulls up at the door—will let you in."

To her astonishment Ida felt herself falling in line with this strange adventure. The other girl's magnetism was carrying her away. After all, there could be no very great danger, and, even if the imposture were discovered, the consequences were not likely to be serious.

"Very well," she said. "I will place myself in your hands. But, first of all, I must be allowed to write a note to my friend, Elsie Harness, who will wonder what has become of me. If you will have that dispatched, then I shall be ready to take your place. I can say no more than that."

"And the remuneration?" Valerie asked.

"That I leave entirely to you. I am penniless. An hour or two ago I was face to face with starvation and a bed on the Embankment. I have not been used to privations of this kind. I left home to earn my own living as best I could, rather than marry the man my father tried to force on me. Things have changed somewhat, and I have the prospect of a pittance at least—"

"Stop!" Valerie cried. "You distress me beyond measure, and none the less because I've been through it all myself. There was a time when I ran about the streets of Rome barefoot, a time when I travelled Europe with a vagabond theatrical company. My child, you shall have a hundred pounds to begin with, and more, much more, later. Now come into my room, for there is no time to be lost. I will find everything necessary—I should say my clothes would fit you very well. When you are ready I will leave you in my bedroom—I will vanish by the servants' entrance, and you, for the time being, shall be Valerie Brune. If you muffle yourself well nobody will notice the difference; then you will ring the bell and ask if the car is ready. It sounds delightfully simple, does it not? When you arrive at Covent Garden all you have to do is to dismiss the motor and tell my man you will not require him to fetch you back. The rest I think I can leave in your hands. Above all, you are to remain apart from everybody, you are to be Valerie Brune in one of her most tiresome moods. I assure you, my dear child, these moods can be very bad indeed sometimes. Any of my friends will tell you that. Now come along."

A strange eagerness, a strong desire for the wild adventure thrilled Ida. She was young and supple, and her spirits were rising. After the past awful six months it would be exhilarating to enjoy a passing glance of life at its best again. It would be good to get out of the drab surroundings which were stifling what was brightest in her. It was bracing to find herself in that luxuriously-appointed bedroom, with its brilliant lights and the fire dancing and reflecting in the silver fittings of the toilet table. There was something soothing in the touch of silken drapery and the dainty gloves and shoes which Valerie produced for the inspection of her new-found confederate. Ida gasped, positively gasped, presently as she glanced at herself in the long mirror.

"It's wonderful," she cried, "what dress does for women! Do you know I feel I could go through anything, now? And yet in my shabby attire I was almost ashamed to offer my drawings even to a halfpenny paper."

"Ah, that is the right spirit!" Valerie said. "Well. I'm going to leave you. With this dark cloak and hood I can leave the house and nobody will be the wiser. All you have to do is to muffle yourself up in that cloak so that only the tip of your nose peeps out, and ring the bell. The fewer words you say the better."

As it happened there was no occasion to say anything. Almost as soon as Ida pressed the bell the door opened and a neat-looking maid came in. Ida rose languidly to her feet, and immediately the maid came forward with a ticket of admission in her hand.

"The car is already waiting, madam," she said.

With a wave of her hand Ida intimated that the maid should lead the way, and a few moments later she was being whirled along towards Covent Garden. There was no nervousness about her, nothing but an eager desire to see this thing out to the bitter end. It seemed to her that she had gone through it all before, and that she was familiar with every phase of it. She would know exactly what to do, exactly how to play her part. There was a possible chance that she might be recognised by some friend, but this only added piquancy to the venture.

It was, as Ida had expected, a mixed crowd. Some thousand or more guests had gathered in the sacred name of charity, high-born men and women rubbing shoulders with the middle-classes, and here and there an over-dressed woman or two; in fact, quite the Covent Garden crowd that always assembles at such functions. Ida wandered about the rooms without attracting undue attention and without molestation of any kind. She was enjoying herself immensely, keeping a bright lookout for casual acquaintances so that she might be able to avoid them. No doubt it would grow monotonous presently, but meanwhile the gay dresses and the flashing lights, the strains of the band, and the rippling laughter' carried her forward, resistlessly, and perhaps a trifle recklessly as well. It was such a startling change from the painful struggle of the last few months; it was such a scene as might—

Ida pulled herself up with a start. Within a few yards of her she caught sight of the man with the firm lips and hatchet face whom she had seen in the drawing room, at Grosvenor-square. He was talking to another man—a rather small, insignificant-looking person with dark, restless eyes and a discontented, sensitive mouth. The first man turned as if Ida's glance had drawn him by some magnetic force, and he smiled meaningly. There was something mocking in the wave of his hand and Ida's spirits sank a little.

"This is unexpected." she told herself. "I shall have to be careful. That is the man who almost forbade Valerie Brune to come to-night." She moved from the other and seated herself more obscurely. A moment later and the man with the discontented mouth was whispering in her ear.

"I must speak to you," he said. "Follow me to the conservatory. I have news of Arnold Gray for you!"