Читать книгу The White Glove - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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So the game was beginning in real earnest. Clifford would have preferred to have had a few more details as to the task expected of him, but his spirits rose as he thought of the money in his pocket. He first glanced at Mrs. Manton again, but she had turned her back upon him, and was talking vivaciously to her companion. Clifford felt that he was left to his own resources now.

He looked casually at the man called Michel Rayne. Under the glow of the electric lights he saw many little peculiarities that had failed to attract his attention in the chemist's shop. The man was not tall or powerful, but he was supple and graceful, with the lithe elasticity of the cat. His manner was quiet and self-restrained, with a latent suggestion of power below it; the dark eyes seemed to take everything in; Clifford could see that the mouth under the moustache was hard.

"Not playing?" Rayne said. "Is anything the matter with Sefton?"

The man with the beard laughed and explained.

"We are going to play poker," he said. "I could manage that despite my damaged hand. Only, unfortunately, there are no cards at my place. On the whole, we had better go as far as Seymour's, and play there."

The boy with the hard face demurred. It was too far, he said. If Rayne had any spirit of charity, he would take them all to his own house. It seemed to Clifford that a shade of annoyance passed over Rayne's features. And yet, at the same time, he felt pretty sure that these men thoroughly understood one another. Certain little smiles and gestures testified to that. Clifford stood casting an account. Mrs. Manton told him that nobody knew where Rayne lived, and here was a chance to make that discovery at the very outset of the adventure.

"Well, I don't mind," Rayne said presently; "introduce your friend. Mr. Marsh, eh? I should say Mr. Marsh has seen service in South Africa, if appearance goes for anything. Do any good in the land of diamonds, eh?"

"The time is not ripe for that kind of thing yet," Clifford said.

"And perhaps you don't know anything of diamonds," Sefton suggested as he pulled at his black beard. "It's a special knowledge."

"As a matter of fact, I know all about stones," Clifford said. "Do any of you?"

The rest laughed, and disclaimed all information on that head. And yet, direct as the conversation was, Clifford felt that there was some hidden meaning behind it. He bowed slightly as the girl he had befriended passed him, and wondered if she would really keep her appointment for Friday. The girl looked at him in a peculiar way; there was a suggestion of dislike on her face which Clifford could not understand.

"Well, come along," Sefton exclaimed. "I daresay I shall be able to give you a good cigar, and a glass of wine. Only no very high stakes, please, though I should think you found Marsh here plays a good game."

"I thought we were going to Rayne's place," Seymour exclaimed.

"Well, you're not," Rayne said curtly. "It is at present in the hands of the decorators. What does it matter so long as we go somewhere. It will be infinitely better done at Sefton's than under my humble roof."

In the streets a couple of cabs were hailed, and Sefton gave the address, Arlington Gardens. Evidently the man with the beard was a man of means, and yet, in Clifford's eyes, he had hardy adventurer written all over him. All the same, nobody but a person of wealth could have aspired to Arlington Gardens. Evidently the [??? words missing in original publication] dered the more. The cabs drew up at length before the great house in the square, and Sefton let himself in with his latchkey. His family were away, he explained, and, under the circumstances, he never allowed the servants to keep up.

"I believe there is one about somewhere," he said; "only there is no need to bring the poor chap to the door. We shall find everything in the smoking-room."

Clifford took careful note of his surroundings. There was evidence of wealth everywhere, and, in fact, the house was the luxurious abode of a family of taste and fortune. Nothing was wanting for comfort or to appeal to the artistic side of life. In the smoking-room, the walls of which were covered with rare sporting prints, a large array of bottles and glasses had been laid out. There were no cards to be seen, but the host produced them from a writing table.

"Now we shall be quite comfortable," he said. "What limit shall we play?"

"Why make a limit at all, Seymour?" the hard-faced youth suggested. "We are all fortunately pretty well off, and, if Mr. Marsh has bad luck, he can mortgage a few of his diamond concessions. Let's have a real flutter to-night."

"All right," said Clifford, after a moment's hesitation. Whatever these men might be, they had not invited him here for the vulgar object of swindling him. Big gamblers had their big coups at times, but never big enough to support a house such as the small palace where Sefton had taken up his abode. "Please do as you like."

The game began in earnest, but from the first Clifford could see that the only man he had to fear was Rayne. The others were good players, but they lacked the dash and finesse and the iron nerve of the other two. Steadily Clifford's pile mounted up, and as steadily the money in the pockets of Seymour diminished. The latter was beginning to lose his temper, a fatal thing to do in the game of poker.

"Seems to me that we have entertained an angel unawares," he sneered. "Still, I daresay we shall learn something presently."

Clifford flushed, but said nothing. He raised the pool, and stood out for a long time, whilst the stakes rose. Presently, Rayne, with a shrug of his shoulders, threw away his cards; his adversary had bluffed him out with a pair of knaves. It was an infinitely inferior hand to Rayne's, but it sufficed.

"You are superb," he cried. "I felt from your face, that you had a royal flush at least. My word, but you are a fine player."

"I've taken my life through a bluff too often to lose my nerve at cards," Clifford said. "After all, it's a gift, and really I take no credit to myself for it."

"Perhaps you've got the gift of dealing the other chap the hand you want to," said Seymour with an ugly laugh. "You're too uncanny for me."

"What do you mean by that remark?" Clifford asked hoarsely. "Please explain."

The ugly laugh was repeated more insolently as Seymour crossed the room, and helped himself liberally to brandy. Evidently the young man was drinking more than was good for him.

"My meaning is quite plain," he said. "It is a good rule not to play cards with strangers—even if you meet them at Levi Raby's."

The inference was so plain, the insult so deliberate, that Clifford sprang up furious. The whole thing might have formed part of some arranged comedy for all Clifford knew, but he had forgotten everything but the indignity for the moment. He darted forward, but Rayne was too quick for him.

"Steady," the latter said. "If Seymour has forgotten himself, there is no reason why you—"

"Quite right," said Clifford, cool and collected again by a great effort. "I should be sorry to brawl in the house of a stranger who has offered me his hospitality. I think if you will allow me, that I will say goodnight."

With expressions of regret, Sefton followed him to the door. Seymour had drifted into a chair, and appeared to have lapsed into a drunken slumber. Then Sefton drew Clifford into a room furnished as a library, and put up the light.

"My dear fellow," he said, "really I cannot allow you to go like this. There is not the slightest justification for Seymour's abominable conduct. But for a promise made to his dead father, I should have cut him long ago. He got a bad sunstroke two years ago in India, and when he takes a little too much he is quite irresponsible for his actions. I'll get him to bed presently, and then we can resume our game pleasant."

Clifford was sorry, but really he had better go. He had made his mind up what to do. He would wait patiently outside the house for Rayne, and then track him down. A man who moved in society, and yet who possessed no habitation would be a good subject. Sefton expressed his regret politely—he was very nice over the matter.

"Well, if you will, you will," he said. "At the same time I confess that your feelings in the matter would be very much the same as mine. Well, what is it?"

A servant in livery entered with a letter on a salver. Sefton turned away with a muttered apology, and tore open the note. An expression of annoyance passed over his face.

"Is the man waiting for an answer?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," the servant replied. "I was to deliver the letter into your own hand."

"Then he must call again," Sefton declared. "But, stop, I fancy I have it in the house. Mr. Marsh, please don't go till I come back. I still have hopes that I may induce you to remain and continue the game."

Sefton left the room hurriedly, and closed the door behind him. The door was opened again a moment later, and a pretty dark-eyed girl, with a wrap over her head, came in. She drew back with a timid little stammering apology, then she stood still, with a face pale and full of distress. Clifford was too surprised to speak for a moment. He was face to face with the girl whom he had rescued at the card table.

"You here!" she whispered. "And what might you be doing in this—this—"

The girl paused, as if unable to express her feelings. Clifford explained.

"Then your game of cards is over, and you are just going," the girl said, relief, deep relief, in her tones. "You have been the guest of—of Mr. Sefton. A word in your ear, whispered because I dare not speak aloud. Don't come here again!"

Clifford's eyes asked a question, but the girl was backing away. Before she could say anything further, Sefton came bustling into the room. Surprise, suspicion, anger, shone in his eyes just for a moment.

"Myra," he demanded sternly, "Myra, what are you doing here?"

"I met this young lady to-night at Mrs. Raby's, where I was enabled to do her a slight service," Clifford said. "She was merely thanking me. As a matter of fact she came very near to being accused of malpractices at cards. Fortunately, I happened to be looking on, and I set matters on a proper footing. It was nothing."

Sefton nodded a little darkly, and the girl backed to the door. She gave Clifford first one beseeching, warning glance, and was gone. As to who she was, and what she was doing there, Sefton volunteered no information, and Clifford was too discreet to pursue the subject.

"I think I had better be going now," he said.