Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 14

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ETHEL in Le Blanc's studio!

The idea was ridiculous, preposterous, and not to be entertained for a moment. And yet, if Lawrence had been compelled to give testimony in a Court of Law, honour would have obliged him to swear that, for a moment, he had been face to face with Ethel Blantyre. The vision had come upon him so swiftly and unexpectedly that there was no room for doubt. Another minute or two, perhaps, and he might have been able to analyse the fact, and come to the conclusion that the whole thing had been no more than a wonderful coincidence. But then, there had been no time for speculation, no time to discern the difference between a blue eye or a brown one, the different hues of hair, or the subtle expressions which distinguish people whom Nature has cast in a precisely similar mould. There was, he thought, no getting away from the fact that Ethel Blantyre was in Le Blanc's studio, the only difference, so far as Lawrence could recall, being that her face had worn a gay, indeed, almost an artificial smile, which was so unlike the gentle, amiable expression he had always noticed on the features of his old playmate.

As he stood there gathering his scattered thoughts he recollected one or two smaller matters which might be destined later to produce great results. For instance, it occurred to him that the girl of the studio had been extravagantly and smartly dressed, in a fashion not likely to be affected by Miss Blantyre. Then, too, it seemed to Lawrence that there had come wafted into the studio a peculiar odour, the like of which he had never smelt before. It was not unpleasant or sickly, or overpoweringly pungent. On the contrary, there was something essentially feminine about it, something suggestive of the toilet and the boudoir. Beyond doubt, the splendid vision in the studio had been responsible for this. It was, after all, only a minor detail, but Ethel Blantyre was simple in her habits and would be the last person in the world to use so striking a perfume, or anything in the nature of a scent at all.

"Oh, what does it matter?" Lawrence muttered to himself impatiently. "Why am I worrying over trifles when the great fact remains? But I suppose in investigations like this there are no such things as trifles. I believe that is the lesson that most detectives have to learn at the outset of their career. At any rate, I'll make a note of it, because this information may come in useful later. And now I suppose the best thing I can do is to inform Sir Arthur what a failure I have been. It was wonderful how quickly that fellow discerned the object of my mission and guessed who had sent me."

Lawrence was in no very exalted frame of mind when he reached his destination. Still, he was prudent enough to glance carefully up and down the road before he entered the house. The mysterious individual with the tin whistle was no longer to be seen. Doubtless he had finished his errand and gone elsewhere. The same pale-faced footman who had admitted Lawrence earlier in the day informed him that Sir Arthur was out and that his return was somewhat uncertain. At the same time, he had left word that if Mr. Hatton called, he was to be good enough to wait. Lawrence came into the hall.

"I might see Miss Blantyre," he suggested.

He put the question with a certain amount of hesitation, hoping with all his heart that the footman would reply that Ethel was at home. In that case, he would know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had been mistaken, and that the radiant vision of Le Blanc's studio was no more than a double of Sir Arthur's granddaughter. But this hope was dashed to the ground by a shake of the footman's head.

"Miss Blantyre is out, too, sir," he said.

"She has gone with Sir Arthur?" Lawrence asked.

"No, sir. A telegram came for Sir Arthur directly after you left, and he went out immediately. It was some time later before Miss Blantyre went out. She went out alone. But I think she would be back in time for lunch."

Lawrence went to the conservatory and possessed his soul with as much patience as he could muster. The time crept slowly along until the clock over the mantelpiece struck the hour of two, and with it came the sound of voices outside and the entrance of Ethel into the room. Lawrence thought she was a little confused. But he dismissed this from his mind as an idle fancy. But it was no fancy, as he saw, for the girl's face was pale, and there was a look in her eyes which was not altogether free from fear. Then, as she moved across the room and took her seat close by the double doors leading to the conservatory, Lawrence could have sworn that he caught a whiff of that peculiar perfume which had puzzled him so a short time before. Of course, this might have been no more than the fruit of his suspicions, but he pressed his handkerchief to his nostrils, and then, as he took the cambric away, the scent was once more apparent.

Well, it was no business of his. The secret was Ethel's and he would not seek to pry into it. Yet it was unaccountable that the girl who appeared to be on the side of her grandfather should be associating herself with Le Blanc, Sir Arthur's deadly enemy, in such an underhand way as this. He could not bring himself to believe that she was playing a double part. It was impossible to look into her candid, truthful eyes and credit anything of the kind. After the first moment or two Ethel became perfectly natural and Lawrence's suspicions began to dissolve.

"Have you been successful?" she asked. "Have you had an encouraging morning altogether?"

"I cannot say I have," Lawrence said ruefully. "On the whole, I have been disappointed, and I am bound to confess that I have made more or less of a mess of things. Still, these are early days, and I am not going to be discouraged. I thought I would come back at once and report to Sir Arthur, but they tell me that he has gone out on important business, and that he wants me to wait till he returns. But tell me, where have you been yourself? I thought you had no friends in London."

The hot blood mounted to Ethel's cheeks. She blushed painfully. There was a strange uncertain hesitation in her manner which Lawrence had never seen before. He found some difficulty in hearing what she said when she began to talk.

"I did not think I had," she murmured, "and I had no idea that any acquaintance of mine was aware that I was in London. But it appears that I was mistaken. I have had rather a disturbing morning. I have heard so much extraordinary news, but I cannot speak of that yet, because the secret is not wholly mine. Perhaps a little later I shall be able to explain. But why do you look at me like that, Lawrence? There is a suggestion in your face as if you did not believe me."

It was Lawrence Hatton's turn to colour. He was both annoyed and disturbed to find that his face betrayed his feelings so eloquently. He would make a poor detective, indeed, if he were going to carry an index of his emotions about in this fashion.

"I am sure I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I am only sorry that I asked you the question which has caused you so much anxiety. It would be a bad day for me if I came to the conclusion that you were wilfully deceiving me or anybody else."

Lawrence spoke as warmly as he could, but he was painfully aware that his voice lacked the ring of sincerity. He was happy enough, as a rule, in Ethel's society. He asked nothing better than the sweetness of her companionship, but he was conscious of a feeling of relief when Sir Arthur came in and interrupted the conversation. Blantyre looked troubled and uneasy. His face was white, and Lawrence could see that his hands trembled. He seemed, too, to have grown older and more bent during the last hour or two. He made some pretence of indifference. He gave one or two quick orders to a footman whom he summoned by the bell.

"I am glad you have come back already," he said, "because I can only give you a few minutes. As things have fallen out, it will be necessary for us to get back to Glenallan without delay. I hope you are ready to travel, Ethel. I gave you a hint at breakfast time that we might want to move in a hurry."

Somewhat to his surprise, as the door opened, Lawrence could see down the hall into the roadway outside. A cab stood there, with a considerable pile of luggage on top. The lights had been turned out in the dim hall. The pallid footman crossed it towards the front door carrying a kit bag in his hand. Lawrence turned to Sir Arthur for an explanation.

"I don't understand," he stammered. "I believe you told me that for the next day or two——"

"That we were not leaving for a short time," Sir Arthur interrupted. "That was quite my intention when I saw you last. But circumstances are too strong for me. For years I have been the sport of fate, but never was I the plaything of fortune more than I am at the present moment. Ethel——"

But already the girl had slipped from the room. Doubtless she had gone off to make her preparations.