Читать книгу Queen of Hearts - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Despite his dreams and ambitions as to the future of his family estates, Sir Walter Vanguard was in the habit of spending very little time on what remained of the ancient property. To begin with, the historic old house now belonged to Mona Catesby and the fact was a constant pang to Sir Walter, like some aching tooth. So, for the most part, he lived in London in a flat in Royal Mansions, where he was looked after by an excellent service and a personal attendant named Withers, who was nearly as old as himself and who had attended him in most of his Chinese wanderings.

As a matter of fact, though he belonged to a very old and distinguished family, the title that Sir Walter bore was not hereditary, but merely a knighthood carrying certain letters which had been bestowed upon him by a grateful Government for distinguished services in China. He had not been attached to any particular office or mission but, nevertheless, he had served his country well and, in the meantime, had amassed a considerable fortune. He was an authority on Chinese matters and, indeed, some years before, a book of his, called 'China—the Menace,' had attracted a great deal of attention.

But that was all forgotten now, and when Sir Walter was approached on the subject, he was wont to say that it was next door to impossible to obtain a copy of his famous book unless, perchance, a collector might happen upon an odd volume in one of the twopenny boxes in Charing Cross Road.

On the whole, Sir Walter was a fine specimen of an English gentleman, wonderfully well preserved and active for his sixty years and as keen on the enjoyments of life as ever, despite his 40 years of exile. To most people he was a pattern of geniality and kindly humour, generous to a fault, and tolerant of the weaknesses of others.

But there was another side to his nature which he kept carefully to himself. A dogged determination in pursuit of any object he thought worth while, an iron will and a fixity of purpose that could not be deflected whatever happened. And so far as the future was concerned, the particular object of the moment was to see his only relative married to Mona Catesby and so crown the work of a lifetime.

And there was no reason, so far as Sir Walter could see, why Tom Gilchrist should object to such an admirable arrangement. True, Miss Catesby was the daughter of a rather unspeakable father, but he was dead now, and he had made his money early enough in life to enable his only child to benefit by all the advantages that one usually associates with birth. She had been brought up in the best schools and taken in hand at an early age by a society chaperone who had initiated her into all the mysteries of the higher cult.

To all practical purposes, Mona Catesby belonged by birth and right to the set in which she mixed, she had brains and ambition and was capable of taking her place anywhere. Besides this she was strikingly handsome in a bold Rubenesque style and certainly did not lack her train of admirers. There were many young scions of nobility, to say nothing of older men, literally born to the purple, who would have been only too glad to have had the chance which was held out so openly to Tom Gilchrist.

That the girl cared more for Tom than all the rest of her admirers put together was a fact that even a child of ordinary intelligence could see. And Sir Walter ground his still excellent teeth and shut his lips grimly as he watched this golden opportunity being frittered away.

But he was not going to stand it much longer, he told himself, and before the end of the week he was going to speak pretty plainly to the wrong headed young man who was making a sublime a fool of himself over a pretty mannequin. He would let Tom know that the time for this sort of thing was past, and if he ventured to kick over the traces, then, in the future, he would look to himself. He was brought up to do nothing, he was utterly useless outside sport and such ephemeral pleasures as holiday resorts afforded. And Sir Walter could not see his misguided heir getting the barest of bare livings.

This thought was uppermost in Sir Walter's mind when he set out on the morning following the Ascot Cup day to beep his appointment with Mona Catesby in Bond Street. It was just a little singular that when he reached Madame Ninette's establishment he should find his nephew in the front shop.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked irritably.

"Oh, well, I might ask you the same question," Tom said. "As a matter of fact, I came here to see Ian Vascombe. He has a workshop upstairs you know, and though Madame Ninette employs him, he is free to come and go pretty well as he likes. I dropped in here to ask him if he would care for a game of golf this afternoon."

The excuse was good enough, and Sir Walter allowed it to pass. But he did not believe it, all the same, especially as he could see Maudie Vascombe in the background showing off an elaborate evening cloak to a lady customer. Sir Walter was about to say something not particularly pleasant when a big car pulled up in front of the shop and Mona Catesby, in all the full flush of her Junoesque beauty came sailing into the establishment.

"Ah, you are punctual, Sir Walter," she said. "I hope I am not late. Where is Madame Ninette?"

It was sot so much a question as a command. From somewhere in the background the tall, graceful French woman appeared. She was as thin as a knife and as slender as a lath, but there was no mistaking the artistic fire that burnt in her big brown eyes. She advanced, rubbing her hands together.

"What can I do for Madame?" she asked.

"It is rather a question of what you can do for me," Sir Walter interrupted.

"You see, Madame Ninette, I had a bet with Miss Catesby yesterday and I lost. It is up to me now to provide Miss Catesby with an absolutely original design for a new dress which she is going to wear at the Twin Arts Ball. And you, Madame, are going to make it."

"Oh, charming, charming, it would be as exquisite delight," Madame murmured. "And the design, Sir Walter?"

By way of reply, Vanguard took the big gold cigarette case from his pocket. From it he produced the thin, ivory card on which was painted the Queen of Hearts. He laid this on the glass counter and Madame pounced on it with a cry of delight.

"It is exquisite, unique," she murmured. "And the colouring! Surely Sir Walter, there is nothing like in the world today? And ze back, it it almost more lovely zan ze front. Oriental at its best."

"Perfectly right," Sir Walter smiled. "That card forms part of a pack which was designed and painted in China over three hundred years ago. It was made for an Emperor of the Ming dynasty and, according to tradition, it took three generations of artists to paint and finish the fifty-two cards."

"And there is nothing like it in the world?" Madame murmured.

"Well; yes, there is one other set which belongs to an American millionaire and yet another which is not complete. Where the incomplete pack is I don't know, but I can give a pretty shrewd guess. But mine is complete and this is the Queen of Hearts. What do you think of it?"

"Ah, Sir Walter, I 'ardly know what to think," Madame cried. "Never 'ave I seen anything approaching it before. It will be a rare happiness to copy that and make a dress on those lines for Miss Catesby. I have, I think, the very material to suit. One moment, and I will fetch it."

A minute later, and Madame Ninette returned with a length of some shining material over her arm. She laid it out on the counter under Mona Catesby's admiring eyes. Then the latter turned and beckoned imperiously to Maudie, who was watching the proceedings in the background.

"Come this way, young woman," she said haughtily. "Take that material and drape it round your shoulders. No, not that way you stupid creature, across from right to left. Yes, that is better. You can go now."

Very demurely, Maudie retired into the background, whilst the hot blood flamed into Tom Gilchrist's face. The insult was so gratuitous, so pointed, that the young man could hardly restrain himself from bursting into speech.

Madame Ninette looked up at Sir Walter.

"You will leave this card with me, yes," she asked.

"Oh, dear, no," Vanguard responded. "I cannot trust that out of my possession. You must get one of your designers to come down with his paintbox and make a sketch of it. It won't take him many minutes. But I can't part with it."

Madame Ninette took the whistle from a speaking tube and called out to someone overhead. A moment later Ian Vascombe came into the shop with a sheet of paper and a box of water colours. And then, for the next ten minutes, he was busily engaged in what he considered a hopeless attempt to reproduce the amazing colours of that wonderful card.

So intent was that little group in watching that none of them noticed the intrusion of a tall, dark man with brilliant eyes and a black beard. He stood just behind the group with his gaze fixed with almost magnetic force on the card lying there on the centre of a glass counter. Then, without a word or a sign, he tiptoed away into the street.

It was the man called Heek.

"Yes, that was it," he murmured to himself. "Now I know. Well, look to yourself, Vanguard, look to yourself."