Читать книгу Queen of Hearts - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Tom jumped up end took off the receiver. Then he turned to the direction of the stranger.

"I don't know who it is, Mr. Heek," he said, "but somebody wants you. It is a man who is speaking and he seems to be in rather a hurry. Shall I hold on?"

Heek rose slowly and moved towards the telephone. He listened gravely for a minute or two before replacing the receiver. He turned apologenically to his host.

"I am very sorry," he said, "but I fear much that I will have to go. It is a relative of mine who is leaving England tomorrow and he says he must see me tonight, however late it is. I suggest we finish this present rubber and then I shall have to ask you to excuse me."

There was no help for it, so, when the rubber came to an end and the settlement of the account was affected Heek rose in his quiet, grave way and bowed to his host. It was a little strange, perhaps, that neither man made the slightest attempt to extend a hand to the other.

"Good night, Sir Walter," Heek said, "and thank you for a very pleasant experience."

"Oh, well, if you are going," Ian said, "I might just as well say good night, too. What about you, Tom?"

"Oh, I think I will stay a bit," Tom said. "I didn't hear Withers come in, so I'd better remain and give my uncle a hand. Good night, old chap, good night."

A minute or two later and uncle and nephew were alone together. Sir Walter sat as if deep in thought by the side of the card table, whilst Tom gathered up the one undamaged pack and threw the other into the fireplace. In a mechanical sort of way Sir Walter took the wonderful collection of painted ivory slips in his hand and slowly laid them out on the table in a row in suits. They lay there presently, four lines of them, fifty two in all, from the aces up to the kings in a dazzling flash of colour that seemed to fill the room with a light and beauty that was all its own.

"They are a wonderful lot," Tom said. "I never saw anything like them. I suppose there was a time when some Chinese swell or another used them regularly. But if those cards belonged to me, nothing in the world would induce me to put them down on a bridge table."

"You are quite right, my boy," Sir Walter said. "There are only two complete packs like that in the world. I happen to know there is another, but in that set there is one card missing and that one card will never be recovered. Three packs were made by the same family, and they are identical in every detail. They don't vary by the fraction of an inch, and the design is so perfect that you could super-impose one card upon another and never know the difference. But never mind about the cards for a moment. Leave them where they are. I'll manage to put them away before you go and Withers will clean up the rest when he comes in."

"Then you don't want me to help you to bed?"

"No, I can manage that presently. Now you sit down in that chair and take a cigarette and listen to me. My boy, the time has come when we must have an understanding. And that understanding might just as well be arrived at now as at any other time. You know my life-story as well as I know it myself. You know that my father gambled away one of the finest estates in the kingdom and that when I was turned out of my home to get my own living he was on the verge of ruin. Well, he was ruined. He had to sell the best part of the property and the house, and between my lawyers and myself we managed to save the rest. It was the object of my life to make money enough to come home some day and re- purchase Vanguards. And I made enough and more than enough. And my idea was that when I was dead that you should take my place as head of the family and live in the old homestead as a gentleman should, with more money than you wanted even in these hard times."

"Yes, I know that," Tom murmured.

"Very well, then. When a man has worked as I have to achieve an end, he is not disposed to relinquish it because someone whom he intends to benefit greatly chooses to stand in the way for no particular reason. Of course, it was just possible that Catesby might leave some sons behind him, but fortunately for me he didn't. There was only one child, and that a girl, and equally fortunately that girl is quite willing to marry you if you will only hold up your little finger.

"But, unfortunately, I don't want to marry her," Tom said stubbornly. "She may be rich and all that, but she is no lady. You know that as well as I do. You saw that for yourself this morning in Madame Ninette's shop. Good heavens, uncle, you are not asking me to marry a woman who goes out of her way deliberately to insult a girl like Maudie Vascombe. The idea is preposterous."

The hot blood mounted to Sir Walter's face.

"And all the more so," he said, "because Maud Vascombe is the girl you want to marry yourself. Mind you, I haven't a word to say against her. She is all you think she is, and I admire the way she has buckled to and got her own living. But that has nothing to do with the case. I want to see the property back in the hands of the family, and you are the only one who can help me to crown my ambitions. Nobody will be able to say that you married Mona for her money because you will have plenty of your own. Now—is it to be or not?"

"I am very sorry, sir," Tom said. "But I am afraid not. No man with any self-respect could live with a woman like that. I would rather go out and starve."

"Oh, you would, would you?" Sir Walter sneered. "Was there ever such a fool born in the universe before? You would sacrifice everything for a pretty girl who serves behind a counter. And she wouldn't marry you unless you could keep her. How do you propose to do that?"

"Oh, I daresay I shall find a way," Tom said. "I am not ungrateful to you for all you have done for me, sir, and I would do anything in reason for you. But sell my liberty and freedom to a woman I hate and despise I will not!"

Sir Walter dragged himself painfully to his feet. His face was white and set, and his eyes were gleaming with fury. He seemed to lose entire control of himself, for he reached suddenly forward and with all his strength struck Tom Gilchrist a blow between the eyes. It was so severe and unexpected that Tom fairly staggered back.

"I think you will be sorry for that, sir," he said. "In a case like this violence never does any good."

But Sir Walter was past listening. He raised his hands above his head and shouted at the top of his voice:

"You are an ungrateful scoundrel," he raged. "You can go and never let me see your face again. From hence-forward we are strangers and until you know what it means to starve and crawl back to me on your hands and knees I want no further communication with you. You—you rascal."

Once more Sir Walter lunged forward, but this time Tom beat the upraised hand and forced Sir Walter back into his chair. The quick, heavy breathing of the two men filled the room until, at length, Tom sprung back and vanished, closing the door behind him. The whole thing had been so quick and so unexpected that it all might have happened in a dream.

"Well, that was that," Tom told himself, as he walked along the deserted streets in the direction of his lodgings. He had burnt all his boats now, and there was no possible way of retreat. Beyond the remains of his last quarter's allowance he was entirely without means, but, he reflected, he had little or no debts to pay, and he was in the best of health. Surely there was some way for a man of his position of getting a living. If the worst came to the worst, he could emigrate and, perhaps, after the expiration of a year or two he might be justified in asking Maudie to come out and join him. But, for the present, the bottom of his universe had fallen out and the future was very black indeed.

Perhaps he had not been altogether blameless. He had allowed himself to be rushed at a moment when Sir Walter was at his worst, instead of temporising and playing for time as he ought to have done. He took these melancholy thoughts to bed with him and lay awake half the night trying in vain to sleep and rising eventually a good hour or so before his time, feeling more worn and exhausted than he had ever remembered. He looked with disgust at his breakfast and pushed the appetising dishes aside. A cup of coffee and a cigarette was all he wanted for the moment—that and time to think.

He was still brooding over the future when the door of his sitting room was flung open and the usually self-restrained and reserved Withers burst into the room. He did not appear to be fully dressed, for he was without a tie or a collar and his waistcoat was partly unbuttoned.

"Why, what on earth is wrong?" Tom demanded. "What do you mean by turning up like this, Withers?"

"It's the master, sir, the master." Withers gasped, as if he had some difficulty in getting the words out. "Dead. Lying dead in his sitting room when I went in just now."

"Dead!" Tom echoed. "My uncle dead!"

Withers grasped at his throat. He might have been trying to wrench the words out of himself.

"Yes, sir," he choked. "But worse than that. My poor dear master has been brutally murdered!"