Читать книгу The Grey Woman - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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The man in front turned round and saw Pamela framed in the doorway with the light behind her. For an instant or two he could not make out her features, though it seemed to him that he had heard that drawling voice before. And then it flashed upon him who it was that spoke so calmly and collectedly in the midst of all that confusion down below on the dancing floor.

"You," he exclaimed with a sort of insolent admiration. "Beauty in distress and all that sort of thing. Rank imposes obligation. When class calls to class, there is only one response. Will you give me your hand, fair lady?"

Pamela looked out into what seemed to her nothing but darkness and desolation. She could hear the faint echo of traffic from afar off and the occasional hoot of a passing taxi. But exit, so far as she could see, there was none. It seemed as if one step forward would pitch her headlong downwards into some bottomless pit. Nevertheless, there must have been some path to safety, or the man in front of her, standing, apparently, on space, would not have been cool and collected.

So, without the slightest hesitation, Pamela extended her hand, which was clasped all too warmly and familiarly by the fair-haired man. He was carrying it off very well, though Pamela's sensitive ear did not fail to detect the theatrical suggestion that lay beyond the speaker's request. Still, she felt that she could afford to ignore that, and, at the moment of high adventure, the blood of the Dacres was singing in her veins and the spirit of her ancestors was backing her on.

She was no longer tired and weary. The fresh air and the tonic of danger acted on her like a charm. What was to be the end of this exploit she neither knew nor cared for the time being. Nor had she lost sight of the fact that this man had Daphne's necklace in his pocket, and that the gods of happy chance might show her a way to get it back again. She was going to risk it, anyway. Her pulses were beating evenly, and there was no suggestion of pounding at her heart. She smiled as her hand rested in that of the stranger.

"Thank you so much," she murmured sweetly. "But I can see no way out. Do we climb down a rope?"

"Not quite as bad as that," the man called Vivian Beaucaire laughed. "Our exit is by means of an old fire escape, very rusty, and with worn steps, but I think that if you let me hold your hand and guide your feet we shall emerge in safety. Not that you had anything to fear."

"Perhaps not," Pamela murmured. "But I have no particular desire to see my name in the papers as one of those arrested in the police raid on the club. Nothing romantic about it, and a little sordid, don't you think?"

"Perhaps so," Beaucaire agreed. "But what has become of the rest of your party?"

"Oh, they will have to look to themselves," Pamela said carelessly. "I dare say they will be all right."

They went quietly and steadily down the stairway and presently emerged into a narrow, ill-lighted court, after which Pamela recognised, to her surprise, that she was in the Haymarket. Not a soul was in sight, not even a solitary policeman. Pamela drew a long breath that ended in a sigh of relief.

"Feeling a bit unstuck now," the fascinating stranger suggested as Pamela swayed slightly. "Reaction and all that."

"I'm all right now," Pamela said. "It was topping of you to take me on like that. If you could find me a taxi——"

"One may drift along presently," Beaucaire said. "Don't forget it is pretty late and you may have to walk. Still, it is a fine night and you seem to be well wrapped up."

Pamela laughed lightly.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I am all right, thanks to this fur coat. Goodness knows who it belongs to, and it doesn't really much matter. Really, you need not trouble any further. I can walk home from here."

"I couldn't dream of it," Beaucaire said. "Of course, I must see you home. Shall I make a confession and seek absolution at your fair hands? When my friend Billy Sefton was good enough to afford me the privilege of dancing with you, I am ashamed to say that I failed to grasp your name."

This might have been so, but Pamela did not for a moment believe it. No man familiar with the West End and its life could be a stranger to a girl like Pamela, that is, he must have seen her some time or another and ascertained her name. Still, if that was the post Beaucaire liked to adopt, then she was quite ready to play her part in the comedy.

"It often happens like that, don't you think?" she asked sweetly. "Do you know that I didn't catch your name, either. Very unconventional, isn't it? But what does it matter? Suppose you call me Clarissa Harlow."

"Enchanting," the fair-haired man agreed. "Besides, it makes the plot more intriguing. Call me—er—Beaucaire."

"Then, Monsieur Beaucaire, what is the next move?"

"The next move, fair Clarissa, is, I think, a gentle stimulant. A certain pallor on your cheeks tells me that. Dare I venture to suggest a few minutes at my flat, where I can offer you a cocktail of rare and wonderful quality? Or are you afraid? I ought perhaps to tell you that my flat is a service one, and my man sleeps out. What says the fair Clarissa?"

Pamela hesitated. Many strange and confused thoughts were flashing through her mind. She did not want to lose sight of this man, especially as she knew that those missing pearls were snugly hidden in his breast pocket. And if, out of timidity or a sense of the proprieties, she lost an opportunity like this, it might never occur again. Nor was she physically afraid. She knew her own strength and courage, and could trust to these to pull her through. But even she, with all her contempt for the opinion of the world generally, hesitated to compromise herself in this hazardous fashion. A dozen schemes, most of them wild, flashed through her mind as she stood there in the deserted street with Beaucaire waiting on her next word.

Then her mind was made up. She hesitated no longer. She turned to her companion smilingly.

"That is most kind of you," she murmured. "I thought that I should be equal to an occasion like this, but I am beginning to realise that, in certain circumstances, a woman is not the equal of a man. But alas, I am not entirely a free agent. I live alone, it is true, and when I say I live alone I don't mean I do my own housework. I am more or less the slave of an old servant of mine who still labours under the delusion that I am a babe in arms. She refuses to go to bed at night until I get in. She is waiting up for me at the present moment, and no doubt is wondering what has happened to me. If I could telephone to her and say that I am with friends and will be back shortly, it will ease her mind and perhaps prevent her from doing anything foolish. More than once, when I have been out late, she has got busy on the 'phone, to my great confusion, and the amusement of my intimates. But I think perhaps I had better get back."

"I think we can get over that difficulty," Beaucaire suggested. "It is only a few yards to the Piccadilly Underground and there is a call office in the station. Now, what do you say to that? Come along, we are wasting time."

"And is your flat far away?" Pamela asked timidly.

"Five minutes' walk. Birchington Mansions."

"How odd! I once had a friend who had a flat there. Number two, I think it was. Perhaps yours is also number two."

"No, three, top floor. Shall we shoot folly as it flies?"

Pamela dived into the station and returned in a few moments with the information that her effort had been crowned with success. Then, a little later, she found herself seated in the big armchair in a perfectly appointed dining-room, daintily sipping a fascinating concoction which she was beginning to need, despite the high courage she had inherited, for the consciousness that she was here alone with a reckless criminal was not without its effect. She was playing desperately for time.

She had hesitated, even at the moment she was crossing the threshold of the flat. The darkness inside suggested something sinister. As if Beaucaire read her thoughts, he preceded her and turned up the lights.

"Thanks so much," she murmured. "I hate the darkness, especially when it is in a strange place."

As Beaucaire strode on in front, Pamela hung back long enough to slip out of the stolen overcoat and softly draw the latch of the front door and fasten it back. Not that she was afraid, but it was just as well to be on the safe side.

But apparently there was nothing to fear. There was nothing of the cave-man or the villain of melodrama about the gentlemanly crook, who fully appreciated the charm of Pamela's company, for he knew the real thing when he saw it. An intrigue with a real top-notcher and a real beauty at that! Roseate visions of conquest danced before his eyes. It seemed to him that the girl was half won already—but not to be rushed. There would be other meetings and opportunities later on.

Nearly an hour passed before Pamela rose slowly, and with apparent hesitation to go.

"Really, I must have some sort of regard for my reputation," she drawled. "If you don't mind——"

She broke off suddenly as the door of the sitting-room opened and Joe Musgrave, very grim and stern, stepped into the room.

"I knew you would come," Pamela smiled sweetly. "Only you have been an unconscionable time about it. You promised me when I telephoned from the Tube station that you would be here in half an hour. But you are always unpunctual. Now, Joe, if you will ask this gentleman nicely for Daphne's pearls, he will take them out of his pocket and give them to you."