Читать книгу The Sentence of the Court - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Most of the houses in Park Gardens are small, and possess no gardens in the true sense of the word, but Number 4 differs from the rest, inasmuch as it stands in its own compact grounds overlooking Regent's Park, and therefore in summer presents an outlook reminiscent of sylvan shades in the heart of a peaceful woodland country. At one time the house had belonged to a famous artist, with an income equal to his refined extravagances, and the whole place had been remodelled according to his designs.

At his death the house, with all decorations and furniture complete, had been offered for sale, and was promptly secured by the present owner, known to her friends as Madame Ninon Desterre. The sale had caused some sensation at the time, and certain of the papers had striven to learn something of the history of the fair purchaser.

They had little to show as the result of their labours beyond the fact that Ninon Desterre was the young widow of a wealthy French recluse of mature years, who had devoted his considerable fortune to the collection of pictures and various other works of art. Monsieur Desterre was a Frenchman beyond question, but for many years prior to his death he had lived in Brazil, to which country he had gone after a violent quarrel with some member of the Academie Francaise in connection with a disputed old master. There he was supposed to have married the young daughter of a noted painter, whose career had been cut short by malaria just as he saw before him the opportunity of making a great name.

All this was very interesting to a certain class, and all of it was gravely absorbed as authentic. So far as the work-a-day world was concerned, it took little or no interest in the new owner of 4, Park Gardens. She was young, rich, and very beautiful, and a perfect hostess, who gave most charming and delightful entertainments. The result was that Ninon Desterre had become quite a prominent figure in society. Really it did not matter in the least where she came from so long as she gave those recherche lunches and dinners—little dinners to which everybody who was anybody looked eagerly forward. She was always beautifully dressed, and possessed a wit and bonhomie really remarkable for one who could not be more than five-and-twenty at the outside.

She sat in her own pink and gold boudoir with the wonderful Lelys and Watteaus on the walls, and those marvellous Persian carpets at her dainty feet. This was the delight and wonder of her intimates. It was never the same for seven days together.

There would be fresh pictures and carpets and Louis Seize furniture week by week, and all of the same matchless quality. It was as if Madame had somewhat a vast museum of artistic treasures, from which it was her mood to remodel and refurnish her sanctum at regular intervals.

She lay back with a tiny scented cigarette between her lips, in a wonderful carved chair, upholstered in silk tapestry.

Gowned for the evening in some diaphanous material, shell-pink in tint, she looked like some exquisite exotic flower. The red gold of her hair glittered in the firelight, and the glow was reflected in her clear, innocent amber-brown eyes. There was neither crease nor wrinkle on her face, nor did she owe one single charm to art. All that kind of thing Ninon Desterre despised. There would be plenty of time for that twenty years hence.

She was not alone. On the other side of the fireplace stood a tall, dark, good-looking man. He would have been still more striking looking but for a disfiguring scar on one cheek and a lameness in one leg. There was some suggestion of the soldier about him, and he had the air of a man who had travelled widely. At the same time his big slender hands bespoke the artist.

"Did you manage it all right, Hector?" Ninon asked.

"I'm not quite sure," the man responded "It was touch and go at one time. How much longer is this to go on, Ninon? Is there any real occasion for it?"

The girl's face changed for a moment. The fascinating smile vanished, the little red mouth grew hard.

"You seem to forget Daniel Harley," she said. "So long as he lives to trouble us, we must go on. Oh, you are a brave, strong man, and I am as little afraid of trouble as most women, but our master is there. We cannot defy him; without him we cannot move hand or foot. He was here a day or two ago, and some very plain words passed between us. He wants to know why it is I am dissatisfied. He pointed out that I was taking no risks that nothing could bring me, or you for that matter, within the grip of the law. He looks upon his cunning scheme as perfect."

"To give the devil his due, it is," Hector Marsail said grudgingly.

"Oh yes, I suppose so. But I am getting tired of it, all the same, old boy. I know I have heaps of money to spend, and that every tradesman in London would black my boots if I asked him to do so. Some of the best people in England come here as my friends. And I have carte blanche to spend what I like with Paquin and Worth. But, it is the lie that galls me, the sense of being a slave. To be in the power of that old man. But what is the use of talking? So long as he is alive——"

Marsail nodded moodily. He, too, could feel the gall of the chain about his neck.

"We must go on," he said. "Why did I ever go near that rascally old man? I could have borrowed money from a score of other sharks. And yet his terms looked so easy. Oh, confound it, what use is there in moralising? That hoary-headed old rascal could drive me out of society by holding up his hand. Some day I shall lose my temper and kill him. Why, he wasn't a bit grateful over that Park Lane affair, though he is pretty certain to make ten thousand out of Van der Knoot over the transaction."

"That was very neatly done, Hector," Ninon smiled. "And what an advertisement for the Dutch financier who was the happy possessor of Cosway's Three Miss Hessingdales. But I did not ask you to come here earlier than my other guests to talk of what has happened. Old Harley gave me a message for you. I was simply to say that Lady Stratton's diamond necklace is a fraud. I mean the one her husband purchased for her in Vienna when he floated his big company. He paid some twenty thousand pounds for it to Kreitzer, who sold it to him as having been once in the possession of the Catherine of Russia. It was a downright swindle, of course, and I believe that Harley was in it. Anyway, the stones are not worth more than a fifth of what they cost Stratton, and the history of the necklace is pure fake."

"The genuine Catherine necklace exists, of course, Ninon."

"Oh yes. Harley knows who has it, but he declines to say. Trust the old fox for keeping a piece of information like that to himself. As a matter of fact, I detected the fraud at the Duchess of Blanton's the other night. I could see that the diamonds were all right, but as soon as I caught sight of the settings I had my doubts as to the necklace being historical. I pretended to admire the gems, and had them in my hand. Quite a casual inspection convinced me that I was right. I think I know the hand that set those stones."

"I feel quite sorry for the vulgar, good-natured old soul. And I was glad for my own sake, Hector—glad and sorry at the same time. You see Harley had been accusing me of neglecting his interests lately; in his coarse way he said I was not paying my expenses. I mollified him by telling him of Lady Stratton's necklace, and he told me to see you——"

Marsail muttered something under his breath. There was an ugly frown on his handsome face.

"Then the next act is up to me," he said. "Curse all of them, curse all dealers who lay themselves out to swindle fools who have made money. I suppose every man is a fool in some way. Here is Stratton, a man who has made his money in the City by gulling investors, a financier with no scruples, and who regards everybody else as a knave at heart. Yet he parts with a small fortune on the strength of a pretty little fairy tale told him by a dealer in Vienna. And now I am to put this right. Well, I suppose I must do it, as I always do anything you ask me."

Something like a sigh of relief escaped Ninon's lips as a knock was heard and a servant entered. She was afraid that Marsail was about to drop into some warm avowal. She dreaded such an outbreak—it was one of the few things she feared. The man would have given his soul for her, and she knew it. He was the one man in the world, too, who could make her heart beat faster. Some day his strength would overpower her and he would take her away from all this to the simple, healthy life he instinctively belonged to. Well, some day, perhaps, she would be willing enough to go. But not yet, not yet. It would be hard to give up all this wealth and luxury, this possession of so much that the heart of a woman naturally longs for.

"Your guests are arriving, Madame," the servant murmured.

"I'll come down at once," Ninon replied. "Don't frown, Hector. I know you expected to have me all to yourself this evening. But I have a musical prodigy coming—a new tenor. Before long everybody will be talking about him. I have fifty or sixty people coming to hear him to-night."

Marsail smiled with the air of a man who makes the best of it.

Down below the beautiful rooms were rapidly filling with Ninon's guests. They were distinguished people, for the most part ready and eager to come to Park Gardens, despite the fact that they expected to be politely bored by the new tenor. There was a chatter of voices, and a ripple of laughter as Ninon came forward. She had an appropriate word and jest for everybody there, and she made no mistakes as to the names.

"This is quite an unexpected honour, Dr. Gilray," she said as the latter stepped forward. "I began to be afraid that you had turned your back on society altogether."

Gilray murmured some polite nothing, as Ninon turned away to greet some newcomer. He was somewhat cynically asking himself why he had come at all. It would have been better perhaps if he had turned his back on society long before. In that case he would not have been harassed as he was. What a set of chattering fools these people were! And what was the sense of getting into debt for the mere sake of a lot of other people who cared nothing about you? Here was Hector Marsail, for instance. What was an athlete and a sportsman like Marsail doing at this gathering?

"Bored to death, and so am I," Gilray told himself. "Hullo! What's this?"

He paused and looked at Marsail in astonishment. The rooms were a trifle overheated and the night was warm. The athlete had taken from his pocket a small silk handkerchief and passed it over his face. In the gleam of the electric lights Gilray plainly saw the pattern. It had a peculiar pale green ground and on it the dots and splashes of orange that Gilray had seen on the handkerchief over the eyes of his Poplar patient and on the ragged piece of scarf shown him by Inspector Gillespie.

"I seemed destined to come in contact with this amazing brotherhood," he mused. "But it's a far cry from a rascal in a riverside house to a man like Marsail. Am I in contact with something criminal, or is it merely a coincidence?"

Gilray looked up and gave an amazed start, as he found himself almost face to face with Enid Harley. She was dressed in white, and her face was pale as her dress. She looked strangely out of place there with her unhappy air and the patient suffering in her eyes.

Gilray made a step forward, but his hostess was before him. Never mind, he would get a chance to speak to her presently. He looked upon this as a happy omen. He told himself with exultation that he held all the cards, that he need be afraid of no man, least of all of Geoffrey Herepath. He could see the smile on Ninon Desterre's face and hear the light laughter from her lips. But he could not hear what she was saying to Enid.

"My dear," she whispered. "I'm so glad you came. But your face! You might be attending your own funeral. Go up to my room at once and wait for me. At once, I say. I have something to say to you that cannot be delayed."