Читать книгу The Salt Of The Earth - Fred M. White - Страница 8

Table of Contents

In her mind's eye Adela plainly pictured the denouement. She could almost pick out the phrases in which the paragraphists would describe the scandal. It was only a question of when the blow should fall. A score of people present would be only too pleased to pass on and retail the delicious morsel for the benefit of other frivolities who lived mainly for bridge and tale-bearing.

Well, if she had got to go through it she would know how to behave; it would be better so, than continue the horrid masquerade of being a woman of wealth and fashion when she was nothing but a penniless adventuress. With an easy smile on her face, she sat calm and collected, waiting on events. She had done nothing wrong thus far, and would be an object of pity rather than of scorn and blame; but if she allowed the opportunity of disclosure to pass, she would then deserve all that fate might have in store for her. The people round her were mostly supposed to be her friends; she saw them in a kind of mist, a dreamy tangle of gleaming arms and shoulders, of glittering jewels, of draperies light and frothy, as sea foam on an August morning. She wondered how much longer her environment would consist of shaded lights and feathery palms and ferns, priceless pictures and rare carpets from the Far East. It would be, perhaps, better to cut it short there and then, and take to an honest, if monotonous livelihood. Then the tangle straightened itself out again, and Adela was herself once more.

At any rate, it was not for her to take the first step. She would wait for the inevitable explosion, which possibly might come from Mark Callader. Would he recognise, in this man Burton, the fugitive whom he had pursued to the cottage at Maidenhead? If so, the catastrophe would be immediate and spontaneous. Much with the feeling of one who follows some moving stage tragedy, Adela glanced at Samuel Burton.

He was the same, and yet entirely different. The shabby frock suit had vanished, giving place to an evening dress which bore the unmistakable hall-mark of Bond-street. The cunning half-cringing fugitive looked every inch a man of fashion. There was not a crease in his coat, nothing in his attire from top to toe to which the most fastidious might take exception. His tie was beautifully knotted, his linen was spotless; he was well groomed, too, his white hair lay smooth and sleek, his grey moustache was perfectly tended, He might have passed for an elderly buck of the military type, and a club lounger in the most exclusive coteries. His manner was natural and easy, as he came forward and shook hands with Denne. He turned with a smile, at once paternal and patronising towards Adela. Most of the women were watching him under their eyelids. Callader stood with a moody frown upon his coarse, red face. He was evidently trying to place this man, wondering where he had seen him before. He seemed to give up the problem presently, for he shrugged his shoulders slightly, and said nothing.

"Now this is really very good of our friend, Denne," Burton murmured. "My dear child, you scarcely expected to see me?"

Adela's smile was non-committal. She was waiting for a lead, and flashed one questioning glance into Burton's eyes. It was the first step which marked the understanding in the conspiracy between them. She ought to have said, of course, that she had not seen Burton before, and to have asked for an introduction. But with all those Society women about her, she lacked the necessary courage at the moment. Not one of her supposed friends but would have rejoiced in Adela's downfall. She had been too self-willed and overbearing; had led too long not to have made enemies on the road. Perhaps, for the first time, she was beginning to realise how cold and cruel the world was and what an artificial thing was this fetish called society.

"I thought so," Burton went on. "It was Denne's idea that we should meet here. I have done business with my friend, and I was inclined to agree with him. I hope, my dear child, I shall come up to your expectations. I hope you will find Samuel Burton, the millionaire, less formidable than some people seem to think. Denne, will you introduce me to these acquaintances of yours?"

Adela could only sit smiling and admiring. It was impossible to believe that this well-dressed, easy, cultured man of the world was the broken-down fugitive who had crept into her cottage asking for protection from the police. She could see him now as he had stood then, breathless and panting; she could see the dingy handkerchief pressed to his lips, and stained with blood. His cough seemed to have vanished, everything seemed to have changed, and Adela was certain that at their last meeting that well-trained grey moustache had had no place upon the criminal's face. She wondered whether Denne was in the conspiracy, whether he knew anything of the amazing history. But Denne was gravely piloting his friend around the room, introducing him to one and another of the curious women. They were more than civil, of course; for the most part they went out of their way to make themselves agreeable to this handsome, debonair old man, for was he not reported to be worth five millions at least? Callader alone stood aloof with a puzzled frown on his bulldog face, and a steady gleam in his deep-set eyes. On the whole, Samuel Burton was a success. Evidently he was a man to be taken up, to be made much of. Presumably he would take a house in town, and entertain largely in honor of his adopted daughter. Most of the women envied Adela, and did not hesitate to show it. They crowded round her now with fulsome compliments.

Her spirits were rising. A certain recklessness possessed her. After all, there were the elements of comedy in this strange drama, which would be in the cheap press tomorrow, and fill a column or two of the weekly papers; the dresses and the dinner would be described, and Adela would have more than a fair share of journalistic adulation. She was amused to see the easy way in which Samuel Burton appeared to dominate the conversation. Her only fear was for Mark Callader. He had taken her into dinner, and sat by her side moody and preoccupied. He was still watching Burton in that intent patient way of his. Perhaps it was some trick in the old adventurer's voice, perhaps some gesture of hand or arm which brought illumination to him, for his heavy face seemed to light up, and he turned and glared at Adela. Then he faced round upon Burton and paused for a lull in the conversation.

"Haven't we met before?" he asked.

Burton smiled in a patronising way.

"That is exceedingly likely," he said, "for I have been in many countries, and most cities. I suppose it must be forty years since I left the army, and set out to make my fortune. My name was not Samuel Burton then, but that is a mere detail. Now that I come to look at you, Mr. Callader, you do remind me of a man I met some years ago in Paris. I am afraid I am not exactly complimentary, because the man I am speaking of was a particularly choice scoundrel."

To Adela the words, softly spoken as they were, appeared to convey something in the nature of a challenge. She saw Callader pass his tongue over his lips much as a savage dog might have done, and waited breathlessly for what was to come next. She could hear the ripple of conversation, she could catch the rustle of silken draperies, the clink of glass, the soft tread of the servants as they moved about the room. This was the setting rather for a brilliant comedy than for the hideous tragedy which loomed so close at hand.

"Now, that's a strange coincidence," Callader said in his sullen way, "for the man you remind me of was a scoundrel, too. And, strange to say, I met him by accident in London recently. He was very like you."

Burton laughed as he lifted a glass of champagne.

"Ah! well he must have been a good looking man. Now, my acquaintance happened to be a man in an exceedingly good position. Only one life stood between him and one of the oldest titles in England. I understand he was the young man's trustee, too. I forget where the family seat was, but it was a magnificent old place, crammed with art treasures. Do you know what that man was doing? Why, he was actually selling the pictures and plate, and having them replaced with copies, so that he could put the money in his pocket without the slightest risk of being found out. A picture he offered to a friend of mine first aroused my suspicions. I took the matter up and soon discovered that my surmise was right. Now, what do you think of that for a new and ingenious form of swindling? Fancy the son of an English marquis playing a trick like that! You see how little chance there was of his being detected. The pictures and art treasures were heirlooms, and consequently there was no chance of their ever coming into the open market. An expert might question the genuineness of the copies, but, then, the family would have only smiled at his doubts and innuendos. I can tell you more stories of the same sort."

Callader's eyes had dropped. He was worrying at a nectarine on his plate as if the fruit had done him some harm, and he was taking his revenge upon it. He was still the watchful bulldog, but the dog had received a severe thrashing, and was safe upon his chain. Adela could see how the blood crept into his face and down the back of his thick neck. She knew he was fuming with sullen passion, and yet some instinct told her that for the present, at any rate, his rage would have no vent. What Burton was saying was so much Greek to her, but it was plain that Callader understood. It was plain, also, that he had determined to take his defeat with the best grace he could, for he turned to Adela with a forced smile on his lips.

"Your fairy godfather will be a success. Have you met him before?"

There was something behind the question, and Adela parried it discreetly. It would not do to tell Callader too much.

"I was as much astonished as anybody else to find Mr. Burton here this evening. I suppose he thought he could not do better than announce himself at one of Mr. Denne's dinners. But have you met him before? Is he like the man you were speaking about just now?"

"Marvellously," Callader grunted.

"Then I must beware of him," Adela smiled. "I shall have to beware of you, to, for that matter. What a scandal if it were proved that you were in the habit of selling the Callader pictures!"

The jest appeared to find no favor in Mark's eyes, for he muttered that Adela was going really too far.

"Pardon!" she said. "It was a thoughtless jest. Those nectarines look very tempting. Please pass me one."