Читать книгу The Red Symbol - Ironside John - Страница 2

Dinner was served by the time I reached the Cecil, and, as I entered the salon, and made my way towards the table where our seats were, I saw that my fears were realized. Anne was angry, and would not lightly forgive me for what she evidently considered an all but unpardonable breach of good manners.

I know Mary had arranged that Anne and I should sit together, but now the chair reserved for me was on Mary’s left. Her husband sat at her right, and next him was Anne, deep in conversation with her further neighbor, who, as I recognized with a queer feeling of apprehension, was none other than Cassavetti himself!

Mary greeted me with a comical expression of dismay on her pretty little face.

“I’m sorry, Maurice,” she whispered. “Anne would sit there. She’s very angry. Where have you been, and why didn’t you telephone? We gave you ten minutes’ grace, and then came on, all together. It wasn’t what you might call lively, for Jim had to sit bodkin between us, and Anne never spoke a word the whole way!”

Jim said nothing, but looked up from his soup and favored me with a grin and a wink. He evidently imagined the situation to be funny. I did not.

“I’ll explain later, Mary,” I said, and moved to the back of Anne’s chair.

“Will you forgive me, Miss Pendennis?” I said humbly. “I was detained at the last moment by an accident. I rang you up, but failed to get an answer.”

She turned her head and looked up at me, with a charming smile, in which I thought I detected a trace of contrition for her hasty condemnation of me.

“An accident? You are hurt?” she asked impulsively.

“No, it happened to some one else; and it concerns you, Cassavetti,” I continued, addressing him, for, as I confessed that I was unhurt, Anne’s momentary flash of compunction passed, and her perverse mood reasserted itself. With a slight shrug of her white shoulders she resumed her dinner, and though she must have heard what I told Cassavetti, she betrayed no sign of interest.

In as few words as possible I related the circumstances, suppressing only any mention of the discovery of Anne’s portrait in the alien’s possession, and our subsequent interview in my rooms. I remembered the man’s terror of Cassavetti – or Selinski – as he had called him, and his evident conviction that he was in some way connected with the danger that threatened “the gracious lady,” who, alas, seemed determined to be anything but gracious to me on this unlucky evening.

Cassavetti listened impassively. I watched his dark face intently, but could learn nothing from it, not even whether he had expected the man, or recognized him from my description.

“Without doubt one of my old pensioners,” he said unconcernedly. “Strange that I should have missed him, for I was in my rooms before seven, and only left them to come on here. Accept my regrets, my friend, for the trouble he occasioned you, and my thanks for your kindness to him.”

The words and the tone were courteous enough, and yet they roused in me a sudden fierce feeling of antagonism against this man, whom I had hitherto regarded as an interesting and pleasant acquaintance. For one thing, I saw that Anne had been listening to the brief colloquy, and had grasped the full significance of his remark as to the time when he returned to his rooms. The small head, with its gleaming crown of chestnut hair, was elevated with a proud little movement, palpable enough to my jealous and troubled eyes. I could not see her face, but I knew well that her eyes flashed stormy lightnings at that moment. Wonderful hazel eyes they were, changing with every mood, now dark and sombre as a starless night, now light and limpid as a Highland burn, laughing in the sunshine.

She imagined that the excuse I had made was invalid; for if, as Cassavetti inferred, his – and my – mysterious visitor had been off the premises before seven o’clock, I ought still to have been able to keep my appointment with her. Well, I would have to undeceive her later!

“Don’t look so solemn, Maurice,” Mary said, as I seated myself beside her. “Tell me all about everything, right now.”

I repeated what I had already told Cassavetti.

“Well, I call that real interesting!” she declared. “If you’d left that poor old creature on the stairs, you’d never have forgiven yourself, Maurice. It sounds like a piece out of a story, doesn’t it, Jim?”

“You’re right, my dear! A fairy story,” chuckled Jim, facetiously. “You think so, anyhow, eh, Anne?”

Thus directly appealed to, she had to turn to him, and I heard him explaining his question, which she affected not to understand; heard also her answer, given with icy sweetness, and without even a glance in my direction.

“Oh, no, I am sure Mr. Wynn is not capable of inventing such an excuse.”

Thereupon she resumed her conversation with Cassavetti. They were speaking in French, and appeared to be getting on astonishingly well together.

That dinner seemed interminable, though I dare say every other person in the room except my unlucky self – and perhaps Mary, who is the most sympathetic little soul in the world – enjoyed it immensely.

I told her of my forthcoming interview with Southbourne, and the probability that I would have to leave London within forty-eight hours. She imparted the news to Jim in a voice that must have reached Anne’s ears distinctly; but she made no sign.

Was she going to continue my punishment right through the evening? It looked like it. If I could only have speech with her for one minute I would win her forgiveness!

My opportunity came at last, when, after the toast of “the King,” chairs were pushed back and people formed themselves into groups.

A pretty woman at the next table – how I blessed her in my heart! – summoned Cassavetti to her side, and I boldly took the place he vacated.

Anne flashed a smile at me, – a real smile this time, – and said demurely:

“So you’re not going to sulk all the evening – Maurice?”

This was carrying war into the opposite camp with a vengeance; but that was Anne’s way.

I expect Jim Cayley set me down as a poor-spirited skunk, for showing no resentment; but I certainly felt none now. Anne was not a girl whom one could judge by ordinary standards. Besides, I loved her; and she knew well that one smile, one gracious word, would compensate for all past capricious unkindness. Yes, she must have known that; too well, perhaps, just then.

“I told the truth just now, though not all of it,” I said, in a rapid undertone.

“I knew you were keeping something back,” she declared merrily. “And now you have taken your punishment, sir, you may give your full explanation.”

“I can’t here; I must see you alone. It is something very serious, – something that concerns you nearly.”

“Me! But what about your mysterious old man?”

“It concerns him, too – both of you – ”

Even as I spoke, once more the incredibility of any connection between this glorious creature and that poor, starved, half-demented wreck of humanity, struck me afresh.

“But I can’t tell you now, as I said, and – hush – don’t let him hear; and beware of him, I implore you. No, it’s not mere jealousy, – though I can’t explain, here.” I had indicated Cassavetti with a scarcely perceptible gesture, for I knew that, though he was still talking to the pretty woman in black, he was furtively watching us.

A curious expression crossed Anne’s mobile face as she glanced across at him, from under her long lashes.

But her next words, spoken aloud, had no reference to my warning.

“Is it true that you are leaving town at once?”

“Yes. I may come to see you to-morrow?”

“Come as early as you like – in reason.”

That was all, for Cassavetti rejoined us, dragging up a chair in place of the one I had appropriated.

“So you and Mr. Wynn are neighbors,” she said gaily. “Though he never told me so.”

“Doubtless he considered me too insignificant,” replied Cassavetti, suavely enough, though I felt, rather than saw, that he eyed me malignantly.

“Oh, you are not in the least insignificant, though you are exasperatingly – how shall I put it? – opinionated,” she retorted, and turned to me. “Mr. Cassavetti has accused me of being a Russian.”

“Not accused – complimented,” he interpolated, with a deprecatory bow.

“You see?” Anne appealed to me in the same light tone, but our eyes met in a significant glance, and I knew that she had understood my warning, perhaps far better than I did myself; for after all I had been guided by instinct rather than knowledge when I uttered it.

“I have told him that I have never been in Russia,” she continued, “and he is rude enough to disbelieve a lady!”

“I protest – and apologize also,” asserted Cassavetti, “though you are smoking a Russian cigarette.”

“As two-thirds of the women here are doing. The others are non-smoking frumps,” she laughed.

“But you smoke them with such a singular grace.”

The words and tone were courtier-like, but their inference was unmistakable. I could have killed him for it! A swift glance from Anne commanded silence and self-restraint.

“You are a flatterer, Mr. Cassavetti,” she said in mock reproof. “Come along, good people; there’s plenty of room here!” as other acquaintances joined us. “Oh, some one’s going to recite – hush!”

The next hour or so passed pleasantly, and all too quickly. Anne was the centre of a merry group, and was now in her wittiest and most gracious mood. Cassavetti remained with us, speaking seldom, though he could be a brilliant conversationalist when he liked. He listened to Anne’s every word, watched every gesture, unobtrusively, but with a curious intentness.

Soon after ten, people began to leave, some who lived at a distance, others who would finish the evening elsewhere. Anne was going on to a birthday supper at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, to which many theatrical friends had been bidden. The invitation was an impromptu one, given and accepted a few minutes ago, and now the famous actress came to claim her guest.

“Ready, Anne? Sorry you can’t come with us, Mr. Wynn; but come later if you can.”

We moved towards the door all together, Anne and her hostess with their hands full of red and white flowers. The “Savages” had raided the table decorations, and presented the spoils to their guests.

Cassavetti intercepted Anne.

“Good night, Miss Pendennis,” he said in a low voice, adding, in French, “Will you give me a flower as souvenir of our first meeting?”

She glanced at her posy, selected a spray of scarlet geranium, and presented it to him with a smile, and a word that I did not catch.

He looked at her more intently than ever as he took it.

“A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. I understand well,” he said, with a queer thrill in his voice, as of suppressed excitement.

As she passed on I heard him mutter in French: “The symbol! Then it is she! Yes, without doubt it is she!”