By Wit of Woman by Arthur W. Marchmont (book series for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

made for yourself recently would have completed your overthrow."

"You don't spare me," he said, slowly.

"There is no need. I am speaking of—the past."

At the emphasis on the word his face brightened with almost eager delight. "What power you have to move me!" he exclaimed. "Yes, it is as you say—the past. And why are you doing all this?"

"You remember what you said yesterday in the Stadtwalchen—that probably I had a motive? You were right. I have."

"Tell me."

"Yes. I came here to Pesth for a purpose which has become all in all to me. I looked round for the best means of accomplishing it. First I went to General von Erlanger—thinking to work through him. Then I saw and recognized the woman who was reputed to have so much influence over you—Madame d'Artelle. I knew I could get her into my power, and said to myself 'I can save Count Karl from her;' and I went to her. At her house I learnt the rest; that the plan was to force you to one side in favour of your brother. I said to myself again: 'If I save him from that scheme, he will have the power I need, and in common gratitude will be impelled to help me.' I had not seen you then."

He listened attentively, but his look grew gradually solemn and gloomy; and he shrugged his shoulders as he answered: "I see. You are like the rest. Timber to hew and water to fetch—for yourself. Well? What difference could it make whether you had seen me or not?"

His manner nettled me. Why, I know not: but I replied sharply: "Did you think I was a philanthropist—with no other thought but to help you? Or that you were so weak and helpless that out of sheer pity a stranger would be drawn to help you?"

He bent his head upon his hand and sighed dejectedly. "Go on," he murmured. "If I'm disappointed, it hurts no one but myself."

"If I had seen you, I should not have attempted it. Of that I am quite sure."

"What a contemptible beast I must have seemed to you! I suppose you know how you're hurting me? Perhaps you have another motive. If I had——" and he slid his fingers into his pockets as if in search of his little phial.

"It's very brave, isn't it, to threaten me like that?" I said, curtly.

He drew his fingers out as though they had touched fire, and glanced up hurriedly at me.

"You don't know what a coward it makes of a man," he sighed. "You're making it harder for me. You're killing hope. A dangerous experiment with a patient like me. There's only a very short bridge between me and the past."

"A bridge you will never recross," I said, firmly.

He looked up and met my eyes. "Not if you'll stand between it and me, and help me a bit now and then. I'm going to play my part—but you mustn't kill my hopes, you know!"

"I shall help you all I can, because you cannot help me unless you do play it."

He frowned. "I'll play it, if it's only to help you. What is it you want?"

"A thing that may be very hard to do."

"I'll do it. I swear that. It will be an incentive to feel I can help you. It gives me a glimmer of hope again and strength, the mere thought of it. You don't know how I'd like to please you."

For a moment I was silent; and in the pause, my ears, which are very quick, caught a sound which made my heart beat rapidly. The faint crunch of a footstep on the gravel outside the window.

He heard nothing, but saw the start I gave. "Why did you start?"

"Nothing," I said, with an effort to keep my voice steady. "I will tell you what I want. Years ago a great wrong was done to a very close and dear relative of mine here in Pesth. I came here to seek justice for his name—for he was left to die in shameful exile, with the wrong unrighted."

"I looked for anything but that; but I'd do more than that for you, much more. Who and what was he?"

He had no suspicion of the truth yet; and when I paused, he misunderstood my hesitation.

"You don't doubt me?"

"No; but——" I hesitated; and then there came another sound from without. A hand pushed the window frame; and this time Karl heard it.

"What was that?" he asked, and rose from the couch.

"The wind—nothing else."

"There's no wind," he said. "I'll see."

I put myself between him and the window. "No, don't open it. I'll"—I started and stopped abruptly. I saw something lying on the sofa.

It was just a wisp of faded ribbon. But it was the favour which he had begged of me that night years ago in New York. So he carried it with him always. The colour left my face and I caught my breath.

"You are ill? What's the matter? You're not frightened?"

I stretched out a hand and took it up quickly. I was trembling now. He tried to intercept me and to reach it first.

"You must give that to me, please," he said shortly, almost sternly. "It is mine. It must have fallen out when Gustav was trying to drag me up."

"It is nothing but a wisp of ribbon," I replied, lightly.

"I'll give you anything but that," he declared, again sternly.

"No, I will have this. I have a right to it."

He grew angry and his face took a look of such determination as I had not seen on it before. "No. Not that—at any cost." His voice was hoarse, but his manner very firm.

Our eyes met. His hard and stern; mine all but smiling.

"I tell you I have a right to it," I said.

"What do you mean?"

I paused.

"That it is mine."

He knew then. His eyes opened wide and his hands clenched as he stepped back a pace, still gazing full at me; and his voice was deep as he answered—

"Then you—my God—you are Christabel?"

"Yes. I am Christabel von Dreschler—it is my father's name that has to be cleared."

He made a step toward me, stretching out his arms.

"No, not while that stain remains—if ever."

He stood, his arms still partly outstretched, and gazing at me in silence.

At that moment the pressure of a hand on the window was repeated, and the frame was shaken.

He turned to it again. "I must see what that means," he exclaimed.

"Not if you value your life, or believe that I do."

For a moment he challenged my look, but then yielded.

"As you will, of course—now; for all this is your doing;" and with a smile and a sigh he let me have my way.

CHAPTER XVII IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

I had resolved what to do, and I lost no time.

"You are going to trust me in this and do what I wish?" I asked Karl.

"Yes, of course. You have a right to no less. But what does it mean?"

"You heard the noise at the window?"

"Yes."

"It was not the wind. Some one was attempting to open it. I am going to find out who it is and why they are there."

"How?"

"By stratagem. I wish you to go upstairs and remain there until I call you."

"Why should I do that?" he asked, hesitating and perplexed.

"Because I ask you. You will do it?"

"I don't like it—but if you insist, I promise."

"Before you go I wish you to lie on the couch there while my servant comes here and does what I will tell him; and you will act as though you were bidding him good-night—but as if you were still drugged."

"Hadn't you better tell me everything?"

"There is no time. Will you do this? Please."

He shrugged his shoulders and lay down on the couch.

I went out and called James Perry and instructed him what to do.

He went into the room, crossed to the window and stood there a moment with his shadow showing plainly on the blind. Then he pulled up the blind, and turned as if in obedience to some order from Karl. Next he threw the large window open and stepped out on to the gravel, and stood there long enough for any one who might be watching to have a full view of the interior of the room.

"No, sir, it is not raining," he said, and came back through the window making as if to close and fasten it. He stopped in the act of doing this, and partly opened it again, as if obeying orders from Karl.

"No, it's not cold, sir, but it will be draughty," he said.

Then with a shrug of the shoulders he left it open and turned away. Taking a rug from one of the lounges he threw it over Karl, taking pains to tuck it in carefully; and then stood back as if asking for any further orders.

"Good-night, sir," he said, and crossing to the door, he switched out the light.

Immediately this was done, I ran in again, hurried Karl out of the room, laid a sofa pillow on the couch, and arranged the rug over it as James had done. Then I recrossed the room and waited, my fingers close to the electric light switch, to see if the trap was laid cleverly enough to deceive the man I was expecting. I stood in a dark corner by the door, partly concealed by a screen, where I could see the whole room and all that occurred.

My eyes soon grew accustomed to the comparative darkness. The moon was shining brilliantly, and the slanting rays through one of the windows fell right across one end of the couch on which Karl had been lying. They revealed the lower half of what appeared to be the huddled figure of the sleeper, the upper half being wrapped in deep shadow.

The house was all silent. I had heard Karl go upstairs, James Perry being with him; and had caught the latter's careful tread as he came down again to the hall where I had told him to wait, in case I should need and call him.

The night was very still. I could see right out into the moonlit garden, and as the window was partly open, could trust my ears to catch the faintest sound. But scarcely a leaf moved. The dead stillness was almost oppressive.

The suspense began to affect me soon. I have not the slightest fear of the dark; but as minute after minute passed and no result followed my careful preparations, I began to think I had failed. The net must have been set too conspicuously; and so set in vain.

To pass the time I began to count my pulse beats. One, two, three—to a hundred. Again one, two, three—to a second hundred; and a third, a fourth and a fifth. Then the counting became mechanical, and my thoughts wandered away. It became difficult to remain still.

An impulse seized me to cross the room to the window and look out, and I had to fight hard to restrain it.

Then I caught a sound in the garden. The rustling of a bush. I held my breath to listen. There was no wind stirring to account for it. Not a leaf of all those full in view moved. It was a sign therefore that the patience of some one beside myself had begun to give out.

I braced myself for what was to come, and in a second my wits were all concentrated and every nerve in my body thrilled with expectation, quickening to eager anxiety.

I had not long to wait.

There was another rustle of bushes, and a bird startled from its roosting perch, flew chirping its alarm across the lawn. The sharpness of the noise made me start.

Another pause followed; then another sound—this time a slight grating on the' gravel; almost immediately a head showed at the window pane; and a man peered cautiously through the glass into the room.

I crouched closer into my hiding place as his face turned and the eyes seemed