The Swindler by Ethel May Dell (100 books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📕

even though it were in the heart of the crowd. He had been about to tell her something. Of that she was certain. She had an intense, an almost passionate desire to know what it was. Surely he would not--he could not--go ashore without seeing her again!
She had not intended to open the packet he had given her till she was ashore herself, but a palpitating curiosity tugged ever at her resolution till at length she could resist it no longer. West was nowhere to be seen, and she felt she must know more. It was intolerable to be thus left in the dark. Through the scurrying multitude of departing passengers, she began to make her way back to her cabin. Her progress was of necessity slow, and once in a crowded corner she was stopped altogether.
Two men were talking together close to her. Their backs were towards her, and in the general confusion they did not observe her futile impatience to pass.
"Oh, I knew the fellow was a wrong 'un, all along," were the first words that filtered to the girl's consciousness as she stood. "But I didn't think he was responsible for that card trick, I must say. Young Bathurst looked so abominably hangdog."
It was the Englishman, Norton, who spoke, and the man who stood with him was Rudd. Cynthia realised the near presence of the latter with a sensation of disgust. His drawling tones grated upon her intolerably.
"Waal," he said, "it was just that card trick that opened my eyes--I shouldn't have noticed him, otherwise. I knew that young Bathurst was square. He hasn't the brains to be anything else. And when this chap butted in with his thick-ribbed impudence, I guessed right then that we hadn't got a beginner to deal with. After that I watched for a bit, and there were several little things that made me begin to reflect. So the next evening I got a wireless message off to my partner in New York, and I reckon that did the trick. When we came up alongside this morning, the vultures were all ready for him. I took them to his cabin myself. There was no fuss at all. He saw it was all up, and gave in without a murmur. They were only just in time, though. In another thirty seconds, he would have been off. It was a clever piece of work, I flatter myself, to net Mr. Nat Verney so neatly."
The Englishman began to laugh, but suddenly broke off short as a girl's face, white and quivering, came between them.
"Who is this man?" the high, breathless voice demanded. "Which--which is Mr. Nat Verney?"
Rudd looked down at her through narrowed eyes. He was smiling--a small, bitter smile.
"Waal, Miss Mortimer," he began, "I reckon you have first right to know----"
She turned from him imperiously.
"You tell me," she commanded Norton.
Norton looked genuinely uncomfortable, and, probably in consequence, he answered her with a gruffness that sounded brutal.
"It was West. He has been arrested. His own fault entirely. No one would have suspected him if he hadn't been a fool, and given his own show away."
"He wasn't a fool!" Cynthia flashed back fiercely. "He was my friend!"
"I shouldn't be in too great a hurry to claim that distinction," remarked Rudd. "He's about the best-known rascal in the two hemispheres."
But Cynthia did not wait to hear him. She had slipped past, and was gone.
In her own cabin at last, she bolted the door and tore open that packet connected with his profession which he had given her the night before. It contained a roll of notes to the value of a hundred pounds, wrapped in a sheet of notepaper on which was scrawled a single line: "With apologies from the man who swindled you."
There was no signature of any sort. None was needed! When Cynthia finally left her cabin an hour later, her eyes were bright with that brightness which comes from the shedding of many tears.

* * * * *


The Swindler's Handicap

A SEQUEL TO "THE SWINDLER"
_Which I Dedicate to the Friend Who Asked for it._

I

"Yes, but what's the good of it?" said Cynthia Mortimer gently. "I can never marry you."
"You might be engaged to me for a bit, anyhow," he urged, "and see how you like it."
She made a quaint gesture with her arms, as though she tried to lift some heavy weight.
"I am very sorry," she said, in the same gentle voice. "It's very nice of you to think of it, Lord Babbacombe. But--you see, I'm quite sure I shouldn't like it. So that ends it, doesn't it?"
He stood up to his full height, and regarded her with a faint, rueful smile.
"You're a very obstinate girl, Cynthia," he said.
She leaned back in her chair, looking up at him with clear, grey eyes that met his with absolute freedom.
"I'm not a girl at all, Jack," she said. "I gave up all my pretensions to youth many, many years ago."
He nodded, still faintly smiling.
"You were about nineteen, weren't you?"
"No. I was past twenty-one." A curious note crept into her voice; it sounded as if she were speaking of the dead. "It--was just twelve years ago," she said.
Babbacombe's eyebrows went up.
"What! Are you past thirty? I had no idea."
She laughed at him--a quick, gay laugh.
"Why, it's eight years since I first met you."
"Is it? Great heavens, how the time goes--wasted time, too, Cynthia! We might have been awfully happy together all this time. Well"--with a sharp sigh--"we can't get it back again. But anyhow, we needn't squander any more of it, if only you will be reasonable."
She shook her head; then, with one of those quick impulses that were a part of her charm, she sprang lightly up and gave him both her hands.
"No, Jack," she said. "No--no--no! I'm not reasonable. I'm just a drivelling, idiotic fool. But--but I love my foolishness too well ever to part with it. Ever, did I say? No, even I am not quite so foolish as that. But it's sublime enough to hold me till--till I know for certain whether--whether the thing I call love is real or--or--only--a sham."
There was passion in her voice, and her eyes were suddenly full of tears; but she kept them upturned to his as though she pleaded with him to understand.
He looked down at her very kindly, very steadily, holding her hands closely in his own. There was no hint of chagrin on his clean-shaven face--only the utmost kindness.
"Don't cry!" he said gently. "Tell me about this sublime foolishness of yours--about the thing you call--love. I might help you, perhaps--who knows?--to find out if it is the real thing or not."
Her lips were quivering.
"I've never told a soul," she said. "I--am half afraid."
"Nonsense, dear!" he protested.
"But I am," she persisted. "It's such an absurd romance--this of mine, so absurd that you'll laugh at it, just at first. And then--afterwards--you will--disapprove."
"My dear girl," he said, "you have never entertained the smallest regard for my opinion before. Why begin to-day?"
She laughed a little, turning from him to brush away her tears.
"Sit down," she said, "and--and smoke--those horrid strong cigarettes of yours. I love the smell. Perhaps I'll try and tell you. But--mind, Jack--you're not to look at me. And you're not to say a single word till I've done. Just--smoke, that's all."
She settled herself on the low fender-cushion with her face turned from him to the fire. Lord Babbacombe sat down as she desired, and took out and lighted a cigarette.
As the scent of it reached her she began to speak in the high, American voice he had come to love. There was nothing piercing about it; it was a clear, sweet treble.
"It happened when I was travelling under Aunt Bathurst's wing. You know, it was with her and my cousin Archie that I first did Europe. My! It was a long time ago! I've been round the world four times since then--twice with poor dear Daddy, once with Mrs. Archie, after he died, and the last time--alone. And I didn't like that last time a mite. I was like the man in _The Pilgrim's Progress_--I took my hump wherever I went. Still, I had to do something. You were big-game shooting. I'd have gone with you if you'd have had me unmarried. But I knew you wouldn't, so I just had to mess around by myself. Oh, but I was tired--I was tired! But I kept saying to myself it was the last journey before--Jack, if you don't smoke your cigarette will go out. Where was I? I'm afraid I'm boring you. You can go to sleep if you like. Well, it was on the voyage back. There was a man on board that every one said was a private detective. It was at the time of the great Nat Verney swindles. You remember, of course? And somehow we all jumped to the conclusion that he was tracking him. I remember seeing him when we first went on board at Liverpool. He was standing by the gangway watching the crowd with the bluest eyes on earth, and I took him for a detective right away. But--for all that--there was something about him--something I kind of liked, that made me feel I wanted to know him. He was avoiding everybody, but I made him talk to me. You know my way."
She paused for a moment, and leaning forward, gazed into the heart of the fire with wide, intent eyes.
The man in the chair behind her smoked on silently with a drawn face.
"He was very horrid to me," she went on, her voice soft and slow as though she were describing something seen in a vision, "the only man who ever was. But I--do you know, I liked him all the more for that? I didn't flirt with him. I didn't try. He wasn't the sort one could flirt with. He was hard--hard as iron, clean-shaven, with an immensely powerful jaw, and eyes that looked clean through you. He was one of those short, broad Englishmen--you know the sort--out of proportion everywhere, but so splendidly strong. He just hated me for making friends with him. It was very funny."
An odd little note of laughter ran through the words--that laughter which is akin to tears.
"But I didn't care for that," she said. "It didn't hurt me in the least. He was too big to give offence to an impudent little minx like me. Besides, I wanted him to help me, and after a bit I told him so. Archie--my cousin, you know; he was only a boy then--was mad on card-playing at that time. And I was real worried about him. I knew he would get into a hole sooner or later, and I begged my surly Englishman to keep an eye on him. Oh, I was a fool! I was a brainless, chattering fool! And I'm not much better now, I often think."
Cynthia's hand went up to her eyes. The vision in the fire was all blurred and indistinct.
Babbacombe was leaning forward, listening intently. The firelight flickered on his face, showing it very grave and still. He did not attempt to speak.
Nevertheless, after a moment, Cynthia made a wavering movement with one hand in his direction.
"I'm not crying, Jack. Don't be silly! I'm sure your cigarette is out."
It was. He pitched it past her into the fire.
"Light another," she pleaded. "I love them so. They are