The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (cool books to read .txt) 📕

has presented her to one of her old employers-a Lady Etynge. Robin was delighted with her. She has a daughter who is in France—,”

“Marguerite staying with her aunt in Paris,” suddenly put in the voice of the blunt-featured man from his side of the room.

“Helene at a Covent in Tours,” corrected Mademoiselle, turning a paling countenance towards him and then upon Coombe. “Lady Etynge spoke of wanting to engage some nice girl as a companion to her daughter, who is coming home. Robin thought she might have the good fortune to please her. She was to go to Lady Etynge’s house to tea sine afternoon and be shown the rooms prepared for Helene. She thought the mother charming.”

“Did she mention the address?” Coombe asked at once.

“The house was in Berford Place-a large house at a corner. She chanced to see Lady Etynge go into it one day or we should not have known. She did not notice the number. Fraulein Hirsch thought it was 97A. I have the Blue Book, Lord Coombe—through the Peerage—through the Directory! There is no Lady Etynge and there is no 97A in Berford Place! That is why I came here.”

The man who had stood aside, stepped forward again. It was as if he answered some sign, though Lord Coombe at the moment crossed the hearth and rang the bell.

“Scotland Yard knows that, ma’am,” said the man. “We’ve had our eyes on that house for two weeks, and this kind of thing is what we want.”

“The double brougham,” was Coombe’s order to the servant who answered his ring. Then he came back to Mademoiselle.

“Mr. Barkstow is a detective,” he said. “Among the other things he has done for me, he has, for some time, kept a casual eye on Robin. She is too lovely a child and too friendless to be quite safe. There are blackguards who know when a girl has not the usual family protection. He came here to tell me that she had been seen sitting in Kensington Gardens with a woman Scotland Yard has reason to suspect.”

“A black ‘un!” said Barkstow savagely. “If she’s the one we think she is-a black, poisonous, sly one with a face that no girl could suspect.”

Coombe’s still countenance was so deadly in the slow lividness, which Mademoiselle saw began to manifest itself, that she caught his sleeve with a shaking hand.

“She’s nothing but a baby!” she said. “She doesn’t know what a baby she is. I can see her eyes frantic with terror! She’d go mad.”

“Good God!” he said, in a voice so low it scarcely audible.

He almost dragged her out of the room, though, as they passed through the hall, the servants only saw that he had given the lady his arm-and two of the younger footmen exchanged glances with each other which referred solely to the inimitableness of the cut of his evening overcoat.

When they entered the carriage, Barkstow entered with them and Mademoiselle Valle leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her face clutched in her hands. She was trying to shut out from her mental vision a memory of Robin’s eyes.

“If—if Fraulein Hirsch is—not true,” she broke out once. “Count von Hillern is concerned. It has come upon me like a flash. Why did I not see before?”

The party at the big house, where the red carpet was rolled across the pavement, was at full height when they drove into the Place. Their brougham did not stop at the corner but at the end of the line of waiting carriages.

Coombe got out and looked up and down the thoroughfare.

“It must be done quietly. There must be no scandal,” he said. “The policeman on the beat is an enormous fellow. You will attend to him, Barkstow,” and Barkstow nodded and strolled away.

Coombe walked up the Place and down on the opposite side until he was within a few yards of the corner house. When he reached this point, he suddenly quickened his footsteps because he saw that someone else was approaching it with an air of intention. It was a man, not quite as tall as himself but of heavier build and with square held shoulders. As the man set his foot upon the step, Coombe touched him on the arm and said something in German.

The man started angrily and then suddenly stood quite still and erect.

“It will be better for us to walk up the Place together,” Lord Coombe said, with perfect politeness.

If he could have been dashed down upon the pavement and his head hammered in with the handle of a sword, or if he could have been run through furiously again and again, either or both of these things would have been done. But neither was possible. It also was not possible to curse aloud in a fashionable London street. Such curses as one uttered must be held in one’s foaming mouth between one’s teeth. Count von Hillern knew this better than most men would have known it. Here was one of those English swine with whom Germany would deal in her own way later.

They walked back together as if they were acquaintances taking a casual stroll.

“There is nothing which would so infuriate your—Master-as a disgraceful scandal,” Lord Coombe’s highbred voice suggested undisturbedly. “The high honour of a German officer-the knightly bearing of a wearer of the uniform of the All Highest-that sort of thing you know. All that sort of thing!”

Von Hillern ground out some low spoken and quite awful German words. If he had not been trapped-if he had been in some quiet by-street!

“The man walking ahead of us is a detective from Scotland Yard. The particularly heavy and rather martial tread behind us is that of a policeman much more muscular than either of us. There is a ball going on in the large house with the red carpet spread across the pavement. I know the people who are giving it. There are a good many coachmen and footmen about. Most of them would probably recognize me.”

It became necessary for Count von Hillern actually to wipe away certain flecks of foam from his lips, as he ground forth again more varied and awful sentiments in his native tongue.

“You are going back to Berlin,” said Coombe, coldly. “If we English were not such fools, you would not be here. You are, of course, not going into that house.”

Von Hillern burst into a derisive laugh.

“You are going yourself,” he said. “You are a worn-out old ROUE, but you are mad about her yourself in your senile way.”

“You should respect my age and decrepitude,” answered Coombe. “A certain pity for my gray hairs would become your youth. Shall we turn here or will you return to your hotel by some other way?” He felt as if the man might a burst a blood vessel if he were obliged to further restrain himself.

Von Hillern wheeled at the corner and confronted him.

“There will come a day—” he almost choked.

“Der Toy? Naturally,” the chill of Coombe’s voice was a sound to drive this particular man at this particular, damnably-thwarted moment, raving mad. And not to be able to go mad! Not to be able!

“Swine of a doddering Englishman! Who would envy you—trembling on your lean shanks—whatsoever you can buy for yourself. I spit on you-spit!”

“Don’t,” said Coombe. “You are sputtering to such an extent that you really ARE, you know.”

Von Hillern whirled round the corner.

Coombe, left alone, stood still a moment.

“I was in time,” he said to himself, feeling somewhat nauseated. “By extraordinary luck, I was in time. In earlier days one would have said something about ‘Provadence’.” And he at once walked back.