The Avenger by E. Phillips Oppenheim (crime books to read .TXT) 📕

a gesture from her, was seated.

"Come," he said, "we will not talk of London, then. Tell me where you are going."

She shook her head.

"To a little Paradise I know of."

"Paradise," he reminded her, "was meant for two."

"There will be two of us," she answered, smiling.

He felt his heart thump against his ribs.

"Then if one wanted to play the part of intruder?"

She shook her head.

"The third person in Paradise was always very much de trop," she reminded him.

"It depends upon the people who are already there," he protested.

"My friend," she said, "is in search of solitude, absolute and complete."

He shook his head.

"Such a place does not exist," he declared confidently. "Your friend might as well have stayed at home."

"She relies upon me to procure it for her," she said.

A rare smile flashed from Wrayson's lips.

"You can't imagine what a relief her sex is to me!" he exclaimed.

"I don't know why," she answered pensively. "Do you know anything about the North of France, Mr. Wrayson?"

"Not much," he answered. "I hope to know more presently."

Her eyes laughed across at him.

"You know what I said about the third person in Paradise?"

"I can't admit your Paradise," he said.

"You are a heretic," she answered. "It is a matter of sex, of course."

"Naturally! Paradise is so relative. It may be the halo thrown round a court in the city or a rose garden in the country, any place where love is!"

"And may I not love my friend!" she demanded.

"You may love me," he answered, the passion suddenly vibrating in his tone. "I will be more faithful than any friend. I will build Paradise for you—wherever you will! I will build the walls so high that no harm or any fear shall pass them."

She waved him back. Something of the old look, which he hated so to see, was in her face.

"You must not talk to me like this, Mr. Wrayson," she said. "Indeed you must not."

"Why not?" he demanded. "If there is a reason I will know it."

She looked him steadily in the eyes.

"Can't you imagine one for yourself?" she asked.

He laughed scornfully.

"You don't understand," he said. "There is only one reason in the world that I would admit—I don't even know that I would accept that. The other things don't count. They don't exist."

She looked at him a little incredulously. She was still sitting, and he was standing now before her. Her fingers rested lightly upon the arms of her chair, she was leaning slightly forward as though watching for something in his face.

"Tell me that there is another man," he cried, "that you don't care for me, that you never could care for me, and I will go away and you shall never see my face again. But nothing short of that will drive me from you."

He spoke quickly, his tone was full of nervous passion. It never occurred to her to doubt him.

"You can be what else you like," he continued, "thief, adventuress—murderess! So long as there is no other man! Come to me and I will take you away from it all."

She laughed very softly, and his pulses thrilled at the sound, for there was no note of mockery there; it was the laugh of a woman who listens to hidden music.

"You are a bold lover," she murmured. "Have you been reading romances lately? Do you know that it is the twentieth century, and I have seen you three times? You don't know what you say. You can't mean it."

"By Heaven, I do!" he cried, and for one exquisite moment he held her in his arms. Then she freed herself with a sudden start. She had lost her composure. Her cheeks were flushed.

"Don't!" she cried, sharply. "Remember our first meeting. I am not the sort of person you imagine. I never can be. There are reasons—"

He swept them aside. Something seemed to tell him that if he did not succeed with her now, his opportunity would be gone forever.

"I will listen to none of them," he declared, standing between her and the door. "They don't matter! Nothing matters! I choose you for my wife, and I will have you. I wouldn't care if you came to me from a prison. Better give in, Louise. I shan't let you escape."

She had indeed something of the look of a beautiful hunted animal as she leaned a little towards him, her eyes riveted upon his, her lips a little parted, her bosom rising and falling quickly. She was taken completely by surprise. She had not given Wrayson credit for such strength of mind or purpose. She had believed entirely in her own mastery over him, for any such assault as he was now making. And she was learning the truth. Love that makes a woman weak lends strength to the man. Their positions were becoming reversed. It was he who was dictating to her.

"I am going away," she said nervously. "You will forget me. You must forget me."

"You shall not go away," he answered, "unless I know where. Don't be afraid. You can keep your secrets, whatever they are. I want to know nothing. Go on exactly with the life you are leading, if it pleases you. I shan't interfere. But you are going to be my wife, and you shall not leave London without telling me about it."

"I am leaving London," she faltered, "to-morrow."

"I was thinking," he remarked, calmly, "of taking a little holiday myself."

She laughed uneasily.

"You are absurd," she declared, "and you must go away. Really! The Baroness will be home directly. I would rather, I would very much rather that she did not find you here."

He held out his arms to her. His eyes were bright with the joy of conquest.

"I will go, Louise," he answered, "but first I will have my answer—and no answer save one will do!"

She bit her lip. She was moved by some emotion, but he was unable, for the moment, to classify it.

"I think," she declared, "that you must be the most persistent man on earth."

"You are going to find me so," he assured her.

"Listen," she said firmly, "I will not marry you!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"On that point," he answered, "I am content to differ from you. Anything else?"

She stamped her foot.

"I do not care for you! I do not wish to marry you!" she repeated. "I am going away, and I forbid you to follow me."

"No good!" he declared, stolidly. "I am past all that."

She held up her finger, and glanced backward out of the window.

"It is the Baroness," she said. "I must go and open the door."

For one moment she lay passive in his arms; then he could have sworn that her lips returned his kiss. She was there when they heard the turning of a latch-key in the door. With a little cry she slipped away and left him alone. The outer door was thrown open, and the Baroness stood upon the threshold.

CHAPTER XX

STABBED THROUGH THE HEART

The Baroness recognized Wrayson with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"Ah! my dear Mr. Wrayson," she exclaimed, "this is very kind of you. You have been keeping Louise company, I hope. And see what droll things happen! It is your friend, Mr. Barnes, who has brought me home this evening, and who will take a whisky and soda before he goes. Is it not so, my friend?"

She turned around, but there was no immediate response. The Baroness looked over the banisters and beheld her escort in the act of ascending.

"Coming right along," he called out cheerfully. "It was the cabman who tried to stop me. He wanted more than his fare. Found he'd tackled the wrong Johnny this time."

Mr. Sydney Barnes came slowly into view. He was wearing an evening suit, obviously too large for him, a made-up white tie had slipped round underneath his ear, a considerable fragment of red silk handkerchief was visible between his waistcoat and much crumpled white shirt. An opera hat, also too large for him, he was wearing very much on the back of his head, and he was smoking a very black cigar, from which he had failed to remove the band. He frowned when he saw Wrayson, but followed the Baroness into the room with a pronounced swagger.

"You two need no introduction, of course," the Baroness remarked. "I am not going to tell you where I found Mr. Barnes. I do not expect to be very much longer in England, so perhaps I am not so careful as I ought to be. Louise, if she knew, would be shocked. Now, Mr. Wrayson, do not hurry away. You will take some whisky and soda? I am afraid that my young friend has not been very hospitable."

"You are very kind," Wrayson said. "To tell you the truth, I was rather hoping to see Miss Fitzmaurice again. She disappeared rather abruptly."

The Baroness shook her finger at him in mock reproach.

"You have been misbehaving," she declared. "Never mind. I will go and see what I can do for you."

She stood for a moment before a looking-glass arranging her hair, and then left the room humming a light tune. Sydney Barnes, with his hands in his pockets, flung himself into an easy-chair.

"I say," he began, "I don't quite see what you're doing here."

Wrayson looked at him for a moment in supercilious surprise.

"I scarcely see," he answered, "how my movements concern you."

Mr. Barnes was unabashed.

"Oh! chuck it," he declared. "You know very well what I'm thinking of. To tell you the truth, I've come to the conclusion that there's some connection between this household and my brothers affairs. That's why I'm palling on to the Baroness. She's a fine woman—class, you know, and all that sort of thing, but what I want is the shino! You tumble?"

Wrayson shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"I wish you every success," he said. "Personally, I think that you are wasting your time here."

"Perhaps so," Barnes answered. "I'm taking my own risks."

Wrayson turned away, and at that moment the Baroness re-entered the room.

"My friend," she said, addressing Wrayson, "I can do nothing for you. Whether you have offended Louise or made her too happy, I cannot say. But she will not come down. You will not see her again to-night."

"I am sorry," Wrayson answered. "She is going away to-morrow, I understand?"

The Baroness sighed.

"Alas!" she declared, "I must not answer any questions. Louise has forbidden it."

Wrayson took up his hat.

"In that case," he remarked, "there remains nothing for me but to wish you good night!"

There was a cab on the rank opposite, and Wrayson, after a moment's hesitation, entered it and was driven to the club. He scarcely expected to find any one there, but he was in no mood for sleep, and the thought of his own empty rooms chilled him. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he found the smoking-room full. The central figure of the most important group was the Colonel, his face beaming with good-nature, and his cheeks just a little flushed. He welcomed Wrayson almost boisterously.

"Come along, Herbert," he cried. "Plenty of room. What'll you have to drink, and have you heard the news?"

"Whisky and soda," Wrayson answered, sinking into an easy-chair, "and I haven't heard any news."

The Colonel took his cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward in his chair. He had the appearance of a man who was striving to appear more grave than he felt.

"You remember the old chap we saw dining at Luigi's to-night—Bentham, I think you said his name was?"

Wrayson nodded.

"Of course! What about him?"

"He's dead!" the Colonel declared.

Wrayson jumped out of his chair.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean it, Colonel!"

"Unfortunately, I do," the Colonel answered. "He was found dead on the stairs leading to his office, about ten o'clock to-night. A most interesting case. The murder, presuming it was a murder, appears to have been committed—"

Wrayson was suddenly pale.

"Murder!" he repeated. "Colonel, do you mean this?"

The Colonel, who hated being interrupted, answered a little testily.

"My dear Wrayson," he expostulated, "is this the sort of thing a man invents for fun? Do listen for