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

padlocked. Then he listened. There was no sound of any footfall in the road. He moved a few steps higher up, and, making use of the pillars of the gate, he climbed on to the wall. It was a six-foot drop, but he came down noiselessly into a bed of moss. Once more he paused to listen. There was no sound save the burring of some night insect over his head. Stealthily, and keeping in the shadow of the trees, he began to climb the grassy avenue towards the château. CHAPTER XXIII

A PASSIONATE PILGRIM

It seemed to Wrayson, as by and by he began to make bolder and more rapid progress, that it was an actual fairy world into which he was passing with beating heart and this strange new sense of delicious excitement. As he drew nearer, the round Norman towers and immense grey front of the château began to take to themselves more definite shape. The gardens began to spread themselves out; terraced lawns, from whose flower-beds, now a blurred chaos so far as colour was concerned, waves of perfume came stealing down to him; statuary appeared, white and ghostly in the half light, and here and there startlingly lifelike; there were trimmed shrubs, and a long wall of roses trailed down from the high stone balcony. But, as yet, there was no sound or sign of human life! That was to come.

Wrayson came to a pause at last. He had passed from the shelter of the woods into a laurel walk, but further than this he could not go without being plainly visible to any one in the château. So he waited and watched. There were lights, he could see now, behind many of the ground floor windows of the chateâu, and more than once he fancied that he could catch the sound of music. He tried to fancy in which room she was, to project his passionate will through the twilight, so that she should come to him. But the curtains remained undrawn, and the windows closed. Still Wrayson waited!

Then at last Providence intervened. Above the top of the woods, over on the other side of the château, came first a faint lightening in the sky, which gradually deepened into a glow. Slowly the rim of the moon crept up, and very soon the spectral twilight was at an end. The shadowy landscape became real and vivid. It was a new splendour creeping softly into the night. Wrayson moved a little further back into his shelter, and even as he did so one of the lower windows of the château was thrown open, and two women, followed by a man, stepped out. Their appearance was so sudden that Wrayson felt his breath almost taken away. He leaned a little forward and watched them eagerly.

The woman, who was foremost of the little group, was a stranger to him, although her features, and a somewhat peculiar headdress which she wore, seemed in a sense familiar. She was tall and dark, and she carried herself with the easy dignity of a woman of rank. Her face was thoughtful and her expression sweet; if she was not actually beautiful, she was at least a woman whom it was impossible to ignore. But Wrayson glanced at her only for a minute. It was Louise who stood by her side!—the music of her voice came floating down to him. Heavens! had he ever realized how beautiful she was? He devoured her with his eyes, he strained his nerves to hear what they were saying. He was ridiculously relieved to see that the man who stood by their side was grey-headed. He was beginning to realize what love was. Jealousy would be intolerable.

They moved about the terrace. He scarcely knew whether he hoped or feared the more that they would descend and come nearer to him. After all, it was cruelly tantalizing. He dared not disobey the Baroness, or he would have stepped boldly from his hiding-place and gone up to them. But that, by the terms of his promise, was impossible. He was to make his presence known to Louise only if he could do so secretly. He was not to accost her in the presence of any other person. It might be days or weeks before the opportunity came—or it might—it might be minutes! For, almost without warning, she was alone. The others had left her, with farewells, if any, of the briefest. She came forward to the grey stone parapet, and, with her head resting upon her hand, looked out towards the woods.

His heart began to beat faster—his brain was confused. Was there any chance that she would descend into the gardens—dare he make a signal to her? Her head and shoulders were bare, and a slight breeze had sprung up during the last few minutes. Perhaps she would feel the cold and go in! Perhaps—

He watched her breathlessly. She had abandoned her thoughtful attitude and was standing upright, looking around her. She looked once at the window. She was apparently undecided whether to go in or not. Wrayson prayed then, if he had never prayed before. He didn't know to whom! He was simply conscious of an intense desire, which seemed somehow formulated into an appeal. Before he was fully conscious of it, she was coming down the steps. She stood on the edge of the lawn for a moment, as though considering; then, carefully raising her skirts in both hands, she picked her way amongst the flower-beds, coming almost directly towards him. Glancing round, he saw her objective—a rustic seat under a dark cedar tree, and he saw, too, that she must pass within a few feet of where he stood. She walked as one dreaming, or whose thoughts are far distant, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed. The awakening, when it came, was sudden enough.

"Louise," he called to her softly, "Louise!"

She dropped her skirts. For a moment he feared that she was going to cry out.

"Who is that?" she asked sharply.

"It is I, Herbert Wrayson," he answered. "Don't be afraid. Shall I come out to you, or will you come down the laurel path?"

"You!" she murmured. "You!"

He saw the light in her face, and his voice was hoarse with passion.

"Come," he cried, "or I must fetch you! Louise! Sweetheart!"

She came towards him a little timidly, her eyebrows arched, a divine smile playing about her lips. She stood at the entrance to the laurel grove and peered a little forward.

"Where are you?" she asked. "Is it really you? I think that I am a little afraid! Oh!"

He took her into his arms with a little laugh of happiness. Time and life itself stood still. Her feeble remonstrances were swept away in the tide of his passion. His lips hung burning against hers.

"My sweetheart!" he murmured. "Thank God you came!"...

She disengaged herself presently. A clock from the stables was striking. She counted the hours.

"Eleven o'clock!" she exclaimed. "Herbert, how long have I been here?"

"Don't ask me that," he answered. "Only tell me how long you are going to stay."

"Not another minute, really," she declared. "They will be sending out search parties for me directly. And—Herbert—how did you get here?" she demanded anxiously.

"I climbed over the wall," he answered cheerfully. "There didn't seem to be any other way."

She seemed almost incredulous.

"Didn't you see any watchmen?" she asked.

"There was one at the gates," he answered. "I fancied he followed me up the road, but I gave him the slip all right."

"Be careful how you go back," she begged. "This place is supposed to be closely watched."

"Watched! Why?" he asked. "Are you afraid of robbers?"

"How much did the Baroness tell you?" she asked.

"Nothing, except that I should find you here," he declared. "She made me promise that I would wait for an opportunity of seeing you alone."

"And why," she asked, "have you come?"

He took her into his arms again.

"I have learnt what love is," he murmured, "and I have forgotten the other things."

"That is all very well," she laughed, smoothing out her hair; "but the other things may be very important to me."

"A man named Stephen Heneage has taken up this Barnes affair," he answered. "He saw you leave the flats that night, and he is likely, if he thinks that it might lead to anything, to give the whole show away. He warned me to get away from England and—but you want the truth, don't you? All these are excuses! I came because I wanted you!—because I couldn't live without you, Louise! Couldn't we steal away somewhere and never go back? Why need we? We could go to Paris to-morrow, catch the Orient express the next day—I know a dozen hiding-places where we should be safe enough. We will make our own world and our own life—and forget!"

"Forget!" She drew a little away from him. Her tone chilled him. "Herbert," she said, "whatever happens, I must go now—this moment. Where are you stopping?"

"The Lion d'Or," he answered, "down in the village."

"I will send a note in the morning," she said eagerly. "Only you must go now, dear. Some one will be out to look for me, and I cannot think—I must have a little time to decide. Be very careful as you go back. If you are stopped, be sure and make them understand that you are an Englishman. Good night!"

He kissed her passionately. She yielded to his embrace, but almost immediately drew herself away. He clutched at her hand, but she eluded him. With swift footsteps she crossed the lawn. Just as she reached the terrace, the windows opened once more and some one called her name.

"I am coming in now," he heard her answer. "It has been such a wonderful night!"

CHAPTER XXIV

AN INVITATION TO DINNER

The landlord of the Lion d'Or, who had appeared for a moment to chat with his guests while they took their morning coffee, pointed downwards into the valley, where little clouds of mist hung over the lowlands.

"The messieurs will find themselves hot to-day," he remarked. "Here, only, there will be a breeze. Eleven hundred feet up, and only three miles from the sea! It is wonderful, eh?"

Wrayson pointed across towards the château, whose towers rose from the bosom of the cool green woods.

"There, also," he said, "it will be very pleasant. The château is as high as we are, is it not so?"

The landlord shrugged his shoulders.

"There is little difference," he admitted, "and in the woods there is always shade. But who may go there? Never was an estate kept so zealously private, and, does monsieur know? Since yesterday a new order has been issued. The villagers were forbidden even their ancient rights of walking across the park! The head forester has posted a notice in the village."

"I have heard something of it," Wrayson admitted. "Has any reason been given. Are the family in residence there?"

The landlord shook his head.

"Madame la Baronne was never so exacting," he replied. "One hears that she has lent the château to friends. Two ladies are there, and one gentleman. It is all."

"Do you know who they are?" Wrayson asked.

The landlord assumed an air of mystery.

"One," he said, "is a young English lady. The other—well, they call her Madame de Melbain."

"What?"

The exclamation came like a pistol-shot from Wrayson's fellow-guest at the inn, who, up to now, had taken no part in the conversation. He had turned suddenly round, and was facing the startled landlord.

"Madame de Melbain," he repeated. "Monsieur, perhaps, knows the lady?"

There was a moment's silence. Then the man who had called himself Duncan looked away, frowning.

"No!" he said, "I do not know her. The name is familiar, but there is no lady of my acquaintance bearing it at present."

The landlord looked a little disappointed.

"Ah!" he remarked, "I had hoped that monsieur would have been able to give us a little information. There are many people in the village who would like to know who this Madame de Melbain is, for it is since her