A Rogue by Compulsion by Victor Bridges (top 10 most read books in the world txt) 📕

I said; then, with a coolness which would have done credit to Ananias, I added: "A friend of mine has picked up a little bag or something with 'Vivien, Bond Street,' on it. He asked me to see if I could find the owner."

The landlord nodded his head with interest. "That'll be her, I expect.
Mamzelle Vivien the palmist—just across the way."

"Oh, she's a palmist, is she?" I exclaimed. The thought of George consulting a palmist was decidedly entertaining. Perhaps he wanted to find out whether I was likely to wring his neck.

With a side glance at the chauffeurs, the landlord leaned a little towards me and slightly lowered his voice. "Well, that's what she calls 'erself," he observed. "Palmist and Clairvoyante; and a smart bit o' goods she is too."

"But I thought the police had stopped that sort of thing," I said.

The landlord shook his head. "The police don't interfere with her. She don't advertise or anything like that, and I reckon she has some pretty useful friends. You'd be surprised if I was to tell you some o' the people I seen going in there—Cabinet Ministers and Bishops."

"It sounds like the Athenaeum Club," I said. "Do you know what she charges?"

"No," he replied; "something pretty stiff I guess. With folks like that it's a case of make 'ay while the sun shines."

He was called off at this point to attend to another customer, leaving me to ponder over the information he had given me. I felt that somehow or other I must make Mademoiselle Vivien's acquaintance. A beautiful palmist, for whom George deserted his business at eleven in the morning, was just the sort of person who might prove extremely interesting to me. Besides, the fact that her name was the same as that of the lady who lived next door to Tommy lent an additional spur to my curiosity. It might be a mere coincidence, but if so it was a sufficiently odd one to merit a little further investigation.

I drank up my whisky, and after waiting a minute or two, ordered another. I had just got this and was taking my first sip, when quite suddenly I saw in the mirror the reflection of George emerging from the doorway opposite.

I didn't stop to finish my drink. I put down the tumbler, and nodding to the landlord walked straight out into the street. The pavement was thronged with the usual midday crowd, but pushing my way through I dodged across the road and reached the opposite side-walk just in time to see George stepping into a taxi a few yards farther down the street.

I was not close enough to overhear the directions which he gave to the driver, but unless his habits had changed considerably the chances were that he was off to lunch at his club. Anyhow I felt pretty certain that I could pick up his trail again later on at the office if I wanted to. For the moment I had other plans; it was my intention to follow George's example and pay a short call upon "Mademoiselle Vivien."

I walked back, and throwing away the end of my cigar, entered the doorway again and started off up the stairs. I imagined that by going as an ordinary client I should find no difficulty in getting admitted, but if I did I was fully prepared to bribe or bluff, or adopt any method that might be necessary to achieve my purpose. I would not leave until I had at least seen the gifted object of George's midday rambles.

I reached the second landing, where I was faced by a green door with a quaintly carved electric bell in the shape of an Egyptian girl's head, a red stone in the centre of the forehead forming what appeared to be the button. Anyhow I pressed it and waited, and a moment later the door swung silently open. A small but very alert page-boy who looked like an Italian was standing on the mat.

"Is Mademoiselle at home?" I inquired.

He looked me up and down sharply. "Have you an appointment, sir?"

"No," I said, "but will you be good enough to ask whether I can see her? My name is Mr. James Nicholson. I wish to consult her professionally."

"If you will step in here, sir, I will inquire. Mademoiselle very seldom sees any one without an appointment."

He opened a door on the right and ushered me into a small sitting-room, the chief furniture of which appeared to be a couch, one or two magnificent bowls of growing tulips and hyacinths, and an oak shelf which ran the whole length of the room and was crowded with books.

While the boy was away I amused myself by examining the titles. There were a number of volumes on palmistry and on various branches of occultism, interspersed with several books of poetry and such unlikely works as My Prison Life, by Jabez Balfour, and Melville Lee's well-known History of Police.

It gave me rather an uncanny feeling for the moment to be confronted by the two latter, and I was just wondering whether a Bond Street palmist's cliéntèle made such works of reference necessary, when the door opened and the page-boy reappeared.

"If you will kindly come this way, sir, Mademoiselle will see you," he announced.

I followed him down the passage and into another room hung with heavy curtains that completely shut out the daylight. A small rose-coloured lamp burning away steadily in the corner threw a warm glow over everything, and lit up the low table of green stone in the centre, on which rested a large crystal ball in a metal frame. Except for two curiously carved chairs, there was no other furniture in the room.

Closing the door noiselessly behind him, the boy went out again. I stood there for a little while looking about me; then pulling up a chair I was just sitting down when a slight sound attracted my attention. A moment later a curtain at the end of the room was drawn slowly aside, and there, standing in the gap, I saw the slim figure of a girl, dressed in a kind of long dark Eastern tunic.

I jumped to my feet, and as I did so an exclamation of amazement broke involuntarily from my lips. For an instant I remained quite still, clutching the back of the chair and staring like a man in a trance. Unless I was mad the girl in front of me was Joyce.

CHAPTER XI BRIDGING THREE YEARS OF SEPARATION

It was the unexpectedness of the thing that threw me off my guard. With a savage effort I recovered myself almost at once, but it was too late to be of any use. At the sound of my voice all the colour had left Joyce's face. Her hands went up to her breast, and with a low cry she stepped forward and then stood there white and swaying, gazing at me with wide-open, half-incredulous eyes.

"My God!" she whispered; "it's you—Neil!"

I think she would have fallen, but I came to her side, and putting my arm round her shoulders gently forced her into one of the chairs. Then I knelt in front of her and took her hands in mine. I saw it was no good trying to deceive her.

"I didn't know," I said simply; "I followed George here."

"What have they done to you?" she moaned. "What have they done to you, my Neil? And your hands—oh, your poor dear hands!"

She burst out crying, and bending down pressed her face against my fingers.

"Don't, Joyce," I said, a little roughly. "For God's sake don't do that."

Half unconsciously I pulled away my hands, which three years in
Dartmoor had certainly done nothing to improve.

My abrupt action seemed to bring Joyce to herself. She left off sobbing, and with a sudden hurried glance round the room jumped up from her chair.

"I must speak to Jack—now at once," she whispered. "He mustn't let any one else into the flat."

She stopped for a moment to dry her eyes, which were still wet with tears, and then walking quickly to the door disappeared into the passage. She was only gone for a few seconds. I just had time to get to my feet when she came back into the room, and shutting the door behind her, turned the key in the lock. Then with a little gasp she leaned against the wall. For the first time I realized what an amazingly beautiful girl she had grown into.

"Neil, Neil," she said, stretching out her hands; "is it really you!"

I came across, and taking her in my arms very gently kissed her forehead.

"My little Joyce," I said. "My dear, brave little Joyce."

She buried her face in my coat, and I felt her hand moving up and down my sleeve.

"Oh," she sobbed, "if I had only known where to find you before! Ever since you escaped I have been hoping and longing that you would come to me." Then she half pushed me back, and gazed up into my face with her blue, tear-stained eyes. "Where have you been? What have they done to you? Oh, tell me—tell me, Neil. It's breaking my heart to see you so different."

For a moment I hesitated. I would have given much if I could have undone the work of the last few minutes, for even to be revenged on George I would not willingly have brought my wretched troubles and dangers into Joyce's life. Now that I had done so, however, there seemed to be no other course except to tell her the truth. It was impossible to leave her in her present agony of bewilderment and doubt.

Pulling up one of the chairs I sat down, drawing her on to my knee.

"If I had known it was you, Joyce," I said, "I should have let George go to the devil before I followed him here."

"But why?" she asked. "Where should you go to if you didn't come to me?"

"Oh, my poor Joyce," I said bitterly; "haven't I brought enough troubles and horrors into your life already?"

She interrupted me with a low, passionate cry. "You talk like that! You, who have lost everything for my wretched sake! Can't you understand that every day and night since you went to prison I've loathed and hated myself for ever telling you anything about it? If I'd dreamed what was going to happen I'd have let Marks—"

I stopped her by crushing her in my arms, and for a little while she remained there sobbing bitterly, her cheek resting on my shoulder. For a moment or two I didn't feel exactly like talking myself.

Indeed it was Joyce who spoke first. Raising her head she wiped away her tears, and then sitting up gazed long and searchingly into my face.

"There is nothing of you left," she said, "nothing except your eyes—your dear, splendid eyes. I think I should have known you by those even if you hadn't spoken." Then, taking my hands again and pressing them to her, she added passionately: "Oh, tell me what it means, Neil. Tell me everything that's happened to you from the moment you got away."

"Very well," I said recklessly: "I shall be dragging you into all sorts of dangers, and I shall be breaking my oath to McMurtrie, but after all that's just the sort of thing one would expect from an escaped convict."

Step by step, from the moment when I had jumped over the wall into the plantation, I told her the whole astounding story. She listened to me in silence, her face alone betraying the feverish interest with which she was following every word. When I came to the part about Sonia kissing me (I told her everything just as it had happened) her hands tightened a little on mine, but except for that one movement she remained absolutely still.

It was not until I had finished speaking that she made her first comment. After I stopped she sat on for a moment just as she was; and then quite suddenly her face lighted up, and with a little low laugh that was half a sob she leaned forward and slid her arm round my neck.

"Tommy was right," she whispered. "He said you'd do something wonderful. I knew it too, but oh, Neil dear, I've suffered tortures wondering where you were and what had happened."

Then, sitting up again and pushing back her hair, she began to ask me questions.

"These people—Dr. McMurtrie and the others—do you believe their story?"

"No," I