The Wiles of the Wicked. Le Queux William

conflicting thoughts, until I fell asleep, the cool, soft, sympathetic hand still upon my brow.

      When I awoke it was with a refreshed feeling. No one was, however, in my immediate vicinity. My kind protectress had left me, yet I heard voices in conversation in the adjoining room. The door communicating was closed, but there was the unmistakable pop of a champagne-cork and a jingling of thin glasses that told of festivity. In whose house, I wondered, was I a guest? Already I had inquired, but had been refused information.

      Suddenly the voices were hushed, and I could distinguish a woman saying —

      “I tell, you he’s blind – stone blind. If you doubt me, hold that before his face and see if he flinches.” A man’s voice sounded in a low growl in response, then all was silent again. Only the ticking of a clock somewhere near me broke the stillness.

      Whispers, like low, suspicious exchanges of confidence, soon afterwards reached my ears. The door had opened silently, and a few seconds later I felt the soft hand of my protectress again upon my forehead. My sightless eyes were wide open, and by that she, of course, knew that I was awake.

      “Are you better after your sleep?” the well-cultivated voice inquired concernedly.

      “Very much,” I answered, raising myself upon my elbows. “But I have troubled you far too long, and will go, if you will kindly instruct your servant to call me a cab.”

      “Oh dear no,” the voice answered pleasantly. “I couldn’t think of allowing you to go home at this hour, and in your weak state, too. It would be madness. Continue your rest, and you will be quite right again in the morning.”

      “You are extremely kind,” I protested, “but I really couldn’t think of remaining longer.”

      “Would you like to repay me for what you so very generously term my kindness?” she asked. “If so, I would only ask one little favour.”

      “Certainly. I will grant it if it lies within my power,” I responded.

      “Well, it is that you would scribble your name here, in this birthday book of mine. It will be a little souvenir of this evening.”

      “But I cannot write well nowadays. I can’t see, you know,” I protested.

      “But you can write your signature. If the handwriting is uneven I will forgive you, in the circumstances,” the voice said merrily; and a moment later she placed a pen with a handle of ivory or pearl within my hand.

      “What day of the month?” inquired the sweet voice.

      “The second of July,” I answered, laughing; and my unknown friend, having opened the book at that page, guided my hand to the paper, whereon I scrawled my name.

      She took both pen and book, and by the departing swish of her skirts I knew that she had left me and had passed into the adjoining room.

      A strange picture arose in my mind. Was she beautiful? At any rate her surroundings were elegant, and her low musical voice was that of a young and refined girl of twenty or so.

      I listened, lying there helpless and sorely puzzled. Again curious whisperings in subdued tones sounded from beyond, but almost at that same moment some one commenced to play upon the piano Chopin’s “Andante-Spinato,” which prevented me from distinguishing either the words uttered or the trend of the discussion.

      For several minutes the sound of the piano filled the room, the touch, light and delicate, seeming to be that of a woman, when, of a sudden, there was a loud smashing of glass, and a woman’s shrill, piercing scream rang out, accompanied by the sound of some heavy object falling to the floor.

      In an instant the music ceased, and at the same moment I heard a man’s voice cry wildly —

      “Good God! You’ve – why, you’ve killed her!”

      Next second there sounded a rapid scuffling of feet, a chair was overturned and broken, and from the quick panting and muttered ejaculations it seemed as though two persons had closed in deadly embrace. In their frantic, desperate struggle they advanced into the room where I was, and I, still utterly helpless, with only a dark void about me, raised myself in horror and alarm. The man’s words held me appalled.

      Some terrible tragedy had occurred. My kind protectress had been murdered.

      The other two persons, whoever they were, fought fiercely quite close to me, and I could distinctly detect from the vain efforts to shout made by the weaker, that the stronger held him by the throat, and was endeavouring to strangle him.

      Of a sudden there was a quick, dull thud, the unmistakable sound of a heavy blow, followed by a short agonised cry.

      “Ah-h!” shrieked the voice of the person struck; and at the same instant a great weight fell back inertly upon me as I was lying, nearly crushing the breath from me.

      I passed my sensitive hands over it quickly. It was the body of a man. Blood ran warm over my fingers.

      He had been stabbed to the heart.

      Chapter Three

      The House with the Portico

      The weight of the inert body oppressed me, and in striving to extricate myself it slipped from the couch and slid to the ground; but such a feeling of dread overcame me that I reached down and pushed the warm body under the couch.

      The faint sound of some one moving stealthily across the thick pile carpet caused me to lie rigid, holding my breath. I heard the movement distinctly, and curiously enough it sounded as though it were a woman, for there was just a faint rustling as though her skirts trailed upon the ground. My quick ear told me that the person was approaching. By the panting breath I knew that it was the assassin. Was I, too, to fall a victim?

      I tried to call out, but in that moment of agony and horror my tongue refused to articulate. It seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth.

      The sound of movement ceased, and I knew that the person was quite close to me. My eyes were wide open, held fixed in expectant horror.

      I felt a warm breath upon my cheeks, and knew that the unknown assassin was peering into my eyes. In a few moments I had an instinctive feeling of something being held a few inches from my face.

      Then the words that had been spoken by my protectress recurred to me. She had declared to her companions that I was blind, and urged them to test me by holding something to my head.

      This was now being done. The truth of my statement was being proved, possibly by a revolver being held to my brow. If so, my only chance of safety rested in unflinching coolness. My position was certainly a most unenviable one.

      For a few moments the panting heart of the assassin thumped close to me; then, apparently satisfied, the unknown person moved off in silence without uttering a single word.

      My first impulse was to jump up and arrest the progress of the assassin, but on reflection I saw that to do so would only be to invite death. What could I do, blind as I was?

      Only could I sit and listen, trying to distinguish every detail of the mystery.

      Yes, I became convinced more than ever that the person leaving the room was not a man – but a woman.

      Could it be the same individual whose cool, sympathetic hand had only a quarter of an hour before soothed my brow? The thought held me dumbfounded.

      I had all along believed that the assassin had been a man, but it was certain by that swish of silken flounces that it was a woman.

      As I listened I heard the click of an electric-light switch at the door of the room, and a couple of minutes later a heavy door closed. From the bang of the knocker I knew that the street door had been shut by some person who had left the house.

      I still sat listening. All was silent. Only the low ticking of the clock broke the dead stillness of the night. The mysterious woman who had thus made her exit had evidently switched off the light, leaving me in total darkness with the hideous evidences of her crime.

      For some short time longer I listened, my ears open to catch every sound, but, hearing nothing, I now knew that I was alone. Therefore,