The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

cloak of ivory colour, was tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist, and sparkling now with amusement.

      “Watch your steps, auntie,” she warned laughingly, as a plump elderly little lady descended stiffly from the coupe. “These London fogs are dangerous.”

      The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root in the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.

      “Voylets, lidy? Wear your colours. You ain’t allowed to trot without.”

      The girl gazed at him, her blue eyes bright as stars on a windy night. An enchanting dimple twinkled about her curved lips in gay hide-and-seek, and when she laughed, fled upward to her eyes.

      “Father,” she said, “will you buy my colours from this bold sporting gentleman?”

      As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face, beneath the tall hat, was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close-set and of a turbid grey.

      “It’s him,” the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.

      “So you are a sporting man,” the girl rallied him gaily, adjusting the flowers.

      The boy nodded, responding instantly to her mood.

      “Only,” he swept her with shrewd, appraising eyes, that noted every detail of her delicate beauty and sumptuousness, “I don’t trot in the two-minute class myself.”

      The girl laughed a clear silvery peal; and turned impulsively to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his hansom and joined the group.

      It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward the older man.

      “N.,” he said in a soft but distinct undertone. The man’s face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large, white-gloved palm, slipped jingling to the pavement.

      The young messenger stooped and caught it up dextrously.

      “N.,” he whispered again, insistently.

      “H.,” the answer came hoarsely. The man’s lips trembled.

      “C.,” finished the boy promptly and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the other’s hand. Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort, and turning, was lost in the throng.

      The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the four were seated in their box, and the throbbing strains from the overture of I Pagliacci came floating up to them.

      “I wish I were a little street gamin in London,” said the girl pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. “Think of the adventures! Don’t you, Cord?”

      “Don’t I wish you were?” Cord Van Ingen looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.

      “No,” he said softly, “I do not!”

      The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.

      “For a young diplomat, Cord, you are too obvious — too delightfully verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse — study Poltavo!” At the name the boy’s brow darkened.

      “Study the devil!” he muttered under his breath.

      “That too, for a diplomat, is necessary!” she murmured sweetly.

      “He isn’t coming here tonight?” Van Ingen asked in aggrieved tones.

      The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.

      “What you can see in that man, Doris,” he protested, “passes me! I’ll bet you anything you like that the fellow’s a rogue! A smooth, soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore,” he appealed to the older woman, “do you like him?”

      “Oh, don’t ask Aunt Patricia!” cried the girl.

      “She thinks him quite the most fascinating man in London. Don’t deny it, auntie!”

      “I shan’t,” said that lady calmly, “for it’s true! Count Poltavo,” she paused to inspect through her lorgnettes some newcomers in the opposite box, “Count Poltavo is the only interesting man in London. He is a genius.” She shut her lorgnettes with a snap. “It delights me to talk with him. He smiles and murmurs gay witticisms and quotes Talleyrand and Luculhis, and all the while in the back of his head, quite out of reach, his real opinions of you are being tabulated and ranged neatly in a row, like bottles on a shelf.”

      “I’d like to take down some of those bottles,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Maybe some day I shall.”

      “They’re probably labelled poison,” remarked Van Ingen, a little viciously. He looked at the girl with a growing sense of injury. Of late she had seemed absolutely changed toward him; and from being his dear friend, his childhood’s mate, with established intimacies, she had turned before his very. eyes into an alien, almost an enemy, more beautiful than ever, to be true, but perverse, mocking, impish. She flouted him for his youth, his bluntness, his guileless transparency. But hardest of all to bear was the delicate derision with which she treated his awkward attempts to express his passion for her, to speak of the fever which had taken possession of him, almost against his will, and which at sight of her throbbed madly at his wrists and temples. And now, he reflected bitterly, with this velvet fop of a count looming up as a possible rival, with his savoir faire, and his absurd penchant for literature and art, what chance had he, a plain American, against such odds? — unless, as he profoundly believed, the chap was a crook. He determined to sound her father.

      “Mr. Grayson,” he asked aloud, “what do you think — halloo!” He sprang up suddenly and thrust out a supporting arm.

      Grayson had risen, and stood swaying slightly upon his feet. He was frightfully pale, and his countenance was contracted as if in pain. He lifted a wavering hand to his brow.

      “I — I feel ill,” he said faintly. His hand fell limply to his side. He took a staggering step toward the door.

      Van Ingen was beside him instantly.

      “Lean on me, sir,” he urged quietly. He passed a steadying hand through Grayson’s, and guided him toward the passage.

      “We’ll have you out of this in a jiffy,” he said cheerfully. “It’s the confounded stifling air of these places! It’s enough to make a grampus faint! Lady Dinsmore, will you look after Doris?”

      “No! No!” the girl exclaimed. Her face was white and strained and fear darkened her eyes. In her distress she had risen, and stood, clasping tightly her father’s arm.

      “We’ll all go together! Please, dear!” Her voice and eyes pleaded. She seemed trying to convey a hidden meaning, a secret urgency.

      “Nonsense!” Grayson, still pallid and frowning, leaned heavily upon Van Ingen’s shoulder. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his temples but his voice was stronger.

      “Don’t make a scene, my girl.” He nodded toward the stalls, where already curious lorgnettes were beginning to be levelled at their box.

      “Sit down!”

      Doris obeyed mutely, her mobile lips quivering as she sought to suppress her emotion. She was conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her heart throughout her limbs. The oppression of a nameless fear took possession of her; it weighed her down. She sat very still, gripping her fan.

      “I’ll be around fit as ever in the morning. ‘Night, Lady Dinsmore. Take care of my girl.”

      Grayson spoke jerkily with a strong effort.