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

spoke in a low voice surcharged with emotion. “I will give you candour for candour, and make an end of all this paltry masquerade.”

      “That,” he murmured, “is what I most desire.” Doris continued, heedless of the interruption.

      “It is true that I dislike you. I am glad to be able to say it to you, openly. And yet, perhaps, I should use another word. I dislike you and fear you in equal parts. I dislike your secrecy — something dark and hidden within you — and I fear your influence over my father.” Her voice faltered over the last word, and she paused.

      Lady Dinsmore’s cheerful tones broke across the silence.

      “Doris,” she charged, “you are preaching to the count. He is looking quite sulky and bored.”

      He shook his head at her, smiling.

      “My unfortunate face, it belies me. I was, in truth, deeply interested. Miss Grayson was speaking of her father.” He turned back to the girl. “You will continue the — how you say — arraignment?” he asked gravely. “I would know the worst. I, influence your father for evil — but how?”

      Doris looked at him sombrely.

      “I don’t know — exactly,” she admitted. “But you are somehow connected with the — the scheme — a terrible illegal scheme,” her voice was only just audible. “That I know to a certainty. Father spoke to me one day of you—”

      Count Poltavo started.

      “It was after he had decoded a telegram. He looked up and spoke of your brilliance and discretion. He said you had the mind of a Napoleon.”

      “It is true that I was able to do your father a service,” he replied slowly. “I did him another tonight.” He smiled with a certain mysticism.

      “In truth, it was what delayed me. But as for your — ah — conspiracy, Miss Grayson, believe me, I know little. That a — a committee exists, with a president—”

      “Baggin!” breathed the girl. Her eyes were wide with terror.

      “Ah!” His face was immovable, but a gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

      She turned upon him sharply. “You did not know?”

      He shook his head. “I know nothing — certainly. I wish I did!” he added simply.

      “That is true — you swear it?” She leaned toward him a little, her bosom heaving tumultuously.

      He bowed his head in assent.

      “If I could believe you!” she faltered. “I need a friend! Oh, if you could know how I have been torn by doubts, beset by fears — oppressions!”

      Her voice quivered. “It is illegal, you know, and terrible! If you would help me Wait. May I test you with a question?”

      “A thousand if you like.”

      “And you will answer — truthfully?” In her eagerness she was like a child.

      He smiled. “If I answer at all, be sure it v/ill be truthful.”

      “Tell me then, is Mr. Baggin your friend?”

      “He is my dearest enemy,” he returned promptly.

      She drew a deep breath of relief. “And my father?” The question was a whisper. She appeared to hang upon his reply. The count hesitated. “I do not know,” he admitted finally. “If he were not influenced by Mr. Baggin, I believe he would be my friend.”

      “For the first time that evening Doris looked at him with warmth in her manner. “By that,” she said, smiling faintly, “I know you have told the truth. My father likes you, but Mr. Baggin sways him completely.” The smile deepened in her eyes and she laughed a little unsteadily. “You — you will be kind, and forgive my rudeness and — and my anger?” The coldness had departed from her face completely and she was charming.

      The count looked hard at her. Her glance wavered, fell, and met his again for a long moment.

      Her colour heightened, and her breath came more quickly. A cloud of passion was about them. It brushed them with invisible wings.

      He broke the spell.

      “I am happy to have convinced you of my — ah — sincerity,” he murmured. “And you do, in truth, believe me?”

      She laughed softly. “Yes.”

      “And will trust me?”

      “Yes.”

      He bent nearer to her. His face was quite pale and his eyes burned like living things. “May I put’my original question, then — my personality is not utterly displeasing to you?”

      “My dear count,” it was Lady Dinsmore’s voice again, “it occurs to me that you are putting several hundred questions besides the one which I permitted you.”

      “It is I who am the culprit, auntie,” exclaimed Doris gaily. “You see it was a game — taking down bottles off the shelf! Each one of us had ten questions which the other must answer truthfully. I finished mine first, and the count had just begun on his!”

      “I see,” said Lady Dinsmore drily. “I fear, then, that I interrupted.” Count Poltavo leaned toward her persuasively.

      “There is just one more important question, dear Lady Dinsmore,” he said,’” and that I should like to ask you.”

      The little lady elevated her brows at him. “Insatiable youth!” she murmured. “What is your question?”

      “It is a very small thing,” he replied, “but it has been in my mind for several days. I should like you and Miss Grayson — and Mr. Van Ingen, if he can find the time,” he bowed politely to the young American, “to visit my studio.”

      Doris clapped her hands. “Delightful!” she exclaimed. “And will you do a sketch of auntie with her head cocked a bit to one side, like a pert little robin, and that adorable crooked smile?”

      Lady Dinsmore patted her hand with a tolerant smile. “It is you that the count wishes to paint, my dear, not a wizened old woman like me.”

      “If I might try both of you,” the count replied.

      “Sometimes, with people who are my friends, the result is not so bad. The likeness, if it comes at all, comes quickly.”

      Lady Dinsmore laughed. “We will come, I promise you! Some afternoon—”

      “Morning,” he begged. “The light is better.”

      “Some morning, then,” she agreed, “next week.”

      The curtain rose upon Nedda and Canio, who sang with love and bitterness and rage. Lady Dinsmore yawned behind her fan. At the end of the act she rose.

      “Doris, my dear, I am going to follow the example of your father. This air is stifling, and we have a heavy day before us tomorrow. Cord, will you go for our things?”

      It was the count who handed the ladies to their places in the unobtrusively elegant electric coupe, while Van Ingen stood doggedly at his elbow, awaiting a last word with Doris. He was bitterly jealous of his rival, who, to the boy’s inflamed mind, seemed perversely lingering over his farewells. There was some colour for his anger. The count had taken the girl’s hand, and bending down so low that the two dark heads almost touched, was murmuring in her ear.

      She smiled, but shook her head.

      “Every moment tomorrow is already gone. And the next day also!”

      He looked at her steadfastly for a moment. “I shall see you tomorrow,” he reiterated softly.

      “Moreover, you yourself will send for me. I prophesy!”

      She laughed, and