The Greatest Historical Novels & Stories of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

more odious. But having gone so far he could not draw back, and the writer, be she never so fond, was also General Churchill’s daughter . . . or niece, perhaps? No, at the bottom of the first sheet—there were two separate ones of a large size—was a reference to ‘Papa’, presumably the Commander-in-Chief.

      But where in all this was the name for the sake of which he had embarked upon the repulsive business? Ewen could not see it anywhere, as, hot with embarrassment, he picked his way among expressions not meant for the eyes of any third person, which seemed, too, to show that Lord Aveling was a recently accepted suitor. But the shamed reader of these lovers’ confidences did not want to have any knowledge of the sort thrust upon him. Not yet finding what he wanted he put down this letter and took up the third; no, that was from London, and signed ‘Your affectionate Father, Stowe’. So with an inward sigh he went back to the love-letter, wishing with all his soul that the enamoured Miss Georgina Churchill did not write both so fine a hand and so long an epistle.

      And, just as he thought that he was coming to the place, he heard a creak from Aveling’s bed.

      “Great Heavens, what’s wrong? What are you at there, Mr. Cameron—are you ill?” And then a further movement and an ejaculation, “Who the devil has taken my pistols from this chair?”

      Ewen was still on one knee beyond his bed, feverishly scanning the letter held below its level. “It was I who removed them. I was afraid,” he said with perfect truth, “that you might wake, and, seeing a light, use them by error.” And he went on searching—ah, thank God, here he was coming to it at last!

      ‘I must tell you that Papa had a message last night from the Lord Justice-Clerk informing him that Doctor Cameron——’

      The word ‘warrant’ swam for a second before his eyes, but he could get no farther, for now he was to pay the price of his villainy. Young Aveling, who must have thrust his hand instinctively under his pillow, had by this time discovered his second, his greater loss, and with one movement had thrown off his covering and was on his feet, his voice shaking with rage. “You have stolen my wallet! Give it back to me at once, you damned lying, treacherous thief!”

      Ewen rose quickly to his own feet and threw the little case on to his bed, which was still between them. “You will find your money all there, my lord.” Then, very swiftly, he picked up the candle, put it on the window-sill behind him, found the passage again and tried to go on with his reading of it. But he knew that he would have the young man upon him in a moment, and so he had.

      “Money! It’s not the money! You have my letters, my most private letters. . . .” And uttering a cry of rage he precipitated himself round the bottom of Ewen’s bed.

      But Ewen, despite his preoccupation, could be just as quick. The young Englishman found himself confronted by the barrel of one of his own pistols. “You shall have this letter in one moment if you wait,” said its abductor coolly. “But if you desire it intact do not try to take it from me.”

      “Wait!” ejaculated the boy, half-choking. Alight with fury—for instinct no doubt told him which of the three letters the robber held—he did a surprising thing: disregarding entirely the levelled pistol, he dropped suddenly to his knees, and, seizing his enemy by the leg, tried to throw him off his balance—and nearly succeeded. For a second Ardroy staggered; then he recovered himself.

      “You young fool!” he exclaimed angrily; clapped the pistol on the window ledge behind him, stuffed Miss Georgina Churchill’s letter into his pocket, stooped, seized the young man’s arms, tore their grip apart, and brought him, struggling and panting, to his feet. “You young fool, I want to give you your letter unharmed, and how can I, if you persist in attacking me?”

      “Unharmed!” echoed the young man, with tears of rage in his eyes. He was helpless in that grip, and knew it now. “You call it unharmed, when you have read it!”

      “I regret the necessity even more than you,” retorted Ardroy. “But you would not tell me what I needed to know. If you will go back to your bed, and give me your word of honour not to stir thence for a couple of moments, you shall have your letter again at the end of them.”

      “My word of honour—to you!” flashed the captive. “You false Highland thief, I should think you never heard the term in your life before! Give me back the letter which you have contaminated by reading—at once!”

      Ewen did not relish his language, but what right had he to resent it? “You shall have the letter back on the condition I have named,” he answered sternly. “If you oblige me to hold you like this . . . no, ’tis of no use, you cannot break away. . . . God knows when you’ll get it back. And if you attempt to cry for help” (for he thought he saw a determination of the kind pass over the handsome, distorted features) “I’ll gag you! You may be sure I should never have embarked upon this odious business if I had not meant to carry it through!”

      “ ‘Odious’!” his captive caught up the word. “You are a spy and a thief, and you pretend to dislike your trade!”

      Ewen did not trouble to deny the charge. He felt that no stone which his victim could fling at him was too sharp. “Will you give me your word?” he asked again, more gently. “I do not wish to hurt you . . . and I have not read your letter through. I was but searching in it for what I need.”

      But that avowal only raised the young lover’s fury afresh. “Damn you for a scoundrelly pickpocket!” he said between his teeth, and began to struggle anew until he was mastered once more, and his arms pinned to his sides. And thus, very white, he asked in a voice like a dagger:

      “Did you turn out my brother Keith’s pockets before, or after, you murdered him?”

      As a weapon of assault the query had more success than all his physical efforts. This stone was too sharp. Ewen caught his breath, and his grip loosened a little.

      “I deserve everything that you have said to me, Lord Aveling, but not that! Your brother was my friend.”

      “And did you read his most private correspondence when he was asleep? Give me my letter, or I’ll rouse the house—somehow!”

      The matter had come to something of an impasse. Ewen was no nearer to his goal, for as long as he had to hold this young and struggling piece of indignation he could not finish reading the passage in the letter. He decided that he should have to take a still more brutal step. At any rate, nothing could make his victim think worse of him than he did already.

      “If you do not go back and sit quietly upon your bed,” he said, with a rather ominous quietness himself, “I shall hold you with one hand, and thrust one sheet of your letter in the candle-flame with the other!”

      “You may do it—for I’ll not take it back now!” flashed out the boy instantly.

      “But if you give me your word to do as I say,” went on Ewen, as though he had not spoken, “I will restore you a sheet of it now as earnest for the return of the rest, when I have finished reading the one sentence which concerns me—Now, which is it to be, Lord Aveling?”

      In that extremely close proximity their eyes met. The young man saw no relenting in those blue ones fixed on his, hard as only blue eyes can be at need. And Ewen—Ewen did not like to think to what desperate measures he might have to resort if the card he had just played were in truth not high enough. . . .

      But the trick was won. Despite his frenzied interjection, the young lover wanted his property too much to see it reduced to ashes before him. He choked back something like a sob. “I’ll never believe in fair words . . . and a moving story again! . . . Yes, I will do it. Give me the sheet of my letter.”

      “You pledge your word not to molest or attempt to stop me, nor to give any kind of alarm?”

      “Before I do, I suppose I may know whether you intend to cut my throat, as you——” But, frantic as the youth was, Ewen’s face became so grim that he did not finish.

      “I’ll not lay a finger on you further.”