The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

even a gesture, he understood that a curtain had been let down between them. He obeyed her unspoken wish and relapsed into silence. Her very absorption, after all, was a hopeful sign. She would have him believe that she felt nothing, that she was living outside all the passion and sentiment of life. Yet she was absorbed in the music…. Sir Timothy came back and seated himself silently. It was not until the tumult of applause which broke out after the great song of the French ouvrier, that a word passed between them.

      “Cavalisti is better,” Sir Timothy commented. “This man has not the breadth of passion. At times he is merely peevish.”

      She shook her head.

      “Cavalisti would be too egotistical for the part,” she said quietly. “It is difficult.”

      Not another word was spoken until the curtain fell. Francis lingered for a moment over the arrangement of her cloak. Sir Timothy was already outside, talking to some acquaintances.

      “It has been a great pleasure to see you like this unexpectedly,” he said, a little wistfully.

      “I cannot imagine why,” she answered, with an undernote of trouble in her tone. “Remember the advice I gave you before. No good can come of any friendship between my father and you.”

      “There is this much of good in it, at any rate,” he answered, as he held open the door for her. “It might give me the chance of seeing you sometimes.”

      “That is not a matter worth considering,” she replied.

      “I find it very much worth considering,” he whispered, losing his head for a moment as they stood close together in the dim light of the box, and a sudden sense of the sweetness of her thrilled his pulses. “There isn’t anything in the world I want so much as to see you oftener—to have my chance.”

      There was a momentary glow in her eyes. Her lips quivered. The few words which he saw framed there—he fancied of reproof—remained unspoken. Sir Timothy was waiting for them at the entrance.

      “I have been asking Mrs. Hilditch’s permission to call in Curzon Street,” Francis said boldly.

      “I am sure my daughter will be delighted,” was the cold but courteous reply.

      Margaret herself made no comment. The car drew up and she stepped into it—a tall, slim figure, wonderfully graceful in her unrelieved black, her hair gleaming as though with some sort of burnish, as she passed underneath the electric light. She looked back at him with a smile of farewell as he stood bareheaded upon the steps, a smile which reminded him somehow of her father, a little sardonic, a little tender, having in it some faintly challenging quality. The car rolled away. People around were gossiping—rather freely.

      “The wife of that man Oliver Hilditch,” he heard a woman say, “the man who was tried for murder, and committed suicide the night after his acquittal. Why, that can’t be much more than three months ago.”

      “If you are the daughter of a millionaire,” her escort observed, “you can defy convention.”

      “Yes, that was Sir Timothy Brast,” another man was saying. “He’s supposed to be worth a cool five millions.”

      “If the truth about him were known,” his companion confided, dropping his voice, “it would cost him all that to keep out of the Old Bailey. They say that his orgies at Hatch End—Our taxi. Come on, Sharpe.”

      Francis strolled thoughtfully homewards.

      CHAPTER XVI

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      Francis Ledsam was himself again, the lightest-hearted and most popular member of his club, still a brilliant figure in the courts, although his appearances there were less frequent, still devoting the greater portion of his time, to his profession, although his work in connection with it had become less spectacular. One morning, at the corner of Clarges Street and Curzon Street, about three weeks after his visit to the Opera, he came face to face with Sir Timothy Brast.

      “Well, my altruistic peerer into other people’s affairs, how goes it?” the latter enquired pleasantly.

      “How does it seem, my arch-criminal, to be still breathing God’s fresh air?” Francis retorted in the same vein. “Make the most of it. It may not last for ever.”

      Sir Timothy smiled. He was looking exceedingly well that morning, the very prototype of a man contented with life and his part in it. He was wearing a morning coat and silk hat, his patent boots were faultlessly polished, his trousers pressed to perfection, his grey silk tie neat and fashionable. Notwithstanding his waxenlike pallor, his slim figure and lithe, athletic walk seemed to speak of good health.

      “You may catch the minnow,” he murmured. “The big fish swim on. By-the-bye,” he added, “I do not notice that your sledge-hammer blows at crime are having much effect. Two undetected murders last week, and one the week before. What are you about, my astute friend?”

      “Those are matters for Scotland Yard,” Francis replied, with an indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette. “Details are for the professional. I seek that corner in Hell where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed. In other words, I seek for the brains of crime.”

      “Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young friend,” Sir Timothy said earnestly. “You interest me more and more every time we meet. I like your allegories, I like your confidence, which in any one except a genius would seem blatant. When can we dine together and talk about crime?”

      “The sooner the better,” Francis replied promptly. “Invite me, and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have.”

      Sir Timothy considered for a moment. The June sunshine was streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little oppressive.

      “Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?” he asked. “My daughter and I will be alone.”

      “I should be delighted,” Francis replied promptly. “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home.”

      Sir Timothy was politely apologetic.

      “I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid,” he confessed. “Society is good for her. I will undertake that you are a welcome guest.”

      “At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?” Francis enquired.

      “You motor down, I suppose?” Sir Timothy observed. “Good! In Hatch End any one will direct you. We dine at eight. You had better come down as soon as you have finished your day’s work. Bring a suitcase and spend the night.”

      “I shall be delighted,” Francis replied.

      “Do not,” Sir Timothy continued, “court disappointment by over-anticipation. You have without doubt heard of my little gatherings at Hatch End. They are viewed, I am told, with grave suspicion, alike by the moralists of the City and, I fear, the police. I am not inviting you to one of those gatherings. They are for people with other tastes. My daughter and I have been spending a few days alone in the little bungalow by the side of my larger house. That is where you will find us—The Sanctuary, we call it.”

      “Some day,” Francis ventured, “I shall hope to be asked to one of your more notorious gatherings. For the present occasion I much prefer the entertainment you offer.”

      “Then we are both content,” Sir Timothy said, smiling. “Au revoir!”

      Francis walked across Green Park, along the Mall, down Horse Guards Parade, along the Embankment to his rooms on the fringe of the Temple. Here he found his clerk awaiting his arrival in some disturbance of spirit.

      “There is a young gentleman here to see you, sir,” he announced. “Mr. Reginald Wilmore