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

what?” Francis demanded.

      “Or I shall even welcome the idea of having you for a son-in-law,” Sir Timothy concluded reluctantly. “Make my excuses to Mr. Shopland. Au revoir!”

      Shopland came in as the door closed behind the departing visitor. He listened to all that Francis had to say, without comment.

      “If The Walled House,” he said at last, “is so carefully guarded that Sir Timothy has been informed of my watching the place and has been made aware of my mild questionings, it must be because there is something to conceal. I may or may not be on the track of Mr. Reginald Wilmore, but,” the detective concluded, “of one thing I am becoming convinced—The Walled House will pay for watching.”

      CHAPTER XXI

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      It was a day when chance was kind to Francis. After leaving his rooms at the Temple, he made a call at one of the great clubs in Pall Mall, to enquire as to the whereabouts of a friend. On his way back towards the Sheridan, he came face to face with Margaret Hilditch, issuing from the doors of one of the great steamship companies. For a moment he almost failed to recognise her. She reminded him more of the woman of the tea-shop. Her costume, neat and correct though it was, was studiously unobtrusive. Her motoring veil, too, was obviously worn to assist her in escaping notice.

      She, too, came to a standstill at seeing him. Her first ejaculations betrayed a surprise which bordered on consternation. Then Francis, with a sudden inspiration, pointed to the long envelope which she was carrying in her hand.

      “You have been to book a passage somewhere!” he exclaimed.

      “Well?”

      The monosyllable was in her usual level tone. Nevertheless, he could see that she was shaken:

      “You were going away without seeing me again?”’ he asked reproachfully.

      “Yes!” she admitted.

      “Why?”

      She looked up and down a little helplessly.

      “I owe you no explanation for my conduct,” she said. “Please let me pass.”

      “Could we talk for a few minutes, please?” he begged. “Tell me where you were going?”

      “Oh, back to lunch, I suppose,” she answered.

      “Your father has been up, looking for you,” he told her.

      “I telephoned to The Sanctuary,” she replied. “He had just left.”

      “I am very anxious,” he continued, “not to distress you, but I cannot let you go away like this. Will you come to my rooms and let us talk for a little time?”

      She made no answer. Somehow, he realised that speech just then was difficult. He called a taxi and handed her in. They drove to Clarges Street in silence. He led the way up the stairs, gave some quick orders to his servant whom he met coming down, ushered her into his sitting-room and saw her ensconced in an easy-chair.

      “Please take off that terrible veil,” he begged.

      “It is pinned on to my hat,” she told him.

      “Then off with both,” he insisted. “You can’t eat luncheon like that. I’m not going to try and bully you. If you’ve booked your passage to Timbuctoo and you really want to go—why, you must. I only want the chance of letting you know that I am coming after you.”

      She took off her hat and veil and threw them on to the sofa, glancing sideways at a mirror let into the door of a cabinet.

      “My hair is awful,” she declared:

      He laughed gaily, and turned around from the sideboard, where he was busy mixing cocktails.

      “Thank heavens for that touch of humanity!” he exclaimed. “A woman who can bother about her hair when she takes her hat off, is never past praying for. Please drink this.”

      She obeyed. He took the empty glass away from her. Then he came over to the hearthrug by her side.

      “Do you know that I kissed you last night?” he reminded her.

      “I do,” she answered. “That is why I have just paid eighty-four pounds for a passage to Buenos Ayres.”

      “I should have enjoyed the trip,” he said. “Still, I’m glad I haven’t to go.”

      “Do you really mean that you would have come after me?” she asked curiously.

      “Of course I should,” he assured her. “Believe me, there isn’t such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry.”

      “But you can’t marry me,” she protested.

      “Why not?” he asked.

      “Because I was Oliver Hilditch’s wife, for one thing.”

      “Look here,” he said, “if you had been Beelzebub’s wife, it wouldn’t make the least difference to me. You haven’t given me much of a chance to tell you so yet, Margaret, but I love you.”

      She sat a little forward in her chair. Her eyes were fixed upon his wonderingly.

      “But how can you?” she exclaimed. “You know, nothing of me except my associations, and they have been horrible. What is there to love in me? I am a frozen-up woman. Everything is dead here,” she went on, clasping her hand to her heart. “I have no sentiment, no passion, nothing but an animal desire to live my life luxuriously and quickly.”

      He smiled confidently. Then, with very little warning, he sank on one knee, drew her face to his, kissed her lips and then her eyes.

      “Are you so sure of all these things, Margaret?” he whispered. “Don’t you think it is, perhaps, because there has been no one to care for you as I do—as I shall—to the end of my days? The lily you left on your chair last night was like you—fair and stately and beautiful, but a little bruised. You will come back as it has done, come back to the world. My love will bring you. My care. Believe it, please!”

      Then he saw the first signs of change in her face. There was the faintest shade of almost shell-like pink underneath the creamy-white of her cheeks. Her lips were trembling a little, her eyes were misty. With a sudden passionate little impulse, her arms were around his neck, her lips sought his of their own accord.

      “Let me forget,” she sobbed. “Kiss me let me forget!”

      Francis’ servant was both heavy-footed and discreet. When he entered the room with a tray, his master was standing at the sideboard.

      “I’ve done the best I could, sir,” he announced, a little apologetically. “Shall I lay the cloth?”

      “Leave everything on the tray, Brooks,” Francis directed. “We will help ourselves. In an hour’s time bring coffee.”

      The man glanced around the room.

      “There are glasses on the sideboard, sir, and the corkscrew is here. I think you will have everything you want.”

      He departed, closing the door behind him. Francis held out his hands to Margaret. She rose slowly to her feet, looked in the glass helplessly and then back at him. She was very beautiful but a little dazed.

      “Are we going to have luncheon?” she asked.

      “Of course,” he answered. “Did you think I meant to starve you?”

      He picked up the long envelope which she had dropped upon the carpet, and threw it on to the sofa. Then he drew up two chairs to the table, and opened a small bottle of champagne.

      “I hope you won’t mind a picnic,” he said.