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

suddenly, with a little pang, that he had never heard her laugh before. It was like music.

      “I’m too happy,” she murmured.

      “Believe me,” he assured her, as he buttered a piece of toast, “happiness and hunger might well be twins. They go so well together. Misery can take away one’s appetite. Happiness, when one gets over the gulpiness of it, is the best tonic in the world. And I never saw any one, dear, with whom happiness agreed so well,” he added, pausing in his task to bend over and kiss her. “Do you know you are the most beautiful thing on earth? It is a lucky thing we are going to live in England, and that these are sober, matter-of-fact days, or I should find myself committed to fighting duels all the time.”

      She had a momentary relapse. A look of terror suddenly altered her face. She caught at his wrist.

      “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t talk about such things!”

      He was a little bewildered. The moment passed. She laughed almost apologetically.

      “Forgive me,” she begged, “but I hate the thought of fighting of any sort. Some day I’ll explain.”

      “Clumsy ass I was!” he declared, completing his task and setting the result before her. “Now how’s that for a first course? Drink a little of your wine.”

      He leaned his glass against hers.

      “My love,” he whispered, “my love now, dear, and always, and you’ll find it quite strong enough,” he went on, “to keep you from all the ugly things. And now away with sentiment. I had a very excellent but solitary breakfast this morning, and it seems a long time ago.”

      “It seems amazing to think that you spent last night at The Sanctuary,” she reflected.

      “And that you and I were in a punt,” he reminded her, “in the pool of darkness where the trees met, and the lilies leaned over to us.”

      “And you nearly upset the punt.”

      “Nothing of the sort! As a matter of fact, I was very careful. But,” he proceeded, with a sudden wave of memory, “I don’t think my heart will ever beat normally again. It seemed as though it would tear its way out of my side when I leaned towards you, and you knew, and you lay still.”

      She laughed.

      “You surely didn’t expect I was going to get up? It was quite encouragement enough to remain passive. As a matter of fact,” she went on, “I couldn’t have moved. I couldn’t have uttered a sound. I suppose I must have been like one of those poor birds you read about, when some devouring animal crouches for its last spring.”

      “Compliments already!” he remarked. “You won’t forget that my name is Francis, will you? Try and practise it while I carve the chicken.”

      “You carve very badly, Francis,” she told him demurely.

      “My dear,” he said, “thank heavens we shall be able to afford a butler! By-the-bye, I told your father this morning that I was going to marry you, and he didn’t seem to think it possible because he had two million pounds.”

      “Braggart!” she murmured. “When did you see my father?”

      “He came to my rooms in the Temple soon after I arrived this morning. He seemed to think I might know where you were. I dare say he won’t like me for a son-in-law,” Francis continued with a smile. “I can’t help that. He shouldn’t have let me go out with you in a punt.”

      There was a discreet knock at the door. Brooks made his apologetic and somewhat troubled entrance.

      “Sir Timothy Brast is here to see you, sir,” he announced. “I ventured to say that you were not at home—”

      “But I happened to know otherwise,” a still voice remarked from outside. “May I come in, Mr. Ledsam?”

      Sir Timothy stepped past the servant, who at a sign from Francis disappeared, closing the door behind him.

      CHAPTER XXII

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      After his first glance at Sir Timothy, Francis’ only thought was for Margaret. To his intense relief, she showed no signs whatever of terror, or of any relapse to her former state. She was entirely mistress of herself and the occasion. Sir Timothy’s face was cold and terrible.

      “I must apologise for this second intrusion, Mr. Ledsam,” he said cuttingly. “I think you will admit that the circumstances warrant it. Am I to understand that you lied to me this morning?”

      “You are to understand nothing of the sort,” Francis answered. “I told you everything I knew at that time of your daughter’s movements.”

      “Indeed!” Sir Timothy murmured. “This little banquet, then, was unpremeditated?”

      “Entirely,” Francis replied. “Here is the exact truth, so far as I am concerned. I met your daughter little more than an hour ago, coming out of a steamship office, where she had booked a passage to Buenos Ayres to get away from me. I was fortunate enough to induce her to change her mind. She has consented instead to remain in England as my wife. We were, as you see, celebrating the occasion.”

      Sir Timothy laid his hat upon the sideboard and slowly removed his gloves.

      “I trust,” he said, “that this pint bottle does not represent your cellar. I will drink a glass of wine with you, and with your permission make myself a pate sandwich. I was just sitting down to luncheon when I received the information which brought me here.”

      Francis produced another bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled his visitor’s glass.

      “You will drink, I hope, to our happiness,” he said.

      “I shall do nothing of the sort,” Sir Timothy declared, helping himself with care to the pate. “I have no superstitions about breaking bread with an enemy, or I should not have asked you to visit me at The Sanctuary, Mr. Ledsam. I object to your marriage with my daughter, and I shall take what steps I can to prevent it.”

      “Why?”

      Sir Timothy did not at once reply. He seemed to be enjoying his sandwich; he also appreciated the flavour of his wine.

      “Your question,” he said, “strikes me as being a little ingenuous. You are at the present moment suspecting me of crimes beyond number. You encourage Scotland Yard detectives to make asses of themselves in my stream. Your myrmidons scramble on to the top of my walls and try to bribe my servants to disclose the mysteries of my household. You have accepted to the fullest extent my volunteered statement that I am a patron of crime. You are, in short—forgive me if I help myself to a little more of this pate—engaged in a strenuous attempt to bring me to justice.”

      “None of these things affects your daughter,” Francis pointed out.

      “Pardon me,” Sir Timothy objected. “You are a great and shining light of the English law. People speak of you as a future Chancellor. How can you contemplate an alliance with the widow of one criminal and the daughter of another?”

      “As to Margaret being Oliver Hilditch’s widow,” Francis replied, “you were responsible for that, and no one else. He was your protege; you gave your consent to the marriage. As to your being her father, that again is not Margaret’s fault. I should marry her if Oliver Hilditch had been three times the villain he was, and if you were the Devil himself.”

      “I am getting quite to like you, Mr. Ledsam,” Sir Timothy declared, helping himself to another piece of toast and commencing to butter it. “Margaret, what have you to say about all this?”

      “I have nothing to say,” she answered. “Francis is speaking for me. I never dreamed that after what I have gone through I should be able to care for any one again