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

I knew at once that I was making a mistake. I shall marry Francis exactly when he wants me to.”

      Sir Timothy passed his glass towards his proposed son-in-law.

      “Might one suggest,” he began—“thank you very much. This is of course very upsetting to me. I seem to be set completely at defiance. It is a very excellent wine, this, and a wonderful vintage.”

      Francis bent over Margaret.

      “Please finish your lunch, dear,” he begged. “It is perhaps just as well that your father came. We shall know exactly where we are.”

      “Just so,” Sir Timothy agreed.

      There was a queer constrained silence for several moments. Then Sir Timothy leaned back in his chair and with a word of apology lit a cigarette.

      “Let us,” he said, “consider the situation. Margaret is my daughter. You wish to marry her. Margaret is of age and has been married before. She is at liberty, therefore, to make her own choice. You agree with me so far?”

      “Entirely,” Francis assented.

      “It happens,” Sir Timothy went on, “that I disapprove of her choice. She desires to marry a young man who belongs to a profession which I detest, and whose efforts in life are directed towards the extermination of a class of people for whom I have every sympathy. To me he represents the smug as against the human, the artificially moral as against the freethinker. He is also my personal enemy. I am therefore naturally desirous that my daughter should not marry this young man.”

      “We will let it go at that,” Francis commented, “but I should like to point out to you that the antagonism between us is in no way personal. You have declared yourself for forces with which I am at enmity, like any other decent-living citizen. Your declaration might at any time be amended.”

      Sir Timothy bowed.

      “The situation is stated,” he said. “I will ask you this question as a matter of form. Do you recognise my right to forbid your marriage with my daughter, Mr. Ledsam?”

      “I most certainly do not,” was the forcible reply.

      “Have I any rights at all?” Sir Timothy asked. “Margaret has lived under my roof whenever it has suited her to do so. Since she has taken up her residence at Curzon Street, she has been her own mistress, her banking account has known no limit whatsoever. I may be a person of evil disposition, but I have shown no unkindness to her.”

      “It is quite true,” Margaret Admitted, turning a little pale. “Since I have been alone, you have been kindness itself.”

      “Then let me repeat my question,” Sir Timothy went on, “have I the right to any consideration at all?”

      “Yes,” Francis replied. “Short of keeping us apart, you have the ordinary rights of a parent.”

      “Then I ask you to delay the announcement of your engagement, or taking any further steps concerning it, for fourteen days,” Sir Timothy said. “I place no restrictions on your movements during that time. Such hospitality as you, Mr. Ledsam, care to accept at my hands, is at your disposal. I am Bohemian enough, indeed, to find nothing to complain of in such little celebrations as you are at present indulging in—most excellent pate, that. But I request that no announcement of your engagement be made, or any further arrangements made concerning it, for that fourteen days.”

      “I am quite willing, father,” Margaret acquiesced.

      “And I, sir,” Francis echoed.

      “In which case,” Sir Timothy concluded, rising to his feet, lighting a cigarette and taking up his hat and gloves, “I shall go peaceably away. You will admit, I trust,” he added, with that peculiar smile at the corner of his lips, “that I have not in any way tried to come the heavy father? I can even command a certain amount of respect, Margaret, for a young man who is able to inaugurate his engagement by an impromptu meal of such perfection. I wish you both good morning. Any invitation which Margaret extends, Ledsam, please consider as confirmed by me.”

      He closed the door softly. They heard his footsteps descending the stairs. Francis leaned once more over Margaret. She seemed still dazed, confused with new thoughts. She responded, however, readily to his touch, yielded to his caress with an almost pathetic eagerness.

      “Francis,” she murmured, as his arms closed around her, “I want to forget.”

      CHAPTER XXIII

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      There followed a brief period of time, the most wonderful of his life, the happiest of hers. They took advantage of Sir Timothy’s absolute license, and spent long days at The Sanctuary, ideal lovers’ days, with their punt moored at night amongst the lilies, where her kisses seemed to come to him with an aroma and wonder born of the spot. Then there came a morning when he found a cloud on her face. She was looking at the great wall, and away at the minaret beyond. They had heard from the butler that Sir Timothy had spent the night at the villa, and that preparations were on hand for another of his wonderful parties. Francis, who was swift to read her thoughts, led her away into the rose garden where once she had failed him.

      “You have been looking over the wall, Margaret,” he said reproachfully.

      She looked at him with a little twitch at the corners of her lips.

      “Francis dear,” she confessed, “I am afraid you are right. I cannot even look towards The Walled House without wondering why it was built—or catch a glimpse of that dome without stupid guesses as to what may go on underneath.”

      “I think very likely,” he said soothingly, “we have both exaggerated the seriousness of your father’s hobbies. We know that he has a wonderful gymnasium there, but the only definite rumour I have ever heard about the place is that men fight there who have a grudge against one another, and that they are not too particular about the weight of the gloves. That doesn’t appeal to us, you know, Margaret, but it isn’t criminal.”

      “If that were all!” she murmured.

      “I dare say it is,” he declared. “London, as you know, is a hot-bed of gossip. Everything that goes on is ridiculously exaggerated, and I think that it rather appeals to your father’s curious sense of humour to pose as the law-breaker.”

      She pressed his arm a little. The day was overcast, a slight rain was beginning to fall.

      “Francis,” she whispered, “we had a perfect day here yesterday. Now the sun has gone and I am shivery.”

      He understood in a moment.

      “We’ll lunch at Ranelagh,” he suggested. “It is almost on the way up. Then we can see what the weather is like. If it is bad, we can dine in town tonight and do a theatre.”

      “You are a dear,” she told him fervently. “I am going in to get ready.”

      Francis went round to the garage for his car, and brought it to the front. While he was sitting there, Sir Timothy came through the door in the wall. He was smoking a cigar and he was holding an umbrella to protect his white flannel suit. He was as usual wonderfully groomed and turned out, but he walked as though he were tired, and his smile, as he greeted Francis, lacked a little of its usual light-hearted mockery.

      “Are you going up to town?” he enquired.

      Francis pointed to the grey skies.

      “Just for the day,” he answered. “Lady Cynthia went by the early train. We missed you last night.”

      “I came down late,” Sir Timothy explained, “and I found it more convenient to stay at The Walled House. I hope you find that Grover looks after you while I am away? He has carte blanche so far as regards my cellar.”

      “We have been wonderfully served,”