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

against which she leaned looked very flimsy. Sir Timothy stretched out his hand and held her arm.

      “My nerves are going with my old age,” he apologised. “That support seems too fragile.”

      She did not move. The touch of his fingers grew firmer.

      “We have entered upon an allegory,” she murmured. “You are preserving me from the depths.”

      He laughed harshly.

      “I!” he exclaimed, with a sudden touch of real and fierce bitterness which brought the light dancing into her eyes and a spot of colour to her cheeks. “I preserve you! Why, you can never hear my name without thinking of sin, of crime of some sort! Do you seriously expect me to ever preserve any one from anything?”

      “You haven’t made any very violent attempts to corrupt me,” she reminded him.

      “Women don’t enter much into my scheme of life,” he declared. “They played a great part once. It was a woman, I think, who first headed me off from the pastures of virtue.”

      “I know,” she said softly. “It was Margaret’s mother.”

      His voice rang out like a pistol-shot.

      “How did you know that?”

      She turned away from the rail and threw herself back in her chair. His hand, however, she still kept in hers.

      “Uncle Joe was Minister at Rio, you know, the year it all happened,” she explained. “He told us the story years ago—how you came back from Europe and found things were not just as they should be between Margaret’s mother and your partner, and how you killed your partner.”

      His nostrils quivered a little. One felt that the fire of suffering had touched him again for a moment.

      “Yes, I killed him,” he admitted. “That is part of my creed. The men who defend their honour in the Law Courts are men I know nothing of. This man would have wronged me and robbed me of my honour. I bade him defend himself in any way he thought well. It was his life or mine. He was a poor fighter and I killed him.”

      “And Margaret’s mother died from the shock.”

      “She died soon afterwards.”

      The stars grew paler. The passing vehicles, with their brilliant lights, grew fewer and fewer. The breeze which had been so welcome at first, turned into a cold night wind. She led the way back into the room.

      “I must go,” he announced.

      “You must go,” she echoed, looking up at him. “Good-bye!”

      She was so close to him that his embrace, sudden and passionate though it was, came about almost naturally. She lay in his arms with perfect content and raised her lips to his.

      He broke away. He was himself again, self-furious.

      “Lady Cynthia,” he said, “I owe you my most humble apologies. The evil that is in me does not as a rule break out in this direction.”

      “You dear, foolish person,” she laughed, “that was good, not evil. You like me, don’t you? But I know you do. There is one crime you have always forgotten to develop—you haven’t the simplest idea in the world how to lie.”

      “Yes, I like you,” he admitted. “I have the most absurd feeling for you that any man ever found it impossible to put into words. We have indeed strayed outside the world of natural things,” he added.

      “Why?” she murmured. “I never felt more natural or normal in my life. I can assure you that I am loving it. I feel like muslin gowns and primroses and the scent of those first March violets underneath a warm hedge where the sun comes sometimes. I feel very natural indeed, Sir Timothy.”

      “What about me?” he asked harshly. “In three weeks’ time I shall be fifty years old.”

      She laughed softly.

      “And in no time at all I shall be thirty—and entering upon a terrible period of spinsterhood!”

      “Spinsterhood!” he scoffed. “Why, whenever the Society papers are at a loss for a paragraph, they report a few more offers of marriage to the ever-beautiful Lady Cynthia.”

      “Don’t be sarcastic,” she begged. “I haven’t yet had the offer of marriage I want, anyhow.”

      “You’ll get one you don’t want in a moment,” he warned her.

      She made a little grimace.

      “Don’t!” she laughed nervously. “How am I to preserve my romantic notions of you as the emperor of the criminal world, if you kiss me as you did just now—you kissed me rather well—and then ask me to marry you? It isn’t your role. You must light a cigarette now, pat the back of my hand, and swagger off to another of your haunts of vice.”

      “In other words, I am not to propose?” Sir Timothy said slowly.

      “You see how decadent I am,” she sighed. “I want to toy with my pleasures. Besides, there’s that scamp of a brother of mine coming up to have a drink—I saw him get out of a taxi—and you couldn’t get it through in time, not with dignity.”

      The rattle of the lift as it stopped was plainly audible. He stooped and kissed her fingers.

      “I fear some day,” he murmured, “I shall be a great disappointment to you.”

      CHAPTER XXVIII

       Table of Contents

      There was a great deal of discussion, the following morning at the Sheridan Club, during the gossipy half-hour which preceded luncheon, concerning Sir Timothy Brast’s forthcoming entertainment. One of the men, Philip Baker, who had been for many years the editor of a famous sporting weekly, had a ticket of invitation which he displayed to an envious little crowd.

      “You fellows who get invitations to these parties,” a famous actor declared, “are the most elusive chaps on earth. Half London is dying to know what really goes on there, and yet, if by any chance one comes across a prospective or retrospective guest, he is as dumb about it as though it were some Masonic function. We’ve got you this time, Baler, though. We’ll put you under the inquisition on Friday morning.”

      “There a won’t be any need,” the other replied. “One hears a great deal of rot talked about these affairs, but so far as I know, nothing very much out of the way goes on. There are always one or two pretty stiff fights in the gymnasium, and you get the best variety show and supper in the world.”

      “Why is there this aroma of mystery hanging about the affair, then?” some one asked.

      “Well, for one or two reasons,” Baker answered. “One, no doubt, is because Sir Timothy has a great idea of arranging the fights himself, and the opponents actually don’t know until the fight begins whom they are meeting, and sometimes not even then. There has been some gossiping, too, about the rules, and the weight of the gloves, but that I know, nothing about.”

      “And the rest of the show?” a younger member enquired. “Is it simply dancing and music and that sort of thing?”

      “Just a variety entertainment,” the proud possessor of the scarlet-hued ticket declared. “Sir Timothy always has something up his sleeve. Last year, for instance, he had those six African girls over from Paris in that queer dance which they wouldn’t allow in London at all. This time no one knows what is going to happen. The house, as you know, is absolutely surrounded by that hideous stone wall, and from what I have heard, reporters who try to get in aren’t treated too kindly. Here’s Ledsam. Very likely he knows more about it.”

      “Ledsam,” some one demanded, as Francis joined the group, “are you going to Sir Timothy Brast’s show to-morrow night?”

      “I