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

cigarettes.”

      “Everything ready for the great show to-morrow night?” Francis asked, as he served the cocktails.

      “Everything is in order. I wonder, really,” Sir Timothy went on, looking at Francis curiously, “what you expect to see?”

      “I don’t think we any of us have any definite idea,” Francis replied. “We have all, of course, made our guesses.”

      “You will probably be disappointed,” Sir Timothy warned him. “For some reason or other—perhaps I have encouraged the idea—people look upon my parties as mysterious orgies where things take place which may not be spoken of. They are right to some extent. I break the law, without a doubt, but I break it, I am afraid, in rather a disappointing fashion.”

      A limousine covered in dust raced in at the open gates and came to a standstill with a grinding of brakes. Lady Cynthia stepped lightly out and came across the lawn to them.

      “I am hot and dusty and I was disagreeable,” she confided, “but the peace of this wonderful place, and the sight of that beautiful silver thing have cheered me. May I have a cocktail before I go up to change? I am a little late, I know,” she went on, “but that wretched garden-party! I thought my turn would never come to receive my few words. Mother would have been broken-hearted if I had left without them. What slaves we are to royalty! Now shall I hurry and change? You men have the air of wanting your dinner, and I am rather that way myself. You look tired, dear host,” she added, a little hesitatingly.

      “The heat,” he answered.

      “Why you ever leave this spot I can’t imagine,” she declared, as she turned away, with a lingering glance around. “It seems like Paradise to come here and breathe this air. London is like a furnace.”

      The two men were alone again. In Francis’ pocket were the two documents, which he had not yet made up his mind how to use. Margaret came out to them presently, and he strolled away with her towards the rose garden.

      “Margaret,” he said, “is it my fancy or has there been a change in your father during the last few days?”

      “There is a change of some sort,” she admitted. “I cannot describe it. I only know it is there. He seems much more thoughtful and less hard. The change would be an improvement,” she went on, “except that somehow or other it makes me feel uneasy. It is as though he were grappling with some crisis.”

      They came to a standstill at the end of the pergola, where the masses of drooping roses made the air almost faint with their perfume. Margaret stretched out her hand, plucked a handful of the creamy petals and held them against her cheek. A thrush was singing noisily. A few yards away they heard the soft swish of the river.

      “Tell me,” she asked curiously, “my father still speaks of you as being in some respects an enemy. What does he mean?”

      “I will tell you exactly,” he answered. “The first time I ever spoke to your father I was dining at Soto’s. I was talking to Andrew Wilmore. It was only a short time after you had told me the story of Oliver Hilditch, a story which made me realise the horror of spending one’s life keeping men like that out of the clutch of the law.”

      “Go on, please,” she begged.

      “Well, I was talking to Andrew. I told him that in future I should accept no case unless I not only believed in but was convinced of the innocence of my client. I added that I was at war with crime. I think, perhaps, I was so deeply in earnest that I may have sounded a little flamboyant. At any rate, your father, who had overheard me, moved up to our table. I think he deduced from what I was saying that I was going to turn into a sort of amateur crime-investigator, a person who I gathered later was particularly obnoxious to him. At any rate, he held out a challenge. ‘If you are a man who hates crime,’ he said, or something like it, ‘I am one who loves it.’ He then went on to prophesy that a crime would be committed close to where we were, within an hour or so, and he challenged me to discover the assassin. That night Victor Bidlake was murdered just outside Soto’s.”

      “I remember! Do you mean to tell me, then,” Margaret went on, with a little shiver, “that father told you this was going to happen?”

      “He certainly did,” Francis replied. “How his knowledge came I am not sure—yet. But he certainly knew.”

      “Have you anything else against him?” she asked.

      “There was the disappearance of Andrew Wilmore’s younger brother, Reginald Wilmore. I have no right to connect your father with that, but Shopland, the Scotland Yard detective, who has charge of the case, seems to believe that the young man was brought into this neighbourhood, and some other indirect evidence which came into my hands does seem to point towards your father being concerned in the matter. I appealed to him at once but he only laughed at me. That matter, too, remains a mystery.”

      Margaret was thoughtful for a moment. Then she turned towards the house. They heard the soft ringing of the gong.

      “Will you believe me when I tell you this?” she begged, as they passed arm in arm down the pergola. “I am terrified of my father, though in many ways he is almost princely in his generosity and in the broad view he takes of things. Then his kindness to all dumb animals, and the way they love him, is the most amazing thing I ever knew. If we were alone here to-night, every animal in the house would be around his chair. He has even the cats locked up if we have visitors, so that no one shall see it. But I am quite honest when I tell you this—I do not believe that my father has the ordinary outlook upon crime. I believe that there is a good deal more of the Old Testament about him than the New.”

      “And this change which we were speaking about?” he asked, lowering his voice as they reached the lawn.

      “I believe that somehow or other the end is coming,” she said. “Francis, forgive me if I tell you this—or rather let me be forgiven—but I know of one crime my father has committed, and it makes me fear that there may be others. And I have the feeling, somehow, that the end is close at hand and that he feels it, just as we might feel a thunder-storm in the air.”

      “I am going to prove the immemorial selfishness of my sex,” he whispered, as they drew near the little table. “Promise me one thing and I don’t care if your father is Beelzebub himself. Promise me that, whatever happens, it shall not make any difference to us?”

      She smiled at him very wonderfully, a smile which had to take the place of words, for there were servants now within hearing, and Sir Timothy himself was standing in the doorway.

      CHAPTER XXXII

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      Lady Cynthia and Sir Timothy strolled after dinner to the bottom of the lawn and watched the punt which Francis was propelling turn from the stream into the river.

      “Perfectly idyllic,” Lady Cynthia sighed.

      “We have another punt,” her companion suggested.

      She shook her head.

      “I am one of those unselfish people,” she declared, “whose idea of repose is not only to rest oneself but to see others rest. I think these two chairs, plenty of cigarettes, and you in your most gracious and discoursive mood, will fill my soul with content.”

      “Your decision relieves my mind,” her companion declared, as he arranged the cushions behind her back. “I rather fancy myself with a pair of sculls, but a punt-pole never appealed to me. We will sit here and enjoy the peace. To-morrow night you will find it all disturbed—music and raucous voices and the stampede of my poor, frightened horses in the park. This is really a very gracious silence.”

      “Are those two really going to marry?” Lady Cynthia asked, moving her head lazily in the direction of the disappearing punt.

      “I imagine so.”

      “And