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

a cloud, and Francis’ figure, as he stood there, was undefined and ghostly. A thought seemed to flash into her mind. She leaned forward.

      “Once,” she said, “he told me that he was your enemy.”

      “The term is a little melodramatic,” Sir Timothy protested. “We look at certain things from opposite points of view. You see, my prospective son-in-law, if ever he becomes that, represents the law—the Law with a capital ‘L’—which recognises no human errors or weaknesses, and judges crime out of the musty books of the law-givers of old. He makes of the law a mechanical thing which can neither bend nor give, and he judges humanity from the same standpoint. Yet at heart he is a good fellow and I like him.”

      “And you?”

      “My weakness lies the other way,” he confessed, “and my sympathy is with those who do not fear to make their own laws.”

      She held out her hand, white and spectral in the momentary gloom. At the other end of the lawn, Francis and Margaret were disembarking from the punt.

      “Does it sound too shockingly obvious,” she murmured, “if I say that I want to make you my law?”

      CHAPTER XXXIII

       Table of Contents

      It would have puzzled anybody, except, perhaps, Lady Cynthia herself, to have detected the slightest alteration in Sir Timothy’s demeanour during the following day, when he made fitful appearances at The Sanctuary, or at the dinner which was served a little earlier than usual, before his final departure for the scene of the festivities. Once he paused in the act of helping himself to some dish and listened for a moment to the sound of voices in the hall, and when a taxicab drove up he set down his glass and again betrayed some interest.

      “The maid with my frock, thank heavens!” Lady Cynthia announced, glancing out of the window. “My last anxiety is removed. I am looking forward now to a wonderful night.”

      “You may very easily be disappointed,” her host warned her. “My entertainments appeal more, as a rule, to men.”

      “Why don’t you be thoroughly original and issue no invitations to women at all?” Margaret enquired.

      “For the same reason that you adorn your rooms and the dinner-table with flowers,” he answered. “One needs them—as a relief. Apart from that, I am really proud of my dancing-room, and there again, you see, your sex is necessary.”

      “We are flattered,” Margaret declared, with a little bow. “It does seem queer to think that you should own what Cynthia’s cousin, Davy Hinton, once told me was the best floor in London, and that I have never danced on it.”

      “Nor I,” Lady Cynthia put in. “There might have been some excuse for not asking you, Margaret, but why an ultra-Bohemian like myself has had to beg and plead for an invitation, I really cannot imagine.”

      “You might find,” Sir Timothy said, “you may even now—that some of my men guests are not altogether to your liking.”

      “Quite content to take my risk,” Lady Cynthia declared cheerfully. “The man with the best manners I ever met—it was at one of Maggie’s studio dances, too—was a bookmaker. And a retired prize-fighter brought me home once from an Albert Hall dance.”

      “How did he behave?” Francis asked.

      “He was wistful but restrained,” Lady Cynthia replied, “quite the gentleman, in fact.”

      “You encourage me to hope for the best,” Sir Timothy said, rising to his feet. “You will excuse me now? I have a few final preparations to make.”

      “Are we to be allowed,” Margaret enquired, “to come across the park?”

      “You would not find it convenient,” her father assured her. “You had better order a car, say for ten o’clock. Don’t forget to bring your cards of invitation, and find me immediately you arrive. I wish to direct your proceedings to some extent.”

      Lady Cynthia strolled across with him to the postern-gate and stood by his side after he had opened it. Several of the animals, grazing in different parts of the park, pricked up their ears at the sound. An old mare came hobbling towards him; a flea-bitten grey came trotting down the field, his head in the air, neighing loudly.

      “You waste a great deal of tenderness upon your animal friends, dear host,” she murmured.

      He deliberately looked away from her.

      “The reciprocation, at any rate, has its disadvantages,” he remarked, glancing a little disconsolately at the brown hairs upon his coat-sleeve. “I shall have to find another coat before I can receive my guests—which is a further reason,” he added, “why I must hurry.”

      At the entrance to the great gates of The Walled House, two men in livery were standing. One of them examined with care the red cards of invitation, and as soon as he was satisfied the gates were opened by some unseen agency. The moment the car had passed through, they were closed again.

      “Father seems thoroughly mediaeval over this business,” Margaret remarked, looking about her with interest. “What a quaint courtyard, too! It really is quite Italian.”

      “It seems almost incredible that you have never been here!” Lady Cynthia exclaimed. “Curiosity would have brought me if I had had to climb over the wall!”

      “It does seem absurd in one way,” Margaret agreed, “but, as a matter of fact, my father’s attitude about the place has always rather set me against it. I didn’t feel that there was any pleasure to be gained by coming here. I won’t tell you really what I did think. We must keep to our bargain. We are not to anticipate.”

      At the front entrance, under the covered portico, the white tickets which they had received in exchange for their tickets of invitation, were carefully collected by another man, who stopped the car a few yards from the broad, curving steps. After that, there was no more suggestion of inhospitality. The front doors, which were of enormous size and height, seemed to have been removed, and in the great domed hall beyond Sir Timothy was already receiving his guests. Being without wraps, the little party made an immediate entrance. Sir Timothy, who was talking to one of the best-known of the foreign ambassadors, took a step forward to meet them.

      “Welcome,” he said, “you, the most unique party, at least, amongst my guests. Prince, may I present you to my daughter, Mrs. Hilditch? Lady Cynthia Milton and Mr. Ledsam you know, I believe.”

      “Your father has just been preparing me for this pleasure,” the Prince remarked, with a smile. “I am delighted that his views as regards these wonderful parties are becoming a little more—would it be correct to say latitudinarian? He has certainly been very strict up to now.”

      “It is the first time I have been vouchsafed an invitation,” Margaret confessed.

      “You will find much to interest you,” the Prince observed. “For myself, I love the sport of which your father is so noble a patron. That, without doubt, though, is a side of his entertainment of which you will know nothing.”

      Sir Timothy, choosing a moment’s respite from the inflowing stream of guests, came once more across to them.

      “I am going to leave you, my honoured guests from The Sanctuary,” he said, with a faint smile, “to yourselves for a short time. In the room to your left, supper is being served. In front is the dancing-gallery. To the right, as you see, is the lounge leading into the winter-garden. The gymnasium is closed until midnight. Any other part of the place please explore at your leisure, but I am going to ask you one thing. I want you to meet me in a room which I will show you, at a quarter to twelve.”

      He led them down one of the corridors which opened from the hall. Before the first door on the right a man-servant was standing as though on sentry duty. Sir Timothy tapped