Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim

the lawyer and followed his aunt out of the room. Mangan’s expression was beatific.

      “Sir Everard,” he exclaimed, “God bless you! If ever a woman got what she deserved! I’ve seen a duchess blush—first time in my life!”

      CHAPTER V

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      Worcester House was one of those semi-palatial residences set down apparently for no reason whatever in the middle of Regent’s Park. It had been acquired by a former duke at the instigation of the Regent, who was his intimate friend, and retained by later generations in mute protest against the disfiguring edifices which had made a millionaire’s highway of Park Lane. Dominey, who was first scrutinised by an individual in buff waistcoat and silk hat at the porter’s lodge, was interviewed by a major-domo in the great stone hall, conducted through an extraordinarily Victorian drawing-room by another myrmidon in a buff waistcoat, and finally ushered into a tiny little boudoir leading out of a larger apartment and terminating in a conservatory filled with sweet-smelling exotics. The Duchess, who was reclining in an easy-chair, held out her hand, which her visitor raised to his lips. She motioned him to a seat by her side and once more scrutinised him with unabashed intentness.

      “There’s something wrong about you, you know,” she declared.

      “That seems very unfortunate,” he rejoined, “when I return to find you wholly unchanged.”

      “Not bad,” she remarked critically. “All the same, I have changed. I am not in the least in love with you any longer.”

      “It was the fear of that change in you,” he sighed, “which kept me for so long in the furthest corners of the world.”

      She looked at him with a severity which was obviously assumed.

      “Look here,” she said, “it is better for us to have a perfectly clear understanding upon one point. I know the exact position of your affairs, and I know, too, that the two hundred a year which your lawyer has been sending out to you came partly out of a few old trees and partly out of his own pocket. How you are going to live over here I cannot imagine, but it isn’t the least use expecting Henry to do a thing for you. The poor man has scarcely enough pocket money to pay his travelling expenses when he goes lecturing.”

      “Lecturing?” Dominey repeated. “What’s happened to poor Henry?”

      “My husband is an exceedingly conscientious man,” was the dignified reply. “He goes from town to town with Lord Roberts and a secretary, lecturing on national defence.”

      “Dear Henry was always a little cranky, wasn’t he?” Dominey observed. “Let me put your mind at rest on that other matter, though, Caroline. I can assure you that I have come back to England not to borrow money but to spend it.”

      His cousin shook her head mournfully. “And a few minutes ago I was nearly observing that you had lost your sense of humour!”

      “I am in earnest,” he persisted. “Africa has turned out to be my Eldorado. Quite unexpectedly, I must admit, I came in for a considerable sum of money towards the end of my stay there. I am paying off the mortgages at Dominey at once, and I want Henry to jot down on paper at once those few amounts he was good enough to lend me in the old days.”

      Caroline, Duchess of Worcester, sat perfectly still for a moment with her mouth open, a condition which was entirely natural but unbecoming.

      “And you mean to tell me that you really are Everard Dominey?” she exclaimed.

      “The weight of evidence is rather that way,” he murmured.

      He moved his chair deliberately a little nearer, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her face was perilously near to his. She drew a little back—and too abruptly.

      “My dear Everard,” she whispered, “Henry is in the house! Besides—Yes, I suppose you must be Everard. Just now there was something in your eyes exactly like his. But you are so stiff. Have you been drilling out there or anything?”

      He shook his head.

      “One spends half one’s time in the saddle.”

      “And you are really well off?” she asked again wonderingly.

      “If I had stayed there another year,” he replied, “and been able to marry a Dutch Jewess, I should have qualified for Park Lane.”

      She sighed.

      “It’s too wonderful. Henry will love having his money back.”

      “And you?”

      She looked positively distressed.

      “You’ve lost all your manners,” she complained. “You make love like a garden rake. You should have leaned towards me with a quiver in your voice when you said those last two words, and instead of that you look as though you were sitting at attention, with a positive glint of steel in your eyes.”

      “One sees a woman once in a blue moon out there,” he pleaded.

      She shook her head. “You’ve changed. It was a sixth sense with you to make love in exactly the right tone, to say exactly the right thing in the right manner.”

      “I shall pick it up,” he declared hopefully, “with a little assistance.”

      She made a little grimace.

      “You won’t want an old woman like me to assist you, Everard. You’ll have the town at your feet. You’ll be able to frivol with musical comedy, flirt with our married beauties, or—I’m sorry, Everard, I forgot.”

      “You forgot what?” he asked steadfastly.

      “I forgot the tragedy which finally drove you abroad. I forgot your marriage. Is there any change in your wife?”

      “Not much, I am afraid.”

      “And Mr. Mangan—he thinks that you are safe over here?”

      “Perfectly.”

      She looked at him earnestly. Perhaps she had never admitted, even to herself, how fond she had been of this scapegrace cousin.

      “You’ll find that no one will have a word to say against you,” she told him, “now that you are wealthy and regenerate. They’ll forget everything you want them to. When will you come and dine here and meet all your relatives?”

      “Whenever you are kind enough to ask me,” he answered. “I thought of going down to Dominey to-morrow.”

      She looked at him with a new thing in her eyes—something of fear, something, too, of admiration.

      “But—your wife?”

      “She is there, I believe,” he said. “I cannot help it. I have been an exile from my home long enough.”

      “Don’t go,” she begged suddenly. “Why not be brave and have her removed. I know how tender-hearted you are, but you have your future and your career to consider. For her sake, too, you ought not to give her the opportunity—”

      Dominey could never make up his mind whether the interruption which came at that moment was welcome or otherwise. Caroline suddenly broke off in her speech and glanced warningly towards the larger room. A tall, grey-haired man, dressed in old-fashioned clothes and wearing a pince-nez, had lifted the curtains. He addressed the Duchess in a thin, reedy voice.

      “My dear Caroline,” he began,—“ah, you must forgive me. I did not know that you were engaged. We will not stay, but I should like to present to you a young friend of mine who is going to help me at the meeting this evening.”

      “Do bring him in,” his wife replied, her voice once more attuned to its natural drawl. “And I have a surprise for you too, Henry—a very great surprise, I think you will find it!”