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

scarcely make any arrangements to visit elsewhere. Glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you all the same."

      Duncombe sought out his host.

      "Runton, old chap," he said, "do me a favor. Bring that fellow Fielding and his daughter round to my place before they go."

      Lord Runton laughed heartily.

      "Is it a case?" he exclaimed. "And you, our show bachelor, too! Never mind my chaff, old chap. She's a ripping good-looking girl, and money enough to buy the country."

      "I don't mind your chaff," Duncombe answered, "but will you bring her?"

      Lord Runton looked thoughtful.

      "How the dickens can I? We are all shooting at the Duke's to-morrow, and I believe they're off on Saturday. You're not in earnest by any chance, are you, George?"

      "Damnably!" he answered.

      Lord Runton whistled softly.

      "Fielding doesn't shoot," he remarked, "but they're going with us to Beaumanor. Shall I drop him a hint? He might stay a day longer—just to make a few inquiries about you on the spot, you know."

      "Get him to stay a day longer, if you can," Duncombe answered, "but don't give me away. The old chap's none too cordial as it is."

      "I must talk to him," Runton said. "Your Baronetcy is a thundering sight better than any of these mushroom peerages. He probably doesn't understand that sort of thing. But what about the girl? Old Von Rothe has been making the running pretty strong, you know."

      "We all have to take our chance in that sort of thing," Duncombe said quietly. "I am not afraid of Von Rothe!"

      "I'll do what I can for you," Runton promised. "Good night!"

      Andrew, who had left an hour or so earlier, was sitting in the library smoking a pipe when his host returned.

      "Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired."

      "Very good of you—I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to stay—say another couple of days with you?"

      Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not immediate.

      "Andrew," he said, "you know very well that I haven't a pal in the world I'd sooner have here than you for just as long as you choose to stay, but—forgive me if I ask you one question. Is it because you want to watch Miss Fielding that you have changed your mind?"

      "That has a good deal to do with it, George," Andrew said quietly. "If I left without meeting that young lady again I should be miserable. I want to hear her speak when she does not know that any one is listening."

      Duncombe crossed the room and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder.

      "Andrew, old fellow," he said, "I can't have it. I can't allow even my best friend to spy upon Miss Fielding. You see—I've come a bit of a cropper. Quick work, I suppose, you'd say. But I'm there all the same."

      "Who wants to spy upon Miss Fielding?" Andrew exclaimed hoarsely. "She can be the daughter of a multi-millionaire or a penniless adventurer for all I care. All I want is to be sure that she isn't Phyllis Poynton."

      "You are not yet convinced?"

      "No."

      There was a moment's silence. Duncombe walked to the window and returned.

      "Andrew," he said, "doesn't what I told you just now make a difference?"

      Andrew groaned.

      "Of course it would," he answered, "but—I'm fool enough to feel the same about Phyllis Poynton."

      Duncombe, in the full glow of sensations which seemed to him to give a larger and more wonderful outlook on life, felt his sympathies suddenly awakened. Andrew Pelham, his old chum, sitting there with his huge, disfiguring glasses and bowed head, was surely the type of all that was pathetic. He forgot all his small irritation at the other's obstinacy. He remembered only their long years of comradeship and the tragedy which loomed over the life of his chosen friend. Once more his arm rested upon his shoulder.

      "I'm a selfish brute, Andrew!" he said. "Stay as long as you please, and get this idea out of your brain. I'm trying to get Miss Fielding and her father down here, and if I can manage it anyhow I'll leave you two alone, and you shall talk as long as you like. Come, we'll have a drink together now and a pipe afterwards."

      He walked across to the sideboard, where the glasses and decanters were arranged. Then for the first time he saw upon the tray awaiting him a telegram. He gave a little exclamation as he tore it open.

      Andrew looked up.

      "What is it, George?" he asked. "A telegram?"

      Duncombe stood with his eyes glued upon the oblong strip of paper. A curious pallor had crept into his face from underneath the healthy tan of his complexion. Andrew, sightless though he was, seemed to feel the presence in the room of some exciting influence. He rose to his feet and moved softly across to the sideboard.

      "Is it a telegram, George?" he whispered hoarsely. "Read it to me. Is it from Spencer?"

      Duncombe collected himself with an effort.

      "It's nothing," he answered with a little laugh, in which all the elements of mirth were lacking, "nothing at all! A note from Heggs, my head-keeper—about some poachers. Confound the fellow!"

      Andrew's hand was suddenly upon the sideboard, travelling furtively across its shining surface. Duncombe watched it with a curious sense of fascination. He felt altogether powerless to interfere. He was simply wondering how long it would be before those long, powerful fingers seized upon what they sought. He might even then have swept aside the envelope, but he felt no inclination to do so. The fingers were moving slowly but surely. Finally, with a little grab, they seized upon it. Then there was another moment of suspense.

      Slowly the hand was withdrawn. Without a second's warning Duncombe felt himself held in the grip of a giant. Andrew had him by the throat.

      "You have lied to me, George!" he cried. "There was a telegram!"

      CHAPTER XVIII

       "WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"

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      It seemed to Duncombe that time stood still. Andrew's face, wholly disfigured by the hideous dark spectacles, unrecognizable, threatening, was within a few inches of his own. He felt the other's hot breath upon his cheek. For a moment there stole through his numbed senses the fear of more terrible things. And then the grip which held him relaxed. Andrew stood away gasping. The crisis was over.

      "You lied to me, George. Why?"

      Duncombe did not answer. He could not. It was as though his body had been emptied of all breath.

      "You meant to keep the contents of that telegram a secret from me. Why? Was I right after all? Read me that telegram, George. Read it me truthfully."

      "The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said. "He is coming here."

      "Here? Is he giving up the search? Has he failed, then?"

      "He does not say," Duncombe answered. "He says simply that he is coming here. He has wired for a motor to meet him at Lynn. He may be here to-night."

      A discordant laugh broke from Pelham's lips.

      "What about your Miss Fielding, now?" he exclaimed. "Why do you suppose that he is leaving Paris, and coming here? I was right. I knew that I was right."

      Duncombe stood up. His expanse of shirt-front was crumpled and battered. His white tie was hanging down in ribbons.

      "Listen, Andrew!" he exclaimed. "I am speaking of the girl by whose side I sat to-night