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

this!" she begged, with a sudden break in her voice.

      She leaned a little towards him. A long wisp of her hair blew in his face. A moment of madness came to him with the gust of wind which blew her almost into his arms. For one exquisite moment he held her. The violets at her bosom were crushed against his coat. Then she tore herself away.

      "You are mad," she cried. "It is my fault. Oh, let me go!"

      "Never," he answered, passionately clasping at her hand. "Call yourself by what name you will, I love you. If you are in trouble, let me help. Let me go back to the house with you, and we will face it together, whatever it may be. Come!"

      She wrung her hands. The joy had all gone from her face.

      "Oh, what have I done?" she moaned. "Don't you understand that I am an impostor? The man down there is not my father. I—oh, let me go!"

      She wrenched herself free. She stood away from him, her skirt gathered up into her hand, prepared for flight.

      "If you would really do me a kindness," she cried, "get Mr. Spencer to stop his search for me. Tell him to forget that such a person ever existed. And you, too! You must do the same. What I have done, I have done of my own free will. I am my own mistress. I will not be interfered with. Listen!"

      She turned a white, intent face towards the house. Duncombe could hear nothing for the roaring of the wind, but the girl's face was once more convulsed with terror.

      "What was that?" she cried.

      "I heard nothing," he answered. "What can one hear? The wind is strong to drown even our voices."

      "And those?" she cried again, pointing with outstretched finger to two rapidly moving black specks coming towards them along the winding road which led from the highway to Runton Place.

      Duncombe watched them for a moment.

      "They are the Runton shooting brakes," he declared.

      "I expect Lord Runton and the rest of them are coming back."

      "Coming back!" she repeated, with a little gasp.

      "But they were going to shoot all day and dine there. They are not expected home till past midnight."

      "I expect the shoot is off," Duncombe remarked. "One couldn't possibly hit anything a day like this. I wonder they ever started."

      Her face was white enough before, but it was deathly now. Her lips parted, but only a little moan came from them. He heard the rush of her skirts, and saw her spring forward. He was left alone upon the hilltop.

      CHAPTER XX

       MR. FIELDING IN A NEW RÔLE

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      Runton was apparently enjoying the relaxation of having got rid of practically the whole of its guests for the day. The women servants were going about their duties faithfully enough, but with a marked absence of any superfluous energy. Mr. Harrison, the butler, was enjoying a quiet pipe in his room and a leisurely perusal of the morning paper. Mrs. Ellis, the much-respected housekeeper, was also in her room comfortably ensconced in an easy-chair, and studying a new volume of collected menus which a friend had sent her from Paris. The servants were not exactly neglecting their work, but every one was appreciating a certain sense of peace which the emptying of the house from a crowd of more or less exacting guests had brought about.

      In one room only things were different, and neither Mrs. Ellis nor Mr. Harrison, nor any of the household, knew anything about that. It was the principal guest-chamber on the first floor—a large and handsomely furnished apartment. Barely an hour ago it had been left in spotless order by a couple of painstaking servants. Just now it had another aspect.

      In the middle of the room a man lay stretched upon the floor, face downwards. The blood was slowly trickling from a wound in the side of the head down on to the carpet. With nearly every breath he drew he groaned. Overturned chairs and tables showed that he had taken part in no ordinary struggle. The condition of the other man also testified this.

      The other man was Mr. Fielding. He was down on his knees upon the floor, rapidly going through the contents of a dark mahogany box, which was apparently full of papers. Scattered over the carpet by his side were various strange-looking tools, by means of which he had forced the lock. Mr. Fielding was not at all his usual self. His face was absolutely colorless, and every few moments his hand went up to his shoulder-blade and a shiver went through his whole frame. There was a faint odor of gunpowder in the room, and somewhere near the feet of the prostrate man lay a small shining revolver. Nevertheless, Mr. Fielding persevered in his task.

      Suddenly there came an interruption. Footsteps outside in the corridor had paused. There was a sharp tapping at the door. The prostrate man groaned louder than ever, and half turned over, proving that he was not wholly unconscious. Mr. Fielding closed the box and staggered to his feet.

      He stood for a moment staring wildly at the door. Who could it be? He had asked, as a special favor, that he might not be disturbed, and Mr. Fielding knew how to ask favors of servants. Interruption now meant disaster, absolute and unqualified—the end, perhaps, of a career in which he had achieved some success. Big drops of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, drawn there by the pain and this new fear. Slowly, and on tiptoe, he drew near the door.

      "Who is that?" he asked with wonderful calmness.

      "It is I! Let me in," came the swift answer, and Mr. Fielding drew a little breath of relief. Nevertheless he was angry. He opened the door and drew the girl in.

      "You fool!" he exclaimed. "I sent you out of the way on purpose. Why have you come back?"

      She opened her lips, but no words came. The man on the floor groaned again. She swayed upon her feet. It was all so horrible.

      "Speak, can't you!" he muttered between his teeth. "Things have gone badly here. I'm wounded, and I'm afraid—I've hurt that chap—pretty badly."

      "I was in the park," she faltered, "and saw them. They are all coming back."

      "Coming back?"

      "They are almost here. Sir George Duncombe told me that they could not shoot because of the wind."

      "The car?"

      "Downstairs—waiting."

      He had forgotten his hurt. He caught up his hat and a coat, and pushed her out of the room. He locked the door, and thrust the key into his pocket. As they walked down the corridor he lit a cigarette.

      A footman met them in the hall.

      "A gentleman has called to see you, sir—a Mr. Spencer," he announced. "I have shown him into the library."

      Mr. Fielding appeared to hesitate for a moment.

      "It is the man who wants to sell us the car," he exclaimed, turning towards the girl, "but I haven't even seen it yet. Better tell him to wait for a quarter of an hour," he added, turning towards the footman. "I'll just drive down to the lodge gates and back. Come along, Sybil."

      She followed him to the front door. A man was seated at the wheel of the motor car, and turned his head quickly as they approached. Mr. Fielding nodded pleasantly, though his face was white with excruciating pain.

      "Kept you waiting, I'm afraid," he said. "Can you drive at all in a wind like this?"

      "Jump in, sir, and see," the man answered. "Is the young lady coming?"

      Mr. Fielding nodded, and stepped into the front seat. The girl was already in the tonneau. The man slipped in his clutch, and they glided round the broad, circular sweep in front of the entrance. Just as they started the wagonette drew up.

      "We sha'n't be more than a few minutes," Mr. Fielding cried out, waving his hand. "Sorry you've lost your day's sport."

      "Hold on a minute, and I'll come with you," Runton called out.