The Long Arm of Mannister. E. Phillips Oppenheim

not marry me," Sinclair said sullenly. "We do not speak. All day and night she weeps because of what she has done."

      "What you won once," Mannister said, "when surely everything was against you, you can win again now when she is alone in the world, and the poor remnants of her honour are in your keeping. At any rate you must try. Remember that it is for your life that you plead. Come."

      The two men approached the camp side by side, Mannister leading his horse by the bridle, tall, slim, debonair; Sinclair hobbling by his side, bent and broken, with dulled eyes and wandering footsteps. The woman leaned forward to watch them coming. Her lips were parted, a tinge of colour had come back to her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were fastened upon Mannister—it seemed as though she were fighting with all there was of life left in her, to draw from his stony face one single sign of recognition. He came and went amongst his servants, giving brief orders; once he almost brushed her skirts, and passed by with blank, unseeing eyes. She did not exist for him! He did not speak to her! He could ignore her so completely—he could act as though she were already dead! Faster and faster came her breath, and whiter grew her lips. She loved him! She had known it in the long nights, she had felt it like a mortal pain piercing her burden of intolerable shame. Now he was coming nearer—he had passed. He was upon his horse—how well he always looked upon horseback, and her fingers were gripping the shoulder of the poor creature whom she loathed.

      "Remember," he said, looking downwards with a flash from his steely blue eyes. "Remember, Sinclair!"

      His horse plunged, and he was galloping away. She sprang to her feet—a cry of anguish broke at last from her dry lips.

      "He is coming back!" she shrieked. "Tell me that he is coming back!"

      "He is never coming back!" Sinclair said sullenly.

      She looked at him for one moment, and her heart sickened with loathing. Away along the level road the figure of the retreating horseman grew smaller and smaller. She tottered, and fell forward upon her face. Sinclair sat still and understood why he was alive.

      Traske and the Bracelet

      CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      TRASKE AND THE BRACELET

      GLITTER of glass and perfume of flowers, the music of women's laughter, the sparkle of jewels upon white bosoms, all the nameless air of content and well-being which pervades such a restaurant as Luigi's during the holy hour of all Englishmen—the hour when he dines. The little orchestra, whose soft restrained playing was one of the charms of the place, had just finished the "Salut D'Amour." Smoothly shining heads were bent towards more elaborate coiffures; whispers and smiles and glances, lit with meaning, flashed backwards and forwards between the occupants of the small tables. Dark visaged maîtres d'hôtel deft and eager, watched the scene with interest At one table only, a large round one near the door, were there any signs of dissatisfaction.

      The table was laid for four, and there were but three men present. They represented the obvious attitude of waiting for the tardy guest. The eldest of the party, bald-headed, with gold-rimmed spectacles, pink cheeks, and smooth-shaven face, looked continually at his watch and bent forward to see every new arrival. The other two men were talking to one another in earnest whispers.

      Luigi himself came up to the table, and bowed to his customers with all the ease of a long acquaintance.

      "Mr. Polsover is later this evening, gentlemen," he remarked. "You think that he will come, eh? You see it is half-past eight, and the dinner was ordered for eight o'clock punctual."

      "I'm hanged if we'll wait any longer, Luigi," declared the man with the gold-rimmed glasses. "Tell them to serve up dinner. By-the-bye, have either of you fellows seen Polsover to-day? "

      "I saw him only an hour or so ago," Traske declared—Traske, the junior of the party, in white waistcoat and tie of the latest pattern, sleek, well groomed, immaculate, after the amazing fashion of the struggling stockbroker. "He was in at Poole's trying a coat on, and we walked down the arcade."

      "Say anything about to-night?" the other asked.

      "Only that we should meet again later. By Jove, here he is! Polsover, you blackguard! Do you know the time?"

      They all turn towards him with a little chorus of protests and questions. And then as suddenly there was silence. The new arrival, tall, slim, and darker than the average Englishman, was slowly unwinding his scarf and passing his hat to the attendant. The eyes of the three men were fastened upon his face. Traske passed a cocktail across the table.

      "Have a drink, old chap," he said.

      Polsover took the glass, and held it with difficulty to lips almost as pale as the white kid gloves which as yet he had not removed. He drained it, and set it down empty. Then he took his place at the table. The silence was strained and unnatural.

      Waiters and maîtres d'hôtel melted away for a moment. Traske leaned across the table. His voice was lowered almost to a whisper—a whisper which, notwithstanding all his efforts, was hoarse and shaky. The words came out with a jerk—harsh, staccato.

      "What's wrong, Polsover?"

      Polsover glanced around half fearfully. His face was still the colour of chalk. He leaned across the table, and the heads of the four men were close together.

      "Mannister is in London," he whispered. "I have seen him. I believe that he is coming here."

      Something unique in the way of oaths broke from the lips of the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who presided over the little gathering. The other two simply stared. It was incredible, astounding! They neglected for the first few moments even to ask him the obvious questions. Then the coming of a waiter imposed upon them the ghastly necessity of concealing their terror. Conversation of some sort was necessary. Polsover spoke of wine, and ordered the magnum which stood in the ice pail by their side to be immediately opened. Never were glasses raised to the lips and drained more eagerly. Polsover, who had had time to realize this thing, was now the most self-possessed of the party.

      "I went into the bar at the Savoy," he explained, "to have a Dubonnet before coming across. He was there, in travelling clothes, just arrived I should think. I nearly went through the floor,"

      "What did he say? Did he speak to you?" Traske asked.

      "Just as though we had parted yesterday," Polsover declared. "I—I had a drink with him."

      The thing was driven home to them now beyond a doubt. Polsover had stood before the bar and drank with him. No one could do that with a ghost.

      "He asked—after everybody," Polsover continued, "just as though he had been away for a week-end. He said—when he had changed—that he was coming here."

      Hambledon drank his third glass of champagne, and made a brave attempt to break through the stupefaction which seemed to have clouded the intellects of all of them. Hambledon was the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who seemed to play the host

      "Look here," he said, "we're not a pack of babies, to be scared to death just because one man's come back from the dead. Mannister can't eat us. We've played it low down against him, but we're inside the law. He can't know much. If Sinclair and he have ever come face to face, there would be more shooting than talking done. I doubt if he knows anything. Remember—if he comes he is welcome. Not too much surprise, mind—and no explanations to-night."

      "About the time?" Traske asked hoarsely,

      "Silence!" Hambledon declared.

      Then they heard Luigi's little cry of surprise merged into one of welcome, and the thunderbolt fell. Tall and lean, with bronzed face and clear, sunburnt skin, Mannister, in his trim evening clothes, and unchanging air of complete self-composure, seemed, as he slowly advanced towards them, a perfectly