Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim
on equal terms with them, working with them, playing with them, seeing more of them at all times than of my own sex, such a thing has never happened to me before.”
“I felt that,” he said simply.
For a moment her face shone. There was a look of gratitude in her eyes. Her impulsive grasp of his hand left his fingers tingling.
“I am glad that you understood,” she murmured. “Perhaps that will help me just a little. For the rest, if you wish to be very kind, you will forget.”
“If I cannot do that,” he promised, “I will at least turn the key upon my memories.”
“Do more than that,” she begged. “Throw the key into the sea, or whatever oblivion you choose to conjure up. Moments such as those have no place in my life. There is one purpose there more intense than anything else, that very purpose which by some grim irony of fate it seems to be within your power to destroy.”
He remained silent. Ordinary expressions of regret seemed too inadequate. Besides, the charm of the moment was passing. The other side of her was reasserting itself.
“I suppose,” she went on, a little drearily, “that even if I told you upon my honour, of my certain knowledge, that the due delivery of that packet might save the lives of thousands of your countrymen, might save hearts from breaking, homes from becoming destitute—even if I told you all this, would it help me in my prayer?”
“Nothing could help you,” he assured her, “but your whole confidence, and even then I fear that the result would be the same.”
“Oh, but you are very hard!” she murmured. “My confidence belongs to others. It is not mine alone to give you.”
“You see,” he explained, “I know beforehand that you are speaking the truth as you see it. I know beforehand that any scheme in which you are engaged is for the benefit of our fellow creatures and not for their harm. But alas! you make yourself the judge of these things, and there are times when individual effort is the most dangerous thing in life.”
“If you were any one else!” she sighed.
“Why be prejudiced about me?” he protested. “Believe me, I am not a frivolous person. I, too, think of life and its problems. You yourself are an aristocrat. Why should not I as well as you have sympathy and feeling for those who suffer?”
“I am a Russian,” she reminded him, “and in Russia it is different. Besides, I am no longer an aristocrat. I am a citizeness of the world. I have eschewed everything in life except one thing, and for that I have worked with all my heart and strength. As for you, what have you done? What is your record?”
“Insignificant, I fear,” he admitted. “You see, a very promising start at the Bar was somewhat interfered with by my brief period of soldiering.”
“At the present moment you have no definite career,” she declared. “You have even been wasting your time censoring.”
“I am returning now to my profession.”
“Your profession!” she scoffed. “That means you will spend your time wrangling with a number of other bewigged and narrow-minded people about uninteresting legal technicalities which lead nowhere and which no one cares about.”
“There is my journalism.”
“You have damned it with your own phrase ‘hack journalism’!”
“I may enter Parliament.”
“Yes, to preserve your rights,” she retorted.
“I am afraid,” he sighed, “that you haven’t a very high opinion of me.”
“It is within your power to make me look upon you as the bravest, the kindest, the most farseeing of men,” she declared.
He shook his head.
“I decline to think that you would think any the better of me for committing a dishonourable action for your sake.”
“Try me,” she begged, her hand resting once more upon his. “If you want my kind feelings, my everlasting gratitude, they are yours. Give me that packet.”
“That is impossible,” he declared uncompromisingly. “If you wish to alter my attitude with regard to it, you must tell me exactly from whom it comes, what it contains, and to whom it goes.”
“You ask more than is possible.. You make me almost sorry—”
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry that I saved your life,” she said boldly. “Why should I not be? There are many who will suffer, many who will lose their lives because of your obstinacy.”
“If you believe that, confide in me.”
She shook her head sadly.
“If only you were different!”
“I am a human being,” he protested. “I have sympathies and heart. I would give my life willingly to save any carnage.”
“I could never make you understand,” she murmured hopelessly. “I shall not try. I dare not risk failure. Is this room hot, or is it my fancy? Could we have a window open?”
“By all means.”
He crossed the room and lifted the blind from before one of the high windows which opened seawards. In the panel of the wall, between the window to which he addressed himself and the next one, was a tall, gilt mirror, relic of the days, some hundreds of years ago, when the apartment had been used as a drawing-room. Julian, by the merest accident, for the pleasure of a stolen glance at Catherine, happened to look in it as he leaned over towards the window fastening. For a single moment he stood rigid. Catherine had risen to her feet and, without the slightest evidence of any fatigue, was leaning, tense and alert, over the tray on which his untouched whisky and soda was placed. Her hand was outstretched. He saw a little stream of white powder fall into the tumbler. An intense and sickening feeling of disappointment almost brought a groan to his lips. He conquered himself with an effort, however, opened the window a few inches, and returned to his place. Catherine was lying back, her eyes half-closed, her arms hanging listlessly on either side of her chair.
“Is that better?” he enquired.
“Very much,” she assured him. “Still, I think that if you do not mind, I will go to bed. I am troubled with a very rare attack of nerves. Drink your whisky and soda, and then will you take me into the drawing-room?”
He played with his tumbler thoughtfully. His first impulse was to drop it. Intervention, however, was at hand. The door opened, and the Princess entered with Lord Shervinton.
“At last!” the former exclaimed. “I have been looking for you everywhere, child. I am sure that you are quite tired out, and I insist upon your going to bed.”
“Finish your whisky and soda,” Catherine begged Julian, “and I will lean on your arm as far as the staircase.”
Fate stretched out her right hand to help him. The Princess took possession of her niece.
“I shall look after you myself,” she insisted. “Mr. Orden is wanted to play billiards. Lord Shervinton is anxious for a game.”
“I shall be delighted,” Julian answered promptly.
He moved to the door and held it open. Catherine gave him her fingers and a little half-doubtful smile.
“If only you were not so cruelly obstinate!” she sighed.
He found no words with which to answer her. The shock of his discovery was still upon him.
“You’ll give me thirty in a hundred, Julian,” Lord Shervinton called out cheerfully. “And shut that door as soon as you can, there’s a good fellow. There’s a most confounded draught.”
CHAPTER IX