The Crimson Blind Part 30

"A slimy, fawning hound," he whispered. "A mean fellow. And the best of it is that he imagines that I hold the highest regard for him.

Good-night."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A SQUIRE OF DAMES

A little later, and Christabel sat before her looking-gla.s.s with her lovely hair about her shoulders. The gla.s.ses were gone and her magnificent eyes gleamed and sparkled.

"Good night's work," she said to her smiling reflection. "Now the danger is pa.s.sed and now that I am away from that dreadful house I feel a different being. Strange what a difference a few hours has made! And I hardly need my disguise--even at this moment I believe that Enid would not recognise me. She will be pleased to know that her telegram came in so usefully. Well, here I am, and I don't fancy that anybody will recognise Christabel Lee and Chris Henson for one and the same person."

She sat there brus.h.i.+ng her hair and letting her thoughts drift along idly over the events of the evening. Reginald Henson would have felt less easy in his mind had he known what these thoughts were. Up to now that oily scoundrel hugged himself with the delusion that n.o.body besides Frank Littimer and himself knew that the second copy of "The Crimson Blind" had pa.s.sed into Bell's possession.

But Chris was quite aware of the fact. And Chris _as_ Chris was supposed by Henson to be dead and buried, and was, therefore, in a position to play her cards as she pleased. Up to now it seemed to her that she had played them very well indeed. A cipher telegram from Longdean had warned her that Henson was coming there, had given her more than a pa.s.sing hint what Henson required, and her native wit had told her why Henson was after the Rembrandt.

Precisely why he wanted the picture she had not discovered yet. But she knew that she would before long. And she knew also that Henson would try and obtain the print without making his presence at Littimer Castle obvious. He was bringing Frank Littimer with him, and was therefore going to use the younger man in some cunning way.

That Henson would try and get into the castle surrept.i.tiously Chris had felt from the first. Once he did so the rest would be easy, as he knew exactly where to lay his hand on the picture. Therefore he could have no better time than the dead of night. If his presence were betrayed he could turn the matter aside as a joke and trust to his native wit later on. If he had obtained the picture by stealth he would have discreetly disappeared, covering his tracks as he retreated.

Still, it had all fallen out very fortunately. Henson had been made to look ridiculous; he had been forced to admit that he was giving Littimer a lesson over the Rembrandt, and though the thing appeared innocent enough on the surface, Chris was sanguine that later on she could bring this up in evidence against him.

"So far so good," she told herself. "Watch, watch, watch, and act when the time comes. But it was hard to meet Frank to-night and be able to say nothing. And how abjectly miserable he looked! Well, let us hope that the good time is coming."

Chris was up betimes in the morning and out on the terrace. She felt no further uneasiness on the score of the disguise now. Henson was certain to be inquisitive, it was part of his nature, but he was not going to learn anything. Chris smiled as she saw Henson lumbering towards her. He seemed all the better for his night's rest.

"The rose blooms early here," he said, gallantly. "Let me express the hope that you have quite forgiven me for the fright I gave you last night."

"I guess I don't recollect the fright," Chris drawled. "And if there was any fright I calculate it was on the other side. And how are you this morning? You look as if you had been in the wars. Got some trouble with your throat, or what?"

"A slight operation," Henson said, airily. "I have been speaking too much in public lately and a little something had to be removed. I am much better."

The ready lie tripped off his tongue. Chris smiled slightly.

"Do you know, you remind me very much of somebody," he went on. "And yet I don't know why, because you are quite different. Lord Littimer tells me you are an American."

"The Stars and Stripes," Chris laughed. "I guess our nation is the first on earth. Now, if you happen to know anything about Boston--"

"I never was in Boston in my life," Henson replied, hastily. The name seemed to render him uneasy. "Have you been in England very long?"

Chris replied that she was enjoying England for the first time. But she was not there to answer questions, her _role_ was to ask them. But she was dealing with a past-master in the art of gleaning information, and Henson was getting on her nerves. She gave a little cry of pleasure as a magnificent specimen of a bloodhound came trotting down the terrace and paused in friendly fas.h.i.+on before her.

"What a lovely dog," she exclaimed. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Henson?"

She looked up beamingly into his face as she spoke; she saw the heavy features darken and the eyes grow small with anger.

"I loathe them, and they loathe me," Henson growled. "Look at him!"

He pointed to the dog, who showed his teeth with an angry growl. And yet the great sleek head lay against the girl's knee in perfect confidence.

Henson looked on uneasily and backed a little way. The dog marked his every movement.

"See how the brute shows his teeth at me," he said.

"Please send him away, Miss Lee. I am certain he is getting ready for a spring."

Henson's face was white and hot and wet, his lips trembled. He was horribly afraid. Chris patted the silky head and dismissed the dog with a curt command. He went off instantly with a wistful, backward look in his eye.

"We are going to be great friends, that doggie and I," Chris said, gaily.

"And I don't like you any the better, Mr. Henson, because you don't like dogs and they don't like you. Dogs are far better judges of character than you imagine. Dr. Bell says--"

"What Dr. Bell?" Henson demanded, swiftly.

Chris had paused just in time: perhaps her successful disguise had made her a trifle reckless.

"Dr. Hatherly Bell," she said. "He used to be a famous man before he fell into disgrace over something or another. I heard him lecture on the animal instinct in Boston once, and he said--but as you don't care for dogs it doesn't matter what he said."

"Do you happen to know anything about him?" Henson asked.

"Very little. I never met him, if that is what you mean. But I heard that he had done something particularly disgraceful. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing more than a mere coincidence," Henson replied. "It is just a little strange that you should mention his name here, especially after what had happened last night. I suppose that, being an American, you fell in love with the Rembrandt. It was you who suggested securing it in its place, and then preventing my little jest from being successfully carried out. Of course you have heard that the print was stolen once?"

"The knowledge is as general as the spiriting away of the Gainsborough d.u.c.h.ess."

"Quite so. Well, the man who stole the Rembrandt was Dr. Hatherly Bell.

He stole it that he might pay a gambling debt, and it was subsequently found in his luggage before he could pa.s.s it on to the purchaser. I am glad you mentioned it, because the name of Bell is not exactly a favourite at the castle."

"I am much obliged to you," said Chris, gravely. "Was Dr. Bell a favourite once?"

"Oh, immense. He had great influence over Lord Littimer. He--but here comes Littimer in one of his moods. He appears to be angry about something."

Littimer strode up, with a frown on his face and a telegram in his hand.

Henson a.s.sumed to be mildly sympathetic.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he murmured.

"Serious," Littimer cried. "The acme of audacity--yes. The telegram has just come. 'Must see you tonight on important business affecting the past. Shall hope to be with you some time after dinner!'"

"And who is the audacious aspirant to an interview?" Chris asked, demurely.

"A man I expect you never heard of," said Littimer, "but who is quite familiar to Henson here. I am alluding to that scoundrel Hatherly Bell."

"Good heavens!" Henson burst out. "I--I mean, what colossal impudence!"