The Gay Adventure Part 25

"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel, who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.

On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the conversation--monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies, agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood.

She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed her a clever _flaneuse_, a b.u.t.terfly with brains and beauty, living solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?

Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he a.s.sumed out of compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of repose. At such moments he appeared tired--not physically, but of mundane trivialities.

At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I shall escort Mr. Beckett----"

"You still, then----" began the amba.s.sador, rising at the hint. She interrupted him bruskly.

"Still--still--still! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not interrupt!"--for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to speak--"I will hear no excuses for ba.n.a.lity. 'The ringing grooves of change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and--do I shock you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel.

"Surprise; not shock," he smiled.

"Then you owe me a debt of grat.i.tude. Surprise is one of nature's best gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr.

Beckett?"

He, too, smiled, but mournfully.

"I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"

"_Nil desperandum!_" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously, taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps a surprise is waiting--some ragam.u.f.fin may have put a penknife through the tire!"

"I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer."

"Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down here again presently, I suppose?"

"Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his lips. "A das.h.i.+ng adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious business is golf----"

She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with thought.

Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred and the amba.s.sador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting, perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the amba.s.sador's visit was proof of fellows.h.i.+p--in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let us begin again from another point. Why had Winifred invited his amorous interest? She--but Beatrice had warned him--unnecessarily, had been his foolish thought--against the wiles of Winifred. Her seductive friends.h.i.+p had been simply a trap ... but, no! the remembrance of his recent delectable danger, the sincerity of her--love? the faith of her eyes--all denied a trap. Winifred could not be a conspirator; at worst she must be a half-hearted conspirator who had begun to sympathize with her enemies. But if that were so, she must soon be on the side of Beatrice, of whom she would speedily be jealous! His brain reeled.

The sum of his perplexed musings was that he must keep his eyes open,--a poor result for so much mental effort. That, however, was all he achieved by dinner-time, and he sucked small comfort therefrom. "I am not made for detective work," he reflected gloomily as he played with dinner. "I went into this adventure too light-heartedly. I thought it a game.... So it is, and deucedly exciting now, but I don't seem to have mastered the rules. A blind man in a total eclipse looking for something that isn't there,--that's Lionel Mortimer, Esquire. Old man, you'd better have a drink."

Sensations were crowding thick upon him. His uneventful fortnight was to bear a heavy interest within a few brief hours. In the library, after further futile pondering, he tried to distract his thoughts with books.

It was a failure; he could not concentrate his attention on printed words for more than five minutes together. Always he came back to Beatrice and the ramifications reaching from Constantinople to London and thence to Shereling. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he got up at last at eleven o'clock and knocked out his pipe upon the hearth. As he did this he heard a slight crunch as of a foot upon the gravel. He turned quickly toward the French window and saw that he had forgotten to draw down the blind. He saw something else as well. For a brief second Lionel had a glimpse--the barest glimpse--of a white face pressed against the pane, _watching_. The face vanished almost before the retina had time to record the impression, but he knew two things at once--it was a man's face, and a man he had never seen before.

Lionel did exactly what you and I would have done. He stood stock-still for a moment, his heart clop-clopping against his ribs as if intent on bursting its way through to the light, hammering a Morse message--"You are badly frightened, you are badly frightened, you are badly frightened." "Yes," said Lionel, after three seconds' pardonable collapse, "I _am_; but I'll try to frighten the other chap!" And with laudable swiftness he ran to the window, threw it open and called, "Who's there?"

Of course there was no answer. With a thawing of the faculties he ran back, seized the poker and turned off the light. Then he stepped outside to look for the night-prowler, longing for some tangible flesh to beat into a pulp.

The night was starless. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a bird twittered a hint of ambush. Not a sound on gravel or swish of dew-laden gra.s.s brushed by a spy's foot promised vengeance. Aglow with eagerness now that action was possible and a clew at hand, he walked round the house, eyes and ears alert for the marauder. There was nothing to be seen. It was only too clear that the watcher by night had escaped the moment he was seen, and no good purpose could be served by a random pursuit in the dark. Lionel went back to the library, secured the windows and lighted a fresh pipe.

Of course he could not arouse the house. If, as seemed certain, this watcher were a Turkish spy, it would be absurd to enlist Miss Arkwright's aid. Better to say nothing, still watch--but even more narrowly--and ... go to bed.

It was a quarter to twelve when he went up-stairs, still smoking. His bedroom lay at the end of a short pa.s.sage. Anxious not to disturb any one at that unseasonable hour, he took off his slippers at the foot of the stairs and advanced in his "stocking-feet." Without the slightest noise he tiptoed along the corridor. Just before he reached his room another door was opened, very quietly indeed, upon his right. A line of light cut the blackness, and Lionel stood still involuntarily, without purpose, waiting, expectant of something, he knew not what. The door opened wide, and a girl in a pretty pink dressing-gown came out. It was not Winifred who threw up her hands at the sight of the waiting Lionel.

It was Mizzi.

CHAPTER XX

THRILL UPON THRILL

This time Lionel had himself well in hand: he was ready for anything. It was no occasion for tenderness or chivalry: brusk silent action was the cue. Seizing the stricken Mizzi by the arm with one hand, he clapped the other over her mouth to prevent a scream. Then half-pus.h.i.+ng, half-dragging, he forced her along the few remaining yards that separated them from his bedroom. She struggled at first, but soon realized her helplessness and allowed him to have his way. When he had her safely inside, Lionel locked the door quietly and sat down in high feather on the bed. He felt he was beginning to earn his salary at last.

"Do sit down," he suggested politely. "We must have quite a long conversation before we part. I can recommend the armchair."

Mizzi shrugged her shoulders philosophically and obeyed. She was breathing a little quickly from the capture; but Lionel noticed that she was as charming as ever, and his heart harbored a rebellious thought.

"Hard luck that I seem to be always trying to snare a pretty girl!" he mused. "Well, it must be no nonsense now, my friend. Saint Anthony, forward!" He studied Mizzi's face attentively for a minute, and then asked bluntly, "Now, will you kindly tell me what you have done with those papers?"

"What papers?" she asked with surpa.s.sing innocence. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Oh, don't be silly!" he said impatiently. "Why need we beat about the bush? You know well enough. Explain."

"I know this," she said viciously, "that you find me coming from my room, fall upon me like an Apache, drag me here at this unseemly hour and lock me in! And you ask me to explain! The explanation is due from you. Have you never heard of _les convenances_--what you English call Mrs. Grundy?"

"She's snoring now," he smiled. "I shan't wake her."

Mizzi rose with dignity and marched to the door, nose in the air. "If you are a gentleman," she said scornfully, "you will release me at once."

"Afterward," he replied without moving. He sensed his triumph already.

"After what?"

"Your explanation."

She sat down again and looked keenly at him, as if trying to divine the strength of his determination. "I have nothing to explain," she said presently. "If I had, you could not compel me. If you attempt it I shall scream."

"Quite worth trying," he said urbanely. "Start now. I haven't the least objection."

Mizzi remained silent for several minutes, debating the point. Then she laughed frankly, as if admiring his coolness. "Ah! that's better!" he approved. "Now, perhaps, we shall get on."

"But no!" she said quickly, "I shall not scream, because I am quite capable of taking care of myself. But I will tell you nothing. What next, monsieur?"

Lionel got off the bed and began to fill a pipe in leisurely fas.h.i.+on.

"You don't mind me smoking?" he asked formally. "It always helps me." He struck a match and lighted the tobacco, apparently preoccupied. "What next? you ask. This. Have you ever seen that Pinero play, _The Gay Lord Quex_?"

She shook her head, puzzled.

"Ah! that's a pity, for I am going to borrow a hint if you are difficile. If you refuse to confess I mean to keep you locked up here till the morning."

"And then?"

"Then I shall ring for my shaving-water. And where's your character?"