The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
moved uneasily in her place.
“I am glad I did not see that,” she said, with a shiver.
“I think,” he went on, “that the reason why your father insisted upon Lady Cynthia’s and my presence there was that he meant it as a sort of allegory. Half the vices in life he claims are unreal.”
Margaret passed her arm through his and leaned a little towards him.
“If you knew just one thing I have never told you,” she confided, “I think that you would feel sorry for him. I do, more and more every day, because in a way that one thing is my fault.”
Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, she suddenly shivered. Francis took her hands in his. They were cold and lifeless.
“I know that one thing, dear,” he told her quietly.
She looked at him stonily. There was a questioning fear in her eyes.
“You know—”
“I know that your fattier killed Oliver Hilditch.”
She suddenly broke out into a stream of words. There was passion in her tone and in her eyes. She was almost the accuser.
“My father was right, then!” she exclaimed. “He told me this morning that he believed that it was to you or to your friend at Scotland Yard that Walter had told his story. But you don’t know you don’t know how terrible the temptation was how—you see I say it quite coolly—how Oliver Hilditch deserved to die. He was trusted by my father in South America and he deceived him, he forged the letters which induced me to marry him. It was part of his scheme of revenge. This was the first time we had any of us met since. I told my father the truth that afternoon. He knew for the first time how my marriage came about. My husband had prayed me to keep silent. I refused. Then he became like a devil. We were there, we three, that night after you left, and Francis, as I live, if my father had not killed him, I should have!”
“There was a time when I believed that you had,” he reminded her. “I didn’t behave like a pedagogic upholder of the letter of the law then, did I?”
She drew closer to him.
“You were wonderful,” she whispered.
“Dearest, your father has nothing to fear from me,” he assured her tenderly. “On the contrary, I think that I can show him the way to safety.”
She rose impulsively to her feet.
“He will be here directly,” she said. “He promised to come across at half-past twelve. Let us go and meet him. But, Francis—”
For a single moment she crept into his arms. Their lips met, her eyes shone into his. He held her away from him a moment later. The change was amazing. She was no longer a tired woman. She had become a girl again. Her eyes were soft with happiness, the little lines had gone from about her mouth, she walked with all the spring of youth and happiness.
“It is marvellous,” she whispered. “I never dreamed that I should ever be happy again.”
They crossed the rustic bridge which led on to the lawn. Lady Cynthia came out of the house to meet them. She showed no signs of fatigue, but her eyes and her tone were full of anxiety.
“Margaret,” she cried, “do you know that the hall is filled with your father’s luggage, and that the car is ordered to take him to Southampton directly after lunch?”
Margaret and Francis exchanged glances.
“Sir Timothy may change his mind,” the latter observed. “I have news for him directly he arrives.”
On the other side of the wall they heard the whinnying of the old mare, the sound of galloping feet from all directions.
“Here he comes!” Lady Cynthia exclaimed. “I shall go and meet him.”
Francis laid his hand upon her arm.
“Let me have a word with him first,” he begged.
She hesitated.
“You are not going to say anything—that will make him want to go away?”
“I am going to tell him something which I think will keep him at home.”
Sir Timothy came through the postern-gate, a moment or two later. He waved his hat and crossed the lawn in their direction. Francis went alone to meet him and, as he drew near, was conscious of a little shock. His host, although he held himself bravely, seemed to have aged in the night.
“I want one word with you, sir, in your study, please,” Francis said.
Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders and led the way. He turned to wave his hand once more to Margaret and Lady Cynthia, however, and he looked with approval at the luncheon-table which a couple of servants were laying under the cedar tree.
“Wonderful thing, these alfresco meals,” he declared. “I hope Hedges won’t forget the maraschino with the melons. Come into my den, Ledsam.”
He led the way in courtly fashion. He was the ideal host leading a valued guest to his sanctum for a few moments’ pleasant conversation. But when they arrived in the little beamed room and the door was closed, his manner changed. He looked searchingly, almost challengingly at Francis.
“You have news for me?” he asked.
“Yes!” Francis answered.
Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders. He threw himself a little wearily into an easy-chair. His hands strayed out towards a cigarette box. He selected one and lit it.
“I expected your friend, Mr. Shopland,” he murmured. “I hope he is none the worse for his ducking.”
“Shopland is a fool,” Francis replied. “He has nothing to do with this affair, anyway. I have something to give you, Sir Timothy.”
He took the two papers from his pocket and handed them over.
“I bought these from John Walter the day before yesterday,” he continued. “I gave him two hundred pounds for them. The money was just in time. He caught a steamer for Australia late in the afternoon. I had this wireless from him this morning.”
Sir Timothy studied the two documents, read the wireless. There was little change in his face. Only for a single moment his lips quivered.
“What does this mean?” he asked, rising to his feet with the documents in his hand.
“It means that those papers are yours to do what you like with. I drafted the second one so that you should be absolutely secure against any further attempt at blackmail. As a matter of fact, though, Walter is on his last legs. I doubt whether he will live to land in Australia.”
“You know that I killed Oliver Hilditch?” Sir Timothy said, his eyes fixed upon the other’s.
“I know that you killed Oliver Hilditch,” Francis repeated. “If I had been Margaret’s father, I think that I should have done the same.”
Sir Timothy seemed suddenly very much younger. The droop of his lips was no longer pathetic. There was a little humourous twitch there.
“You, the great upholder of the law?” he murmured.
“I have heard the story of Oliver Hilditch’s life,” Francis replied. “I was partially responsible for saving him from the gallows. I repeat what I have said. And if you will—”
He held out his hand. Sir Timothy hesitated for one moment. Instead of taking it, he laid his hand upon Francis’ shoulder.
“Ledsam,” he said, “we have thought wrong things of one another. I thought you a prig, moral to your finger-tips with the morality of the law and the small places. Perhaps I was tempted for that reason to give you a wrong impression of myself. But you must understand this. Though I have had my standard and lived up to it all my life, I am something of a black sheep. A man stole my wife. I did not trouble the Law Courts. I