The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.

shake. “She deserted him.”

The hands fell away from before her face. She looked across the room with blazing eyes.

“It is a lie!” she answered. “My husband has been as good a father to him as ever man could be. He is at Rugby now, captain of the school. Look!”

She sprang to her feet, and taking a photograph from the mantelpiece, she laid it on the table before him. Ambrose Weare staggered to his feet. He was like a man who has received a blow, but still withholds belief in the thing which he has heard.

“Look!” she cried again. “There is Nicholas! Don’t you recognize him? Won’t you believe now? He was going into the Army, and now, and now—” She sobbed.

Ambrose Weare took the photograph and turned his back upon them both. For a few moments there was nothing to be heard in the room but the ticking of the clock. Then there was another sound—the sound of a dry, hard sob. Ambrose Weare laid down the photograph and took up his carefully-brushed silk hat and gloves. There was no sign of emotion in his face. It seemed impossible that the sob could have come from him. He turned as though in farewell to Letheringcourt. His manner was once more the manner of the confidential clerk of fifteen years’ service.

“There has been a mistake,” he said. “You will be so kind, sir, as to overlook my rash statements. I have thought it better for the interests of the firm to invest large sums of money abroad. You will find the particulars here,” he added, laying a roll of papers upon the table. “There are one hundred and forty thousand pounds invested in European banks, and nearly sixty thousand in New York. You can obtain credit to-morrow by cabling. You will excuse me, sir, if I hurry away? There is a little matter—a little matter left.”

He was at the door before they could stop him. Husband and wife looked at one another in fear and wonder. The shadow of this terrible thing was still between them—the man who had left the room—Ambrose Weare, her husband!

“In God’s name,” she cried, “what can we do?”

From outside came the answer to her question. They heard the shot, the sound of a fall, the hurrying of servants. They did not need to be told! A white-faced footman threw open the door.

“The gentleman who has just left, sir!” he exclaimed, breathlessly.

“Well?” Letheringcourt asked.

“He has shot himself in the hall, sir,” the man answered. “He is dead!”