The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
unable to identify. It puzzled him so that for a moment or two after her departure he sat watching the door through which she had disappeared, with a slight frown upon his forehead. She was undoubtedly charming, and yet something in connection with her seemed to impress him with an impending sense of trouble. Everything about her person and manners was frank and girlish, and yet she was certainly recalling to his mind things that he had been struggling all the afternoon to forget. Already he began to feel the clouds of nervousness and depression stealing down upon him. He struck the table with his clenched fist. He would have none of it. Outside was the delicious sunshine, through the open window stole in the perfume of the roses which covered the wall, and mignonette from the trim borders, and stocks from the bed fringing the lawn. The murmur of pleasant conversation was incessant and musical. For a time Wrayson had escaped. He swore to himself that he would go back no more into bondage; that he would dwell no more upon the horrors through which he had lived. He would take hold of the pleasant things of life with both hands, and grip them tightly. A man should be master of his thoughts, not the slave of unwilling memories. He would choose for himself whither they should lead him; he would fight with all his nerve and will against the unholy fascination of those few thrilling hours. He looked impatiently towards the door, and longed for the return of his late companion that he might continue his half-laughing flirtation. Then he remembered the album still upon his knee, and opened it quickly. He had dabbled a little in photography; he would find something here to keep his thoughts from the forbidden place. And he did indeed find something—something which set his heart thumping, and drew all the colour, which the sun and vigorous exercise had brought, from his cheeks; something at which he stared with wide-open eyes, which he held before him with trembling, nerveless fingers. The picture of a woman! The picture of her!
It had lain loose in the book, with its back towards him. Only chance made him turn it over. As he looked he understood. There was the likeness, such likeness as there may be between a beautiful woman, a little sad, a little scornful, with the faint lines of mockery about her curving lips, the world-weary light in her distant eyes, and the fresh, ingenuous girl with whom he had been bandying pleasantries during the last few hours. He had felt it unknowingly. He realized it now, and the thought of what it might mean made him catch at his breath like a drowning man. Then she came in.
He heard her gay laughter outside, a backward word flung to one of the tennis players, as she stepped in through the window, her cheeks still flushed, and her eyes aglow.
“We really ought to watch this set,” she declared. “That is, if you are not too much absorbed in my handiwork. What have you got there?”
He held it out to her with a valiant attempt at unconcern.
“Do you mind telling me who this is?” he asked.
She glanced at it carelessly enough, but at once her whole expression changed. The smile left her lips, her eyes filled with trouble.
“Where did you find it?” she asked, in a low tone.
“In the album,” he answered. “It was loose between the pages.”
She took it gently from his fingers, and crossing the room locked it in her desk.
“I had no idea that it was here,” she said. “It is a picture of my eldest sister, or rather my step- sister.”
The change in her manner was so apparent that, under ordinary circumstances, Wrayson would not have dreamed of pursuing the subject. But the conventions of life seemed to him small things just then.
“Your step-sister!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea—shall I meet her this afternoon?”
“No!” she answered, gravely. “What do you say—shall we go out now?”
She took up her racket, but he lingered.
“Please don’t think me hopelessly inquisitive, Miss Fitzmaurice,” he said, “but I have really a reason for being very interested in the original of that picture. I should like to meet your step-sister.”
“You will never do so here, I am afraid,” she answered. “My father and she disagreed years ago. He does not allow us to see or hear from her. We may not even mention her name.”
“Your father,” Wrayson remarked thoughtfully, “is not a stern parent by any means.”
“I should think not,” she answered, smiling. “Dear old dad! I have never heard him say an unkind word to any one in my life.”
“And yet—” Wrayson began, hesitatingly.
“Do you mind if we don’t talk any more about it?” she interrupted simply. “I think you can understand that it is not a very pleasant subject. Do you feel like another set, or would you rather do something else?”
“Tennis, by all means, if you are rested,” he answered. “We will find our old opponents and challenge them again.”
Wrayson made a supreme effort, and his spirits for the rest of the afternoon were almost boisterous. Yet all the time the nightmare was there behind. It crept out whenever he caught sight of his host moving about amongst his guests, beaming and kindly. His daughter! The Colonel’s daughter! What was he to do? The problem haunted him continually. All the time he had to be pushing it back.
The guests began to depart at last. By seven o’clock the last carriage was rolling down the avenue. The Colonel, with a huge smile of relief, and a large cigar, came and took Wrayson’s arm.
“Good man!” he exclaimed. “You’ve worked like a Trojan. We’ll have one whisky and soda, eh? and then I’ll show you your room. Say when!”
“I’ve enjoyed myself immensely,” Wrayson declared. “Miss Edith has been very kind to me.”
“I’m glad you’ve made friends with her,” the Colonel said. “She’s a harum-scarum lot, I’m afraid, and a sad chatterbox, but she’s the right sort of a person for a man with nerves like you! You’re looking a bit white still, I see!”
Wrayson would have spoken then, but his tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his mouth. He had been asked to bring his clothes and dine, and in the minutes’ solitude while he changed, he made a resolute effort to face this new problem. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that the girl whom he had surprised in his rooms, ransacking his desk, and whom subsequently he had assisted to escape from the Mansions, was identical with the original of this portrait. She was the Colonel’s daughter. With a flash of horror, he remembered that it had been the Colonel himself who had pointed out the possibility of a woman’s hands having drawn that silken cord together! Half dressed he sat down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
The dinner gong disturbed him. He sprang up, tied his tie with trembling fingers, and hastily completed his toilet. Once more, with a great effort, and an almost reckless resort to his host’s champagne, he triumphed over the demons of memory which racked his brain. At dinner his gayety was almost feverish. Edith Fitzmaurice, who was his neighbour, found him a delightful companion. Only the Colonel glanced towards him now and then anxiously. He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the light in Wrayson’s eyes puzzled him.
There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left alone. The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter, which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.
“If you don’t care about any more wine,” he said, “we might have a smoke in the garden.”
Wrayson rose at once.
“I should like it,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know how it is, but I seem half-stifled to-day.”
They passed out into the soft, cool night. A nightingale was singing somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden. The air was sweet with the perfume of early summer flowers. Wrayson drew a long, deep breath of content.
“Let us sit down, Colonel,” he said; “I have something to tell you.”
The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat. A few stars were out, but no moon. In the dusky