The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
from Spadd & Newton,” replied the stout woman with a sigh. “I told ‘im you was out, but I’m a bad liar.”
The girl groaned.
“I wonder if I shall ever get to the end of those debts,” she said in despair. “I’ve enough writs in the drawer to paper the house, Mrs. Morgan.”
Three years ago Lydia Beale’s father had died and she had lost the best friend and companion that any girl ever had. She knew he was in debt, but had no idea how extensively he was involved. A creditor had seen her the day after the funeral and had made some uncouth reference to the convenience of a death which had automatically cancelled George Beale’s obligations. It needed only that to spur the girl to an action which was as foolish as it was generous. She had written to all the people to whom her father owed money and had assumed full responsibility for debts amounting to hundreds of pounds.
It was the Celt in her that drove her to shoulder the burden which she was ill-equipped to carry, but she had never regretted her impetuous act.
There were a few creditors who, realising what had happened, did not bother her, and there were others…
She earned a fairly good salary on the staff of the Daily Megaphone, which made a feature of fashion, but she would have had to have been the recipient of a cabinet minister’s emoluments to have met the demands which flowed in upon her a month after she had accepted her father’s obligations.
“Are you going out tonight, miss?” asked the woman.
Lydia roused herself from her unpleasant thoughts.
“Yes. I’m making some drawings of the dresses in Curfew’s new play. I’ll be home somewhere around twelve.”
Mrs. Morgan was halfway across the room when she turned back.
“One of these days you’ll get out of all your troubles, miss, you see if you don’t! I’ll bet you’ll marry a rich young gentleman.”
Lydia, sitting on the edge of the table, laughed.
“You’d lose your money, Mrs. Morgan,” she said, “rich young gentlemen only marry poor working girls in the kind of stories I illustrate. If I marry it will probably be a very poor young gentleman who will become an incurable invalid and want nursing. And I shall hate him so much that I can’t be happy with him, and pity him so much that I can’t run away from him.”
Mrs. Morgan sniffed her disagreement.
“There are things that happen—” she began.
“Not to me — not miracles, anyway,” said Lydia, still smiling, “and I don’t know that I want to get married. I’ve got to pay all these bills first, and by the time they are settled I’ll be a grey-haired old lady in a mob cap.”
Lydia had finished her tea and was standing somewhat scantily attired in the middle of her bedroom, preparing for her theatre engagement, when Mrs. Morgan returned.
“I forgot to tell you, miss,” she said, “there was a gentleman and a lady called.”
“A gentleman and a lady? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, Miss Beale. I was lying down at the time, and the girl answered the door. I gave her strict orders to say that you were out.”
“Did they leave any name?”
“No, miss. They just asked if Miss Beale lived here, and could they see her.”
“H’m!” said Lydia with a frown. “I wonder what we owe them!”
She dismissed the matter from her mind, and thought no more of it until she stopped on her way to the theatre to learn from the office by telephone the number of drawings required.
The chief subeditor answered her.
“And, by the way,” he added, “there was an inquiry for you at the office to-day — I found a note of it on my desk when I came in tonight. Some old friends of yours who want to see you. Brand told them you were going to do a show at the Erving Theatre tonight, so you’ll probably see them.”
“Who are they?” she asked, puzzled.
She had few friends, old or new.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” was the reply.
At the theatre she saw nobody she knew, though she looked round interestedly, nor was she approached in any of the entr’actes.
In the row ahead of her, and a little to her right, were two people who regarded her curiously as she entered. The man was about fifty, very dark and bald — the skin of his head was almost copper-coloured, though he was obviously a European, for the eyes which beamed benevolently upon her through powerful spectacles were blue, but so light a blue that by contrast with the mahogany skin of his cleanshaven face, they seemed almost white.
The girl who sat with him was fair, and to Lydia’s artistic eye, singularly lovely. Her hair was a mop of fine gold. The colour was natural, Lydia was too sophisticated to make any mistake about that. Her features were regular and flawless. The young artist thought she had never seen so perfect a “cupid” mouth in her life. There was something so freshly, fragrantly innocent about the girl that Lydia’s heart went out to her, and she could hardly keep her eyes on the stage. The unknown seemed to take almost as much interest in her, for twice Lydia surprised her backward scrutiny. She found herself wondering who she was. The girl was beautifully dressed, and about her neck was a platinum chain that must have hung to her waist — a chain which was broken every few inches by a big emerald.
It required something of an effort of concentration to bring her mind back to the stage and her work. With a book on her knee she sketched the somewhat bizarre costumes which had aroused a mild public interest in the play, and for the moment forgot her entrancing companion.
She came through the vestibule at the end of the performance, and drew her worn cloak more closely about her slender shoulders, for the night was raw, and a sou’westerly wind blew the big wet snowflakes under the protecting glass awning into the lobby itself. The favoured playgoers minced daintily through the slush to their waiting cars, then taxis came into the procession of waiting vehicles, there was a banging of cab doors, a babble of orders to the scurrying attendants, until something like order was evolved from the chaos.
“Cab, miss?”
Lydia shook her head. An omnibus would take her to Fleet Street, but two had passed, packed with passengers, and she was beginning to despair, when a particularly handsome taxi pulled up at the kerb.
The driver leant over the shining apron which partially protected him from the weather, and shouted:
“Is Miss Beale there?”
The girl started in surprise, taking a step toward the cab.
“I am Miss Beale,” she said.
“Your editor has sent me for you,” said the man briskly.
The editor of the Megaphone had been guilty of many eccentric acts. He had expressed views on her drawing which she shivered to recall. He had aroused her in the middle of the night to sketch dresses at a fancy dress ball, but never before had he done anything so human as to send a taxi for her. Nevertheless, she would not look at the gift cab too closely, and she stepped into the warm interior.
The windows were veiled with the snow and the sleet which had been falling all the time she had been in the theatre. She saw blurred lights flash past, and realised that the taxi was going at a good pace. She rubbed the windows and tried to look out after a while. Then she endeavoured to lower one, but without success. Suddenly she jumped up and tapped furiously at the window to attract the driver’s attention. There was no mistaking the fact that they were crossing a bridge and it was not necessary to cross a bridge to reach Fleet Street.
If the driver heard he took no notice. The speed of the car increased. She tapped at the window again furiously.