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The Betrayal, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 38. A Terrible Discovery |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY I Called softly to Grooton from my room upstairs. "Grooton!" "Yes, sir." "You are alone?" "Yes, sir." "Is Mr. Hill still up at the Court?" "He will be there until midnight, sir." A gust of wind came suddenly roaring through the wood, drowning even the muffled thunder of the sea below. The rain beat upon the window panes. The little house, strongly built though it was, seemed to quiver from its very foundations. I caught up my overcoat, and boldly descended the narrow staircase. Grooton stood at the bottom, holding a lamp in his hand. "You are quite safe to-night, sir," he said. "There'll be no one about in such a storm." I stood still for a moment. The raging and tearing of the sea below had momentarily triumphed over the north wind. "The trees in the spinney are snapping like twigs, sir," Grooton remarked. "There's one lying right across the path outside. But you'll excuse me, sir--you're not going out!" "I think so, Grooton," I answered, "for a few minutes. Remember that I have been a prisoner here for three days. I'm dying for some fresh air." "I don't think it's hardly safe, sir," he protested, deprecatingly. "Not that there's any fear of your being seen: the wind's enough to carry you over the cliff." "I shall risk it, Grooton," I answered. "I think that the wind is going down, and there won't be a soul about. It's too good a chance to miss." I waited for a momentary lull, and then I opened the door and slipped out. The first breath of cold strong air was like wine to me after my confinement, but a moment later I felt my breath taken away, and I was lifted almost from my feet by a sudden gust. I linked my arm around the trunk of a swaying pine tree and hung there till the lull came. Up into the darkness from that unseen gulf below came showers of spray, white as snow, falling like rain all about me. It was a night to remember. Presently I turned inland, and reached the park. I left the footpath so that I should avoid all risk of meeting any one, and followed the wire fencing which divided the park from the belt of fir trees bordering the road. I walked for a few hundred yards, and then stopped short. I had reached the point where that long straight road from Braster turned sharply away inland for the second time. At a point about a quarter of a mile away, and rapidly approaching me, came a twin pair of flaring eyes. I knew at once what they were--the head lights of a motor car. Without a moment's hesitation I doubled back to the "Brand." "Grooton!" I called sharply. Grooton appeared. "Is any one at Braster Grange?" I asked. "Not that I have heard of, sir," he answered. "You do not know whether Mrs. Smith-Lessing is expected back?" "I have not heard, sir. They left no servants there--not even a caretaker." I stepped back again into the night and took the shortest cut across the park to the house. As I neared the entrance gates I left the path and crept up close to the plantation which bordered the road. My heart gave a jump as I listened. I could hear the low level throbbing of a motor somewhere quite close at hand. The lights had been extinguished, but it was there waiting. I did not hesitate any longer. I kept on the turf by the side of the avenue and made my way up to the house. The library alone and one small window on the ground floor were lit. I crept up on the terrace and tried to peer in, but across each of the library windows the curtains were too closely drawn. There remained the small window at the end of the terrace. I crept on tiptoe towards this, feeling my way through the darkness by the front of the house. Suddenly I came to a full stop. I flattened myself against the stonework and held my breath. Some one else was on the terrace. What I had heard was unmistakable. It was the wind blowing amongst a woman's skirts, and the woman was very close at hand. I almost felt her warm breath as she stole past me. I caught a gleam of a pale face, sufficient to tell me who she was. She passed on and took up her stand outside that small end window. I, too, crept nearer to it.--About a yard away there was a projection of the front. I stole into the deep corner and waited. A few feet from me I knew that she too was waiting. Half an hour, perhaps an hour, passed. My ears became trained to all sounds that were not absolutely deadened by the roar of the wind. I heard the crash of falling boughs in the wood, the more distant but unchanging thunder of the sea, the sharp spitting of the rain upon the stone walk. And I heard the opening of the window by the side of which I was leaning. I was only just in time. Through the raised sash there came a hand, holding a packet of some sort, and out of the darkness came another hand eagerly stretched out to receive it. I brushed it ruthlessly aside, tore the packet from the fingers which suddenly strove to retain it, and with my other hand I caught the arm a little above the wrist. I heard the flying footsteps of my fellow-watcher, but I did not even turn round. A fierce joy was in my heart. Now I was to know. The veil of mystery which had hung over the doings at Braster was to be swept aside. I stooped down till my eyes were within a few inches of the hand. I passed my fingers over it. I felt the ring-- Then I remember only that mad headlong flight back across the park, where the very air seemed full of sobbing, mocking voices, and the ground beneath my feet swayed and heaved. I could not even think coherently. I heard the motor go tearing down the road past me, and come to a standstill at the turn. Still I had no thought of any danger. It never occurred to me to leave the footpath and make my way back to the "Brand," as I might well have done, by a more circuitous route. I kept on the footpath, and just as I reached the little iron gate which led into the spinney, I felt a man's arm suddenly flung around my neck, and with a jerk I was thrown almost off my feet. "He is here, madame," I heard a low voice say. "Take the papers from him. I have him safe." I think that my desperate humour lent me more than my usual strength. With a fierce effort I wrenched myself free. Almost immediately I heard the click of a revolver. "If you move," a low voice said, "I fire!" "What do you want?" I asked. "The papers." I laughed bitterly. "Are they worth my life?" I asked. "The life of a dozen such as you," the man answered. "Quick! Hand them over." Then I heard a little cry from the woman who had been standing a few feet off. In the struggle I had lost my cap, and a faint watery moon, half hidden by a ragged bank of black clouds, was shining weakly down upon us. "Guy," she cried, and her voice was shaking as though with terror. "Guy, is that you?" I lost my self-control. I forgot her sex, I forgot everything except that she was responsible for this unspeakable corruption. I said terrible things to her. And she listened, white--calm--speechless. When I had finished she signed to the man to leave us. He hesitated, but with a more peremptory gesture she dismissed him. "Guy," she said, "you have not spared me. Perhaps I do not deserve it. Now listen. The whole thing is at an end. Those few papers are all we want. Your father is already in France. I am leaving at once. Give me those papers and you will be rid of us for ever. If you do not I must stay on until I have received copies of a portion of them, at any rate. You know very well now that I can do this. Give me those that you have. It will be safer--in every way." "Give them to you?" I answered scornfully. "Are you serious?" "Very serious, Guy. Do you not see that the sooner it is all over--the better--the safer--up there?" She pointed towards the house. I could have struck the white fingers with their loathsome meaning. "I shall take this packet to Lord Chelsford," I said. "I am down here as a spy--a spy upon spies. He is up at the house now, and to-morrow this packet will be in his hands. I shall tell him how I secured it. I think that after that you will not have many opportunities for plying your cursed trade." "You know the consequences?" "They are not my concern," I answered coldly. She looked over her shoulder. "If I," she said, "were as unwavering in my duty as you I should call Jean back." "I am indifferent," I answered. "I do not value my life enough to shrink from fighting for it." She turned away. "You are very young, Guy," she said, "and you talk like a very young man. You must go your own way. Send for Lord Chelsford, if you will. But remember all that it will mean. Can't you see that such stern morality as yours is the most exquisite form of selfishness? Good-bye, Guy." She glided away. I reached the "Brand" undisturbed. _ |
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