CHAPTER IV
I must have fallen forward at the very moment she fired. There was no report, only the jar of a powerful air-spring, but the bullet crashed into the woodwork of the desk just exactly in a line with where my head had been a second before.
It was a pretty piece of dodging, but I was not ambitious for an encore. I was across that room and had my fair visitor by the wrist in considerably less time than it takes to read these words.
She made no attempt at resistance. Her failure seemed to have robbed her of any power of motion. She dropped the pistol as soon as I touched her, and stood facing me with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes.
With my disengaged hand I picked up the weapon. It was an air pistol of a rather formidable kind, quite capable of killing a man at twenty yards. I put it in my pocket, and, releasing my grip on her wrist stepped back a couple of paces.
"Won't you sit down?" I said pleasantly.
My invitation had an unexpected result. With a low moan she put up her hands in front of her face, and then, before I could catch her, swayed forwards and sank slowly to the floor.
"This," I said to myself, "is the mischief."
However, I couldn't very well leave her lying there, so, stooping down and raising her in my arms, I carried her to the sofa.
So far, things had travelled with such cheerful rapidity that I had had no time for reflection. But at this point it suddenly struck me that it would be as well to lock the door, in case Milford, or any other member of the household, had heard the crash of the bullet. So, crossing the room, I turned the key in the lock, and then came back to where my unconventional visitor was lying.
My first impression of her in the mirror had scarcely done her justice. There is a distinct gap between prettiness and beauty, and the girl who lay on the sofa was as lovely as a Greek statue. Indeed, but for the slightly parted lips and the long dark eyelashes, she might really have been chiselled out of marble. Her face was quite white, and only the faintest stirring of her breast gave any impression of life.
My acquaintance with the world has been fairly varied, but this was a situation right out of my previous line. Indeed, the problem of how to act for the best when shut up alone at midnight with a young lady who has just attempted to assassinate you is one of sufficient delicacy to baffle the most experienced. I decided that the first step was to bring her back to consciousness.
Putting some brandy into a glass, I carefully lifted her up and poured a few drops between her tightly-shut teeth. The strong spirit had an almost immediate effect. A faint tinge of colour stole into her face, and with a deep sigh she opened her eyes.
When she saw that I was holding her, she shuddered violently, and shrank back against the arm of the couch. It was not exactly complimentary, but I decided to overlook it.
"I hope you're feeling better?" I said, with an encouraging smile.
Her answer was a glance of such intense hatred and contempt that I instinctively got up from the sofa.
"Well," she said, "why don't you ring the bell, and hand me over to the police?"
She spoke in low, passionate tones and with a very slight foreign accent, but her voice was delicious. It was one of those deep, sorrowful contraltos that seem pathetic with all the woe of the world.
I looked back steadily into her indignant eyes.
"I object to the police on principle," I said. "Besides, I really don't see what they have to do with the matter. You have only smashed a desk, after all."
Before she could make any reply there came a sudden sound of footsteps on the landing outside, followed a moment later by a discreet knock at the door.
"Who's that?" I called out.
The somewhat apologetic voice of Milford answered me through the panels. "It's only me, sir. I fancied I heard something drop in your room, and came to see if I could be of any assistance."
For a second I hesitated, and then, walking to the door, I opened it just wide enough to prevent him from seeing in.
"It's nothing, thanks, Milford," I said. "I was cleaning an air pistol, and the thing went off and smashed the woodwork of the desk. We'll have a look at it in the morning. By the way, did anyone call for me while I was out?"
He shook his head. "No, sir."
"Well, I may run out and post a letter before I turn in," I added; "so, if you hear anyone walking about, don't imagine it's a burglar. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
I closed the door, and listened to the footsteps of my faithful retainer dying away in the distance. Then I fastened the lock, and came back to my visitor.
"Perhaps it would be as well," I said, "if you gave me back my latch-key before you forget."
She had risen to her feet and stood facing me like some beautiful animal at bay. Her cloak had fallen back, betraying the graciously moulded lines of her figure, shown off to perfection by the closely-fitting black dress that she was wearing underneath.
From her belt hung a small leather bag, of the kind that one sees in Bond Street shop windows. She opened this, and without speaking took out a key, and threw it down on the sofa.
"Thank you," I said. "And now, if you won't think me inquisitive, may I ask why you wanted to shoot me?"
She stared at me with a look in which loathing and surprise were very prettily mingled.
"Why do you pretend you don't know?" she asked contemptuously.
I shook my head. "On my honour," I said, "I haven't the remotest idea."
Her lip curled delightfully, and she drew herself up to her full height. "I am Mercia Solano," she said.
I bowed. "It's a charming name," I observed, "but, under the circumstances, Mercia seems a little out of place."
"Ah, you can jest!" she cried bitterly. "You were well named the Satyr of Culebra."
"Really!" I said. "You embarrass me. I had no idea people were so complimentary. But what have I done to deserve all these little attentions?"
"What have you done!" Her hands clenched, and her breast rose and fell in superb indignation. "You ask me what you have done, when the grass is still brown above my father's body!"
Burying her face in her hands, she broke down and sobbed like a child.
I must admit that for a moment I felt an unspeakable brute. Under my breath I cursed Northcote heartily.
"You can believe me or not, as you choose," I said, "but I had no more to do with your father's death than you had."
She stopped crying, and taking away her hands gazed at me wildly.
"Oh, what are you saying?" she moaned. "What is the good of lying to me? Wasn't I by his side when they shot him down? Look here—" She tore back the sleeve of her dress, baring her arm almost to the shoulder, and showing an angry scar that seamed its white beauty. "Here is the very mark of your bullets, and you dare to stand there and lie to my face! Oh, God! are you a man or a devil?"
She sank down on the sofa again, in a very abandonment of passion and grief.
I crushed back a sudden savage desire to take her in my arms and explain everything.
"Look at me," I said, with some sternness, and she raised her head. "Do I seem to you like a man who is lying?" I went on harshly. "I swear to you by my mother's name, by everything I hold sacred, that I was in no way to blame for your father's death. I can't tell you more at present, but before God I'm speaking the literal truth."
The savage earnestness in my voice seemed to have some effect. Into her eyes, which were fixed on mine, there crept a kind of reluctant doubt, and with puzzled gesture she passed her hand across her forehead.
"I—I don't understand," she said faintly. "Guarez—" Then she stopped abruptly.
"Yes?" I said, with an encouraging air. It struck me that Guarez was possibly a gentleman whom it would be healthy to know a little about.
But an obstinate fit seemed suddenly to have come over her, for her lips closed and she got up from the sofa without finishing the sentence.
It was vastly annoying, for I appeared to have been on the very verge of finding out something about my unknown and apparently strenuous past. I couldn't question her further without breaking my promise to Northcote—indeed, my conscience pricked me with having already failed to live up to the strict interpretation of my pledge.
"Well," I said, with a shrug of my shoulders, "we will leave it at that. Please consider yourself at liberty to leave the house when you choose."
I put my hand in my pocket and felt the pistol. "By the way," I added, taking it out and holding it towards her, "since you've given me back my latch-key, the least I can do is to restore you your property."
She accepted it with an air of bewilderment.
"Of course you have some more cartridges," I went on, "but I will trust to your honour—"
"Honour!" she broke out. "You talk to me of honour! You!"
The inference was so obvious that I could hardly pretend to miss it.
"Why not?" I demanded. "I've already told you I am perfectly innocent of the crimes you credit me with."
I stooped forward and picked up the key from the sofa. "Perhaps you can tell me," I added, "whether there are any more of these useful articles wandering about London. If so, I think I shall go to the expense of a new lock."
She shook her head, still staring at me in a kind of puzzled wonder.
"I do not know," she said. "It makes no difference. Whether you are innocent or guilty, there is no power that can save you."
This was distinctly cheerful!
"Perhaps you're right," I said. "But at all events I shall see what the ironmonger can do in the morning. He may at least delay matters."
Going to the door, I opened it cautiously, and listened for a moment to see if any of my household were afoot.
"The coast seems clear," I said. "I'll come down to the hall and let you out."
She made a motion as if to protest, and then changed her mind.
"Very well," she said wearily.
With an inward prayer that no inopportune domestic would put in an appearance on the scene, I led the way cautiously down the big staircase. It was a strange experience, but by this time I was becoming case-hardened to strange experiences. Anyway, we reached the hall without misadventure, and, pulling back the latch of the front door as quietly as possible, I opened it sufficiently wide to allow my visitor to pass through. As soon as she was outside, I followed her, closing the door behind me.
"I'll just stroll along behind you until you pick up a cab," I said carelessly.
In the lamplight I saw a flash of terror leap into her eyes.
"No, no," she whispered. "You must go back at once, It is not safe."
"I quite agree with you," I said. "It's horribly unsafe for a girl to be walking about London alone at this time of night. That's exactly why I propose to find you a cab."
She hurriedly laid her hand on my arm. "I don't understand," she said pitifully. "It's all so different from what I expected, but oh! please—please—"
There was a rumble of wheels, and a dejected-looking hansom came slowly trundling past. I signalled to the driver, who at once pulled up.
"Well, here we are," I said cheerfully; "so that settles the matter."
With a little gasp of relief she dropped my arm, and glanced nervously up and down the roadway.
I stepped forward and stood by the wheel so as to protect her dress. She got in, thanking me in an almost inaudible whisper.
"Good-night," I said, holding out my hand. "I'll leave you to tell the driver where you want to go."
There was an instant's pause, and then with a hurried gesture she bent forward and laid her hand in mine.
"Good-night," she said softly.
I felt the faint pressure of her fingers—the same slender fingers that had so nearly cut short my promising career, and a curious thrill of satisfaction ran suddenly through my heart.
Releasing her hand, I stepped back on to the pavement. I saw the driver raise the flap and bend down to catch her directions. Then he wheeled his horse round, and the cab jogged away steadily in the direction of Oxford Street.
"And here," I said to myself, "endeth the first lesson."
As the words rose in my mind, something caught my attention on the farther side of the road. There was a clump of trees exactly opposite, just inside the railings of the Park, and in the thick shadow beneath them I could have sworn that I had detected a movement.
My nerves must have been pretty badly on edge, for I as nearly as possible jumped for the area. Fortunately, I pulled myself together just in time. Taking out a cigarette, I lit it with some deliberation, and then in a leisurely and dignified fashion mounted the steps, latchkey in hand, and let myself into the house. All the time I had a horrible presentiment that at the next second a bullet would crash into the small of my back; but like most presentiments it failed to materialise. Still, it was with a feeling of considerable relief that I closed the door and shot home the bolts at the top and bottom.
When I reached my study, the first thing I did was to mix myself a pretty stiff brandy-and-soda. I wanted it badly.
"If I keep this job going for three weeks," I reflected, "I shall probably end up as a confirmed dipsomaniac."
By the time I had got well into a cigarette, however, my natural good spirits had begun to reassert themselves. After all, I was still alive, and, apparently, so far quite unsuspected, which was about as favourable a situation as I had any right to expect.
Northcote, however, had plainly been speaking in good faith when he described his offer as one for which the competition would be scant if the truth about it were known. Granted that my first evening's experiences were a fair sample of what I might expect, my chances of survival seemed quite unhealthily remote. If Mercia had been a man, I reflected grimly, by this time I should most certainly have been a ghost.
Who was she, and what had her relations been with Northcote? That the ruffian was responsible for her father's death was fairly obvious, but as to the circumstances of the tragedy I was still utterly in the dark. They must have been pretty bad to drive a young girl to such a desperate step, unless in some way or other she was being made a cat's-paw of by others.
Anyhow, I made no attempt to disguise from myself the fact that I was extremely anxious to see her again. Her beautiful face lingered in my memory as clearly as though I were looking at a picture, and somehow or other I still seemed to feel the thrill that had gone through me when she laid her hand in mine.
I had got as far as this in my meditations when it suddenly struck me I was becoming maudlin. Also, there could be no doubt that I was as sleepy as an owl.
I got up with a laugh and a yawn, and, turning on the light, went into my bedroom.
It was a large apartment, even bigger than the sitting-room, and the magnificent four-poster bed was in keeping with its spaciousness. I made a tour of inspection, satisfying myself that there were no more charming ladies or visitors of any kind lying in wait for me, and then, carefully locking both the door of the room and the door into the study, I proceeded to take off my clothes and array myself in Northcote's silk pyjamas, which the faithful Milford had put out for me.
My last act was the result of a sudden inspiration. Before getting into bed, I crossed to the window and looked out very cautiously through a crack in the Venetian blind. Just as I did so, the dark figure of a man rose out of the shadow of the trees opposite and walked quickly down the roadway.
I got into bed and turned off the light.
"I wonder," I said to myself, "if that could have been Señor Guarez."
Five minutes later I was sound asleep.