‘Do you know, it isn’t half bad in this light,’ he remarked casually to Marcia. ‘That old fellow up there,’ he nodded toward Bacchus reclining among the vines in the central panelling, ‘might be a Michelangelo in the moonlight, and in the sunlight he isn’t even a Carlo Dolci.’
Marcia stared. What could he be thinking of to choose this time of all others to be making art criticisms? Never had she heard him express the slightest interest in the subject before. She had been under so great a strain for so long, such a succession of shocks, that she was nearly at the end of her self-control. And then to have Sybert acting in this unprecedented way! She looked past him out of the door toward the black shadow of the ilexes, and shuddered as she thought of what they might conceal. The next moment Sybert had stepped out on to the balcony.
‘Mr. Sybert!’ she cried aghast. ‘They may be watching us. Come back.’
He laughed and seated himself sidewise on the iron railing. ‘If they’re watching us, they’re doubtless wondering why we’re closing the house so carefully. We’ll stop here a few minutes and let them see we’re unsuspicious; that we’re just shutting the doors for fear of draughts and not of burglars.’
‘They’ll shoot you,’ she gasped, her eyes upon his white suit, which made a shining target in the moonlight.
‘Nonsense, Miss Marcia! They couldn’t hit me if they tried.’ He marked the distance to the grove with a calculating eye. ‘There’s no danger of their trying, however. They won’t risk giving their plot away just for the sake of nabbing me; I’m not King Humbert. They don’t hate me as much as that.’ He leaned forward with another laugh. ‘Come out and talk to me, Miss Marcia. Let me see how brave you are.’
Marcia flattened herself against the wall. ‘I’m not brave. Please come back, Mr. Sybert. We must tell Uncle Howard.’
If Marcia did not know Sybert to-night, he did not know himself. He was under a greater strain than she. He had sworn that he would not see her again, and he had weakly come to-night; he had promised himself that he would not talk to her, that he would not by the slightest sign betray his feelings, and he found himself thrown with her under the most intimate conditions. They shared a secret; they were in danger together. It was within the realms of possibility that he would be killed to-night. The Camorrists had attempted it before; they might succeed this time. He actually did not care; he almost welcomed the notion. Ambition was dead within him; he had nothing to live for and he was reckless. He thought that Marcia was in love with another man, but he dimly divined his own influence over her. Once at least, he told himself—once, before she went back to the boy she had chosen, she should acknowledge his power; she should bend her will to his. He knew that she was frightened, but she should conquer her fear. She should come out into the moonlight and stand beside him, hand in hand, facing the shadows of the ilex grove.
He bent forward, watching her as she stood in her white evening gown outlined against the dark tapestry of the wall, her face surrounded by glowing hair, her grey eyes big with amazement and fear.
He stretched out his hand toward her. ‘Marcia,’ he called in a low, insistent tone. ‘Come here, Marcia. Come out here and stand beside me, or I shall think you are a coward.’