“I don’t know much, but I think—I think—I think you are a wicked, wicked woman!”
Was she a wicked woman?
It was a very unpleasant, vulgar kind of thing to be! She had always thought that wicked women belonged exclusively to the lower classes. The idea that she might be wicked was disagreeable to her; it was as though she had been forced to wear a cheap gown or carry a cotton umbrella.
The stare of the dying man had brought the same charge against her. She did not think the charge was true. She was only a woman, all alone, in difficult circumstances, who tried to help herself; that was all. The fault was clearly with those who had placed her in those circumstances; with Cocky first of all, with Ronald next, and, above all, with that dreadful brute whose bones lay in the crypt at Vale Royal.
The documents were all in German, but she knew that language well and read them easily. There was nothing dubious in them. They were the confession of Khris of Karstein of the wickedness he had done in bringing about the separation of his daughter from Adrian Vanderlin, and the proofs of the false testimony he had caused to be brought against her. They were indisputably genuine, attested, and positive. They had been lying in his despatch-box for years; perhaps his remorse had not been strong enough to impel him to condemn himself, or perhaps he had reserved them for still greater stress of want when he could use then to obtain subsidies, or perhaps, seeing nothing of Vanderlin, he had been in doubt as to how far they would be welcome. She who had now possessed herself of them did know how precious they would be esteemed. But would she dare to give them to either Vanderlin or Olga zu Lynar? What history could she invent, plausible enough, probable enough, to account naturally for her possession of them? Would she, if she could think of one—would she have the courage (some people would call it the effrontery) to carry through such a piece of comedy?
Her nerve had been shaken by all she had suffered from William Massarene. She was no longer as sure of her own audacity and dexterity as she once had been. She would have burnt these papers without the slightest hesitation if burning them would have done her any good; but their disposal, unburnt, cost her much torturing indecision, and she could not forget the glare of old Khris’s dying eyes, so full of impotent hatred.
On the other hand, as they were genuine, and bore internal evidence of their bonâ fides, there could not be any doubt thrown on their accuracy, nor on the unblemished motives of her intervention. No one could blame her for giving documents to the person to whom they were addressed. She understood that they were worth many millions to the man made of millions, as Boo called him. She read them all twice over to be sure that she had made no mistake in her perusal and estimate of them. No! She had made none. Their meaning was clear as crystal. There could not be two constructions of their text and import.
What should she do with them? She was uncertain.
Where was Vanderlin?
In Paris, they said.