Raife slung her from him with force, and hissed: “You hideous fiend! Is this womanhood—the womanhood that I—I had loved?”
Gilda fell in front of the open door of the dismantled safe. For a full minute her sobs filled the old library, till they became a moan, a prolonged wail.
Raife placed the revolver in the pocket of his pyjamas and crossed the room with bowed head and heaving chest. His face was contorted with rage, and his hands and fingers worked convulsively. He re-crossed the room and gazed at her with a look of intense hatred. Slowly she rose to her knees and crawled towards him with clasped hands. Then, clutching at his knees with upturned face, a still beautiful face, she ceased her sobbing. In low, mellifluous tones she pleaded: “Raife, Raife! I have wronged you. I have wronged you grossly, grievously. But listen to me, spare me! I, too, have been wronged. I have not been a willing agent. I have been forced, yes compelled, to do these foul, hateful things.”
Raife looked down on her with a contemptuous glance. “You have acted well before. You are acting well now. Before I give you in charge of the police you can tell me, if you will, why you borrowed my keys at the Hôtel Royal, at Nice?”
“No! No! Raife, Sir Raife! Believe me, I am not naturally bad. My uncle—at least, he tells me he is my uncle—forces me to do these things. When he looks at me and tells me what to do I am afraid, but I must obey. I simply must, I can’t help it.
“He made me get your keys and told me the story to tell you. He is clever, so clever.” Here Gilda shuddered, and then trembled violently all over. Passionately she raised her voice a trifle, saying: “He is horrid! He is hateful—yes, awful!” Then, relapsing almost into a state of coma, she continued: “I must obey. Yes, I must obey.”
At this moment there was a violent knock on the door, and Raife almost dragged Gilda to a curtain and hastily thrusting her behind, crossed to the door and said lazily, in a tired key: “Yes, who is there?”
Edgson’s, the old butler’s voice, came from without in trembling tones. “Lud a mussy! Is that you, Sir Raife? You have given us a fright! I saw a light in the library and thought there was burglars again. And I’ve got all the men and the gardeners and we’ve surrounded the house.”
Sir Raife laughed a forced, hearty laugh, exclaiming: “Well done, Edgson! You were quite right, but there aren’t any burglars this time. No, I’m just at work on some of my papers, that’s all.” Then, turning the key and holding the door slightly ajar, he added: “Give them all a drink, and send them to bed again. I shan’t be long myself, now.”
The old man replied respectfully: “Very good, Sir Raife.” As he walked down the long corridor behind the other servants who had accompanied him on his well-planned police expedition, Edgson laughed softly to himself. He remembered some of the stories told to him of Master Raife’s escapades in the long white room at the “Blue Boar.”