The Gay Adventure: A Romance
his late-lulled suspicions once more awake. What was he doing here? Mr.
Beckett returned the scrutiny something in the manner of a jealous lover
who would like an explanation of a stranger's presence. But he was a
diplomatic gentleman, and it was with a slight laugh, merry and sincere,
that he held out his hand.
"We have met before," he said in a friendly fashion, "but under less
happy auspices. Mr. Mortimer, you saw me under a cloud. I was
exceedingly rude. You who are a golfer will readily find excuses, I
hope. I am very sorry."
Miss Arkwright's eyes looked anxiously upon them. When had they met and
where? How odd that he had never mentioned it once! She must hear the
story of their meeting; and "rude"--what did he mean by that?
Lionel smiled and referred her to the ambassador. He, genuinely anxious
to atone for a foolish contretemps, did not spare himself in the
recital. Miss Arkwright laughed gaily over the tale.
"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting
angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been
some one to vent your rage upon----"
"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel,
who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It
was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.
On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the
conversation--monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies,
agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened
with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied
her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood.
She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling
small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed
her a clever _flaneuse_, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living
solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some
secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found
himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?
Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The
abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay
hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its
opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some
wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore
his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he assumed out of
compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of
repose. At such moments he appeared tired--not physically, but of
mundane trivialities.
At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to
Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I
shall escort Mr. Beckett----"
"You still, then----" began the ambassador, rising at the hint. She
interrupted him bruskly.
"Still--still--still! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man
of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not
interrupt!"--for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to
speak--"I will hear no excuses for banality. 'The ringing grooves of
change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We
are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and--do I shock
you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel.
"Surprise; not shock," he smiled.
"Then you owe me a debt of gratitude. Surprise is one of nature's best
gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr.
Beckett?"
He, too, smiled, but mournfully.
"I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your
surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"
"_Nil desperandum!_" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously,
taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps
a surprise is waiting--some ragamuffin may have put a penknife through
the tire!"
"I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from
London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to
be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer."
"Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down
here again presently, I suppose?"
"Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his
lips. "A dashing adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious
business is golf----"
She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the
slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with
thought.
Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he
could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying
to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred
and the ambassador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting,
perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his
hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing
scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were
conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the ambassador's visit was
proof of fellowship--in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It
seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were
stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and
Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let us
begin again from another point. Why had Winifred invited his amorous
interest? She--but Beatrice had warned him--unnecessarily, had been his
foolish thought--against the wiles of Winifred. Her seductive friendship
had been simply a trap ... but, no! the remembrance of his recent
delectable danger, the sincerity of her--love? the faith of her
eyes--all denied a trap. Winifred could not be a conspirator; at worst
she must be a half-hearted conspirator who had begun to sympathize with
her enemies. But if that were so, she must soon be on the side of
Beatrice, of whom she would speedily be jealous! His brain reeled.
The sum of his perplexed musings was that he must keep his eyes open,--a
poor result for so much mental effort. That, however, was all he
achieved by dinner-time, and he sucked small comfort therefrom. "I am
not made for detective work," he reflected gloomily as he played with
dinner. "I went into this adventure too light-heartedly. I thought it a
game.... So it is, and deucedly exciting now, but I don't seem to have
mastered the rules. A blind man in a total eclipse looking for
something that isn't there,--that's Lionel Mortimer, Esquire. Old man,
you'd better have a drink."
Sensations were crowding thick upon him. His uneventful fortnight was to
bear a heavy interest within a few brief hours. In the library, after
further futile pondering, he tried to distract his thoughts with books.
It was a failure; he could not concentrate his attention on printed
words for more than five minutes together. Always he came back to
Beatrice and the ramifications reaching from Constantinople to London
and thence to Shereling. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he got up at
last at eleven o'clock and knocked out his pipe upon the hearth. As he
did this he heard a slight crunch as of a foot upon the gravel. He
turned quickly toward the French window and saw that he had forgotten to
draw down the blind. He saw something else as well. For a brief second
Lionel had a glimpse--the barest glimpse--of a white face pressed
against the pane, _watching_. The face vanished almost before the retina
had time to record the impression, but he knew two things at once--it
was a man's face, and a man he had never seen before.
Lionel did exactly what you and I would have done. He stood stock-still
for a moment, his heart clop-clopping against his ribs as if intent on
bursting its way through to the light, hammering a Morse message--"You
are badly frightened, you are badly frightened, you are badly
frightened." "Yes," said Lionel, after three seconds' pardonable
collapse, "I _am_; but I'll try to frighten the other chap!" And with
laudable swiftness he ran to the window, threw it open and called,
"Who's there?"
Of course there was no answer. With a thawing of the faculties he ran
back, seized the poker and turned off the light. Then he stepped outside
to look for the night-prowler, longing for some tangible flesh to beat
into a pulp.
The night was starless. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a
bird twittered a hint of ambush. Not a sound on gravel or swish of
dew-laden grass brushed by a spy's foot promised vengeance. Aglow with
eagerness now that action was possible and a clew at hand, he walked
round the house, eyes and ears alert for the marauder. There was nothing
to be seen. It was only too clear that the watcher by night had escaped
the moment he was seen, and no good purpose could be served by a random
pursuit in the dark. Lionel went back to the library, secured the
windows and lighted a fresh pipe.
Of course he could not arouse the house. If, as seemed certain, this
watcher were a Turkish spy, it would be absurd to enlist Miss
Arkwright's aid. Better to say nothing, still watch--but even more
narrowly--and ... go to bed.
It was a quarter to twelve when he went up-stairs, still smoking. His
bedroom lay at the end of a short passage. Anxious not to disturb any
one at that unseasonable hour, he took off his slippers at the foot of
the stairs and advanced in his "stocking-feet." Without the slightest
noise he tiptoed along the corridor. Just before he reached his room
another door was opened, very quietly indeed, upon his right. A line of
light cut the blackness, and Lionel stood still involuntarily, without
purpose, waiting, expectant of something, he knew not what. The door
opened wide, and a girl in a pretty pink dressing-gown came out. It was
not Winifred who threw up her hands at the sight of the waiting Lionel.
It was Mizzi.
CHAPTER XX
THRILL UPON THRILL
This time Lionel had himself well in hand: he was ready for anything. It
was no occasion for tenderness or chivalry: brusk silent action was the
cue. Seizing the stricken Mizzi by the arm with one hand, he clapped the
other over her mouth to prevent a scream. Then half-pushing,
half-dragging, he forced her along the few remaining yards that
separated them from his bedroom. She struggled at first, but soon
realized her helplessness and allowed him to have his way. When he had
her safely inside, Lionel locked the door quietly and sat down in high
feather on the bed. He felt he was beginning to earn his salary at last.
"Do sit down," he suggested politely. "We must have quite a long
conversation before we part. I can recommend the armchair."
Mizzi shrugged her shoulders philosophically and obeyed. She was
breathing a little quickly from the capture; but Lionel noticed that she
was as charming as ever, and his heart harbored a rebellious thought.
"Hard luck that I seem to be always trying to snare a pretty girl!" he
mused. "Well, it must be no nonsense now, my friend. Saint Anthony,
forward!" He studied Mizzi's face attentively for a minute, and then
asked bluntly, "Now, will you kindly tell me what you have done with
those papers?"
"What papers?" she asked with surpassing innocence. "I have no idea what
you mean."
"Oh, don't be silly!" he said impatiently. "Why need we beat about the
bush? You know well enough. Explain."
"I know this," she said viciously, "that you find me coming from my
room, fall upon me like an Apache, drag me here at this unseemly hour
and lock me in! And you ask me to explain! The explanation is due from
you. Have you never heard of _les convenances_--what you English call
Mrs. Grundy?"
"She's snoring now," he smiled. "I shan't wake her."