The Lost Ambassador by E. Phillips Oppenheim (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📖

wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly hurt. Is it true?"

"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."

"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of those—those—"

"Those what?" I asked eagerly.

"Those who frequent the Café des Deux Épingles," she said slowly,—"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends."

I shook my head.

"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I know nothing of Louis except as a maître d'hôtel in my favorite restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Café des Deux Épingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added, "were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet."

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.

I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.

"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.

"Decidedly!" I answered.

"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you rise to strike him."

She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.

"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."

"From you?" she asked.

"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,—listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a cripple. He was thrown from his horse—he was master of hounds in those days—and he has never been able to walk since. He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the time,—was his guest from the beginning of the affair."

The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.

"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Café des Deux Épingles should shield you when you are not one of them,—when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or other you will have to pay the price!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it."

"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure, quite sure of that?"

"In what way?" I asked.

"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us—my uncle and me?"

"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.

She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.

"Tell me," she said,—"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,—is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"

"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply the maître d'hôtel at a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him."

She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was silent.

"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?"

She seemed surprised.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet you speak English so well."

She smiled.

"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always. My people"—she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him—"are all coffee planters."

"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.

"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has finished his business we move on."

"Will you tell me, then," I asked, "why you, too, were at the Café des Deux Épingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious habits. What place had you there?"

She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert her, perhaps by reason of its directness.

"Well," she said, "my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two or three times, and he is always welcome."

"From what I have heard," I remarked, "I should imagine that you and I are the only people who have been allowed to go there without qualifications."

She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then, as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more that she must be quite young.

"Perhaps," she answered. "I do not understand the place or its habitués. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful."

"Tell me," I asked, "what are you going to do in London while your uncle looks after his business?"

"Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose," she answered carelessly. "There are always the shops, and the theatres in the evening."

"Where are you going to stay?" I inquired.

"At the Milan, I think," she answered.

Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan, of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively. In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.

"I may come across you, then," I ventured.

She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.

"It would be very pleasant," she said. "I know no one in London. I expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?" she asked.

"As much there as anywhere," I answered. "I have never settled down since I sent in my papers."

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith," I answered, "and I could not get round in time. I haven't altogether finished soldiering, though," I added. "At least, I hope not."

"But where do you call your home, then?" she asked timidly.

"I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one," I answered. "I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother, and I have just a couple of rooms in town."

The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The little current of air which came in through the half-open window was already murky and depressing.

"It is London?" she asked.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," I answered, looking out.

She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," she said.

"So soon!" he answered. "Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?" he asked me.

"On your side," I answered.

He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.

"You will be smothered," the girl remarked.

"I am cold," he answered, in a low tone. "I am always cold after I have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful."

Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!

The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform, and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.

"Can I be of any service to you?" I asked the girl, as I collected my small belongings. "I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the journey."

She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than physical sickness.

"I thank you, sir," he said rapidly. "You could, if you would, be of immense service."

"I should be delighted," I answered. "Tell me in what way?"

"I am exceedingly ill," the man said, with a groan. "I suffer from heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment, and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good."

I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with distressed face.

"If you will allow me," I said, "it will give me very great pleasure to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have luggage to be examined."

"It is very kind of you," she said hesitatingly. "Don't you think, though," she added, turning to her uncle, "that I had better go with you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards."

"No, no!" he objected impatiently. "I shall call at the chemist's. I shall get something that will put me right quickly."

"It is settled, then," I declared.

Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary haste.

"We will have our small things put into an omnibus," I said. "There will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our registered luggage."

"You are very kind,"