The Avenger by E. Phillips Oppenheim (the dot read aloud .txt) 📖

shall be delighted," he answered, promptly. "You nearly forgot to tell me."

She shook her head.

"No! I didn't," she said. "I should not have let you go away without giving you her message."

"And you will let me bring you home afterwards?"

"We shall be delighted," she answered. "I shall be with Amy, of course."

He smiled as he raised his hat and let her pass in.

"The Baroness," he said, "is always kind."

He stood for a moment on the pavement. Then he glanced at his watch and hailed a cab.

"The Sheridan Club," he told the man. He had decided to appeal to the Colonel.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE COLONEL'S MISSION

Wrayson was greeted enthusiastically, as he entered the club billiard-room, by a little circle of friends, unbroken except for the absence of Stephen Heneage. The Colonel came across and laid his hand affectionately on his arm.

"How goes it, Herbert?" he asked. "The seabreezes haven't tanned you much."

"I'm all right," Wrayson declared. "Had a capital time."

"You'll dine here to-night, Herbert?"

Wrayson shook his head.

"I meant to," he declared, "but another engagement's turned up. No! I don't want to play pool, Mason. Can't stop. Colonel, do me a favour."

The Colonel, who was always ready to do any one a favour, signified his willingness promptly enough. But even then Wrayson hesitated.

"I want to talk to you for a few minutes," he said, "without all these fellows round. Should you mind coming down into the smoking-room?"

The Colonel rose promptly from his seat.

"Not a bit in the world," he declared. "We'll go into the smoking-room. Scarcely a soul there. Much cooler, too. Bring your drink. See you boys later."

They found two easy-chairs in the smoking-room, of which they were the sole occupants. The Colonel cut off the end of his cigar and made himself comfortable.

"Now, my young friend," he said, "proceed."

Wrayson did not beat about the bush.

"It's about your daughter Louise, Colonel," he said. "She won't marry me!"

The Colonel pinched his cigar reflectively.

"She always was a most peculiar girl," he affirmed. "Does she give any reasons?"

"That's just what she won't do," Wrayson explained. "That's just why I've come to you. I—I—Colonel, I'm fond of her. I never expected to feel like it about any woman."

The Colonel nodded sympathetically.

"And although it may sound conceited to say so," Wrayson continued, "I believe—no! I'm sure that she's fond of me. She's admitted it. There!"

The Colonel smiled understandingly.

"Well." he said, "then where's the trouble? You don't want my consent. You know that."

"Louise won't marry me," Wrayson repeated. "That's the trouble. She won't explain her attitude. She simply declares that marriage for her is an impossibility."

The Colonel sighed.

"I'm afraid," he murmured, regretfully, "that my daughter is a fool."

"She is anything but that," Wrayson declared. "She has some scruple. What it is I can't imagine. Of course, at first I thought it was because we were, both of us, involved in that Morris Barnes affair. But I know now that it isn't that. Heneage, who threatened me, and indirectly her, has chucked the whole business. Such danger as there was is over. I—"

"Interrupting you for one moment," the Colonel said quietly, "what has become of Heneage?"

"He's in a very queer way," Wrayson answered. "You know he started on hot to solve this Morris Barnes business. He warned us both to get out of the country. Well, I saw him last night, and he was a perfect wreck. He looked like a man just recovering from a bout of dissipation, or something of the sort."

"Did you speak to him?" the Colonel asked.

"I was with him some time," Wrayson answered. "His manner was just as changed as his appearance."

The Colonel was looking, for him, quite grave. His cigar had gone out, and he forgot to relight it.

"Dear me," he said, "I am sorry to hear this. Did he allude to the Morris Barnes affair at all?"

"He did," Wrayson answered. "He gave me to understand, in fact, that he had discovered a little more than he wanted to."

The Colonel stretched out his hand for a match, and relit his cigar.

"You believe, then," he said, "that Heneage has succeeded in solving the mystery of Barnes' murder, and is keeping the knowledge to himself?"

"That was the conclusion I came to," Wrayson admitted.

The Colonel smoked for a moment or two in thoughtful silence.

"Well," he said, "it isn't like Heneage. I always looked upon him as a man without nerves, a man who would carry through any purpose he set himself to, without going to pieces about it. Shows how difficult it is to understand the most obvious of us."

Wrayson nodded.

"But after all," he said, "it wasn't to talk about Heneage that I brought you down here. What I want to know, Colonel, is if you can help me at all with Louise."

The Colonel's forehead was furrowed with perplexity.

"My dear Herbert," he declared, "there is no man in the world I would sooner have for a son-in-law. But what can I do? Louise wouldn't listen to me in any case. I haven't any authority or any influence over her. I say it to my sorrow, but it's the truth. If it were my little girl down at home, now, it would be a different matter. But Louise has taken her life into her own hands. She has not spoken to me for years. She certainly would not listen to my advice."

"Then if you cannot help me directly, Colonel," Wrayson continued, "can you help me indirectly? I have asked you a question something like this before, but I want to repeat it. I have told you that Louise refuses to marry me. She has something on her mind, some scruple, some fear. Can you form any idea as to what it may be?"

The Colonel was silent for an unusually long time. He was leaning back in his chair, looking up through the cloud of blue tobacco smoke to the ceiling. In reflection his features seemed to have assumed a graver and somewhat weary expression.

"Yes!" he said at last, "I think that I can."

Wrayson felt his heart jump. His eyes were brighter. An influx of new life seemed to have come to him. He leaned forward eagerly.

"You will tell me what it is, Colonel?" he begged.

The Colonel looked at him with a queer little smile.

"I am not sure that I can do that, Herbert," he said. "I am not sure that it would help you if I did. And you are asking me rather more than you know."

Wrayson felt a little chill of discouragement.

"Colonel," he said, "I am in your hands. But I love your daughter, and I swear that I would make her happy."

The Colonel looked at his watch.

"Do you know where Louise is?" he asked quietly.

"Number 17, Frederic Mansions, Battersea," Wrayson answered.

The Colonel rose to his feet.

"I will go down and see her," he said simply. "You had better wait here for me. I will come straight back."

"Colonel, you're a brick," Wrayson declared, walking with him towards the door.

"I'll do my best, Herbert," he answered quietly, "but I can't promise. I can't promise anything."

Wrayson watched him leave the club and step into a hansom. He walked a little more slowly than usual, his head was a little bent, and he passed a club acquaintance in the hall without his customary greeting. Wrayson retraced his steps and ascended towards the billiard-room, with his first enthusiasm a little damped. Was his errand, he wondered, so grievously distasteful to his old friend, or was the Colonel losing at last the magnificent elasticity and vigour which had kept him so long independent of the years?

There were others besides Wrayson who noticed a certain alteration in the Colonel when he re-entered the billiard-room an hour or so later. His usual greeting was unspoken, he sank a little heavily into a chair, and he called for a drink without waiting for some one to share it with him. They gathered round him sympathetically.

"Feeling the heat a bit, Colonel?"

"Anything wrong downstairs?"

The Colonel recovered himself promptly. He beamed upon them all affectionately, and set down an empty tumbler with a little sigh of satisfaction.

"I'm all right, boys," he declared. "I couldn't find a cab—had to walk further than I meant, and I wanted a drink badly. Wrayson, come over here. I want to talk to you."

Wrayson sat down by his side.

"I've done the best I could," the Colonel said. "Things may not come all right for you quite at once, but within a week I fancy it'll be all squared up. I've found out why she refused to marry you, and you can take my word for it that within a week the cause will be removed."

"You're a brick, Colonel," Wrayson declared heartily. "There's only one thing more I'd love to have you to tell me."

"I'm afraid—" the Colonel began.

"That you and Louise were reconciled," Wrayson declared. "Colonel, there can't be anything between you two, of all the people in the world, there can't be anything sufficient to keep you and her, father and daughter, completely apart."

"You are quite right, Wrayson," the Colonel assented, a little more cheerfully. "Well, you may find that all will come right very soon now. By the by, I've been talking to the Baroness. I want you to let me be at your rooms to-morrow night."

Wrayson hesitated for a moment.

"You know how we stand?" he asked.

"Exactly," the Colonel answered. "I only wish that I had known before. You will have no objection to my coming, I suppose?"

"None at all," Wrayson declared. "But, Colonel! there is one more question that I must ask you. Did Louise speak to you about her brother?"

The Colonel nodded.

"She blamed me, of course," he said slowly, "because I had never told her. It was his own desire, and I think that he was right. I have telegraphed for him to come over. He will be here to-night or to-morrow."

Wrayson left the club, feeling almost light-hearted. It was the old story over again—the Colonel to the rescue!

CHAPTER XL

BLACKMAIL

Sydney Barnes staggered into his apartment with a little exclamation of relief which was almost a groan. He slammed the door and sank into an easy-chair. With both his hands he was grasping it so that his fingers were hot and wet with perspiration. At last he had obtained his soul's desire!

He sat there for several minutes without moving. The blinds were close drawn and the room was in darkness. Gradually he began to be afraid. He rose, and with trembling fingers struck a match. On the corner of the table—fortunately he knew exactly where to find it—was a candle. He lit it, and holding it over his head, peered fearfully around. Convinced at last that he was alone, he set it down again, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and opening a cupboard in the chiffonnier, produced a bottle and a glass.

He poured out some spirits and drank it. Then, after rummaging for several moments in his coat pocket, he produced several crumpled cigarettes of a cheap variety. One of these he proceeded to smoke, whilst, with trembling fingers, he undid the packet which he had been carrying, and began a painstaking study of its contents. A delicate perfume stole out into the room from those closely pressed sheets, so eagerly clutched in his yellow-stained fingers. A little bunch of crushed violets slipped to the floor unheeded. Ghoul-like he bent over the pages of delicate writing, the intimate, passionate cry of a soul seeking for its mate. They were no ordinary love-letters. Mostly they were beyond the comprehension of the creature who spelt them out word for word, seeking all the time to appraise their exact monetary value to himself. But for what he had heard he would have found them disappointing. As it was, he gloated over them. Two thousand pounds a year his clever brother had earned by merely possessing them! He looked at them almost reverently. Then he suddenly remembered what else his brother had earned by their possession, and he shivered. A moment later the electric bell outside pealed, and there