Mysterious Mr. Sabin - E. Phillips Oppenheim (best free ebook reader for android .TXT) 📗

sent for Mr. C. to come and go through your father’s papers.”

“What of it?”

“I cannot tell you any more!”

Wolfenden rose to his feet; he was still giddy, but he was able to stand.

“All that he told me here was a tissue of lies then! Helène, I will not leave you with such a man. You cannot continue to live with him.”

“I do not intend to,” she answered; “I want to get away. What has happened to-day is more than I can pardon, even from him. Yet you must not judge him too harshly. In his way he is a great man, and he is planning great things which are not wholly for his advantage. But he is unscrupulous! So long as the end is great, he believes himself justified in stooping to any means.”

Wolfenden shuddered.

“You must not live another day with him,” he exclaimed; “you will come to Deringham Hall. My mother will be only too glad to come and fetch you. It is not very cheerful there just now, but anything is better than leaving you with this man.”

She looked at him curiously. Her eyes were soft with something which suggested pity, but resembled tears.

“No,” she said, “that would not do at all. You must not think because I have been living with Mr. Sabin that I have no other relations or friends. I have a very great many of both, only it was arranged that I should leave them for a while. I can go back at any time; I am altogether my own mistress.”

“Then go back at once,” he begged her feverishly. “I could not bear to think of you living here with this man another hour. Have your things put together now and tell your maid. Let me take you to the station. I want to see you leave this infernal house, and this atmosphere of cheating and lies, when I do!”

Her lips parted into the ghost of a smile.

“I have not found so much to regret in my stay here,” she said softly.

He held out his arms, but she eluded him gently.

“I hope,” he said, “nay, I know that you will never regret it. Never! Tell me what you are going to do now?”

“I shall leave here this afternoon,” she said, “and go straight to some friends in London. Then I shall make new plans, or rather set myself to the remaking of old ones. When I am ready, I will write to you. But remember again—I make no promise!”

He held out his hands.

“But you will write to me?”

She hesitated.

“No, I shall not write to you. I am not going to give you my address even; you must be patient for a little while.”

“You will not go away? You will not at least leave England without seeing me?”

“Not unless I am compelled,” she promised, “and then, if I go, I will come back again, or let you know where I am. You need not fear; I am not going to slip away and be lost! You shall see me again.”

Wolfenden was dissatisfied.

“I hate letting you go,” he said. “I hate all this mystery. When one comes to think of it, I do not even know your name! It is ridiculous! Why cannot I take you to London, and we can be married to-morrow. Then I should have the right to protect you against this blackguard.”

She laughed softly. Her lips were parted in dainty curves, and her eyes were lit with merriment.

“How delightful you are,” she exclaimed. “And to think that the women of my country call you Englishmen slow wooers!”

“Won’t you prove the contrary?” he begged.

She shook her head.

“It is already proved. But if you are sure you feel well enough to walk, please go now. I want to catch the afternoon train to London.”

He held out his hands and tried once more to draw her to him. But she stepped backwards laughing.

“You must please be patient,” she said, “and remember that to-day I am betrothed to—somebody else! Goodbye!”

CHAPTER XXXIII MR. SABIN TRIUMPHS

Wolfenden, for perhaps the first time in his life, chose the inland road home. He was still feeling faint and giddy, and the fresh air only partially revived him. He walked slowly, and rested more than once. It took him almost half an hour to reach the cross roads. Here he sat on a stile for a few minutes, until he began to feel himself again. Just as he was preparing to resume his walk, he was aware of a carriage being driven rapidly towards him, along the private road from Deringham Hall.

He stood quite still and watched it. The roads were heavy after much rain, and the mud was leaping up into the sunshine from the flying wheels, bespattering the carriage, and reaching even the man who sat upon the box. The horses had broken into a gallop, the driver was leaning forward whip in hand. He knew at once whose carriage it was: it was the little brougham which Mr. Sabin had brought down from London. He had been up to the hall, then! Wolfenden’s face grew stern. He stood well out in the middle of the road. The horses would have to be checked a little at the sharp turn before him. They would probably shy a little, seeing him stand there in the centre of the road; he would be able to bring them to a standstill. So he remained there motionless. Nearer and nearer they came. Wolfenden set his teeth hard and forgot his dizziness.

They were almost upon him now. To his surprise the driver was making no effort to check his galloping horses. It seemed impossible that they could round that narrow corner at the pace they were going. A froth of white foam was on their bits, and their eyes were bloodshot. They were almost upon Wolfenden before he realised what was happening. They made no attempt to turn the corner which he was guarding, but flashed straight past him along the Cromer road. Wolfenden shouted and waved his arms, but the coachman did not even glance in his direction. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Sabin’s face as he leaned back amongst the cushions, dark, satyr-like, forbidding. The thin lips seemed to part into a triumphant smile as he saw Wolfenden standing there. It was all over in a moment. The carriage, with its whirling wheels, was already a speck in the distance.

Wolfenden looked at his watch. It was five-and-twenty minutes to one. Mr. Sabin’s purpose was obvious. He was trying to catch the one o’clock express to London. To pursue that carriage was absolutely hopeless. Wolfenden set his face towards Deringham Hall and ran steadily along the road. He was filled with vague fears. The memory of Mr. Sabin’s smile haunted him. He had succeeded. By what means? Perhaps by violence! Wolfenden forgot his own aching head. He was filled only with an intense anxiety to reach his destination. If Mr. Sabin had so much as raised his hand, he should pay for it. He understood now why that blow had been given. It was to keep him out of the way. As he ran on, his teeth clenched, and his breath coming fast, he grew hot with passionate anger. He had been Mr. Sabin’s dupe! Curse the man.

He turned the final corner in the drive, climbed the steps and entered the hall. The servants were standing about as usual. There was no sign of anything having happened. They looked at him curiously, but that might well be, owing to his dishevelled condition.

“Where is the Admiral, Groves?” he asked breathlessly.

“His lordship is in the billiard-room,” the man answered.

Wolfenden stopped short in his passage across the hall, and looked at the man in amazement.

“Where?”

“In the billiard-room, my lord,” the man repeated. “He was inquiring for you only a moment ago.”

Wolfenden turned sharp to the left and entered the billiard-room. His father was standing there with his coat off and a cue in his hand. Directly he turned round Wolfenden was aware of a peculiar change in his face and expression. The hard lines had vanished, every trace of anxiety seemed to have left him. His eyes were soft and as clear as a child’s. He turned to Wolfenden with a bland smile, and immediately began to chalk his cue.

“Come and play me a game, Wolf,” he cried out cheerfully. “You’ll have to give me a few, I’m so out of practice. We’ll make it a hundred, and you shall give me twenty. Which will you have, spot, or plain?”

Wolfenden gulped down his amazement with an effort.

“I’ll take plain,” he said. “It’s a long time, isn’t it, since we played?”

His father faced him for a minute and seemed perplexed.

“Not so very long, surely. Wasn’t it yesterday, or the day before?”

Wolfenden wondered for a moment whether that blow had affected his brain. It was years since he had seen the billiard-room at Deringham Hall opened.

“I don’t exactly remember,” he faltered. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Time goes so quickly.”

“I wonder,” the Admiral said, making a cannon and stepping briskly round the table, “how it goes at all with you young men who do nothing. Great mistake to have no profession, Wolf! I wish I could make you see it.”

“I quite agree with you,” Wolfenden said. “You must not look upon me as quite an idler, though. I am a full-fledged barrister, you know, although I do not practise, and I have serious thoughts of Parliament.”

The Admiral shook his head.

“Poor career, my boy, poor career for a gentleman’s son. Take my advice and keep out of Parliament. I am going to pot the red. I don’t like the red ball, Wolf! It keeps looking at me like—like that man! Ah!”

He flung his cue with a rattle upon the floor of inlaid wood, and started back.

“Look, Wolf!” he cried. “He’s grinning at me! Come here, boy! Tell me the truth! Have I been tricked? He told me that he was Mr. C. and I gave him everything! Look at his face how it changes! He isn’t like C. now! He is like—who is it he is like? C.’s face is not so pale as that, and he does not limp. I seem to remember him too! Can’t you help me? Can’t you see him, boy?”

He had been moving backwards slowly. He was leaning now against the wall, his face blanched and perfectly bloodless, his eyes wild and his pupils dilated. Wolfenden laid his cue down and came over to his side.

“No, I can’t see him, father,” he said gently. “I think it must be fancy; you have been working too hard.”

“You are blind, boy, blind,” the Admiral muttered. “Where was it I saw him last? There were sands—and a burning sun—his shot went wide, but I aimed low and I hit him. He carried himself bravely. He was an aristocrat, and he never forgot it. But why does he call himself Mr. C.? What has he to do with my work?”

Wolfenden choked down a lump in his throat. He began to surmise what had happened.

“Let us go into the other room, father,” he said gently. “It is too cold for billiards.”

The Admiral held out his arm. He seemed suddenly weak and old. His eyes were dull and he was muttering to himself. Wolfenden led him gently from the room and upstairs to his own apartment. There he made an excuse for leaving him for a moment, and hurried down into the library. Mr. Blatherwick was writing there alone.

“Blatherwick,” Wolfenden exclaimed, “what has happened this morning? Who has been here?”

Mr. Blatherwick blushed scarlet.

“Miss Merton called, and a gentleman with her, from the Home Office, I b-b-believe.”

“Who let him into the library?” Wolfenden asked sternly.

Mr. Blatherwick fingered his collar, as though he found it too tight for