The most astute criminal, even burglars, will choose sometimes a wrongly-timed occasion for his offence against society.
It was a few nights after the "First," when Sir Raife and the rest of the household had sought the sleep that follows sweetly on a long day"s shooting. Lazily knocking the contents of his pipe into the fire, he climbed into the four-posted bed with its pale-blue curtains hanging around. The old-fashioned, and even the mediaeval, survived in many directions at Aldborough Park, and this bed was one of the survivals.
Although fatigued beyond the ordinary point, even after a long tramp over stubble and turnips, up hill and down dale, Raife did not sleep.
His mind was too active, and his thoughts trended in directions which left him sleepless and troubled.
The recollection of his father"s murder, and the dying words which, in spite of the intervening months and the exciting events that had transpired, still, on such an occasion as this, caused him anxiety.
Insomnia may not be a disease, but it is a very serious complaint at the moment of suffering. There are some people who possess mentality of a calibre that permits them to lie awake during long and dark nights.
Others, of a higher-strung fibre, cast bedclothes and resolution to the corners of the room, and rise to smoke, to read--or do anything rather than endure the torture of wakefulness caused by a troubled mind. Raife rose from the high, old-fashioned bed and proceeded for a light and his dressing-gown, when he heard sounds that arrested his movement and attention. Premonition of danger displays a very high sense in animals.
The later stages of civilisation have made matters so safe for human beings, that the premonitive sense is becoming rare. Environment undoubtedly affects such a sense, and the proximity of the library to Raife"s bedroom may have affected his alertness, and kept him awake.
Certainly there was something, somebody moving, and the noise was in the direction of the library--the room of sad, tragic a.s.sociation. "Nerves"
do not imply timidity, and Raife of the Reymingtounes was hardly likely to be a timid man. At the moment he was possessed of a strong spirit of revenge. His father had been cruelly shot by a burglar in that very library, where those stealthy sounds were proceeding from. He did not wait to don a dressing-gown. Hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing his Browning revolver from under his pillow, he proceeded along the dark, oak-panelled corridor. Gloomy old helmets, empty sh.e.l.ls of armour that had protected his ancestors in many a fray, frowned upon him. As he crept quietly, but quickly, over the familiar soft carpets, he thought also of the baroness"s jewels, those gems that attracted trouble in their train.
They were in the iron safe embedded in the wall of the library. If there was to be a vendetta, he--Raife Remington--would see to it that the feud was well sustained on his side. The last few yards he covered on tip-toe, gripping his Browning in his hand. At last, he was peeping through the door, determined to have the first shot in the contest that had been forced on him. All such contests are cowardly. The midnight marauder carries long odds in his favour--the greatest being the unwillingness of the man, who is protecting his own property, to fire first. In this aggravated case his father"s spirit, through the memory of his dying words, impelled Raife to fire first and shoot straight.
Justice was on his side and Raife brought the revolver to a level for aim, as he peered into the room. The sight that met him was so staggering that he involuntarily gasped.
Holding an electric torch in one hand, a case of the baroness"s jewels in the other, and kneeling before the open door of the safe, he saw the outline of the figure of a woman. Raife"s involuntary gasp was sufficient, for the woman, who had displayed wonderful craftsmanship in achieving her purpose, switched off the lamp. It was too late. With a bound Raife had seized her by the throat and dragged her to the wall, switching on a powerful electrolier.
His horror and consternation reached the highest human point when he recognised Gilda Tempest, the woman he loved--the woman of mystery--the woman he had trusted! She had asked him to trust her--to be her friend.
He had responded with the whole of his heart and enthusiasm, and this-- this hideous nightmare was his reward.
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 Hotel 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. Pa.s.sionately 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."
It was not a very good explanation, but it served at the moment.
When the sound of the last footsteps had died away, Raife returned to Gilda and beckoned her from the curtains, saying:
"Now, Gilda, tell me all that happened after you disappeared from the hotel at Nice. Tell me some of the worst of this man Malsano"s crimes?"
Gilda told how she had seen Raife and Lady Remington at Bordighera. Of her flight from there in the motor-car, of the accident and her escape, and the long journey by a circuitous route to England, where she met her uncle. She told how he had planned this burglary, and was plotting to steal the jewels whilst the baroness was at the Hotel Royal, Nice.
In a low, musical voice, she related the long story of a young, beautiful girl"s life, ruined by the unscrupulous machinations of a human fiend. She reclined in a deep, leather arm-chair, facing the still open safe, with the baroness"s jewels scattered about on the floor.
The simplicity with which she told her sad story, the sincerity of her manner contrasted with the incongruous surroundings and recent events.
Raife Remington"s mind and heart were torn with confused pa.s.sions. His pride had received a shock so cruel, that it seemed utterly impossible to condone the offence. He was still suffering from a sense of extreme exasperation. Was this girl telling the whole truth, or only a portion?
He rose from the corner of the table on which he had been sitting, and proceeded to pick up the scattered jewels and the various articles on the floor. He replaced them in the safe and closed the door with the false key that was in it. It was made from the wax model traitorously obtained from him by Gilda. At her uncle"s enforced bidding? Yes, but how true was that story? He placed the key in his pocket. Much of the mystery of this extraordinary girl"s actions had been speciously explained away. What was there more of mystery remaining? The struggle between his better sense, his wounded pride and the weird fascination of this wonderful woman lasted for some time. Gilda lay back in the luxurious leather chair, and gazed, with a glazed expression, into s.p.a.ce.
At length, he turned to her and said: "Gilda, you have hurt me more than I can tell. If this man, Malsano, who says he is your uncle, has compelled your actions, which appear so unnatural, I forgive you.
Promise me that you will leave him, hide from him and go into the world you know so well, and lead a pure and clean life. You have shown yourself to be clever enough. Promise me, Gilda, and come to me if you want help. I will help."
He held out his hand. She sprang from the deep recesses of the chair.
Clutching his hand, she smothered it in pa.s.sionate kisses.
Then gazing at him, she said: "I promise! I promise, Raife! May I go now?"
Mechanically Raife said: "Yes."
In two seconds the dainty figure of the young girl was sliding down a silken rope from the library window to the ground below. Amazed at the rapidity of the action, Raife watched her disappearing form as it glided sinuously into a bunch of rhododendron bushes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
INTO A TRAP AND OUT OF IT.
When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.
Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic power that was convincing--at least to him. Again she had taken possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and pa.s.sion were for her.
On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the pa.s.sers-by, of whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl, and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person for whom he had waited.
An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and said: "Well! where are they? Have you got them?"
In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: "No, I have not got them."
With a half-suppressed howl, he said: "What! you have not got them? You lie! You are deceiving me."
Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:
"No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you what happened."
In spite of the blue gla.s.ses the old man"s face a.s.sumed a contorted expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a vicious grip, he almost shrieked: "Again I tell you, you lie! Where are they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took."
"Hush!" she whispered. "You will be heard. Yes! I bungled."
Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl who was so dearly loved by the "intended victim." To have stolen any property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but to attempt, with all the skilled burglar"s art, to steal those valuable jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe keeping--that was to place him in the most invidious position. It sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest dye was the cause of this young girl"s downfall, and he was furious at her failure.