Avenger — Chapters 39 & 40
"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 came a soft knocking at the door.
A little cry--half stifled--broke from his lips.
With numbed and trembling fingers he began tying up the letters.
The perspiration had broken out upon his forehead.
Some one to see him!
Who could it be?
He was quite determined not to go to the door.
He would let no one in.
Again the bell!
Soon they would get tired of ringing and go away.
He was quite safe so long as he remained quiet.
Quite safe, he told himself feverishly.
Then his pulses seemed to stop beating.
There was a rush of blood to his head.
He clutched at the sides of his chair, but to rise was a sheer impossibility.
The thing which was terrifying him was a small thing in itself--the turning of a latch-key in the door.
Before him on the table was his own--he knew of no other.
Yet some one was opening, had opened his front door!
He sprang to his feet at last with something which was almost a shriek.
The door of the room in which he was, was slowly being pushed open.
By the dim candlelight he could distinguish the figure of his visitor standing upon the threshold and peering into the room.
His impulse was, without doubt, one of relief.
The figure was the figure of a complete stranger.
Nor was there anything the least threatening about his appearance.
He saw a tall, white-haired gentleman, carefully dressed with military exactitude, regarding him with a benevolent and apologetic smile.
"I really must apologize," he said, "for such an unceremonious entrance.
I felt sure that you were in, but I am a trifle deaf, and I could not be sure whether or not the bell was ringing.
So I ventured to use my own latch-key, with, as you are doubtless observing, complete success."
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
Barnes asked, finding his voice at last.
"My name is Colonel Fitzmaurice," was the courteous reply.
"You will allow me to sit down?
I have the pleasure of conversing, I believe, with Mr. Sydney Barnes?"
"That's my name," Barnes answered.
"What do you want with me?"
Despite his visitor's urbanity, he was still a little nervous.
The Colonel had a somewhat purposeful air, and he had seated himself directly in front of the door.
"I want," the Colonel said calmly, "that packet which you have just stolen from Mrs. Morris Barnes, and which you have in your pocket there!"
Barnes rose at once, trembling, to his feet.
His bead-like eyes were bright and venomous.
He was terrified, but he had the courage of despair.
"I have stolen nothing," he declared, "I don't know what you're talking about.
I won't listen to you.
You have no right to force your way into my flat.
Colonel or no colonel, I won't have it.
I'll send for the police."
The Colonel smiled.
"No," he said, "don't do that.
Besides, I know what I'm talking about.
I
mean the packet which I think I can see sticking out of your coat pocket.
You have just stolen that from Mrs. Barnes' tin trunk, you know."
"I have stolen nothing," the young man declared, "nothing at all.
I am not a thief.
I am not afraid of the police."
The Colonel smiled tolerantly.
"That is good," he said.
"I hate cowards.
But I am going to make you very much afraid of me--unless you are wise and give me that packet."
Barnes breathed thickly for a moment.
Coward he knew that he was to the marrow of his bones, but other of the evil passions were stirring in him then.
His narrow eyes were alight with greed.
He had the animal courage of vermin hard pressed.
"The packet is mine," he said fiercely.
"It's nothing to do with you.
Get out of my room."
He rose to his feet.
The Colonel awaited him with equable countenance.
He made, however, no advance.
"Young man," the Colonel said quietly, "do you know what happened to your brother?"
Sydney Barnes stood still and shivered.
He could say nothing.
His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.
"Your brother was another of your breed," the Colonel continued.
"A blackmailer!
A low-living, evil-minded brute.
Do you know how he came by those letters?"
"I don't know and I don't care," Barnes answered with a weak attempt at bluster.
"They're mine now, and I'm going to stick to them."
The Colonel shook his head.
"He broke his trust to a dying man," he said softly,--"to a man who lay on the veldt at Colenso with three great wounds in his body, and his life's blood staining the ground.
He had carried those letters into action with him, because they were precious to him.
His last thought was that they should be destroyed.
Your brother swore to do this.
He broke his word.
He turned blackmailer."
"You're very fond of that word," Barnes muttered.
"How do you know so much?"
"The soldier was my son," the Colonel answered, "and he did not die.
You see I have a right to those letters.
Will you give them to me?"
Give them up!
Give up all his hopes of affluence, his dreams of an easy life, of the cheap luxuries and riches which formed the Heaven of his desire!
No!
He was not coward enough for that.
He did not believe that this mild-looking old gentleman would use force.
Besides, he could not be very strong.
He ought to be able to push him over and escape!
"No!"
he answered bluntly, "I won't!"
The Colonel looked thoughtful.
"It is a pity," he said quietly.
