The Crooked House | Page 4

slips of paper, several of which, it was rumored, were in
Copplestone's possession. Her house in Grosvenor Gardens was an
artistic paradise, and was frequently visited by gentlemen from Jermyn
Street, who seemed fond of assuring themselves that its treasures
remained intact.
A West-End clergyman, of Evangelical appearance, who translated
French farces under a nom-de-plume, was advocating, in confidence,
the abolition of the Censor to a well-known theatrical manager, whose
assets were all in the name of his wife. A bejeweled Russian danseuse,
who spoke broken English with a Highland accent, extolled the
attractions of theatrical investment to a Hebrew financier, who was
feasting his eyes on the curves of her figure, and hoping that she was
sufficiently hard-up. The entrance of Tranter and his huge companion
created general surprise. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe held up her hands prettily.
"You?" she exclaimed, to Tranter. "You--of all people--condescending
to visit our plane? The mystery is explained at once. The decorations
are for you--the Pillar of the State!"
"Indeed they are not," he assured her. He stood aside. "Permit me to

introduce my friend, Monsieur Dupont."
"This is delightful!" she smiled.
Monsieur Dupont bent over her hand.
"Madame," he declared, "I change completely my opinion of London."
"Where is Copplestone?" Tranter inquired, gazing with amazement
round the festooned room.
A frown passed over Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's face.
"He has not yet appeared. He sent in a message asking us to wait for
him here. He is up to some freak obviously."
"It is certainly a strange medley of color," Tranter admitted.
"Fortunately, I am not particularly susceptible--but to an artistic
temperament I can understand that the effect would be acute. What
extraordinary event can such a blaze be intended to celebrate?"
"I don't know," she returned, a little shortly. "He has told us nothing."
Her eyes strayed anxiously to the door. The movements of her hands
were nervous.
"I wish he would come," she muttered--and stood away from them.
Tranter drew his companion across the room.
"Well?" he asked, smiling. "How do you like this somewhat showy
welcome?"
"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont slowly--"into what manner of
house have you brought me?"
"Copplestone is a curious fellow," Tranter replied. "I warned you to be
prepared for something unusual."

"It is a crooked house," said Monsieur Dupont. "It stands on a crooked
road, and there are crooked paths all round it. And everything is
crooked inside it."
"These decorations are crooked enough, at any rate," Tranter laughed.
"These decorations," said Monsieur Dupont, "are not only
crooked--they are bad. Very bad."
He lowered his voice. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
"Don't you see," he whispered, "that decorations can be good or bad,
just as men and women can be good or bad? These decorations are bad.
They are a mockery of all decorations--a travesty the most heartless of
the motives for which good and pure people decorate. There is nothing
honest or straightforward about them. They are a mean confusion of all
the symbols of joy. They are put up for some cruel and detestable
purpose----"
The door flew open with a snap, and a young man of dishevelled
appearance burst into the room. His eyes were wild, and his face was
working with the intensity of his passion.
"Christine," he panted. "Christine...."
He stopped, and gazed round in a dazed fashion, clenching and
unclenching his hands.
Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sprang forward with a suppressed cry, and
confronted him tensely.
"Well?" she cried sharply--"what about Christine?"
He did not seem to be aware of her. He was staring at the flags, the
lights, the flowers, and the colored paper.
"It is true then," he muttered. "These things...."
The woman was as white as death. Her hands were locked together.

She swayed.
"What is true?" she gasped.
The young man took no notice of her. Copplestone's elderly
manservant appeared in the doorway, and approached him.
"Mr. Copplestone declines to see you, sir--and requests that you will
leave his house. I have orders, otherwise, to send for the police."
The young man drew himself up. He was suddenly quite composed and
dignified. The passion died out of his face, leaving an expression
almost of contentment in its place.
"I wish it to be understood," he said, addressing himself to the room
generally with perfect evenness, "that, rather than allow Christine
Manderson to become engaged to George Copplestone, I will tear her
to pieces with my own hands, and utterly destroy her." And he turned,
and walked quietly out of the room.
In the silence that followed all eyes were fixed on the white, rigid
woman. Her face was drawn and haggard. She seemed to have grown
old and weak. Her whole frame appeared to have shrunk under an
overwhelming blow. For some moments she stood motionless. Then,
with a