The Crooked House | Page 5

supreme effort of self-control, she turned, and faced them
steadily.
"I think," she said calmly, "that if Miss Manderson is in the house she
should be warned."
"Fellow was mad," said the theatrical manager.
"Tout-a-fait daft," agreed the Russian danseuse.
"It would have been safer," Tranter remarked, "if he had been given in
charge."
There was something very like contempt in Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's glance.

"Do you know," she said quietly, "that that young man is a millionaire
who lives on a pound a week, and spends the remaining nine hundred
and ninety-nine pounds a week on saving lives and souls in places in
London that people like us try to avoid even hearing about? If it is
madness to devote your life and money to lifting some of the world's
shadows--then he is very mad."
"Mosth creditable," said the Hebrew financier.
She turned her back on them, and stood apart.
Monsieur Dupont laid a hand on Tranter's arm.
"My friend," he said--and there was the faintest tremor in his voice, "I
ask you again--into what manner of house have you brought me?"
"I am beginning to wish that I had not brought you," Tranter returned.
"I don't like the atmosphere."
"That," said Monsieur Dupont, drawing him aside, "is where we differ.
To me the atmosphere is extremely interesting. If I were a sportsman, I
would make you a bet that this will be an eventful evening."
"I feel strongly," said Tranter seriously, "that we should be wise to
leave. We don't want to be mixed up in an affair with a madman."
Monsieur Dupont shook his head.
"The millionaire was not mad, my friend. He may have been mad
yesterday. He may be mad to-morrow. But he is very sane to-night."
"I don't like it," Tranter maintained. "I would much rather go. Events
under this roof have a trick of being a little too dramatic."
Laughter from the clergyman, the financier, and the danseuse, greeted
the conclusion of a story with which the theatrical manager had
attempted to relieve the strain. Monsieur Dupont drew Tranter still
further back.

"This Mademoiselle Manderson--do you know her?"
"No," Tranter replied. "I've never heard of her. I suppose she is some
new friend of Copplestone's. If she is really engaged to him, I don't
think she is altogether to be envied."
Monsieur Dupont's glance found Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.
"No," he remarked softly--"I do not think she is."
Two heavy curtains at the extreme end of the room were drawn apart,
and the figure of a man appeared between them--a tall, thick-set man,
in full evening-dress, with a large white flower in his button-hole. For a
moment he stood still, looking intently down the room.
"Copplestone," Tranter whispered to his companion.
"Mon Dieu," muttered Monsieur Dupont.
It was the face of a fanatic--wonderful, fascinating, cruel--a fanatic who
neither feared God nor regarded man--an infinite egotist. The fires of a
great distorted soul smoldered in his eyes. The broad, lofty forehead
proclaimed a mind that might have placed him among the rulers of
men--but instead he was little above the level of a clown. The destinies
of a nation might have rested in the hands that he turned only to selfish
fantasy. The whole appearance of him, arresting and almost
awe-inspiring as it undoubtedly was, had in it the repulsiveness of the
unnatural--and, with that, all the tragedy of pitiful waste.
To-night, he confronted his guests in an attitude, and with an air, of
triumph. But as Mrs. Astley-Rolfe turned quickly to him with
something of a challenge in her bearing, a faint mocking smile
appeared and lingered for a moment on his face. Then he moved aside,
his hand on the curtains.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said deliberately, "permit me to present you
to my fiancée--Miss Christine Manderson."

He drew the curtains apart.
"Mon Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont again.
A half-strangled sob came from the lips of Mrs. Astley-Rolfe. Tranter
uttered an exclamation. The danseuse, the clergyman, and the theatrical
manager burst into vigorous applause.
Framed in the darkness behind him was the white form of a woman, of
transcendent loveliness. In the soft light it seemed almost a celestial
figure. She smiled with entrancing sweetness, and held out her hands.
But as her gaze swept over the occupants of the room, the smile
vanished. Her eyes became fixed and staring; her face set. She uttered a
sharp cry--and fell forward in a dead faint.
CHAPTER III
THE ENDLESS GARDEN
Confusion followed. Copplestone knelt beside her, calling her by name
in a strange excess of fear. The theatrical manager tore a flask from his
pocket, and administered its contents freely. The spirit revived her. She
opened her eyes. They lifted her gently, and laid her on a couch.
"It was that madman rushing in unnerved her," Copplestone cried
fiercely.