The Crooked House | Page 6

"Wish I'd called in the police. Curse him!"
Her hand closed on his. "No, no," she whispered. "He must not be
touched. He didn't mean it."
"Mean it be damned!" said Copplestone savagely. "If I see any more of
him, he'll find himself in jail in less time than it takes to say it."
The manager proffered further stimulant. The color began to return to
her face, but her eyes were wide and strained. Copplestone watched her
closely.

"Look here," said the manager, re-corking his empty flask, "she'd better
rest. Let's all clear off, and go on with this another night."
"Thertainly," agreed the financier.
But Christine Manderson rose, and leant on Copplestone's arm. Her
self-control was exerted to the utmost, but she trembled.
"Forgive me," she said softly. "I am all right now. Please don't go."
"Good!" Copplestone exclaimed, recovering his equanimity. "It would
be a pity to break up. We'll have a jolly night." He laughed loudly.
"Tranter, of all people!" he cried boisterously. "And----" he looked
towards Monsieur Dupont.
"I was sure you wouldn't mind my bringing a friend with me," Tranter
said. "Monsieur Dupont has just arrived from Paris."
"Delighted," said Copplestone, shaking hands with great heartiness.
"Forgive this unhappy beginning. We'll make up for it now. Come
along to dinner. It's all ready."
In the dining-room they sat down to a table that glittered and gleamed
with a hundred lights, concealed under strands of white crystallized
leaves, springing from a frosted tree. Such a table might have been set
in Fairyland, for the betrothal feast of Oberon.
"Glad we didn't miss this," said the theatrical manager.
He regaled the company with a selection of his less offensive stories,
and found ready applause. The gayety was loud and forced. Every one
attempted to keep it at fever-heat. Jest followed jest with increasing
rapidity. Laughter rang out on the smallest provocation. It was a
competition in hilarity. And the gayest of all were Christine Manderson,
and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.
The night was hot and sultry. The distant roll of thunder added to the
tenseness of the atmosphere. And hearing it, Christine Manderson

shuddered.
"Storms are unlucky to me," she said, listening until the sullen roll died
away. "Why should we have one to-night--of all nights?"
The clergyman adroitly twisted the subject of lightning into a
compliment. As the dinner drew to a somewhat loud conclusion,
Copplestone's face grew flushed, and his hands unsteady. The
manager's voice and stories thickened, and the thoughts of the Russian
danseuse became fixed on Aberdeen. Tranter and Monsieur Dupont
were abstemious guests. But the Frenchman seemed to be enjoying
himself immensely.
They rose from the fairy table, and strolled out through the open
windows into the garden. The air had grown hotter and more
oppressive, the thunder louder. Frequent flashes lit up the darkness.
The glowing tips of cigars and cigarettes disappeared in various
directions across the lawns.
* * * * *
Monsieur Dupont discovered, to his cost, the truth of his remark that
the house was surrounded by crooked paths. The grounds were a
veritable maze. He had purposely slipped away alone, and in five
minutes was involved in a network of twisting, thickly-hedged paths,
all of which seemed only to lead still further into the darkness.
He stopped, and listened. He could hear no voices. Not a sound, except
the gathering thunder, disturbed the silence. He was completely cut off.
Even the lights of the house were hidden from him. He had turned
about so many times that he did not even know in which direction it lay.
Coupled with the effect of what had happened in the house, the
influence of this tortuous garden was sinister and unnerving. In the
lightning flashes, now more vivid and frequent, he tried in vain to
determine his position. He wandered about, trying path after path,
doubling back on his own tracks--only to find himself more and more
helplessly lost.

"Nom de Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont, in despair.
He halted suddenly, standing as still as a figure of stone. On his right
the hedge was thick and high. He could see nothing. But the whisper of
a voice had reached him.
The path took a sharp turn. He stepped noiselessly on to the grass
border, and crept round, with wonderful agility for a man of his size.
The foliage gradually thinned, and kneeling down he was able to listen
and peer through until the next flash should reveal what lay beyond.
The whisper thrilled with indescribable passion.
"I love you. You are my body, my soul, my god, my all. I love you--I
love you--I love you."
It was the voice of Christine Manderson.
Not a tremor escaped the listener. Parting the leaves with a hand as
steady as the ground itself, he waited for the