The Pawns Count | Page 9

from behind her shoulder. Joseph appeared--not the smiling, joyous Joseph of Henry's but a sullen-looking negro, dressed in shirt and trousers only, with a heavy under-lip and frowning forehead.
"Let the lady pass and get into the kitchen, Nora," he ordered, "Come this way, mam."
Pamela followed her guide into a parlour, redolent of stale cigar smoke, with oilcloth on the floor and varnished walls, an abode even more horrible than Hassan's lair. Joseph closed the door carefully behind him, and made no apology for his dishabille. He simply faced Pamela.
"Say, what is it you want with me?" he demanded truculently.
"A trifle," she answered. "The key of the chapel in the little plot of waste ground next Henry's."
She meant him to be staggered, and he was. He reeled back for a moment.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he gasped.
"Facts," Pamela replied. "Do you want to save yourself, Joseph? You can do it if you choose."
He folded his arms and stood in front of the closed door. Without a collar, his neck bulged unpleasantly behind. There was nothing whatever left of the suave and genial chef d'orchestra.
"Save myself from what, eh? Just let me get wise about it."
Pamela's eyebrows were daintily elevated.
"Dear me!" she murmured. "I thought you were more intelligent. Listen. You know where we met last? Let me remind you. You were playing in the Winter Garden at Berlin, and the gentleman whom I was with, an attache at the American Embassy, spoke to you. He told me a good deal about your past life, Joseph, and your present one. You are in the pay of the Secret Service of Germany. Am I to go to Scotland Yard and tell them so?"
He looked at her wickedly.
"You'd have to get out of here first."
"Don't be silly," she advised him contemptuously. "Remember you're talking to an American woman and don't waste your breath. You can be in the Secret Service of any country you like, without interference from me. On the other hand, there's just one thing I want from you."
"What is it? I haven't got any key."
"I want to discover exactly what has become of Captain Graham," she declared.
"What, the guy that missed his lunch to-day?" he growled.
"I see you know all about it," she continued equably.
"So he's your spark, is he?" Joseph observed slowly, his eyes blinking as he leaned a little forward.
"On the contrary," Pamela replied, "I have never met him. However, that's beside the point. Do I have the key of that chapel?"
"You do not."
"Have you got it?"
"Right here," Joseph assented, dangling it before her eyes.
"I think it's a fair bargain I'm offering you," she reminded him. "You lose the key and keep your place. You only have to keep your mouth shut and nothing happens."
"Nothing doing," the negro declared shortly. "Keys as important as this ain't lost. If I part with it, I get the chuck, and I probably get into the same mess as the others. If I keep it--"
"If you keep it," Pamela interrupted, "you will probably stand with your back to the light in the Tower within the next few days. They've left off being lenient with spies over here."
He looked at her, and there were things in his eyes which few women in the world could have seen without terror. Pamela's lips only came a little closer together. She pressed the inside of the ring upon her third finger, and a ray of green fire seemed to shoot forward.
"I guess I'm up against it," he growled, taking a step forward. "I'll have something of what's coming to me, if I swing for it."
His arm was suddenly around her, his face hideously close. He gave a little snarl as he felt the pinprick through his shirt sleeve. Then he went spinning round and round with his hand to his head.
"What in God's name!" he spluttered. "What in hell--!"
He reeled against the horsehair easy-chair and slipped on to the floor. Pamela calmly closed her ring, stooped over him, withdrew the key from his pocket, crossed the room and the dingy little hall with swift footsteps, and, without waiting for the lift, fled down the stone steps. Before she reached the bottom, she heard the shrill ringing of the lift bell, the angry shouting of the woman. Pamela, however, strolled quietly out and took her place in the car.
"Back to the hotel, George," she directed the chauffeur. "Don't stop if they call to you from the flats."
The young man sprang up to his seat and the car glided off. Pamela leaned forward and looked at herself in the mirror. There was a shade more colour in her face, perhaps, than usual, but her low waves of chestnut hair were unruffled. She used her powder puff with attentive skill and leaned back.
"That's the disagreeable part of it