The Red Symbol. Ironside John

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СКАЧАТЬ precluded him from manipulating it, Jenkins would be rung up to let him in; and, being one of the best of good sorts, would certainly guide him up the staircase and put him comfortably to bed.

      “I’m right down sorry, Jenkins,” I called. “I found the street door open, and slammed it without thinking.”

      “Open! Well there, who could have left it open, going out or in?” he exclaimed, seeming more perturbed than the occasion warranted. “Must have been quite a short time back, for it isn’t an hour since Caesar began barking like he did just now; and he never barks for nothing. I went right up the stairs and there was no one there and not a sound. The door was shut fast enough then, for I tried it. It couldn’t have been Mr. Gray or Mr. Sellars, for they’re away week ending, and Mr. Cassavetti came in before twelve. I met him on the stairs as I was turning the lights down.”

      “Perhaps he went out again to post,” I suggested. “Good night, Jenkins.”

      “Good night, sir. You got caught in the storm, then?” He had just seen how wet I was, and eyed me curiously, as the policeman had done.

      “Yes, couldn’t see a cab and had to come through it. Lost my hat, too; it blew off,” I answered over my shoulder, as I ran up the stairs. Lightly clad though he was, Jenkins seemed inclined to stay gossiping there till further orders.

      When I got into my flat and switched on the lights, I found I still held, crumpled up in my hand, the bit of geranium I had picked up on the river steps. But for that evidence I might have persuaded myself that I had imagined the whole thing. I dropped the crushed petals into the waste-paper basket, and, as I hastily changed from my wet clothes into pyjamas, I mentally rehearsed the scene over and over again. Could I have been misled by a chance resemblance? Impossible. Anne was not merely a beautiful girl, but a strikingly distinctive personality. I had recognized her figure, her gait, as I would have recognized them among a thousand; that fleeting glimpse of her face had merely confirmed the recognition. As for her presence in Westminster at a time when she should have been at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, or at home with the Cayleys in Chelsea, that could be easily accounted for on the presumption that she had not stayed long at Mrs. Sutherland’s. Had the Cayleys already discovered her flight? Probably not. Was Cassavetti cognizant of it, – concerned with it in any way; and was the incident of the open door that had so perplexed Jenkins another link in the mysterious chain? At any rate, Cassavetti was not the man dressed as a sailor; though he might have been the man in the boat.

      The more I brooded over it the more bewildered – distracted – my brain became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, “to give it up,” in fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow – no, to-day, for the dawn had come – if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning.

      But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything; also, though I’m an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I’ve no recollection of going to bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn’t take five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and soda syphon – both empty – on the dressing-table.

      As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses – the bottle had been nearly full overnight – and trying to remember what had happened, there came a knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast tray.

      She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have been; though all she said was: “I knocked before, sir, with your shaving water, but you didn’t hear. It’s cold now, but I’ll put some fresh outside directly.”

      I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul – and my stomach – revolted at the very thought of such fare.

      I had scarcely sipped my tea when I heard the telephone bell ring in the adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins announced severely: “The telephone, Mr. Wynn,” and retreated to the landing.

      “Hello?”

      “Is that Mr. Wynn?” responded a soft, rich, feminine voice that set my pulses tingling. “Oh, it is you, Maurice; I’m so glad. We rang you up from Chelsea, but could get no answer. You won’t know who it is speaking; it is I, Anne Pendennis!”

      CHAPTER VI

      “MURDER MOST FOUL”

      “I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”

      I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.

      “I’ll be with you in five minutes – darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “Au revoir; I’ve got to hustle!”

      I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.

      There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.

      “Too late, sir, train’s off; here – stand away – stand away there!”

      He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations, but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.

      “Where are you going?” I gasped, running alongside.

      “Berlin. Mary has the address!” Anne called. “Oh, Maurice, let go; you’ll be killed!”

      A dozen hands grasped me and held me back by main force.

      “See you – Tuesday!” I cried, and she waved her hand as if she understood.

      “It’s – all right – you fellows – I wasn’t trying – to board – the car – ” I said in jerks, as I got my breath again, and I guess they grasped the situation, for they grinned and cleared off, as Mary walked up to me.

      “Well, I must say you ran it pretty fine, Maurice,” she remarked accusatively. “And, my! what a fright you look! Why, you haven’t shaved this morning; and your tie’s all crooked!”

      I put my hand up to my chin.

      “I was only just awake when Anne rang me up,” I explained apologetically. “It’s exactly fifteen and a half minutes since I got out of bed; and I ran the whole way!”

      “You look like it, you disreputable young man,” she retorted laughing. “Well, you’d better come right back to breakfast. You can use Jim’s shaving tackle to make yourself presentable.”

      She marched me off to the waiting brougham, and gave me the facts of Anne’s hasty departure as we drove rapidly along the quiet, clean-washed, sunny streets.

      “The letter СКАЧАТЬ