The Yellow Dove. Gibbs George

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СКАЧАТЬ very well,” said Lady Heathcote, “I won’t. But don’t be mysterious. All mysteries nowadays are looked on with suspicion. Even such an innocent little mystery”—and she laughed—“as a package of cigarette papers.”

      Doris made some light reply and went to her room, where, with the doors locked, she quickly examined the packet to be sure that it had not been tampered with. Nothing seemed to have been changed and she gave a sigh of relief to think that thus far her secret had escaped detection. It was very clear to her now that John Rizzio had decided that the secret information was in her possession and that his visit was planned with the object of getting it away from her. This should never be. By the light of the window she read and re-read the thin script until the lines were etched upon her memory. She would burn the papers if they were in danger. If Cyril was to meet Captain Byfield’s fate, it would be upon other evidence than this. Her hands, at least with regard to Cyril, must be clean.

      A knock upon the door and she hurriedly thrust the packet under a table cover and answered. It was the maid with her tea, and upon the tray lay a note in an unfamiliar handwriting. When the maid had gone she tore the flap and read:

      Mr. Hammersley begs that Miss Mather will not be unduly alarmed upon his account. Business of an urgent nature has detained him but he assures her that he will join her at the earliest possible moment. He begs that she will be careful.

      There was no signature and the handwriting was curious—like none to which she was accustomed, but the message seemed somehow to sound like Cyril. She rang for the maid, questioned her, and found that the note had just come over by messenger from Ben-a-Chielt.

      When the maid went down, Doris re-read the message thankfully. Cyril was safe—at least for the present. And her relief in the knowledge was the true measure of her relation to him. Whatever else he was, he was the man she had promised to marry—the man who a little later would have been hers for better or for worse. And between Cyril and John Rizzio it had not been difficult to choose. It did not seem difficult now.

      She took up the packet of papers and paused before the open fire, a smile playing for the first time at the corners of her lips. John Rizzio! He was clever, as she knew, but there was more than one way of playing the game. Perhaps with her John Rizzio might be at a disadvantage. She hesitated a moment and then—pulled up her skirts and slipped the yellow packet into her stocking.

      CHAPTER VI

      RIZZIO TAKES CHARGE

      Rizzio was to arrive that night. Meanwhile, with the papers hidden about her and bright fires burning in all the living-rooms of the house in which they could in a moment be destroyed, Doris thought herself well placed upon the defensive. Cyril’s note had cheered her, and after removing the dust of her journey she went down into the library, where she joined the other members of the house party assembled. Black seemed to be the prevailing color, for, in addition to the weeds of Lady Constance, there was Wilfred Hammersley, Cyril’s uncle, who had lost an only son at La Bassée, and the Heatherington girls, who had lost a brother.

      “Ugh!” Lady Betty was saying. “I came to Scotland to try and forget, but the war follows me. Dick Byfield a traitor! Who next? Let’s not even speak of it. Come, I’ve ordered the brake, Doris. We’re going out for a spin. You and I and Angeline. Constance of course has a headache, and Jack will be having another for sympathy.”

      The air outside was life-giving, and when she returned later Doris felt that her brain had been swept clear of its cobwebs of perplexity. She found Wilson standing in her room gazing with a puzzled expression at the tray of her unpacked box, the contents of which were in a state of confusion.

      “It’s strange, Miss Mather. Someone has been at your things while I was down in the servants’ hall at luncheon.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Yes, Miss Mather, sure. Quite positive, in fact. Those waists were lying flat when I left.”

      “The window wasn’t open?” asked Doris with a glance around.

      “Oh, no, Miss.” She looked about and lowered her voice. “It’s somebody inside.”

      “Curious,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Nothing has been taken? Is the jewel box there?”

      Together they examined the things and found that nothing was missing.

      “Say nothing about this, Wilson,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Unless something is taken, I shouldn’t care to disturb Lady Heathcote.”

      “It can’t be–” Wilson paused, her voice hushed.

      “The papers are safe, Wilson—as long as I am safe,” replied the girl, and told the maid of her place of concealment.

      Wilson looked dubious. “I wish you’d give them to me, Miss Mather.”

      But the girl shook her head—she was thoroughly alive now to the perils which hung about her, here within the very doors of Lady Heathcote’s house, but she had determined that if she could not find it possible to keep the papers until Cyril appeared she would destroy them. She was not frightened, for however clumsy John Rizzio’s agents might be she was in no danger from himself. Whatever the interests which made the possession of the yellow packet so vital, she knew the man well enough to be sure that if there came an issue between them, he would act with her as he had always acted—the part of a gentleman.

      Instead of apprehension at his approaching visit she now felt only interest and a kind of suppressed exhilaration as at the prospect of a flight in a new plane or the trying out of a green hunter—excitement like that which preceded all her sportive ventures.

      So that when she met John Rizzio in the drawing-room after dinner—he had not been able to manage a more opportune train—she gave him a warm hand-clasp of greeting and a smile which caused him some surprise and not a little regret—surprise that she was carrying off a difficult situation with consummate ease; regret that such self-possession and artistry were not to be added to the ornaments of his house in Berkeley Square. Perhaps still–

      “How agreeable,” she was saying charmingly. “The great man actually condescends to come to the land of Calvin, oatcake and sulphur, when there are truffles and old Madeira still to be had in London.”

      He laughed, his dark eyes appraising her slender blond beauty eagerly.

      “I have no quarrel with Calvin. Oatcake—by all means. Sulphur—er—I suppose the sulphur will come in time.”

      “Not if you’re polite,” said the girl coolly, “and tell me what brought you so unexpectedly to Scotland.”

      They were standing near the fire apart from the others, Doris with one slipper on the fender, which she was regarding approvingly, her head upon one side. He admired her careless tone. She was quite wonderful.

      “Perhaps you will not believe me,” he said suavely, “if I were to tell you that I came to see you.”

      “Me? I am flattered. I thought that great collectors were always deterred by fear of the spurious.”

      She was carrying the war into his camp. He met the issue squarely. “They are only deterred by the spurious. Therefore I am here. The inference is obvious.”

      He had always showed the slightest trace of his foreign accent. It went admirably with his shrug and mobile fingers.

      “I am genuine СКАЧАТЬ