Annie Haynes Premium Collection – 8 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Annie Haynes

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СКАЧАТЬ met with a bad accident yesterday. He always will act his own chauffeur, and he is reckless at hills. It seems there was a terrible smash-up, and there isn't much hope for Palmer, I fancy."

      Judith stirred quickly, she drew a little away.

      "Do you mean that he is not going to get better—that he will die?"

      Sir Anthony nodded gravely. "I am afraid so."

      With all her power Judith thrust away from her that hideous thought that would obtrude itself. Lord Palmer was going to die and Sybil—Lady Palmer—the beautiful cousin who had been engaged to Anthony in his youth, and whose loss had embittered all his young manhood, would be free.

      But then—then Judith's golden hour would be over—nothing would matter to her, she told herself, nothing would hurt her then.

      She looked at Sir Anthony as he sat at the table; she could catch a glimpse of his profile; she could hear his pen moving quickly over his paper; evidently it was a long letter he was writing. At last, however, it was finished, and he came back to her.

      "Now I am at your service, sweetheart."

      Judith's lips trembled.

      "When next month comes, we shall have been married two years, Anthony."

      "Shall we?" Sir Anthony's deep-set eyes smiled down at her. "You have become so absolutely a part of my life, that I don't like to think of the time when you didn't belong to me, Judith."

      Judith lay back among her cool, chintz cushions, and looked at him.

      "Don't you," she said, and then, "It—it has been a happy time since we were married?" she questioned wistfully.

      "A happy—a blessed time," he said with sudden passion, as he knelt down beside her and gathered her into his arms. "It was my good angel that brought you to Heron's Carew, Judith."

      "Thank God for two perfect years," she whispered. "Two happy years together; whatever happens we have had that. You wouldn't quite forget those two years—if—if I died to-night; if you married some one else, Anthony?"

      "Don't!" the word broke from the man almost like a sob of pain. "Don't talk of it even in jest. One can't forget what is graven on one's heart. Dead or alive, you are the one woman in the world for me." His arms tightened round her, held her close to his heart. With a little sobbing sigh Judith crept closer to him.

      Carew's eyes were passionately tender as he glanced at the waves of golden hair resting on his coat. The pale curved lips were touching his sleeve again now; they were murmuring one word over and over again. "Good-bye, good-bye!" At last the golden hour was over.

      She got up unsteadily. "You will go to the Denboroughs', Anthony?"

      "And you will go to sleep?" He drew her arm through his. "Come, I am going to give Célestine her directions myself. No more going to the boy to-night, mind!"

      She let him help her upstairs, it was so sweet, so very sweet to have him wait upon her.

      But upstairs she refused utterly to go to bed; she would sleep better on the large roomy couch, she protested. Célestine would bring her some black coffee, and leave the sedative within reach, and then no one must disturb her; she would have a long rest. Sir Anthony bent down and kissed her tenderly.

      "I shall not be late. Sleep well, my dearest."

      Somewhat to his surprise, as he lifted his head, Judith drew it down again, and kissed him on the lips with sudden passion. "Good-bye, good-bye," she whispered. Then, as her arms fell back from his neck, she closed her eyes and turned her face into the side of the couch.

      Sir Anthony stole softly away.

      As he closed the door, she looked round again with wide eyes.

      "Célestine!"

      "Yes, miladi." The French maid came forward, a demure, provocative little figure.

      "You can go now. If I want anything I will ring."

      "Yes, miladi! But Sir Anthony, he said—" Evidently Célestine was unwilling to depart.

      "That will do." Lady Carew interrupted her with a touch of hauteur. "I cannot sleep unless I am alone. And do not come until I ring, Célestine."

      "But, certainly, miladi." The maid shrugged her shoulders as she withdrew.

      Left alone, Lady Carew raised herself on her elbow, and looked all round the room. On the other side of the room was the door leading into Sir Anthony's apartments. Judith bit her lips despairingly as she looked at it; presently he would be coming up to dress, she would hear him moving about. A long shivering sigh shook her from head to foot as she buried her face in the cushions again.

      Meanwhile Sir Anthony went back to his study. There was plenty of time to dress, he had another letter to write that required some thinking over. As he walked over to the writing-table his eye was caught by a piece of paper on the chair where Judith had been sitting. Naturally, a tidy man, he glanced at it as he picked it up, wondering idly whether his wife had dropped it.

      "42 Abbey Court, Leinster Avenue, 9.30 to-night,"

      he read, written in a bold unmistakably masculine hand.

      "What does it mean?" he asked himself as he twisted it about. There seemed to him something sinister in the curtly worded command. It was not meant for Judith of course, the very notion of that was absurd. But, as he sat down and opened his blotting-book, the look of that piece of paper haunted him; another thought—one he had believed laid for ever—the thought of the long years that lay behind his knowledge of his wife, rose and mocked him.

      He would not have been Carew of Heron's Carew if his nature had not held infinite capabilities of self-torture, of fierce burning jealousy that ran like fire through his blood, and maddened him.

      It was so little that he knew, that Judith had told him of her past.

      It had been the usual uneventful past of an ordinary English girl, she had given him to understand. But the great hazel eyes had held hints of tragedy at times that gave the lie to that placid story.

      Sir Anthony groaned aloud as he thrust the letter from him. He sat silent, his eyes fixed on that mysterious paper: "9.30 to-night." For whom had that appointment been meant?

      Chapter III

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      Nine o'clock! Judith Carew stood up. The time had come! Once more she looked round the familiar room, her eyes lingering on the big photograph of Anthony, in its oxydized silver frame on the mantelpiece.

      She crossed to the pretty inlaid escritoire, and unlocked one of the top drawers. A piece of paper lay inside; she started as she looked at it with a frown. This was not what she wanted—this was merely a pencilled note that Peggy had sent her in the church that afternoon. A note, moreover, that she had thought she had burnt when she came in.

      A moment's reflection and her face cleared; she must have tossed the address the man gave her, at the church door, СКАЧАТЬ