The Secret House. Edgar Wallace
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Название: The Secret House
Автор: Edgar Wallace
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664654304
isbn:
T. B. pointed to the stain.
"Montague," he said, briefly, "and he now knows the very thing I did not wish him to know."
"And that is?"
T. B. did not speak for a moment. He stood looking down at the evidence which the intruder had left behind.
"He knows how much I know," he said, grimly, "but he may also imagine I know more—there are going to be developments."
CHAPTER IV
It was a bad night in London, not wild or turbulent, but swathed to the eyes like an Eastern woman in a soft grey garment of fog. It engulfed the walled canyons of the city, through which the traffic had roared all day, plugged up the maze of dark side-streets, and blotted out the open squares. Close to the ground it was thick, viscous, impenetrable, so that one could not see a yard ahead, and walked ghostlike, adventuring into a strange world.
Occasionally it dispersed. In front of the Jollity Theatre numbers of arc-lights wrought a wavering mist-hung yellow space, into which a constant line of vehicles, like monstrous shiny beetles, emerged from the outer nowhere, disgorged their contents, and were eclipsed again. And pedestrians in gay processional streamed across the rudy glistening patch like figures on a slide.
Conspicuous in the shifting throng was a sharp-faced boy, ostensibly selling newspapers, but with a keen eye upon the arriving vehicles. Suddenly he darted to the curb, where an electric coupe had just drawn up. A man alighted heavily, and turned to assist a young woman.
For an instant the lad's attention was deflected by the radiant vision. The girl, wrapped in a voluminous cloak of ivory colour, was tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist, and sparkling now with amusement.
"Watch your steps, auntie," she warned laughingly, as a plump, elderly, little lady stepped stiffly from the coupe. "These London fogs are dangerous."
The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root to the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
"Paper, sir?"
He addressed the man. For a moment it seemed as though he were to be rebuffed, then something in the boy's attitude changed his mind.
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face beneath the tall hat was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close set and of a turbid grey.
"It's him," the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
The girl laughed amusedly at the spectacle of her companion's passion for news in this grimy atmosphere, and turned to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his taxi and joined the group.
It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward the older man.
"T. B. S.," he said, in a soft but distinct undertone.
The man's face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large, white-gloved palm slipped jingling to the pavement.
The young messenger stooped and caught it dexterously.
"T. B. S.," he whispered again, insistently.
"Here?" the answer came hoarsely. The man's lips trembled.
"Watchin' this theatre—splits[1] by the million," finished the boy promptly, and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the other's hand.
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