CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

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      The young man bowed, and, with a curious glance at Ruff, accepted his dismissal. Another partner was simply waved away.

      “Please turn round and come back,” Peter Ruff said. “I want to see those two again.”

      “But we haven’t found Count von Hern yet,” she protested. “Surely that is more important, is it not? I believe that I saw him dancing just now—there, with the tall girl in yellow.”

      “Never mind about him, for the moment,” Ruff answered. “Walk down this corridor with me. Do you mind talking all the time, please? It will sound more natural, and I want to listen.”

      The young American and his partner had found a more retired seat now, about three quarters of the way down the pillared vestibule which bordered the ballroom. He was bending over his companion with an air of unmistakable devotion, but it was she who talked. She seemed, indeed, to have a good deal to say to him. The slim white fingers of one hand played all the time with a string of magnificent pearls. Her dark, soft eyes—black as aloes and absolutely un-English—flashed into his. A delightful smile hovered at the corners of her lips. All the time she was talking and he was listening. Lady Mary and her partner passed by unnoticed. At the end of the vestibule they turned and retraced their steps. Peter Ruff was very quiet—he had caught a few of those rapid words. But the woman’s foreign accent had troubled him.

      “If only she would speak in her own language!” he muttered.

      Lady Mary’s hand suddenly tightened upon his arm.

      “Look!” she exclaimed. “That is Count von Hern!”

      A tall, fair young man, very exact in his dress, very stiff in his carriage, with a not unpleasant face, was standing talking to Jermyn and his companion. Jermyn, who apparently found the intrusion an annoyance, was listening to the conversation between the two, with a frown upon his face and a general attitude of irritation. As Lady Mary and her escort drew near, the reason for the young American’s annoyance became clearer—his two companions were talking softly, but with great animation, in a foreign language, which it was obvious that he did not understand. Peter Ruff’s elbow pressed against his partner’s arm, and their pace slackened. He ventured, even, to pause for a moment, looking into the ballroom as though in search of some one, and he had by no means the appearance of a man likely to understand Hungarian. Then, to Lady Mary’s surprise, he touched the Count von Hern on the shoulder and addressed him.

      “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I fancy that we accidentally exchanged programmes, a few minutes ago, at the buffet. I have lost mine and picked up one which does not belong to me. As we were standing side by side, it is possibly yours.”

      “I believe not, sir,” he answered, with that pleasant smile which had gone such a long way toward winning him the reputation of being “a good fellow” amongst a fairly large circle of friends. “I believe at any rate,” he added, glancing at his programme, “that this is my own. You mistake me, probably, for some one else.”

      Peter Ruff, without saying a word, was actor enough to suggest that he was unconvinced. The Count good-humouredly held out his programme.

      “You shall see for yourself,” he remarked. “That is not yours, is it? Besides, I have not been to the buffet at all this evening.”

      Peter Ruff cast a swift glance down the programme which the Count had handed him. Then he apologised profusely.

      “I was mistaken,” he admitted. “I am very sorry.”

      The Count bowed.

      “It is of no consequence, sir,” he said, and resumed his conversation.

      Peter Ruff passed on with Lady Mary. At a safe distance, she glanced at him enquiringly.

      “It was his programme I wanted to see,” Peter Ruff explained. “It is as I thought. He has had four dances with the Countess—”

      “Who is she?” Lady Mary asked, quickly.

      “The little dark lady with whom he is talking now,” Peter Ruff continued. “He seems, too, to be going early. He has no dances reserved after the twelfth. We will go downstairs at once, if you please. I must speak to your brother.”

      “Have you been able to think of anything?” she asked, anxiously. “Is there any chance at all, do you think?”

      “I believe so,” Peter Ruff answered. “It is most interesting. Don’t be too sanguine, though. The odds are against us, and the time is very short. Is the driver of your electric brougham to be trusted?”

      “Absolutely,” she assured him. “He is an old servant.”

      “Will you lend him to me?” Peter Ruff asked, “and tell him that he is to obey my instructions absolutely?”

      “Of course,” she answered. “You are going away, then?”

      Peter Ruff nodded. He was a little sparing of words just then. The thoughts were chasing one another through his brain. He was listening, too, for the sweep of a dress behind.

      “Is there nothing I can do?” Lady Mary begged, eagerly.

      Peter Ruff shook his head. In the distance he saw the Honourable Maurice come quickly toward them. With a firm but imperceptible gesture he waved him away.

      “Don’t let your brother speak to me,” he said. “We can’t tell who is behind. What time did you say the Prime Minister was expected?”

      “At two o’clock,” Lady Mary said, anxiously.

      Peter Ruff glanced at his watch. It was already half an hour past midnight.

      “Very well,” he said, “I will do what I can. If my theory is wrong, it will be nothing. If I am right—well, there is a chance, anyhow. In the meantime—”

      “In the meantime?” she repeated, breathlessly.

      “Take your brother back to the ballroom,” Peter Ruff directed. “Make him dance—dance yourself. Don’t give yourselves away by looking anxious. When the time is short—say at a quarter to two—he can come down here and wait for me.”

      “If you don’t come!” she exclaimed.

      “Then we shall have lost,” Peter Ruff said, calmly. “If you don’t see me again to-night, you had better read the newspapers carefully for the next few days.”

      “You are going to do something dangerous!” she protested.

      “There is danger in interfering at all in such a matter as this,” he answered, “but you must remember that it is not only my profession—it is my hobby. Remember, too,” he added, with a smile, “that I do not often lose!”

      For twenty minutes Peter Ruff sat in the remote corner of Lady Mary’s electric brougham, drawn up at the other side of the Square, and waited. At last he pressed a button. They glided off. Before them was a large, closed motor car. They started in discreet chase.

      Fortunately, however, the СКАЧАТЬ