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

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СКАЧАТЬ anything wrong, Peter?” she asked.

      “No,” he answered, “I cannot say that anything is wrong. I have had an invitation to present myself before a certain society in Paris of which you have some indirect knowledge. What the summons means I cannot say.”

      “Yet you go?” she exclaimed.

      “I go,” he answered. “I have no choice. If I waited here twenty-four hours, I should hear of it.”

      “They can have nothing against you,” she said. “On the contrary, the only time they have appealed for your aid, you gave it—very valuable aid it must have been, too.”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “I cannot see,” he admitted, “what they can have against me. And yet, somehow, the wording of my invitation seemed to me a little ominous. Perhaps,” he added, walking to the window and standing looking out for a moment, “I have a liver this morning. I am depressed. Violet, what does it mean when you are depressed?”

      “Shall you wear your gray clothes for traveling?” she asked, a little irrelevantly.

      “I have not made up my mind,” Peter Ruff answered. “I thought of wearing my brown, with a brown overcoat. What do you suggest?”

      “I like you in brown,” she answered, simply. “I should change, if I were you.”

      He smiled faintly.

      “I believe,” he said, “that you have a sort of superstition that as I change my clothes I change my humors.”

      “Should I be so very far wrong?” she asked. “Don’t think that I am laughing at you, Peter. The greatest men in the world have had their foibles.”

      Peter Ruff frowned.

      “We shall be away for several days,” he said. “Be sure that you take some wraps. It will be cold, crossing.”

      “Are you going to close the office altogether?” she asked.

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “Put up a notice,” he said—“‘Back on Friday.’ Pack up your books and take them round to the Bank before you leave. The lift man will call you a taxi-cab.”

      He watched her preparations with a sort of gloomy calm.

      “I wish you’d tell me what is the matter with you?” she asked, as she turned to follow her belongings.

      “I do not know,” Peter Ruff said. “I, suppose I am suffering from what you would call presentiments. Be at Charing-Cross punctually.”

      “Why do you go at all?” she asked. “These people are of no further use to you. Only the other day, you were saying that you should not accept any more outside cases.”

      “I must go,” Peter Ruff answered. “I am not afraid of many things, but I should be afraid of disobeying this letter.”

      They had a comfortable journey down, a cool, bright crossing, and found their places duly reserved for them in the French train. Miss Brown, in her neat traveling clothes and furs, was conscious of looking her best, and she did all that was possible to entertain her traveling companion. But Peter Ruff seemed like a man who labors under some sense of apprehension. He had faced death more than once during the last few years—faced it without flinching, and with a certain cool disregard which can only come from the highest sort of courage. Yet he knew, when he read over again in the train that brief summons which he was on his way to obey, that he had passed under the shadow of some new and indefinable fear. He was perfectly well aware, too, that both on the steamer and on the French train he was carefully shadowed. This fact, however, did not surprise him. He even went out of his way to enter into conversation with one of the two men whose furtive glances into their compartment and whose constant proximity had first attracted his attention. The man was civil but vague. Nevertheless, when they took their places in the dining-car, they found the two men at the next table. Peter Ruff pointed them out to his companion.

      “‘Double-Fours’!” he whispered. “Don’t you feel like a criminal?”

      She laughed, and they took no more notice of the men. But as the train drew near Paris, he felt some return of the depression which had troubled him during the earlier part of the day. He felt a sense of comfort in his companion’s presence which was a thing utterly strange to him. On the other hand, he was conscious of a certain regret that he had brought her with him into an adventure of which he could not foresee the end.

      The lights of Paris flashed around them—the train was gradually slackening speed. Peter Ruff, with a sigh, began to collect their belongings.

      “Violet,” he said, “I ought not to have brought you.” Something in his voice puzzled her. There had been every few times, during all the years she had known him, when she had been able to detect anything approaching sentiment in his tone—and those few times had been when he had spoken of another woman.

      “Why not?” she asked, eagerly.

      Peter Ruff looked out into the blackness, through the glittering arc of lights, and perhaps for once he suffered his fancy to build for him visions of things that were not of earth. If so, however, it was a moment which swiftly passed. His reply was in a tone as matter of fact as his usual speech.

      “Because,” he said, “I do not exactly see the end of my present expedition—I do not understand its object.”

      “You have some apprehension?” she asked.

      “None at all,” he answered. “Why should I? There is an unwritten bargain,” he added, a little more slowly, “to which I subscribed with our friends here, and I have certainly kept it. In fact, the balance is on my side. There is nothing for me to fear.”

      The train crept into the Gare du Nord, and they passed through the usual routine of the Customs House. Then, in an omnibus, they rumbled slowly over the cobblestones, through the region of barely lit streets and untidy cafes, down the Rue Lafayette, across the famous Square and into the Rue de Rivoli.

      “Our movements,” Peter Ruff remarked dryly, “are too well known for us to attempt to conceal them. We may as well stop at one of the large hotels. It will be more cheerful for you while I am away.”

      They engaged rooms at the Continental. Miss Brown, whose apartments were in the wing of the hotel overlooking the gardens, ascended at once to her room. Peter Ruff, who had chosen a small suite on the other side, went into the bar for a whiskey and soda. A man touched him on the elbow.

      “For Monsieur,” he murmured, and vanished.

      Peter Ruff turned and opened the note. It bore a faint perfume, it had a coronet upon the flap of the envelope, and it was written in a delicate feminine handwriting.

      DEAR Mr. RUFF:— If you are not too tired with your journey, will you call soon after one o’clock to meet some old friends?— BLANCHE DE MAUPASSIM.

      Peter Ruff drank his whiskey and soda, went up to his rooms, and made a careful toilet. Then he sent a page up for Violet, who came down within a few minutes. She was dressed with apparent simplicity in a high-necked gown, a large hat, and a single rope of pearls. In place of the usual gold purse, she carried a small white СКАЧАТЬ