The Fourth Plague Read online

  The room possessed, what is unusual in English country houses, long French windows which opened on to a balcony. She looked at her watch again, then drew a heavy curtain across her door. The gas was burning dimly. The room might have been a sitting-room but for the big white bed which stood in an alcove, screened from view by thick silk curtains.

  She did not trouble to turn up the light. She looked at it for a moment in doubt, and then walked to the window. Again she looked at the light hesitatingly, and, walking back, turned it out. She opened the window and stepped out on to the balcony.

  It was a mild, pleasant night. The moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds, but there was sufficient light to distinguish the more prominent objects in the big, sweet-smelling garden below. She looked carefully left and right, and saw nothing. She went back to her room to get a rug, and resumed her vigil. The clock of the village church had struck ten in its lugubrious tones when she heard a slight sound in the garden below.

  She walked back to her room quickly, opened a cupboard, and took out a silk ladder; there was a hook attached, and this she fastened with deft fingers to a socket in the balcony, fixed in the wall, ostensibly to support the sunblinds when their cover was necessary.

  She dropped, the ladder over. A dark form rose from the shadow of the portico beneath and mounted the swaying cordage. He leapt lightly over the balustrade, and stopped for a moment to pull up the ladder after him, and to lay it on the floor of the balcony.

  She took his hand and led him into the room, closed the windows, shuttered them, and pulled the velvet curtains across. Then she lit the gas and returned to him. She laid her two hands upon his shoulders, and looked hungrily into his face.

  Beautiful as she was, the love which shone in her eyes transfigured her face and intensified her loveliness.

  “It is you!” she breathed. “Oh, thank you for coming yourself! I was afraid that you would send one of those wretched men of yours.”

  Festini smiled kindly. He patted her cheek caressingly.

  “I had to come,” he said, “though it is not long since I saw you.”

  “It is two days,” she said, reproachfully.

  He nodded.

  “So it is,” he smiled. “You got my letter?”

  For answer she took a crumpled envelope from her breast.

  “You ought to bum that,” he said, half seriously. “It is a very dangerous thing to keep letters, even though they are apparently innocent.

  “You have come alone?” she asked.

  He inclined his head. The hand that rested in his was shaking, but not from fear.

  “I have missed you so. I hate this place,” she said, vehemently. “It is a prison to me. It eats out my heart—this life. Festini,” she said, and again her two hands were laid on his shoulder, and her face searched his, “you cannot understand what an existence this is.”

  “It is only for a little while, my child,” he said.

  She was older than he, but his paternal manner was perfect.

  “Later we will go away, and leave this dull land for a more pleasant one. Leave these grey skies, for the blue of our Italy, and these drab, drizzling fields for the sun-washed vineyards of our own land.”

  He kissed her lightly again. He was anxious to get to business. None knew the relations of these two, for Festini kept his secret well. Even in the innermost council of his association, he spoke of her as though she were the veriest stranger.

  “I want to go somewhere,” she said, moodily, “out of this! I planned to see you in Ireland last year, and at the last moment Ralph would not let me go.”

  She turned suddenly to him.

  “You must have met Marjorie there.”

  “Marjorie?” he said, innocently.

  “We were going together,” she went on, “and when I found she had to go alone—after all my planning—”

  She shook her head with a sad little smile. “I dared not send a letter by her, or give you an excuse for falling in love with her,” she rallied him.

  “I don’t remember her. What was she like?” said Festini, calmly.

  “She remembered you,” said Vera. “She maddened me by her chatter of you. I am happy to say that she did not like you very much.”

  Festini smiled.

  “So few people do,” he said.

  He slipped off his overcoat.

  “We are perfectly safe from interruption here?” he asked.

  She inclined her head.

  “There is no danger whatever.”

  “Now then,” he said, briskly, “let us talk for quite five minutes, dear.”

  They sat head to head, talking. Five minutes became ten. The young man spoke quickly, vehemently; and she answered in monosyllables. It was nothing to her that he asked so much. She would have sacrificed more than her husband’s possessions to please him.

  Every law in the world, save the law of gravitation, is suspended in the woman in love. Faith, honour, every known principle went by the board. She had no sense of right or wrong where he was concerned. Only a desire to serve him.

  “You had best make the attempt between three and four,” he said. “I will be here in the garden, waiting. I have a cycle hidden near by, and a car will be waiting for me on the London road.”

  “I wanted to say something to you,” she said suddenly. “I hate admitting a failure, and, dearie, I tried so hard.”

  His quick intuition divined her meaning. “Oh, the money,” he said, lightly. “Don’t let that bother you. I managed to get some. We’ve been out of luck lately. This infernal man, Tillizini, has dammed our usual sources. We had a windfall last week, and in a month’s time,” he said, and she saw the soft light die from the eyes and the delicate mouth harden in one straight line, “in a month’s time!” he repeated, “we shall be very rich. And England will be very sore.”

  With lightning change he brightened again, and was his own insouciant self.

  “Don’t let the money worry you. We have quite a lot now,” he said. “I, somehow, didn’t fancy you’d be able to raise the five hundred.”

  He rose to go and she assisted him with his coat.

  “By the way,” he said, “that niece of yours—what did you say her name was?”

  “Marjorie.”

  “That is the name,” he nodded. “I seem to remember her. Where is she now?” He put the question carelessly.

  “She’s in the house,” replied Vera.

  “What a curious coincidence!” he smiled. “She doesn’t speak about me nowadays, I suppose?” he asked.

  Vera shook her head. It had occurred to the young man that the girl might have referred to their meeting at Victoria.

  “Why, of course, how stupid of me!” he said, suddenly. “I saw her the other day—on some station—I remember her now. A tall, healthy-looking, robust person.”

  His description was not flattering to Marjorie, but it was eminently pleasing to the woman, who was jealous of every other interest he had in life.

  “That is not kind,” she smiled, “but I think it more or less describes her.”

  “She was with a tall man, I remember.”

  “He is in the house too,” she said.

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “He is in the house too,” he repeated, and his voice was hard.

  She thought he was tired, and moved to the window. Her hand was on the curtain. She stood waiting, then, with a little sigh, she nestled close to him.

  “I want you so,” she breathed. “My God, I do so want you! You don’t know what it means—what I feel….”

  He laughed, a gentle, tolerant laugh.

  He held out his arms, for a second she lay on his breast, her heart beating wildly—perfectly and divinely happy.

  “I must go now,” he said, gently. “I am afraid of being caught.”<
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  With some reluctance she opened the window. He stood for a moment on the balcony, reconnoitring the position.

  The coast was clear. In a second he was over the balustrade, and had slipped noiselessly to the ground.

  XII. —THE SECOND MEDALLION

  SHE WAITED TILL HE disappeared in the shadow of the garden; then pulled up the ladder and placed it in a drawer within the wardrobe, from whence she had extracted it, and closed the windows.

  He had left very definite instructions, and she went over them in her mind to make absolutely sure.

  The medallion she knew. She had prepared a drawing especially for this man whose influence was the guiding and dominant thing in her life.

  She looked round carefully to remove all trace of the visitor’s presence. Then she unlocked the door and went out.

  As she passed the little museum, Sir Ralph and his guest emerged. He looked at her in some surprise.

  “Hello, Vera,” he said pleasantly, for him, “I thought you were with the others.”

  “I’ve been doing my accounts,” she said, with a little grimace.

  Sir Ralph chuckled. In his more pleasant moods he took a humorous view of his own economies.

  He was fastening the door of the museum, when Vera intervened.

  “I’d like to see those medallions of yours again,” she said.

  Sir Ralph was pleased. Vera took too little interest in his collection to satisfy him. It was one of his grievances that she did not enter into what he termed the “larger side of his life.”

  “Come along, come along,” he said, “only do not provoke Hilary to a discussion on art, because he is the veriest Philistine.”

  He chuckled again.

  The museum was the one room in the house lighted by electricity. Here once more Sir Ralph had been guilty of an extravagance which was entirely foreign to his nature. He had had a storage battery installed especially for the illumination of his treasure house.

  The girl looked at the medallions with more than usual interest. She had seen them before, and recently, though this Sir Ralph did not know. She had a twofold object in asking for this inspection. Her husband had grown nervous as a result of the activity of the “Red Hand,” and had signified his intention of changing all the locks. She wanted to make certain that he had not carried out his plans.

  Her first glance reassured her. They had not been altered, nor had he changed the position of the medallions.

  “They are very beautiful,” she said.

  In point of fact she thought them very uninteresting, but it was not politic to express this view.

  “They grow on you, do they not?” said Sir Ralph, enthusiastically. “I shall make a connoisseur of you in time, Vera.”

  She went downstairs ahead of the two men, in a thoughtful mood.

  It was after midnight when the little party broke up, and retired to their rooms.

  Frank was one of the last to go upstairs. He passed through the drawing-room, and found Vera tidying away the chessmen with which Sir Ralph and Hilary had been amusing themselves.

  He would have gone straight on, but something induced him to stop.

  “Good night, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said.

  She was bending over the table and did not trouble to raise her head.

  “Good night, Mr. Gallinford,” she said.

  He still waited.

  “I feel that I ought to explain something that is in my mind,” he said, a trifle uncomfortably. He had no great command of language, and was somewhat embarrassed.

  “I shouldn’t, if I were you,” she said, quietly. “Let matters go as they are, and be charitable.”

  She was in a melting mood to-night. For no reason that she could think of, she felt a desire to stand well with the world, and especially with that section of the world which this good-looking English youth represented.

  “There is a key-word,” she said, “which explains the most contradictory situations—the most unlikely and unthinkable follies. You may know that key-word.”

  “I only know one,” he said, gently, “and that is ‘Love.’”

  Vera smiled at him. It was a dazzling, human smile, that revealed in a flash the deeps of her nature.

  “That is the word,” she said, and went on with her tidying.

  He stood a second longer; then, with another “Good night” he left her, puzzled and a little ashamed of his own attitude towards her.

  At the head of the stairs Marjorie was waiting to say “Goodnight,” and in a moment all thought of the woman he had left in the drawing-room below, and her cryptic utterances, were obliterated from his mind.

  Vera had been reading before her bedroom fire. She had spent the whole of the night reading and thinking. The reading had been mechanical; she could not recall a single sentence or one situation from the thrilling novel which lay upon her knee.

  She looked up at the little clock over the mantelpiece. The hands pointed to a quarter to four.

  She rose and took from a hanging cupboard a long dark rain-coat, and this she put on over her dressing-gown, buttoning it carefully so that it should not inconvenience her movements.

  She unlocked and opened a drawer of her writing-table and took out a red morocco case.

  This she again unlocked with a key attached to a bunch she had taken from under her pillow. The case was apparently empty, but she pressed a spring and the bottom of the box flew up.

  Three beautifully fashioned keys lay on the velvet in the false bottom. She took them in her hand, closed the box, and extinguished the light.

  She waited by the door for a moment or two, listening. Then she opened it and stepped out into the dark corridor.

  She had twenty or thirty yards to walk, but her mocassined feet made no sound upon the thick carpet. The house lay wrapped in slumber, as silent as death.

  She could hear nothing save the rattle within the wainscot of a foraging mouse. She walked on until she came to the museum. Here she halted again, listening.

  Sir Ralph slept in a room on the farther side and, fortunately, was a heavy sleeper. Hilary had the room on the other.

  She inserted the key, opened the rosewood door, took the other key and turned it in the steel door.

  Noiselessly the well-oiled lock shot back. She pushed the door open and entered, closing both doors behind her. She could not lock them from the inside, but there was no chance of a casual passer observing that it had been opened—even if casual wanderers were likely at this hour of the morning.

  She took from the pocket of her rain-coat a tiny electric lamp, and flashed it over the cases. She found the one she wanted, unshuttered it deftly, opened the glass case, and lifted out the medallion.

  She made a quick inspection of it, to make sure that she had the right jewel.

  Noiselessly she slipped through the door, locked it behind her, and fastened the outer covering quickly.

  Then she turned to retrace her steps to her room.

  She took one step and then stopped, rooted to the ground with terror and dismay, for, confronting her, she saw a bulky form.

  There was not enough light to show her his face, but she knew it was Hilary George.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, softly.

  She was paralysed with terror. She could not force her tongue to speak.

  “Who is that?” he asked, and his voice rose.

  With a superhuman effort she recovered her self-possession.

  If he spoke louder he would wake Sir Ralph, and that would be the end of things.

  “It is I,” she said, speaking in the same tone.

  “Lady Morte-Mannery? I am sorry,” he whispered. “I thought I heard somebody in the grounds, and I listened, but heard nothing more, so I got a little uneasy.

  “It’s all right,” she said, speaking in the same t
one as before. “I have been to Sir Ralph’s room to get a little veronal. I cannot sleep.”

  With a whispered apology he went back to his room.

  It was on the other side of the treasure house, and she wondered if she had made any noise. Had he seen her come out? His next words lifted a weight from her heart.

  “I couldn’t see where you came from,” he said, “or who you were. I hope I didn’t frighten you?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, lightly.

  With another apology he went into his room, and closed the door softly behind him.

  She flew along the passage to her room, her heart beating wildly. Once in the room, she locked the door and drew the curtain across it. Then she lit the gas with an unsteady hand. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror over the fireplace, and was shocked at its drawn and haggard appearance.

  There was still part of the work to be done.

  Hilary had heard somebody in the garden. That would be Festini. She looked to make sure that she had the jewel, then she turned out the light again, opened the shutters, and crept out on to the balcony.

  She saw a dark figure standing in the shadow of some bushes. The man came forward as she appeared.

  “Catch!” she whispered.

  He held out his hand as she threw.

  He caught the medallion neatly, and put it in his pocket, then turned without a word and plunged into the bushes.

  She stood for a moment—a little disappointed feeling in her heart. After all she had risked, all she had dared, she had hoped for some word of thanks.

  She was turning to re-enter the room when a sibilant voice held her.

  Her heart bounded. He had come back. She looked down at the dark figure beneath. “Did you get it?” he whispered, in a low tone.

  “Get it?” she said, in bewilderment, “I have just given it to you.”

  “Given it to me?” his voice was harsh. “You have given me nothing. I have been waiting here for half an hour.”

  She staggered back against the balustrade, half sick with fear.