CHAPTER X
OUTCAST
The room into which a waiting man servant showed them was large andhandsomely furnished. Whisky and soda, wine and sandwiches were upon thesideboard. The Baroness, stopping only to light a cigarette, movedtowards the door.
"I shall return," she said, "in a quarter of an hour."
She looked for a moment steadily at her friend, and then turned away.Louise strolled to the sideboard and helped herself to a sandwich.
"Come and forage, won't you?" she asked carelessly. "There are some_pate_ sandwiches here, and you want whisky and soda, of course--or doyou prefer brandy?"
"Neither, thanks!" Wrayson answered firmly. "I want what I came for.Please sit down here and answer my questions."
She laughed a little mockingly, and turning round, faced him, her headthrown back, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly. The light from arose-shaded electric lamp glittered upon her hair. She was wearing blackagain, and something in her appearance and attitude almost took hisbreath away. It reminded him of the moment when he had seen her first.
"First," she said, "I am going to ask you a question. Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" he asked.
She gave vent to a little gesture of impatience. He must know quite wellwhat she meant.
"Why did you give evidence at the inquest and omit all mention of me?"
"I don't know," he answered bluntly.
"You have committed yourself to a story," she reminded him, "which iscertainly not altogether a truthful one. You have run a great risk,apparently to shield me. Why?"
"I suppose because I am a fool," he answered bitterly.
She shook her head.
"No!" she declared, "that is not the reason."
He moved a step nearer to her.
"If I were to admit my folly," he said, "what difference would itmake--if I were to tell you that I did it to save you--the inconvenienceof an examination into the motive for your presence in Morris Barnes'rooms that night--what then?"
"It was generous of you," she declared softly. "I ought to thank you."
"I want no thanks," he answered, almost roughly. "I want to know that Iwas justified in what I did. I want you to tell me what you were doingthere alone in the rooms of such a man, with a stolen key. And I want youto tell me what you know about his death."
"Is that all?" she asked.
"Isn't it enough?" he declared savagely. "It is enough to be making anold man of me, anyhow."
"You have a right to ask these questions," she admitted slowly, "and Ihave no right to refuse to answer them."
"None at all," he declared. "You shall answer them."
There was a moment's silence. She leaned a little further back againstthe sideboard. Her eyes were fixed upon his, but her face wasinscrutable.
"I cannot," she said slowly. "I can tell you nothing."
Wrayson was speechless for a moment. It was not only the wordsthemselves, but the note of absolute finality with which they wereuttered, which staggered him. Then he found himself laughing, a soundso unnatural and ominous that, for the first time, fear shone in thegirl's eyes.
"Don't," she cried, and her hands flashed towards him for a momentas though the sight of him hurt her. "Don't be angry! Have pity onme instead."
His nerves, already overwrought, gave way.
"Pity on a murderess, a thief!" he cried. "Not I! I have suffered enoughfor my folly. I will go and tell the truth to-morrow. It was you whokilled him. You did it in the cab and stole back to his rooms torob--afterwards. Horrible! Horrible!"
Her face hardened. His lack of self-control seemed to stimulate her.
"Have it so," she declared. "I never asked you for your silence. If yourepent it, go and make the best bargain you can with the law. They willlet you off cheaply in exchange for your information!"
He walked the length of the room and back. Anything to escape from hereyes. Already he hated the words which he had spoken. When he faced heragain he was master of himself.
"Listen," he said; "I was a little overwrought. I spoke wildly. I have noright to make such an accusation. But--"
She held out her hand as though to stop him, but he went steadily on.
"But I have a right to demand that you tell me the truth as to what youwere doing in Barnes' rooms that night, and what you know of his death.Remember that but for me you would have had to tell your story to a lesssympathetic audience."
"I never forget it," she answered, and for the first time her change to amore natural tone helped him to believe in himself and his own judgment."If you want me to tell you how grateful I am, I might try, but it wouldbe a very hard task."
"All that I ask of you," he pleaded, "is that you tell me enough toconvince me that my silence was justified. Tell me at least that you hadno knowledge of or share in that man's death!"
"I cannot do that," she answered.
He took a quick step backwards. The horror once more was chilling hisblood, floating before his eyes.
"You cannot!" he repeated hoarsely.
"No! I knew that the man was in danger of his life," she went on, calmly."On the whole, I think that he deserved to die. I do not mind telling youthis, though. I would have saved him if I could."
He drew a great breath of relief.
"You had nothing to do with his actual death, then?"
"Nothing whatever," she declared.
"It was all I asked you, this," he cried reproachfully. "Why could younot have told me before?"
She shook her head.
"You asked me other things," she answered calmly. "So much of the truthyou shall know, at any rate. I have pleaded not guilty to the materialaction of drawing that cord around the worthless neck of the man whom youknew as Morris Barnes. I plead guilty to knowing why he was murdered,even if I do not know the actual person who committed the deed, and Iadmit that I was in his rooms for the purpose of robbery. That is all Ican tell you."
He drew a little nearer to her.
"Enough! Do you know what it is that you have said? What are you?Who are you?"
She shrugged her shoulders. Somehow, from her side at least, the tragicalnote which had trembled throughout their interview had passed away. Shehelped herself to soda water from a siphon on the sideboard.
"You appear, somewhat to my surprise," she remarked, "to know that. Iwonder at poor little Edith giving me away."
"All that I know is that you are living here under a false name,"he declared.
She shook her head.
"My mother's," she told him. "The discarded daughter always has a rightto that, you know."
Her eyes mocked him. He felt himself helpless. This was the opportunityfor which he had longed, and it had come to him in vain. He recognizedthe fact that his defeat was imminent. She was too strong for him.
"I am disappointed," he said, a little wearily. "You will not let mebelieve in you."
"Why should you wish to?" she asked quickly
Almost immediately she bit her lip, as though she regretted the words,which had escaped her almost involuntarily. But he was ready enough withhis answer.
"I cannot tell you that," he said gravely. "I never thought of myself asa particularly emotional person. In fact, I have always rather pridedmyself on my common sense. That night I think that I went a little mad.Your appearance, you see, was so unusual."
She nodded.
"I must have been rather a shock to you," she admitted.
She watched him closely. The fire in his eyes was not yet quenched.
"Yes!" he said, "you were a shock. And the worst of it is--that youremain one!"
"Ah!"
"You mean to keep me at arm's length," he said slowly, "to tell me aslittle as possible, and get rid of me. I am not sure that I am willing."
She only raised her eyebrows. She said nothing.
"You have told me nothing of the things I want to know," he criedpassionately. "Who and what are you? What place do you hold in theworld?"
"None," she
answered quietly. "I am an outcast."
He glanced around him.
"You are rich!"
"On the contrary," she assured him, "I am nearly a pauper."
"How do you live, then?" he asked breathlessly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Why do you ask me these questions?" she said. "I cannot answer them.Whatever my life may be, I live it to myself."
He leaned a little towards her. His breath was coming quickly, and she,too, caught something of the nervous excitement of his manner.
"There are better things," he began.
"Not for me," she interrupted quickly. "I tell you that I am anoutcast. Of you, I ask only that you go away--now--before the Baronessreturns, and do your best to blot out the memory of that one nightfrom your life. Remember only that you did a generous action. Rememberthat, and no more."
"Too late," he answered; "I cannot do it."
"You are a man," she answered, "and you say that?"
"It is because I am a man, and you are what you are, that I cannot," heanswered slowly.
There was a moment's breathless silence. Only he fancied that her facehad somehow grown softer.
"You must not talk like that," she said. "You do not know what you aresaying--who or what I am. Listen! I think I hear the Baroness."
She leaned a little forward, and the madness fired his blood. Halfstupefied, she yielded to his embrace, her lips rested upon his, herfrightened eyes were half closed. His arms held her like a vice, he couldfeel her heart throbbing madly against his. How long they remained likeit he never knew--who can measure the hours spent in Paradise! She flunghim from her at last, taking him by surprise with a sudden burst ofenergy, and before he could stop her she had left the room. In her place,the Baroness was standing upon the threshold, dressed in a wonderful bluewrapper, and with a cigarette between her teeth. She burst into a littlepeal of laughter as she looked into his distraught face.
"For an Englishman," she remarked, "you are a little rapid in yourlove affairs, my dear Mr. Wrayson, is it not so? So she has left you_plante la_!"
"I--was mad," Wrayson muttered.
The Baroness helped herself to whisky and soda.
"Come again and make your peace, my friend," she said. "You will see nomore of her to-night."
Wrayson accepted the hint and went.