By Wit of Woman Part 33

"Hadn't you better tell me everything?"

"There is no time. Will you do this? Please."

He shrugged his shoulders and lay down on the couch.

I went out and called James Perry and instructed him what to do.

He went into the room, crossed to the window and stood there a moment with his shadow showing plainly on the blind. Then he pulled up the blind, and turned as if in obedience to some order from Karl. Next he threw the large window open and stepped out on to the gravel, and stood there long enough for any one who might be watching to have a full view of the interior of the room.

"No, sir, it is not raining," he said, and came back through the window making as if to close and fasten it. He stopped in the act of doing this, and partly opened it again, as if obeying orders from Karl.

"No, it's not cold, sir, but it will be draughty," he said.

Then with a shrug of the shoulders he left it open and turned away.

Taking a rug from one of the lounges he threw it over Karl, taking pains to tuck it in carefully; and then stood back as if asking for any further orders.

"Good-night, sir," he said, and crossing to the door, he switched out the light.

Immediately this was done, I ran in again, hurried Karl out of the room, laid a sofa pillow on the couch, and arranged the rug over it as James had done. Then I recrossed the room and waited, my fingers close to the electric light switch, to see if the trap was laid cleverly enough to deceive the man I was expecting. I stood in a dark corner by the door, partly concealed by a screen, where I could see the whole room and all that occurred.

My eyes soon grew accustomed to the comparative darkness. The moon was shining brilliantly, and the slanting rays through one of the windows fell right across one end of the couch on which Karl had been lying.

They revealed the lower half of what appeared to be the huddled figure of the sleeper, the upper half being wrapped in deep shadow.

The house was all silent. I had heard Karl go upstairs, James Perry being with him; and had caught the latter's careful tread as he came down again to the hall where I had told him to wait, in case I should need and call him.

The night was very still. I could see right out into the moonlit garden, and as the window was partly open, could trust my ears to catch the faintest sound. But scarcely a leaf moved. The dead stillness was almost oppressive.

The suspense began to affect me soon. I have not the slightest fear of the dark; but as minute after minute pa.s.sed and no result followed my careful preparations, I began to think I had failed. The net must have been set too conspicuously; and so set in vain.

To pa.s.s the time I began to count my pulse beats. One, two, three--to a hundred. Again one, two, three--to a second hundred; and a third, a fourth and a fifth. Then the counting became mechanical, and my thoughts wandered away. It became difficult to remain still.

An impulse seized me to cross the room to the window and look out, and I had to fight hard to restrain it.

Then I caught a sound in the garden. The rustling of a bush. I held my breath to listen. There was no wind stirring to account for it.

Not a leaf of all those full in view moved. It was a sign therefore that the patience of some one beside myself had begun to give out.

I braced myself for what was to come, and in a second my wits were all concentrated and every nerve in my body thrilled with expectation, quickening to eager anxiety.

I had not long to wait.

There was another rustle of bushes, and a bird startled from its roosting perch, flew chirping its alarm across the lawn. The sharpness of the noise made me start.

Another pause followed; then another sound--this time a slight grating on the' gravel; almost immediately a head showed at the window pane; and a man peered cautiously through the gla.s.s into the room.

I crouched closer into my hiding place as his face turned and the eyes seemed to sweep in all directions to make sure that no one else was there to see him.

Stealthily and silently his hand was stretched out, felt the heavy frame, and pushed it open sufficiently to let him enter. The window gave a faint creak in opening; and he stood as still as death lest it should have been heard.

I held my breath now in my excitement. What was he going to do? It was Colonel Katona. I could recognize him by the moonlight; and a moment later his purpose was clear.

He changed something from his left hand to his right. The glint of a moonbeam on the barrel showed me it was a revolver.

I had read the signs aright. He had been tricked into the belief that Karl was the man who had betrayed Gareth, and had come now to do what he had swore to me he would do to any man who harmed her--take his life.

He must surely have had some apparently overwhelming proof given him before he would go to this desperate extreme; and I would know what that proof was, before the night was much older. Already I had a strong suspicion.

These thoughts flashed through my mind in the moment that the Colonel stood hesitating after the noise made by the creaking window; and the instant he moved again, I had no eyes but for him, no thought except for what he proposed to do.

His next act surprised me. He closed the window softly behind him and drew down the blind. The noise was much greater than before, but he paid less heed to it. He pulled it down quickly, shutting out the moonlight; but there was enough dim light through the blind for his purpose.

I could just make out that he held the revolver ready for use as he stepped to the couch and stretched out his hand to seize and wake the sleeper.

I chose that moment to switch on the light and step forward.

He whipped round and levelled his weapon point blank at my head.

I had no fear that he would fire, however. "Good-evening, Colonel Katona," I said, in as even and firm a tone as I could command. "That is only a dummy figure which I put there. I was expecting you."

He lowered the weapon and stared at me as though he could scarce credit his eyes.

"You!" It was all he could get out for the moment.

"Yes, of course, I. Gareth's friend, you know. You see, there is nothing but a sofa pillow here with a rug over it;" and with a show of unconcern, I pulled the rug away.

"You!" he said again, adding: "You who know my child's story. If you have tricked me in this, I will have your life as well."

"If I had tricked you, I should deserve nothing better. You have not been tricked by me, but by others. You may put that revolver away; you will not need it here."

"Why did you say you would send me the news you had promised, and then send me that letter and tell me of this house where he was to be found, and what was to be done here? You are lying to me with your smooth tongue," he burst out fiercely. "You saw me come, or guessed I was here, and you are lying to shield him--the villain who wronged Gareth and would now wrong you."

"If you believe that, kill me. I will not flinch, and you will live to find out the horrible crime you would commit. You will have murdered one who saved and befriended Gareth in the hour of pressing need. It would be a fitting climax that you who helped to drive to a shameful death your friend, Ernst von Dreschler, should now murder me, his daughter."

"Ernst's child! You, his daughter?" he murmured.

"Yes, I am Christabel von Dreschler."

So overwhelmed was he by the thoughts which my avowal caused that he could do little but stare at me helplessly; until he sank down into a chair, as though his strength failed him, and, laying the revolver on the table, leaned his head upon his hands.

I thought it discreet to pick the weapon up and put it out of his reach; and then sat down near him and waited while he recovered self-possession.

His first question was a natural one. "Where is Gareth?"

"Safe, and in my care."

"You can take me to her?"

"She is within an hour's drive; but there is a difficulty in the way.

She believes in the honour of--of her husband----"