Part 26 (2/2)

With a swift, silent movement she came up to me and put her hands on my arm. ”You must trust me,” she said, speaking in that low pa.s.sionate voice of hers. ”You know that I love you; you know that I am only waiting for the right time to act. When it comes I will give you a chance such as few men have had--a chance that will mean wealth and freedom and--and--love.” She breathed out the last word almost in a whisper, and then, raising her hands to my shoulders, drew down my face and pressed her lips to mine.

I have no dislike to being kissed by a beautiful woman; indeed, on the previous occasion when Sonia had so honoured me I had distinctly enjoyed the experience. This time, however, I felt a trifle uncomfortable. I had a kind of unpleasant sensation that somehow or other I was not quite playing the game.

Still, as I have said elsewhere, an escaped convict cannot afford to be too nice in his emotions, so I returned her kiss with the same readiness and warmth as I had done before. Then, straightening myself, I unlaced her arms from my neck, and looked down smilingly into those strange dark eyes that were turned up to mine.

”I'm a poor sort of host,” I said, ”but you see I am a little out of training. Won't you have some tea or anything, Sonia?”

”No, no,” she answered quickly. ”I don't want anything. I must go in a minute; I have to meet my father with the car.” Then, taking my hand between hers, she added: ”Tell me what you have been doing yourself.

Have you seen your cousin--the man who lied about you at the trial? I have been afraid about him; I have been afraid that you would kill him and perhaps be found out.”

”There's no hurry about it,” I said. ”It's rather pleasant to have something to look forward to.”

”But you have seen him?”

I nodded. ”I had the pleasure of walking behind him for a couple of miles yesterday. He looks a little worried, but quite well otherwise.”

She laughed softly. ”Ah, you can afford to let him wait. And the girl, Joyce? Have you seen her?”

She asked the question quite dispa.s.sionately, and yet in some curious way I had a sudden vague feeling of menace and danger. Anyhow, I lied as readily and instinctively as Ananias.

”No,” I said. ”George is the only part of my past that interests me now.”

I thought I saw the faintest possible expression of satisfaction flicker across her face, but if so it was gone immediately.

”Sonia,” I said, ”there is a question I want to ask you. Am I developing nerves, or have I really been watched and followed since I came to London?”

She looked at me steadily. ”What makes you think so?” she asked.

”Well,” I said, ”it may be only my imagination, but I have an idea that a gentleman with a scar on his face has been taking a rather affectionate interest in my movements.”

For a moment she hesitated; then with a rather scornful little laugh she shrugged her shoulders. ”I told them it was unnecessary!” she said.

I crushed down the exclamation that nearly rose to my lips. So the man with the scar _was_ one of McMurtrie's emissaries, after all, and his dealings with Mr. Bruce Latimer most certainly did concern me. The feeling that I was entangled in some unknown network of evil and mystery came back to me with redoubled force.

”I hope the report was satisfactory,” I said lightly.

Sonia nodded. ”They only wanted to make certain that you had gone to Edith Terrace. I don't think you were followed after the first night.”

”No,” I said, ”I don't think I was.” Precisely how much the boot had been on the opposite foot it seemed unnecessary to add.

Sonia walked to the table and again opened her bag. ”I mustn't stay any longer--now,” she said. ”I have to meet the car at six o'clock.

Here are the keys.” She took them out and came across to where I was standing.

”Good-bye, Sonia,” I said, taking her hands in mine.

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