It must have been some four hours later that he awoke with a start. What had awakened him he did not know—perhaps a sound, perhaps only the consciousness of danger which in men who have led an adventurous life is very fully developed.
For a moment he lay quite still, trying to focus his impressions. He could hear a very stealthy rustle, and then he became aware of a denser blackness somewhere between him and the window—on the floor by the suitcase.
With a sudden spring, Anthony jumped out of bed, switching the light on as he did so. A figure sprang up from where it had been kneeling by the suitcase.
It was the waiter, Giuseppe. In his right hand gleamed a long thin knife. He hurled himself straight upon Anthony, who was by now fully conscious of his own danger. He was unarmed and Giuseppe was evidently thoroughly at home with his own weapon.
Anthony sprang to one side, and Giuseppe missed him with the knife. The next minute the two men were rolling on the floor together, locked in a close embrace. The whole of Anthony’s faculties were centred on keeping a close grip of Giuseppe’s right arm so that he would be unable to use the knife. He bent it slowly back. At the same time he felt the Italian’s other hand clutching at his windpipe, stifling him, choking. And still, desperately, he bent the right arm back.
There was a sharp tinkle as the knife fell on the floor. At the same time, the Italian extricated himself with a swift twist from Anthony’s grasp. Anthony sprang up too, but made the mistake of moving towards the door to cut off the other’s retreat. He saw, too late, that the chair and the water bottle were just as he had arranged them.
Giuseppe had entered by the window, and it was the window he made for now. In the instant’s respite given him by Anthony’s move towards the door, he had sprung out on the balcony, leaped over to the adjoining balcony and had disappeared through the adjoining window.
Anthony knew well enough that it was of no use to pursue him. His way of retreat was doubtless fully assured. Anthony would merely get himself into trouble.
He walked over to the bed, thrusting his hand beneath the pillow and drawing out the memoirs. Lucky that they had been there and not in the suitcase. He crossed over to the suitcase and looked inside, meaning to take out the letters.
Then he swore softly under his breath.
The letters were gone.
Six
THE GENTLE ART OF BLACKMAIL
It was exactly five minutes to four when Virginia Revel, rendered punctual by a healthy curiosity, returned to the house in Pont Street. She opened the door with her latchkey, and stepped into the hall to be immediately confronted by the impassive Chilvers.
“I beg pardon, ma’am, but a—a person has called to see you—”
For the moment, Virginia did not pay attention to the subtle phraseology whereby Chilvers cloaked his meaning.
“Mr. Lomax? Where is he? In the drawing room?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, not Mr. Lomax.” Chilvers’ tone was faintly reproachful. “A person—I was reluctant to let him in, but he said his business was most important—connected with the late Captain, I understood him to say. Thinking therefore that you might wish to see him, I put him—er—in the study.”
Virginia stood thinking for a minute. She had been a widow now for some years, and the fact that she rarely spoke of her husband was taken by some to indicate that below her careless demeanour was a still-aching wound. By others it was taken to mean the exact opposite, that Virginia had never really cared for Tim Revel, and that she found it insincere to profess a grief she did not feel.
“I should have mentioned, ma’am,” continued Chilvers, “that the man appears to be some kind of foreigner.”
Virginia’s interest heightened a little. Her husband had been in the Diplomatic Service, and they had been together in Herzoslovakia just before the sensational murder of the King and Queen. This man might probably be a Herzoslovakian, some old servant who had fallen on evil days.
“You did quite right, Chilvers,” she said with a quick, approving nod. “Where did you say you put him? In the study?”
She crossed the hall with her light buoyant step, and opened the door of the small room that flanked the dining room.
The visitor was sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He rose on her entrance and stood looking at her. Virginia had an excellent memory for faces, and she was at once quite sure that she had never seen the man before. He was tall and dark, supple in figure, and quite unmistakably a foreigner; but she did not think he was of Slavonic origin. She put him down as Italian or possibly Spanish.
“You wish to see me?” she asked. “I am Mrs. Revel.”
The man did not answer for a minute or two. He was looking her slowly over, as though appraising her narrowly. There was a veiled insolence in his manner which she was quick to feel.
“Will you please state your business?” she said, with a touch of impatience.
“You are Mrs. Revel? Mrs. Timothy Revel?”
“Yes. I told you so just now.”
“Quite so. It is a good thing that you consented to see me, Mrs. Revel. Otherwise, as I told your butler, I should have been compelled to do business with your husband.”
Virginia looked at him in astonishment, but some impulse quelled the retort that sprang to her lips. She contented herself by remarking dryly:
“You might have found some difficulty in doing that.”
“I think not. I am very persistent. But I will come to the point. Perhaps you recognize this?”
He flourished something in his hand. Virginia looked at it without much interest.
“Can you tell me what it is, madame?”
“It appears to be a letter,” replied Virginia, who was by now convinced that she had to do with a man who was mentally unhinged.
“And perhaps you note to whom it is addressed,” said the man significantly, holding it out to her.
“I can read,” Virginia informed him pleasantly. “It is addressed to a Captain O’Neill at Rue de Quenelles No. 15 Paris.”
The man seemed searching her face hungrily for something he did not find.
“Will you read it, please?”
Virginia took the envelope from him, drew out the enclosure and glanced at it, but almost immediately she stiffened and held it out to him again.
“This is a private letter—certainly not meant for my eyes.”
The man laughed sardonically.
“I congratulate you, Mrs. Revel, on your admirable acting. You play your part to perfection. Nevertheless, I think that you will hardly be able to deny the signature!”
“The signature?”
Virginia turned the letter over—and was struck dumb with astonishment. The signature, written in a delicate slanting hand, was Virginia Revel. Checking the exclamation of astonishment that rose to her lips, she turned again to the beginning of the letter and deliberately read the whole thing through. Then she stood a minute lost in thought. The nature of the letter made it clear enough what was in prospect.
“Well, madame?” said the man. “That is your name, is it not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Virginia. “It’s my name.”
“But not my handwriting,” she might have added.
Instead she turned a dazzling smile upon her visitor.
“Supposing,” she said sweetly, “we sit down and talk it over?”
He was puzzled. Not so had he expected her to behave. His instinct told him that she was not afraid of him.
“First of all, I should like to know how you found me out?”
“That was easy.”
He took from his pocket a page torn from an illustrated paper, and handed it to her. Anthony Cade would have recognized it.
She gave it back to him with a thoughtful little frown.
“I see,” she said. “It was very easy.”
“Of course you understand, Mrs. Revel, that that is not the only letter. There are others.”
“Dear me,” said Virginia, “I seem to have been frightfully indi
screet.”
Again she could see that her light tone puzzled him. She was by now thoroughly enjoying herself.
“At any rate,” she said, smiling sweetly at him, “it’s very kind of you to call and give them back to me.”
There was a pause as he cleared his throat.
“I am a poor man, Mrs. Revel,” he said at last, with a good deal of significance in his manner.
“As such you will doubtless find it easier to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, or so I have always heard.”
“I cannot afford to let you have these letters for nothing.”
“I think you are under a misapprehension. Those letters are the property of the person who wrote them.”
“That may be the law, madame, but in this country you have a saying ‘Possession is nine points of the law.’ And, in any case, are you prepared to invoke the aid of the law?”
“The law is a severe one for blackmailers,” Virginia reminded him.
“Come, Mrs. Revel, I am not quite a fool. I have read these letters—the letters of a woman to her lover, one and all breathing dread of discovery by her husband. Do you want me to take them to your husband?”
“You have overlooked one possibility. Those letters were written some years ago. Supposing that since then—I have become a widow.”
He shook his head with confidence.
“In that case—if you had nothing to fear—you would not be sitting here making terms with me.”
Virginia smiled.
“What is your price?” she asked in a businesslike manner.
“For one thousand pounds I will hand the whole packet over to you. It is very little that I am asking there; but, you see, I do not like the business.”
“I shouldn’t dream of paying you a thousand pounds,” said Virginia with decision.
“Madame, I never bargain. A thousand pounds, and I will place the letters in your hands.”
Virginia reflected.