"We agree to differ," Littimer responded. "I recollect it caused me a great deal of annoyance at the time. And my son chose to take his mother's part. You knew I had a son?"

"Yes," said Christabel, without looking up from the peach she was peeling. "I have met him."

"Indeed. And what opinion did you form of my son, may I ask?"

"Well, I rather liked him. He seemed to me to be suffering from some great trouble, and trouble I am sure that was not of his own creating."

"Which means to say you feel rather sorry for Frank. But when you say the trouble was not of his own creating you are entirely mistaken. It is not a nice thing to say, Miss Lee, but my son was an utter and most unmitigated young scoundrel. If he came here he would be ordered out of the house. So far as I am concerned, I have no son at all. He sides with his mother, and his mother has a considerable private fortune of her own.

Where she is at the present moment I have no idea. Nor do I care. Seems odd, does it not, that I should have been very fond of that woman at one time, just as it seems odd to think that I should have once been fond of treacle tart?"

Littimer spoke evenly and quietly, with his eyes full upon the girl. He was deceiving himself, but he was not deceiving her for a moment. His callousness seemed to be all the more marked because the servants were in the room. But Christabel could see clearly what an effort it was.

"You love your wife still," she said, so low that only Littimer heard.

His eyes flashed, his face flamed with a sudden spasm of pa.s.sion.

"Are we to quarrel so early as this?" he whispered.

"I never quarrel," Christabel said, coolly; "I leave my antagonist to do that. But I have met your son, and I like him. He may be weak, but he is a gentleman. You have made a mistake, and some day you will be sorry for it. Do you grow those orchids yourself?"

Littimer laughed, with no sign of anger remaining. All the same, Christabel could see that his thin brown hand was shaking. She noticed the lines that pain had given under those shrewd black eyes.

"You must see my orchids," he said. "Most of the specimens I obtained myself. They tell me I have at least three unique kinds. And now, if you will permit me, I am going to smoke. The drawing-room is at your disposal, though I rarely enter it myself. I always retire at eleven, but that need not bind you in any way. It has been altogether a most delightful evening."

But Christabel did not dally long in the drawing-room. As she went upstairs and along the corridor she heard the snapping of the electric lights all over the house as the servants were preparing to retire. She paused just a moment in the alcove where the precious Rembrandt was and located carefully the position of the switch there. Then she retired to her own room, where she changed her dress for a simple black gown. A big clock somewhere was striking twelve as she finished. She looked out of her door. The whole house was in darkness, the silence seemed to cling like a curtain.

She paused for a moment as if afraid to take the next step. If it was fear, she shook it aside resolutely and crept into the corridor. She carried something shining in her hands--something that gleamed in the dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house.

She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her fingers touched the switch of the electric light.

She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.

Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire crooked through the beaded edges of the cas.e.m.e.nt. Yes, she was right.

The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the ledge outside.

With a quick breath and a fluttering of her heart Christabel felt for the switch.

"It will be all right," she murmured; "the other one will fancy that the light is necessary. Courage, my dear courage, and the game is yours. Ah!"

The intruder dropped inside and pulled the window behind him. Evidently he was on familiar ground, though he seemed to be seeking an unfamiliar object. Christabel's hand stole along to the switch; there was a click, and the alcove was bathed in brilliant light. The intruder shrank back with a startled cry. He rubbed his dazed eyes.

"Why not come in through the front door, Mr. Littimer?" Christabel drawled, coolly.

Frank Littimer had no words for a moment. He was wondering who this woman was and what she was doing here. American, evidently, by her accent, and also by the revolver that she handled so a.s.suredly.

"That is the way you used to enter," Christabel proceeded, "when you had been out contrary to parental instructions and the keepers expected to have a fracas with the poachers. Your bedroom being exactly opposite, detection was no easy matter. Your bedroom has never been touched since you left. The key is still outside the door. Will you kindly enter it?"

"But--" Frank stammered. "But I a.s.sure you that I cannot--"

"Take the Rembrandt away. You cannot. The frame is of iron, and it is fastened to the wall. It would take an experienced carpenter quite a long time to remove it. Therefore your mission has failed. It is very annoying, because it puts the other man in a very awkward position.

The position is going to be still more awkward presently. Please go to your room."

"My dear lady, if my father knows that I am in the house--"

"He is not going to know that you are in the house, at least not for some little time. And when you see him it will be better not to say more than is necessary. Later on you will recognise what a friend I am to you."

"You are not showing it at present," Littimer said, desperately.

"The patient rarely sees any virtue in his medicine. Now, please, go to your room. I can hear the other man muttering and getting anxious down below. Now, if you approach that window again I am pretty certain that my revolver will go off. You see, I am an American, and we are so careless with such weapons. Please go to your room at once."

"And if I refuse your ridiculous request?"

"You will not find my request in the least ridiculous. If you refuse I shall hold you up with my weapon and alarm the whole house. But I don't want to do that, for the sake of the other man. He is so very respectable, you know, and anything unconventional may be so awkward for him. Yes, it is just as I expected. He is coming up the ivy to investigate himself. Go!"

The revolver covered Littimer quite steadily. He could see into the blue rim, and he was conscious of strange cold sensations down his spine. A revolver is not a pretty thing at the best of times; it is doubly hazardous in the hands of a woman.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

"My dear man, I want to do nothing with you. Only do as you are told and--there! The other man is coming up the ivy. He can't understand the light and you not returning. He imagines that you are looking in the wrong place. Please go."

Littimer backed before the weapon, backed until he was in the doorway.

Suddenly the girl gave him a push, shut the door to, and turned the key in the lock. Almost at the same instant another figure loomed large in the window-frame.

CHAPTER XXVII

SLIGHTLY FARCICAL

Something bulky was struggling to get through the window. Half hidden in the shadow, Christabel watched with the deepest interest. If she had been afraid at first that sensation had entirely departed by this time. From the expression of her face she might have been enjoying the novel situation. It was certainly not without a suggestion of the farcical.

The burly figure contrived to squeeze through the narrow cas.e.m.e.nt at length and stood breathing loudly in the corridor. It was not a pleasant sight that met Christabel's gaze--a big man with a white, set face and rolling eyes and a stiff bandage about his throat. Evidently the intruder was utterly exhausted, for he dropped into a chair and nursed his head between his hands.

"Now what has become of that fool?" he muttered. "Ah!"

He looked round him uneasily, but his expression changed as his eyes fell on the Rembrandt. He had the furtive look of a starving man who picks up a purse whilst the owner is still in sight. He staggered towards the picture and endeavoured to take it gently from the support. He tried again and again, and then in a paroxysm of rage he tore at the frame-work.

"I guess that it can't be done," Christabel said, drawlingly. "See, stranger?"

Reginald Henson fairly gasped. As he turned round the ludicrous mixture of cunning and confusion, anger and vexatious alarm on his face caused the girl to smile.

"I--I beg your pardon," he stammered.

"I said it can't be done," the girl drawled, coolly. "Sandow couldn't do it. The frame is made of iron and it is fixed to the wall by four long stays. It's a neat job, though I say it myself; I persuaded Lord Littimer to have it done. And when I heard you two prowling about down there I was glad. I've got the other one safe."

"Oh, you've got the other one safe?" Henson said, blankly.

He would have liked to have burst out into a torrent of pa.s.sion, only he recognised his position. The thing was shamefully funny. It was anything but nice for a man of his distinguished position to be detected in an act suspiciously like vulgar burglary. Still, there must be some plausible way out of the difficulty if he could only think of it. Only this girl with the quaint, pretty face and spectacles did not look in the least like a fool. He would have to try what blandishments would do.