21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “I will do my best,” he said. “I am afraid I cannot claim that there is anything in the shape of affinity between us; for to-day I am particularly happy.”

  She met his eyes briefly, and looked away seawards with the ghost of a sorrowful smile upon her lips. Her words sounded like a warning.

  “Do not be sure,” she said. “It may not last.”

  “It will last,” he said, “so long as you choose. For to- day you are the mistress of my moods!”

  “Then I am very sorry for you,” she said earnestly.

  He laughed it off, but her words brought a certain depression with them. He went on to speak of something else.

  “I have been thinking about you this morning,” he said. “If your uncle is going to play golf here, it will be very dull for you. Would you care for my mother to come and see you? She would be delighted, I am sure, for it is dull for her too, and she is fond of young people. If you——”

  He stopped short She was shaking her head slowly. The old despondency was back in her face. Her eyes were full of trouble. She laid her delicately gloved fingers upon his arm.

  “My friend,” she said, “it is very kind of you to think of it—but it is impossible. I cannot tell you why as I would wish. But at present I do not desire any acquaintances. I must not, in fact, think of it. It would give me great pleasure to know your mother. Only I must not. Believe me that it is impossible.”

  Wolfenden was a little hurt—a good deal mystified. It was a very odd thing. He was not in the least a snob, but he knew that the visit of the Countess of Deringham, whose name was still great in the social world, was not a thing to be refused without grave reasons by a girl in the position of Mr. Sabin’s niece. The old question came back to him with an irresistible emphasis. Who were these people? He looked at her furtively. He was an observant man in the small details of a woman’s toilette, and he knew that he had never met a girl better turned out than his present companion. The cut of her tailor-made gown was perfection, her gloves and boots could scarcely have come from anywhere but Paris. She carried herself too with a perfect ease and indefinable distinction which could only have come to her by descent. She was a perfect type of the woman of breeding—unrestrained, yet aristocratic to the tips of her finger-nails.

  He sighed as he looked away from her.

  “You are a very mysterious young woman,” he said, with a forced air of gaiety.

  “I am afraid that I am,” she admitted regretfully. “I can assure you that I am very tired of it. But—it will not last for very much longer.”

  “You are really going away, then?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes. We shall not be in England much longer.”

  “You are going for good?” he asked. “I mean, to remain away?”

  “When we go,” she said, “it is very doubtful if ever I shall set my foot on English soil again.”

  He drew a quick breath. It was his one chance, then. Her last words must be his excuse for such precipitation. They had scrambled down through an opening in the cliffs, and there was no one else in sight. Some instinct seemed to tell her what was coming. She tried to talk, but she could not. His hand had closed upon hers, and she had not the strength to draw it away. It was so very English this sudden wooing. No one had ever dared to touch her fingers before without first begging permission.

  “Don’t you know—Helène—that I love you? I want you to live in England—to be my wife. Don’t say that I haven’t a chance. I know that I ought not to have spoken yet, but you are going away so soon, and I am so afraid that I might not see you again alone. Don’t stop me, please. I am not asking you now for your love. I know that it is too soon—to hope for that—altogether! I only want you to know, and to be allowed to hope.”

  “You must not. It is impossible.”

  The words were very low, and they came from her quivering with intense pain. He released her fingers. She leaned upon a huge boulder near and, resting her face upon her hand, gazed dreamily out to sea.

  “I am very sorry,” she said. “My uncle was right after all. It was not wise for us to meet. I ought to have no friends. It was not wise—it was very, very foolish.”

  Being a man, his first thoughts had been for himself. But at her words he forgot everything except that she too was unhappy.

  “Do you mean,” he said slowly, “that you cannot care for me, or that there are difficulties which seem to you to make it impossible?”

  She looked up at him, and he scarcely knew her transfigured face, with the tears glistening upon her eyelashes.

  “Do not tempt me to say what might make both of us more unhappy,” she begged. “Be content to know that I cannot marry you.”

  “You have promised somebody else?”

  “I shall probably marry,” she said deliberately, “somebody else.”

  He ground his heel into the soft sands, and his eyes flashed.

  “You are being coerced!” he cried.

  She lifted her head proudly.

  “There is no person breathing,” she said quietly, “who would dare to attempt such a thing!”

  Then he looked out with her towards the sea, and they watched the long, rippling waves break upon the brown sands, the faint and unexpected gleam of wintry sunshine lying upon the bosom of the sea, and the screaming seagulls, whose white wings shone like alabaster against the darker clouds. For him these things were no longer beautiful, nor did he see the sunlight, which with a sudden fitfulness had warmed the air. It was all very cold and grey. It was not possible for him to read the riddle yet—she had not said that she could not care for him. There was that hope!

  “There is no one,” he said slowly, “who could coerce you? You will not marry me, but you will probably marry somebody else. Is it, then, that you care for this other man, and not for me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Of the two,” she said, with a faint attempt at her old manner, “I prefer you. Yet I shall marry him.”

  Wolfenden became aware of an unexpected sensation. He was getting angry.

  “I have a right,” he said, resting his hand upon her shoulder, and gaining courage from her evident weakness, “to know more. I have given you my love. At least you owe me in return your confidence. Let me have it. You shall see that even if I may not be your lover, I can at least be your faithful friend.”

  She touched his hand tenderly. It was scarcely kind of her—certainly not wise. She had taken off her glove, and the touch of her soft, delicate fingers thrilled him. The blood rushed through his veins like mad music. The longing to take her into his arms was almost uncontrollable. Her dark eyes looked upon him very kindly.

  “My friend,” she said, “I know that you would be faithful. You must not be angry with me. Nay, it is your pity I want. Some day you will know all. Then you will understand. Perhaps even you will be sorry for me, if I am not forgotten. I only wish that I could tell you more; only I may not. It makes me sad to deny you, but I must.”

  “I mean to know,” he said doggedly—“I mean to know everything. You are sacrificing yourself. To talk of marrying a man whom you do not love is absurd. Who are you? If you do not tell me, I shall go to your guardian. I shall go to Mr. Sabin.”

  “Mr. Sabin is always at your service,” said a suave voice almost at his elbow. “Never more so than at the present.”

  Wolfenden turned round with a start. It was indeed Mr. Sabin who stood there—Mr. Sabin, in unaccustomed guise, clad in a tweed suit and leaning upon an ordinary walking-stick.

  “Come,” he said good-humouredly, “don’t look at me as though I were something uncanny. If you had not been so very absorbed you would have heard me call to you from the cliffs. I wanted to save myself the climb, but you were deaf, both of you. Am I the first man whose footsteps upon the sands have fallen lightly? Now, what is it you want to ask me, Lord Wolfenden?”

  Wolfenden was in no way disturbed at the man’s coming. On the contrary, he was glad of it. He answered boldly and without he
sitation.

  “I want to marry your niece, Mr. Sabin,” he said.

  “Very natural indeed,” Mr. Sabin remarked easily. “If I were a young man of your age and evident taste I have not the least doubt but that I should want to marry her myself. I offer you my sincere sympathy. Unfortunately it is impossible.”

  “I want to know,” Wolfenden said, “why it is impossible? I want a reason of some sort.”

  “You shall have one with pleasure,” Mr. Sabin said. “My niece is already betrothed.”

  “To a man,” Wolfenden exclaimed indignantly, “whom she admits that she does not care for!”

  “Whom she has nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said firmly, and with a sudden flash of anger in his eyes, “agreed and promised of her own free will to marry. Look here, Lord Wolfenden, I do not desire to quarrel with you. You saved me from a very awkward accident a few nights ago, and I remain your debtor. Be reasonable! My niece has refused your offer. I confirm her refusal. Your proposal does us both much honour, but it is utterly out of the question. That is putting it plainly, is it not? Now, you must choose for yourself—whether you will drop the subject and remain our valued friend, or whether you compel me to ask you to leave us at once, and consider us henceforth as strangers.”

  The girl laid her hand upon his shoulder and looked at him pleadingly.

  “For my sake,” she said, “choose to remain our friend, and let this be forgotten.”

  “For your sake, I consent,” he said. “But I give no promise that I will not at some future time reopen the subject.”

  “You will do so,” Mr. Sabin said, “exactly when you desire to close your acquaintance with us. For the rest, you have chosen wisely. Now I am going to take you home, Helène. Afterwards, if Lord Wolfenden will give me a match, I shall be delighted to have a round of golf with him.”

  “I shall be very pleased,” Wolfenden answered.

  “I will see you at the Pavilion in half an hour,” Mr. Sabin said. “In the meantime, you will please excuse us. I have a few words to say to my niece.”

  She held out both her hands, looking at him half kindly, half wistfully.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “I am so sorry!”

  But he looked straight into her eyes, and he answered her bravely. He would not admit defeat.

  “I hope that you are not,” he said. “I shall never regret it.”

  CHAPTER XX

  FROM A DIM WORLD

  Table of Contents

  Wolfenden was in no particularly cheerful frame of mind when, a few moments after the half hour was up, Mr. Sabin appeared upon the pavilion tee, followed by a tall, dark young man carrying a bag of golf clubs. Mr. Sabin, on the other hand, was inclined to be sardonically cheerful.

  “Your handicap,” he remarked, “is two. Mine is one. Suppose we play level. We ought to make a good match.”

  Wolfenden looked at him in surprise.

  “Did you say one?”

  Mr. Sabin smiled.

  “Yes; they give me one at Pau and Cannes. My foot interferes very little with my walking upon turf. All the same, I expect you will find me an easy victim here. Shall I drive? Just here, Dumayne,” he added, pointing to a convenient spot upon the tee with the head of his driver. “Not too much sand.”

  “Where did you get your caddie?” Wolfenden asked. “He is not one of ours, is he?”

  Mr. Sabin shook his head.

  “I found him on some links in the South of France,” he answered. “He is the only caddie I ever knew who could make a decent tee, so I take him about with me. He valets me as well. That will do nicely, Dumayne.”

  Mr. Sabin’s expression suddenly changed. His body, as though by instinct, fell into position. He scarcely altered his stand an inch from the position he had first taken up. Wolfenden, who had expected a half-swing, was amazed at the wonderfully lithe, graceful movement with which he stooped down and the club flew round his shoulder. Clean and true the ball flew off the tee in a perfectly direct line—a capital drive only a little short of the two hundred yards. Master and servant watched it critically.

  “A fairly well hit ball, I think, Dumayne,” Mr. Sabin remarked.

  “You got it quite clean away, sir,” the man answered. “It hasn’t run very well though; you will find it a little near the far bunker for a comfortable second.”

  “I shall carry it all right,” Mr. Sabin said quietly.

  Wolfenden also drove a long ball, but with a little slice. He had to play the odd, and caught the top of the bunker. The hole fell to Mr. Sabin in four.

  They strolled off towards the second teeing ground.

  “Are you staying down here for long?” Mr. Sabin asked.

  Wolfenden hesitated.

  “I am not sure,” he said. “I am rather oddly situated at home. At any rate I shall probably be here as long as you.”

  “I am not sure about that,” Mr. Sabin said. “I think that I am going to like these links, and if so I shall not hurry away. Forgive me if I am inquisitive, but your reference to home affairs is, I presume, in connection with your father’s health. I was very sorry to hear that he is looked upon now as a confirmed invalid.”

  Wolfenden assented gravely. He did not wish to talk about his father to Mr. Sabin. On the other hand, Mr. Sabin was politely persistent.

  “He does not, I presume, receive visitors,” he said, as they left the tee after the third drive.

  “Never,” Wolfenden answered decisively. “He suffers a good deal in various ways, and apart from that he is very much absorbed in the collection of some statistics connected with a hobby of his. He does not see even his oldest friends.”

  Mr. Sabin was obviously interested.

  “Many years ago,” he said, “I met your father at Alexandria. He was then in command of the Victoria. He would perhaps scarcely recollect me now, but at the time he made me promise to visit him if ever I was in England. It must be—yes, it surely must be nearly fifteen years ago.”

  “I am afraid,” Wolfenden remarked, watching the flight of his ball after a successful brassy shot, “that he would have forgotten all about it by now. His memory has suffered a good deal.”

  Mr. Sabin addressed his own ball, and from a bad lie sent it flying a hundred and fifty yards with a peculiar, jerking shot which Wolfenden watched with envy.

  “You must have a wonderful eye,” he remarked, “to hit a ball with a full swing lying like that. Nine men out of ten would have taken an iron.”

  Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders. He did not wish to talk golf.

  “I was about to remark,” he said, “that your father had then the reputation of, and impressed me as being, the best informed man with regard to English naval affairs with whom I ever conversed.”

  “He was considered an authority, I believe,” Wolfenden admitted.

  “What I particularly admired about him,” Mr. Sabin continued, “was the absence of that cocksureness which sometimes, I am afraid, almost blinds the judgment of your great naval officers. I have heard him even discuss the possibility of an invasion of England with the utmost gravity. He admitted that it was far from improbable.”

  “My father’s views,” Wolfenden said, “have always been pessimistic as regards the actual strength of our navy and coast defences. I believe he used to make himself a great nuisance at the Admiralty.”

  “He has ceased now, I suppose,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “to take much interest in the matter?”

  “I can scarcely say that,” Wolfenden answered. “His interest, however, has ceased to be official. I daresay you have heard that he was in command of the Channel Fleet at the time of the terrible disaster in the Solent. He retired almost immediately afterwards, and we fear that his health will never altogether recover from the shock.”

  There was a short intermission in the conversation. Wolfenden had sliced his ball badly from the sixth tee, and Mr. Sabin, having driven as usual with almost mathematical precision, their ways for a few minutes lay apart. They came together, however
, on the putting-green, and had a short walk to the next tee.

  “That was a very creditable half to you,” Mr. Sabin remarked.

  “My approach,” Wolfenden admitted, “was a lucky one.”

  “It was a very fine shot,” Mr. Sabin insisted. “The spin helped you, of course, but you were justified in allowing for that, especially as you seem to play most of your mashie shots with a cut. What were we talking about? Oh, I remember of course. It was about your father and the Solent catastrophe. Admiral Deringham was not concerned with the actual disaster in any way, was he?”

  Wolfenden shook his hand.

  “Thank God, no!” he said emphatically. “But Admiral Marston was his dearest friend, and he saw him go down with six hundred of his men. He was so close that they even shouted farewells to one another.”

  “It must have been a terrible shock,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “No wonder he has suffered from it. Now you have spoken of it, I think I remember reading about his retirement. A sad thing for a man of action, as he always was. Does he remain in Norfolk all the year round?”

  “He never leaves Deringham Hall,” Wolfenden answered. “He used to make short yachting cruises until last year, but that is all over now. It is twelve months since he stepped outside his own gates.”

  Mr. Sabin remained deeply interested.

  “Has he any occupation beyond this hobby of which you spoke?” he asked. “He rides and shoots a little, I suppose, like the rest of your country gentlemen.”

  Then for the first time Wolfenden began to wonder dimly whether Mr. Sabin had some purpose of his own in so closely pursuing the thread of this conversation. He looked at him keenly. At the moment his attention seemed altogether directed to the dangerous proximity of his ball and a tall sand bunker. Throughout his interest had seemed to be fairly divided between the game and the conversation which he had initiated. None the less Wolfenden was puzzled. He could scarcely believe that Mr. Sabin had any real, personal interest in his father, but on the other hand it was not easy to understand this persistent questioning as to his occupation and doings. The last inquiry, carelessly though it was asked, was a direct one. It seemed scarcely worth while to evade it.