Okewood of the Secret Service [44]
She had dropped all her arrogance of their last interview and seemed to lay herself out to please. She had a keen sense of humor and entertained Desmond vastly by her anecdotes of her stage career, some not a little risque, but narrated with the greatest bon-homie.
But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte's name, he knew that the dancer must allude to the tragedy.
Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduce the old comedian's name herself.
"The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum," she said in French, "is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth. Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe. Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there! And he introduced me to his daughter! Une belle Anglaise! I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!"
Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl's face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.
"Did you see the newspapers yesterday?" he asked suddenly.
"My friend," said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. "I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them. And this war!"
She gave a little shudder and was silent.
At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.
"There's a gentleman called to see you, sir!" she said to Desmond.
Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new role as yet.
"Who is it, Martha?" he said, mastering his agitation.
"Mr. Mortimer!" mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, "at least that's what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn't got a card!"
Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.
"Don't let him come in!" she cried in French.
"Did you say I was in?" Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.
"Why, yes, sir," the woman answered.
Desmond made a gesture of vexation.
"Where is this Mr. Mortimer?" he asked
"In the library, sir!"
"Tell him I will be with him at once."
Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.
"You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him."
Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.
"Non, non," she said rapidly, "you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?"
"You need not see him," Desmond expostulated gently, "I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?"
"My friend," said the dancer sadly, "he is my evil genius. If I had dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house."
"But I've never set eyes on the man in my life!" exclaimed Desmond.
The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.
"Very few of you have, my friend," she replied, "but you are all under his orders, nest-ce pas?"
Desmond's heart leaped. Was Mortimer's the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?
"I've trusted you, Monsieur," Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, "you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my
But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte's name, he knew that the dancer must allude to the tragedy.
Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduce the old comedian's name herself.
"The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum," she said in French, "is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth. Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe. Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there! And he introduced me to his daughter! Une belle Anglaise! I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!"
Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl's face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.
"Did you see the newspapers yesterday?" he asked suddenly.
"My friend," said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. "I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them. And this war!"
She gave a little shudder and was silent.
At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.
"There's a gentleman called to see you, sir!" she said to Desmond.
Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new role as yet.
"Who is it, Martha?" he said, mastering his agitation.
"Mr. Mortimer!" mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, "at least that's what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn't got a card!"
Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.
"Don't let him come in!" she cried in French.
"Did you say I was in?" Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.
"Why, yes, sir," the woman answered.
Desmond made a gesture of vexation.
"Where is this Mr. Mortimer?" he asked
"In the library, sir!"
"Tell him I will be with him at once."
Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.
"You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him."
Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.
"Non, non," she said rapidly, "you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?"
"You need not see him," Desmond expostulated gently, "I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?"
"My friend," said the dancer sadly, "he is my evil genius. If I had dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house."
"But I've never set eyes on the man in my life!" exclaimed Desmond.
The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.
"Very few of you have, my friend," she replied, "but you are all under his orders, nest-ce pas?"
Desmond's heart leaped. Was Mortimer's the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?
"I've trusted you, Monsieur," Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, "you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my