You are here
قراءة كتاب Witness to the Deed
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
police,” cried Stratton, who was half-way to the door, as the man sprang at him with the activity of a panther.
For the next minute there was a desperate struggle, as the men wrestled here and there, both moved by one object—the possession of the deadly weapon.
Then one arm was freed, there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a puff of ill smelling smoke partially hid the struggling pair.
Another shot with the smoke more dense.
A heavy fall.
Then silence—deathlike and strange.
Outside, on the staircase a floor higher, a door was opened; there were steps on the stone landing, and a voice shouted down the well: “Anything the matter?” After a moment another voice was heard: “Nonsense—nothing. Someone banged his oak.” There was the sound of people going back into the room above, and in the silence which followed, broken only by the faintly heard strain of some street music at a distance, the door below, on the first floor landing, was opened a little way, the fingers of a hand appearing round the edge, and a portion of a man’s head came slowly out, as if its owner was listening.
The door was closed once more as softly as it was opened, and the sun, which had been hidden all the morning by leaden clouds, sent a bright sheaf of golden rays through the dust-incrusted staircase window, straight on to the drab-painted outer door, with the occupant’s name thereon in black letters:
Mr Malcolm Stratton.
Chapter Three.
A bad Quarter of an Hour.
“Well?”
“You rang, sir.”
“No, confound you! I did not ring.”
“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Electric bell’s a little out of order, sir. Tell-tales show wrong numbers, sir.”
“I engaged a suite of private rooms in this hotel, and there’s not a bit of privacy.”
“Very sorry, sir, indeed.”
“And look here, waiter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you address me it is customary to say Sir Mark.”
“Of course, Sir Mark; my mistake, Sir Mark. I’ll mind in future.”
“Has the carriage arrived?”
“Not yet, Sir Mark.”
“Thank you; that will do. No; a moment. The wedding breakfast. Everything is quite ready, I hope?”
“The head waiter has it in ’and, Sir Mark, and the table looks lovely.”
“Thanks. Ahem! a trifle now. I shall remember you when I leave. I spoke a little testily just this minute. A little out of order, waiter. Touch of my old fever, caught in the East.”
The waiter smiled and bowed as he pocketed a new five-shilling piece, and looked with fresh interest at the fine looking, florid, elderly man who kept pacing the room with a newspaper in his hand as he talked.
“Anything more I can do, Sir Mark, before I leave the room?”
“Hang it all, no, sir,” cried the old officer, flashing out once more irritably. “This is not a public dinner, and I have given you a vail.”
“Of course, Sir Mark; and I didn’t mean—”
“Then why did you use that confounded old stereotyped waiter’s expression? I wonder you did not hand me a toothpick.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Mark, I’m sure.”
“Go and read ‘Peter Simple,’ and take Chuck’s, the boatswain’s, words to heart.”
“Certainly, Sir Mark,” and the waiter hurried to the door, leaving Admiral Sir Mark Jerrold muttering, and in time to admit a charmingly dressed, fair-haired bridesmaid in palest blue, and wearing a handsome diamond locket at her throat, and a few bright pearls on her cheeks, living pearls, just escaped from her pretty, red-rimmed eyes.
“‘Trencher scraping—shilling seeking—napkin carrying.’ Ah, Edie, my darling—all ready?”
“Yes, uncle, dear; but, oh, you do look cross!”
She clung to his arm and put up her lips to kiss the old man, whose face softened at her touch.
“No, no, my dear, not cross; only worried and irritable. Hang it, Edie, my pet, it’s a horrible wrench to lose her. No hope of that scoundrel Stratton breaking his neck, or repenting, or anything, is there?”
“Oh, uncle dear, don’t. Myra is so happy. She does love him so.”
“And her poor old father’s nobody now.”
“You don’t think so, uncle,” said the girl, smiling through her tears, as she rearranged the old officer’s tie, and gave a dainty touch to the stephanotis in the buttonhole of his blue frock coat. “And you know you want to see her happily married to the man she loves, and who loves her with all his heart.”
“Heigho! I suppose so.”
“And I’ve come down to ask if you’d like to see her. They’re just putting the last finishing touches.”
“So we may,” cried Sir Mark eagerly. “Does she look nice?”
“Lovely, uncle; all but—”
The girl ceased speaking, and looked conscious.
“Eh? All but what?”
“You will see, uncle, directly. I will not say any more about it. She would have her own way.”
“Here, I’ll come at once.”
“No, no, uncle dear; I’ll go and fetch her down.”
“And make a parade of her all through this confounded caravanserai of an hotel!” cried the old man testily. “I can’t think why she persisted in having it away from home.”
“Yes, you can, uncle dear,” said the girl soothingly. “It was very, very natural. But do, do be gentle with her. She is so ready to burst into tears, and I want her to go off as happy as the day.”
“Of course, Edie, my dear; of course. I’ll bottle it all up, and then you and your old fool of an uncle can have a good cry together all to ourselves, eh? But I say, little one, no hitches this time in the anchorage.”
“There very nearly was one, uncle.”
“What!” roared the old man, flushing.
“But I set it right with a telegram.”
“What—what was it? Stratton going to shuffle?”
“Oh, uncle, absurd! The bouquet for the bride had not come.”
“Pooh! A woman can be married without a bouquet.”
“No, no, uncle! But I sent off a message, and Mr Guest brought it himself.”
“Then he has been again.”
“Uncle! Why, he’s Malcolm Stratton’s best man.”
“He’s the worst man I know. I loathe him.”
“You don’t, uncle.”
“Yes, I do, and I’m not blind. Do you suppose I want to be left to a desolate old age. Isn’t it bad enough to lose Myra without—”
“Oh, uncle!” cried the girl, whose cheeks were crimson, “there isn’t a moment to lose;” and she darted to the door, leaving the admiral chuckling.
“A wicked little pirate! How soon she showed the red flag aloft. Ah, well, it’s nature—nature, and one mustn’t be selfish. Not much chance. I don’t know what we’re born for, unless it’s to be slaves to other people.”
He turned over his newspaper, and began running down the list of marriages.
“Here they are,” he muttered, “all going the same way,” and he stood musing sadly upon the question of the young women’s quitting the old hives, till the door was opened again and Edie Perrin ushered in her cousin, tall, graceful, and with that indescribable look of love and happiness seen in a bride’s eyes on her wedding morn.
“Here she is, uncle,” cried Edie, who then uttered a sob, and rushed away with a rustling noise to hide the tears she could not restrain.
“My darling!” cried the old man huskily as he drew his child to his breast; “and am I to feel that it is quite right, and that you are happy?”
“Oh, so happy, father; so content at last—at last,” she whispered as she clung to him lovingly. “Only there is one thing.”
“Eh? What—what?” cried the admiral excitedly.
“Leaving home and you.”
The old man drew a deep breath full of relief.
“Oh, pooh, pooh, nonsense, my pet,” he