'Dan Levy's.'
'Good!' she said grimly. 'That makes it all the better.'
'You saved my life.'
'I thought you had taken his—and I'd collaborated!'
There was not a tremor in her voice; it was cautious, eager, daring, intense, but absolutely her own voice now.
'No,' I said, 'I didn't shoot the fellow, but I made him think I had.'
'You made me think so too, until I heard what you said to him.'
'Yet you never made a sound yourself.'
'I should think not! I made myself scarce instead.'
'But, Miss Belsize, I shall go perfectly mad if you don't tell me how you happened to be there at all!'
'Don't you think it's for you to tell me that about yourself and—all of you?'
'Oh, I don't mind which of us fires first!' said I, excitedly.
'Then I will,' she said at once, and took me to the dreadful sofa at the inner end of the room, and sat down as though it were the most ordinary experience she had to relate. Nor could I believe the things that had really happened, and all so recently, as we talked them over in that commonplace environment of faded gentility. There was a window behind us, overlooking the ribbon of lawn and the cord of gravel, and the bunch of willows that hedged them from the Thames. It all looked unreal to me, unreal in its very realism as the scene of our incredible conversation.
'You know what happened the other afternoon—I mean the day they couldn't play,' began Miss Belsize, 'because you were there; and though you didn't stay to hear all that came out afterwards, I expect you know everything now. Mr. Raffles would be sure to tell you; in fact, I heard poor dear Mr. Garland give him leave. It's a dreadful story from every point of view. Nobody comes out of it with flying colours, but what nice person could cope with a horrid money-lender? Mr. Raffles, perhaps—if you call him nice!'
I said that was about the worst thing I called him. I mentioned some of the other things. Miss Belsize listened to them with exemplary patience.
'Well,' she resumed, 'he was quite nice about this. I will say that for him. He said he knew Mr. Levy pretty well, and would see what could be done. But he spoke like an executioner who was going to see what could be done with the condemned man! And all the time I was wondering what had been done already at Carlsbad—what exactly that horrid creature meant when he was talking
Miss Belsize looked at me as though she expected an answer, only to stop me the moment I opened my mouth to speak.
'I don't want to know, Mr. Manders! Of course you know all about Mr. Raffles'—there was a touch of feeling in this—'but it's nothing to me, though in this case I should certainly have been on his side. You said yourself that it could only have been a practical joke, if there was anything in it at all, and so I tried to think in spite of those horrid men who were following him about at Lord's, even in spite of the way he vanished with them after him. But he never came near the match again—though he had travelled all the way from Carlsbad to see it! Why had he ever been there? What had he really done there? And what could he possibly do to rescue anybody from Mr. Levy, if he himself was already in Levy's power?'
'You don't know Raffles,' said I, promptly enough this time. 'He never was in any man's power for many minutes. I would back him to save the most desperate situation you could devise.'
'You mean by some desperate deed? That's what I feared,' declared Miss Belsize, rather strenuously. 'Something really had happened at Carlsbad; something worse was by way of happening next. For Teddy's sake,' she whispered, 'and his poor father's!'
I agreed that old Raffles stuck at nothing for his friends, and Miss Belsize again said that was what she had feared. Her tone had completely altered about Raffles, as well it might. I thought it would have broken with gratitude when she spoke of the unlucky father and son.
'And I was right!' she exclaimed, with that other kind of feeling to which I found it harder to put a name. 'I came home miserable from the match on Saturday—'
'Though Teddy had done so well!' I was fool enough to interject.
'I couldn't help thinking about Mr. Raffles,' replied Camilla, with a flash of her frank eyes, 'and wondering, and wondering, what had happened. And then on Sunday I saw him on the river.'
'He didn't tell me.'
'He didn't know I recognised him; he was disguised—absolutely!' said Camilla Belsize under her breath. 'But he couldn't disguise himself from me,' she added as though glorying in her perspicacity.
'Did you tell him so, Miss Belsize?'
'Not I, indeed! I didn't speak to him; it was no business of mine. But there he was, at the bottom of Mr. Levy's garden, having a good look at the boathouse when nobody was about. Why? What could his object be? And why disguise himself? I thought of the affair at Carlsbad, and I felt certain that something of the kind was going to happen again!'
'Well?'
'What could I do? Should I do anything at all? Was it any business of mine? You may imagine the way I cross-questioned myself, and you may imagine the crooked answers I got! I won't bore you with the psychology of the thing; it's pretty obvious after all. It was not so much a case of doing the best as of knowing the worst. All day yesterday there were no developments of any sort, and there was no sign of Mr. Raffles; nothing had happened in the night, or we should have heard of it; but that made me all the more certain that something or other would happen last night. The week's grace was nearly up—you know what I mean—their last week at their own house. If anything was to be done, it was about time, and I knew Mr. Raffles was going to do something. I wanted to know what—that was all.'
'Quite right, too!' I murmured. But I doubt if Miss Belsize heard me; she was in no need of my encouragement or my approval. The old light—her own light—the reckless light—was burning away in her brilliant eyes!
'The night before,' she went on, 'I hardly slept a wink; last night I preferred not to go to bed at all. I told you I sometimes did weird things that astonished the natives of these suburban shores. Well, last night, if it wasn't early this morning, I made my weirdest effort yet. I have a canoe, you know; just now I almost live in it. Last night I went out unbeknowns after midnight, partly to reassure myself, partly—I beg your pardon, Mr. Manders?'
'I didn't speak.'
'Your face shouted!'
'I'd rather you went on.'
'But if you know what I'm going to say?'
Of course I knew, but I dragged it from her none the less. The nebulous white-shirted figure in the canoe, that had skimmed past Dan Levy's frontage as we were trying to get him aboard his own pleasure-boat, and again past the empty house when we were in the act of disembarking him there, that figure was the trim and slim one now at my side. She had seen us—searched for us—each time. Our voices she had heard and recognised; only our actions, or rather that midnight deed of ours, had she misinterpreted. She would not admit it to me, but I still believe she feared it was a dead body that we had shipped at dead of night to hide away in that desolate tower.
Yet I cannot think she thought it in her heart. I rather fancy (what she indeed averred) that some vague inkling of the truth flashed across her at least as often as that monstrous hypothesis. But know she must; therefore, after boldly ascertaining that nothing was known of the master's whereabouts at Levy's house, but that no uneasiness was entertained on his account, this young woman, true to the audacity which I had seen in her eyes from the first, had taken the still bolder step of landing on the rank lawn and entering the empty tower to discover its secret, for herself. Her stealthy step upon the spiral stair had been the signal for my mortal struggle with Dan Levy. She had heard the whole, and even seen a little of that; in fact, she had gathered enough from Levy's horrible imprecations to form later a rough but not incorrect impression of the situation between him and Raffles and me. As for the moneylender's language, it was with a welcome gleam of humour that Miss Belsize assured me she had 'gone too straight to hounds' in her time to be as completely paralysed by it as her mother's neighbours might have been. And as for the revolver, it had fallen at her feet, and first she thought I was going to follow it over the
