He shook his head.
“About marrying you? No. I’ve never dared let myself see how this fool adventure would end. If I hadn’t been doped with a drugging sense of duty—however, that has nothing to do with the case. We shall have to consider the position from a new angle tonight. I’d gone so far and suffered so much–-“
“Suffered?”
He nodded vigorously.
“By a provision of nature,” he said soberly, “you are spared the misery of growing a long and golden beard. It wasn’t so bad when I was miles from everywhere in my little house in Siangtan, and on the voyage home; it was when I came into contact with civilization—can you imagine what it is to dress for dinner and to discover that when you fastened your collar you had imprisoned a large and painful hank of hair?…However, that’s done with, and now”—he paused awkwardly—“I’m not sorry.”
“About growing a beard?” she asked innocently.
He looked her straight in the eyes.
“You know jolly well I don’t mean anything about the beard, and that I’m talking of you. I wish I had time to study you. You’ve probably got a fearful temper–-“
“Vile,” she admitted mendaciously.
“And possibly you’re vain and empty-headed,” he went on with great calmness. “All pretty girls are vain and empty-headed; that is one of the lessons I learnt at the knee of the maiden aunt who brought me up. But in spite of these drawbacks I kind of like you. That’s queer, isn’t it?”
“It would be queer if you didn’t,” she said, adopting his attitude, and he laughed. “Have you committed your murder?”
He started.
“Murder? Oh, you mean Fing-Su? No, I fear that tonight I shall be too busy. I’m certainly going to kill Fing- Su,” he said, and though his tone was matter-of-fact, she shivered, for he conveyed to her the impression of a man in very great earnest. “I’ve got to kill him. But tonight?” He shook his head. “A lot of things have got to happen before then. When can you marry me?”
He was serious enough, and at the direct question she felt herself going red.
“Is that necessary?” she asked, a little desperately, for now, brought face to face with the logical consequence of her undertaking, she had a moment of panic. There was something very definite about his question, and that gave her a certain fearful twinge of happiness. But it was also too businesslike, too free from the atmosphere of tenderness which conventionally surrounds such a proposal, and she was just a little bit annoyed with him. It brought the proposition back to its original commercial setting, extinguished the faint glitter of romance, a sickly flame at best, which the past few days had brought to life.
“I suppose you will suit your own convenience,” she said coldly. “You realize, of course, Mr Lynne, that I do not love you, any more than you love me?”
“That goes without saying,” he said brusquely. “But I will tell you something: I’ve never been in love; I’ve had my dreams and my ideals, as every man and every woman has, and you are the nearest approach to the mystery woman of my dreams that I shall ever hope to meet. When I tell you I like you, I mean it. I’m not in that ecstatic state of mind when I am prepared to kiss the ground on which you walk, but that is a form of delirium which may come later.”
All the time he was speaking there was that kind and friendly smile in his eyes which made it impossible for her to arouse her resentment to any high pitch. She was exasperated with him, and yet could admire his honesty, and had no piqued inclination to offer the obvious retort that her heart was at least as free as his.
“Today is Monday,” he said. “We will be married on Friday by special licence. Friday will be an unlucky day— for somebody.”
“You really mean Friday?” she asked, with a pang of dismay.
“It’s rather sudden, I know; but then, things are moving more quickly than I anticipated,” he said.
He took up his hat from the table where he had placed it when he came in.
“I shall call for you at ten. Do you mind?”
She shook her head.
“And you’re not afraid?” he bantered, and hurriedly added: “There’s really no reason for fear—not yet.”
“Tell me when I must begin fearing you,” she said, as she walked with him to the door.
“You need never fear me,” he said quietly. “I was thinking of somebody else.”
“Fing-Su?”
He looked round at her quickly.
“A thought-reader too, are you?” He put his hand about her arm and squeezed it gently. It was a very friendly, brotherly gesture, and it left her, for some reason, very near to tears.
The two girls, who appeared from nowhere as the door closed on Clifford, followed her back to the drawing- room.
“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” asked Mabel rapidly. “You wouldn’t do anything so mean and underhand as that, Joan?”
Joan looked at her in surprise.
“What were we talking about?” she asked, and she was honest in her bewilderment, for she had forgotten the conversation in her room.
“Letty had an awful feeling you’d tell him what we’d been discussing, but I said, ‘Letty, Joan would never, never do anything so despicable.’”
“About your marrying him?” asked Joan, suddenly understanding. “Oh, no, I had forgotten that—we were so busy fixing the date—Mr Lynne and I are to be married on Friday.”
“Good God!” said Mabel.
Her profanity was pardonable, for in a moment of great self-sacrifice she had decided to be Mrs Clifford Lynne.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The sisters went to town at six o’clock, and Joan from her window was heartily glad to see the limousine pass out of sight along the Egham road. She ate her dinner in solitude and waited impatiently for the coming of Clifford Lynne. She was a little baffled by his attitude. The marriage was still in the category of business arrangement; with the exception of that half-caress he had shown neither tenderness nor that sentimental regard for her charms which is to be expected even in the most self-possessed of men; and yet there was little that was austere or cold in his composition, she was sure. None the less, between them was a barrier which must be broken down, a gulf which only mutual affection could bridge. For one brief moment the prospect of this cold-blooded marriage terrified her.
She was standing before the half-open front door of the house when she heard his quick step on the gravel, and, assuring herself that she had the key in her bag, she closed the door gently behind her and went to meet him.
Suddenly she found herself in a circle of light.
“Sorry!” said Clifford’s voice. “I was pretty certain it was you, but I had to take one peep.”
“Who else might it be?” she asked as she fell in by his side.
“I don’t know,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
Her arm slipped into his in the most natural way.
“I am by nature cautious and even suspicious, and there’s something about the English countryside that is more sinister than the bad lands of Honan would be to a traveller with a camel-load of ‘Mex’ dollars! You see, there, you know where you are—you are either at peace or at war with your neighbours; but in England you may be at war all the time and never know it. Do you mind walking in the middle of the road—that doesn’t scare you, does it?” he asked quickly, and she laughed.
“I’ve an infinite faith in the police,” she said demurely.
She heard him chuckle.
“The police? Yes, they’re quite all right in most cases, especially when they are dealing with known criminals, and the printed categories of crime. But Fing-Su isn’t a known criminal; he’s a highly respectable person. How he has escaped the OBE I can’t understand. We turn right here.”
There was no need for him to tell her that, for her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, saw the dark opening
