The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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His absolute assurance struck her dumb. There was something implacable
about it, something unassailable--a stronghold which she felt powerless
to attack.

"Doesn't that programme attract you?" he said, drawing nearer to her.
"Can you suggest a better? The whole world is before us. Shall we go
exploring, you and I, alone in the wilds, and find some Eden that no man
has ever trodden before? Shall we, Anne? Shall we? Right away from
everywhere, somewhere in the sun, where I can teach you to be happy and
you can teach me to be--good."

But at his movement she moved also, drawing back. "No!" she said. Her
voice was low, but not lacking in strength. Having spoken, she went on
almost without effort. "You are building upon a false foundation. If it
were not so, I don't think I could possibly forgive you. As it is, I
think when you realise your mistake you will find it hard to forgive
yourself. I have treated you as a friend because I thought I could do so
with safety. I thought for the sake of my friendship you had given up all
thought of anything else. I thought you were to be trusted and I trusted
you. Oh, I admit I ought to have known you better. But I shall never
make that mistake again."

"No," Nap said. "I don't think you will."

He spoke deliberately; he almost drawled. Yet a sense of danger stabbed
her. His sudden coldness was more terrible than his heat.

"But why say this to me now?" he said. "Do you think it will make any
difference?"

He had not moved as he uttered the words, and yet she felt as if he
menaced her. He made her think of a crouching tiger--a tiger whose
devotion had turned to sudden animosity.

She did not shrink from him, but her heart quickened. "It must make a
difference," she said. "You have utterly misunderstood me, or you would
never have brought me here."

"Don't be too sure of that," he returned. "It may be that you can deceive
yourself more easily than you can deceive me. Or again, it may be that I
have come to the end of my patience and have decided to take by storm
what cannot be won by waiting."

She drew herself up proudly. "And you call that--love!" she said, with a
scorn that she had never before turned against him. "You dare to call
that--love!"

"Call it what you will!" he flashed back. "It is something that can crush
your cold virtue into atoms, something that can turn you from a marble
saint into a living woman of flesh and blood. For your sake I've
tried--I've agonised--to reach your level. And I've failed because I
can't breathe there. To-night you shall come down from your heights to
mine. You who have never lived yet shall know life--as I know
it--to-night!"

Fiercely he flung the words, and the breath of his passion was like a
fiery blast blown from the heart of a raging furnace. But still she did
not shrink before him. Proud and calm she waited, bearing herself with a
queenly courage that never faltered.

And it was as if she stood in a magic circle, for he raised no hand to
touch her. Without word or movement she kept him at bay. Erect,
unflinching, regal, she held her own.

He caught his breath as he faced her. The beast in him slunk back afraid,
but the devil urged him forward. He came close to her, peering into her
face, searching for that weak place in every woman's armour which the
devil generally knows how to find. But still he did not offer to touch
her. He had let her go out of his arms when he had believed her his own,
and now he could not take her again.

"Anne," he said suddenly, "where is your love for me? I will swear you
loved me once."

"I never loved you," she answered, her words clear-cut, cold as steel. "I
never loved you. Once, it is true, I fancied that you were such a man as
I could have loved. But that passed. I did not know you in those days. I
know you now."

"And hate me for what you know?" he said.

"No," she answered. "I do not even hate you."

"What then?" he gibed. "You are--sorry for me perhaps?"

"No!" Very distinct and steady came her reply. "I only despise you now."

"What?" he said.

"I despise you," she repeated slowly, "knowing what you might be, and
knowing--what you are."

The words passed out in silence--a silence so tense that it seemed as if
the world itself had stopped. Through it after many seconds came Nap's
voice, so softly that it scarcely seemed to break it.

"It is not always wise to despise an enemy, Lady Carfax--especially if
you chance to be in that enemy's power."

She did not deign to answer; but her gaze did not flinch from his, nor
did her pride waver.

He drew something abruptly from his pocket and held it up before her. "Do
you see this?"

She stirred then, ever so slightly, a movement wholly involuntary,
instantly checked. "Are you going to shoot me?" she asked.

"I thought that would make you speak," he remarked. "And you still
despise me?"

Her breathing had quickened, but her answer was instant; for the first
time it held a throb of anger. "I despise you for a coward. You are even
viler than I thought."

He returned the weapon to his pocket. "It is not for you," he said. "I am
more primitive than that. It is for the man who stands between us, for
the man who thought he could whip Nap Errol--and live. I have never gone
unarmed since."

He paused a moment, grimly regarding her. Then, "There is only one
thing I will take in exchange for that man's life," he said.
"Only--one--thing!"

But she stood like a statue, uttering no word.

A sudden gust of passion swept over him, lashing him to headlong fury.
"And that one thing I mean to have!" he told her violently. "No power in
heaven or hell shall keep you from me. I tell you"--his voice rose, and
in the darkness those two flames glowed more redly, such flames as had
surely never burned before in the face of a man--"whatever you may say,
you are mine, and in your heart you know it. Sooner or later--sooner or
later--I will make you own it." His voice sank suddenly to a whisper, no
longer passionate, only inexpressibly evil. "Will you despise me then,
Queen Anne? I wonder!--I wonder!"

She moved at last, raised her hand, stiffly pointed. "Go!" she
said. "Go!"

Yet for a space he still stood in the doorway, menacing her, a vital
figure, lithe, erect, dominant. The tension was terrible. It seemed to be
strained to snapping point, and yet it held.

It was the fiercest battle she had ever known--a battle in which his will
grappled with hers in a mighty, all-mastering grip, increasing every
instant till she felt crushed, impotent, lost, as if all the powers of
evil were let loose and seething around her, dragging her down.

Her resolution began to falter at last. She became conscious of a numbing
sense of physical weakness, an oppression so overwhelming that she
thought her heart would never beat again. Once more she seemed to totter
on the edge of a depth too immense to contemplate, to hover above the
very pit of destruction...

And then suddenly the ordeal was over. A blinding flash of lightning lit
the room, glimmered weirdly, splitting the gloom as a sword rending a
curtain, and was gone. There came a sound like the snarl of a startled
animal, and the next instant a frightful crash of thunder.

Anne reeled back, dazed, stunned, utterly unnerved, and sank into a
chair.

When she came to herself she was alone.

CHAPTER XIII

AN APPEAL AND ITS ANSWER

A puff of rain-washed air wandered in through the wide-flung window, and
Lucas Errol turned his head languidly upon the pillow to feel it on his
face. He sighed as he moved, as if even that slight exertion cost him
some resolution. His eyes had a heavy, drugged look. They seemed more
deeply sunken than usual, but there was no sleep in them, only the utter
weariness that follows the sleep of morphia.

At the soft opening of the door a faint frown drew his forehead, but it
turned to a smile as Bertie came forward with cautious tread.

"That you, dear fellow? I am awake."

Bertie came to his side, his brown face full of concern. "Are you better,
old chap?"

"Yes, better, thanks. Only so dog-tired. Sit down. Have you brought
the budget?"

"There's nothing much to-day. Only that chap Cradock writing again for
instructions about the Arizona ranch, and a few Wall Street tips from
Marsh by cable. Say, Luke, I don't think Cradock is overweighted with
spunk, never have thought so. Guess that ranch wants a bigger man."

"I'll see his letter," said Lucas. "Presently will do. What about Marsh?"

"Oh, he's behind the scenes as usual. You'd better read him now. The rest
will keep. When you've done that I want to talk to you."

"So I gathered. Stuff in another pillow behind me, will you? I can think
better sitting up."

"I shouldn't, old chap, really. You're always easier lying down."

"Oh, shucks, Bertie! Do as you're told. And don't look at me like that,
you old duffer. It's a mean advantage to take of a sick man. Steady
now, steady! Go slow! You mustn't slam a creaking gate. It's bad for
the hinges."

But notwithstanding Bertie's utmost care there were heavy drops on his
brother's forehead as he sank again upon his pillows. Bertie wiped them
away with a hand that trembled a little, and Lucas smiled up at him with
twitching lips.

"Thanks, boy! It was only a twinge. Sit down again, and give me Marsh's
cipher and the morning papers. The letters you shall read to me
presently."

He straightway immersed himself in business matters with the shrewdness
and concentration that ever aroused his young brother's deepest
admiration.

"What a marvellous grip you've got on things, Luke!" he exclaimed at the
end of it. "No wonder you are always on the top! You're great, man,
you're great!"

"I guess it's just my speciality," the millionaire said, with his weary
smile. "I must be getting another secretary soon, boy. It's a shame to
eat up your time like this. What is it you want to talk to me about?
Going to get married?"

Bertie shook his head. "The padre won't hear of it yet, and Dot
herself--well, you know, I said I'd wait."

"Don't wait too long," said Lucas quietly. "You shall have the old Dower
House to live in. Tell the padre that. It's only a stone's throw from the
Rectory. We'll build a garage too, eh, Bertie? The wife must have her
motor. And presently, when you are called to the Bar, you will want a
flat in town."

"You're a brick, Luke!" the boy declared, with shining eyes. "Between
ourselves, I don't expect to do much at the Bar, but I'm sticking to it
just to show 'em I can work like the rest of creation. I'd sooner be your
secretary for all time, and you know it."

"That so?" Lucas stretched a hand towards him. "But I guess you're right.
I don't want you to depend on me for employment. If I were to go out one
of these days you'd feel rather left. It's better you should have other
resources."

"Luke, I say! Luke!"

But the quick distress of the words was checked by the gentle restraint
of Lucas's hand. "I know! I know! But we've all got to die sooner or
later, and one doesn't want to tear a larger hole than one need. That's
all right, Bertie boy. We'll shunt the subject. Only, if you want to
please me, get that nice little girl to marry you soon. Now what was it
you wanted to say? Something about Nap?"

"Yes. How did you know? It's an infernal shame to worry you when you're
not fit for it. But the mother and I both think you ought to know."

"Go ahead, dear fellow! I'm tougher than you think. What has
become of Nap?"

"That's just the question. You know he went off in the car with Lady
Carfax yesterday morning?"

"I didn't know," murmured Lucas. "That's a detail. Go on."

"Late last night the car had not returned, and the mother began to
wonder. Of course if Lady Carfax hadn't been there it wouldn't have
mattered much, but as it was we got anxious, and in the end I posted off
to the Manor to know if she had arrived. She had not. But while I was
there a wire came for the butler from a place called Bramhurst, which is
about fifty miles away, to say that the car had broken down and they
couldn't return before to-day. Well, that looked to me deuced queer. I'm
convinced that Nap is up to some devilry. What on earth induced her to
go there with him anyway? The mother was real bothered about it, and so
was I. We couldn't rest, either of us. And in the end she ordered the big
Daimler and went off to Bramhurst herself. I wanted to go with her, but
she wouldn't have me at any price. You know the mother. So I stopped to
look after things here. Everyone cleared off this morning, thank the
gods. I don't think anyone smelt a rat. I told them the mother had gone
to nurse a sick friend, and it seemed to go down all right."

Lucas had listened to the recital with closed eyes and a perfectly
expressionless face. He did not speak for a few moments when Bertie
ended. At length, "And the mother is not back yet?" he asked.

"No. But I'm not afraid for her. She knows how to hold her own."

"That's so," Lucas conceded; and fell silent again.

He was frowning a little as if in contemplation of some difficulty, but
his composure was absolute.

"There may be nothing in it," he said at last.

Bertie grunted. "I knew he was in a wild beast mood before they started.
He nearly rode the black mare to death in the early morning."

"Why wasn't I told of that?" Lucas opened his eyes with the question and
looked directly at his brother's worried countenance.

"My dear fellow, you were too sick to be bothered. Besides, you were
taking morphia. He saw to that."

Lucas closed his eyes again without comment, A long pause ensued before
he spoke again.

Then: "Bertie," he said, "go down to the garage and leave word that as
soon as Nap returns I want to speak to him."

"He won't return," said Bertie, with conviction.

"I think he will. It is even possible that he has returned already. In
any case, go and tell them. Ah, Tawny, what is it?"

The valet came to his master's side. His hideous features wore an
expression that made them almost benign. The dumb devotion of an animal
looked out of his eyes.

"A note, sir, from the Manor."

"Who brought it?" asked Lucas.

"A groom, sir."

"Waiting for an answer?"

"Yes, sir."

Lucas opened the note. It was from Anne.

He read a few lines, then glanced at Bertie. "It's all right, Bertie. Go
and give that message, will you? Say it's important--an urgent matter of
business."

Bertie departed, and Lucas's eyes returned to the sheet he held.

Tawny Hudson stood motionless beside him, and several silent seconds
ticked away. His master spoke at length.

"Pen and paper, Tawny. Yes, that's right. Now put your arm behind the
pillows and give me a hoist. Slowly now, slowly!"

And then, as the man supported him, very slowly and unsteadily he traced
a few words.

"Don't worry. All's well.--Lucas."

Abruptly the pen fell from his fingers; his head dropped back. His face
was drawn and ghastly as he uttered a few gasping whispers. "Tawny, give
me something--quick! This pain is--killing me!"

The man lowered him again, and took a bottle from a side-table. As he
measured some drops into a glass the only sound in the room was his
master's agonised breathing.

Yet he knew without turning that someone had entered, and he betrayed no
surprise when Nap's hand suddenly whisked the glass from his hold and
held it to the panting lips.

CHAPTER XIV

THE IRRESISTIBLE

The first words Lucas uttered when utterance became possible to him were,
"No morphia!"

Nap was deftly drawing away the pillows to ease his position. "All right,
old fellow," he made answer. "But you know you can't sit up when you are
like this. What possessed you to try?"

"Business," murmured Lucas. "Don't go again, Boney. I want you."

"So I've been told. I am quite at your service. Don't speak till you
feel better."

"Ah! I am better now. There's magic about you, I believe. Or is it
electricity?" Lucas's eyes rested on the grim face above him with a
certain wistfulness.

Nap only smiled cynically. "Is Hudson to take this note? Can I address
it for you?"

If he expected to cause any discomfiture by the suggestion he was
disappointed. Lucas answered him with absolute composure.

"Yes; to Lady Carfax at the Manor. It is to go at once."

Nap thrust it into an envelope with a perfectly inscrutable countenance,
scrawled the address, and handed it to the valet. "You needn't come back
till you are rung for," he said.

And with that he calmly seated himself by his brother's side with the air
of a man with ample leisure at his disposal.

As the door closed he spoke. "Hadn't you better have a smoke?"

"No. I must talk first. I wish you would sit where I can see you."

Nap pulled his chair round at once and sat in the full glare of the
noonday sun. "Is that enough lime-light for you? Now, what ails the great
chief? Does he think his brother will run away while he sleeps?"

There was a hint of tenderness underlying the banter in his voice. He
stooped with the words and picked up a letter that lay on the floor.
"This yours?"

Lucas's half-extended hand fell. "And you may read it," he said.

"Many thanks! I don't read women's letters unless they chance to be
addressed to me--no, not even if they concern me very nearly." Nap's
teeth gleamed for a moment. "I'm afraid you must play off your own bat,
my worthy brother, though if you take my advice you'll postpone it.
You're about used up, and I'm deuced thirsty. It's not a peaceful
combination."

Again, despite the nonchalance of his speech, it was not without a
certain gentleness. He laid the letter on the bed within reach of his
brother's hand.

"I won't leave the premises till you have had your turn," he said. "I
guess that's a fair offer anyway. Now curl up and rest."

But Lucas negatived the suggestion instantly though very quietly. "I'll
take my turn now if you've no objection. That ranch in Arizona, Boney, is
beginning to worry me some. I want you to take it in hand. It's a little
job peculiarly suited to your abilities."

Nap jerked up his head with an odd gesture, not solely indicative of
surprise. "What do you know of my abilities?"

"More than most." Very steadily Lucas made answer. "I depend on you in a
fashion you little dream of, and I guess you won't fail me."

Nap's jaw slowly hardened. "I'm not very likely to disappoint you," he
observed, "more especially as I have no intention of removing to Arizona
at present."

"No?"

"No."

"Not if I make a point of it?" Lucas spoke heavily, as if the effort of
speech were great. His hand had clenched upon Anne's letter.

Nap leaned forward without replying, the sunlight still shining upon his
face, and looked at him attentively.

"Yes," Lucas said very wearily. "It has come to that. I can't have you
here disturbing the public peace. I won't have my own brother arraigned
as a murderer. Nor will I have Anne Carfax pilloried by you for all
England to throw mud at. I've stood a good deal from you, Boney, but I'm
damned if I'm going to stand this."

"The only question is, Can you prevent it?" said Nap, without the
faintest change of countenance.

"I am going to prevent it."

"If you can."

"I am going to prevent it," Lucas repeated. "Before we go any further,
give me that shooter of yours."

Nap hesitated for a single instant, then, with a gesture openly
contemptuous, he took the revolver from his pocket and tossed it on
to the bed.

Lucas laid his hand upon it. He was looking full into Nap's face. "Now, I
want you to tell me something," he said. "I seem to remember your saying
to me once in this very room that you and Lady Carfax were friends, no
more, no less. You were mighty anxious that I shouldn't misunderstand.
Remember that episode?"

"Perfectly," said Nap.

"I surmised that you told me that because you honestly cared for her as a
friend. Was that so?"

Nap made a slight movement, such a movement as a man makes when he
catches sight of a stone to his path too late to avoid it.

"You may say so if you wish," he said.

"Meaning that things have changed since then?" questioned Lucas, in his
tired drawl.

Nap threw up his head with the action of a jibbing horse. "You can put it
how you like. You can say--if you like--that I am a bigger blackguard now
than I was then. It makes no difference how you put it."

"But I want to know," said Lucas quietly. "Are you a blackguard, Boney?"

His eyes were fixed steadily upon the dusky face with its prominent
cheek-bones and mocking mouth. Perhaps he knew, what Anne had discovered
long before, that those sensitive lips might easily reveal what the
fierce eyes hid.

"A matter of opinion," threw back Nap. "If I am, Anne Carfax has
made me so."

"Anne Carfax," said Lucas very deliberately, "has done her best to make a
man of you. It is not her fault if she has failed. It is not her fault
that you have chosen to drag her friendship through the mire."

"Friendship!" broke in Nap. "She gave me more than that."

Lucas's brows contracted as if at a sudden dart of pain, but his voice
was perfectly level as he made reply: "Whatever she gave you was the gift
of a good woman of which you have proved yourself utterly unworthy."

Nap sprang to his feet. "Be it so!" he exclaimed harshly. "I am unworthy.
What of it? She always knew I was."

"Yet she trusted you."

"She trusted me, yes. Having cast out the devil she found in possession,
she thought there was nothing more to me. She thought that I should be
content to wander empty all my days through dry places, seeking rest. She
forgot the sequel, forgot what was bound to happen when I found none. You
seem to have forgotten that too. Or do you think that I am indeed that
interesting vacuum that you are pleased to call a gentleman?" He flung
his arms wide with a sudden, passionate laugh. "Why, my good fellow, I'd
sooner rank myself with the beasts that perish. And I'd sooner perish
too; yes, die with a rope round my throat in the good old English
fashion. There's nothing in that. I'd as soon die that way as any other.
It may not be so artistic as our method, but it's quite a clean process,
and the ultimate result is the same."

"Do you mind sitting down?" said Lucas.

Nap looked at him sharply. "In pain again?"

"Sit down," Lucas reiterated. "You can't do anything more than that. Now
will you take the trouble to make me understand what exactly are your
present intentions, and why?"

"Doesn't that letter tell you?" said Nap.

"This letter," Lucas answered, "is the desperate appeal of a very unhappy
woman who is in mortal dread of your murdering her husband."

"That all?" said Nap. The red glare of savagery flickered for an instant
in his eyes. "She has no fears on her own account then?"

"Will you explain?"

"Oh, certainly, if you need explanation. I mean that the death of Sir
Giles Carfax is no more than a stepping-stone, a means to an end. So long
as he lives, he will stand in my way. Therefore Sir Giles will go. And
mark me, any other man who attempts to come between us I will kill also.
Heaven knows what there is in her that attracts me, but there is
something--something I have never seen in any other woman--something that
goes to my head. Oh, I'm not in love with her. I'm long past that stage.
One can't be in love for ever, and she is as cold as the North Star
anyway. But she has driven me mad, and I warn you--I warn you--you had
better not interfere with me!"

He flung the words like a challenge. His lower jaw was thrust forward. He
looked like a savage animal menacing his keeper.

But Lucas lay without moving a muscle, lay still and quiet, without
tension and without emotion of any description, simply watching, as a
disinterested spectator might watch, the fiery rebellion that had kindled
against him.

At length very deliberately he held out the revolver.

"Well," he drawled, "my life isn't worth much, it's true. And you are
quite welcome to take your gun and end it here and now if you feel so
disposed. For I warn you, Nap Errol, that you'll find me considerably
more in your way than Sir Giles Carfax or any other man. I stand between
you already, and while I live you won't shunt me."

Nap's lips showed their scoffing smile. "Unfortunately--or otherwise--you
are out of the reckoning," he said.

"Am I? And how long have I been that?"

Nap was silent. He looked suddenly stubborn.

Lucas waited. There was even a hint of humour in his steady eyes.

"And that's where you begin to make a mistake," he said presently.
"You're a poor sort of blackguard at best, Boney, and that's why you
can't break away. Take this thing! I've no use for it. But maybe in
Arizona you'll find it advisable to carry arms. Come over here and read
Cradock's letter."

But Nap swung away with a gesture of fierce unrest. He fell to prowling
to and fro, stopping short of the bed at each turn, refusing doggedly to
face the quiet eyes of the man who lay there.

Minutes passed. Lucas was still watching, but he was no longer at his
ease. His brows were drawn heavily. He looked like a man undergoing
torture. His hand was still fast closed upon Anne's letter.

He spoke at last, seeming to grind out the words through clenched teeth.
"I guess there's no help for it, Boney. We've figured it out before, you
and I. I'm no great swell at fighting, but--I can hold my own against
you. And if it comes to a tug-of-war--you'll lose."

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