Wicked Uncle

The last words set her blood storming. The future-and what a future! If she could have killed him then, she might have done it. Perhaps he guessed that. The sudden brilliance of her glance, the sudden scarlet in the cheeks which had been so pale, declared an i

It was not until the flame had dropped from flaring-point that she let herself speak. When she did, it was any guest to any host.

“My dear Greg, you’re too flattering. But I’m afraid I shouldn’t be any good at business-I expect you have to be born that way. Too kind of you to let me have my bracelet back. You must let me know what you paid for it. I shouldn’t like my cousin to know that I had sold her present. The fact is, I was in a frightful hole just then, and I simply had to have the money.”

The bracelet was on her wrist as she spoke, withdrawn from the table and slipped over her left hand so swiftly and smoothly that Gregory Porlock would hardly have had time to intervene. In point of fact he made no move to do so, but laughed and said,

“Well, don’t sell it again! It’s a bit too dangerous. Someone else might recognize it next time-you never know.” Then, as she turned to go, he came a step nearer, took her by the wrist, his big hand closing down over the diamond trellis, pressing it into her flesh. “I’ve got the receipted bill, you know. It describes the bracelet. You can have till Monday morning to make up your mind. Meanwhile we’ll call a truce.”

He let go of her, and she turned and went out of the room without a word.

She was half way up the stairs, when she heard the front door open and shut. The cold of the outer air came in and followed her, with the sound of Leonard Carroll’s voice. The last of the house-party had arrived.

Without turning her head she went on past the door of Miss Masterman’s room to her own. A short distance, a short time, from door to door, from the study to this small charming bedroom with its pale blue curtains drawn, its clean fresh chintzes with their flowery pattern picking up the colour of the curtains and blending it with purple and rose, its warm sparkling fire. But in that distance, in that time, Moira Lane had made up her mind what she was going to do.

Chapter XIV

The Grange was an old house. The drawing-room, long and low, its four rather narrow windows curtained in a pale flowered brocade which toned charmingly with the ivory panelled walls, its chairs and couches repeating the same soft shades, preserved the formal delicacy of another day. Gregory Porlock, awaiting the arrival of his guests, considered, not for the first time, how much better the scene would have been suited by an older style of dress. For the women piled curls and spreading hoops, with knee-breeches and coloured coats for the men. He could have fancied himself very well in a prune velvet, with a touch of powder in the hair.

His mood was a buoyant one. He felt the exhilaration of a man who drives a difficult team over a dangerous course. If there were no difficulties, no dangers, there would be no pleasure in doing it. The hairsbreadth turn, the moment when everything was in the balance, the bending of nerve and will to curb, to guide, to master a straining team, gave adventure its zest and made every risk worth while. He was taking risks tonight. Li

Dorinda Brown was another risk. She had not, of course, been intended to accompany the Oakleys tonight. It had amused him to invite her warmly, whilst taking steps to ensure that she would not be able to come. Just where the plan had slipped, and how, he didn’t know, but he meant to find out. Dorinda should have had another engagement-not so pleasant, but one which would have admitted of no excuse. He didn’t like his plans going wrong. They were always very carefully laid, and if they didn’t come off, he made it his business to see that someone got into trouble. Apart from a

He allowed himself some amused speculation as to what she would be like. Seven years is quite a time, and the seven years between fourteen and twenty-one are longer than is warranted by the mere months and years. He remembered a child with a rosy face, a thick bright plait, and round eyes. No, that would be earlier still. At fourteen the plait had gone, but the face was still rosy, and the eyes the eyes of a child. He had a sudden memory of them meeting his own in a long, grave stare. Mary had aggravated him into swearing at her, and Dorinda had walked in on them. She had opened the door and stood there looking at him with that shocked, solemn stare. Come to think of it, it was the last time he had seen her, and the question was, would she remember him, or would she not? In his own estimation he was not an easy person to forget. He rather flattered himself that no woman would ever quite forget the memories he had given her. But a child might forget-or might not. There was no counting on it. Suppose she remembered him… He was of the opinion that it really didn’t matter very much. A girl who had been brought up by Mary would certainly not be so ill-bred as to make a scene, and when all was said and done, she couldn’t be sure. Reluctant as he was to admit the possibility that he might have a double, such things were not uncommon, and doubt once planted could be so fostered as to bring in a satisfactory crop. He felt a swelling confidence in his ability to deal with Dorinda Brown.

Li

Sometimes she saw herself going-getting into the car, driving a little way, getting out again, going into the Grange, which was a strange house of which she could make no picture-and she felt she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go into that house and meet Glen. She couldn’t touch his hand. Perhaps he would take her in to di

Sometimes she saw herself staying at home-saying she felt faint, saying she had a headache. But Glen would know it wasn’t true. Martin would go without her, and how did she know what Glen would do or say? He might be angry… The something inside her which never stopped shaking shook a little more at the thought of Glen’s anger. And Martin would want to know why she had a headache, why she felt faint. He wouldn’t be angry-Martin was never angry with her. He would be kind. And if he was kind, she wouldn’t be able to help crying, and then, however hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to help telling him.

Something called out in her, “No-no-no!” She saw Martin turning her out. She saw herself in the street, in the dock, in prison-quite cast off, quite ruined, quite lost.