Jeanne of the MarshesOppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
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Jeanne of the Marshes
Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
Detective and mystery stories; English fiction -- 20th century
Cecil did not reply. A grey mist was sweeping in from the sea, and
Jeanne shivered a little as they turned into the avenue.
"I wonder," she said pensively, "why we came here. My mother as a rule
hates to go far from civilization, and I am sure Lord Ronald is
miserable."
"I think one reason why your mother brought you here," Cecil said
slowly, "is because she wanted to give me a chance."
She picked up her skirts and ran, ran so lightly and swiftly that
Cecil, who was taken by surprise, had no chance of catching her. From
the hall door she looked back at him, panting behind.
"Too many cigarettes," she laughed. "You are out of training. If you do
not mind you will be like Lord Ronald, an old young man, and I would
never let any one say the sort of things you were going to say who
couldn't catch me when I ran away."
She went laughing up the stairs, and Cecil de la Borne turned into his
study. The Princess was playing patience, and the two men were in
easy-chairs.
"At last!" the Princess remarked, throwing down her cards. "My dear
Cecil, do you realize that you have kept us waiting nearly an hour?"
"I thought, perhaps," he answered, "that you had had enough bridge."
"Absurd!" the Princess declared. "What else is there to do? Come and
cut, and pray that you do not draw me for a partner. My luck is dead
out--at patience, anyhow."
"Mine," Cecil remarked, with a hard little laugh, "seems to be out all
round. Touch the bell, will you, Forrest. I must have a brandy and soda
before I start this beastly game again."
The Princess raised her eyebrows.
"I trust," she said, "that my charming ward has not been unkind?"
"Your charming ward," Cecil answered, "has as many whims and fancies as
an elf. She yawns when I talk to her, and looks longingly after one of
my villagers. Hang the fellow!"
"A very superior villager," the Princess remarked, "if you mean Mr.
Andrew."
Forrest looked up, and fixed his cold intent eyes upon his host.
"I suppose," he said, "you are sure that this man Andrew is really what
he professes to be, and not a masquerader?"
"I have known him," Cecil answered, "since I was old enough to remember
anybody. He has lived here all his life, and only been away three or
four times."
They played until the dressing-bell rang. Then Cecil de la Borne rose
from his seat with a peevish exclamation.
"My luck seems dead out," he said.
The Princess raised her eyebrows.
"Possibly, my dear boy," she said, "but you must admit that you also
played abominably. Your last declaration of hearts was indefensible,
and why you led a diamond and discarded the spade in Lord Ronald's 'no
trump' hand, Heaven only knows!"
"I still think that I was right," Cecil declared, a little sullenly.
The Princess said nothing, but turned toward the door.
"Any one dining to-night, Mr. Host?" she said.
"No one," he answered. "To tell you the truth there is no one to ask
within a dozen miles, and you particularly asked not to be bothered
with meeting yokels."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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