Adventure stories; Fiction; Mystery fiction; Short stories
Kindness still sealed the lips of Somerset; and he suffered himself once
more to be set down to table with his innocent and criminal acquaintance.
Once more, the plotter plunged up to the neck in damaging disclosures:
now it would be the name and biography of an individual, now the address
of some important centre, that rose, as if by accident, upon his lips;
and each word was like another turn of the thumbscrew to his unhappy
guest. Finally, the course of Zero’s bland monologue led him to the
young lady of two days ago: that young lady, who had flashed on Somerset
for so brief a while but with so conquering a charm; and whose engaging
grace, communicative eyes, and admirable conduct of the sweeping skirt,
remained imprinted on his memory.
‘You saw her?’ said Zero. ‘Beautiful, is she not? She, too, is one of
ours: a true enthusiast: nervous, perhaps, in presence of the chemicals;
but in matters of intrigue, the very soul of skill and daring. Lake,
Fonblanque, de Marly, Valdevia, such are some of the names that she
employs; her true name—but there, perhaps, I go too far. Suffice it,
that it is to her I owe my present lodging, and, dear Somerset, the
pleasure of your acquaintance. It appears she knew the house. You see
dear fellow, I make no concealment: all that you can care to hear, I tell
you openly.’
‘For God’s sake,’ cried the wretched Somerset, ‘hold your tongue! You
cannot imagine how you torture me!’
A shade of serious discomposure crossed the open countenance of Zero.
‘There are times,’ he said, ‘when I begin to fancy that you do not like
me. Why, why, dear Somerset, this lack of cordiality? I am depressed;
the touchstone of my life draws near; and if I fail’—he gloomily
nodded—‘from all the height of my ambitious schemes, I fall, dear boy,
into contempt. These are grave thoughts, and you may judge my need of
your delightful company. Innocent prattler, you relieve the weight of my
concerns. And yet . . . and yet . . .’ The speaker pushed away his
plate, and rose from table. ‘Follow me,’ said he, ‘follow me. My mood
is on; I must have air, I must behold the plain of battle.’
So saying, he led the way hurriedly to the top flat of the mansion, and
thence, by ladder and trap, to a certain leaded platform, sheltered at
one end by a great stalk of chimneys and occupying the actual summit of
the roof. On both sides, it bordered, without parapet or rail, on the
incline of slates; and, northward above all, commanded an extensive view
of housetops, and rising through the smoke, the distant spires of
churches.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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