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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Step In the Dark by Ethel Lina White is a thrilling mystery novel set in post-World War II England. With its captivating plot twists and suspenseful narrative, White seamlessly weaves together the elements of mystery and psychological tension, keeping readers on the edge of their seats. The book is written in a clear and concise style, making it accessible to both casual readers and literary enthusiasts alike. White's attention to detail and well-developed characters add depth to the story, creating a rich literary experience for readers. Step In the Dark is a timeless classic that continues to captivate readers with its intriguing storyline and expertly crafted prose. Ethel Lina White, known for her mastery of the mystery genre, brings her unique perspective to Step In the Dark. Her own experiences living through the tumultuous post-war era likely influenced her writing and her ability to capture the mood and atmosphere of the time. White's expertise in crafting suspenseful narratives shines through in this novel, making it a standout work in her impressive oeuvre. I highly recommend Step In the Dark to readers who enjoy a gripping mystery with well-developed characters and a compelling storyline. Ethel Lina White's skillful storytelling and attention to detail make this novel a must-read for fans of the mystery genre.
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STEP IN THE DARK
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE. REFLECTIONS
Across the table, Georgia Yeo looked at her hostess with timid admiration.
"I wonder," she thought, "if the time will ever come when that face will be familiar to me, at meals?"
She was acutely nervous, for she realized that the little dinner-party was a formal occasion when she was on exhibition. This was her great moment—her chance to grasp a future which blinded her with its brilliancy.
At present, she felt almost breathless by the rush of events, as though she were another Alice, whirled relentlessly through the air. It was only ten days since she had left England, for the first time in her life. Since then, much had happened—and it had happened too quickly.
She had come to Brussels and met the Count.
History was made on her first night. She chose to stay at an old-established hotel, patronised by those who preferred an atmosphere of tradition to ultramodern plumbing. Once the mansion of a wealthy family, it preserved its original grandeur of yellowed marble walls and vast gilt-framed mirrors as a background for solid nineteenth-century furniture.
It was situated in the town, amid a tangle of dark narrow streets, so that Georgia was able to gaze through the revolving doors of the lounge and watch the people passing outside. A fine rain was falling so imperceptibly that it was visible only as a sliver through the darkness. It glistened on a procession of umbrellas and the statuary of a fountain, set in the middle of the road.
Inside was the brilliancy of branching electric lights—a constant flux of visitors—a babel of voices speaking an unfamiliar language. As she sat and watched, the novelty of her surroundings thrilled her to excited expectancy. For six years she had looked out, at twilight, always upon the same scene—an empty grey waste, with a distant white line of crawling foam, marking the sea.
She opened her cigarette case, which was the signal for the Count literally to leap into her life, forestalling the waiter with a match.
"Can it be really true?" he asked a minute later. "The clerk at the Bureau tells me that you are Mrs. Yeo—the celebrated writer of so many detective thrillers?"
Faster, faster...When she admitted her identity, the Count swept her away on the current of his exuberant spirits. In his stimulating company, she saw Brussels as a whirling confusion of ancient buildings, cobbled streets, statues, still life paintings of carcasses and dark arcaded dress-shops.
Out of the swarm of impressions there emerged a few indelible impressions. The mellow glory of the gilded houses of the Grand Place seen in a red, watery sunset. The twin towers of St. Gudule's floating in a silvery mist. The massive grandeur of the Palais de Justice, challenging the shock of Judgment Day. The soaring figure of St. Michael glittering in the morning sun. The horror of a picture in the Wiertz Museum—"The Age of Innocence"—which depicted two children burning a butterfly's wings.
Faster, faster...The Count rushed her from place to place, with cyclonic energy. He remained volatile, impersonal and adventurous—running risks with regulations and stamping on convention up to the moment when he formally expressed his wish that she should meet his family.
The pace increased to a breathless whirl after his relatives arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Vanderpant—aunt to the Count—was the widow of a wealthy and distinguished American. She was accompanied by an impressive-looking scientist—Professor Malfoy—and a youth named "Clair"—both connections on the American side. They were installed in the most expensive suite, from whence issued the fateful invitation.
Then, with a grinding jar, everything stopped still and Georgia found herself stationary at the dinner-table.
She was on approval.
The meal was laid in the private sitting-room, which was a chill apartment with a vast expanse of waxed parquet flooring. Starched white net curtains hung at the three long windows, framing narrow slices of cobalt-blue night sky. The golden glow of candlelight was reflected in a large Regency mirror upon the wall.
Georgia could see herself in it—small and very fair, in a backless black dinner-gown. She always looked younger than her age, but to-night, in spite of her efforts at sophistication, she appeared too immature for her writing record.
She moved her head and her reflection vanished.
"I've gone inside," she thought. "That mirror has swallowed so many faces—so many scenes."
Her dislike of seeing herself in the glass dated from her childhood, when her nurse used to hold her up before a large old-fashioned mirror. One night, she dreamed that, instead of seeing her familiar nursery, she looked into a dark smoky place, where strange people with depraved faces drank and played cards.
Her father, who always explained the connection between cause and effect, pointed out that the dream was the logical result of looking at a forbidden volume of Hogarth's engravings.
Although she accepted the moral, she always believed that the mirror had yielded up an evil page from the past.
At the present time, she was in a super-sensitive condition which was a prelude to the temperature she usually ran, as a penalty of excitement. To counteract its effect, she had taken a draught and, as a result, did not feel quite normal.
With the momentary detachment of a spectator, she looked at the others sitting round the table. Her hostess, Mrs. Vanderpant, was elderly, with a clear-cut arrogant face, pinched austere features, and a sunken mouth, expressive of intolerance and pride. In contrast with her chill personality, the Professor's vast florid clean-shaven face was benignant and his voice a melodious gong, although he rarely spoke. He had a shock of snowy curls which shadowed his black eyes, twinkling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez.
The youth, Clair, was too young to count with her. She was conscious of him merely as a sharp-faced youth, in a dinner-jacket. He spoke with an American accent, although his small hands and feet, in conjunction with smooth blue-black hair, suggested a Latin type.
There was another guest, her literary agent, Harvey Torch. He was a pleasant man, but entirely dwarfed by his neighbour. The Count's high-voltage personality eclipsed the rest of the party. He was unusually fair, with sparkling blue eyes and glittering white teeth, so that, whenever he moved or spoke, there was a constant flash and gleam.
Georgia shifted her position in order to see them reflected in the mirror—a reduced but vivid company. Above all, she was conscious of the Count flickering across the dimness of old glass, like streaks of luminous paint glimmering in the darkness.
Her vision blurred and her head began to swim.
"This moment must last," she thought. "One day—perhaps a thousands years hence—some one will look into that glass and see us all sitting round the table, just as we are now...And by then, everything that is going to happen to us, will have happened. We can do nothing then, to help or hinder."
It was this sense of imminent and unknown destiny which weighted down her spirit. She awoke to reality at the sound of her hostess's voice, which, in spite of her effort to be gracious, remained harsh and grating.
"Are you going to visit any other part of Belgium?"
"No," replied Georgia. "I'm going to stay in Brussels, all the time. At the beginning of my visit, I motored through part of the Ardennes."
"You saw some fine scenery."
"Yes, but it was too old and too cruel. There were so many ruins and prisons with horrible oubliettes. They depressed me."
"This is really amusing," laughed the Count. "You are sorry for people who have been comfortably dead for hundreds of years. Yet you are utterly ruthless to your poor characters."
"That's different. I can control my situations. My prisoners are already released."
"But some prisons are quite comfortable. At least, I have been assured so by financial, or rather, high-financial friends...Besides, you told me you had been shut up in one small place, all your life. You've been living in one room. Where is the difference?"
Although she knew he was teasing her, Georgia answered the Count's question seriously.
"The difference is this. I can leave my prison whenever I like...But it must be ghastly to know you have got to stay in one place for ever. Always seeing the same scene, like Napoleon on St. Helena."
As she spoke the room was momentarily blotted out, and she seemed to be looking at the last red gleam of a setting sun reflected on long lines of grey waves, rolling out towards the horizon.
On—on...They moved ceaselessly, but she had to stay and watch that sullen waste of water. A scene of stark desolation. No ray of hope. Doom inexorable...A prisoner.
As though he sensed his client's discomfort, Torch came to her relief with a remark on a topical subject. Released from taking further part in the conversation, she became aware that the youth, Clair, was staring at her with hard, curious eyes. Their hostile expression told her that, for some unknown reason, he disliked her intensely.
Even as the certainty flashed across her mind, she realised that the antipathy was not only mutual, but—in her case—intensified by instinctive repulsion.
His merciless scrutiny turned the meal to a social ordeal. It was a formal and elaborate affair of many courses and wines, with two waiters in constant attendance. The table was decorated with orchids and covered with a cloth of handmade lace.
As she looked at it nervously, Georgia was plunged back into her childhood, when she had been taken to lunch at the Bishop's Palace. She could see again the white damask cloth, patterned with shamrock, as well as spattered with damson juice, which was her own shameful contribution.
Still under the spell of the past, her hand shook so violently when she raised her glass, that she was childishly afraid of spilling her wine. In this company, any slip or lapse from perfect manners might ruin her hopes. She felt overwhelmed by the importance of the issue at stake—crushed by the fact that the Count's relatives were persons of birth, rank and wealth.
"I'm aiming too high," she thought hopelessly. "I'm nothing. Nobody."
She was grateful for the moral support of her agent—Harvey Torch. Although he had been annoyed by the Count's invitation, he had accepted it in obedience to his instinct to protect the interests of others. On this occasion, he was concerned lest his most lucrative client had become friendly with adventurers.
In his character of critical observer he studied his company, excepting Clair, whom he considered negligible. Mrs. Vanderpant looked a typical example of inbreeding during centuries of social prestige, while the Professor bore the hallmark of the Mayflower. The Count, too, appeared a perfect specimen of super-vitality and physical fitness. Although he was middle-aged, it was possible to picture him in earlier years, as a blond youth, running around a stadium with a flaming torch.
The agent decided that they were almost too genuine, besides having the advantages of a successful stage-setting and candlelight. Consequently, he subjected them to his usual method of debunking, which was, to dress them up—in his imaginations—in different clothes.
The mental exercise was justified by results. Stripped of his evening suit and with his hair shorn, the Professor could shape in the ring as a heavyweight bruiser. The boy, Clair, was changed into a vicious young apache, by a dirty jersey and a beret; while the Count could be any type of pleasant scoundrel, common to every quarter of the globe.
Mrs. Vanderpant, alone, defied his efforts to degrade her dignity. Although he reduced her to sordid circles of vice and squalor, she remained triumphantly, the perfect lady in adversity.
As a momentary pause jammed the flow of conversation, the social occasion was marred by a disconcerting incident. Clair, who had never removed his eyes from Georgia's face, suddenly broke his silence with a barrage of questions.
"D'you know Brussels well?" he asked.
"No," Georgia confessed. "This is my first visit."
"Gosh, how did you miss it? Haven't you travelled?"
"No. I—I've never been abroad before."
"Where d'you live?"
"In a small village, on the east coast of England."
"Why?"
"It's quiet for my writing."
"Got a big estate?"
"No, only a cottage."
"How d'you entertain?'
"I have so few friends. I've dropped out of things."
"No family?"
"My mother and my two big girls. Merle and Mavis. They are seven and eight."
Stunned by the rattle of question succeeding question, Georgia answered mechanically, like a witness bullied by cross-examination. She had expected the delicate probing of skillful leading remarks, if she were to be accepted as a member of the Count's family; but this violation of her reserve by an ill-mannered youth left her aghast.
The attack was too swift and unexpected for the others to intervene. Torch received the impression that his hosts preferred to ignore the catechism rather than to recognise any breach of manners. Although, at first, his own mind was a blank, the mention of Georgia's children gave him his chance to intervene.
"I'm one of the few privileged to have a photograph of Mrs. Yeo's little girls, taken with their mother," he said. "They look like three sisters—two from the nursery and one from the schoolroom."
He stopped talking, distracted by hearing an unusual complaint.
"Waiter," said Mrs. Vanderpant, "these knives are sharp. Bring blunt ones. That is the way to find out whether the meat is really tender."
After a swift substitution had been made and the beef had sustained the test, the Count exulted over his aunt.
"I knew it would satisfy even you. I spoke one word to the maitre d'hotel, who himself visited the kitchens and selected the joint."
The incident stirred up Torch's suspicion afresh, lest it were pre-arranged in order to demonstrate the exalted rank of guests who could command such specialised service.
The more he considered it, the less he liked the situation. He knew that circumstances had made Georgia specially vulnerable to attack. Apart from her work, her nature was pliant and credulous, while she had only just emerged from voluntary exile. This was her first holiday after years of high-pressure writing, when she had lived in the world of her own lurid imagination.
He argued that, if this family was what it represented itself to be, the Count would be too used to the society of beautiful glamorous women to fall violently in love with Georgia. Moreover, if it needed financial support, its objective would be a genuine heiress.
The fact that it appeared to angle for a best-selling novelist, put it in the class of cheap fortune-hunters. Suddenly he decided, therefore, to clarify his suspicions by a discussion on specialised motives.
"Of course, you've all read Mrs. Yeo's novels," he remarked. "Besides being her agent, I am one of her fans. At the same time, I don't think there is any comparison between real and imaginary crimes. Nothing in fiction can compare with the horror of 'The brides in the bath.'"
He turned to the Count.
"Probably you remember it? A man married several wretched women and then drowned them, to get their bit of money."
The Count looked at him with genuine interest.
"Now murder is something I can never understand," he said. "Any man who commits murder must be either a monster or a maniac. No sane person would risk his neck when there are so many ways of getting money from a woman."
"Any one who marries a stranger must accept the consequences," remarked Mrs. Vanderpant. "Of course, in our class, such a marriage is out of the question. We first insist on intimate knowledge of the family."
"All the same," persisted Torch, "any woman with money is bound to run a risk over her marriage. It must be a distressing problem in the case of some fascinating stranger. If she turns him down, she may lose a genuine love; and if she takes him, she may lose more than her money."
As he spoke, he glanced at Georgia. The candlelight stirred in the breeze from the open window and trembled on her misty web of pale hair. Her eyes were wide with apprehension, yet a smile hovered around her mouth. She looked elusive and unearthly, like a dryad escaped from her tree.
His apprehension sharpened to actual fear. While he was presenting a hypothetical case, she might be in actual danger. Even as the fear crossed his mind, Clair attacked Georgia again with a direct personal question.
"What would you do, Mrs. Yeo? You've got money."
Georgia put her hand to her throat, as though she found it difficult to reply. Dazzled by the Count's personality and position, she had avoided the intrusion of her personal matters in her romance. Her reserve had amounted almost to emotional paralysis; but now she realised that the time had come for her to take a desperate chance.
"I have no money," she said.
Remembering her royalties, Torch stared at her incredulously, while Clair flushed with anger.
"You make pots," he contradicted. "Every one knows you make pots. Are you trying to high-hat me because I asked you a question?"
"No." Again Georgia forced herself to explain. "It is true I have made quite a lot of money, although not as much as people think. Writers rarely do. But I cannot touch it. I have settled all of it on my children."
Before the youth could make any comment, Mrs. Vanderpant dismissed him.
"We shall not expect you to wait for coffee, Clair. The conversation of adults must be boring to you."
The youth grimaced but rose from the table. As he passed the Count, he laid his hand upon his shoulder with a possessive gesture which Georgia resented.
"He's jealous of me," she thought.
Meanwhile, Torch studied the general reaction to Georgia's bombshell, only to discover that no one seemed affected by it. The Count's smile was still gay and unconcerned, while the Professor devoted his entire attention to the peeling of a peach. Mrs. Vanderpant preserved the detachment of a perfect hostess.
In the face of their high social standard, the presence of an ill-bred youth at the table seemed an unfortunate choice. It made him wonder whether Clair was included in order to pump a prospective victim. If this were the case, her revelation was calculated to shatter the hopes of any fortune hunter.
He drew a breath of deep relief. Georgia was safe.
CHAPTER TWO. BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Although her ordeal was nearly at an end, Georgia felt that she could hardly endure the last minutes of the meal. She had a guilty sense of being there on false pretences, as though she had been masquerading in the guise of a wealthy woman, to invite hospitable overtures.
When she asked to be excused from staying for coffee, on account of her rising temperature, she was surprised at Mrs. Vanderpant's concern.
"Have you a maid?" she asked.
"No," replied Georgia. "But I know what to take for these attacks. I shall be perfectly well in the morning."
"All the same, you must not be neglected. I will speak to the floor-housekeeper and tell her that I shall regard any attention she can show you, as paid to me."
Her chin elevated in conscious pride of position, she turned to Torch, with the air of granting an audience, while the Count accompanied Georgia to the outer door of the suite. When they reached the vestibule, which was screened off from the salon by curtains of faded grass-green velvet, he smiled down at her.
"My aunt must have guessed that I wanted to speak to you alone," he said.
She waited for him to continue with a throb of intense eagerness. As she looked around, she knew that the memory of her surroundings would always remain. In after years, she would recall the ivory walls, the marble bust of Leopold I. on a pedestal, and the white sheepskin rug—all dyed a moonlight blue from the glass of a hanging lamp. She noticed, too, an incongruous drain-pipe umbrella-stand, painted with bulrushes—and a steel engraving of a Victorian skating-scene.
The Count cleared his throat.
"I want to apologise for Clair," he said. "He did not mean to be rude. You see, with us, money is nothing. He was cross, too, because he thought you were pulling his leg."
He stopped and looked at her expectantly, awaiting her comment.
"I am sorry he misunderstood," she told him. "Of course, I was speaking the truth. It saves trouble...He seems very fond of you."
"Clair?" The Count laughed indulgently. "Yes. He is a rascal, but one can't help liking him."
"Yes?" Georgia spoke vaguely in her anxiety to learn the future. "Shall I see you tomorrow?"
He dashed her hope with a regretful smile.
"I'm sorry, no. You understand. Family We must all be early birds tonight, for my aunt starts tomorrow at an unholy hour. I am expected to accompany her."
"Then—this is 'Good-bye'?"
"Oh, I may return. But if that is impossible, you will be a cherished memory. Whenever I see your novels on the stall at a railway station, I shall be able to boast, 'Ah I have met the celebrated Mrs. Yeo—and she is even more charming than her books.'"
In spite of her temperature, Georgia began to feel cold.
"I am afraid I made a poor impression on your people," she said.
"Oh, no, no. How could you? You were modest and frank. Those are qualities which appeal to my aunt."
Suddenly Georgia was urged to tell him that life-story which she withheld so persistently from the public.
"It must be wonderful not to think of money," she said. "In my case, it's been the most important thing. My grandfather was a wealthy tea-merchant. He was a self-made man, but he sent his only son to Oxford—and all the rest. Father never earned a penny in his life. He dribbled away most of his fortune on the Stock Exchange. He was hopeless, for he would buy shares on margin. Now, I'm like my grandfather over money. Really, I'm a tough old man with a stubby grey beard and a droopy eyelid."
The Count joined in her forced laughter while he paid her the tribute of absorbed attention.
"There was so much worry about money," she continued, "that we were all glad when I married an old family friend. It seemed security. And then, everything happened at once. Edward—my husband—went bankrupt and committed suicide. I was left penniless with my mother and two babies to keep."
"Your mother, too?"
"Naturally. She lost her remaining capital in one of Edward's companies. I took a job, at first, and wrote my first novel at night. I'd written all my life. A miracle happened, for it was a best-seller. After that start, I've never looked back...But you can understand why I felt I must safeguard my children. They are dependent on me and I am not immortal."
"I do indeed. I honour you for it. May I?"
The Count raised her hand to his lips.
At that moment, his homage seemed a meaningless gesture. She waited for him to speak before she broke the silence with a final appeal.
"I hope I've not bored you. I only wanted to explain. You see, your cousin made me feel ashamed—because I'd done nothing and gone nowhere. Now you know why...Goodbye."
"No, 'Good-night.' We will hope."
Although she was used to loss, the episode was one of her bitterest disappointments when she went downstairs to her bedroom—unescorted. She had been living up in the clouds with a blond and radiant lover, who brought her the supreme gift of laughter, together with a dream-title of "Countess."
As she stumbled along the narrow carpeted passages which ran round two sides of the building, she suddenly realised that she was completely exhausted and that her bed was the only thing which really mattered. She could scarcely drag her legs to her room and when she reached it at last, it seemed small and stuffy in contrast with Mrs. Vanderpant's cool and lofty salon.
She threw off her clothes and after swallowing another draught crossed to the window. Below her was the traffic of the noisy street, with illuminated tramcars bearing advertisements of unfamiliar cigarettes and mineral waters.
Beyond rose a straggling map of lights which defined the higher parts of the city. Every spot was associated with the Count. Somewhere up there was the Congress Column and the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, guarded by two bronze lions at his feet. As she gazed at the slope she thought of her own village, with the sound of the tide dragging back the pebbles, and the distant line of the sea.
Although it held those she loved best, she rebelled at the idea of returning to it.
"Not now—not after this," she murmured.
Feeling hopeless and miserable she climbed into bed. Very soon her thoughts grew blurred and she forgot everything but the present. Her attacks of temperature were not unpleasant, for she lay in a dry baked heat which reminded her of basking in sun-warmed sand. The open window admitted the noise of the street and a faint light from the illuminations below, but no refreshing current of night air.
The last thing she saw before she fell asleep was her evening frock, visible as a huddle of black draperies flung over the back of a chair.
When she opened her eyes again, she was looking at it still; but she was conscious of other changes. A cool breeze blew in upon her from the window, which appeared to have moved closer. The room, too, seemed nearly doubled in size.
"This is absurd," she thought. "I must still be asleep."
She stretched out her hand to snap on the light, but the switch was no longer there. She was in the same bed, however, for she could distinguish the pattern of the printed bed-spread—blue poppies on a green ground. In further proof her watch was under her pillow, although the dial was too small for her to see the hands.
Remembering that there was a view of a church clock from her window, she slid to the polished floor and groped her way towards it, only to be baffled by further transformation. The lighted street and the traffic had sunk into the ground. In its place was a vague darkness, blotched by a suggestion of foliage.
As she tried vainly to pierce the gloom, she noticed an iron stair spiralling upwards, just beyond the window sill. The sight of it filled her with an overwhelming desire to climb up to the roof. Her favourite dream—sleeping or waking—was of a city of the Future, where buildings rose up in towering tiers and pedestrians walked high above the streets, which looped downwards to the lowest torrent of rushing traffic.
"If this is a dream," she reasoned, "it's quite safe to get out of the window. But—I feel awake."
She tried vainly to find some lucid explanation of her inexplicable predicament, but her brain was dark and torpid as though steeped in narcotic. Although the strange metamorphosis of her room seemed positive proof that she was dreaming, some submerged memory warned her to caution, as she tried to explore her surroundings.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, but she found it difficult to locate objects. All the furniture seemed different, and to stand in unaccustomed places. Only the mirror was in its usual place above the old-fashioned marble mantelpiece.
Guided by its glimmer she groped her way towards it. The glass was so dark that at first she could see nothing. Gradually, however, she traced the outlines of tree trunks and bare branches, which seemed very far away.
Instead of meeting her own familiar reflection she was looking into the vista of a snowy forest.
"That proves it is a dream," she told herself exultantly. "Now I'll get up on the roof."
Climbing fearlessly out of the window, she stood poised upon the narrow sill. There was scarcely room for her feet, but she stretched her arms above her head and strained up towards the stars, feeling certain that she would float up into the air.
Although she did not fly, as the breeze blew through her thin sleeping suit, she felt light as a soap bubble. Filled with exhilaration, she swayed out across the narrow gulf of darkness and caught the iron rail of the stair. As she drew herself up without conscious effort she dimly realised that—owing to the drug—she was in a false dimension which was subject to the trickery of time, for she appeared to climb for hours without reaching the top.
She was also subject to frequent black-outs, when she lost all consciousness of her surroundings. Higher and higher she mounted, until the stars were so low that she instinctively moved her head aside, to avoid entangling her hair in a dangling cluster.
Presently, after a blank, she discovered that she had reached her goal, for she was walking along the elevated parapet of her city of the Future. She was so high up that she could not see the lights of the streets below, although she could hear the rising murmur of traffic like the hum of a bee. Drifting lightly along, like a leaf in a breeze, she thought that she had journeyed for miles, when she saw—at right angles to her path—the square of a lighted window.
Thrilled at the promise of fresh adventure, she pushed open the casement, and leaped inside Even as she alighted, she was arrested by the sound of voices.
Suddenly the immunity of a dreamer deserted her and the phantasy grew mercilessly real. As she realised her predicament, if she were caught in the act of entering a strange house, she felt hot with shame. But even as she darted towards the window, she checked her panic flight.
"I've been here before," she told herself.
The marble bust on a pedestal, the white sheep-skin rug, the atrocious daubs on a drain-pipe were all familiar. It was the vestibule where she had stood when the Count had slain her hope with a tender smile of farewell.
The recollection overwhelmed her with so sharp a sense of desolation that she wanted to weep in the hopeless despair of a dream. Then, with a lightning change of mood, her thoughts drifted off on another track.
"Perhaps the dinner-party is still going on," she thought. "We are all of us sitting round the table, on the other side of the curtain...If I peeped through, I might see Gustav again."
Parting the curtain cautiously she looked through the folds with the confidence of seeing a stately and well-bred company posed like statues around a formal white feast.
She was right—for they were still there, sitting at the same table. But a horrible and sinister change had taken place. The lace cloth and the orchids had gone, while the air was thick with a fog of smoke. Around a green roulette-cloth was gathered a circle of gamblers who watched the spinning wheel with greedy eyes.
As she looked at them, Georgia felt that she was viewing a scene through a distorting glass. At first she saw strangers—a gross multi-chinned man and an elderly woman with pendulous rouged cheeks. Then, to her horror, she began to recognise some of the company.
A drunken man with a snowy curling mane and a foolish red face looked like a debased caricature of the dignified Professor Malfoy. Mrs. Vanderpant—incredibly cheapened by the cigar on which she was biting—raked in counters with the clutching claws of a bird of prey. The Count, too, was there—his neck encircled by the arms of the youth, Clair, who had achieved corrupt beauty by the application of powder and lip-stick.
As Georgia shuddered with repulsion, the Count looked up suddenly, so that she seemed to meet his gaze, although he could not see the watcher.
In that moment of horror, she knew why she had been haunted by the picture at the Wiertz Museum. It was because the Count's eyes were blue and shining-like those of two lovely children, who laughed as they burned a butterfly's wings in the flame of a candle.
CHAPTER THREE. THE COUNTESS LEAVES TOWN
Seared with horror at her vision, Georgia rushed back to the open window. Her dominant instinct was flight as she crawled out upon a ledge which encircled a pit of darkness. Although she had no sense of direction, she felt vaguely that it must lead her to the refuge of her room.
She was shivering with cold and her legs were leaden from shock. Her glorious liberty-dream had spun away from her, leaving her stranded in the familiar nightmare of being unable to make progress. She knew that she must advance, yet her will to move was smothered in inertia. As she toiled on, she felt clogged and impotent, like an insect attempting to crawl over a sticky fly-paper.
Her distress was increased by a gradual shrinkage of security. Hitherto, she had been swaddled in the protective cocoon of a dream, when she could not fall; but with her growing sense of altitude there came the threat of vertigo. Although her path was still mercifully obscured, she had recurring flashes of consciousness, when she could feel an iron grille under her bare feet.
Suddenly she slipped and nearly overbalanced on the verge of a stair which wound downwards. It was narrow and spiralled so steeply that her head whirled from continuous turning. Slipping recklessly from step to step in her haste to reach each successive window, she always found the jalousies closed against her entrance.
It was not until she had grown nearly frantic with fear of being shut out that she saw an open casement. Swinging herself across to the sill, she almost flung herself into the black interior of a room. As she stumbled blindly across it she collided violently with a chair, over which was hung a black gown, and then fell heavily across the bed, banging her head on the rail.
She remembered no more until she became drowsily aware of unseen hands which stroked the sheet in position under her chin. Opening her eyes with an effort she met the gaze of a heavily-built woman with shoulder-long dark waved hair, which made her resemble a middle-aged schoolgirl. She wore a neat dark-blue overall, and looked both kind and capable.
"You must excuse," she said in the fluent English of a War refugee; "but you were lying across the bed, with the bedclothes off you, as though you had the nightmare."
Happily aware of sunshine speckling the ceiling, Georgia laughed in her relief.
"I certainly had nightmare," she said. "I dreamed that the room had grown larger."
Then she gave a cry of astonishment.
"It is larger," she gasped.
Although the room was not the vague and vast apartment of her dream, it was twice its former size. The part in which her bed was placed was formally furnished as a sitting-room, with a sofa and chairs upholstered in amber plush, a round walnut table and an ornate chiffonier. Over the marble mantelpiece, instead of the conventional mirror, was a framed painting of a snowy landscape.
The other portion of the room contained her familiar bedroom suite. The bed, however, had been turned around to face another direction, which accounted for her failure to find the electric-light switch.
The woman laughed at her bewilderment.
"All is easily explained," she said. "I manage here, so Madame Vanderpant asked me to look after your comfort. I let myself in by my service-key after you were asleep, and found you hot—so hot, as if you had a fever. The room was like an oven, so I opened the sliding-doors of the salon. As you see, they are covered with wallpaper. That makes them invisible. Voilà."
She gave a demonstration as to how they worked, and then smiled persuasively.
"You understand, Madame," she said eagerly, "how lucky this is for you. The hotel was so full when you applied for your reservation that we had to give you the bedroom belonging to this vacant suite. Now you have proved its convenience, if you would like to engage it we can give you a ten per cent. discount on the price. There is also a bath, where you can be perfectly private."
Although Georgia considered that such an assurance should be unnecessary, she nodded in agreement.
