E. Phillips Oppenheim - 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

“It was certainly a magnificent way of establishing me,” Dominey admitted.

“Magnificent, but safest in the long run,” Seaman declared. “If you had returned a poor man, everybody’s hand would have been against you; suspicions, now absolutely unkindled, might have been formed; and, more important, perhaps, than either, you would not have been able to take your place in Society, which is absolutely necessary for the furtherance of our scheme.”

“Is it not almost time,” Dominey enquired, “that the way was made a little clearer for me?”

“That would have been my task this morning,” Seaman replied, “but for the news I bring. In passing, however, let me promise you this. You will never be asked to stoop to the crooked ways of the ordinary spy. We want you for a different purpose.”

“And the news?”

“What must be the greatest desire in your heart,” Seaman said solemnly, “is to be granted. The Kaiser has expressed a desire to see you, to give you his instructions in person.”

Dominey stopped short upon the terrace. He withdrew his arm from his companion’s and stared at him blankly.

“The Kaiser?” he exclaimed. “You mean that I am to go to Germany?”

“We shall start at once,” Seaman replied. “Personally, I do not consider the proceeding discreet or necessary. It has been decided upon, however, without consulting me.”

“I consider it suicidal,” Dominey protested. “What explanation can I possibly make for going to Germany, of all countries in the world, before I have had time to settle down here?”

“That of itself will not be difficult,” his companion pointed out. “Many of the mines in which a share has been bought in your name are being run with German capital. It is easy to imagine that a crisis has arisen in the management of one of them. We require the votes of our fellow shareholders. You need not trouble your head about that. And think of the wonder of it! If only for a single day your sentence of banishment is lifted. You will breathe the air of the Fatherland once more.”

“It will be wonderful,” Dominey muttered.

“It will be for you,” Seaman promised, “a breath of the things that are to come. And now, action. How I love action! That time-table, my friend, and your chauffeur.”

It was arranged that the two men should leave during the morning for Norwich by motor-car and thence to Harwich. Dominey, having changed into travelling clothes, sent a messenger for Mrs. Unthank, who came to him presently in his study. He held out a chair to her, which she declined, however, to take.

“Mrs. Unthank,” he said, “I should like to know why you have been content to remain my wife’s attendant for the last ten years?”

Mrs. Unthank was startled by the suddenness of the attack.

“Lady Dominey has needed me,” she answered, after a moment’s pause.

“Do you consider,” he asked, “that you have been the best possible companion for her?”

“She has never been willing to accept any other,” the woman replied.

“Are you very devoted to my wife?” he enquired.

Mrs. Unthank, grim and fierce though she was and appeared to be, was obviously disconcerted by Dominey’s line of questions.

“If I weren’t,” she demanded, “should I have been here all these years?”

“I scarcely see,” he continued, “what particular claim my wife has had upon you. I understand, moreover, that you are one of those who firmly believe that I killed your son. Is this attendance upon my wife a Christian act, then—the returning of good for evil?”

“Exactly what do you want to say to me, Sir Everard?” she asked harshly.

“I wish to say this,” Dominey replied, “that I am determined to bring about my wife’s restoration to health. For that reason I am going to have specialists down here, and above all things to change for a time her place of residence. My own feeling is that she will stand a much better chance of recovery without your attendance.”

“You would dare to send me away?” the woman demanded.

“That is my intention,” Dominey confessed. “I have not spoken to Lady Dominey yet, but I hope that very soon my influence over her will be such that she will be content to obey my wishes. I look upon your future from the financial point of view, as my care. I shall settle upon you the sum of three hundred pounds a year.”

The woman showed her first sign of weakness. She began to shake. There was a curious look of fear in her eyes.

“I can’t leave this place, Sir Everard,” she cried. “I must stay here!”

“Why?” he demanded.

“Lady Dominey couldn’t do without me,” she answered sullenly.

“That,” he replied, “is for her to decide. Personally, from enquiries I have made, I believe that you have encouraged in her that ridiculous superstition about the ghost of your son. I also believe that you have kept alive in her that spirit of unreasonable hatred which she has felt towards me.”

“Unreasonable, you call it?” the woman almost shouted. “You, who came home to her with the blood on your hands of the man whom, if only you had kept away, she might one day have loved? Unreasonable, you call it?”

“I have finished what I had to say, Mrs. Unthank,” Dominey declared. “I am compelled by important business to leave here for two or three days. On my return I shall embark upon the changes with which I have acquainted you. In the meantime,” he added, watching a curious change in the woman’s expression, “I have written this morning to Doctor Harrison, asking him to come up this afternoon and to keep Lady Dominey under his personal observation until my return.”

She stood quite still, looking at him. Then she came a little nearer and leaned forward, as though studying his face.

“Eleven years,” she muttered, “do change many men, but I never knew a man made out of a weakling.”

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Dominey replied, “except to let you know that I am coming to see my wife in the space of a few minutes.”

The motor-horn was already sounding below when Dominey was admitted to his wife’s apartment. She was dressed in a loose gown of a warm crimson colour, and she had the air of one awaiting his arrival expectantly. The passion of hatred seemed to have passed from her pale face and from the depths of her strangely soft eyes. She held out her hands towards him. Her brows were a little puckered. The disappointment of a child lurked in her manner.

“You are going away?” she murmured.

“In a very few moments,” he told her. “I have been waiting to see you for an hour.”

She made a grimace.

“It was Mrs. Unthank. I think that she hid my things on purpose. I was so anxious to see you.”

“I want to talk to you about Mrs. Unthank,” he said. “Should you be very unhappy if I sent her away and found some one younger and kinder to be your companion?”

The idea seemed to be outside the bounds of her comprehension.

“Mrs. Unthank would never go,” she declared. “She stays here to listen to the voice. All night long sometimes she waits and listens, and it doesn’t come. Then she hears it, and she is rested.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I am afraid,” she confessed. “But then, you see, I am not very strong.”

“You are not fond of Mrs. Unthank?” he enquired anxiously.

“I don’t think so,” she answered, in a perplexed tone. “I think I am very much afraid of her. But it is no use, Everard! She would never go away.”

“When I return,” Dominey said, “we shall see.”

She took his arm and linked her hands through it.

“I am so sorry that you are going,” she murmured. “I hope you will soon come back. Will you come back—my husband?”