Half an hour later! Rosemary thought that Jasper was still in his room, and she had a longing to get away from his nearness and out into the open. It was still raining and the sky was the colour of lead. She threw a cape over her shoulders and opened the door of her room. She was dreading to meet Jasper again, so she listened intently for awhile for any sound that might betray his presence. From Maurus' apartments at the opposite end of the gallery there came a buzz of voices, and from down below where the servants were laying the table in the dining-room for luncheon a clatter of crockery. Otherwise silence. And no sound from Jasper's room close by, so Rosemary ran quickly downstairs.
She had just reached the hall intending to go out into the garden when she heard a strange clatter coming apparently from the smoking-room. It sounded like a scuffle. Of course it could not be, but that was just what it sounded like. She stood still to listen. And then she heard quite distinctly a smothered cry. Something like a curse. And she thought that she recognized Jasper's harsh voice. At once she ran to the door of the smoking-room and threw it open.
Jasper was on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. He appeared dazed, and to be moving with difficulty. His hand was tearing at his collar, as if he were choking; his clothes were disarranged, his face looked pallid and blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. But Rosemary did not scream when she caught sight of him. Something else that she had seen had paralyzed her limbs and seemed actually to be holding her by the throat. The tall window which gave on this side of the garden was wide open, and in a flash, just as she entered the room, Rosemary had seen Peter in the act of getting over the windowsill. The next second he had disappeared over the ledge, and she heard his footsteps crunching the gravel as he ran in the direction of the main gates.
A moment or two later Jasper had recovered his voice and the use of his limbs.
"Call to the servants!" he cried in a raucous voice. "Curse that devil—he will get away."
But Rosemary could not move. She could only stand where she was in the doorway and stare at the open window. Jasper had struggled to his feet, lurched forward and tried to push past her. He tried to call out, but the words were choked in his throat. He put his hand up again and tore at his collar, then he tottered and would have fallen backwards if Rosemary had not been quick enough and strong enough to catch him and to guide him to the nearest chair, into which he sank, half fainting. One of the servants came across the hall from the dining-room. Rosemary called to him to bring some brandy.
"The gracious lord feels faint," she said. "Be quick, Sàndor, will you?"
As soon as Sàndor had brought the brandy, Rosemary sent him peremptorily away. Fortunately neither he nor any of the other servants had heard anything of the scuffle, and Rosemary, for very life, could not have said anything to them just then. She knelt down beside Jasper and made him swallow some of the brandy. Obviously he had not been hurt, only scared, and the scared look was still in his eyes when he came to himself.
"You haven't let him go?" were the first words he uttered.
"Let whom go, Jasper?" Rosemary asked quietly. She rose to her feet and offered him an arm to help him get up.
"That spying devil," Jasper replied, with a savage oath. "Peter Blakeney."
"What in the world do you mean?"
"You know quite well what I mean. You must have seen him—I told you to call the servants. Are you in collusion with him, then, that you did not do it?"
"I heard a scuffle," Rosemary rejoined coldly, "when I reached the hall. I opened the door and saw you lying on the ground. I only had enough presence of mind to send for some brandy. Perhaps you will tell me what else happened."
"What else?" he retorted, with a sneer. He had risen and gone over to the mirror to readjust his clothes. She could see his face in the glass, livid with passion, his eyes fixed upon her reflection, while he fumbled with his tie and collar. But even while she watched him she saw a change come slowly over his face. The colour came back to his cheeks, his eyes narrowed, and an indefinable expression crept into them. Perhaps he did not know that Rosemary was watching him; certain it is that she had never seen such an expression on his face before—his lips parted above the teeth, which gleamed sharp and white and gave the mouth a cruel, wolfish look. It was all over in a moment, the next he had swung round and faced her, apparently quite himself again, with just the habitual expression of high-bred weariness which he always affected.
"I was obviously wrong," he said coolly, "to suggest that you were in collusion with that young devil, and for this I beg your pardon."
"Wouldn't it be best," she retorted equally coolly, "if you were to tell me what did happen?"
"Peter Blakeney sneaked in through that open window. My back was turned that way and I heard nothing, as I was intent on reading your manuscript. He attacked me from behind. I was taken unawares, but I tried to put up a fight. However, he is younger and more athletic than I am, and he knocked me down. He had already snatched your manuscript out of my hand, and he disappeared with it the way he came, through the open window, at the very moment that you entered the room."
Rosemary had listened to this without moving a muscle. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had been turned to stone, alive only by her eyes, which were fixed with such an intensity of questioning on Jasper that instinctively he turned away, as if dreading to meet her glance.
"That is all, my dear," he said, with a sudden assumption of meekness. "I was certainly to blame for allowing that precious manuscript to be taken from me. I should, I know, have guarded it with my life, and so on, and I have probably sunk very low in your estimation as a coward. But I was taken entirely unawares, and one is not usually prepared for daylight robbery in a house filled with servants. So that must be my excuse——" He paused a moment, then added dryly: "That and the fact that I warned you more than once that Peter Blakeney was working against you. Now perhaps you are convinced."
At last Rosemary recovered the use of her tongue, but her voice sounded strange to herself, toneless and distant, as if it came from beneath the earth. "You are quite sure, I suppose," she said slowly, "that it was Peter Blakeney who—who did what you say?"
"Aren't you?" he retorted with a harsh laugh. She made no reply to the taunt. Outwardly she did not even wince.
"You are quite sure that he got away with the manuscript?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am quite sure," he replied.
"What do you suppose he means to do with it?"
"Sell it to Naniescu, of course."
"In exchange for Philip and Anna's freedom?"
Jasper looked at his wife keenly for a moment or two, and the corners of his lips curled in a satiric smile. He took out his cigar-case, carefully selected a weed, struck a match, lit his cigar, and blew out the flame. Then only did he reply.
"Hardly that, I think, seeing that he was instrumental in getting them locked up. More probably, I should say, in exchange for a few thousand pounds."
This time the shaft struck home. Rosemary had some difficulty in smothering the cry of protest which had risen to her throat. But she recovered herself in less than a second and said coolly:
"The manuscript must be got back, of course."
Once more Jasper shrugged his shoulders.
"It might have been done at the moment; but I was helpless, and you were so concerned for my welfare that you did not raise hell to send the servants after the thief."
"I did not know then—about the manuscript."
"You know now," he retorted, "and have not called the servants yet."
"This is not the business of the servants. I look to you to get me back the manuscript."
"To me?" he rejoined with a harsh laugh. "Are you not putting too great a strain on my allegiance? You know my views. Should I not rather be wishing that damnable spy God-speed?"
"Jasper," she said earnestly, "you must get me back the manuscript."
"How is it to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes' advance of us already . . . a car probably waiting for him in the village. Are you quite sure you can't hear the whirring of a motor now?"
"You could try, at any rate." And now there was a distinct note of pleading in her voice. "General Naniescu——"
"Make yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear," he broke in quickly. "Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember that with the MSS. there was your covering letter to the editor of the Times, asking for immediate publication. Let me see," he went on slowly, "this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those wonderful articles in print in the Times on Wednesday."
"I don't care how it's done," she replied impatiently. "If you won't help me I'll manage alone."
"What can you do, my dear?"
"Telegraph to the Times, for one thing, and start for London this evening."
"Plucky!" he remarked dryly; "but I doubt if you'll succeed."
"Will you put obstacles in my way?"
"I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will." Then, as without attempting further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: "And Peter."
To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of the Times not to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately. Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu's orders, she would be in London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely that so important a paper as the Times would be ready to print her articles the moment they were received. Yes, she had plenty of time. And the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and would certainly prove futile.
The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean when she regained the power to think. It would come to her probably in the train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by Peter—shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth! Rosemary's gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove futile—there was plenty of time to subvert it—but it was an evil, noisome thing that had been. It had existed—and Peter had given it birth!
Peter!
Never again could the world be bright and beautiful. The thing was so loathsome that it would taint with its foulness everything that Rosemary had up to this hour looked on as sweet and sacred and dear. She herself would remain noisome: a body to execrate, since it had once lain passive and willing in Peter's arms, since her lips still retained the savour of his kiss.
Rosemary went out into the village as far as the post office. She wrote out her telegram to the editor of the Times and asked whether it could be sent out immediately. In order to stimulate the zeal of the post-mistress she emphasised her instructions with a hundred lei note. The post-mistress smiled and thanked the gracious lady for the note, and she promised that she would send the telegram off within the next few minutes. Then, as soon as Rosemary had gone out of the stuffy little office and disappeared down the village street, the woman rang up the Imrey Palace at Cluj and asked to be allowed to speak with His Excellency the General.