It was as though Félice had thrown a bomb amongst them. They seemed to be all talking at once. They seemed to be all stricken with a sudden terror. Even Anna was leaning across the table, spitting out angry words. Félice covered her ears with her hands.
“Stop!” she cried passionately. “Stop, or I will go away at once!”
The babel ceased. Serge Protinoff alone took up the burden of their fear-stricken prayers.
“Félice, listen,” he said, his voice rasping and nervous, his features twitching. “When you speak of telling any single soul on earth of our being alive, of our presence here, you speak of death. Some day I promise you shall know the awful truth. To-day I can tell you no more than what I have told you before. We paid for our deliverance in blood.”
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small, rather beautiful medallion, carved in black ivory. He laid it before her.
“We must have peace in our minds,” he went on. “Put your left hand upon your heart, Félice. Touch the Ikon with your right fingers. Swear that until we give the word—Charles or I—you will breathe nothing to your husband or to any other person of our existence here in London.”
“You must swear it!” Charles cried, leaning over her.
“Swear it, Félice,” Anna muttered.
Félice obeyed. With half-closed eyes she spoke the words they desired. The old man drew a sigh of relief. Once more the Ikon vanished into his pocket.
“I have done what you wished,” Félice pointed out, “but it seems strange to me, this overwhelming fear. My husband tells me that England gives shelter to all the world. Who could blame you for what you did to escape from those fiends in Russia?”
“Understand this much, child,” the old man said. “England gives us willing shelter, but not all the police in London could turn away the death which would come to us if in Moscow they knew of our living. Rumour slips from tongue to tongue, from ear to ear. Not out of this room must pass the knowledge of our existence.”
“I have sworn,” Félice reminded them. “Now I will go.”
“Wait, little one!” Serge Protinoff begged, rustling the notes which he had grabbed in his hand. “You will change your mind about not coming again, now that you know how impossible it is to confide even in your husband. You would not be so ungrateful as to leave us to starve. Remember that much of the money we brought away from Russia went to Madame de Sandillac for you.”
“Madame de Sandillac always spoke as though she had received nothing,” Félice told them.
“She was a miser,” Charles exclaimed.
“An ingrate!” his father declared.
“A liar,” Anna put in.
“She was very kind to me,” Félice said. “I would rather not hear you say things about her, please. One must remember that she is dead. About the money I do not understand. I shall not try to understand, but since we speak of these tilings, I will ask you all yet another question.”
Serge Protinoff moved uneasily upon his seat.
“Is it your place, my daughter,” he asked, “to come here and deal with us as though we were mendicants?”
“I have no wish to do that,” she assured him. “Indeed, I am very sorry to see you in such straits, and what I can do I shall, but tell me, why did not one of you write or visit me all those years I lived with Madame de Sandillac? She was a good woman, without a doubt, but she was stern and silent. I had no friends, no sympathy, no word from any one of you, even to tell me that you were alive. Why did you cut yourselves off so completely, only to rediscover me when you read in the papers that I was married?”
There was a moment’s silence. Serge Protinoff shook his head gravely, took off his spectacles, and wiped them. Charles glowered across at her angrily.
“For years after you went to Madame de Sandillac,” the old man told her, “the château was watched week by week, month by month, in the hope that one of us would venture there, and by that means the whereabouts of the rest of us might be traced. We cut ourselves off from you, Félice, because we were in fear of our lives. You had all the money that we could spare. There was nothing we could do for you; there was nothing you could do for us. Often we spoke of you, often we hoped that the time might come when we might be one family once more. That can never be now. God has been good to you, my child. You have met with great good fortune. It does not seem unnatural that in a very small way you should try to help your family. Remember that whether that wicked old woman denied it or not, half the money we brought from Russia went to Madame de Sandillac for your care. The rest has gone. We struggle along, thanks, during the last few months, to you, but it is difficult. It is not too cheap, either, to live here in London.”
“We were better in Paris,” the girl muttered.
“There were more restaurants there where one dances,” the young boy complained, “and many cafés where one could drink cheaply.”
Félice turned away.
“Before I go,” she concluded, “I have a word to say to you alone, Charles.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“To me alone?” he repeated, looking at her questioningly.
She nodded. He rose to his feet, took her by the arm, and led her into the adjoining apartment, a kitchen, fetid and hot, without ventilation, with the odour of many strongly seasoned meals hanging nauseatingly around. He closed the door.
“Well, what is it?” he asked coldly.
“You have seen the papers?” she demanded. “The burglar who came to Glenlitten that night has been caught.”
The young man moistened his dry lips.
“What of it?”
“He has employed a lawyer to defend him—a very clever man. There will be many questions asked and much trouble.”
At close quarters one realised that there was an ugly line about the young man’s lips. His light-coloured eyebrows drew closer together. He frowned down at her.
“What do you mean?” he muttered. “What questions can be asked? What trouble is there to be feared?”
She felt suddenly overpoweringly sick. The great horror was insurgent in her. She felt that she must cry out or break away. The smell of the place, the proximity of the young man, something she saw in his eyes, were all alike revolting to her.
“I saw—but why should I tell you what I saw?” she faltered. “There was darkness. But this lawyer, I know him, he speaks of evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“As to that, he remains silent. He is a lawyer seeking the truth. He will wait until the trial. I had to tell you this. If I stay here another moment, I shall faint.”
The colour was ebbing from her cheeks. He threw open the door.
“You are a fool,” he snarled. “There was nothing to be seen in that darkness. There was a burglar, De Besset, and you. You know what happened. No more rubbish!”
He slammed the door, and Félice went unsteadily down the steps with the nightmare still in her brain.
CHAPTER XIII
Andrew, Marquis of Glenlitten, once more occupied the client’s chair in Mr. Felix Main’s unpretentious office. The detective had greeted his visitor solemnly, almost portentously.
“I am glad your lordship was able to come this