“I have sworn upon the Ikon of St. Joseph,” she said tearfully, “that I will keep silent until the time comes.”
“Well, that’s something at any rate,” he remarked. “If you have sworn upon the Ikon of St. Joseph it is an oath you have made to some member or members of your family. You see, I know enough Russian for that. What harm should I do to your family? If there are any of them who need help, could you find any one in the world more eager than I? From what I have gathered from you, and from what De Bressac was saying the other night, I understand that there were very few, if any, survivors. If there are, dear, they will find your husband only too eager and proud to be their friend.”
She began to tremble.
“Andrew,” she faltered, “I never said anything about my family. I should not have mentioned the Ikon of St. Joseph. You must not take it for granted, please, that it is my family who are concerned.”
“Is Charles de Suess a relative of yours?” he asked.
She clung to him. There was an almost defiant light in her eyes.
“This is not my fault,” she cried. “I have not told you. You ask me a question. It cannot be helped. No one could make me promise to lie to you. Yes, Charles de Suess is related to me.”
Andrew pointed along the path. Coming towards them through the wood, a curiously out-of-place figure in his town clothes, bowler hat and patent shoes, walking with the haste of a man engaged on serious business, slipping a little sometimes as his feet hurried over the muddy surface, came Charles de Suess, and it was clear from his features, his expression, in the speed of his coming, that somewhere in the background terrible tilings were stirring.
CHAPTER XXVI
As he drew nearer, it became apparent that something serious had indeed befallen the young man who had made so unexpected an appearance. Although the evening was chilly, he was bathed in perspiration, as though with rapid walking. His boots and trousers were splashed with mud. There was a curiously hunted expression about his eyes. He tried to pull himself together when he came face to face with Félice and her husband, but it was, after all, only a half-hearted attempt.
“What on earth has happened, Charles?” Félice cried. “What are you doing down here?”
“I was obliged to see you,” he replied. “You can tell your husband, if you like, who we are. The reason for secrecy is removed. We are in great danger.”
“This is my brother Charles,” Félice said simply. “For some cause, which I have never understood, he and my father insisted upon it that I kept their existence secret. Now you will know everything, Andrew, and it will be a great relief to me.”
Andrew smiled pleasantly at the young man.
“I should have been very happy to have met my brother-in-law at any time,” he assured him cordially. “I suppose you had some reason for not wishing to be known.”
“We had indeed,” Charles groaned. “There was a very terrible reason.”
They had reached the main avenue. Behind them the rest of the party were catching them up.
“As the story has kept so long, it will keep a little longer,” Andrew observed. “You and I and Félice will have a talk as soon as we’ve had some tea or a drink, eh?”
“As quickly as possible, if you please,” the young man begged uneasily. “I must go back to London to-night. I have a taxicab waiting, and the train leaves the Junction in an hour.”
“Well, we’ll make a certainty of that for you,” Andrew promised. “My people shall send your taxi away, and we’ll have a car round for you in twenty minutes.”
“You are very kind,” the young man murmured.
“I’ll just start the others off,” Andrew concluded, “and we’ll have a chat in my study. Take him straight there, Félice, and look after him.”
He waved them away and, retracing his steps, joined the rest of his guests. He took his brother’s arm.
“What’s Félice hurrying away with that Russian chap for?” the latter demanded.
“It seems that he is some sort of a connection of hers and in trouble—or rather his family is. I don’t exactly understand the position as yet. Will you look after every one whilst I go and talk to him.”
“Good God! That young fellow a connection of Félice!” Philip exclaimed. “Well, I daresay he’s all right,” he added, recovering himself a little. “Quite a good-looking chap.”
Andrew nodded and presently made his way to the study where tea was laid out and Charles was already drinking a huge brandy and soda. He threw himself into an easy-chair, and Félice gave him some tea.
“Now then, young fellow, let’s have the story,” he enjoined, a pleasant ring of invitation in his tone. “You can count on me beforehand to do anything I can to help any of Félice’s people.”
“That is very good of you, sir,” the young man acknowledged, taking another eager gulp of his brandy and soda. “The whole trouble we are in is that word has reached Moscow that my father is alive.”
“Well, does that matter?” Andrew asked, a little puzzled.
“Does it matter?” Charles gasped.—“But I forgot, you don’t know—I daresay Félice didn’t know herself—our real name.”
“I did not,” Félice replied. “Madame de Sandillac promised often to tell me, but she never did. I was married under the name of Félice Protinoff.”
Charles nodded.
“That is just a family name,” he admitted, “as also is De Suess, but in the earlier days of the war there was no name in Russia so famous as ours, and no one so much dreaded by the people as our father. I got him out of the country and over the frontier by a miracle. They believed that he was already dead. I escaped from Austria and got back to Russia just in time for the horror, but just in time also to save his life.”
Andrew nodded sympathetically.
“A rotten time it must have been for all of you,” he said; “but tell me what is the urgent trouble for the moment?”
“The Soviet Government has found out that we are here, living in London, and that my father is alive. They do not dare to publish the news, but they mean having him and all of us. We had word yesterday from a monarchist friend of my father’s, who sent us a letter at the risk of his life, that eleven members of the ‘Scarlet Vests’ are on their way over.”
“And who the devil are the ‘Scarlet Vests’?” Andrew demanded.
Charles gulped down the last of his brandy and soda.
“They are a sort of secret society,” he explained, “but in reality they are subsidized and supported by the Bolshevist Government. They have a list of names, added to day by day and week by week. I reckon if your name appears on that list, you are a doomed person. My father’s has been there longer than any one’s. They are aching to wipe it off. They have added mine now, and my brother Paul’s, and my sister Anna’s. They will add Félice’s too, if they get to know about her.”
“Do you suggest seriously,” Andrew expostulated, with a note of incredulity in his tone, “that these members of the—what did you call them?—Scarlet Vest Society are on their way here to assassinate all of you?”
“Of course I do,” was the half-impatient, half-nervous reply. “They are all over Europe, these fellows. There is not a week that some one does not die at