Read Online The Fourth Plague by Edgar Wallace - Free Book Online

villainous,” he said extravagantly, “to associate such a lady with so sordid a business.”
    â€œThis was a very commonplace raid,” he went on, “they were mostly Italians engaged, and mostly people of very low origin, and my interest in the case was merely the hope of identifying some of the participants as gentlemen who had another interest for me. Lady Mannery was in court, certainly, but she was in court as the guest of the magistrate, Mr. Curtain, the Metropolitan Police Magistrate, who, I think, is some relation of Sir Ralph.” This was so, as Marjorie knew. Then why had Vera lied to her? She understood how easy it was for her to make up the story; but why give that as an excuse for not wanting to meet Tillizini?
    â€œThere is Sir Ralph,” she said suddenly. She had seen the car go past the window. “Do you mind staying here alone, while I go and tell him you are here?”
    He opened the door for her, with his quaint little bow. She met Sir Ralph in the hall, and explained the fact that the visitor was waiting.
    â€œWhere is Vera?” he asked.
    â€œShe has gone to lie down,” said Marjorie, “she has a very bad headache.”
    Sir Ralph swore under his breath.
    It was her main weapon of defence—that headache. A convenient, but, to his mind, grossly unfair method of evading her responsibilities. He was more incensed now because he felt that not only had she failed to do the honours of his house towards a man for whose position he had an immense respect, but she had escaped from the just consequence of her carelessness. He had discovered that it was entirely due to her that the extra halfpenny had been put upon beef. She had acquiesced to the imposition in a letter which the butcher had triumphantly produced to vindicate his character.
    He was, therefore, at the disadvantage which every man must be, half of whose mind is occupied by a private grievance, when he met Tillizini.
    The two men went off to the library for about a quarter of an hour.
    At the end of that time they returned to the drawing-room—Tillizini to take his leave of the girl—and Sir Ralph to see him to his waiting fly.
    Marjorie saw that the Chairman of the Burboro’ Sessions was considerably ruffled. His face was red, his thin grey hair untidy—ever a sign of perturbation. He was, too, a little stiff with his guest.
    As for Tillizini, he was the same imperturbable, cool, masterful man. Yes, that was the word which Marjorie sought. This man was masterful to an extent which she could not divine.
    â€œSome day I shall meet you again,” said Tillizini, as he took the girl’s hand in his own. She was surprised at the strength of his grip. “I would not go so soon, but Sir Ralph has kindly given me permission to see this man, Mansingham, who was convicted to-day.”
    â€œI think your labours are entirely misdirected, Professor,” said Sir Ralph, gruffly. “You will learn nothing from him but a pack of lies.”
    â€œAh, but lies!” said Tillizini, with an ecstatic gesture. “They are so interesting, Sir Ralph, so much more interesting than the commonplace truth, and so much more informative.”
    The elder man, who prided himself in post-prandial speeches upon being a plain, blunt Englishman, and inferentially typical of all that was best in an Englishman, had no mind for paradoxes. He grunted unsympathetically.
    â€œYou are an Italian,” he said. “I suppose these things amuse you. But here in England we believe in the obvious. It saves a lot of trouble and it is generally accurate. You know,” he said testily, “these stories of mysterious organizations are all very well for novels. I admit that in your country you have the Camorra, and the possession of that factor probably unbalances your judgment; but I assure you “—he laid his hands with heavy and paternal solicitude upon the younger man’s