The Fourth Plague by Edgar Wallace

repeated. “Of course, I know I can trust you about that money, and now I want to ask you to help me with a little ruse. This man who is coming to-day,” she said, “this Italian person, is really not the kind of man I want to meet. I hate detectives and all those crude, melodramatic individuals. They talk about crime and things, and besides,” she hesitated, “I can trust you, can’t I?”
    She looked up sharply.
    â€œYes,” said the girl gravely, wondering what was coming.
    â€œWell, you know, dear,” said Vera slowly, and still playing her mysterious game with the comfit boxes and Dutch silver, “I’m a member of a club. It’s a ladies’ club; you won’t find it in Whittaker because we do not care to advertise our existence, although of course we are registered. Well, we had rather a bother there, two or three months ago. We—we. Why should I deceive you?” she said in a burst of confidence, and with her rare smile. “We were raided! You see, dear, we played rather heavily. We did not confine ourselves to the prosaic game of Bridge. Some woman—I forget her name—introduced baccarat, and we had a little wheel too; you know.”
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œIt was awfully fascinating, and one lost and won quite a considerable sum. And then there was a bother, and the police came in one night quite unexpectedly. Your dear Uncle Ralph was in town for the May Meetings, and I had quite a lot of time on my hands.
    â€œIt was very fortunate I escaped any serious consequences of my rashness. I gave a false name, and was brought up the next morning at Bow Street with the rest of the women—you remember, the case created quite a sensation—and I was bound over in a false name. Nobody recognized me and nobody but you is any the wiser.”
    She stopped again, and shot a swift, side-long glance at the girl.
    â€œOh, you needn’t be shocked,” she said, the acid in her tone asserting itself. “It wasn’t so very dreadful, only this Tillizini man was in court that day, and I think he may have recognized me.”
    â€œHow awkward!” said Marjorie. “Really, Vera, I’m not a bit shocked, and it’s not for me, any way, to sit in judgment on your actions. What do you want me to do?”
    â€œI want you to help me when I tell Sir Ralph that I am too ill to entertain this person. I’ll go straight away to bed, and I want you, like an angel, to do the honours.”
    â€œWhy, with pleasure,” said Marjorie, with a little smile.
    â€œAnyway,” said Vera, a little hardly, “Ralph won’t bully you before visitors, nor will he refer pointedly to your needless extravagance in potatoes. Ralph is rather a fanatic on the question of potatoes,” she said. “There is a standard by which he judges all phases of domestic economy.”
    Marjorie was filled with an infinite pity for the girl. She was not more than seven or eight years older than herself, still young enough to find joy in the colour and movement of life.
    â€œI will do anything I can,” she said. For the second time that day she laid her hand upon the other’s shoulder.
    â€œDon’t paw me, dear,” said Vera, with sudden asperity, and the warm, generous heart of the girl was chilled. Vera saw this, and tried to make amends.
    â€œPlease don’t bother about me, dear,” she said, in a softer tone. “I am rather jagged; too jagged, indeed, to meet this—”
    At that point the door of the drawing-room was opened, and William, the butler, came in importantly. He stood by the open door.
    â€œProfessor Tillizini,” he announced.

III. —A HUNTER OF MEN
    IT SEEMED TO MARJORIE that Vera shrank back at the name.
    The girl waited for her to go forward and greet the newcomer, but as she made no move Marjorie realized that she was called upon, even now, to perform the duties of