The Evil Shepherd HTML version
The car stopped in front of the great house in Grosvenor Square. Lady Cynthia turned to
"You must come in, please," she said. "I insist, if it is only for five minutes."
Sir Timothy followed her across the hall to a curved recess, where the footman who had
admitted them touched a bell, and a small automatic lift came down.
"I am taking you to my own quarters," she explained. "They are rather cut off but I like
them--especially on hot nights."
They glided up to the extreme top of the house. She opened the gates and led the way into
what was practically an attic sitting-room, decorated in black and white. Wide-flung
doors opened onto the leads, where comfortable chairs, a small table and an electric
standard were arranged. They were far above the tops of the other houses, and looked
into the green of the Park.
"This is where I bring very few people," she said. "This is where, even after my twenty-
eight years of fraudulent life, I am sometimes myself. Wait."
There were feminine drinks and sandwiches arranged on the table. She opened the
cupboard of a small sideboard just inside the sitting-room, however, and produced
whisky and a syphon of soda. There was a pail of ice in a cool corner. From somewhere
in the distance came the music of violins floating through the window of a house where a
dance was in progress. They could catch a glimpse of the striped awning and the long line
of waiting vehicles with their twin eyes of fire. She curled herself up on a settee, flung a
cushion at Sir Timothy, who was already ensconced in a luxurious easy-chair, and with a
tumbler of iced sherbet in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, looked across at him.
"I am not sure," she said, "that you have not to-night dispelled an illusion."
"What manner of one?" he asked.
"Above all things," she went on, "I have always looked upon you as wicked. Most people
do. I think that is one reason why so many of the women find you attractive. I suppose it
is why I have found you attractive."
The smile was back upon his lips. He bowed a little, and, leaning forward, dropped a
chunk of ice into his whisky and soda.
"Dear Lady Cynthia," he murmured, "don't tell me that I am going to slip back in your
estimation into some normal place."