Free Mediterranean Nights by Dennis Wheatley Page B

ran over to the other car. As she touched the driver his hat fell off—it was the man of Monte Carlo.
    She was so surprised that for a moment she gaped at him. He was unconscious, and a little trickle of blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead. The mother of the child who had caused all the trouble came up to her. ‘Better put ’im in your car, Miss, and take ’im up to the ’ouse,’ she suggested.
    Together they got him into Sally’s car, and in a few minutes he was being lifted out again. He was still insensible, so Aged Aunt superintended his immediate removal to the room that had been prepared for Cousin Henry while Sally telephoned for the doctor.
    They bathed the wound and he began to mutter; then he sat up and looked at Sally—recognition dawned in his brown eyes.
    Sally stared at him stonily; she was tempted to accuse him at once of having gone off with her money, but she felt she could hardly do that with a man whom she had very nearly killed a few minutes before. ‘You’d better not talk till the doctor’s been,’ she said quickly. ‘You may have concussion.’
    He smiled feebly. ‘All right—I’m in no hurry,’ he said.
    They left him to sleep, with Aged Aunt’s maid sitting in an adjoining room to keep watch. Sally went downstairs. What could he have been doing, she wondered, outside the gates of Mallowhayes? The road was only a lane which led nowhere in particular. Perhaps he had been coming to return the money, but why, as he had bolted with it, should he do that? Then an extraordinary idea flashed into her mind. Could he—was it possible that he was Cousin Henry? Had he known who she was all the time—and kept the money deliberately with the idea of returning it to her later? Sally’s heart began to bump as she thought about it. Her father’s will—the place in Gloucestershire—she had told him all about that—he would have guessed who she was at once; she had even spoken of him by name, and said he lived in Canada. As she recalled her words Sally felt her cheeks grow hot. Ifthis were true—what then? He was not the least little bit as her imagination had painted him—much nicer—ever so much nicer. Of course, she could not marry him, but she was sure he would give her back her winnings. They would be neighbours—that would be rather fun, he must have money of his own—the Bentley seemed to indicate that. Sally began to walk quickly up and down, humming a cheerful little tune.
    She was recalled to the present by the sound of wheels on the drive—the doctor perhaps? No—an antiquated station fly had pulled up outside the door. A long, lank, ginger-headed man emerged. He stood for a moment surveying the house with an interested stare. Sally was seized with sudden panic—who was he? What was he doing there? A sense of foreboding held her rigid; a moment later he was in the hall staring at her in a curious, unpleasant, apprising way—then he spoke. ‘You’ll be Sally, I suppose—I’m Cousin Henry.’
    Tea was a ghastly affair, how Sally got through it she never knew. Aged Aunt came out of her shell and saved the situation. Sally had meant to be polite—she found herself boggling at her cousin, he was more awful than she had ever imagined; she did not like his socks, she did not like his tie, she liked his manners even less.
    Just as tea was over the doctor arrived. Aged Aunt went with him to inspect the invalid. She was left alone with Cousin Henry.
    He lolled back in his chair and without asking permission lighted a most unpleasant pipe. He gazed round him with a pleased, proprietorial air, then his glance rested on Sally.
    â€˜Well, little girl,’ he said in a nasal twang, ‘when’s the happy day that we get hitched up?’
    So he took it all for granted, did he? thought Sally. Well, she would show him—and in a few brief