A Sword For the Baron Read Online Free Page A

please.” That was like a command.
    Mannering told her everything. She listened with close attention, moving only her right hand, twice, to push a few tendrils of the fair hair out of her eyes. He could hear her breathing. The telling took two or three minutes. When he had finished he was sure that he had left nothing important out.
    She didn’t respond at once; it was almost as if she was going over the details of the story in her mind, to make sure that she had them right. She looked younger. There was a great simplicity about her face, and a look of—virginity? Yes, that seemed the right word for her. She looked so young and fresh and clean, despite the reputation of her gossip column friends.
    â€œDoes it make any sense to you?” he asked.
    She closed her eyes.
    â€œSense,” she echoed, so that he could only just hear the word. “Yes, it makes sense – damnable sense. So he’s pretending that the other sword was stolen, so that he—” she broke off.
    She had great simplicity, he reminded himself, and that air of virginity, and honesty. But – was he being fooled? Was he allowing himself to be? Lorna, whom many called the greatest portrait painter in the country now that Augustus John was dead, would scoff at him.
    â€œThe sweetest look of innocence can hide a Delilah, darling. Aren’t you old enough to realise that yet?”
    No one knew faces and expressions better than Lorna; she captured the person and put it on the canvas. There were some people whom she would not paint because she did not like what she saw and was convinced that if it came out, through her art and her near magic touch, they would resent it, too. What would she think of Sara Gentian?
    â€œYou think your uncle is only pretending that the sword was stolen,” he prompted.
    She nodded.
    â€œWhy should he do that?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œI’ve told you everything he told me, at least you ought to tell me what you really think,” Mannering said, as if he were appealing to a child’s sense of honour. “Why should he pretend that it was stolen?”
    She said: “To cover up the fact that he sold it, but did not want his relatives to know. Now do you understand?”
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    There was a long gap between understanding and believing. Mannering could not convince himself that Sara meant what she said, although she appeared to. It was not so much the way she said it, but the obvious change that had come over her. She was more anxious. He thought that in the brightness of her eyes there was a spark of fear. She glanced at the sword, full of colour and beauty even in the shadows, and moistened her lips. Yes, he thought, she’s frightened. She looked back at him, but did not speak.
    â€œSara,” he said, “I don’t think that makes sense.”
    She did not seem to notice that he had used her first name.
    â€œDoesn’t it?”
    â€œIt doesn’t make sense because your uncle is a very rich man.”
    â€œIs he?” she asked.
    The feeling had gone out of her voice, and he felt more sure than ever that the story had frightened her; it was too early yet to begin to ask himself why. He had to remind himself of the man who had telephoned and asked him not to do what the girl wanted, a matter of life and death.
    â€œYou know very well that he’s wealthy,” Mannering said sharply.
    She looked at him, her eyes quite dull.
    â€œI know that he’s supposed to be.”
    â€œCan you prove that he isn’t?” demanded Mannering. “Listen to me, Sara. I could telephone a dozen different people and ask if they would accept Lord Gentian’s note of hand for any given sum, and they would all say that they would take it without limit. In London you don’t win a reputation like that unless you are really rich. A name, a title, a tradition, a past – none of these things is important. Your uncle is known to be one of