| man who telephoned Miss Tennyson,” he said, not asking a question. “I’m known simply as Oberst—colonel-which was not my rank, but I’m afraid it will have to do.” “This is Noel Holcroft. He is an American, and he is the man.” Helden took a step to her left, revealing the gun in her hand. “He is here against his will. He did not want to talk with you.” “How do you do, Mr. HolcroftT’ The colonel nodded, offering no hand. May I ask why you’re reluctant to speak to an old manT’ “I don’t know who you are,” replied Noel as calmly, as he could. “Further, the matters I’ve discussed with Miss Tennyson… are confidential.” “Does she agree?” “Ask her.” Holcroft held his breath. In seconds he would know how convincing he had been. “They are,” said Heiden, “if they are true. I think they are true.” “I see. But you must be convinced, and I am the devil’s advocate without a brief.” The old man lowered himself back into the wheelchair. “What does that meanT’ asked Noel. “You won! t discuss these confidential matters, yet I must ask questions, the answers to which could allay our anxieties. You see, Mr. Holcroft~ you have no reason to be afraid of me. On the contrary, we may have a great deal to fear from you.” “Why? I don’t know you; you don’t know me. Whatever it is you’re involved with has nothing to do with me.” “We must all be |
my hand. Get out of the car.” He preceded her up the short path to the door of the house~ Except for the dim light in the windows, it was dark. The surrounding trees filtered the moonlight to such a degree that only muted rays came through the branches, so weak they seemed to disintegrate in the air. Noel felt her hand reaching around his waist, the barrel of the gun in the small of his back. “Heres a key. Open the door. It’s difficult for him to move around.’ Inside, the small room was like any other one might Imagine in such a house deep in the French countryside, with one exception: Two walls were lined with books. Everything else was simple to the point of primitivenesssturdy furniture of no discernible design, a heavy oldfashioned desk, several unlit lamps with plain shades, a wood floor, and thick, plastered walls. The books were somehow out of place. In the far comer of the room sat an emaciated man in a wheelchair. He was between a floor lamp and a short table, the light over his left shoulder, a book in his lap. His hair was white and thin, combed carefully’over his head. Holcroft guessed he was well into his seventies. In spite of his punt appearance, the face was strong, the THE HOLCROPT COVENANT 159 eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles alert. He was dressed in a cardigan sweater buttoned to the throat, and a pair of corduroy trousers. “Good evening |
