Draconmeyer stood before the window of his room, looking out over the Mediterranean. There was no finer view to be obtained from any suite in the hotel, and Monte Carlo had revelled all that day in the golden, transfiguring sunshine. Yet he looked as a blind man. His eyes saw nothing of the blue sea or the brown-sailed fishing boats, nor did he once glance towards the picturesque harbour. He saw only his own future, the shattered pieces of his carefully-thought-out scheme. The first fury had passed. His brain was working now. In her room below, Lady Hunterleys was lying on the couch, half hysterical. Three times she had sent for her husband. If he should return at that moment, Draconmeyer knew that the game was up. There would be no bandying words between them, no involved explanations, no possibility of any further misunderstanding. All his little tissue of lies and misrepresentations would crumble hopelessly to pieces. The one feeling in her heart would be thankfulness. She would open her arms. He saw the end with fatal, unerring truthfulness.
His servant returned. Draconmeyer waited eagerly for his message.
"Lady Hunterleys is lying down, sir," the man announced. "She is very much upset and begs you to excuse her."
Draconmeyer waved the man away and walked up and down the apartment, his hands behind his back, his lips hard-set. He was face to face with a crisis which baffled him completely, and yet which he felt to be wholly unworthy of his powers. His brain had never been keener, his sense of power more inspiring. Yet he had never felt more impotent. It was woman's hysteria against which he had to fight. The ordinary weapons were useless. He realised quite well her condition and the dangers resulting from it. The heart of the woman was once more beating to its own natural tune. If Hunterleys should present himself within the next few minutes, not all his ingenuity nor the power of his millions could save the situation.
Plans shaped themselves almost automatically in his mind. He passed from his own apartments, through a connecting door into a large and beautifully-furnished salon. A woman with grey hair and white face was lying on a couch by the window. She turned her head as he entered and looked at him questioningly. Her face was fragile and her features were sharpened by suffering. She looked at her husband almost as a cowed but still affectionate animal might look towards a stern master.
"Do you feel well enough to walk as far as Lady Hunterleys' apartment with the aid of my arm?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied. "Does Violet want me?"
"She is still feeling the shock," Draconmeyer said. "I think that she is inclined to be hysterical. It would do her good to have you talk with her."
The nurse, who had been sitting by her side, assisted her patient to rise. She leaned on her husband's arm. In her other hand she carried a black ebony walking-stick. They traversed the corridor, knocked at the door of Lady Hunterleys' apartment, and in response to a somewhat hesitating invitation, entered. Violet was lying upon the sofa. She looked up eagerly at their coming.
"Linda!" she exclaimed. "How dear of you! I thought that it might have been Henry," she added, as though to explain the disappointment in her tone.
Draconmeyer turned away to hide his expression.
"Talk to her as lightly as possible," he whispered to his wife, "but don't leave her alone. I will come back for you in ten minutes."
He left the two women together and descended into the hall. He found several of the reception clerks whispering together. The concierge had only just recovered himself, but the place was beginning to wear its normal aspect. He whispered an enquiry at the desk. Sir Henry Hunterleys had just come in and had gone upstairs, he was told. His new room was number 148.
"There was a note from his wife," Draconmeyer said, trying hard to control his voice. "Has he had it?"
"It is here still, sir," the clerk replied. "I tried to catch Sir Henry as he passed through, but he was too quick for me. To tell you the truth," he went on, "there has been a rumour through the hotel that it was Sir Henry himself who had been found dead in his room, and seeing him come in was rather a shock for all of us."
"Naturally," Draconmeyer agreed. "If you will give me the note I will take it up to him."
The clerk handed it over without hesitation. Draconmeyer returned immediately to his own apartments and torn open the envelope. There were only a few words scrawled across the half-sheet of notepaper:
Henry, come to me, dear, at once. I have had such a shock. I want to see you.Vi.
Henry, come to me, dear, at once. I have had such a shock. I want to see you.
Vi.
He tore the note viciously into small pieces. Then he went back to Lady Hunterleys' apartments. She was sitting up now in an easy-chair. Once more, at the sound of the knock, she looked towards the door eagerly. Her face fell when Draconmeyer entered.
"Have you heard anything about Henry?" she asked anxiously.
"He came back a few minutes ago," Draconmeyer replied, "and has gone out again."
"Gone out again?"
Draconmeyer nodded.
"I think that he has gone round to the Club. He is a man of splendid nerve, your husband. He seemed to treat the whole affair as an excellent joke."
"A joke!" she repeated blankly.
"This sort of thing happens so often in Monte Carlo," he observed, in a matter-of-fact tone. "The hotel people seem all to look upon it as in the day's work."
"I wonder if Henry had my note?" she faltered.
"He was reading one in the hall when I saw him," Draconmeyer told her. "That would be yours, I should think. He left a message at the desk which was doubtless meant for you. He has gone on to the Sporting Club for an hour and will probably be back in time to change for dinner."
Violet sat quite still for several moments. Something seemed to die slowly out of her face. Presently she rose to her feet.
"I suppose," she said, "that I am very foolish to allow myself to be upset like this."
"It is quite natural," Draconmeyer assured her soothingly. "What you should try to do is to forget the whole circumstance. You sit here brooding about it until it becomes a tragedy. Let us go down to the Club together. We shall probably see your husband there."
She hesitated. She seemed still perplexed.
"I wonder," she murmured, "could I send another message to him? Perhaps he didn't quite understand."
"Much better come along to the Club," Draconmeyer advised, good-humouredly. "You can be there yourself before a message could reach him."
"Very well," she assented. "I will be ready in ten minutes...."
Draconmeyer took his wife back to her room.
"Did I do as you wished, dear?" she asked him anxiously.
"Absolutely," he replied.
He helped her back to her couch and stooped and kissed her. She leaned back wearily. It was obvious that she had found the exertion of moving even so far exhausting. Then he returned to his own apartments. Rapidly he unlocked his dispatch box and took out one or two notes from Violet. They were all of no importance—answers to invitations, or appointments. He spread them out, took a sheet of paper and a broad pen. Without hesitation he wrote:
Congratulations on your escape, but why do you run such risks! I wish you would go back to England.Violet.
Congratulations on your escape, but why do you run such risks! I wish you would go back to England.
Violet.
He held the sheet of notepaper a little away from him and looked at it critically. The imitation was excellent. He thrust the few lines into an envelope, addressed them to Hunterleys and descended to the hall. He left the note at the office.
"Send this up to Sir Henry, will you?" he instructed. "Let him have it as quickly as possible."
Once more he crossed the hall and waited close to the lift by which she would descend. All the time he kept on glancing nervously around. Things were going his way, but the great danger remained—if they should meet first by chance in the corridor, or in the lift! Hunterleys might think it his duty to go at once to his wife's apartment in case she had heard the rumour of his death. The minutes dragged by. He had climbed the great ladder slowly. More than once he had felt it sway beneath his feet. Yet to him those moments seemed almost the longest of his life. Then at last she came. She was looking very pale, but to his relief he saw that she was dressed for the Club. She was wearing a grey dress and black hat. He remembered with a pang of fury that grey was her husband's favourite colour.
"I suppose there is no doubt that Henry is at the Club?" she asked, looking eagerly around the hall.
"Not the slightest," he assured her. "We can have some tea there and we are certain to come across him somewhere."
She made no further difficulty. As they turned into the long passage he gave a sigh of relief. Every step they took meant safety. He talked to her as lightly as possible, ignoring the fact that she scarcely replied to him. They mounted the stairs and entered the Club. She looked anxiously up and down the crowded rooms.
"I shall stroll about and look for Henry," she announced.
"Very well," he agreed. "I will go over to your place and see how the numbers are going."
He stood by the roulette table, but he watched her covertly. She passed through the baccarat room, came out again and walked the whole length of the larger apartment. She even looked into the restaurant beyond. Then she came slowly back to where Draconmeyer was standing. She seemed tired. She scarcely even glanced at the table.
"Lady Hunterleys," he exclaimed impressively, "this is positively wicked! Your twenty-nine has turned up twice within the last few minutes. Do sit down and try your luck and I will go and see if I can find your husband."
He pushed a handful of plaques and a bundle of notes into her hand. At that moment the croupier's voice was heard.
"Quatorze rouge, pair et manque."
"Another of my numbers!" she murmured, with a faint show of interest. "I don't think I want to play, though."
"Try just a few coups," he begged. "You see, there is a chair here. You may not have a chance again for hours."
He was using all his will power. Somehow or other, she found herself seated in front of the table. The sight of the pile of plaques and the roll of notes was inspiring. She leaned across and with trembling fingers backed number fourteenen plein, with all thecarrésandchevaux. She was playing the game at which she had lost so persistently. He walked slowly away. Every now and then from a distance he watched her. She was winning and losing alternately, but she had settled down now in earnest. He breathed a great sigh of relief and took a seat upon a divan, whence he could see if she moved. Richard Lane, who had been standing at the other side of the table, crossed the room and came over to him.
"Say, do you know where Sir Henry is?" he enquired.
Draconmeyer shook his head.
"I have scarcely seen him all day."
"I think I'll go round to the hotel and look him up," Lane decided carelessly. "I'm fed up with this—"
He stopped short. He was no longer an exceedingly bored and discontented-looking young man. Draconmeyer glanced at him curiously. He felt a thrill of sympathy. This stolid young man, then, was capable of feeling something of the same emotion as was tearing at his own heart-strings. Lane was gazing with transfigured face towards the open doorway.
Fedora sauntered slowly around the rooms, leaning over and staking a gold plaque here and there. She was dressed as usual in white, with an ermine turban hat and stole and an enormous muff. Her hair seemed more golden than ever beneath its snow-white setting, and her complexion more dazzling. She seemed utterly unconscious of the admiration which her appearance evoked, and she passed Lane without apparently observing him. A moment afterwards, however, he moved to her side and addressed her.
"Quite a lucky coup of yours, that last, Miss Grex. Are you used to winningen pleinlike that?"
She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyebrows were ever so slightly uplifted. Her expression was chilling. He remained, however, absolutely unconscious of any impending trouble.
"I was sorry not to find you at home this morning," he continued. "I brought my little racing car round for you to see. I thought you might have liked to try her."
"How absurd you are!" she murmured. "You must know perfectly well that it would have been quite impossible for me to come out with you alone."
"But why?"
She sighed.
"You are quite hopeless, or you pretend to be!"
"If I am," he replied, "it is because you won't explain things to me properly. The tables are much too crowded to play comfortably. Won't you come and sit down for a few minutes?"
She hesitated. Lane watched her anxiously. He felt, somehow, that a great deal depended upon her reply. Presently, with the slightest possible shrug of the shoulders, she turned around and suffered him to walk by her side to the little antechamber which divided the gambling rooms from the restaurant.
"Very well," she decided, "I suppose, after all, one must remember that you did save us from a great deal of inconvenience the other night. I will talk to you for a few minutes."
He found her an easy-chair and he sat by her side.
"This is bully," he declared.
"Is what?" she asked, once more raising her eyebrows.
"American slang," he explained penitently. "I am sorry. I meant that it was very pleasant to be here alone with you for a few minutes."
"You may not find it so, after all," she said severely. "I feel that I have a duty to perform."
"Well, don't let's bother about that yet, if it means a lecture," he begged. "You shall tell me how much better the young women of your country behave than the young women of mine."
"Thank you," she replied, "I am never interested in the doings of a democracy. Your country makes no appeal to me at all."
"Come," he protested, "that's a little too bad. Why, Russia may be a democracy some day, you know. You very nearly had a republic foisted upon you after the Japanese war."
"You are quite mistaken," she assured him. "Russia would never tolerate a republic."
"Russia will some day have to do like many other countries," he answered firmly,—"obey the will of the people."
"Russia has nothing in common with other countries," she asserted. "There was never a nation yet in which the aristocracy was so powerful."
"It's only a matter of time," he declared, nonchalantly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You represent ideas of which I do not approve," she told him.
"I don't care a fig about any ideas," he replied. "I don't care much about anything in the world except you."
She turned her head slowly and looked at him. Its angle was supercilious, her tone frigid.
"That sort of a speech may pass for polite conversation in your country, Mr. Lane. We do not understand it in mine."
"Don't your men ever tell your women that they love them?" he asked bluntly.
"If they are of the same order," she said, "if the thing is at all possible, it may sometimes be done. Marriage, however, is more a matter of alliance with us. Our servants, I believe, are quite promiscuous in their love-making."
He was silent for a moment. She may, perhaps, have felt some compunction. She spoke to him a little more kindly.
"We cannot help the ideas of the country in which we are brought up, you know, Mr. Lane."
"Of course not," he agreed. "I understand that perfectly. I was just thinking, though, what a lot I shall have to teach you."
She was momentarily aghast. She recovered herself quickly, however.
"Are all the men of your nation so self-confident?"
"We have to be," he told her. "It's the only way we can get what we want."
"And do you always succeed in getting what you want?"
"Always!"
"Then unless you wish to be an exception," she advised, "let me beg you not to try for anything beyond your reach."
"There is nothing," he declared firmly, "beyond my reach. You are trying to discourage me. It isn't any use. I am not a prince or a duke or anything like that, although my ancestors were honest enough, I believe. I haven't any trappings of that sort to offer you. If you are as sensible as I think you are, you won't mind that when you come to think it over. The only thing I am ashamed of is my money, because I didn't earn it for myself. You can live in palaces still, if you want to, and if you want to be a queen I'll ferret out a kingdom somewhere and buy it, but I am afraid you'll have to be Mrs. Lane behind it all, you know."
"You really are the most intolerable person," she exclaimed, biting her lip. "How can I get these absurd ideas out of your mind?"
"By telling me honestly, looking in my eyes all the time, that you could never care for me a little bit, however devoted I was," he answered promptly. "You won't be able to do it. I've only one belief in life about these things, and that is that when any one cares for a girl as I care for you, it's absolutely impossible for her to be wholly indifferent. It isn't much to start with, I know, but the rest will come. Be honest with me. Is there any one of the men of your country whom you have met, whom you want to marry?"
She frowned slightly. She found herself, at that moment, comparing him with certain young men of her acquaintance. She was astonished to realise that the comparison was all in his favour. It was for her an extraordinary moment. She had indeed been brought up in palaces and the men whom she had known had been reckoned the salt of the earth. Yet, at that crisis, she was most profoundly conscious that not all the glamour of those high-sounding names, the picturesque interest of those gorgeous uniforms, nor the men themselves, magnificent in their way, were able to make the slightest appeal to her. She remembered some of her own bitter words when an alliance with one of them had been suggested to her. It was she, then, who had been the first to ignore the divine heritage of birth, who had spoken of their drinking habits, pointed to their life of idle luxury and worse than luxury. The man who was at the present moment her suitor forced himself upon her recollection. She knew quite well that he represented a type. They were of the nobility, and they seemed to her in that one poignant but unwelcome moment, hatefully degenerate, men no self-respecting girl could ever think of. Family influence, stern parental words, the call of her order, had half crushed these thoughts. They came back now, however, with persistent force.
"You see," Richard Lane went on, "it mayn't be much that I have to offer you, but in your heart I know you feel what it means to be offered the love of a man who doesn't want you just because you are of his order, or because you are the daughter of a Personage, or for any other reason than because he cares for you as he has cared for no other woman on earth, and because, without knowing it, he has waited for you."
She moved restlessly in her chair. Their conversation was not going in the least along the lines which she had intended. She suddenly remembered her own disquiet of the day before, her curious longing to steal off on some excuse to-day. A week ago she would have been content to have dawdled away the afternoon in the grounds of the villa. Something different had come. From the moment she had entered the rooms, although she had never acknowledged it, she had been conscious, pleasurably conscious of his presence. She was suddenly uneasy.
"I am afraid," she murmured, "that you are quite hopeless."
"If you mean that I am without hope, you are wrong," he answered sturdily. "From the moment I met you I have had but one thought, and until the last day of my life I shall have but one thought, and that thought is of you. There may be no end of difficulties, but I come of an obstinate race. I have patience as well as other things."
She was avoiding looking at him now. She looked instead at her clasped hands.
"I wish I could make you understand," she said, in a low tone, "how impossible all this is. In England and America I know that it is different. There, marriages of a certain sort are freely made between different classes. But in Russia these things are not thought of. Supposing that all you said were true. Supposing, even, that I had the slightest disposition to listen to you. Do you realise that there isn't one of my family who wouldn't cry out in horror at the thought of my marrying—forgive me—marrying a commoner of your rank in life?"
"They can cry themselves hoarse, as they'll have to some day," he replied cheerfully. "As for you, Miss Fedora—you don't mind my calling you Miss Fedora, do you?—you'll be glad some day that you were born at the beginning of a new era. You may be a pioneer in the new ways, but you may take my word for it that you won't be the last. Please have courage. Please try and be yourself, won't you?"
"But how do you know what I am?" she protested. "Or even what I am like? We have spoken only a few words. Nothing has passed between us which could possibly have inspired you with such feelings as you speak of," she added, colouring slightly. "It is a fancy of yours, quite too absurd a fancy. Now that I find myself discussing it with you as though, indeed, we were talking of it seriously, I am inclined to laugh. You are just a very foolish young man, Mr. Lane."
He shook his head.
"Look here," he said, "I am very good at meaning things, but it's awfully hard for me to put my thoughts into words. I can't explain how it's all come about. I don't know why, amongst all the girls I've seen in my own country, or England, or Paris, or anywhere, there hasn't been one who could bring me the things which you bring, who could fill my mind with the thoughts you fill it with, who could make my days stand still and start again, who could upset the whole machinery of my life so that when you come I want to dance with happiness, and when you go the day is over with me. There is no chance of my being able to explain this to you, because other fellows, much cleverer than I, have been in the same box, and they've had to come to the conclusion, too, that there isn't any explanation. I have accepted it. I want you to. I love you, Fedora, and I will be faithful to you all my life. You shall live where you choose and how you choose, but you must be my wife. There isn't any way out of it for either of us."
She sat quite still for several moments. They were a little behind the curtain and it chanced that there was no one in their immediate vicinity. She felt her fingers suddenly gripped. They were released again almost at once, but a queer sensation of something overmastering seemed to creep through her whole being at the touch of his hand. She rose to her feet.
"I am going away," she declared.
"I haven't offended you?" he begged. "Please sit down. We haven't half talked over things yet."
"We have talked too much," she answered. "I don't know really what has come over me that I have let you—that I listen to you—"
"It is because you feel the truth of what I say," he insisted. "Don't get up, Fedora. Don't go away, dear. Let us have at least these few minutes together. I'll do exactly as you tell me. I'll come to your father or I'll carry you off. I have a sister here. She'll be your friend—"
"Don't!" the girl stopped him. "Please don't!"
She sat down in her chair again. Her fingers were twisted together, her slim form was tense with stifled emotions.
"Have I been a brute?" he asked softly. "You must forgive me, Fedora. I am not much used to girls and I am sort of carried away myself, only I want you to believe that there's the real thing in my heart. I'll make you just as happy as a woman can be. Don't shake your head, dear. I want you to trust me and believe in me."
"I think you're a most extraordinary person," she said at last. "Do you know, I'm beginning to be really afraid of you."
"You're not," he insisted. "You're afraid of yourself. You're afraid because you see the downfall of the old ideas. You're afraid because you know that you're going to be a renegade. You can see nothing but trouble ahead just now. I'll take you right away from that."
There was the rustle of skirts, a soft little laugh. Richard rose to his feet promptly. He had never been so pleased in all his life to welcome his sister.
"Flossie," he exclaimed, "I'm ever so glad you came along! I want to present Miss Grex to you. This is my sister, Miss Fedora—Lady Weybourne. I was just going to ask Miss Grex to have some tea with me," he went on, "but I am not sure that she would have considered it proper. Do come along and be chaperone."
Lady Weybourne laughed.
"I shall be delighted," she declared. "I have seen you here once or twice before, haven't I, Miss Grex, and some one told me that you were Russian. I suppose you are not in the least used to the free and easy ways of us Westerners, but you'll come and have some tea with us, won't you?"
The girl hesitated. Fate was too strong for her.
"I shall be very pleased," she agreed.
They found a window table and Lane ordered tea. Fedora was inclined to be silent at first, but Lady Weybourne was quite content to chatter. By degrees Fedora, too, came back to earth and they had a very gay little tea-party. At the end of it they all strolled back into the rooms together. Fedora glanced at the watch upon her wrist and held out her hand to Lady Weybourne.
"I am sorry," she said, "but I must hurry away now. It is very kind of you to ask me to come and see you, Lady Weybourne. I shall be charmed."
Richard ignored her fingers.
"I am going to see you down to your car, if I may," he begged.
They left the room together. She looked at him as they descended the stairs, almost tremulously.
"This doesn't mean, you know," she said, "that I—that I agree to all you have been saying."
"It needn't mean anything at all, dear," he replied. "This is only the beginning. I don't expect you to realise all that I have realised quite so quickly, but I do want you to keep it in your mind that this thing has come and that it can't be got rid of. I won't do anything foolish. If it is necessary I will wait, but I am your lover now, as I always must be."
He handed her into the car, the footman, in his long white livery, standing somberly on one side. As they drove off she gave him her fingers, and he walked back up the steps with the smile upon his lips that comes to a man only once or twice in his lifetime.
Violet glanced at her watch with an exclamation of dismayed annoyance. She leaned appealingly towards the croupier.
"But one coup more, monsieur," she pleaded. "Indeed your clock is fast."
The croupier shook his head. He was a man of gallantry so far as his profession permitted, and he was a great admirer of the beautiful Englishwoman, but the rules of the Club were strict.
"Madame," he pointed out, "it is already five minutes past eight. It is absolutely prohibited that we start another coup after eight o'clock. If madame will return at ten o'clock, the good fortune will without doubt be hers."
She looked up at Draconmeyer, who was standing at her elbow.
"Did you ever know anything more hatefully provoking!" she complained. "For two hours the luck has been dead against me. But for a few of mycarrésturning up, I don't know what would have happened. And now at last my numbers arrive. I winen pleinand with all thecarrésandchevaux. This time it was twenty-seven. I win twocarrésand I move to twenty, and he will not go on."
"It is the rule," Draconmeyer reminded her. "It is bad fortune, though. I have been watching the run of the table. Things have been coming more your way all the time. I think that the end of your ill-luck has arrived. Tell me, are you hungry?"
"Not in the least," she answered pettishly. "I hate the very thought of dinner."
"Then why do we not go on to the Casino?" Draconmeyer suggested. "We can have a sandwich and a glass of wine there, and you can continue your vein."
She rose to her feet with alacrity. Her face was beaming.
"My friend," she exclaimed, "you are inspired! It is a brilliant idea. I know that it will bring me fortune. To the Cercle Privé, by all means. I am so glad that you are one of those men who are not dependent upon dinner. But what about Linda?"
"She is not expecting me, as it happens," Draconmeyer lied smoothly. "I told her that I might be dining at the Villa Mimosa. I have to be there later on."
Violet gathered up her money, stuffed it into her gold bag and hurried off for her cloak. She reappeared in a few moments and smiled very graciously at Draconmeyer.
"It is quite a wonderful idea of yours, this," she declared. "I am looking forward immensely to my next few coups. I feel in a winning vein. Very soon," she added, as they stepped out on to the pavement and she gathered up her skirts, "very soon I am quite sure that I shall be asking you for my cheques back again."
He laughed, as though she had been a child speaking of playthings.
"I am not sure that I shall wish you luck," he said. "I think that I like to feel that you are a little—just a very little in my debt. Do you think that I should be a severe creditor?"
Something in his voice disturbed her vaguely, but she brushed the thought away. Of course he admired her, but then every woman must have admirers. It only remained for her to be clever enough to keep him at arm's length. She had no fear for herself.
"I haven't thought about the matter at all," she answered carelessly, "but to me all creditors would be the same, whether they were kind or unkind. I hate the feeling of owing anything."
"It is a question," he observed, "how far one can be said to owe anything to those who are really friends. A husband, for instance. One can't keep a ledger account with him."
"A husband is a different matter altogether," she asserted coldly. "Now I wonder whether we shall find my favourite table full. Anyhow, I am going to play at the one nearest the entrance on the right-hand side. There is a little croupier there whom I like."
They passed up through the entrance and across the floor of the first suite of rooms to the Cercle Privé. Violet looked eagerly towards the table of which she had spoken. To her joy there was plenty of room.
"My favourite seat is empty!" she exclaimed. "I know that I am going to be lucky."
"I think that I shall play myself, for a change," Draconmeyer announced, producing a great roll of notes.
"Whenever you feel that you would like to go down and have something, don't mind me, will you?" she begged. "You can come back and talk to me at any time. I am not in the least hungry yet."
"Very well," he agreed. "Good luck to you!" They played at opposite sides of the table. For an hour she won and he lost. Once she called him over to her side.
"I scarcely dare to tell you," she whispered, her eyes gleaming, "but I have won back the first thousand pounds. I shall give it to you to-night. Here, take it now."
He shook his head and waved it away. "I haven't the cheques with me," he protested. "Besides, it is bad luck to part with any of your winnings while you are still playing."
He watched her for a minute or two. She still won.
"Take my advice," he said earnestly. "Play higher. You have had a most unusual run of bad luck. The tide has turned. Make the most of it. I have lost ten mille. I am going to have a try your side of the table."
He found a vacant chair a few places lower down, and commenced playing in maximums. From the moment of his arrival he began to win, and simultaneously Violet began to lose. Her good-fortune deserted her absolutely, and for the first time she showed signs of losing her self-control. She gave vent to little exclamations of disgust as stake after stake was swept away. Her eyes were much too bright, there was a spot of colour in her cheeks. She spoke angrily to a croupier who delayed handing her some change. Draconmeyer, although he knew perfectly well what was happening, never seemed to glance in her direction. He played with absolute recklessness for half-an-hour. When at last he rose from his seat and joined her, his hands were full of notes. He smiled ever so faintly as he saw the covetous gleam in her eyes.
"I'm nearly broken," she gasped. "Leave off playing, please, for a little time. You've changed my luck."
He obeyed, standing behind her chair. Three more coups she played and lost. Then she thrust her hand into her bag and drew it out, empty. She was suddenly pale.
"I have lost my last louis," she declared. "I don't understand it. It seemed as though I must win here."
"So you will in time," he assured her confidently. "How much will you have—ten mille or twenty?"
She shrank back, but the sight of the notes in his hand fascinated her. She glanced up at him. His pallor was unchanged, there was no sign of exultation in his face. Only his eyes seemed a little brighter than usual beneath his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"No, give me ten," she said.
She took them from his hand and changed them quickly into plaques. Her first coup was partially successful. He leaned closer over her.
"Remember," he pointed out, "that you only need to win once in a dozen times and you do well. Don't be in such a hurry."
"Of course," she murmured. "Of course! One forgets that. It is all a matter of capital."
He strolled away to another table. When he came back, she was sitting idle in her place, restless and excited, but still full of confidence.
"I am a little to the good," she told him, "but I have left off for a few minutes. The very low numbers are turning up and they are no use to me."
"Come and have that sandwich," he begged. "You really ought to take something."
"The place shall be kept for madame," the croupier whispered. "I shall be here for another two hours."
She nodded and rose. They made their way out of the Rooms and down into the restaurant on the ground-floor. They found a little table near the wall and he ordered some pâté sandwiches and champagne. Whilst they waited she counted up her money, making calculations on a slip of paper. Draconmeyer leaned back in his chair, watching her. His back was towards the door and they were at the end table. He permitted himself the luxury of looking at her almost greedily; of dropping, for a few moments, the mask which he placed always upon his features in her presence. In his way the man was an artist, a great collector of pictures and bronzes, a real lover and seeker after perfection. Often he found himself wandering towards his little gallery, content to stand about and gloat over some of his most treasured possessions. Yet the man's personality clashed often with his artistic pretensions. He scarcely ever found himself amongst his belongings without realising the existence of a curious feeling, wholly removed from the pure artistic pleasure of their contemplation. It was the sense of ownership which thrilled him. Something of the same sensation was upon him now. She was the sort of woman he had craved for always—slim, elegant, and what to him, with his quick powers of observation, counted for so much, she was modish, reflecting in her presence, her dress and carriage, even her speech, the best type of the prevailing fashion. She excited comment wherever she appeared. People, as he knew very well even now, were envying him his companion. And beneath it all—she, the woman, was there. All his life he had fought for the big things—political power, immense wealth, the confidence of his great master—all these had come to him easily. And at that moment they were like baubles!
She looked up at last and there was a slight frown upon her forehead.
"I am still a little down, starting from where I had the ten mille," she sighed. "I thought—"
She stopped short. There was a curious change in her face. Her eyes were fixed upon some person approaching. Draconmeyer turned quickly in his chair. Almost as he did so, Hunterleys paused before their table. Violet looked up at him with quivering lips. For a moment it seemed as though she were stepping out of her sordid surroundings.
"Henry!" she exclaimed. "Did you come to look for me? Did you know that we were here?"
"How should I?" he answered calmly. "I was strolling around with David Briston. We are at the Opera."
"At the Opera," she repeated.
"My little protégée, Felicia Roche, is singing," he went on, "inAïda. If she does as well in the next act as she has done in this, her future is made."
He was on the point of adding the news of Felicia's engagement to the young man who had momentarily deserted him. Some evil chance changed his intention.
"Why do you call her your little protégée?" she demanded.
"It isn't quite correct, is it?" he answered, a little absently. "There are three or four of us who are doing what we can to look after her. Her father was a prominent member of the Wigwam Club. The girl won the musical scholarship we have there. She has more than repaid us for our trouble, I am glad to say."
"I have no doubt that she has," Violet replied, lifting her eyes.
There was a moment's silence. The significance of her words was entirely lost upon Hunterleys.
"Isn't this rather a new departure of yours?" he asked, glancing disdainfully towards Draconmeyer. "I thought that you so much preferred to play at the Club."
"So I do," she assented, "but I was just beginning to win when the Club closed at eight o'clock, and so we came on here."
"Your good fortune continues, I hope?"
"It varies," she answered hurriedly, "but it will come, I am sure. I have been very near a big win more than once."
He seemed on the point of departure. She leaned a little forward.
"You had my note, Henry?"
Her tone was almost beseeching. Draconmeyer, who was listening with stony face, shivered imperceptibly.
"Thank you, yes," Hunterleys replied, frowning slightly. "I am sorry, but I am not at liberty to do what you suggest just at present. I wish you good fortune."
He turned around and walked back to the other end of the room, where Briston was standing at the bar. She looked after him for a moment as though she failed to understand his words. Then her face hardened. Draconmeyer leaned towards her.
"Shall we go?" he suggested.
She rose with alacrity. Side by side they strolled through the rooms towards the Cercle Privé.
"I am sorry," Draconmeyer said regretfully, "but I am forced to leave you now. I will take you back to your place and after that I must go to the hotel and change. I have a reception to attend. I wish you would take the rest of my winnings and see what you can do with them."
She shook her head vigorously.
"No, thank you," she declared. "I have enough."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I have twenty-five mille here in my pocket," he continued, "besides some smaller change. I don't think it is quite fair to leave so much money about in one's room or to carry it out into the country. Keep it for me. You won't need to play with it—I can see that your luck is in—but it always gives one confidence to feel that one has a reserve stock, something to fall back upon if necessary."
He drew the notes from his pocket and held them towards her. Her eyes were fixed upon them covetously. The thought of all that money actually in her possession was wildly exhilarating.
"I will take care of them for you, if you like," she said. "I shall not play with them, though. I owe you quite enough already and my losing days are over."
He stuffed the notes carelessly into her bag.
"Twenty-five mille," he told her. "Remember my advice. If the luck stays with you, stake maximums. Go for the big things."
She looked at him curiously as she closed her gold bag with a snap.
"After all," she declared, with a little laugh, "I am not sure that you are not the greater gambler of the two to trust me with all this money!"
With feet that seemed to touch nothing more substantial than air, her eyes brilliant, a wonderful colour in her cheeks, Violet passed through the heavy, dingy rooms and out through the motley crowd into the portico of the Casino. She was right! She knew that she had been right! How wise she had been to borrow that money from Mr. Draconmeyer instead of sitting down and confessing herself vanquished! The last few hours had been hours of ecstatic happiness. With calm confidence she had sat in her place and watched her numbers coming up with marvellous persistence. It was the most wonderful thing in the world, this. She had had no time to count her winnings, but at least she knew that she could pay back every penny she owed. Her little gold satchel was stuffed with notes and plaques. She felt suddenly younger, curiously light-hearted; hungry, too, and thirsty. She was, in short, experiencing almost a delirium of pleasure. And just then, on the steps of the Casino, she came face to face with her husband.
"Henry!" she called out. "Henry!"
He turned abruptly around. He was looking troubled, and in his hand were the fragments of a crushed up note.
"Come across to the hotel with me," she begged, forgetful of everything except her own immense relief. "Come and help me count. I have been winning. I have won back everything."
He accepted the information with only a polite show of interest. After all, as she reflected afterwards, he had no idea upon what scale she had been gambling!
"I am delighted to hear it," he answered. "I'll see you across the road, if I may, but I have only a few minutes to spare. I have an appointment."
She was acutely disappointed; unreasonably, furiously angry.
"An appointment!" she exclaimed. "At half-past eleven o'clock at night! Are you waiting for Felicia Roche?"
"Is there any reason why I should not?" he asked her gravely.
She bit her lips hard. They were crossing the road now. After all, it was only a few months since she had bidden him go his own way and leave her to regulate her own friendships.
"No reason at all," she admitted, "only I cannot see why you choose to advertise yourself with an opera singer—you, an ambitious politician, who moves with his head in the clouds, and to whom women are no more than a pastime. Why have you waited all these years to commence a flirtation under my very nose!"
He looked at her sternly.
"I think that you are a little excited, Violet," he said. "You surely don't realise what you are saying."
"Excited! Tell me once more—you got my note, the one I wrote this evening?"
"Certainly."
His brief reply was convincing. She remembered the few impulsive lines which she had written from her heart in that moment of glad relief. There was no sign in his face that he had been touched. Even at that moment he had drawn out his watch and was looking at it.
"Thank you for bringing me here," she said, as they stood upon the steps of the hotel. "Don't let me keep you."
"After all," he decided, "I think that I shall go up to my room for a minute. Good night!"
She looked after him, a little amazed. She was conscious of a feeling of slow anger. His aloofness repelled her, was utterly inexplicable. For once it was she who was being badly treated. Her moment of exhilaration had passed. She sat down in the lounge; her satchel, filled with mille franc notes, lay upon her lap unheeded. She sat there thinking, seeing nothing of the crowds of fashionably dressed women and men passing in and out of the hotel; of the gaily-lit square outside, the cool green of the gardens, the café opposite, the brilliantly-lit Casino. She was back again for a moment in England. The strain of all this life, whipped into an artificial froth of pleasure by the constant excitement of the one accepted vice of the world, had suddenly lost its hold upon her. The inevitable question had presented itself. She was counting values and realising....
When at last she rose wearily to her feet, Hunterleys was passing through the hall of the hotel, on his way out. She looked at him with aching heart but she made no effort to stop him. He had changed his clothes for a dark suit and he was also wearing a long travelling coat and tweed cap. She watched him wistfully until he had disappeared. Then she turned away, summoned the lift and went up to her rooms. She rang at once for her maid. She would take a bath, she decided, and go to bed early. She would wash all the dust of these places away from her, abjure all manner of excitement and for once sleep peacefully. In the morning she would see Henry once more. Deep in her heart there still lingered some faint shadow of doubt as to Draconmeyer and his attitude towards her. It was scarcely possible that he could have interfered in any way, and yet.... She would talk to her husband face to face, she would tell him the things that were in her heart.
She rang the bell for the second time. Only thefemme de chambreanswered the summons. Madame's maid was not to be found. Madame had not once retired so early. It was possible that Susanne had gone out. Could she be of any service? Violet looked at her and hesitated. The woman was clumsy-fingered and none too tidy. She shook her head and sent her away. For a moment she thought of undressing herself. Then instead she opened her satchel and counted the notes. Her breath came more quickly as she looked at the shower of gold and counted the many oblong strips of paper with their magic lettering. At last she had it all in heaps. There were the twenty-five mille he had left with her, and the seventy-five mille she had borrowed from him. Then towards her own losses there was another mille, and a matter of five hundred francs in gold. And all this success, her wonderful recovery, had been done so easily! It was just because she had had the pluck to go on, because she had followed her vein. She looked at the money and she walked to the window. Somewhere a band was playing in the distance. Little parties of men and women in evening dress were strolling by on their way to the Club. A woman was laughing as she clung to her escort on the opposite side of the road, by the gardens. Across at the Café de Paris the people were going in to supper. The spirit of enjoyment seemed to be in the air—the light-hearted, fascinating, devil-may-care atmosphere she knew so well. Violet looked back into the bedroom and she no longer had the impulse to sleep. Her face had hardened a little. Every one was so happy and she was so lonely. She stuffed the notes and gold back into her bag, looked at her hat in the glass and touched her face for a moment with a powder-puff. Then she left the room, rang for the lift and descended.
"I am going into the Club for an hour or so, if I am wanted," she told the concierge as she passed out.
Hunterleys, on leaving the hotel, walked rapidly across the square and found David waiting for him on the opposite side.
"Felicia will be late," the latter explained. "She has to get all that beastly black stuff off her face. She is horribly nervous about Sidney and she doesn't want you to wait. I think perhaps she is right, too. She told me to tell you that Monsieur Lafont himself came to her room and congratulated her after the curtain had gone down. She is almost hysterical between happiness and anxiety about Sidney. Where's your man?"
"I asked him to be a little higher up," Hunterleys replied. "There he is."
They walked a few steps up the hill and found Richard Lane waiting for them in his car. The long, grey racer looked almost like some submarine monster, with its flaring head-lights and torpedo-shaped body which scarcely cleared the ground.
"Ready for orders, sir," the young man announced, touching his cap.
"Is there room for three of us, in case of an emergency?" Hunterleys asked.
"The third man has to sit on the floor," Richard pointed out, "but it isn't so comfortable as it looks."
Hunterleys clambered in and took the vacant place. David Briston lingered by a little wistfully.
"I feel rather a skunk," he grumbled. "I don't see why I shouldn't come along."
Hunterleys shook his head.
"There isn't the slightest need for it," he declared firmly. "You go back and look after Felicia. Tell her we'll get Sidney out of this all right. Get away with you, Lane, now."
"Where to?"
"To the Villa Mimosa!"
Richard whistled as he thrust in his clutch.
"So that's the game, is it?" he murmured, as they glided off.
Hunterleys leaned towards him.
"Lane," he said, "don't forget that I warned you there might be a little trouble about to-night. If you feel the slightest hesitation about involving yourself—"
"Shut up!" Richard interrupted. "Whatever trouble you're ready to face, I'm all for it, too. Darned queer thing that we should be going to the Villa Mimosa, though! I am not exactly a popular person with Mr. Grex, I think."
Hunterleys smiled.
"I saw your sister this afternoon," he remarked. "You are rather a wonderful young man."
"I knew it was all up with me," Richard replied simply, "when I first saw that girl. Now look here, Hunterleys, we are almost there. Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do?"
"I want you," Hunterleys explained, "to risk a smash, if you don't mind. I want you to run up to the boundaries of the villa gardens, head your car back for Monte Carlo, and while you are waiting there turn out all your lights."
"That's easy enough," Richard assented. "I'll turn out the search-light altogether, and my others are electric, worked by a button. Is this an elopement act or what?"
"There's a meeting going on in that villa," Hunterleys told him, "between prominent politicians of three countries. You don't have to bother much about Secret Service over in the States, although there's more goes on than you know of in that direction. But over here we have to make regular use of Secret Service men—spies, if you like to call them so. The meeting to-night is inimical to England. It is part of a conspiracy against which I am working. Sidney Roche—Felicia Roche's brother—who lives here as a newspaper correspondent, is in reality one of our best Secret Service men. He is taking terrible chances to-night to learn a little more about the plans which these fellows are discussing. We are here in case he needs our help to get away. We've cleared the shrubs away, close to the spot at which I am going to ask you to wait, and taken the spikes off the fence. It's just a thousand to one chance that if he's hard pressed for it and heads this way, they may think that they have him in a trap and take it quietly. That is to say, they'll wait to capture him instead of shooting."
"Say, you don't mean this seriously?" Richard exclaimed. "They can't do more than arrest him as a trespasser, or something of that sort, surely?"
Hunterleys laughed grimly.
"These men wouldn't stick at much," he told his companion. "They're hand in glove with the authorities here. Anything they did would be hushed up in the name of the law. These things are never allowed to come out. It doesn't do any one any good to have them gossiped about. If they caught Sidney and shot him, we should never make a protest. It's all part of the game, you know. Now that is the spot I want you to stop at, exactly where the mimosa tree leans over the path. But first of all, I'd turn out your head-light."
They slowed down and stopped. Richard extinguished the acetylene gas-lamp and mounted again to his place. Then he swung the car round and crawled back upon the reverse until he reached the spot to which Hunterleys had pointed.
"You're a good fellow, Richard," Hunterleys said softly. "We may have to wait an hour or two, and it may be that nothing will happen, but it's giving the fellow a chance, and it gives him confidence, too, to know that friends are at hand."
"I'm in the game for all it's worth, anyway," Lane declared heartily.
He touched a button and the lights faded away. The two men sat in silence, both turned a little in their seats towards the villa.
The minutes glided by as the two men sat together in the perfumed, shadowy darkness. From their feet the glittering canopy of lights swept upwards to the mountain-sides, even to the stars, but a chain of slowly drifting black clouds hung down in front of the moon, and until their eyes became accustomed to their surroundings it seemed to both of them as though they were sitting in a very pit of darkness.
"It is possible," Hunterleys whispered, after some time, "that we may have to wait for another hour yet."
Richard was suddenly tense. He sat up, and his foot reached for the self-starter.
"I don't think you will," he muttered. "Listen!"
Almost immediately they were conscious of some commotion in the direction of the villa, followed by a shot and then a cry.
"Start the engine," Hunterleys directed hoarsely, standing up in his place. "I'm afraid they've got him."
There were two more shots but no further cry. Then they heard the sound of excited voices and immediately afterwards rapidly approaching footsteps. A man came crashing through the shrubbery, but when he reached the fence over which, for a moment, his white face gleamed, he sank down as though powerless to climb. Hunterleys leapt to the ground and rushed to the fence.
"Hold up, Sidney, old fellow," he called softly. "We're here all right. Hold up for a moment and let me lift you."
Roche struggled to his feet. His face was ghastly white, the sweat stood out upon his forehead, his lips moved but no words came. Hunterleys got him by the arms, set his teeth and lifted. The task would have been too much for him, but Richard, springing from the car, came to his help. With an effort they hoisted him over the fence. Almost as they did so there was the sound of footsteps dashing through the shrubs, and a shot, the bullet of which tore the bark from the trunk of a tree close at hand. The car leapt off in fourth speed, Sidney supported in Hunterleys' arms. A loud shout from behind only brought Richard's foot down upon the accelerator.
"Stoop low!" he cried to Hunterleys. "Get your legs in, if you can."
A bullet struck the back of the car and another whistled over their heads. Then they dashed around the corner, and Richard, turning on the lights, jammed down his accelerator.
"Gee whiz! that's a bloodthirsty crew!" the young man exclaimed, his eyes fixed upon the road. "Is he hurt?"
Roche was lying back on the seat. Hunterleys was on his knees, holding on to the framework of the car.
"They've got me all right, Hunterleys," Roche faltered. "Listen. Everything went well with me at first. I could hear—nearly everything. The Frenchman kept his mouth shut—tight as wax. Grex did most of the talking. Russia sees nothing in the entente—England has nothing to offer her. She'd rather keep friends with Germany. Russia wants to move eastward—all Persia—India. She's only lukewarm, any way, about the French alliance as things stand at present, and dead off any truck with England. There's talk of Constantinople, and Germany to march three army corps through a weak French resistance to Calais. They talked of France acting to her pledges, putting her recruits in the front, taking a slight defeat, making a peace on her own account, with Alsace and Lorraine restored. She can pay. Germany wants the money. Germany—Germany—"
The words died away in a little groan. The wounded man's head fell back. Hunterleys passed his arm around the limp figure.
"Take the first turn to the right and second to the left, Richard," he directed. "We'll drive straight to the hospital. I made friends with the English doctor last night. He promised to be there till three. I paid him a fee on purpose."
"First to the right," Richard muttered, swinging around. "Second to the left, eh?"
Hunterleys was holding his brandy flask to Roche's lips as they swung through the white gates and pulled up outside the hospital. The doctor was faithful to his promise, and Roche, who was now unconscious, was carried in. In the hall he was laid upon an ambulance and borne off by two attendants. Hunterleys and Lane sat down to wait in the hall. After what seemed to them an interminable half-hour, the doctor reappeared. He came over to them at once.
"Your friend may live," he announced, "but in any case he will be unconscious for the next twenty-four hours. There is no need for you to stay, or for you to fetch the young lady you spoke of, at present. If he dies, he will die unconscious. I can tell you nothing more until the afternoon."
Hunterleys rose slowly to his feet.
"You'll do everything you can, doctor?" he begged. "Money doesn't count."
"Money never counts here," the doctor replied gravely. "We shall save him if it is possible. You've nothing to tell me, I suppose, as to how he met with his wound?"
"Nothing."
They walked out together into the night. The bank of clouds had drifted away now and the moon was shining. Below them, barely a quarter of a mile away, they could see the flare of lights from the Casino. A woman was laughing hysterically through the open windows of a house on the other side of the way. Some one was playing a violin in a café at the corner of the street.
"Richard," Hunterleys said, "will you see me through? I have to get to Cannes as fast as I can to send a cable. I daren't send it from here, even in code."
"I'll drive you to Cannes like a shot," Richard assented heartily. "Just a brandy and soda on our way out, and I'll show you some pretty driving."
They stopped at the Café de Paris and left the car under the trees. Both men took a long drink and Richard filled his pocket with cigarettes. Then they re-entered the car, lit up, and glided off on the road for Cannes. Richard had become more serious. His boyish manner and appearance had temporarily gone. He drove, even, with less than his usual recklessness.
"That was a fine fellow," he remarked enthusiastically, after a long pause, "that fellow Roche!"
"And we've many more like him," Hunterleys declared. "We've men in every part of the world doing what seems like dirty work, ill-paid work, too, doing it partly, perhaps, because the excitement grows on them and they love it, but always, they have to start in cold blood. The papers don't always tell the truth, you know. There's many a death in foreign cities you read of as a suicide, or the result of an accident, when it's really the sacrifice of a hero for his country. It's great work, Richard."
"Makes me feel kind of ashamed," Richard muttered. "I've never done anything but play around all my life. Anyway, those sort of things don't come to us in our country. America's too powerful and too isolated to need help of that description. We shouldn't have any use for politicians of your class, or for Secret Service men."
"If you're in earnest," Hunterleys advised, "you go to Washington and ask them about it some day. The time's coming, if it hasn't already arrived, when your country will have to develop a different class of politicians. You see, whether she wants it or not, she is coming into touch, through Asia and South America, with European interests, and if she does, she'll have to adopt their methods more or less. Poor old Roche! There was something more he wanted to say, and if it's what I've been expecting, your country was in it."
"I guess I'll take Fedora over for our honeymoon," Richard decided softly. "Don't see why I shouldn't come into one of the Embassies. I'm a bit of a hulk to go about the world doing nothing."
Hunterleys laughed quietly.
"My young friend," he said, "aren't you taking your marriage prospects a little for granted? May I be there when you ask Augustus Nicholas Ivan Peter, Grand Duke of Vassura, Prince of Melinkoff, cousin of His Imperial Majesty the Czar, for the hand of his daughter in marriage!"
"So that's it, is it?" Lane murmured. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
Hunterleys shook his head. He gazed steadfastly along the road in front of him.
"It wasn't to my interest to have it known too generally," he said, "and I am afraid your little love affair didn't strike me as being of much importance by the side of the other things. But you've earned the truth, if it's any use to you."
"Well," Richard observed, "I wasn't counting on having any witnesses, but you can come along if you like. I suppose," he added, "I shall have to do him the courtesy of asking his permission, but—"
"But what?" Hunterleys asked curiously.
They were on a long stretch of straight, white road. Richard looked for a moment up to the sky, and Hunterleys, watching him, was amazed at the transformation.
"There isn't a Grand Duke or a Prince or an Imperial Majesty alive," he said, "who could rob me of Fedora!"