On the one hand Senator Burton had the testimony of three trustworthy persons that the young Englishwoman had arrived alone at the hotel the night before; and against this positive testimony there was nothing but her bare word.
Very, very reluctantly, he felt compelled to believe the Poulains' version of what had happened. He could think of no motive—in fact there was no motive—which could prompt a false assertion on their part.
As they were driving back, each silent, each full of painful misgivings, the kindly American began to wonder whether he had not met with that, if rare yet undoubted, condition known as entire loss of memory.
If, as Madame Poulain had suggested, Mr. Dampier had left his wife just before their arrival at the hotel, was it not conceivable that by some kind of kink in Mrs. Dampier's brain—the kind of kink which brings men and women to entertain, when otherwise sane, certain strange delusions—she had imagined the story she now told with so much circumstantial detail and clearness?
When they were nearing the hotel, Nancy put her hand nervously on her companion's arm.
"Mr. Burton," she whispered, "I'm horribly afraid of the Poulains! I keep thinking of such dreadful things."
"Now look here, Mrs. Dampier—" Senator Burton turned, and looking down into her agitated face, spoke gently and kindly—"though I quite admit to you these people's conduct must seem inexplicable, I feel sure you are wronging the Poulains. They are very worthy, respectable folk—I've known them long enough to vouch for that fact. This extraordinary misunderstanding, this mistake—for it must be either a misunderstanding or a mistake on some one's part—will soon be cleared up, so much is certain: till then I beg you not to treat them as enemies."
And yet even Senator Burton felt taken aback when he saw the undisguised annoyance, the keen irritation with which their return to the Hôtel Saint Ange was greeted by the woman to whom he had just given so good a certificate of character.
Madame Poulain was standing on the street side of the open porte cochère, as the carriage drove down the narrow street, and the American was astonished to see the change which came over her face.
An angry, vindictive, even a cruel expression swept over it, and instead of waiting to greet them as the carriage drew up at the door she turned abruptly away, and shuffled out of sight.
"Wait a moment," he said, as the fiacre drew up, "don't get out of the carriage yet, Mrs. Dampier—"
And meekly Nancy obeyed him.
The Senator hurried through into the courtyard. Much would he have given, and he was a careful man, to have seen the image he had formed of Jack Dampier standing on the sun-flecked flagstones. But the broad space stretching before him was empty, deserted; during the daylight hours of each day the Exhibition drew every one away much as a honey cask might have done a hive of bees.
Madame Poulain did not come out of her kitchen as was her usual hospitable wont when she heard footsteps echoing under the vaulted porte cochère, and so her American guest had to go across, and walk right into her special domain.
"We did not find the gentleman at his studio," he said shortly, "and I presume, Madame Poulain, that he has not yet been here?"
She shook her head sullenly, and then, with none of her usual suavity, exclaimed, "I do not think, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you should have brought that demoiselle back here!"
She gave him so odd—some would have said, so insolent a look, that the Senator realised for the first time what he was to realise yet further in connection with this strange business, namely, that the many who go through life refusing to act the part of good Samaritans have at any rate excellent reasons for their abstention.
It was disagreeably dear that Madame Poulain thought him a foolish old man who had been caught by an adventuress's pretty face….
To their joint relief Monsieur Poulain came strolling into his wife's kitchen.
"I've been telling Monsieur le Sénateur," exclaimed Madame Poulain, "that we do not wish to have anything more to do with that young person who asserts that she arrived here with a man last night. Monsieur le Sénateur has too good a heart: he is being deceived."
The hotel-keeper looked awkwardly, deprecatingly, at his valued American client. "Paris is so full of queer people just now," he muttered. "They keep mostly to the other side of the river, to the Opera quarter, but we are troubled with them here too, during an Exhibition Year!"
"There is nothing at all queer about this poor young lady," said Senator Burton sharply—somehow the cruel insinuation roused him to chivalrous defence. But soon he changed his tone, "Now look here, my good friends"—he glanced from the husband to the wife—"surely you have both heard of people who have suddenly lost their memory, even to the knowledge of who they were and where they came from? Now I fear—I very much fear—that something of the kind has happened to this Mrs. Dampier! I am as sure that she is not consciously telling a lie as I am that you are telling me the truth. For one thing, I have ascertained that this lady's statement as to Mr. John Dampier having a studio in Paris, where he was expected this morning, is true. As to who she is herself that question can and will be soon set at rest. Meanwhile my daughter and myself"—and then he hesitated, for, well as he knew French, Senator Burton did not quite know how to convey his meaning, namely, that they, he and his daughter, meant to see her through. "My daughter and myself," he repeated firmly, "are going to do the best we can to help her."
Madame Poulain opened her lips—then she shut them tight again. She longed to tell "Monsieur le Sénateur" that in that case she and Poulain must have the regret of asking him to leave their hotel.
But she did not dare to do this.
Her husband broke in conciliatingly: "No doubt it is as Monsieur le Sénateur says," he observed; "the demoiselle is what we said she was only this morning—" and then he uttered the word which in French means so much and so little—the word "toquée."
There came another interruption. "Here come Mademoiselle Daisy and MonsieurGerald!" exclaimed Madame Poulain in a relieved tone.
The Senator's son and daughter had just emerged across the courtyard, from the vestibule where ended the escalier d'honneur. There was a look of keen, alert interest and curiosity on Gerald Burton's fine, intelligent face. He was talking eagerly to his sister, and Madame Poulain told herself that surely these two young people could not wish their stay in Paris to be complicated by this—this unfortunate business—for so the Frenchwoman in her own secret heart designated the mysterious affair which was causing her and her worthy husband so much unnecessary trouble.
Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they had expected to have, but they had not thought it would take this very strange and tiresome shape.
But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly disappointed in her hope that Daisy and Gerald Burton would try and dissuade their father from having anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier.
"Well, father?" the two fresh voices rang out, and the Senator smiled back well pleased. He was one of those fortunate fathers who are on terms of full confidence and friendship as well as affection with their children. Indeed Senator Burton was specially blessed; Daisy was devoted to her father, and Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease: the young man had done well at college, and now seemed likely to become one of the most distinguished and successful exponents of that branch of art—architecture—modern America has made specially her own.
"Well?" said the Senator, "well, Daisy, I suppose you have told your brother about this odd affair?"
As his daughter nodded, he went on:—"As for me, I have unfortunately nothing to tell. We found the studio, and everything was exactly as this poor young lady said it would be—with the one paramount exception that her husband was not there! And though his housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr. Dampier every moment, she has had no news of him since he wrote, some days ago, saying he would arrive this morning. It certainly is a very inexplicable business—" he looked helplessly from one good-looking, intelligent young face to the other.
"But where is Mrs. Dampier now?" asked Daisy eagerly. "I do think you might have told me before you took her away, father. I would have loved to have said good-bye to her. I do like her so much!"
"You won't have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dampier's at the door, sitting in a carriage," said her father drily. "I had to bring her back here: I didn't know what else to do."
"Why, of course, father, you did quite right!"
And Gerald Burton chimed in, "Yes, of course you were right to do that, father."
Senator Burton smiled a little ruefully at his children's unquestioning approval. He himself was by no means sure that he had done "quite right."
They walked, the three of them, across to the porte-cochère.
Nancy Dampier was now sitting crouched up in a corner of the fiacre; a handkerchief was pressed to her face, and she was trying, not very successfully, to stifle her sobs of nervous fear and distress.
With an eager, impulsive gesture the American girl leapt up the step of the little open carriage. "Don't cry," she whispered soothingly. "It will all come right soon! Why, I expect your husband just went out to see a friend and got kept somehow. If it wasn't for those stupid Poulains' mistake about last night you wouldn't feel really worried, now would you?"
Nancy dabbed her eyes. She felt ashamed of being caught crying by these kind people. "I know I'm being silly!" she gasped. "You must forgive me! It's quite true I shouldn't feel as worried as I feel now if it wasn't for the Poulains—their saying, I mean, that they've never seen my husband. That's what upset me. It all seems so strange and—and horrid. My sense tells me it's quite probable Jack has gone in to see some friend, and was kept somehow."
"And now," said Daisy Burton persuasively, "you must come upstairs with us, and we'll get Madame Poulain to send us up a nice déjeuner to our sitting-room."
And so the Senator found part of his new problem solved for him. Daisy, so much was dear, had determined to befriend—and that to the uttermost—this unfortunate young Englishwoman.
But now there arose another most disagreeable complication.
Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms akimbo, to see what was going on. And, as if she had guessed the purport of Miss Burton's words, she walked forward, and speaking this time respectfully, even suavely, to "Monsieur le Sénateur," observed, "My husband and I regret very greatly that we cannot ask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have no vacant room—no room at all!"
And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had stood apart from the discussion, saying nothing, simply looking intently, sympathetically at his sister and Mrs. Dampier—took a hand in the now complicated little human game.
"Father!" he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp tones. "Of course Mrs. Dampier must stay on here with us till her husband comes back! If by some extraordinary chance he isn't back by to-night she can have my room—I shall easily find some place outside." And as his father looked at him a little doubtfully he went on:—"Will you explain to Madame Poulain what we've settled? I can't trust myself to speak to the woman! She's behaving in the most unkind, brutal way to this poor little lady."
He went on between his teeth, "The Poulains have got some game on in connection with this thing. I wish I could guess what it is."
And the Senator, much disliking his task, did speak to Madame Poulain. "I am arranging for Mrs. Dampier to stay with us, as our guest, till her husband's—hem—arrival. My son will find a room outside, so you need not disturb yourself about the matter. Kindly send for Jules, and have her trunk carried up to our apartments."
And Madame Poulain, after an uncomfortably long pause, turned and silently obeyed the Senator's behest.
The afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of the four people who spent it together in the pleasant salon of the Burtons' suite of rooms the hours, nay the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged before.
Looking back to that first day of distress and bewilderment, Nancy later sometimes asked herself what would have happened, what she would have done, had she lacked the protection, the kindness—and what with Daisy Burton almost at once became the warm affection—of this American family?
Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel that they understood, and, in a measure, shared in her distress, but they also helped her to bear her anguish and suspense.
Although she was not aware of it very different was the mental attitude of their father.
Senator Burton was one of those public men of whom modern America has a right to be proud. He was a hard worker—chairman of one Senate committee and a member of four others; he had never been a brilliant debater, but his more brilliant colleagues respected his sense of logic and force of character. He had always been unyielding in his convictions, absolutely independent in his views, a man to whom many of his fellow-countrymen would have turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of clear and honest counsel.
And yet now, as to this simple matter, the Senator, try as he might, could not make up his mind. Nothing, in his long life, had puzzled him as he was puzzled now. No happening, connected with another human being, had ever so filled him with the discomfort born of uncertainty.
But the object of his—well, yes, his suspicions, was evidently quite unconscious of the mingled feelings with which he regarded her, and he was half ashamed of the ease with which he concealed his trouble both from his children and from their new friend.
Nancy Dampier was far too ill at ease herself to give any thought as to how others regarded her. She had now become dreadfully anxious, dreadfully troubled about Jack.
Much of her time was spent standing at a window of the corridor which formed a portion of the Burtons' "appartement." This corridor overlooked the square, sunny courtyard below; but during that first dreary afternoon of suspense and waiting the Hôtel Saint Ange might have been an enchanted palace of sleep. Not a creature came in or out through the porte cochère—with one insignificant exception: two workmen, dressed in picturesque blue smocks, clattered across the big white stones, the one swinging a pail of quaking lime in his hand, and whistling gaily as he went.
When a carriage stopped, or seemed to stop, in the street which lay beyond the other side of the quadrangular group of buildings, then Nancy's heart would leap, and she would lean out, dangerously far over the grey bar of the window; but the beloved, and now familiar figure of her husband never followed on the sound, as she hoped against hope, it would do.
At last, when the long afternoon was drawing to a close, Senator Burton went down and had another long conversation with the Poulains.
The hotel-keeper and his wife by now had changed their tone; they were quite respectful, even sympathetic:
"Of course it is possible," observed Madame Poulain hesitatingly, "that this young lady, as you yourself suggested this morning, Monsieur le Sénateur, is suffering from loss of memory, and that she has imagined her arrival here with this artist gentleman. But if so, what a strange thing to fancy about oneself! Is it not more likely—I say it with all respect, Monsieur le Sénateur—that for some reason unknown to us she is acting a part?"
And with a heavy heart "Monsieur le Sénateur" had to admit that Madame Poulain's view might be the correct one. Nancy's charm of manner, even her fragile and delicate beauty, told against her in the kindly but shrewd American's mind. True, Mrs. Dampier—if indeed she were Mrs. Dampier—did not look like an adventuress: but then does any adventuress look like an adventuress till she is found to be one?
The Frenchwoman suggested yet another theory. "I have been asking myself," she said, smiling a little wryly, "another question. Is it not possible that this young lady and her husband had a quarrel? Such incidents do occur, even during honeymoons. If the two had a little quarrel he may have left her at our door—just to punish her, Monsieur le Sénateur. He would know she was safe in our respectable hotel. Your sex, if I may say so, Monsieur le Sénateur, is sometimes very unkind, very unfeeling, in their dealings with mine."
Monsieur Poulain, who had said nothing, here intervened. "How you do run on," he said crossly. "You talk too much, my wife. We haven't to account for what has happened!"
But Senator Burton had been struck by Madame Poulain's notion. Men, and if all the Senator had heard was true, especially Englishmen, do behave very strangely sometimes to their women-folk. It was an Englishman who conceived the character of Petruchio. He remembered Mrs. Dampier's flushed face, the shy, embarrassed manner with which she had come forward to meet him that morning. She had seemed rather unnecessarily distressed at not being able to make the hotel people understand her: she had evidently been much disappointed that her husband had not left a message for her.
"My son thinks it possible that Mr. Dampier may have met with an accident on his way to the studio."
A long questioning look flashed from Madame Poulain to her husband, butPoulain was a cautious soul, and he gave his wife no lead.
"Well," she said at last, "of course that could be ascertained," and the Senator with satisfaction told himself that she was at last taking a proper part in what had become his trouble, "but I cannot help thinking, Monsieur le Sénateur, that we might give this naughty husband a little longer—at any rate till to-morrow—to come back to the fold."
And the Senator, perplexed and disturbed, told himself that after all this might be good advice.
But when he again went upstairs and joined the young people, he found that this was not at all a plan to which any one of the three was likely to consent. In fact as he came into the sitting-room where Nancy Dampier was now restlessly walking up and down, he noticed that his son's hat and his son's stick were already in his son's hands.
"I think I ought to go off, father, to the local Commissaire of Police. There's one in every Paris district," said Gerald Burton abruptly. "Mrs. Dampier is convinced that her husband did go out this morning, even if the Poulains did not see him doing so; and she and I think it possible, in fact, we are afraid, that he may have met with an accident on his way to the studio."
As he saw by his father's face that this theory did not commend itself to the Senator, the young man went on quickly:—"At any rate my doing this can do no harm. I might just inform the Commissaire that a gentleman has been missing since this morning from the Hôtel Saint Ange, and that the only theory we can form which can account for his absence is that he may have met with an accident. Mrs. Dampier has kindly provided me with a description of her husband, and she has told me what she thinks he might have been wearing."
Nancy stopped her restless pacing. "If only the Poulains would allow me to see where Jack slept last night!" she cried, bursting into tears. "But oh, everything is made so much more difficult by their extraordinary assertion that he never came here at all! You see he had quite a large portmanteau with him, and I can't possibly tell which of his suits he put on this morning."
And the Senator looking down into her flushed, tearful face, wondered whether she were indeed telling the truth—and most painfully he doubted, doubted very much.
But when Gerald Burton came back at the end of two hours, after a long and weary struggle with French officialdom, all he could report was that to the best of the Commissaire's belief no Englishman had met with an accident that day. There had been three street accidents yesterday in which foreigners had been concerned, but none, most positively none, to-day. He admitted, however, that all his reports were not yet in.
Paris, from the human point of view, swells to monstrous proportions when it becomes the background of a great International World's Fair. And the police, unlike the great majority of those in the vast hive where they keep order, have nothing to gain in exchange for the manifold discomforts an Exhibition brings in its train.
At last, worn out by the mingled agitations and emotions of the day, Nancy went to bed.
The Senator, Gerald and Daisy Burton waited up some time longer. It was a comfort to the father to be able to feel that at last he was alone for a while with his children. To them at least he could unburden his perplexed and now burdened mind.
"I suppose it didn't occur to you, Gerald, to go to this Mr. Dampier's studio?"
He looked enquiringly at his son.
Gerald Burton was sitting at the table from which Mrs. Dampier had just risen. He looked, if a trifle weary, yet full of eager energy and life—a fine specimen of strong, confident young manhood—a son of whom any father might well be fond and proud.
The Senator had great confidence in Gerald's sense and judgment.
"Yes indeed, father, I went there first. Not only did I go to the studio, but from the Commissaire's office I visited many of the infirmaries and hospitals of the Quarter. You see, I didn't trust the Commissaire; I don't think he really knew whether there had been any street accidents or not. In fact at the end of our talk he admitted as much himself."
"And at Mr. Dampier's studio?" queried the Senator. "What did you find there? Didn't the old housekeeper seem surprised at her master's prolonged absence?"
"Yes, father, she did indeed. I could see that she was beginning to feel very much annoyed and put out about it."
"Did she tell you," asked the Senator hesitatingly, "what sort of man thisMr. Dampier is?"
"She spoke very well of him," said young Burton, with a touch of reluctance in his voice, "but she admitted that he was a casual sort of fellow."
Gerald's sister looked up. She broke in, rather eagerly, "What sort of a man do you suppose Mr. Dampier to be, Gerald?"
He shrugged his shoulders, rather ill-temperedly. He, too, was tired, after the long day of waiting and suspense. "How can I possibly tell, Daisy? I must say it's rather like a woman to ask such a question! From something Mrs. Dampier said, I gather he is a plain-looking chap."
And then Daisy laughed heartily, for the first time that day. "Why, she adores him!" she cried, "she can't have told you that."
"Indeed she did! But you weren't there when I made her describe him carefully to me. I had to ask her, for it was important that I should have some sort of notion what the fellow is like."
He took out his note-book. "I'll tell you what I wrote down, practically from her dictation. 'A tall man—taller than the average Englishman. A loosely-hung fellow; (he doesn't care for any kind of sport, I gather). Thirty five years of age; (seems a bit old to have married a girl—she won't be twenty till next month). He has big, strongly-marked features, and a good deal of fair hair. Always wears an old fashioned repeater watch and bunch of seals. Was probably wearing this morning a light grey tweed suit and a straw hat.'" Gerald looked up and turned to his sister, "If you call that the description of a good-looking man, well, all I can say is that I don't agree with you, Daisy!"
"He's a very good artist," said the Senator mildly. "Did you go into his studio, Gerald?"
"Yes, I did. And I can't say that I agree with you, father: I didn't care for any of the pictures I saw there."
Gerald Burton spoke rather crossly. Both his father and sister felt surprised at his tone. He was generally very equable and good-tempered. But where any sort of art was concerned he naturally claimed to speak with authority.
"Have you any theory, Gerald"—the Senator hesitated, "to account for the extraordinary discrepancy between the Poulains' story and what Mrs. Dampier asserts to be the case?"
"Yes, father, I have a quite definite theory. I believe the Poulains are lying."
The young man leant forward across the round table. He spoke very earnestly, but even as he spoke he lowered his voice, as if fearing to be overheard.
Senator Burton glanced at the door. "You can speak quite openly," he said rather sharply. "You forget that there is the door of our appartement as well as a passage between this room and the staircase."
"No, father, I don't forget that. But it would be quite easy for anyone to creep in. The Poulains have pass keys everywhere."
"My dear boy, they don't understand English!"
"Jules does, father. He knows far more English than he admits. At any rate he understands everything one says to him."
Daisy broke in with a touch of impatience. "But with what object could the Poulains tell such a stupid and cruel untruth, one, too, which is sure to be found out very soon? If this Mr. Dampier did arrive here last night, well then, he did—if he didn't, he didn't!"
"Yes, that's true," Gerald turned to his sister. "And though I've given a good deal of thought to it during the last few hours—I can't form any theory yet as to why the Poulains are lying. I only feel quite sure that they are."
"It's a curious thing," observed the Senator musingly, "that neither of you saw this Mr. Dampier last night—curious, I mean, that he should have just stepped up into a cupboard, as Mrs. Dampier says he did, at the exact moment when you were outside the door."
Neither of his children made any reply. That coincidence still troubledDaisy Burton.
At last,—"I don't see that it's at all curious," exclaimed her brother hastily. "It's very unfortunate, of course, for if we had happened to see him the Poulains couldn't have told the tale they told you this morning."
The Senator sighed. He was tired—tired of the long afternoon spent in doing nothing, and, to tell the truth, tired of the curious, inexplicable problem with which he had been battling since the morning.
"Well, I say it with sincere regret, but I am inclined to believe thePoulains."
"Father!" His son was looking at him with surprise and yes, indignation.
"Yes, Gerald. I am, for the present, inclined not only to believe the Poulains' clear and consistent story, but to share Madame Poulain's view of the case—"
"And what is her view?" asked Daisy eagerly.
"Well, my dear, her view—the view, let me remind you, of a sensible woman who, I fancy, has seen a good deal of life—is that Mr. Dampier did accompany his wife here, as far as the hotel, that is. That then, as the result of what our good landlady calls a 'querelle d'amoureux,' he left her—knowing she would be quite safe of course in so respectable a place as the Hôtel Saint Ange."
Daisy Burton only said one word—but that word was "Brute!" and her father saw that there was the light of battle in her eyes.
"My dear," he said gently, "you forget that it was an Englishman who wrote'The Taming of the Shrew.'"
"And yet American girls—of a sort—are quite eager to marry Englishmen!"
The Senator quickly pursued his advantage. "Now is it likely that Madame Poulain would make such a suggestion if she were not telling the truth? Of course her view is that this Mr. Dampier will turn up, safe and sound, when he thinks he has sufficiently punished his poor little wife for her share in their 'lovers' quarrel.'"
But at this Gerald Burton shook his head. "We know nothing of this man Dampier," he said, "but I would stake my life on Mrs. Dampier's truthfulness."
The Senator rose from his chair. Gerald's attitude was generous; he would not have had him otherwise but still he felt irritated by his son's suspicion of the Poulains.
"Well, it's getting late, and I suppose we ought all to go to bed now, especially as they begin moving about so early in this place. As for you, my boy, I hope you've secured a good room outside, eh?"
Gerald Burton also got up. He smiled and shook his head.
"No, father, I haven't found a place at all yet! The truth is I've been so tremendously taken up with this affair that I forgot all about having to find a room to-night."
"Oh dear!" cried Daisy in dismay. "Won't you find it very difficult? They say Paris is absolutely full just now. Why, a lot of people who have never let before are letting out rooms just now—so Madame Poulain says."
"Don't worry about me. I shall be all right," said Gerald quickly. "I suppose my things have been moved into your room, father?"
Daisy nodded. "Yes, I saw to all that. In fact I did more—" she smiled; the brother and sister were very fond of one another. "I packed your bag for you, Ger."
"Thanks," he said. And then going quickly round the table, he bent down and kissed her. "I'll be in early to-morrow morning," he said, nodding to his father.
Then he went out.
Daisy Burton felt surprised. Gerald was the best of brothers, but he didn't often kiss her good-night. There had been a strange touch of excitement, of emotion, in his manner to-night. It was natural that she herself should be moved by Nancy Dampier's distress. But Gerald? Gerald, who was generally speaking rather nonchalant, and very, very critical of women?
"Gerald's tremendously excited about this thing," said Daisy thoughtfully. She was two years younger in years than her brother, but older, as young women are apt to be older, in all that counts in civilised life. "I've never seen him quite so—so keen about anything before."
"I hope he will have got a comfortable room," said the Senator a little crossly. Then fondly he turned and took his daughter's hand. "Sleep well, my darling," he said. "You two have been very kind to that poor little soul. And I love you both for it. Whatever happens, kindness is never lost."
"Why, what d'you mean, father?" she looked down at him troubled, rather disturbed by his words.
"Well, Daisy, the truth is,"—he hesitated—"I can't make out whether this Mrs. Dampier is all she seems to be. And I want to prepare you for a possible disappointment, my dear. When I was a young man I once took a great fancy to someone who—well, who disappointed me cruelly—" he was speaking very gravely. "It just spoilt my ideal for a time—I mean my ideal of human nature. Now I don't want anything of that kind to happen to you or to our boy in connection with this—this young lady."
"But, father? You know French people aren't as particular about telling the truth as are English people. I can't understand why you believe the Poulains' story—"
"My dear, I don't know what to believe," he said thoughtfully.
She was twenty-four years old, this grey-eyed, honest, straightforward girl of his; and yet Senator Burton, much as he loved her, knew very little as to her knowledge of life. Did Daisy know anything of the ugly side of human nature? Did she know, for instance, that there are men and women, especially women, who spend their lives preying on the honest, the chivalrous, and the kind?
"The mystery is sure to be cleared up very soon," he said aloud. "If what our new friend says is true there must be as many people in England who know her to be what she says she is, as there are people in Paris who evidently know all about the artist, John Dampier."
"Yes, that's true. But father?"
"Yes, my dear."
"I am quite sure Mrs. Dampier is telling the truth."
Somehow the fact that Daisy was anxious to say that she disagreed with him stung the Senator.
"Then what do you think of the Poulains?" he asked quietly—"the Poulains, whom you have known, my dear, ever since you were fifteen—on whose honesty and probity I personally would stake a good deal. What do you think about them?"
Daisy began to look very troubled. "I don't know what to think," she faltered. "The truth is, father, I haven't thought very much of the Poulains in the matter. You see, Madame Poulain has not spoken to me about it at all. But you see that Gerald believes them to be lying."
"Gerald," said the Senator rather sharply, "is still only a boy in many things, Daisy. And boys are apt, as you and I know, to take sides, to feel very positive about things. But you and I, my darling—well, we must try to be judicial—we must try to keep our heads, eh?"
"Yes, father, yes—we must, indeed"; but even as she said the words she did not quite know what her father meant by "judicial."
And Gerald Burton? For a while, perhaps for an hour, holding his heavy bag in his hand, he wandered about from hostelry to hostelry, only to be told everywhere that there was no room.
Then, taking a sudden resolution, he went into a respectable little café which was still open, and where he and his father, in days gone by, had sometimes strolled in together when Daisy was going about with friends in Paris. There he asked permission to leave his bag. Even had he found a room, he could not have slept—so he assured himself. He was too excited, his brain was working too quickly.
Talking busily, anxiously, argumentatively to himself as he went, he made his way to the river—to the broad, tree-lined quays which to your true lover of Paris contain the most enchanting and characteristic vistas of the city.
Once there, his footsteps became slower. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked along, with eyes bent on the ground.
What manner of man could John Dampier be to leave his young wife—such a beautiful, trusting, confiding creature as was evidently this poor girl—in this cruel uncertainty? Was it conceivable that the man lived who could behave to this Mrs. Dampier with the unkindness Gerald's father had suggested—and that as the outcome of a trifling quarrel? No! Gerald Burton's generous nature revolted from such a notion.
And yet—and yet his father thought it quite possible! To Gerald his father's views and his father's attitude to life meant a great deal more than he was wont to allow, either to that same kind indulgent father or to himself; and now he had to admit that the Senator did believe that what seemed so revolting to him, Gerald, was the most probable explanation of the mystery.
The young man had stayed quite a while at the studio, listening to Mère Bideau's garrulous confidences. Now and again he had asked her a question, forced thereto by some obscure but none the less intense desire to know what Nancy Dampier's husband was like. And the old woman had acknowledged, in answer to a word from him, that her master was not a good-tempered man.
"Monsieur" could be very cross, very disagreeable sometimes. But bah! were not all gentlemen like that?—so Mère Bideau had added with an easy laugh.
On the whole, however—so much must be admitted—she had given Dampier a very good character. If quick-tempered, he was generous, considerate, and, above all, hard-working. But—but Mère Bideau had been very much surprised to hear "Monsieur" was going to be married—and to an Englishwoman, too! She, Mère Bideau, had always supposed he preferred Frenchwomen; in fact, he had told her so time and again. But bah! again; what won't a pretty face do with a man? So Mère Bideau had exclaimed 'twixt smile and sigh.
Gerald Burton began walking more quickly, this time towards the west, along the quay which leads to the Chamber of Deputies.
The wide thoroughfare was deserted save for an occasional straggler making his weary way home after a day spent in ministering to the wants and the pleasures of the strangers who now crowded the city….
How wise he, Gerald Burton, was now showing himself to be in thus spending the short summer night out-of-doors, à la belle étoile, as the French so charmingly put it, instead of in some stuffy, perhaps not overclean, little room!
But soon his mind swung back to the strange events of the past day!
Already Nancy Dampier's personality held a strange, beckoning fascination for the young American. He hadn't met many English girls, for his father far preferred France to England, and it was to France they sped whenever they had time to do so. And Gerald Burton hadn't cared very much for the few English girls he had met. But Nancy was very, very different from the only two kinds of her fellow countrywomen with whom he had ever been acquainted—the kind, that is, who is closely chaperoned by vigilant mother or friend, and the kind who spends her life wandering about the world by herself.
How brave, how gentle, how—how self-controlled Mrs. Dampier had been! While it was clear that she was terribly distressed, and all the more distressed by the Poulains' monstrous assertion that she had come alone to the Hôtel Saint Ange, yet how well she had behaved all that long day of waiting and suspense! How anxious she had been to spare the Burtons trouble.
Not for a single moment had he, Gerald Burton, felt with her as he so often felt with women—awkward and self-conscious. Deep in his inmost heart he was aware that there were women and girls who thought him very good-looking; and far from pleasing him, the knowledge made him feel sometimes shy, sometimes even angry. He already ardently wished to protect, to help, to shelter Mrs. Dampier.
Daisy had been out of the room for a moment, probably packing his bag, when he had come back tired and weary from his fruitless quest, and Mrs. Dampier, if keenly disappointed that he had no news, had yet thanked him very touchingly for the trifling trouble, or so it now seemed, that he had taken for her.
"I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for your kind father, for your sister, and—and for you, Mr. Burton."
He walked across the bridge leading to the Champs Elysées, paced round the Arc de Triomphe, and then strolled back to the deserted quays. He had no wish to go on to the Boulevards. It was Paris asleep, not Paris awake, with which Gerald Burton felt in close communion during that short summer night.
And how short is a Paris summer night! Soon after he had seen the sun rise over an eastern bend of the river, the long, low buildings which line the Seine below the quays stirred into life, and he was able to enjoy a delicious, a refreshing plunge in the great swimming-bath which is among the luxuries Paris provides for those of her sons who are early-morning toilers.
Six o'clock found Gerald Burton at the café where he had left his bag, ready for a cup of good coffee.
The woman who served him—the waiters were still asleep—told him of a room likely to be disengaged the next night.
The next night? But if Dampier were to come back this morning—as, according to one theory, he was very likely to do—then he, Gerald, would have no need of a room.
Somehow that possibility was not as agreeable to him as it ought to have been. In theory Gerald Burton longed for this unknown man's return—for a happy solution, that is, of the strange mystery which had been cast, in so dramatic a fashion, athwart the Burtons' placid, normal life; but, scarce consciously to himself, the young American felt that Dampier's reappearance would end, and that rather tamely, an exciting and in some ways a very fascinating adventure.
As he came up the Rue Saint Ange, he saw their landlord, a blue apron tied about his portly waist, busily brushing the pavement in front of the hotel with a yellow broom.
"Well?" he said eagerly, "well, Monsieur Poulain, any news?"
Poulain looked up at him and shook his head. "No, Monsieur Gerald," he said sullenly, "no news at all."
Nancy Dampier sat up in bed.
Long rays of bright sunlight filtering in between deep blue curtains showed her a large, lofty room, with panelled walls, and furniture covered with blue damask silk.
It was more like an elegant boudoir in an old English country house than a bedroom, and for a moment she wondered, bewildered, where she could be.
Then suddenly she remembered—remembered everything; and her heart filled, brimmed over, with seething pain and a sharp, overwhelming sensation of fear.
Jack had gone: disappeared: vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up! And she, Nancy, was alone in a foreign city where she did not know a single soul, with the paramount exception of the American strangers who had come to her help in so kindly and so generous a fashion.
She pushed her soft hair back from her forehead, and tried to recall, step by step, all that had happened yesterday.
Two facts started out clearly—her almost painful gratitude to the Burtons and her shrinking terror of the Poulains, or rather of Madame Poulain, the woman who had looked fixedly into her face and lied.
As to what had happened to Dampier, Nancy's imagination began to whisper things of unutterable dread. If her Jack had been possessed of a large sum of money she would have suspected the hotel people of having murdered him….
But no, she and Jack had come to the end of the ample provision of gold and bank-notes with which they had started for Italy. As is the way with most prosperous newly-married folk, they had spent a good deal more on their short honeymoon than they had reckoned to do. He had said so the day before yesterday, in the train, when within an hour of Paris. Indeed he had added that one of the first things they must do the next day must be to call at the English bank where he kept an account.
She now told herself that she had to face the possibility, nay the probability, that her husband had met with some serious accident on his way to the Impasse des Nonnes. Nancy knew that this had been Gerald Burton's theory, and of her three new kind friends it was Gerald Burton who impressed her with the greatest trust and confidence. He, unlike his father, had at once implicitly believed her version of what had taken place when she and Jack arrived at the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The bedroom door opened, cautiously, quietly, and Daisy Burton came in carrying a tray in her pretty graceful hands.
Poor Nancy! She felt confused, grateful, and a little awkward. She had not realised that her nervous dread of Madame Poulain would mean that this kind girl must wait on her.
"I came in before, but you were sound asleep. Still, I thought I must wake you now, for father wants to know if you would mind him going to our Embassy about your husband? It's really my brother's idea. As you know, Gerald thinks it almost certain that Mr. Dampier met with some kind of accident yesterday morning, and he isn't a bit satisfied with the way the local Commissaire de Police answered his enquiries. Gerald thinks the only way to get attended to in Paris is to make people feel that you are important, and that they will get into trouble if they don't attend to you promptly!"
Even as she was speaking Daisy Burton smiled rather nervously, for both she and Gerald had just gone through a very disagreeable half-hour with their generally docile and obedient father.
The Senator did not wish to go to the American Embassy—at any rate not yet—about this strange business. He had pleaded with both his young people to wait, at any rate, till the afternoon: at any moment, so he pointed out, they might have news of the missing man: but Gerald was inexorable.
"No, father, that's no use; if we do nothing we shan't get proper attention from the police officials till to-morrow. If you will only go and see Mr. Curtis about this business I promise to take all other trouble off your hands."
And then the Senator had actually groaned—as if he minded trouble!
"Mr. Curtis will do for you what he certainly wouldn't do for me, father.Daisy can go with you to the Embassy: I'll stay and look after Mrs.Dampier: she mustn't be left alone, exposed to the Poulains' insolence."
And so the matter had been settled. But Senator Burton had made one stipulation:—
"I won't go to the Embassy," he said firmly, "without hearing from Mrs. Dampier's own lips that such is her wish. And, Daisy? Gerald? Hearken to me—neither of you is to say anything to influence her in the matter, one way or the other."
And so it was with a certain relief that Daisy Burton now heard her new friend say eagerly:
"Why of course! I shall only be too grateful if your father will do anything he thinks may help me to find Jack. Oh, you don't know how bewildered and how frightened I feel!"
And the other answered soothingly, "Yes, indeed I do know how you must feel. But I expect it will be all right soon. After all, Gerald said—"—she hesitated a moment, and then went on more firmly—"Gerald said that probably Mr. Dampier met with quite a slight accident, and that might be the reason why the tiresome Commissaire de Police knew nothing about it."
"But if it was a slight accident," Nancy objected quickly, "Jack would have let me know at once! You don't know my husband: he would move heaven and earth to save me a minute's anxiety or trouble."
"I am sure of that. But Gerald says that if Mr. Dampier did try and arrange for you to be sent a message at once, the message miscarried—"
It was an hour later. The Senator had listened in silence while his young English guest had expressed in faltering, but seemingly very sincere, tones, her gratitude for his projected visit to the American Embassy. Nay, she had done more. Very earnestly Mrs. Dampier had begged Senator Burton and his daughter not to give themselves more trouble over her affairs than was absolutely necessary.
And her youth, her beauty, her expression of pitiful distress had touched the Senator, though it had not shaken his belief in the Poulains' story. He did however assure her, very kindly and courteously, that he grudged no time spent in her service.
And then, while Gerald Burton accompanied his father and his sister downstairs, Nancy Dampier was left alone for a few minutes with her own troubled and bewildered thoughts.
She walked restlessly over to one of the high windows of the sitting-room, and looked down into the shady garden below. Then her eyes wandered over the picturesque grey and red roofs of the old Paris Jack Dampier loved so well.
Somehow the cheerful, bright beauty of this June morning disturbed and even angered poor Nancy. She remembered with distaste, even with painful wonder, the sensations of pleasure, of amusement, of admiration with which she had first come through into this formal, harmoniously furnished salon, which was so unlike any hotel sitting-room she had ever seen before.
But that had been yesterday morning—infinitely long ago.
Now, each of the First Empire pieces of furniture seemed burnt into her brain: and the human faces of the dull gold sphinxes which jutted from each of the corners of the long, low settee seemed to grin at her maliciously.
She felt unutterably forlorn and wretched. If only she could do something! She told herself, with a sensation of recoil and revolt, that she could never face another day of suspense and waiting spent as had been the whole of yesterday afternoon and evening.
Going up to the brass-rimmed round table, she took up a book which was lying there. It was a guide to Paris, arranged on the alphabetical principle. Idly she began turning over the leaves, and then suddenly Nancy Dampier's cheeks, which had become so pale as to arouse Senator Burton's commiseration, became deeply flushed. She turned over the leaves of the guide-book with feverish haste, anxious to find what it was that she now sought there before the return of Gerald Burton.
At last she came to the page marked M.
Yes, there was what she at once longed and dreaded to find! And she had just read the last line of the paragraph when Gerald Burton came back into the room.
Looking at him fixedly, she said quietly and in what he felt to be an unnaturally still voice, "Mr. Burton? There is a place in Paris called the Morgue. Do you not think that I ought to go there, to-day? It says in this guide-book that people who are killed in the streets of Paris are taken straight to the Morgue."
The young American nodded gravely. The Commissary of Police had mentioned the Morgue, had in fact suggested that those who were seeking John Dampier would do well to go there within a day or two.
Nancy went on:—"Could I go this morning? I would far rather go by myself, I mean without saying anything about it to either your father or to your sister."
He answered quickly, but so gently, so kindly, that the tears sprang to her eyes, "Yes, I quite understand that. But of course you must allow me to go with you."
And she answered, again in that quiet, unnaturally still voice, "Thank you. I shall be grateful if you will." Then after a moment, "Couldn't we start soon—I mean now?"
"Why yes, certainly—if you wish it."
Without saying anything further, she went to put on her hat.
Gerald Burton's notions as to the Morgue were in a sense at once confused and clear. He had known of the place ever since he could read. He was aware that it was a building where all those who die a violent death are at once taken: he imagined it further to be a place where morbid curiosity drew daily many tourists. In fact in an old guide-book of which his father was fond he remembered that there ran a sentence:—
The Morgue is certainly one of the most curious and extraordinary sights of Paris, but only those who are in the enjoyment of good nerves are advised to visit it.
As he waited for Mrs. Dampier the young man's face became very, very grave. Till now he had not envisaged the possibility that John Dampier, this unknown man across the current of whose life he, Gerald Burton, had been thrust in so strange and untoward a manner, might be dead.
Sudden death—that dread possibility which is never far from any one of us—never haunts the mind of normal youth.
But now there came to Gerald Burton a sudden overwhelming understanding of the transience not only of human life, but what means so much more to most sentient human beings, the transience of such measure of happiness as we poor mortals are allowed to enjoy.
His imagination conjured up Nancy Dampier as he had first seen her standing in Virginie Poulain's little room. She had been a vision of lovely girlhood, and yes, far more than that—though he had not known it then—of radiant content.
And now?
His unspoken question was answered by Mrs. Dampier's return into the room. He looked at her searchingly. Yes, she was lovely—her beauty rather heightened than diminished, as is so often the case with a very young woman, by the ordeal she was going through, but all the glow and radiance were gone from her face.
"I ought to have told you before," he said impulsively, "that—that among the men who were taken to the Morgue yesterday morning there was no one who in the least answered to the description you have given me of Mr. Dampier—so much the Commissary of Police was able to inform me most positively."
And Nancy drew a long convulsive breath of relief.
They went down to the courtyard, and across to the porte cochère. While they did so Gerald Burton was unpleasantly conscious that they were being watched; watched from behind the door which led into the garden, for there stood Jules, a broom as almost always in his hand: watched from the kitchen window, where Madame Poulain stood with arms akimbo: watched from behind the glass pane of the little office which was only occupied when Monsieur Poulain was engaged in the pleasant task of making out his profitable weekly bills.
But not one of the three watchers came forward and offered to do them even the usual, trifling service of hailing a cab.
The two passed out into the narrow street and walked till they came to the square where stood, at this still early hour of the morning, long rows of open carriages.
"I think we'd better drive?" said Gerald Burton questioningly.
And his companion answered quickly, "Oh yes! I should like to get there as quickly as possible." And then her pale face flushed a little. "Mr. Burton, will you kindly pay for me?"
She put her purse, an absurd, delicately tinted little beaded purse which had been one of her wedding presents, into his hand.
Gerald took it without demur. Had he been escorting an American girl, he would have insisted on being paymaster, but some sure instinct had already taught him how to treat Nancy Dampier—he realised she preferred not adding a material to the many immaterial obligations she now owed the Burton family.
A quarter of an hour's quick driving brought them within sight of the low, menacing-looking building which is so curiously, in a sense so beautifully, situated on the left bank of the Seine, to the right of Notre Dame.
"Mrs. Dampier? I beg you not to get out of the carriage till I come and fetch you," said Gerald earnestly, "there is no necessity for you to come into the Morgue unless—" he hesitated.
"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "Unless you see someone there who might be Jack. Yes, Mr. Burton, I'll stay quietly in the carriage till you come and fetch me. It's very good of you to have thought of it."
But when they drew up before the great closed door two or three of the incorrigible beggars who spend their days in the neighbourhood of the greater Paris churches, came eagerly forward.
Here were a fine couple, a good-looking Englishman and his bride. True, they were about to be cheated out of their bit of fun, but they might be good for a small dole—so thought the shrewder of those idlers who seemed, as the carriage drew up, to spring out of the ground.
One of them strolled up to Gerald. "M'sieur cannot go into the Morgue unless he has a permit," he said with a whine.
Gerald shook the man off, and rang at the closed door. It seemed a long time before it was opened by a man dressed like a Paris workman, that is in a bright blue blouse and long baggy white trousers.
"I want to view any bodies which were brought in yesterday. I fear I am a little early?"
He slipped a five franc piece into the man's hand. But the silver key which unlocks so many closed doors in Paris only bought this time a civil answer.
"Impossible, monsieur! I should lose my place. I could not do it for a thousand francs." And then in answer to the American's few words of surprise and discomfiture,—"Yes, it's quite true that we were open to the public till three years ago. But it's easier to get into the Elysée than it is to get into the Morgue, nowadays." He waited a moment, then he murmured under his breath, "Of course if monsieur cares to say that he is looking for someone who has disappeared, and if he will provide a description, the more commonplace the better, then—well, monsieur may be able to obtain a permit! At any rate monsieur has only to go along to the office where permits are issued to find that what I say is true. If only monsieur will bring me a permit I will gladly show monsieur everything there is to be seen." The man became enthusiastic. "Not only are there the bodies to see! We also possess relics of many great criminals; and as for our refrigerating machines—ah, monsieur, they are really in their way wonders! Well worth, as I have sometimes heard people say, coming all the way to Paris to see!"
Sick at heart Gerald Burton turned away—not, however, before he had explained gravely that his wish in coming to the Morgue was not to gratify idle curiosity, but to seek a friend whose disappearance since the morning before was causing acute anxiety.
The man looked at him doubtfully—somehow this young gentleman did not look as people generally look who come to the Morgue on serious business. The janitor was only too familiar with the signs—the air of excitement, of dejection, of suspense, the reddened eyelids…. But, "In that case I am sure to see monsieur again within a few minutes," he said politely.
Nancy had stepped down from the carriage. "Well?" she said anxiously."Well, won't he let you in?"
"We shall have to get an order. The office is only just over there, opposite Notre Dame. Shall we dismiss the cab?"
"Yes," she said. "I would far rather walk across." Still followed by a troop of ragged idlers, they hastened across the great space in front of Notre Dame and so to the office of the Morgue.
At first the tired official whose not always easy duty it is to discriminate between the morbid sightseer and the anxious relative or friend, did not believe the American's story. He, too, evidently thought that Gerald and the latter's charming, daintily dressed companion were simply desirous of seeing every sight, however horrible, that Paris has to offer. But when he heard the name "Dampier," his manner suddenly changed. There came over his face a sincere look of pity and concern.
"You made enquiries concerning this gentleman yesterday?" he observed, and Gerald Burton, rather surprised, though after all he need not have been, assented. Then the Commissary of Police had been to some trouble for him after all? He, Gerald, had done the man an injustice.
"We have had five bodies already brought in this morning," said the clerk thoughtfully. "But I'm sure that none of them answers to the description we have had of madame's husband. Let me see—Monsieur Dampier is aged thirty-four—he is tall, dressed in a grey suit, or possibly a brown suit of clothes, with a shock of fair hair?"
And again Gerald Burton was surprised how well the man remembered.
The other went into another room and came back with a number of grey cards in his hand. He began to mumble over the descriptions, and suddenly Gerald stopped him.
"That might be the person we are looking for!" he exclaimed. "I mean the description you've just read out—that of the Englishman?"
"Oh no, monsieur! I assure you that the body here described is that of a quite young man." And as the American looked at him doubtfully, he added, "But still, if you wish to make absolutely sure I will make out a permit; and madame can stay here while you go across to the Morgue." Again he looked pityingly at Mrs. Dampier.
Nancy shook her head. "Tell him I mean to go too," she said quietly.
The man looked at her with an odd expression. "I should not myself care to take my wife or my sister to the Morgue, monsieur. Believe me her husband is not there. Do try and dissuade the poor lady." As he spoke he averted his eyes from Nancy's flushed face.
Gerald Burton hesitated: it was really kind of this good fellow to feel so much for a stranger's distress.
"Won't you stay here and let me go alone to that place? I think you can trust me. You see there is only one body there which in any way answers to the description."
"Yes, I quite understand that, but I'd rather go too." Her lips quivered."You see you've never seen Jack, Mr. Burton."
"I'm afraid this lady is quite determined to go too," said the youngAmerican in a low voice; and without making any further objection, theFrenchman filled in a form and silently handed it to Gerald Burton.
And then something happened which was perhaps more untoward and strange than Gerald realised.
He and Mrs. Dampier were already well started across the great sunny space in front of Notre Dame, when suddenly he felt himself tapped on the shoulder by the man from whom they had just parted.
"Monsieur, monsieur!" said the French official breathlessly, "I forgot a most important point. Visitors to the Morgue are not allowed to see all the bodies exposed in our mortuary. When the place was closed to the public we went from one extreme to the other. The man whose description you think approximates to that of the gentleman you are looking for is Number 4. Tell the guardian to show you Number 4."
Then he turned on his heel, without awaiting the other's thanks; and as he walked away, the Frenchman said aloud, not once but many times, "Pauvre petite dame!" And then again and again, "Paume petite dame!"
But his conscience was clear. He had done his very best to prevent that obstinate young American subjecting the "poor little lady" to the horrible ordeal she was about to go through. Once more he spoke aloud—"They have no imagination—none at all—these Yankees!" he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
The janitor of the Morgue, remembering Gerald Burton's five-franc piece, and perchance looking forward to another rond, was wreathed in smiles.
Eagerly he welcomed the two strangers into the passage, and carefully he closed the great doors behind them.
"A little minute," he said, smiling happily. "Only one little minute! The trifling formality of showing your permit to the gentleman in the office must be gone through, and then I myself will show monsieur and madame everything there is to be seen."
"We do not wish to see everything," said Gerald Burton sharply. "We simply wish to see—" he hesitated—"body Number 4—" he lowered his voice, but Nancy understood enough French to know what it was that he said.
With a blind, instinctive gesture she put out her hand, and Gerald Burton grasped it firmly, and for the first time a look of pity and of sympathy came across the janitor's face.
Tiens! tiens! Then it was true after all? These young people (he now took them for a brother and sister) were here on business, not, as he had supposed, on pleasure.
"Come in and wait here," he said gravely. "This is the doctors' room, but madame can sit here for a moment while the formalities are gone through."
He flung open a door, and showed them into a curious, old-fashioned looking sitting-room, strangely unlike the waiting-room which would have been found attached, say, to an American or British mortuary.
An ornate writing-table filled up one corner of the room, and, opposite the two windows, covering the whole of the blank wall, was a narrow glass case running from floor to ceiling.
From this case young Burton quickly averted his eyes, for it was filled with wax models of heads which might have been modelled from the denizens of Dante's Inferno.
"I'm afraid I must now leave you for a moment," he said gently; "sit over here, Mrs. Dampier, and look out on the river."
And Nancy obeyed with dull submission. She gazed on the bright, moving panorama before her, aware, in a misty, indifferent way, that the view was beautiful, that Jack would have thought it so.
This bend of the Seine is always laden with queer, picturesque craft, and just below the window by which she sat was moored a flat-bottomed barge which evidently served as dwelling place for a very happy little family. One end of the barge had been turned into a kind of garden, there was even a vine-covered arbour, under which two tiny children were now playing some absorbing game.
And this glimpse of ordinary normal life gradually brought a feeling of peace, almost of comfort, to Nancy's sore heart. She wondered if she would ever be happy again—happy as those little children playing outside were happy, without a thought of care in the world: that had been the kind of simple, unquestioning happiness she too had thoughtlessly enjoyed till the last three days.
When Gerald Burton came back he was glad rather than grieved to see that tears were running down her face.
But a moment later, as they followed their guide down a humid, dark passage her tears stopped, and a look of pinched terror came into her eyes.
Suddenly there fell on their ears loud, whirring, jarring sounds.
"What's that?" cried Nancy in a loud voice. Her nerves were taut with suspense, quivering with fear of what she was about to see.
And the janitor, as if he understood her question, turned round reassuringly. "Only our refrigerating machines, madame. We think them wonderfully quiet, considering. They whirr on night and day, they are never stilled. As for me—" he added jovially—"I would miss the noise very much. But as I lie in bed listening to the sound I know that all is well. It would be a very serious thing indeed for us if the machines stopped, even for ten minutes—" he shook his head mysteriously.
Nancy breathed a little more easily. She had not understood what it was exactly that he had said, but his voice had sounded cheerful and kind: and she remained for a while ignorant of the meaning and object of the machines by which they passed quickly in a great room filled with moving wheels, and, even on this hot June day, full of icy breaths.
As they came to the end of the engine-room their guide turned round and gave the young American a quick, warning look. "C'est ici," he said, under his breath. And Gerald stepped quickly in front of Mrs. Dampier.
"Is what we are going to see very horrible?" he whispered hurriedly. "I wish this lady to be spared as far as may be from seeing anything especially painful."