I arrived at the Ritz to find Louis walking impatiently up and down the stone-flagged pavement outside the entrance. He came up to me eagerly as I approached.
"I have been waiting for you for more than an hour!" he exclaimed.
I looked at him in some surprise. I had not yet grown accustomed to hear him speak in such a tone.
"Did I say that I was coming straight back?" I asked.
"Of course not," he answered. "After you left, though, I had some trouble with Monsieur Grisson. There is a chance that we may have to move Tapilow to a hospital, and he is just one of those fools who talk. Monsieur Grisson insists upon it that you leave Paris by the four o'clock train this afternoon."
I shook my head.
"I could not catch it," I declared. "It is half-past three now."
"On the other hand, you can and you must," Louis answered. "I took the liberty of telephoning in your name and ordering the valet to pack your clothes. Your luggage is in the hall there, and that automobile is waiting to take you to the Gare du Nord."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Louis' manner underwent a further change.
"Captain Rotherby," he said, "it is I and my friends who save you, perhaps, from a considerable inconvenience. Forgive me if I remind you of this, but it is not fitting that you should argue with us on this matter."
Louis was right. For more reasons than he knew of, it was well that I should leave Paris.
"Are you coming with me?" I asked.
"I am crossing by the night boat," Louis answered. "I have not quite finished the work for which I came over. I have some things to buy."
I smiled.
"Upon my word," I said, "I had forgotten your profession."
I went back into the hotel and paid my bill. Louis drove with me to the station and saw to the registration of my luggage. Afterwards he found my reserved seat, in which I arranged my rug and books. Then I turned and walked down the corridor with him.
"I trust," he said, "that monsieur will have a pleasant journey and pleasant companions."
I glanced into thecoupéwhich we were just passing. It seemed curious that even as the wish left his lips I should find myself looking into the dark eyes of the girl whose face had been so often in my thoughts during the last few days! Opposite her was the gray-bearded man Delora, already apparently immersed in a novel. Every seat in the compartment was laden with their small belongings,—dressing-bags, pillows, a large jewel-case, books, papers, flowers, and a box of chocolates. I turned to Louis.
"Again," I remarked, "we meet friends. What a small place the world is!"
We stepped down on to the platform. Louis, for some reason, seemed slightly nervous. He glanced up at the clock and watched the few late arrivals with an interest which was almost intense.
"Monsieur," he said, a little abruptly, "there is a question which I should like to ask you before you leave."
"There are a good many I should like to ask you, Louis," I answered, "but they will keep. Go ahead."
"I should like to know," Louis said, "where you spent the hour which passed between your leaving the Café Normandy and arriving at the Ritz."
I hesitated for a moment. After all, I had no reason to keep my movements secret. It was better, indeed, to avoid complications so far as possible.
"You shall know if you like, Louis," I said. "I kept my appointment with the young lady of the turquoises."
Louis' pale face seemed suddenly strained.
"It was my fault!" he muttered. "I should not have left you! You do not understand how those affairs are here in Paris! If Bartot knew—"
"Bartot did know," I interrupted.
Louis' face was a study.
"Bartot came in while I was talking to mademoiselle," I said.
"There was a scene?" Louis inquired breathlessly. "Bartot threatened monsieur? Perhaps there were blows?"
"Nothing of the sort," I answered. "Bartot blustered a little and mademoiselle wrung her hands, but they played their parts badly. Between you and me, Louis, I have a sort of an idea that Bartot's coming was not altogether accidental."
"It was a trap," Louis murmured softly. "But why?"
I shook my head.
"Louis," I said, "I am the wrong sort of man to be even a temporary dweller in this nest of intrigue. I do not understand it at all. I do not understand any of you. I only know that I owe you and those other gentlemen a very considerable debt, and I have been solemnly warned against you by the young lady whom I met at the Café de Paris. I have been assured that association with you is the first step toward my undoing. Monsieur Bartot, for all his bluster, seemed very anxious to be friendly."
"It was the girl!" Louis exclaimed. "Bartot was too big a fool to understand!"
I sighed.
"I fear that I am in the same position as Monsieur Bartot," I said. "I do not understand!"
There was a warning cry. I had only just time to swing myself on to the slowly moving train. Louis ran for a moment by the side.
"Those people are harmless," he said. "They merely wished, if they could, to make use of you. Mademoiselle has tied other fools to her chariot wheels before now, that Bartot may grow fat. But, monsieur!"
I leaned over to catch his words.
"If Monsieur or Mademoiselle Delora should address you," he said, "you need have no fear. They are not of the same order as Bartot and Susette."
"I will remember," I answered, waving my farewells.
I regained my compartment, which I was annoyed to find had filled up till mine was the only vacant seat. I had not had time to buy any papers or magazines, but, after all, I had enough to interest me in my thoughts. Of Tapilow I scarcely thought at all. He and I had met, and I had kept my oath. So far as I was concerned, that was the end. I had not even any fears for my own safety as regards this matter. My interview with Decresson and his friend had had a curiously convincing effect upon me. I felt that I had been tried for my crime, and acquitted, in the most orthodox fashion. For me the curtain had fallen upon that tragedy. It was the other things which occupied my mind. I seemed to have found my way into a maze, to have become mixed up in certain affairs in a most mysterious and inexplicable way. What was the meaning of that place to which Louis had introduced me? Was it some sort of secret organization,—an organization which assumed to itself, at any rate, the power to circumvent the police? And Bartot, too! Had he really the power which Louis had declared him to possess? If so, why had he baited a clumsy trap for me and permitted me to walk out of it untouched? What did they want from me, these people? The thought was utterly confusing. I could find absolutely no explanation. Then, again, another puzzle remained. I remembered Louis' desire, almost command, that I should return to London by this particular train. Had he any reason for it? Was it connected in any way, I wondered, with the presence of this man and girl in the next compartment? It seemed feasible, even if inexplicable.
I rose and strolled down the corridor, looking in at thecoupéwhere these two people sat, with all the banal impertinence of the curious traveller. The girl met my eyes once and afterwards simply ignored me. The man never looked up from his magazine. I passed and repassed three or four times. The effect was always the same. At last I resumed my seat. At any rate, they showed no pressing desire to make my acquaintance!
At Boulogne I descended at once into the saloon and made a hasty meal. When I came up on deck in the harbor I found that the chair which I had engaged was lashed close to the open door of a private cabin, and in the door of that cabin, standing within a few feet of me, was the niece of Monsieur Delora. I racked my brains for something to say. She gave me no encouragement whatever. At last I descended to a banality.
"We shall have rather a rough crossing, I am afraid," I said, touching my cap.
She looked at me as though surprised that I should have ventured to address her. She did not take the trouble to be annoyed. She answered me, indeed, with civility, but in a manner which certainly did not encourage me to attempt any further conversation. There was a moment's pause. Then she turned away and spoke to some one behind her in the cabin. A moment or two later the door was closed and I was left alone. After that it seemed ridiculous to imagine that there was any special significance to be attached to the fact that we were fellow passengers.
The crossing was a rough one, and I saw nothing more of either Delora or the girl. I had very little hand baggage, and I was one of the first to reach the train, where I made myself comfortable in the corner seat of a carriage towards the rear end. The inspector, whom I knew very well, locked my door, and until the last moment it seemed as though I should have the compartment to myself. The train, indeed, was on the point of starting, and I had almost given up looking out for my fellow passengers when they came hurrying up along the platform. I saw them glancing into the windows of every carriage in the hope of finding a seat. Two porters carried their small baggage. An obsequious guard followed in the rear. Just as they were opposite to the carriage in which I was sitting the whistle blew.
"Plenty of room higher up!" the inspector exclaimed. "Take your seats, please."
"We will get in here," the girl answered,—"that is to say, unless it is a reserved carriage. Please to open the door at once."
The inspector hesitated, remembering the tip which I had given him, but he had no alternative. The guard produced his key and opened the door. It was not until that moment that the girl recognized me. She stepped back, and the look which she threw in my direction was certainly not flattering.
"Can you find us another carriage?" she asked the guard, imperiously.
"Quite impossible, miss," the man answered. "You must get in here or be left behind."
They had barely time to take their seats. As my place was next to the window, I felt bound to help the porter hand in the small packages. The man Delora, who was wrapped up in a fur coat, and who looked ghastly ill, thanked me courteously enough, but the girl ignored my assistance. They took the two corner seats at the further end of the carriage. Delora immediately composed himself to sleep.
"It was a wretched crossing!" he said to the girl,—"the most miserable crossing I have ever had! And these trains,—so small, so uncomfortable!"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"When one travels," she said, "I suppose that one must put up with inconveniences of all sorts."
I knew very well that the last part of her sentence not only had reference to me, but was intended for my hearing. I affected, however, to be absorbed in the magazine which I was reading, and under cover of which I was able to make a close observation of the man, who was sitting on the same side as myself. He had put up his feet and closed his eyes, but he had evidently suffered badly from sea-sickness, for his face remained almost deathly white, and he shivered now and then as though with cold. He had lost the well-groomed air which had distinguished him in Paris. His features were haggard and worn, and he looked at least ten years older. His clothes were excellently made, and the fur coat which he had wrapped around himself was magnificent. For the rest, he seemed tired out—a man utterly wearied of life. Before we had reached the town station he was asleep.
The train rushed on into the darkness, and after a time I ventured to glance toward the girl. She, too, was leaning back in her place, but her face was turned a little away from me towards the window, through which she was gazing with the obvious intentness of one whose thoughts are far away. I had all my life been used to observing closely people of either sex who interested me, and I found now, as I had found during those various accidental meetings in Paris, that the study of this young woman afforded me a peculiar pleasure. Apart from her more personal fascination, she was faultlessly dressed. She wore a black tailor-made suit, perhaps a little shorter than is usual for travelling in England, patent shoes,—long and narrow,—and black silk stockings. Her hat was a small toque, and her veil one of those for which Frenchwomen are famous,—very large, but not in the least disfiguring. This, however, she had raised for the present, and I was able to study the firm but fine profile of her features, to notice the delicacy of her chin, her small, well-shaped ears, her eyebrows—black and silky. Her eyes themselves were hidden from me, but their color had been the first thing which had attracted me. They were of a blue so deep that sometimes they seemed as black as her eyebrows themselves. It was only when she smiled or came into a strong light that they seemed suddenly to flash almost to violet. Her figure was slim—she was, indeed, little more than a girl—but very shapely and elegant. She could scarcely be called tall, but there was something in her carriage which seemed to exaggerate her height. The very poise of her head indicated a somewhat contemptuous indifference to the people amongst whom she moved.
I had kept my scrutiny under control, prepared for any sudden movement on the part of the girl; but after all she was too quick for me. She turned from the window with a perfectly natural movement, and yet so swiftly that our eyes met before I could look away. She leaned a little forward in her place, and her forehead darkened.
"Perhaps, sir," she said, "you will be good enough to tell me the meaning of your persistent impertinence?"
She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
Her words were so unexpected that for a moment or two I was speechless. On the whole, I scarcely felt that I deserved the cold contempt of her voice or the angry flash in her eyes.
"I am afraid I don't understand you," I said. "If you refer to the fact that I was watching you with some interest at that moment, I suppose I must plead guilty. On the other hand, I object altogether to the term 'impertinence.'"
"And why do you object?" she asked, looking at me steadily, and beating with her little hand the arm-rest by her side. "If your behavior is not impertinence, pray what is it? We meet at the Opera. You look. It is not enough for you that you look once, but you look twice, three times. You come out on to the pavement to hear the address which my uncle gives the chauffeur. We go to a restaurant for supper, where only the few are admitted. You are content to be brought by a waiter, but you are there! You travel to England by the same train,—you walk up and down past my compartment. You presume to address me upon the boat. You give a fee to the guard that he should put us in your carriage. Yet you object to the term 'impertinence'!"
"I do," I answered, "most strongly. I consider your use of the word absolutely uncalled for."
She looked across at the sleeping man. He was breathing heavily, and was evidently quite unconscious of our conversation.
"Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one," she said. "In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told, behaved better."
She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so as not to disturb the sleeping man.
"You are really unjust to me," I said. "I will plead guilty to noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far as regards my visit to the Café des Deux Épingles, I went at the suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is themaître d'hôtelat my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So far as regards your coming into this carriage," I added, "I feed the guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for."
She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My words seemed to have given her food for thought.
"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "Do you mean to say that that was your first visit to the Café des Deux Épingles?"
"Absolutely my first visit," I answered. "I met Louis by accident that night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there."
"You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were," she remarked.
"That is quite true," I admitted, "but I scarcely see that there was anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was because I was alone that we went out together."
Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed speaking the truth.
"I do not understand at all," she said. "You mean to tell me, then, that you know nothing of Louis except as amaître d'hôtel, that you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?"
"Absolutely," I answered.
Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in the Café des Deux Épingles.
"How can I believe you?" she exclaimed. "Remember that I saw you strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it! You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly hurt. Is it true?"
"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."
"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of those—those—"
"Those what?" I asked eagerly.
"Those who frequent the Café des Deux Épingles," she said slowly,—"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends."
I shook my head.
"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I know nothing of Louis except as amaître d'hôtelin my favorite restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Café des Deux Épingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added, "were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet."
"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.
I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.
"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.
"Decidedly!" I answered.
"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you rise to strike him."
She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.
"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."
"From you?" she asked.
"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,—listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a cripple. He was thrown from his horse—he was master of hounds in those days—and he has never been able to walk since. He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the time,—was his guest from the beginning of the affair."
The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.
"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Café des Deux Épingles should shield you when you are not one of them,—when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or other you will have to pay the price!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it."
"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure, quite sure of that?"
"In what way?" I asked.
"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us—my uncle and me?"
"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.
She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.
"Tell me," she said,—"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,—is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"
"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply themaître d'hôtelat a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him."
She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was silent.
"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?"
She seemed surprised.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet you speak English so well."
She smiled.
"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always. My people"—she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him—"are all coffee planters."
"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.
"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has finished his business we move on."
"Will you tell me, then," I asked, "why you, too, were at the Café des Deux Épingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious habits. What place had you there?"
She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert her, perhaps by reason of its directness.
"Well," she said, "my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two or three times, and he is always welcome."
"From what I have heard," I remarked, "I should imagine that you and I are the only people who have been allowed to go there without qualifications."
She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then, as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more that she must be quite young.
"Perhaps," she answered. "I do not understand the place or its habitués. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful."
"Tell me," I asked, "what are you going to do in London while your uncle looks after his business?"
"Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose," she answered carelessly. "There are always the shops, and the theatres in the evening."
"Where are you going to stay?" I inquired.
"At the Milan, I think," she answered.
Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan, of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively. In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.
"I may come across you, then," I ventured.
She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.
"It would be very pleasant," she said. "I know no one in London. I expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?" she asked.
"As much there as anywhere," I answered. "I have never settled down since I sent in my papers."
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith," I answered, "and I could not get round in time. I haven't altogether finished soldiering, though," I added. "At least, I hope not."
"But where do you call your home, then?" she asked timidly.
"I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one," I answered. "I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother, and I have just a couple of rooms in town."
The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The little current of air which came in through the half-open window was already murky and depressing.
"It is London?" she asked.
"We shall be there in ten minutes," I answered, looking out.
She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.
"We shall be there in ten minutes," she said.
"So soon!" he answered. "Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?" he asked me.
"On your side," I answered.
He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.
"You will be smothered," the girl remarked.
"I am cold," he answered, in a low tone. "I am always cold after I have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful."
Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!
The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform, and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.
"Can I be of any service to you?" I asked the girl, as I collected my small belongings. "I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the journey."
She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than physical sickness.
"I thank you, sir," he said rapidly. "You could, if you would, be of immense service."
"I should be delighted," I answered. "Tell me in what way?"
"I am exceedingly ill," the man said, with a groan. "I suffer from heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment, and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good."
I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with distressed face.
"If you will allow me," I said, "it will give me very great pleasure to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have luggage to be examined."
"It is very kind of you," she said hesitatingly. "Don't you think, though," she added, turning to her uncle, "that I had better go with you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards."
"No, no!" he objected impatiently. "I shall call at the chemist's. I shall get something that will put me right quickly."
"It is settled, then," I declared.
Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary haste.
"We will have our small things put into an omnibus," I said. "There will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our registered luggage."
"You are very kind," she murmured absently.
Her eyes were still watching the spot where her companion had disappeared.
I was fortunate enough to find a disengaged omnibus, and filled it with our rugs and smaller belongings. Then we made our way slowly back to the little space prepared for the reception of the heavier baggage, and around which a barrier had already been erected. There was a slight nervousness in my companion's manner which made conversation difficult. I, too, could not help feeling that the situation was a difficult one for her.
"I am afraid," I remarked, "that you are worried about your uncle. Is his health really bad, or is this just a temporary attack? I thought he looked well enough in the train on the other side."
"He suffers sometimes," she answered, "but I do not think it is anything really serious."
"He will be all right by the time we get to the hotel," I declared.
"Very likely," she answered. "For myself, I think that I always feel a little nervous when I arrive at a strange place. I have never been here before, you know, and I could not help wondering, for a moment, what would become of me if my uncle were really taken ill. Everyone says that London is so big and cold and heartless."
"You would have nothing to fear," I assured her. "You forget, too, that your uncle has friends here."
We leaned over the barrier and watched the luggage being handed out of the vans and thrown on to the low wooden platforms. By my side a dark young man, with sallow features andpince nez, was apparently passing his time in the same manner. My companion, who was restless all the time, glanced at him frequently, or I should scarcely have noticed his existence. In dress and appearance he resembled very much the ordinary valet in private service, except for his eye-glasses, and that his face lacked the smooth pastiness of the class. For some reason or other my companion seemed to take a dislike to him.
"Come," she said to me, "we will move over to the other side. I think we shall get in quicker."
I followed her lead, and I saw her glance back over her shoulder at the young man, who seemed unaware, even, of her departure.
"I do hate being listened to," she said, "even when one is talking about nothing in particular!"
"Who was listening to us?" I asked.
"The young man next to you," she answered. "I could see him look up in that horrid stealthy way from under his eyelids."
I laughed.
"You are a very observant person," I remarked.
She drew a little closer to me. Somehow or other I found the sense of her near presence a delightful thing. All her garment seemed imbued with a faint perfume, as though of violets.
"I think that I have only become so quite lately," she said. "Perhaps it is because I have lived such a quiet life, and now things are so different. My uncle has been so mysterious, especially during the last few days, and I suppose it has made me suspicious. Wherever we go, I always seem to fancy that some one is watching us. Besides, I am sure that that young man was a South American, and I hate South Americans!"
"I fancy," I said, "that the attention he bestowed upon us was due to a more obvious cause."
"Please do not talk like that," she begged. "I do not wish for compliments from you. I have been told always that Englishmen are so truthful. One has compliments from Frenchmen, from Spaniards, and from South Americans. They fall like froth from their lips, and one knows all the time that it means nothing, and less than nothing. It is such a pity!"
"Why a pity?" I asked, more for the sake of keeping her talking than anything. "Certainly it is a picturesque habit of speech."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I do not like it," she said quietly. "By degrees, one comes to believe nothing that any man says, even when he is in earnest. Remember, Capitaine Rotherby, I hope that I shall never hear a compliment from you."
"I will be careful," I promised her, "but you must remember that there is sometimes a very fine distinction. I may be driven to say something which sounds quite nice, because it is the truth."
She laughed at me with her eyes, a habit of hers which from the first I had admired. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten her anxieties.
"You are worse than these others," she murmured. "I believe—no, I am quite sure, that you are more dangerous! Come, they are ready for us."
The barriers were thrown open, and a little stream of people entered the enclosed space. My companion's trunks were all together, and easily found. The officer bent over, chalk in hand, and asked a few courteous questions. At that moment I became aware that the young man in eye-glasses was standing once more by my side. Her trunks were promptly marked, and I directed the porter to take them to our omnibus. Then we moved on a little to where my things were. The young man sauntered behind us, and stopped to light a cigarette. My companion's fingers fell upon my arm.
"He is everywhere!" she murmured. "What does he want?"
I turned round sharply and caught him in the act of inspecting my labels. I was beginning now to lose my temper.
"May I ask," I said, standing in his way, "to what we owe—this young lady and I—your interest in us and our concerns?"
He stared at me blankly.
"I do not understand you, sir," he said.
I was foolish enough to lose my temper. A policeman was standing within a few feet of us, and I appealed to him.
"This person annoys us," I said, pointing him out, "by following us everywhere we go. The young lady is carrying a jewel-case, and I have papers of some importance myself. Will you kindly ask him to move on, or ascertain whether he is abona fidetraveller?"
The young man smiled faintly. The policeman answered me civilly, but I knew at once that I had made a mistake.
"This gentleman is well known to us, sir," he said. "I do not think you will find him causing you any trouble."
"I hope, at any rate," I said, turning away, "that we have seen the last of him."
Apparently we had,—for the moment, at any rate. I claimed my own belongings, and had them sent down to the omnibus. Then I handed my companion in and was on the point of joining her, when I saw walking along the platform, within a few feet of us, the policeman to whom I had appealed. I turned back to him.
"I wonder," I said, drawing him a little on one side, "if you would care to earn a sovereign without committing a breach of duty?"
He looked at me stolidly. Apparently he thought that silence was wisest.
"You said that that young man who followed us about here was well known to you," I said. "Who is he?"
"It is not my place to tell you, sir," the man answered, and passed on.
I stepped into the 'bus and we drove off. As we turned out of the station I caught a last glimpse of our shadower. He was standing close to the main exit with his hands behind him, looking up to the sky as though anxious to discover whether it were still raining. He looked into our 'bus as it clattered by, and my companion, who caught sight of him, leaned back in her seat.
"I am sure," she declared firmly, "that that is a detective."
I was equally certain of it, but I only laughed.
"If he is," I said, "it is certainly not you who needs to be anxious. There can be no question as to whom he is watching. You must remember that although those mysterious people up at the Place d'Anjou may be powerful in their way, they would have to be very clever indeed to protect me absolutely. It is pretty well known over here that I had threatened to kill Tapilow wherever I met him."
She looked at me for a moment, doubtfully, and then she shook her head.
"It is not you whom they are watching," she said.
"Who, then?" I asked.
"My uncle and me," she answered.
I looked at her curiously.
"Tell me," I said, "why you think that? Your uncle is a man of position, and has legitimate business here. Why should he be watched by detectives?"
She shook her head.
"I suppose it is because we are foreigners," she said, "but ever since my uncle fetched me from Bordeaux we seem to have been watched by some one wherever we go."
"You will not suffer much from that sort of thing over here," I remarked cheerfully. "England is not a police-ridden country like Germany, or even France."
"I know," she answered, "and yet I have told you before how I feel about arriving in England. There seems something unfriendly in the very atmosphere, something which depresses me, which makes me feel as though there were evil times coming."
I laughed reassuringly.
"You are giving way to fancies," I said. "I am sure that London is doing its best for you. See, the rain is all over. We have even continental weather to welcome you. Look at the moon. For London, too," I added, "the streets seem almost gay."
She leaned out of the window. A full moon was shining in a cloudless sky. The theatres were just over. The pavements were thronged with men and women, and the streets were blocked with carriages and hansoms on their way to the various restaurants. At the entrance to the Milan our omnibus was stopped for several moments whilst motors and carriages of all descriptions, with their load of men and women in evening clothes, passed slowly by and turned in at the courtyard. We found ourselves at last at the doors of the hotel, and I received the usual welcome from my friend the hall-porter.
"Back again once more, you see, Ashley," I remarked. "I have brought Miss Delora on from the station. Her uncle is here already. We came over by the same train."
The reception clerk stepped forward and smilingly acknowledged my greeting. He bowed, also, to my companion.
"We are very pleased to see you, Miss Delora," he said. "We were expecting you and Mr. Delora to-night."
"My uncle came on at once from the station," she said, "He was not feeling very well."
The clerk bowed, but seemed a little puzzled.
"Will you tell me where I can find Mr. Delora?" she asked.
"Mr. Delora has not yet arrived, madam," the clerk answered.
She looked at him for a moment, speechless.
"Not arrived?" I interrupted. "Surely you must be mistaken, Dean! He left Charing Cross half an hour before us."
The clerk shook his head.
"I am quite sure, Captain Rotherby," he said, "that Mr. Delora has not been here to claim his rooms. He may have entered the hotel from the other side, and be in the smoking-room or the American bar, but he has not been here."
There was a couch close by, and my companion sat down. I could see that she had turned very white.
"Send a page-boy round the hotel," I told the hall-porter, "to inquire if Mr. Delora is in any of the rooms. If I might make the suggestion," I continued, turning towards her, "I would go upstairs at once. You may find, after all, that Mr. Dean has made a mistake, and that your uncle is there."
"Why, yes!" she declared, jumping up. "I will go at once. Do you mind—will you come with me?"
"With pleasure!" I answered.
I paused for a moment to give some instructions about my own luggage. Then I stepped into the lift with the clerk and her.
"Your uncle, I hope, is not seriously indisposed, Miss Delora?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" she answered. "He found the crossing very rough, and he is not very strong. But I do not think that he is really ill."
"It is a year since we last had the pleasure," the clerk continued.
She nodded.
"My uncle was over then," she remarked. "For me this is the first time. I have never been in England before."
The lift stopped.
"What floor are we on?" the girl asked.
"The fifth," the clerk answered. "We have quite comfortable rooms for you, and the aspect that your uncle desired."
We passed along the corridor and he opened the door, which led into a small hall and on into a sitting-room. The clerk opened up all the rooms.
"You will see, as I told you before, Miss Delora," he said, "that there is no one here. Your uncle's rooms open out from the right. The bathroom is to the left there, and beyond are your apartments."
She peered into each of the rooms. They were indeed empty.
"The apartments are very nice," she said, "but I do not understand what has become of my uncle."
"He will be up in a few minutes, without a doubt," the clerk remarked. "Is there anything more that I can do for you, madam? Shall I send the chambermaid or the waiter to you?"
"Not yet," she answered. "I must wait for my uncle. Will you leave word below that he is to please come up directly he arrives?"
"Certainly, madam!" the clerk answered, turning towards the door.
I should have followed him from the room, but she stopped me.
"Please don't go," she said. "I am very foolish, I know, but I am afraid!"
"I will stay, of course," I answered, sitting down by her side upon the couch, "but let me assure you that there is nothing whatever to fear. Your uncle may have had a slight cab accident, or he may have met with a friend and stopped to talk for a few minutes. In either case he will be here directly. London, you know, is not the city of mysteries that Paris is. There is very little, indeed, that can happen to a man between Charing Cross Station and the Milan Hotel."
She leaned forward a little and buried her face in her hands.
"Please don't!" I begged. "Indeed, I mean what I say! There is no cause to be anxious. Your uncle spoke of stopping at a chemist's. They may be making up his prescription. A hundred trivial things may have happened to keep him."
"You do not know!" she murmured.