There was no doubt about it that Delora had disappeared. I followed the reception clerk downstairs myself within the space of a few minutes, and made the most careful inquiries in every part of the hotel. It did not take me very long to ascertain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he was not upon the premises, nor had he yet been seen by any one connected with the place. I even walked to the corner of the courtyard and looked aimlessly up and down the Strand. Within those few hundred yards which lay between where I was standing and Charing Cross something had happened which had prevented his reaching the hotel. It may have been the slightest of accidents. It might be something more serious. Or it might even be, I was forced to reflect, that he had never intended coming! Presently I returned to the suite of rooms upon the fifth floor to make my report to Miss Delora. I found her calmer than I had expected, but her face fell when I was forced to confess that I had heard no news.
"I am sorry," I said, "but there is no doubt that up to the present, at any rate, your uncle has not been here. I am quite sure, though," I added, "that there is no cause for alarm. A hundred slight accidents might have happened to detain him for half an hour or so."
She glanced at the clock.
"It is more than that," she said softly.
"Tell me," I asked, "would you like me to communicate with the police? They are in touch with the hospitals, and if any misfortune has happened to your uncle—which, after all, is scarcely likely—we should hear of it directly."
She shook her head vigorously. The idea, for some reason, seemed to displease her.
"No!" she said. "Why should we appeal to the police? What have they to do with my uncle? I am quite sure that he would not wish that."
"I presume," I said, "that nothing of this sort has ever happened before?—I mean that he has not left you without warning?"
"Not under the same circumstances," she admitted. "And yet, he has a very queer way of absenting himself every now and then."
"For long?" I asked.
"It depends," she answered. "Never for any length of time, though."
"After all," I remarked, "you cannot have seen such a great deal of him. He lives in South America, does he not, and you have never been out of France?"
"It is true," she murmured.
"I noticed," I continued thoughtfully, "that he seemed disturbed as we neared London."
She drew out the pins from her hat, and with a little gesture of relief threw it upon the table.
"Please sit down for a minute," she said. "I want to think."
She leaned forward upon the couch, her head buried in her hands. I felt that she desired silence, so I said nothing. Several moments passed, then there came a sudden and unexpected interruption. The bell of the telephone instrument, which stood between us upon the table, commenced to ring. Her hands fell from before her face. She looked across at me with parted lips and wide-open eyes. I made a movement towards the instrument, but she checked me.
"Stop!" she said. "Wait a moment! Let me think!"
She had risen to her feet. We stood looking at one another across the table. Between us was the telephone instrument and the bell which had just rung out its summons.
"Are you not going to answer it?" I asked.
"I am afraid!" she answered. "I do not know what has come over me. I am afraid! Take up the receiver. Tell me who it is who speaks."
"You are sure that you wish it?" I asked.
"At once!" she insisted. "They will have gone away."
The bell rang again. I took the receiver into my hands.
"Who is there?" I asked.
"Is that the apartment of Mr. Delora?" was the reply.
"Yes!" I said.
"I wish to speak to Miss Felicia Delora," the voice said.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"It does not matter," was the answer. "Be so good as to tell her to come to the telephone—Miss Felicia Delora."
I held the receiver away from me and turned to her.
"Some one wishes to speak to you," I said.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"The person gave no name," I answered.
"Did you recognize the voice?" she asked.
I hesitated.
"I was not sure," I said. "It was like your uncle's."
She took the instrument into her hand. What passed between her and the person at the other end I had, of course, no means of telling. All I know was that she said, at short intervals,—"Yes! No! Yes! I promise!" Then she laid the instrument down and looked at me.
"The mystery is solved," she said. "My uncle has met some friends, and stayed with them for a little time to discuss a matter of business. I am sorry to have been so troublesome to you. My anxieties, of course, are at an end now."
I bowed, and moved toward the door.
"If there is anything else that I can do—" I said.
"I shall ask you," she answered, looking at me earnestly. "I shall, indeed."
"My number is 128," I said. "I am two floors above you. Please do not forget to make use of me if you need a friend."
"I shall not forget," she answered softly.
Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, she held out her hand,—a small white hand with rather long fingers, manicured to a perfection unusual in this country. She wore only one ring, in which was set a magnificent uncut emerald. I held her fingers for a moment, and raised them to my lips.
"I shall be always at your service," I answered quietly, "however much—or however little you may care to tell me. Goodnight!"
I went to my rooms and washed. Afterwards I descended and ordered some supper in the café.
"Louis is not back yet?" I remarked to the waiter who attended to me.
"Not yet, monsieur," the man answered. "We expect him some time to-morrow. Monsieur is also from Paris?"
I nodded, and did not pursue the subject. On my way back to my rooms half an hour later I stopped to speak for a few minutes with the hall-porter.
"Mr. Delora has not arrived yet, sir," he remarked.
"No!" I answered. "I dare say there has been some slight mistake. I fancy that he has telephoned to his niece."
The hall-porter looked a little puzzled.
"It is rather a curious thing, sir," he said, "but there seem to be a good many people who are wanting to see Mr. Delora. We have had at least a dozen inquiries for him during the last few days, and all from people who refuse to leave their names."
I nodded.
"Business friends, perhaps," I remarked. "Mr. Delora comes over to keep friends with his connections here, I suppose."
The hall-porter coughed discreetly but mysteriously.
"No doubt, sir," he remarked.
I went on my way to my rooms, not caring to pursue the conversation. Yet I felt that there was something beneath it all. Ashley knew or guessed something which he would have told me with very little encouragement. Over a final cigarette I tried to think the matter out. Here were these people, remarkable for nothing except the obviously foreign appearance of the man, and the good taste and beauty of the girl. I had seen them at every fashionable haunt in Paris, and finally at a restaurant which Louis had frankly admitted to be the meeting-place of people whose careers were by no means above suspicion. I had crossed with them to England, and if their presence on the train were not the cause for Louis' insisting upon my hurried departure from Paris, it at any rate afforded him gratification to think that I might, perhaps, make their acquaintance. During the whole of the journey neither of them had made the slightest overture towards me. That we had come together at all was, without doubt, accidental. I did not for a moment doubt the girl's first attitude of irritation towards me. It was just as certain that her uncle had shown no desire whatever to make my acquaintance. I remembered his curious agitation as we had reached London, his muttered excuse of sea-sickness, and his somewhat extraordinary conduct in leaving his niece alone with me—a perfect stranger—while he hurried off to the hotel at which he had never arrived. Presumably, if that was indeed he who had spoken to the girl upon the telephone, she understood more about the matter than I did. He may have given her some explanation which accounted for his absence. If so, he had obviously desired it to remain a secret. What was the nature of this mystery? Of what was it that he was afraid? Who was this young man who, after his departure, had taken so much interest in his niece and myself at Charing Cross? Was it some one whom he had desired to evade?—a detective, perhaps, or an informer? The riddle was not easy to solve. Common-sense told me that my wisest course was to fulfil my original intention, and take the first train on the morrow to my brother's house in Norfolk. On the other hand, inclination strongly prompted me to stay where I was, to see this thing through, to see more of Felicia Delora! I was thirty years old, free and unencumbered, a moderately impressionable bachelor of moderate means. Until the time when the shadow of this tragedy had come into my life, which had found its culmination in the little restaurant of the Place d'Anjou, things had moved smoothly enough with me. I had had the average number of flirtations, many pleasant friendships. Yet I asked myself now whether there was any one in the past who had ever moved me in the same way as this girl, who was still almost a perfect stranger to me. I hated the man, her uncle. I hated the circumstances under which I had seen her. I hated the mystery by which they were surrounded. It was absolutely maddening for me to reflect that two floors below she was spending the night either with some mysterious and secret knowledge, or in real distress as to her uncle's fate. After all, I told myself a little bitterly, I was a fool! I was old enough to know better! The man himself was an adventurer,—there could be no doubt about it. How was it possible that she could be altogether ignorant of his character?
Then, just as I was half undressed, there came a soft knock at my door. I rose to my feet and stood for a moment undecided. For some time my own personal danger seemed to have slipped out of my memory. Now it came back with a sudden terrible rush. Perhaps the man Tapilow was dead! If so, this was the end!
I went out into the little hall and opened the door. The corridors outside were dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the two men who stood there waiting for me. One was obviously a police inspector, and the man by his side, although he wore plain clothes, could scarcely be anything but a detective.
I looked at the two men, and they returned my gaze with interest.
"Are you Captain Rotherby, sir?" the inspector asked.
I nodded.
"That is my name," I said.
"We shall be glad to have a few words with you, sir," he declared.
"You had better come inside," I answered, and led the way into my sitting-room.
"We have been sent for," the inspector continued, "to inquire into the disappearance of Mr. Delora,—the gentleman who was expected to have arrived at this hotel this evening," he added, referring to his notes.
To me, who with a natural egotism had been thinking of my own affairs, and had been expecting nothing less than arrest, this declaration of the object of their visit had its consolations.
"We understand," the inspector continued, "that you travelled with Mr. Delora and his niece from Folkestone to Charing Cross."
"That is quite true," I answered. "The guard put them in my carriage."
"Did you converse with them during the journey, sir?"
"The man was asleep all the way," I answered. "He never even opened his eyes till we were practically in London."
"You talked, perhaps, with the young lady?" the man inquired.
"If I did," I answered serenely, "it seems to me that it was my business."
The police inspector was imperturbable.
"When was the last time you saw this Mr. Delora?" he asked.
"At Charing Cross Station," I answered. "He left the carriage directly the train stopped and went to get a hansom. He had been sea-sick coming over, and was anxious to get to the hotel very quickly."
"Leaving his niece alone?" the man asked.
"Leaving her in my care," I answered. "We were all coming to the same hotel, and the young lady and I had been in conversation for some time."
"He asked you, then, to take care of her?" the man inquired.
"The request as he made it," I answered, "was a perfectly natural one. By the bye," I continued, "who sent for you?"
"We were advised of Mr. Delora's disappearance by the proprietor of the hotel," the inspector answered.
"How do you know that it is a disappearance at all?" I asked. "Mr. Delora may have met some friends. He is not obliged to come here. In other words, if he chooses to disappear, he surely has a perfect right to! Are you acting upon Miss Delora's instructions?"
"No!" the inspector answered. "Miss Delora has not moved in the matter."
"Then I consider," I declared, "that your action is premature, and I have nothing to say."
The inspector was temporarily nonplussed. My view of the situation was perfectly reasonable, and my assumption that there was some other reason for their visit was not without truth. The man in the plain clothes, who had been listening intently but as yet had not spoken, intervened.
"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I am a detective from Scotland Yard,—in fact I am the head of one of the departments. We know you quite well to be a young gentleman of family, and above suspicion. We feel sure, therefore, that we can rely upon you to help us in any course we may take which is likely to lead to the detection of crime or criminals."
"Up to a certain point," I assented, "you are perfectly right."
"There are circumstances connected with these people the Deloras, uncle and niece," the detective continued, "which require investigation."
"I am sorry," I answered, "but I cannot at present answer any more questions, except with Miss Delora's permission."
"You can tell me this, Captain Rotherby," the detective asked, looking at me keenly, "do you know whether Miss Delora has been in communication with her uncle since she reached the hotel?"
"I have no idea," I answered.
"There is a telephone in her room," the detective continued, without removing his eyes from my face. "We understand from the hall-porter that a message was received by her soon after her arrival."
"Very likely," I answered. "I should suggest that you go and interview Miss Delora. She will probably tell you all about it."
They were both silent. I felt quite certain that they had already done so. At that moment my own telephone bell rang. The two men exchanged quick glances. I took up the receiver.
"Is that Capitaine Rotherby?"
I recognized the voice at once. It was Miss Delora speaking.
"Yes!" I answered.
"I thought I should like to let you know," she continued, "that I am no longer in the least anxious about my uncle. He is always doing eccentric things, and I am sure that he will turn up,—later to-night, perhaps, or at any rate to-morrow. I do not wish any inquiries made about him. It would only annoy him very much when he came to hear of it."
"I am very glad to hear you say so, Miss Delora," I answered. "To tell you the truth, there are some men here at present who are asking me questions. I have told them, however, that you are the only person to whom they should apply."
Her voice, when she answered me, showed some signs of agitation.
"I have not asked the help of the police," she declared, "and I do not need it! They would have come to my rooms, but I refused to receive them."
"I quite agree with you, Miss Delora," I answered. "Good night!"
"Good night, Capitaine Rotherby!" she said softly. I laid down the receiver.
"You have probably overheard my conversation," I said to the inspector. "After that, I can only wish you good night!"
He moved at once to the door in stolid, discontented fashion. The detective, however, lingered.
"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I cannot blame you for your decision. I think, however, it is only fair to warn you that you will probably find yourself better off in the long run if you do not mix yourself up in this affair."
"Indeed!" I answered.
"There are wheels within wheels," the man continued. "I have no charge to make against Mr. Delora. I have no charge to make against any one. But I think that so far as you are concerned, you would be well advised to remember that these are merely travelling companions, and that even the most accomplished man of the world is often deceived in such. Good night, sir!"
They left me then without another word. I heard their footsteps die away along the corridor, the ring of the lift bell, the clatter of its ascent and descent. Then I undressed and went to bed.
I awoke the next morning rather late, dressed and shaved in my rooms, and descended to the café for breakfast. The waiter who usually served me came hurrying up with a welcoming smile.
"Monsieur Louis," he announced, "returned early this morning."
"He is not here now?" I asked, looking around the room.
The waiter smiled deprecatingly.
"But for the early breakfast, no, sir!" he said. "Monsieur Louis will come at one o'clock, perhaps,—perhaps not until dinner-time. He will be here to-day, though."
I unfolded my paper and looked through the list of accidents. There was nothing which could possibly have applied to Mr. Delora. I waited until eleven o'clock, and then sent up my name to Miss Delora. A reply came back almost at once,—Miss Delora had gone out an hour ago, and had left no word as to the time of her return. Once more I was puzzled. Why should she go out unless she had received some news? She had told me that she had no friends in London. It was scarcely likely that she would go out on any casual expedition in her present state of uncertainty. I made my way to the manager's office, whom I knew very well, and with whom I had often had a few minutes' talk. He received me with his usual courtesy, and gave me a handful of cigarettes to try. I lit one, and seated myself in his easy-chair.
"Mr. Helmsley," I said, "you know that I am not, as a rule, a curious person, and I should not like to ask you any questions which you thought improper ones, but you have some guests staying here in whom I am somewhat interested."
Mr. Helmsley nodded, and by his genial silence invited me to proceed.
"I mean Mr. Delora and his niece," I continued.
The smile faded from the manager's face.
"The gentleman who did not arrive last night?" he remarked.
I nodded.
"I travelled up with them," I said, "from Folkestone, and certainly Mr. Delora's behavior was a little peculiar as we neared London. He seemed nervous, and anxious to quit the train at the earliest possible moment. I brought his niece on here, as you know, found that he had not arrived, and I understand that, up to the present, nothing has been heard of him."
"It is quite true," Mr. Helmsley admitted thoughtfully. "The matter was reported to me last night, and very soon afterwards an inspector from Scotland Yard called. I gave him all the information I could, naturally, but on reference to the young lady she declined to consider the matter seriously at all. Her uncle, she said, had probably met some friends, or had made a call upon the way. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else to do but to drop the matter, so far as any direct inquiries were concerned."
I nodded.
"But the man himself?" I asked. "What do you know of him?"
"I have always understood," Mr. Helmsley said slowly, "that he was a gentleman from South America who had large coffee plantations, and who came over every year to sell his produce. He has stayed at the hotel about this time for the last four years. He has always engaged a good suite of rooms, has paid his accounts promptly,—I really do not know anything more about him."
"Has his niece accompanied him always?" I asked.
"Never before," Mr. Helmsley answered,—"at least, not to my recollection."
"You do not know what part of South America he comes from?" I asked.
"I have no idea," Mr. Helmsley declared. "His letters are always forwarded to an agent."
"So practically you can tell me nothing," I said, rising.
"Nothing at all, I fear," Mr. Helmsley answered. "I shall make it a point of calling upon the young lady within an hour or so, to inquire again about her uncle."
"The young lady has gone out," I remarked. "I have just sent my own name up."
Mr. Helmsley raised his eyebrows. He, too, was surprised.
"Then she has probably heard something," he remarked.
"Perhaps," I answered. "By the bye, I understand that Louis is back."
"He came by the night train," Mr. Helmsley answered. "I scarcely expected him so soon. You will probably see him in the café at luncheon-time."
I took my leave of the manager and returned to my own side of the hotel.
"If Miss Delora should come in," I said to the hall-porter on my way to the lift, "please let me know. I shall be in my room, writing letters."
"Miss Delora came in just after you crossed the courtyard, sir," the man answered. "She is in her room now."
"Alone?" I asked.
"I believe that she came in with a gentleman, sir. Shall I ring up and ask for her?"
I hesitated for a moment. I was recalling to myself her statement that she had no friends in London whatsoever.
"Yes!" I answered. "Send up my name, and say that I should like to see her."
The man went to the telephone, and emerged from the box a moment later.
"Miss Delora would be much obliged," he said, "if you would kindly go to her room in a quarter of an hour."
I nodded, and turned away for the lift. The cigarette between my lips was suddenly tasteless. I was experiencing a new sensation, and distinctly an unpleasant one. With it was coupled an intense curiosity to know the identity of the man who was even now with Felicia!
I measured out that quarter of an hour into minutes, and almost into seconds. Then I knocked at the door of the sitting-room, and was bidden enter by Felicia Delora herself. She was alone, but she was dressed for the street, and was apparently just leaving the hotel again. Her clothes were of fashionable make, and cut with the most delightful simplicity. Her toilette was that of the ideal Frenchwoman who goes out for a morning's shopping, and may possibly lunch in the Bois. She was still very pale, however, and the dark lines under her eyes seemed to speak of a sleepless night. I fancied that she welcomed me a little shyly. She dropped her veil almost at once, and she did not ask me to sit down.
"I hope that you have some news this morning of your uncle, Miss Delora?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I have not heard—anything of importance," she answered.
"I am sorry," I said. "I am afraid that you must be getting very anxious."
She bent over the button of her glove.
"Yes," she admitted. "I am very anxious! I am very anxious indeed. I scarcely know what to do."
"Tell me, then," I said, "why do you not let me go with you to the police and have some inquiries made? If you prefer it, we could go to a private detective. I really think that something ought to be done."
She shook her head.
"I dare not," she said simply.
"Dare not?" I repeated.
"Because when he returns," she explained, "he would be so very, very angry with me. He is a very eccentric man—my uncle. He does strange things, and he allows no one to question his actions."
"But he has no right," I declared hotly, "to leave you like this in a strange hotel, without even a maid, without a word of farewell or explanation. The thing is preposterous!"
She had finished buttoning her gloves, and looked up at me with a queer little smile at the corner of her lips and her hands behind her.
"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there are so many things which it seems hard to understand. I myself am very unhappy and perplexed, but I do know what my uncle would wish me to do. He would wish me to remain quite quiet, and to wait."
I was silent for a few moments. It was difficult to reason with her.
"You have been out this morning," I said, a little abruptly.
"I have been out," she admitted. "I do not think, Capitaine Rotherby, that I must tell you where I have been, but I went to the one place where I thought that I might have news of him."
"You brought back with you a companion."
"No, not a companion," she interposed gently. "You must not think that, Capitaine Rotherby. He was just a person who—who had to come. You are not cross with me," she asked, lifting her eyes a little timidly to mine, "that there are some things which I do not tell you?"
"No, I am not cross!" I answered slowly. "Only, if you felt it possible," I added, "to give me your entire confidence, it seems to me that it would be better. I will ask you to believe," I continued, "that I am not merely a curious person. I am—well, more than a little interested."
She held out both her hands and raised her eyes to mine. Through the filmy lace of her veil I could see that they were very soft, almost as though tears were gathering there.
"Oh! I do believe you, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "and I would be very, very happy if I could tell you now all the things which trouble me, all the things which I do not understand! But I may not. I may not—just now."
"Whenever you choose," I answered, "I shall be ready to hear. Whenever you need my services, they are yours."
"You do trust me a little, then?" she asked quickly.
"Implicitly!" I answered.
"You do not mind," she continued, "that I tell you once more that I am going out, and that I must go out alone?"
"Why, no!" I answered. "If you do not need me, there is an end of it."
"You are very good to me," she said. "Perhaps this afternoon, if you have a few minutes to spare, we might talk, eh?"
"At any time you say," I answered.
"At four o'clock, then," she said, "you will come here and sit with me for a little time. Perhaps this evening, if you have nothing to do—" she asked.
"I have nothing to do," I interrupted promptly.
"I do not know how I shall feel," she said, "about going out, but I would like to see you, anyhow."
"I shall come," I promised her. "Some time within the next few days I must go down to Norfolk—"
"To Norfolk?" she interrupted quickly. "Is that far away?"
"Only a few hours," I answered.
"You will stay there?" she exclaimed.
I shook my head.
"I think not," I answered. "I think I shall come back directly I have seen my brother."
She lifted her eyes to mine.
"Why?" she whispered.
"In case I can be of service to you!" I answered.
"You are so very good, so very kind," she said earnestly; "and to think that when I first saw you, I believed—but that does not matter!" she wound up quickly. "Please come to the lift with me and ring the bell. I lose my way in these passages."
I watched her step into the lift, her skirts a little raised, she herself, to my mind, the perfection of feminine grace from the tips of her patent shoes to the black feathers in her hat. She waved her hand to me as the lift shot down, and I turned away....
At exactly half-past one I went down to the café for lunch. The room was fairly full, but almost the first person I saw was Louis, suave and courteous, conducting a party of guests to their places. I took my seat at my accustomed table, and watched him for a few moments as he moved about. What a waiter he must have been, I thought! His movements were swift and noiseless. His eyes seemed like points of electricity, alive to the smallest fault on the part of his subordinates, the slightest frown on the faces of his patrons. There was scarcely a person lunching there who did not feel that he himself was receiving some part of Louis' personal attention. One saw him in the distance, suggesting with his easy smile a suitable luncheon to some bashful youth; or found him, a moment or two later, comparing reminiscences of some wonderful sauce with abon viveur, an habitué of the place. Such a man, I thought, was wasted as amaître d'hôtel.He had the gifts of a diplomatist, the presence and inspiration of a genius.
I had imagined that my entrance into the room was unnoticed, but I found him suddenly bowing before my table.
"ThePlat du Jour," he remarked, "is excellent. Monsieur should try it. After a few days of French cookery," he continued, "a simple English dish is sometimes an agreeable relief."
"Thank you, Louis," I answered. "Tell me what has become of Mr. Delora?"
My sudden attack was foiled with the consummate ease of a master—if, indeed, the man was not genuine.
"Mr. Delora!" he repeated. "Is he not staying here,—he and his niece? I have been looking for them to come into luncheon."
"His niece is here," I answered. "Mr. Delora never arrived."
Louis then did a thing which I have never seen him do before or afterwards,—he dropped something which he was carrying! It was only a wine carte, and he stooped and picked it up at once with a word of graceful apology. But I noticed that when he once more stood erect, the exercise of stooping, so far from having brought any flush into his face, seemed to have driven from it every atom of color.
"You mean that Mr. Delora went elsewhere, Monsieur?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"They travelled up from Folkestone," I said, "in my carriage. At Charing Cross Mr. Delora, who had been suffering, he said, from sea-sickness, and who was certainly very nervous and ill at ease, jumped out before the train had altogether stopped and hurried off to get a hansom to come on here. It had been arranged that I should bring his niece and follow him. When we arrived he had not come. He has not been here since. I have just left his niece, and she assured me that she had no idea where he was."
Louis stood quite still.
"It is a most singular occurrence," he said.
"It is the strangest thing I have ever heard of in my life," I answered.
"Monsieur is very much interested, doubtless," Louis said thoughtfully. "He travelled with them,—he expressed, I believe, an admiration for the young lady. Doubtless he is very much interested."
"So much so, Louis," I answered, "that I intend to do everything I can to solve the mystery of Delora's disappearance. I am an idle man, and it will amuse me."
Louis shook his head.
"Ah!" he said, "it is not always safe to meddle in the affairs of other people! There are wheels within wheels. The disappearance of Mr. Delora may not be altogether so accidental as it seems."
"You mean—" I exclaimed hastily.
"But nothing, monsieur," Louis answered, with a little shrug of the shoulders. "I spoke quite generally. A man disappears, and every one in the world immediately talks of foul play, of murder,—of many such things. But, after all, is that quite reasonable? Most often the man who disappears, disappears of his own accord,—disappears either from fear of things that may happen to him, or because he himself has some purpose to serve."
"You mean to suggest, then, Louis," I said, "that the disappearance of Mr. Delora is a voluntary one?"
Once more Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Who can tell, monsieur?" he answered. "I suggest nothing. I spoke only as one might speak, hearing of this case. One moment, monsieur."
He darted away to welcome some newcomers, ushered them to their table, suggested their lunch, passed up and down the room, stopping here and there to bow to a patron, to examine the dishes standing ready to be served, to correct some fault of service. It seemed to me, as I watched him, that he did a hundred things before he returned. Yet in a very few moments he was standing once more before my table, examining with a complacent air the service of my luncheon.
"Monsieur will find thepetits carotsexcellent," he declared. "My friend Henry, he tries to serve this dish, but it is not the same thing; no! Always the vegetables must be served in the country where they are grown. Monsieur will drink something?"
"A pint of Moselle," I ordered. "I dare not order whiskey and soda before you, Louis."
He made a little grimace.
"It is as monsieur wishes," he declared, "but it is a drink withoutfinesse,—a crude drink for a man of monsieur's tastes. It shall be the Moselle No. 197," he added, turning to the waiter. "Do not forget the number. 197," he added, turning to me, "is an absolutely light wine,—for luncheon, delicious!"
We were alone once more. Louis bent, smiling, over my table.
"Monsieur is much interested," he said, "in the disappearance of an acquaintance, a passing travelling companion, but he does not ask of affairs which concern him more gravely."
"Of Tapilow!" I exclaimed quickly.
Louis nodded.
"Tapilow is in an hospital and he will live," Louis declared slowly, "but all his life he will limp, and all his life he will carry a scar from his forehead to his mouth."
I nodded meditatively.
"It is, perhaps," I answered, "a more complete punishment."
I fancied that in Louis' green eyes there shot for a moment a gleam of something like admiration.
"Monsieur has courage," he murmured.
"Why not?" I answered. "We all of us have a certain amount of philosophy, you know, Louis. It was inevitable that when that man and I met, I should try to kill him. I had no weapon that night. I simply took him into my hands. But there, you know the rest. If he had died, I might have had to pay the penalty. It was a risk, but you see I had to take it. The thing was inevitable. The wrong that he had done some one who is very dear to me was too terrible, too hideous, for him to be allowed to go unpunished."
"When he recovers," Louis remarked thoughtfully, "monsieur will have an enemy."
"A great man, Louis, once declared," I reminded him, "that one's enemies were the salt of one's life. One's friends sometimes weary. One's enemies give always a zest to existence."
Again Louis was summoned away. I ate my lunch and sipped my wine. Louis was right. It was excellent, yet likely enough to be overlooked by the casual visitor, for it was of exceedingly moderate price.
So Tapilow was not likely to die! So much the better, perhaps! The time might have come in my life when the whole of that tragedy lay further back in the shadows, and when the thought that I had killed a man, however much he had deserved it, might chill me. I understood from Louis' very reticence that I had nothing now to fear from the law. So far as regards Tapilow himself, I had no fear. It was not likely that he would ever raise his hand against me.
I dismissed the subject from my thoughts. It was just then I remembered that, after all, I had not gathered from Louis a single shred of information on the subject in which I was most interested. I almost smiled when I remembered how admirably he had contrived to elude my curiosity. The only thing which I gathered from his manner was that Mr. Delora's disappearance was unexpected by him. Never mind, the end was not yet! I ordered coffee and a liqueur, and laid my cigarette case upon the table. I would wait until Louis chose to come to me once more. There were certain things which I intended to ask him point blank.
Louis returned of his own accord before long.
"Monsieur has been well served?" he asked genially.
"Excellently, Louis," I answered, "so far as the mere question of food goes. You have not, however, managed to satisfy my curiosity."
"Monsieur?" he asked interrogatively.
"Concerning the Deloras," I answered.
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"But what should I know?" he asked. "Mr. Delora, he has come here last year and the year before. He has stayed for a month or so. He understands what he eats. That is all. Mademoiselle comes for the first time. I know her not at all."
"What do you think of his disappearance, Louis?" I asked.
"What should I think of it, monsieur? I know nothing."
"Mr. Delora, I am told," I continued, "is a coffee planter in South America."
"I, too," Louis admitted, "have heard so much."
"How came he to have theentréeto the Café des Deux Épingles?" I asked.
Louis smiled.
"I myself," he remarked, "am but a rare visitor there. How should I tell?"
"Louis," said I, "why not be honest with me? I am certainly not a person to be afraid of. I am very largely in your hands over the Tapilow affair, and, as you know, I have seen too much of the world to consider trifles. I do not believe that Mr. Delora came to London to sell his crop of coffee. I do not believe that you are ignorant of his affairs. I do not believe that his disappearance is so much a mystery to you as it is to the rest of us—say to me and to mademoiselle his niece."
Louis' face was like the face of a sphinx. He made no protestations. He denied nothing. He waited simply to see where I was leading him.
"I am not sure, Louis," I said, "that I do not believe that you had some object in taking me to the Café des Deux Épingles that night. Be honest with me. I can be a friend. I have influence here and there, and, as I think you know, I love adventures. Tell me what you know of this affair. Tell me if you had any motive in taking me to the Café des Deux Épingles that night?"
Louis looked around the room with keen, watchful eyes. Without abandoning his attitude of graceful attention to what I was saying, he seemed in those few moments to be absorbing every detail of the progress of the affairs in the restaurant itself. The arrangement of the service at some tables a little way off seemed to annoy him. He frowned and called one of his subordinates, speaking in a rapid undertone to him, and with many gestures. The man hurried away to obey his instructions, and Louis turned to me.
"Monsieur," said he, "there are many times when it is not wise or politic to tell the truth. There are many times, therefore, when I have to speak falsehoods, but I will confess that I do not like it. Always I would prefer the truth, if it were possible. When I saw you at the Opera in Paris I thought of you only as one of my best and most valued patrons. It was only as we stood there talking that another idea came into my head. I acted upon it. There was a reason why I took you to the Café des Deux Épingles!"
"Go on, Louis," I said. "Go on."
"I took you there," Louis continued, "because I knew that some time during the night Tapilow would come. Already I knew what would happen if you two met."
"You wished it to happen, then?" I exclaimed.
Louis bowed.
"Monsieur," he said, "I did wish it to happen! The person of whom we have spoken is no friend of mine, or of my friends. He had entered into a scheme with certain of them, and it was known that he meant to play them false. He deserved punishment, and I was content that he should meet it at your hands."
"Is that all, Louis?" I asked.
"Not all, monsieur," he continued. "I said to myself that if monsieur quarrels with his enemy, and trouble comes of it, it will be I—I and my friends—who can assist monsieur. Monsieur will owe us something for this, and the time may come—the time, indeed, may be very close at hand—when the services of monsieur might be useful."
"Come, Louis," I said, "this is better. Now I am beginning to understand. Go on a little further, if you please. I acknowledge your claim upon me. What can I do?"
"Monsieur likes excitement," Louis murmured.
"Indeed I do!" I answered fervently.
Louis hesitated.
"If there were some plot against this man Delora," he said, "to prevent his carrying out some undertaking, monsieur would help to frustrate it?"
"With all my heart," I answered. "There is only one thing I would ask. What is Mr. Delora's undertaking?—To sell his coffee?"
Louis' inimitable smile spread over his face.
"Ah!" he said, "monsieur is pleased to be facetious!"
Then I knew that I was on the point of learning a little, at any rate, of the truth.
"Mr. Delora has other schemes," Louis said slowly.
"So I imagined," I answered.
I saw Louis half turn his head. There was no change in his tone nor in his expression. Naturally, therefore, his words sounded a little strangely.
"My conversation with monsieur, for the moment, is finished," he said. "There is some one quite close who would give a great deal to overhear. It follows, therefore, that one says nothing. If monsieur will grant me a quarter of an hour at any time, in his room, after four o'clock—"
"At half-past four, Louis," I answered.
Louis gave a final little twist to my tablecloth and departed with a bow. I saw then that at the table next to mine, hidden from me, for the moment, by Louis himself, was seated the man who had stood by our side at Charing Cross!
After luncheon I took a taxicab, called on my tailor, looked in at the club, and bought some cigarettes. The whole of London seemed covered with dust sheets, to smell of paint. My club was in the hands of furbishers. My tobacconist was in his house-boat on the Thames. I met only one or two acquaintances, who seemed so sorry for themselves that their depression was only heightened by recognizing me. The streets were given over to a strangely clad crowd of pilgrims from other lands,—American women with short coats,pince nez, and Baedekers, dragging along their mankind in neat suits and outrageous hats. One seemed to recognize nothing familiar even in the shop-windows. I was glad enough to get back to the Milan, especially so as in the lift I came upon Felicia. She started a little at seeing me, and seemed a little nervous. When the lift stopped at her floor I got out too.
"Let me walk with you to your room," I said. "It is nearly four o'clock."
"If you please," she answered. "I wanted to speak to you, Capitaine Rotherby. There was something I forgot to say before I went out this morning."
I sighed.
"There is always a good deal that I forget to say when I am with you!" I answered.
She smiled.
"You, too!" she exclaimed. "You are beginning to say the foolish things! But never mind, we do not joke now. I speak seriously. Louis—Louis is back, eh?"
"Certainly," I answered. "He was in the café at luncheon time."
"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, as we passed into her room together, "Louis is a very strange person. I think that he has some idea in his head about you just now. Will you promise me this,—that you will be careful?"
"Careful?" I repeated. "I don't quite understand; but I'll promise all the same."
She took hold of the lapels of my coat as though to pull me down a little towards her. I felt my heart beat quickly, for the deep blue light was in her eyes.
"Ah, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "you do not understand! This man Louis—he is not only what he seems! I think that he took you to the Café des Deux Épingles that night with a purpose. He thinks, perhaps, that you are in his power, eh, because you did fight with the other man and hurt him badly? And Louis knows!"
"Please go on," I said.
"I want you to be careful," she said. "If he asks you to do anything for him, be sure that it is something which you ought to do,—which you may do honorably! You see, Capitaine Rotherby," she went on, "Louis and his friends are not men like you. They are more subtle,—they have, perhaps, more brain,—but I do not think that they are honest! Louis may try to frighten you into becoming like them. He may try very many inducements," she went on, looking up at me. "You must not listen. You must promise me that you will not listen."
"I promise with all my heart," I answered, "that neither Louis nor any one else in the world shall make me do anything which I feel to be dishonorable."
"Louis is very crafty," she whispered. "He may make a thing seem as though it were all right when it is not, you understand?"
"Yes, I understand!" I answered. "But tell me, how did you get to know so much about Louis?"
"It does not matter—that," she answered, a little impatiently. "I have heard of Louis from others. I know the sort of man he is. I think that he will make some proposal to you. Will you be careful?"
"I promise," I answered "May I see you again to-day? Remember," I pleaded, "that I am staying here only for your sake. I ought to have gone to Norfolk this afternoon."
She drew a little sigh.
"I wonder!" she said, half to herself. "I think, perhaps,—yes, we will dine together, monsieur, you and I!" she said. "You must take me somewhere where it is quite quiet—where no one will see us!"
"Not down in the café, then?" I asked smiling.
She held up her hands in horror.
"But no!" she declared. "If it is possible, let us get away somewhere without Louis knowing."
"It can be arranged," I assured her. "May I come in and see you later on, and you shall tell me where to meet you?"
She thought for a minute.
"At seven o'clock," she answered. "Please go away now. I have a dressmaker coming to see me."
I turned away, but I had scarcely gone half a dozen paces before she called me back.
"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there is something to tell you."
I waited expectantly.
"Yes?" I murmured.
She avoided meeting my eyes.
"You need not trouble any further about my uncle," she said. "He has returned."
"Returned!" I exclaimed. "When?"
"A very short time ago," she answered. "He is very unwell. It will not be possible for any one to see him for a short time. But he has returned!"
"I am very glad indeed," I assured her.
Her face showed no signs of exultation or relief. I could not help being puzzled at her demeanor. She gave me no further explanation.
There was a ring at the door, and she motioned me away.
"The dressmaker!" she exclaimed.
I went upstairs to my rooms to wait for Louis.