He had been kept waiting longer than usual, and he had somehow the feeling that his visit was ill-timed, when at last she came to him. He looked up eagerly as she entered the little reception room which he had grown to know so well during the last few weeks, and it struck him for the first time that her welcome was a little forced, her eyes a little weary.
“I haven’t,” he said apologetically, “the least right to be here.”
“At least,” she murmured, “I may be permitted to remind you that you are here without an invitation.”
“The worse luck,” he said, “that one should be necessary.”
“This is the one hour of the day,” she remarked, sinking into a large easy-chair, “which I devote to repose. How shall I preserve my fleeting youth if you break in upon it in this ruthless manner?”
“If I could only truthfully say that I was sorry,” he answered, “but I can’t. I am here—and I would rather be here than anywhere else in the world.”
She looked at him with curving lips; and even he, who had watched her often, could not tell whether that curve was of scorn or mirth.
“They told me,” she said impressively, “that you were different—a woman-hater, honest, gruff, a little cynical. Yet those are the speeches of your salad days. What a disenchantment!”
“The things which one invents when one is young,” he said, “come perhaps fresh from the heart in later life. The words may sound the same, but there is a difference.”
“Come,” she said, “you are improving. That at any rate is ingenious. Suppose you tell me now what has brought you here before four o’clock, when I am not fit to be seen?”
He smiled. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I mean it. I haven’t either my clothes or my manners on yet. Come, explain.”
“I met a man who interested me,” he answered. “He comes from America, from Lenox!”
He saw her whiten. He saw her fingers clutch the sides of her chair.
“From Lenox? And his name?”
“The Duke of Souspennier! He takes himself so seriously that he even travels incognito. At the hotel he calls himself Mr. Sabin.”
“Indeed!”
“I wondered whether you might not know him?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“And in connection with this man,” Brott continued, “I have something in the nature of a confession to make. I forgot for a moment your request. I even mentioned your name.”
The pallor had spread to her cheeks, even to her lips. Yet her eyes were soft and brilliant, so brilliant that they fascinated him.
“What did he say? What did he ask?”
“He asked for your address. Don’t be afraid. I made some excuse. I did not give it.”
For the life of him he could not tell whether she was pleased or disappointed. She had turned her shoulder to him. She was looking steadily out of the window, and he could not see her face.
“Why are you curious about him?” she asked.
“I wish I knew. I think only because he came from Lenox.”
She turned her face slowly round towards him. He was astonished to see the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.
“The Duke of Souspennier,” she said slowly, “is an old and a dear friend of mine. When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious because there are many here who are not his friends—who have no cause to love him.”
“I was wrong then,” he said, “not to give him your address.”
“You were right,” she answered. “I am anxious that he should not know it. You will remember this?” He rose and bowed over her hand.
“This has been a selfish interlude,” he said. “I have destroyed your rest, and I almost fear that I have also disturbed your peace of mind. Let me take my leave and pray that you may recover both.”
She shook her head.
“Do not leave me,” she said. “I am low-spirited. You shall stay and cheer me.”
There was a light in his eyes which few people would have recognised. She rose with a little laugh and stood leaning towards the fire, her elbow upon the broad mantel, tall, graceful, alluring. Her soft crimson gown, with its wealth of old lace, fell around her in lines and curves full of grace. The pallor of her face was gone now—the warmth of the fire burned her cheeks. Her voice became softer.
“Sit down and talk to me,” she murmured. “Do you remember the old days, when you were a very timid young secretary of Sir George Nomsom, and I was a maid-of-honour at the Viennese Court? Dear me, how you have changed!”
“Time,” he said, “will not stand still for all of us. Yet my memory tells me how possible it would be—for indeed those days seem but as yesterday.”
He looked up at her with a sudden jealousy. His tone shook with passion. No one would have recognised Brott now. In his fiercest hour of debate, his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask, always master of himself and his speech. And now he had cast it off. His eyes were hungry, his lips twitched.
“As yesterday! Lucille, I could kill you when I think of those days. For twenty years your kiss has lain upon my lips—and you—with you—it has been different.”
She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with her lips. She watched him curiously.
“Dear me!” she murmured, “what would you have? I am a woman—I have been a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold. So I will admit that with me—it has been different. Come! What then?”
He groaned.
“I wonder,” he said, “what miserable fate, what cursed stroke of fortune brought you once more into my life?”
She threw her head back and laughed at him, this time heartily, unaffectedly.
“What adorable candour!” she exclaimed. “My dear friend, how amiable you are.”
He looked at her steadfastly, and somehow the laugh died away from her lips.
“Lucille, will you marry me?”
“Marry you? I? Certainly not.”
“And why not?”
“For a score of reasons, if you want them,” she answered. “First, because I think it is delightful to have you for a friend. I can never quite tell what you are going to do or say. As a husband I am almost sure that you would be monotonous. But then, how could you avoid it? It is madness to think of destroying a pleasant friendship in such a manner.”
“You are mocking me,” he said sadly.
“Well,” she said, “why not? Your own proposal is a mockery.”
“A mockery! My proposal!”
“Yes,” she answered steadily. “You know quite well that the very thought of such a thing between you and me is an absurdity. I abhor your politics, I detest your party. You are ambitious, I know. You intend to be Prime Minister, a people’s Prime Minister. Well, for my part, I hate the people. I am an aristocrat. As your wife I should be in a perfectly ridiculous position. How foolish! You have led me into talking of this thing seriously. Let us forget all this rubbish.”
He stood before her—waiting patiently, his mouth close set, his manner dogged with purpose.
“It is not rubbish,” he said. “It is true that I shall be Prime Minister. It is true also that you will be my wife.”
She shrank back from him—uneasily. The fire in his eyes, the ring in his tone distressed her.
“As for my politics, you do not understand them. But you shall! I will convert you to my way of thinking. Yes, I will do that. The cause of the people, of freedom, is the one great impulse which beats through all the world. You too shall hear it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe in what you call freedom for the people. I have discovered in America how uncomfortable a people’s country can be.”
“Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess Radantz... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!”
“It is true, my friend,” she answered. “But the American in question was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he was no more a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant woman, and he was a millionaire.”
“And you, after his death, without necessity—went to bury yourself in his country.”
“Why not?”
“I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me,” he said slowly.
“Dear me—how uncomfortable!”
“Before you—reappeared,” he said, “I had learnt, yes I had learnt to do without you. I had sealed up the one chapter of my life which had in it anything to do with sentiment. Your coming has altered all that. You have disturbed the focus of my ambitions. Lucille! I have loved you for more than half a lifetime. Isn’t it time I had my reward?”
He took a quick step towards her. In his tone was the ring of mastery, the light in his eyes was compelling. She shrank back, but he seized one of her hands. It lay between his, a cold dead thing.
“What have my politics to do with it?” he asked fiercely. “You are not an Englishwoman. Be content that I shall set you far above these gods of my later life. There is my work to be done, and I shall do it. Let me be judge of these things. Believe me that it is a great work. If you are ambitious—give your ambitions into my keeping, and I will gratify them. Only I cannot bear this suspense-these changing moods. Marry me-now at once, or send me back to the old life.”
She drew her fingers away, and sank down into her easy-chair. Her head was buried in her hands. Was she thinking or weeping? He could not decide. While he hesitated she looked up, and he saw that there was no trace of tears upon her face.
“You are too masterful,” she said gently. “I will not marry you. I will not give myself body and soul to any man. Yet that is what you ask. I am not a girl. My opinions are as dear to me in their way as yours are to you. You want me to close my eyes while you drop sugar plums into my mouth. That is not my idea of life. I think that you had better go away. Let us forget these things.”
“Very well,” he answered. “It shall be as you say.” He did not wait for her to ring, nor did he attempt any sort of farewell. He simply took up his hat, and before she could realise his intention he had left the room. Lucille sat quite still, looking into the fire.
“If only,” she murmured, “if only this were the end.”
Duson entered the sitting-room, noiseless as ever, with pale, passionless face, the absolute prototype of the perfect French servant, to whom any expression of vigorous life seems to savour of presumption. He carried a small silver salver, on which reposed a card.
“The gentleman is in the ante-room, sir,” he announced.
Mr. Sabin took up the card and studied it.
“Lord Robert Foulkes.”
“Do I know this gentleman, Duson?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” the man answered.
“You must show him in,” Mr. Sabin said, with a sigh. “In this country one must never be rude to a lord.”
Duson obeyed. Lord Robert Foulkes was a small young man, very carefully groomed, nondescript in appearance. He smiled pleasantly at Mr. Sabin and drew off his gloves.
“How do you do, Mr. Sabin?” he said. “Don’t remember me, I daresay. Met you once or twice last time you were in London. I wish I could say that I was glad to see you here again.”
Mr. Sabin’s forehead lost its wrinkle. He knew where he was now.
“Sit down, Lord Robert,” he begged. “I do not remember you, it is true, but I am getting an old man. My memory sometimes plays me strange tricks.”
The young man looked at Mr. Sabin and laughed softly. Indeed, Mr. Sabin had very little the appearance of an old man. He was leaning with both hands clasped upon his stick, his face alert, his eyes bright and searching.
“You carry your years well, Mr. Sabin. Yet while we are on the subject, do you know that London is the unhealthiest city in the world?”
“I am always remarkably well here,” Mr. Sabin said drily.
“London has changed since your last visit,” Lord Robert said, with a gentle smile. “Believe me if I say—as your sincere well-wisher—that there is something in the air at present positively unwholesome to you. I am not sure that unwholesome is not too weak a word.”
“Is this official?” Mr. Sabin asked quietly.
The young man fingered the gold chain which disappeared in his trousers pocket.
“Need I introduce myself?” he asked.
“Quite unnecessary,” Mr. Sabin assured him. “Permit me to reflect for a few minutes. Your visit comes upon me as a surprise. Will you smoke? There are cigarettes at your elbow.”
“I am entirely at your service,” Lord Robert answered. “Thanks, I will try one of your cigarettes. You were always famous for your tobacco.”
There was a short silence. Mr. Sabin had seldom found it more difficult to see the way before him.
“I imagined,” he said at last, “from several little incidents which occurred previous to my leaving New York that my presence here was regarded as superfluous. Do you know, I believe that I could convince you to the contrary.”
Lord Robert raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. dear Mr. Sabin,” he said, “pray reflect. I am a messenger. No more! A hired commissionaire!”
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“You are an ambassador!” he said.
The young man shook his head.
“You magnify my position,” he declared. “My errand is done when I remind you that it is many years since you visited Paris, that Vienna is as fascinating a city as ever, and Pesth a few hours journey beyond. But London—no, London is not possible for you. After the seventh day from this London would be worse than impossible.”
Mr. Sabin smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Lord Robert,” he said, “I have, I believe, the right of a personal appeal. I desire to make it.”
Lord Robert looked positively distressed.
“My dear sir,” he said, “the right of appeal, any right of any sort, belongs only to those within the circle.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Sabin agreed. “I claim to belong there.”
Lord Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
“You force me to remind you,” he said, “of a certain decree—a decree of expulsion passed five years ago, and of which I presume due notification was given to you.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head very slowly.
“I deny the legality of that decree,” he said. “There can be no such thing as expulsion.”
“There was Lefanu,” Lord Robert murmured.
“He died,” Mr. Sabin answered. “That was reasonable enough.”
“Your services had been great,” Lord Robert said, “and your fault was but venial.”
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said, “the one was logical, the other is not.”
“You claim, then,” the young man said, “to be still within the circle?”
“Certainly!”
“You are aware that this is a very dangerous claim?”
Mr. Sabin smiled, but he said nothing. Lord Robert hastened to excuse himself.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should have known better than to have used such a word to you. Permit me to take my leave.”
Mr. Sabin rose.
“I thank you, sir,” he said, “for the courteous manner in which you have discharged your mission.”
Lord Robert bowed.
“My good wishes,” he said, “are yours.”
Mr. Sabin when alone called Duson to him.
“Have you any report to make, Duson?” he asked.
“None, sir!”
Mr. Sabin dismissed him impatiently.
“After all, I am getting old. He is young and he is strong—a worthy antagonist. Come, let us see what this little volume has to say about him.”
He turned over the pages rapidly and read aloud.
“Reginald Cyril Brott, born 18—, son of John Reginald Brott, Esq., of Manchester. Educated at Harrow and Merton College, Cambridge, M.A., LL.D., and winner of the Rudlock History Prize. Also tenth wrangler. Entered the diplomatic service on leaving college, and served as junior attache at Vienna.”
Mr. Sabin laid down the volume, and made a little calculation. At the end of it he had made a discovery. His face was very white and set.
“I was at Petersburg,” he muttered. “Now I think of it, I heard something of a young English attache. But—”
He touched the bell.
“Duson, a carriage!”
At Camperdown House he learned that Helene was out—shopping, the hall porter believed. Mr. Sabin drove slowly down Bond Street, and was rewarded by seeing her brougham outside a famous milliner’s. He waited for her upon the pavement. Presently she came out and smiled her greetings upon him.
“You were waiting for me?” she asked.
“I saw your carriage.”
“How delightful of you. Let me take you back to luncheon.”
He shook his head.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I should be poor company. May I drive home with you, at any rate, when you have finished?”
“Of course you may, and for luncheon we shall be quite alone, unless somebody drops in.”
He took his seat beside her in the carriage. “Helene,” he said, “I am interested in Mr. Brott. No, don’t look at me like that. You need have no fear. My interest is in him as a man, and not as a politician. The other days are over and done with now. I am on the defensive and hard pressed.”
Her face was bright with sympathy. She forgot everything except her old admiration for him. In the clashing of their wills the victory had remained with her. And as for those things which he had done, the cause at least had been a great one. Her happiness had come to her through him. She bore him no grudge for that fierce opposition which, after all, had been fruitless.
“I believe you, UNCLE,” she said affectionately. “If I can help you in any way I will.”
“This Mr. Brott! He goes very little into society, I believe.”
“Scarcely ever,” she answered. “He came to us because my husband is one of the few Radical peers.”
“You have not heard of any recent change in him—in this respect?”
“Well, I did hear Wolfendon chaffing him the other day about somebody,” she said. “Oh, I know. He has been going often to the Duchess of Dorset’s. He is such an ultra Radical, you know, and the Dorsets are fierce Tories. Wolfendon says it is a most unwise thing for a good Radical who wants to retain the confidence of the people to be seen about with a Duchess.”
“The Duchess of Dorset,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “must be, well—a middle-aged woman.”
Helene laughed.
“She is sixty if she is a day. But I daresay she herself is not the attraction. There is a very beautiful woman staying with her—the Countess Radantz. A Hungarian, I believe.”
Mr. Sabin sat quite still. His face was turned away from Helene. She herself was smiling out of the window at some acquaintances.
“I wonder if there is anything more that I can tell you?” she asked presently.
He turned towards her with a faint smile.
“You have told me,” he said, “all that I want to know.”
She was struck by the change in his face, the quietness of his tone was ominous.
“Am I meant to understand?” she said dubiously “because I don’t in the least. It seems to me that have told you nothing. I cannot imagine what Mr. Brott and you have in common.”
“If your invitation to lunch still holds good,” he said, “may I accept it? Afterwards, if you can spare me a few minutes I will make things quite clear to you.”
She laughed.
“You will find,” she declared, “that I shall leave you little peace for luncheon. I am consumed with curiosity.”
Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin lunched with discretion, as usual, but with no lack of appetite. It chanced that they were alone. Lord Camperdown was down in the Midlands for a day’s hunting, and Helene had ensured their seclusion from any one who might drop in by a whispered word to the hall porter as they passed into the house. It seemed to her that she had never found Mr. Sabin more entertaining, had never more appreciated his rare gift of effortless and anecdotal conversation. What a marvelous memory! He knew something of every country from the inside. He had been brought at various times during his long diplomatic career into contact with most of the interesting people in the world. He knew well how to separate the grain from the chaff according to the tastes of his listener. The pathos of his present position appealed to her irresistibly. The possibilities of his life had been so great, fortune had treated him always so strangely. The greatest of his schemes had come so near to success, the luck had turned against him only at the very moment of fruition. Helene felt very kindly towards her UNCLE as she led him, after luncheon, to a quiet corner of the winter garden, where a servant had already arranged a table with coffee and liqueurs and cigarettes. Unscrupulous all his life, there had been an element of greatness in all his schemes. Even his failures had been magnificent, for his successes he himself had seldom reaped the reward. And now in the autumn of his days she felt dimly that he was threatened with some evil thing against which he stood at bay single-handed, likely perhaps to be overpowered. For there was something in his face just now which was strange to her.
“Helene,” he said quietly, “I suppose that you, who knew nothing of me till you left school, have looked upon me always as a selfish, passionless creature—a weaver of plots, perhaps sometimes a dreamer of dreams, but a person wholly self-centred, always self-engrossed?”
She shook her head.
“Not selfish!” she objected. “No, I never thought that. It is the wrong word.”
“At least,” he said, “you will be surprised to hear that I have loved one woman all my life.”
She looked at him half doubtfully.
“Yes,” she said, “I am surprised to hear that.”
“I will surprise you still more. I was married to her in America within a month of my arrival there. We have lived together ever since. And I have been very happy. I speak, of course, of Lucille!”
“It is amazing,” she murmured. “You must tell me all about it.”
“Not all,” he answered sadly. “Only this. I met her first at Vienna when I was thirty-five, and she was eighteen. I treated her shamefully. Marriage seemed to me, with all my dreams of great achievements, an act of madness. I believed in myself and my career. I believed that it was my destiny to restore the monarchy to our beloved country. And I wanted to be free. I think that I saw myself a second Napoleon. So I won her love, took all that she had to give, and returned nothing.
“In the course of years she married the son of the American Consul at Vienna. I was obliged, by the bye, to fight her brother, and he carried his enmity to me through life. I saw her sometimes in the course of years. She was always beautiful, always surrounded by a host of admirers, always cold. When the end of my great plans here came, and I myself was a fugitive, her brother found me out. He gave me a letter to deliver in America. I delivered it—to his sister.
“She was as beautiful as ever, and alone in the world. It seemed to me that I realised then how great my folly had been. For always I had loved her, always there had been that jealously locked little chamber in my life. Helene, she pointed no finger of scorn to my broken life. She uttered no reproaches. She took me as I was, and for three years our life together has been to me one long unbroken harmony. Our tastes were very similar. She was well read, receptive, a charming companion. Ennui was a word of which I have forgotten the meaning. And it seemed so with her, too, for she grew younger and more beautiful.”
“And why is she not with you?” Helene cried. “I must go and see her. How delightful it sounds!”
“One day, about three months ago,” Mr. Sabin continued, “she left me to go to New York for two days. Her milliner in Paris had sent over, and twice a year Lucille used to buy clothes. I had sometimes accompanied her, but she knew how I detested New York, and this time she did not press me to go. She left me in the highest spirits, as tender and gracefully affectionate as ever. She never returned.”
Helene started in her chair.
“Oh, UNCLE!” she cried.
“I have never seen her since,” he repeated.
“Have you no clue? She could not have left you willingly. Have you no idea where she is?”
He bowed his head slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “I know where she is. She came to Europe with Lady Carey. She is staying with the Duchess of Dorset.”
“The Countess Radantz?” Helene cried.
“It was her maiden name,” he answered.
There was a moment’s silence. Helene was bewildered.
“Then you have seen her?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No. I did not even know where she was until you told me.”
“But why do you wait a single moment?” she asked. “There must be some explanation. Let me order a carriage now. I will drive round to Dorset House with you.”
She half rose. He held out his hand and checked her.
“There are other things to be explained,” he said quickly. “Sit down, Helene.”
She obeyed him, mystified.
“For your own sake,” he continued, “there are certain facts in connection with this matter which I must withhold. All I can tell you is this. There are people who have acquired a hold upon Lucille so great that she is forced to obey their bidding. Lady Carey is one, the Duchess of Dorset is another. They are no friends of mine, and apparently Lucille has been taken away from me by them.”
“A—a hold upon her?” Helene repeated vaguely.
“It is all I can tell you. You must suppose an extreme case. You may take my word for it that under certain circumstances Lucille would have no power to deny them anything.”
“But—without a word of farewell. They could not insist upon her leaving you like that! It is incredible!”
“It is quite possible,” Mr. Sabin said.
Helene caught herself looking at him stealthily. Was it possible that this wonderful brain had given way at last? There were no signs of it in his face or expression. But the Duchess of Dorset! Lady Carey! These were women of her own circle—Londoners, and the Duchess, at any rate, a woman of the very highest social position and unimpeached conventionality.
“This sounds—very extraordinary, UNCLE!” she remarked a little lamely.
“It is extraordinary,” he answered drily. “I do not wonder that you find it hard to believe me. I—”
“Not to believe—to understand!”
He smiled.
“We will not distinguish! After all, what does it matter? Assume, if you cannot believe, that Lucille’s leaving me may have been at the instigation of these people, and therefore involuntary. If this be so I have hard battle to fight to win her back, but in the end I shall do it.”
She nodded sympathetically.
“I am sure,” she said, “that you will not find it difficult. Tell me, cannot I help you in any way? I know the Duchess very well indeed—well enough to take you to call quite informally if you please. She is a great supporter of what they call the Primrose League here. I do not understand what it is all about, but it seems that I may not join because my husband is a Radical.”
Mr. Sabin looked for a moment over his clasped hands through the faint blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and sundry possibilities flashed through his mind to be at once rejected. He shook his head.
“No!” he said firmly. “I do not wish for your help at present, directly or indirectly. If you meet the Countess I would rather that you did not mention my name. There is only one person whom, if you met at Dorset House or anywhere where Lucille is, I would ask you to watch. That is Mr. Brott!”
It was to be a conversation full of surprises for Helene. Mr. Brott! Her hand went up to her forehead for a moment, and a little gesture of bewilderment escaped her.
“Will you tell me,” she asked almost plaintively, “what on earth Mr. Brott can have to do with this business—with Lucille—with you—with any one connected with it?”
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.
“Mr. Brott,” he remarked, “a Cabinet Minister of marked Radical proclivities, has lately been a frequent visitor at Dorset House, which is the very home of the old aristocratic Toryism. Mr. Brott was acquainted with Lucille many years ago—in Vienna. At that time he was, I believe, deeply interested in her. I must confess that Mr. Brott causes me some uneasiness.”
“I think—that men always know,” Helene said, “if they care to. Was Lucille happy with you?”
“Absolutely. I am sure of it.”
“Then your first assumption must be correct,” she declared. “You cannot explain things to me, so I cannot help you even with my advice. I am sorry.”
He turned his head towards her and regarded her critically, as though making some test of her sincerity.
“Helene,” he said gravely, “it is for your own sake that I do not explain further, that I do not make things clearer to you. Only I wanted you to understand why I once more set foot in Europe. I wanted you to understand why I am here. It is to win back Lucille. It is like that with me, Helene. I, who once schemed and plotted for an empire, am once more a schemer and a worker, but for no other purpose than to recover possession of the woman whom I love. You do not recognise me, Helene. I do not recognise myself. Nevertheless, I would have you know the truth. I am here for that, and for no other purpose.”
He rose slowly to his feet. She held out both her hands and grasped his.
“Let me help you,” she begged. “Do! This is not a matter of politics or anything compromising. I am sure that I could be useful to you.”
“So you can,” he answered quietly. “Do as I have asked you. Watch Mr. Brott!”
Mr. Brott and Mr. Sabin dined together—not, as it happened, at the House of Commons, but at the former’s club in Pall Mall. For Mr. Sabin it was not altogether an enjoyable meal. The club was large, gloomy and political; the cooking was exactly of that order which such surroundings seemed to require. Nor was Mr. Brott a particularly brilliant host. Yet his guest derived a certain amount of pleasure from the entertainment, owing to Brott’s constant endeavours to bring the conversation round to Lucille.
“I find,” he said, as they lit their cigarettes, “that I committed an indiscretion the other day at Camperdown House!”
Mr. Sabin assumed the puzzled air of one endeavouring to pin down an elusive memory.
“Let me see,” he murmured doubtfully. “It was in connection with—”
“The Countess Radantz. If you remember, I told you that it was her desire just now to remain incognito. I, however, unfortunately forgot this during the course of our conversation.”
“Yes, I remember. You told me where she was staying. But the Countess and I are old acquaintances. I feel sure that she did not object to your having given me her address. I could not possibly leave London without calling upon her.”
Mr. Brott moved in his chair uneasily.
“It seems presumption on my part to make such a suggestion perhaps,” he said slowly, “but I really believe that the Countess is in earnest with reference to her desire for seclusion just at present. I believe that she is really very anxious that her presence in London, just now should not be generally known.”
“I am such a very old friend,” Mr. Sabin said. “I knew her when she was a child.”
Mr. Brott nodded.
“It is very strange,” he said, “that you should have come together again in such a country as America, and in a small town too.”
“Lenox,” Mr. Sabin said, “is a small place, but a great center. By the bye, is there not some question of an impending marriage on the part of the Countess?”
“I have heard—of nothing of the sort,” Mr. Brott said, looking up startled. Then, after a moment’s pause, during which he studied closely his companion’s imperturbable face, he added the question which forced its way to his lips.
“Have you?”
Mr. Sabin looked along his cigarette and pinched it affectionately. It was one of his own, which he had dexterously substituted for those which his host had placed at his disposal.
“The Countess is a very charming, a very beautiful, and a most attractive woman,” he said slowly. “Her marriage has always seemed to me a matter of certainty.”
Mr. Brott hesitated, and was lost.
“You are an old friend of hers,” he said. “You perhaps know more of her recent history than I do. For a time she seemed to drop out of my life altogether. Now that she has come back I am very anxious to persuade her to marry me.”
A single lightning-like flash in Mr. Sabin’s eyes for a moment disconcerted his host. But, after all, it was gone with such amazing suddenness that it left behind it a sense of unreality. Mr. Brott decided that after all it must have been fancy.
“May I ask,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “whether the Countess appears to receive your suit with favour?”
Mr. Brott hesitated.
“I am afraid I cannot go so far as to say that she does,” he said regretfully. “I do not know why I find myself talking on this matter to you. I feel that I should apologise for giving such a personal turn to the conversation.”
“I beg that you will do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Sabin protested. “I am, as a matter of fact, most deeply interested.”
“You encourage me,” Mr. Brott declared, “to ask you a question—to me a very important question.”
“It will give me great pleasure,” Mr. Sabin assured him, “if I am able to answer it.”
“You know,” Mr. Brott said, “of that portion of her life concerning which I have asked no questions, but which somehow, whenever I think of it, fills me with a certain amount of uneasiness. I refer to the last three years which the Countess has spent in America.”
Mr. Sabin looked up, and his lips seemed to move, but he said nothing. Mr. Brott felt perhaps that he was on difficult ground.
“I recognise the fact,” he continued slowly, “that you are the friend of the Countess, and that you and I are nothing more than the merest acquaintances. I ask my question therefore with some diffidence. Can you tell me from your recent, more intimate knowledge of the Countess and her affairs, whether there exists any reason outside her own inclinations why she should not accept my proposals of marriage?”
Mr. Sabin had the air of a man gravely surprised. He shook his head very slightly.
“You must not ask me such a question as that, Mr. Brott,” he said. “It is not a subject which I could possibly discuss with you. But I have no objection to going so far as this. My experience of the Countess is that she is a woman of magnificent and effective will power. I think if she has any desire to marry you there are or could be no obstacles existing which she would not easily dispose of.”
“There are obstacles, then?”
“You must not ask me that,” Mr. Sabin said, with a certain amount of stiffness. “The Countess is a very dear friend of mine, and you must forgive me now if I say that I prefer not to discuss her any longer.”
A hall servant entered the room, bearing a note for Mr. Brott. He received it at first carelessly, but his expression changed the moment he saw the superscription. He turned a little away, and Mr. Sabin noticed that the fingers which tore open the envelope were trembling. The note seemed short enough, but he must have read it half a dozen times before at last he turned round to the messenger.
“There is no answer,” he said in a low tone.
He folded the note and put it carefully into his breast pocket. Mr. Sabin subdued an insane desire to struggle with him and discover, by force, if necessary, who was the sender of those few brief lines. For Mr. Brott was a changed man.
“I am afraid,” he said, turning to his guest, “that this has been a very dull evening for you. To tell you the truth, this club is not exactly the haunt of pleasure-seekers. It generally oppresses me for the first hour or so. Would you like a hand at bridge, or a game of billiards? I am wholly at your service—until twelve o’clock.”
Mr. Sabin glanced at the clock.
“You are very good,” he said, “but I was never much good at indoor games. Golf has been my only relaxation for many years. Besides, I too have an engagement for which I must leave in a very few minutes.”
“It is very good of you,” Mr. Brott said, “to have given me the pleasure of your company. I have the greatest possible admiration for your niece, Mr. Sabin, and Camperdown is a thundering good fellow. He will be our leader in the House of Lords before many years have passed.”
“He is, I believe,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “of the same politics as yourself.”
“We are both,” Mr. Brott answered, with a smile, “I am afraid outside the pale of your consideration in this respect. We are both Radicals.”
Mr. Sabin lit another cigarette and glanced once more at the clock.
“A Radical peer!” he remarked. “Isn’t that rather an anomaly? The principles of Radicalism and aristocracy seem so divergent.”
“Yet,” Mr. Brott said, “they are not wholly irreconcilable. I have often wished that this could be more generally understood. I find myself at times very unpopular with people, whose good opinion I am anxious to retain, simply owing to this too general misapprehension.”
Mr. Sabin smiled gently.
“You were referring without doubt—” he began.
“To the Countess,” Brott admitted. “Yes, it is true. But after all,” he added cheerfully, “I believe that our disagreements are mainly upon the surface. The Countess is a woman of wide culture and understanding. Her mind, too, is plastic. She has few prejudices.”
Mr. Sabin glanced at the clock for the third time, and rose to his feet. He was quite sure now that the note was from her. He leaned on his stick and took his leave quietly. All the time he was studying his host, wondering at his air of only partially suppressed excitement.
“I must thank you very much, Mr. Brott,” he said, “for your entertainment. I trust that you will give me an opportunity shortly of reciprocating your hospitality.”
The two men parted finally in the hall. Mr. Sabin stepped into his hired carriage.
“Dorset House!” he directed.