Derek Kettering emerged from Van Aldin's suite so precipitantly that he collided with a lady passing across the corridor. He apologized, and she accepted his apologies with a smiling reassurance and passed on, leaving with him a pleasant impression of a soothing personality and rather fine grey eyes.
For all his nonchalance, his interview with his father-in-law had shaken him more than he cared to show. He had a solitary lunch, and after it, frowning to himself a little, he went around to the sumptuous flat that housed the lady known as Mirelle. A trim Frenchwoman received him with smiles.
"But enter then, Monsieur. Madame reposes herself."
He was ushered into the long room with its Eastern setting which he knew so well. Mirelle was lying on the divan, supported by an incredible number of cushions, all in varying shades of amber, to harmonize with the yellow ochre of her complexion. The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.
He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.
"What have you been doing with yourself? Just got up, I suppose?"
The orange mouth widened into a long smile.
"No," said the dancer. "I have been at work."
She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.
"Ambrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera."
Kettering nodded without paying much attention. He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter's operatic setting of Ibsen'sPeer Gynt. So was Mirelle, for that matter, regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra.
"It is a marvellous dance," she murmured. "I shall put all the passion of the desert into it. I shall dance hung over with jewels—ah! and, by the way,mon ami, there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street—a black pearl."
She paused, looking at him invitingly.
"My dear girl," said Kettering, "it's no use talking of black pearls to me. At the present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire."
She was quick to respond to his tone. She sat up, her big black eyes widening.
"What is that you say, Dereek? What has happened?"
"My esteemed father-in-law," said Kettering, "is preparing to go off the deep-end."
"Eh?"
"In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce me."
"How stupid!" said Mirelle. "Why should she want to divorce you?"
Derek Kettering grinned.
"Mainly because of you,chérie!" he said.
Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
"That is foolish," she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Very foolish," agreed Derek.
"What are you going to do about it?" demanded Mirelle.
"My dear girl, what can I do? On the one side, the man with unlimited money; on the other side, the man with unlimited debts. There is no question as to who will come out on top."
"They are extraordinary, these Americans," commented Mirelle. "It is not as though your wife were fond of you."
"Well," said Derek, "what are we going to do about it?"
She looked at him inquiringly. He came over and took both her hands in his.
"Are you going to stick to me?"
"What do you mean? After—"
"Yes," said Kettering. "After, when the creditors come down like wolves on the fold. I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you going to let me down?"
She pulled her hands away from him.
"You know I adore you, Dereek."
He caught the note of evasion in her voice.
"So that's that, is it? The rats will leave the sinking ship."
"Ah, Dereek!"
"Out with it," he said violently. "You will fling me over; is that it?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I am fond of you,mon ami—indeed I am fond of you. You are very charming—un beau garçon, butce n'est pas pratique."
"You are a rich man's luxury, eh? Is that it?"
"If you like to put it that way."
She leaned back on the cushions, her head flung back.
"All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek."
He went over to the window and stood there some time looking out, with his back to her. Presently the dancer raised herself on her elbow and stared at him curiously.
"What are you thinking of,mon ami?"
He grinned at her over his shoulder, a curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.
"As it happened, I was thinking of a woman, my dear."
"A woman, eh?"
Mirelle pounced on something that she could understand.
"You are thinking of some other woman, is that it?"
"Oh, you needn't worry; it is purely a fancy portrait. 'Portrait of a lady with grey eyes.'"
Mirelle said sharply, "When did you meet her?"
Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter had a mocking, ironical sound.
"I ran into the lady in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel."
"Well! What did she say?"
"As far as I can remember, I said, 'I beg your pardon,' and she said, 'It doesn't matter,' or words to that effect."
"And then?" persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
"And then—nothing. That was the end of the incident."
"I don't understand a word of what you are talking about," declared the dancer.
"Portrait of a lady with grey eyes," murmured Derek reflectively. "Just as well I am never likely to meet her again."
"Why?"
"She might bring me bad luck. Women do."
Mirelle slipped quickly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snake-like arm round his neck.
"You are foolish, Dereek," she murmured. "You are very foolish. You arebeau garçon, and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor—no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very simple. You must make it up with your wife."
"I am afraid that's not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics," said Derek drily.
"How do you say? I do not understand."
"Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any. He is the kind of man who makes up his mind and sticks to it."
"I have heard of him," nodded the dancer. "He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the world—'Heart of Fire' it is called."
Kettering did not answer. The dancer went on musingly:
"It is a wonderful stone—a stone that should belong to a woman like me. I love jewels, Dereek; they say something to me. Ah! to wear a ruby like 'Heart of Fire.'"
She gave a little sigh, and then became practical once more.
"You don't understand these things, Dereek; you are only a man. Van Aldin will give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose. Is she his only child?"
"Yes."
"Then when he dies, she will inherit all his money. She will be a rich woman."
"She is a rich woman already," said Kettering drily. "He settled a couple of millions on her at her marriage."
"A couple of millions! But that is immense. And if she died suddenly, eh? That would all come to you?"
"As things stand at present," said Kettering slowly, "it would. As far as I know she has not made a will."
"Mon Dieu!" said the dancer. "If she were to die, what a solution that would be."
There was a moment's pause, and then Derek Kettering laughed outright.
"I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle, but I am afraid what you desire won't come to pass. My wife is an extremely healthy person."
"Eh, bien!" said Mirelle; "there are accidents."
He looked at her sharply but did not answer.
She went on.
"But you are right,mon ami, we must not dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek, there must be no more talk of this divorce. Your wife must give up the idea."
"And if she won't?"
The dancer's eyes narrowed to slits.
"I think she will, my friend. She is one of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she would not like her friends to read in the newspapers."
"What do you mean?" asked Kettering sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
"Parbleu!I mean the gentleman who calls himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all about him. I am Parisienne, you remember. He was her lover before she married you, was he not?"
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.
"That is a damned lie," he said, "and please remember that, after all, you are speaking of my wife."
Mirelle was a little sobered.
"You are extraordinary, you English," she complained. "All the same, I dare say that you may be right. The Americans are so cold, are they not? But you will permit me to say,mon ami, that she wasin love with himbefore she married you, and her father stepped in and sent the Comte about his business. And the little Mademoiselle, she wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it is a very different story now. She sees him nearly every day, and on the fourteenth she goes to Paris to meet him."
"How do you know all this?" demanded Kettering.
"Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek, who know the Comte intimately. It is all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so she says, but in reality the Comte meets her in Paris and—who knows! Yes, yes, you can take my word for it, it is all arranged."
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
"You see," purred the dancer, "if you are clever, you have her in the hollow of your hand. You can make things very awkward for her."
"Oh, for God's sake be quiet," cried Kettering. "Shut your cursed mouth!"
Mirelle flung herself down again on the divan with a laugh. Kettering caught up his hat and coat and left the flat, banging the door violently. And still the dancer sat on the divan and laughed softly to herself. She was not displeased with her work.
"Mrs. Samuel Harfield presents her compliments to Miss Katherine Grey and wishes to point out that under the circumstances Miss Grey may not be aware—"
"Mrs. Samuel Harfield presents her compliments to Miss Katherine Grey and wishes to point out that under the circumstances Miss Grey may not be aware—"
Mrs. Harfield, having written so far fluently, came to a dead stop, held up by what has proved an insuperable difficulty to many other people—namely, the difficulty of expressing oneself fluently in the third person.
After a minute or two of hesitation, Mrs. Harfield tore up the sheet of notepaper and started afresh.
"Dear Miss Grey—Whilst fully appreciating the adequate way you discharged your duties to my Cousin Jane (whose recent death has indeed been a severe blow to us all), I cannot but feel—"
"Dear Miss Grey—Whilst fully appreciating the adequate way you discharged your duties to my Cousin Jane (whose recent death has indeed been a severe blow to us all), I cannot but feel—"
Again Mrs. Harfield came to a stop. Once more the letter was consigned to the wastepaper-basket. It was not until four false starts had been made that Mrs. Harfield at last produced an epistle that satisfied her. It was duly sealed and stamped and addressed to Miss Katherine Grey, Little Crampton, St. Mary Mead, Kent, and it lay beside that lady's plate on the following morning at breakfast-time in company with a more important looking communication in a long blue envelope.
Katherine Grey opened Mrs. Harfield's letter first. The finished production ran as follows:
"Dear Miss Grey—My husband and I wish to express our thanks to you for your services to my poor cousin, Jane. Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that her mind has been failing for some time past. I understand that her latter testamentary dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would not hold good, of course, in any court of law. I have no doubt that, with your usual good sense, you have already realized this fact. If these matters can be arranged privately it is always so much better, my husband says. We shall be pleased to recommend you most highly for a similar post and hope that you will also accept a small present. Believe me, dear Miss Grey, Yours cordially,Mary Anne Harfield."
"Dear Miss Grey—My husband and I wish to express our thanks to you for your services to my poor cousin, Jane. Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that her mind has been failing for some time past. I understand that her latter testamentary dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would not hold good, of course, in any court of law. I have no doubt that, with your usual good sense, you have already realized this fact. If these matters can be arranged privately it is always so much better, my husband says. We shall be pleased to recommend you most highly for a similar post and hope that you will also accept a small present. Believe me, dear Miss Grey, Yours cordially,
Mary Anne Harfield."
Katherine Grey read the letter through, smiled a little, and read it a second time. Her face as she laid the letter down after the second reading was distinctly amused. Then she took up the second letter. After one brief perusal she laid it down and stared very straight in front of her. This time she did not smile. Indeed, it would have been hard for any one watching her to guess what emotions lay behind that quiet, reflective gaze.
Katherine Grey was thirty-three. She came of good family, but her father had lost all his money, and Katherine had had to work for her living from an early age. She had been just twenty-three when she had come to old Mrs. Harfield as companion.
It was generally recognized that old Mrs. Harfield was "difficult." Companions came and went with startling rapidity. They arrived full of hope and they usually left in tears. But from the moment Katherine Grey set foot in Little Crampton, ten years ago, perfect peace had reigned. No one knows how these things come about. Snake-charmers, they say, are born, not made. Katherine Grey was born with the power of managing old ladies, dogs, and small boys, and she did it without any apparent sense of strain.
At twenty-three she had been a quiet girl with beautiful eyes. At thirty-three she was a quiet woman, with those same grey eyes, shining steadily out on the world with a kind of happy serenity that nothing could shake. Moreover, she had been born with, and still possessed, a sense of humour.
As she sat at the breakfast-table, staring in front of her, there was a ring at the bell, accompanied by a very energetic rat-a-tat-tat at the knocker. In another minute the little maid-servant opened the door and announced rather breathlessly:
"Dr. Harrison."
The big, middle-aged doctor came bustling in with the energy and breeziness that had been foreshadowed by his onslaught on the knocker.
"Good morning, Miss Grey."
"Good morning, Dr. Harrison."
"I dropped in early," began the doctor, "in case you should have heard from one of those Harfield cousins. Mrs. Samuel, she calls herself—a perfectly poisonous person."
Without a word, Katherine picked up Mrs. Harfield's letter from the table and gave it to him. With a good deal of amusement she watched his perusal of it, the drawing together of the bushy eyebrows, the snorts and grunts of violent disapproval. He dashed it down again on the table.
"Perfectly monstrous," he fumed. "Don't you let it worry you, my dear. They're talking through their hat. Mrs. Harfield's intellect was as good as yours or mine and you won't get any one to say the contrary. They wouldn't have a leg to stand upon, and they know it. All that talk of taking it into court is pure bluff. Hence, this attempt to get round you in a hole-and-corner way. And look here, my dear, don't let them get round you with soft soap either. Don't get fancying it's your duty to hand over the cash, or any tomfoolery of conscientious scruples."
"I'm afraid it hasn't occurred to me to have scruples," said Katherine. "All these people are distant relatives of Mrs. Harfield's husband, and they never came near her or took any notice of her in her lifetime."
"You're a sensible woman," said the doctor. "I know, none better, that you've had a hard life of it for the last ten years. You're fully entitled to enjoy the old lady's savings, such as they were."
Katherine smiled thoughtfully.
"Such as they were," she repeated. "You've no idea of the amount, doctor?"
"Well—enough to bring in five hundred a year or so, I suppose."
Katherine nodded.
"That's what I thought," she said. "Now read this."
She handed him the letter she had taken from the long blue envelope. The doctor read and uttered an exclamation of utter astonishment.
"Impossible," he muttered. "Impossible."
"She was one of the original shareholders in Mortaulds. Forty years ago she must have had an income of eight or ten thousand a year. She has never, I am sure, spent more than four hundred a year. She was always terribly careful about money. I always believed that she was obliged to be careful about every penny."
"And all the time the income has accumulated at compound interest. My dear, you're going to be a very rich woman."
Katherine Grey nodded.
"Yes," she said, "I am."
She spoke in a detached, impersonal tone, as though she were looking at the situation from outside.
"Well," said the doctor, preparing to depart, "you have all my congratulations." He flicked Mrs. Samuel Harfield's letter with his thumb. "Don't worry about that woman and her odious letter."
"It really isn't an odious letter," said Miss Grey tolerantly. "Under the circumstances, I think it's really quite a natural thing to do."
"I have the gravest suspicions of you sometimes," said the doctor.
"Why?"
"The things that you find perfectly natural."
Katherine Grey laughed.
Doctor Harrison retailed the great news to his wife at lunch-time. She was very excited about it.
"Fancy old Mrs. Harfield—with all that money. I'm glad she left it to Katherine Grey. That girl's a saint."
The doctor made a wry face.
"Saints I always imagine must have been difficult people. Katherine Grey is too human for a saint."
"She's a saint with a sense of humour," said the doctor's wife, twinkling. "And, though I don't suppose you've ever noticed the fact, she's extremely good looking."
"Katherine Grey?" The doctor was honestly surprised. "She's got very nice eyes, I know."
"Oh, you men!" cried his wife. "Blind as bats. Katherine's got all the makings of a beauty in her. All she wants is clothes!"
"Clothes? What's wrong with her clothes? She always looks very nice."
Mrs. Harrison gave an exasperated sigh, and the doctor rose preparatory to starting on his rounds.
"You might look in on her, Polly," he suggested.
"I'm going to," said Mrs. Harrison promptly.
She made her call about three o'clock.
"My dear, I'm so glad," she said warmly, as she squeezed Katherine's hand. "And every one in the village will be glad too."
"It's very nice of you to come and tell me," said Katherine. "I hoped you would come in because I wanted to ask about Johnnie."
"Oh! Johnnie. Well—"
Johnnie was Mrs. Harrison's youngest son. In another minute she was off, retailing a long history in which Johnnie's adenoids and tonsils bulked largely. Katherine listened sympathetically. Habits die hard. Listening had been her portion for ten years now. "My dear, I wonder if I ever told you about that naval ball at Portsmouth? When Lord Charles admired my gown?" And composedly, kindly, Katherine would reply: "I rather think you have, Mrs. Harfield, but I've forgotten about it. Won't you tell it me again?" And then the old lady would start off full swing, with numerous details. And half of Katherine's mind would be listening, saying the right things mechanically when the old lady paused....
Now, with that same curious feeling of duality to which she was accustomed, she listened to Mrs. Harrison.
At the end of half an hour, the latter recalled herself suddenly.
"I've been talking about myself all this time," she exclaimed. "And I came here to talk about you and your plans."
"I don't know that I've got any yet."
"My dear—you're not going to stay onhere."
Katherine smiled at the horror in the other's tone.
"No; I think I want to travel. I've never seen much of the world, you know."
"I should think not. It must have been an awful life for you cooped up here all these years."
"I don't know," said Katherine. "It gave me a lot of freedom."
She caught the other's gasp, and reddened a little.
"It must sound foolish—saying that. Of course, I hadn't much freedom in the downright physical sense—"
"I should think not," breathed Mrs. Harrison, remembering that Katherine had seldom had that useful thing—a "day off."
"But, in a way, being tied physically gives you lots of scope mentally. You're always free to think. I've had a lovely feeling always of mental freedom."
Mrs. Harrison shook her head.
"I can't understand that."
"Oh! you would if you'd been in my place. But, all the same, I feel I want a change. I want—well, I want things to happen. Oh! not to me—I don't mean that. But to be in the midst of things, exciting things—even if I'm only the looker-on. You know, things don't happen in St. Mary Mead."
"They don't indeed," said Mrs. Harrison, with fervour.
"I shall go to London first," said Katherine. "I have to see the solicitors, anyway. After that, I shall go abroad, I think."
"Very nice."
"But, of course, first of all—"
"Yes?"
"I must get some clothes."
"Exactly what I said to Arthur this morning," cried the doctor's wife. "You know, Katherine, you could look positively beautiful if you tried."
Miss Grey laughed unaffectedly.
"Oh! I don't think you could ever make a beauty out of me," she said sincerely. "But I shall enjoy having some really good clothes. I'm afraid I'm talking about myself an awful lot."
Mrs. Harrison looked at her shrewdly.
"It must be quite a novel experience for you," she said drily.
Katherine went to say good-bye to old Miss Viner before leaving the village. Miss Viner was two years older than Mrs. Harfield, and her mind was mainly taken with her own success in outliving her dead friend.
"You wouldn't have thought I'd have outlasted Jane Harfield, would you?" she demanded triumphantly of Katherine. "We were at school together, she and I. And here we are, she taken, and I left. Who would have thought it?"
"You've always eaten brown bread for supper, haven't you?" murmured Katherine mechanically.
"Fancy your remembering that, my dear. Yes; if Jane Harfield had had a slice of brown bread every evening and taken a little stimulant with her meals she might be here to-day."
The old lady paused, nodding her head triumphantly, then added in sudden remembrance:
"And so you've come into a lot of money, I hear? Well, well. Take care of it. And you're going up to London to have a good time? Don't think you'll get married, though, my dear, because you won't. You're not the kind to attract the men. And, besides, you're getting on. How old are you now?"
"Thirty-three," Katherine told her.
"Well," remarked Miss Viner doubtfully, "that's not so very bad. You've lost your first freshness, of course."
"I'm afraid so," said Katherine, much entertained.
"But you're a very nice girl," said Miss Viner kindly. "And I'm sure there's many a man might do worse than take you for a wife instead of one of these flibbertigibbets running about nowadays showing more of their legs than the Creator ever intended them to. Good-bye, my dear, and I hope you'll enjoy yourself, but things are seldom what they seem in this life."
Heartened by these prophecies, Katherine took her departure. Half the village came to see her off at the station, including the little maid of all work, Alice, who brought a stiff wired nosegay and cried openly.
"There ain't a many like her," sobbed Alice when the train had finally departed. "I'm sure when Charlie went back on me with that girl from the Dairy, nobody could have been kinder than Miss Grey was, and though particular about the brasses and the dust, she was always one to notice when you'd give a thing an extra rub. Cut myself in little pieces for her, I would, any day. A real lady, that's what I call her."
Such was Katherine's departure from St. Mary Mead.
"Well," said Lady Tamplin, "well."
She laid down the continentalDaily Mailand stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. A branch of golden mimosa, hanging just above her head, made an effective frame for a very charming picture. A golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming negligee. That the golden hair owed something to art, as did the pink-and-white complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of the eyes was Nature's gift, and at forty-four Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty.
Charming as she looked, Lady Tamplin was, for once, not thinking of herself. That is to say, she was not thinking of her appearance. She was intent on graver matters.
Lady Tamplin was a well-known figure on the Riviera, and her parties at the Villa Marguerite were justly celebrated. She was a woman of considerable experience, and had had four husbands. The first had been merely an indiscretion, and so was seldom referred to by the lady. He had had the good sense to die with commendable promptitude, and his widow thereupon espoused a rich manufacturer of buttons. He too had departed for another sphere after three years of married life—it was said after a congenial evening with some boon companions. After him came Viscount Tamplin, who had placed Rosalie securely on those heights where she wished to tread. She had retained her title when she married for a fourth time. This fourth venture had been undertaken for pure pleasure. Mr. Charles Evans, an extremely good-looking young man of twenty-seven, with delightful manners, a keen love of sport, and an appreciation of this world's goods, had no money of his own whatsoever.
Lady Tamplin was very pleased and satisfied with life generally, but she had occasional faint preoccupations about money. The button manufacturer had left his widow a considerable fortune, but, as Lady Tamplin was wont to say, "what with one thing and another—" (one thing being the depreciation of stocks owing to the War, and the other the extravagances of the late Lord Tamplin). She was still comfortably off. But to be merely comfortably off is hardly satisfactory to one of Rosalie Tamplin's temperament.
So, on this particular January morning, she opened her blue eyes extremely wide as she read a certain item of news and uttered that non-committal monosyllable "Well." The only other occupant of the balcony was her daughter, the Hon. Lenox Tamplin. A daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in Lady Tamplin's side, a girl with no kind of tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable.
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "just fancy."
"What is it?"
Lady Tamplin picked up theDaily Mail, handed it to her daughter, and indicated with an agitated fore finger the paragraph of interest.
Lenox read it without any of the signs of agitation shown by her mother. She handed back the paper.
"What about it?" she asked. "It is the sort of thing that is always happening. Cheese-paring old women are always dying in villages and leaving fortunes of millions to their humble companions."
"Yes, dear, I know," said her mother, "and I dare say the fortune is not anything like as large as they say it is; newspapers are so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down by half—"
"Well," said Lenox, "it has not been left to us."
"Not exactly, dear," said Lady Tamplin; "but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very own cousin! Fancy!"
"Ah-ha," said Lenox.
"And I was wondering—" said her mother.
"What there was in it for us," finished Lenox, with that sideways smile that her mother always found difficult to understand.
"Oh, darling," said Lady Tamplin, on a faint note of reproach.
It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin was used to her daughter's outspokenness and to what she called Lenox's uncomfortable way of putting things.
"I was wondering," said Lady Tamplin, again drawing her artistically pencilled brows together, "whether—oh, good morning, Chubby darling; are you going to play tennis? How nice!"
Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked perfunctorily, "How topping you look in that peach-coloured thing," and drifted past them and down the steps.
"The dear thing," said Lady Tamplin, looking affectionately after her husband. "Let me see, what was I saying? Ah!" She switched her mind back to business once more. "I was wondering—"
"Oh, for God's sake get on with it. That is the third time you have said that."
"Well, dear," said Lady Tamplin, "I was thinking that it would be very nice if I wrote to dear Katherine and suggested that she should pay us a little visit out here. Naturally, she is quite out of touch with Society. It would be nicer for her to be launched by one of her own people. An advantage for her and an advantage for us."
"How much do you think you would get her to cough up?" asked Lenox.
Her mother looked at her reproachfully and murmured:
"We should have to come to some financial arrangement, of course. What with one thing and another—the War—your poor father—"
"And Chubby now," said Lenox. "He is an expensive luxury if you like."
"She was a nice girl as I remember her," murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own line of thought—"quiet, never wanted to shove herself forward, not a beauty, and never a man-hunter."
"She will leave Chubby alone, then?" said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest. "Chubby would never—" she began.
"No," said Lenox, "I don't believe he would; he knows a jolly sight too well which way his bread is buttered."
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "you have such a coarse way of putting things."
"Sorry," said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin gathered up theDaily Mailand her negligee, a vanity-bag, and various odd letters.
"I shall write to dear Katherine at once," she said, "and remind her of the dear old days at Edgeworth."
She went into the house, a light of purpose shining in her eyes.
Unlike Mrs. Samuel Harfield, correspondence flowed easily from her pen. She covered four sheets without pause or effort, and on re-reading it found no occasion to alter a word.
Katherine received it on the morning of her arrival in London. Whether she read between the lines of it or not is another matter. She put it in her handbag and started out to keep the appointment she had made with Mrs. Harfield's lawyers.
The firm was an old-established one in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after a few minutes' delay Katherine was shown into the presence of the senior partner, a kindly, elderly man with shrewd blue eyes and a fatherly manner.
They discussed Mrs. Harfield's will and various legal matters for some minutes, then Katherine handed the lawyer Mrs. Samuel's letter.
"I had better show you this, I suppose," she said, "though it is really rather ridiculous."
He read it with a slight smile.
"Rather a crude attempt, Miss Grey. I need hardly tell you, I suppose, that these people have no claim of any kind upon the estate, and if they endeavour to contest the will no court will uphold them."
"I thought as much."
"Human nature is not always very wise. In Mrs. Samuel Harfield's place, I should have been more inclined to make an appeal to your generosity."
"That is one of the things I wanted to speak to you about. I should like a certain sum to go to these people."
"There is no obligation."
"I know that."
"And they will not take it in the spirit it is meant. They will probably regard it as an attempt to pay them off, though they will not refuse it on that account."
"I can see that, and it can't be helped."
"I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put that idea out of your head."
Katherine shook her head. "You are quite right, I know, but I should like it done all the same."
"They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards."
"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they like. We all have our own ways of enjoying ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's only relatives, and though they despised her as a poor relation and paid no attention to her when she was alive, it seems to me unfair that they should be cut off with nothing."
She carried her point, though the lawyer was still unwilling, and she presently went out into the streets of London with a comfortable assurance that she could spend money freely and make what plans she liked for the future. Her first action was to visit the establishment of a famous dressmaker.
A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like a dreaming duchess, received her, and Katherine spoke with a certainnaïveté.
"I want, if I may, to put myself in your hands. I have been very poor all my life and know nothing about clothes, but now I have come into some money and want to look really well dressed."
The Frenchwoman was charmed. She had an artist's temperament, which had been soured earlier in the morning by a visit from an Argentine meat queen, who had insisted on having those models least suited to her flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized Katherine with keen, clever eyes. "Yes—yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has a very good figure; for her the simple lines will be best. She is alsotrès anglaise. Some people it would offend them if I said that, but Mademoiselle, no.Une belle Anglaise, there is no style more delightful."
The demeanour of a dreaming duchess was suddenly put off. She screamed out directions to various mannequins. "Clothilde, Virginie, quickly, my little ones, the littletailleur gris clairand therobe de soirée'soupir d'automne.' Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa suit of crêpe de chine."
It was a charming morning. Marcelle, Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful, passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins. The Duchess stood by Katherine and made entries in a small notebook.
"An excellent choice, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle has greatgoût. Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle cannot do better than those little suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter."
"Let me see that evening dress once more," said Katherine—"the pinky mauve one."
Virginie appeared, circling slowly.
"That is the prettiest of all," said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. "What do you call it?"
"Soupir d'automne; yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle."
What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment?
"'Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.'" Autumn, yes, it was autumn for her. She who had never known spring or summer, and would never know them now. Something she had lost never could be given to her again. These years of servitude in St. Mary Mead—and all the while life passing by.
"I am an idiot," said Katherine. "I am an idiot. What do I want? Why, I was more contented a month ago than I am now."
She drew out from her handbag the letter she had received that morning from Lady Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood thenuancesof that letter as well as anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's sudden show of affection towards a long-forgotten cousin was not lost upon her. It was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady Tamplin was so anxious for the company of her dear cousin. Well, why not? There would be profit on both sides.
"I will go," said Katherine.
She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's to clinch the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the clerk was engaged was also going to the Riviera. Every one, she felt, was going. Well, for the first time in her life, she, too, would be doing what "everybody did."
The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her demand to the clerk, but at the same time half of her mind was busy with something else. That man's face—in some vague way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning. She had collided with him in the passage. Rather an odd coincidence that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy by something, she knew not what. The man was standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending....
Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying.
It was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed his temper to get the better of him. An easy-going insouciance was his chief characteristic, and it had stood him in good stead in more than one tight corner. Even now, by the time he had left Mirelle's flat, he had cooled down. He had need of coolness. The corner he was in now was a tighter one than he had ever been in before, and unforeseen factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal.
He strolled along deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and there was none of the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well upon him. Various possibilities floated through his mind. It might have been said of Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool than he looked. He saw several roads that he might take—one in particular. If he shrank from it, it was for the moment only. Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin could end only one way. Derek damned money and the power of money vehemently to himself. He walked up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his head, turned sharply—so sharply as to collide with a couple of pedestrians who were following in his footsteps, and went back the way he had come. This time he did not pass Cook's, but went in. The office was comparatively empty, and he got attended to at once.
"I want to go to Nice next week. Will you give me particulars?"
"What date, sir?"
"The 14th. What is the best train?"
"Well, of course,thebest train is what they call the 'Blue Train.' You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais."
Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better.
"The 14th," murmured the clerk; "that is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always all booked up."
"See if there is a berth left," said Derek. "If there is not—" He left the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face.
The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned.
"That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?"
"Pavett," said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.
The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.
"I want to go to Nice—on the 14th. Isn't there a train called the Blue Train?"
Derek looked round sharply.
Coincidence—a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle, "Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again." But hehadseen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did.
Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose—suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady—a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with something—grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He had a sense of fatality.
He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.
"Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first thing in the morning, and go around to Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back."
"Very good, sir."
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and picked up a handful of letters. They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if—if certain news became public property.
He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.
Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
"A gentleman to see you—sir—Major Knighton."
"Knighton, eh?"
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself: "Knighton—I wonder what is in the wind now?"
"Shall I—er—show him in, sir?"
His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming and genial host awaiting him.
"Very good of you to look me up," said Derek.
Knighton was nervous.
The other's keen eyes noticed that at once. The errand on which the secretary had come was clearly distasteful to him. He replied almost mechanically to Derek's easy flow of conversation. He declined a drink, and, if anything, his manner became stiffer than before. Derek appeared at last to notice it.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "what does my esteemed father-in-law want with me? You have come on his business, I take it?"
Knighton did not smile in reply.
"I have, yes," he said carefully. "I—I wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen some one else."
Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.
"Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin skinned, I can assure you, Knighton."
"No," said Knighton; "but this—"
He paused.
Derek eyed him keenly.
"Go on, out with it," he said kindly. "I can imagine my dear father-in-law's errands might not always be pleasant ones."
Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally in tones that he strove to render free of embarrassment.
"I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make you a definite offer."
"An offer?" For a moment Derek showed his surprise. Knighton's opening words were clearly not what he had expected. He offered a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and sank back in his chair, murmuring in a slightly sardonic voice:
"An offer? That sounds rather interesting."
"Shall I go on?"
"Please. You must forgive my surprise, but it seems to me that my dear father-in-law has rather climbed down since our chat this morning. And climbing down is not what one associates with strong men, Napoleons of finance, etc. It shows—I think it shows that he finds his position weaker than he thought it."
Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind showed itself on his rather stolid countenance. He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly:
"I will state the proposition in the fewest possible words."
"Go on."
Knighton did not look at the other. His voice was curt and matter-of-fact.
"The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition for divorce. If the case goes undefended you will receive one hundred thousand on the day that the decree is made absolute."
Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead.
"A hundred thousand!" he said sharply. "Dollars?"
"Pounds."
There was dead silence for at least two minutes. Kettering had his brows together thinking. A hundred thousand pounds. It meant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleasant, carefree life. It meant that Van Aldin knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for nothing. He got up and stood by the chimney-piece.
"And in the event of my refusing his handsome offer?" he asked, with a cold, ironical politeness.
Knighton made a deprecating gesture.
"I can assure you, Mr. Kettering," he said earnestly, "that it is with the utmost unwillingness that I came here with this message."
"That's all right," said Kettering. "Don't distress yourself; it's not your fault. Now then—I asked you a question, will you answer it?"
Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly than before.
"In the event of your refusing this proposition," he said, "Mr. Van Aldin wished me to tell you in plain words that he proposes to break you. Just that."
Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained his light, amused manner.
"Well, well!" he said, "I suppose he can do it. I certainly should not be able to put up much of a fight against America's man of millions. A hundred thousand! If you are going to bribe a man there is nothing like doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell you that for two hundred thousand I'd do what he wanted, what then?"
"I would take your message back to Mr. Van Aldin," said Knighton unemotionally. "Is that your answer?"
"No," said Derek; "funnily enough it is not. You can go back to my father-in-law and tell him to take himself and his bribes to hell. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," said Knighton. He got up, hesitated, and then flushed. "I—you will allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am glad you have answered as you have."
Derek did not reply. When the other had left the room he remained for a minute or two lost in thought. A curious smile came to his lips.
"And that is that," he said softly.
"Dad!"
Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese lacquer red, she had been walking along the crowded platform of Victoria deep in thought, and her father's sudden appearance and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect upon her.
"Why, Ruth, how you jumped!"
"I didn't expect to see you, I suppose, Dad. You said good-bye to me last night and said you had a conference this morning."
"So I have," said Van Aldin, "but you are more to me than any number of darned conferences. I came to take a last look at you, since I am not going to see you for some time."
"That is very sweet of you, Dad. I wish you were coming too."
"What would you say if I did?"
The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick colour flame in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost thought he saw dismay flash out of her eyes. She laughed uncertainly and nervously.
"Just for a moment I really thought you meant it," she said.
"Would you have been pleased?"
"Of course." She spoke with exaggerated emphasis.
"Well," said Van Aldin, "that's good."
"It isn't really for very long, Dad," continued Ruth; "you know, you are coming out next month."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin unemotionally, "sometimes I guess I will go to one of these big guys in Harley Street and have him tell me that I need sunshine and change of air right away."
"Don't be so lazy," cried Ruth; "next month is ever so much nicer than this month out there. You have got all sorts of things you can't possibly leave just now."
"Well, that's so, I suppose," said Van Aldin, with a sigh. "You had better be getting on board this train of yours, Ruth. Where is your seat?"
Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the train. At the door of one of the Pullman cars a thin, tall woman dressed in black was standing—Ruth Kettering's maid. She drew aside as her mistress came up to her.
"I have put your dressing-case under your seat, Madam, in case you should need it. Shall I take the rugs, or will you require one?"
"No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and find your own seat now, Mason."
"Yes, Madam."
The maid departed.
Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with Ruth. She found her seat, and Van Aldin deposited various papers and magazines on the table in front of her. The seat opposite to her was already taken, and the American gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had a fleeting impression of attractive grey eyes and a neat travelling costume. He indulged in a little more desultory conversation with Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar to those seeing other people off by train.
Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at his watch.
"I had best be clearing out of here. Good-bye, my dear. Don't worry, I will attend to things."
"Oh, father!"
He turned back sharply. There had been something in Ruth's voice, something so entirely foreign to her usual manner, that he was startled. It was almost a cry of despair. She had made an impulsive movement towards him, but in another minute she was mistress of herself once more.
"Till next month," she said cheerfully.
Two minutes later the train started.
Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip and trying hard to keep the unaccustomed tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense of horrible desolation. There was a wild longing upon her to jump out of the train and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured, for the first time in her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If her father knew—what would he say?
Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the first time in her life she was swept away by emotion, swept away to the point of doing a thing which even she knew to be incredibly foolish and reckless. She was enough Van Aldin's daughter to realize her own folly, and level headed enough to condemn her own action. But she was his daughter in another sense also. She had that same iron determination that would have what it wanted, and once it had made up its mind would not be balked. From her cradle she had been self-willed; the very circumstances of her life had developed that self-will in her. It drove her now remorselessly. Well, the die was cast. She must go through with it now.
She looked up, and her eyes met those of the woman sitting opposite. She had a sudden fancy that in some way this other woman had read her mind. She saw in those grey eyes understanding and—yes—compassion.
It was only a fleeting impression. The faces of both women hardened to well-bred impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a magazine, and Katherine Grey looked out of the window and watched a seemingly endless vista of depressing streets and suburban houses.
Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing her mind on the printed page in front of her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions preyed on her mind. What a fool she had been! What a fool she was! Like all cool and self-sufficient people, when she did lose her self-control she lost it thoroughly. It was too late.... Was it too late? Oh, for some one to speak to, for some one to advise her. She had never before had such a wish; she would have scorned the idea of relying on any judgment other than her own, but now—what was the matter with her? Panic. Yes, that would describe it best—panic. She, Ruth Kettering, was completely and utterly panic stricken.
She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite. If only she knew some one like that, some nice, cool, calm, sympathetic creature. That was the sort of person one could talk to. But you can't, of course, confide in a stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little at the idea. She picked up the magazine again. Really she must control herself. After all, she had thought all this out. She had decided of her own free will. What happiness had she ever had in her life up to now? She said to herself restlessly: "Why shouldn't I be happy? No one will ever know."
It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked the cold, and was glad to reach the shelter of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been hervis-à-visin the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.
"This is quite a coincidence," said Mrs. Kettering.
"I know," said Katherine; "it is odd the way things happen."
A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits and deposited two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they were chatting together in friendly fashion.
"It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine," sighed Ruth.
"I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling."
"You know the Riviera well?"
"No; this is my first visit."
"Fancy that."
"You go every year, I expect?"
"Practically. January and February in London are horrible."
"I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months there either. Mostly mud."
"What made you suddenly decide to travel?"
"Money," said Katherine. "For ten years I have been a paid companion with just enough money of my own to buy myself strong country shoes; now I have been left what seems to me a fortune, though I dare say it would not seem so to you."
"Now I wonder why you say that—that it would not seem so to me."
Katherine laughed. "I don't really know. I suppose one forms impressions without thinking of it. I put you down in my own mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It was just an impression. I dare say I am wrong."
"No," said Ruth, "you are not wrong." She had suddenly become very grave. "I wish you would tell me what other impressions you formed about me?"
"I—"
Ruth swept on disregarding the other's embarrassment.
"Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want to know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that you—well, understood what was going on in my mind."
"I can assure you I am not a mind reader," said Katherine, smiling.
"No; but will you tell me, please, just what you thought." Ruth's eagerness was so intense and so sincere that she carried her point.
"I will tell you if you like, but you must not think me impertinent. I thought that for some reason you were in great distress of mind, and I was sorry for you."
"You are right. You are quite right. I am in terrible trouble. I—I should like to tell you something about it, if I may."
"Oh, dear," Katherine thought to herself, "how extraordinarily alike the world seems to be everywhere! People were always telling me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just the same thing here, and I don't really want to hear anybody's troubles!"
She replied politely:
"Do tell me."
They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat, and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine had not begun to sip her coffee, said: "Come to my compartment with me."
They were two single compartments with a communicating door between them. In the second of them a thin maid, whom Katherine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine sat down beside her.
"I am in trouble and I don't know what to do. There is a man whom I am fond of—very fond of indeed. We cared for each other when we were young, and we were thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now we have come together again."
"Yes?"
"I—I am going to meet him now. Oh! I dare say you think it is all wrong, but you don't know the circumstances. My husband is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully."
"Yes," said Katherine again.
"What I feel so badly about is this. I have deceived my father—it was he who came to see me off at Victoria to-day. He wishes me to divorce my husband, and, of course, he has no idea—that I am going to meet this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish."
"Well, don't you think it is?"
"I—I suppose it is."
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.
"But I can't draw back now."
"Why not?"
"I—it is all arranged, and it would break his heart."
"Don't you believe it," said Katherine robustly; "hearts are pretty tough."
"He will think I have no courage, no strength of purpose."
"It seems to me an awfully silly thing that you are going to do," said Katherine. "I think you realize that yourself."
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her hands. "I don't know—I don't know. Ever since I left Victoria I have had a horrible feeling of something—something that is coming to me very soon—that I can't escape."
She clutched convulsively at Katherine's hand.
"You must think I am mad talking to you like this, but I tell you I know something horrible is going to happen."
"Don't think it," said Katherine; "try to pull yourself together. You could send your father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he would come to you at once."
The other brightened.
"Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It is queer—but I never knew until to-day how terribly fond of him I am." She sat up and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. "I have been very foolish. Thank you so much for letting me talk to you. I don't know why I got into such a queer, hysterical state."
She got up. "I am quite all right now. I suppose, really, I just needed some one to talk to. I can't think now why I have been making such an absolute fool of myself."
Katherine got up too.
"I am so glad you feel better," she said, trying to make her voice sound as conventional as possible. She was only too well aware that the aftermath of confidences is embarrassment. She added tactfully:
"I must be going back to my own compartment."
She emerged into the corridor at the same time as the maid was also coming out from the next door. The latter looked towards Katherine, over her shoulder, and an expression of intense surprise showed itself on her face. Katherine turned also, but by that time whoever it was who had aroused the maid's interest had retreated into his or her compartment, and the corridor was empty. Katherine walked down it to regain her own place, which was in the next coach. As she passed the end compartment the door opened and a woman's face looked out for a moment and then pulled the door to sharply. It was a face not easily forgotten, as Katherine was to know when she saw it again. A beautiful face, oval and dark, very heavily made up in a bizarre fashion. Katherine had a feeling that she had seen it before somewhere.
She regained her own compartment without other adventure and sat for some time thinking of the confidence which had just been made to her. She wondered idly who the woman in the mink coat might be, wondered also how the end of her story would turn out.
"If I have stopped any one from making an idiot of themselves, I suppose I have done good work," she thought to herself. "But who knows? That is the kind of woman who is hard-headed and egotistical all her life, and it might be good for her to do the other sort of thing for a change. Oh, well—I don't suppose I shall ever see her again. She certainly won't want to seemeagain. That is the worst of letting people tell you things. They never do."
She hoped that she would not be given the same place at dinner. She reflected, not without humour, that it might be awkward for both of them. Leaning back with her head against a cushion she felt tired and vaguely depressed. They had reached Paris, and the slow journey round theceinture, with its interminable stops and waits, was very wearisome. When they arrived at the Gare de Lyon she was glad to get out and walk up and down the platform. The keen cold air was refreshing after the steam-heated train. She observed with a smile that her friend of the mink coat was solving the possible awkwardness of the dinner problem in her own way. A dinner basket was being handed up and received through the window by the maid.
When the train started once more, and dinner was announced by a violent ringing of bells, Katherine went along to it much relieved in mind. Hervis-à-visto-night was of an entirely different kind—a small man, distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly waxed moustache and an egg-shaped head which he carried rather on one side. Katherine had taken in a book to dinner with her. She found the little man's eyes fixed upon it with a kind of twinkling amusement.
"I see, Madame, that you have aroman policier. You are fond of such things?"
"They amuse me," Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.
"They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh, Mademoiselle? I ask it of you as a student of human nature—why should that be?"
Katherine felt more and more amused.
"Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life," she suggested.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes; there is something in that."
"Of course, one knows that such things don't really happen," Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.
"Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I who speak to you—they have happened tome."
She threw him a quick, interested glance.
"Some day, who knows,youmight be in the thick of things," he went on. "It is all chance."
"I don't think it is likely," said Katherine. "Nothing of that kind ever happens to me."
He leaned forward.
"Would you like it to?"
The question startled her, and she drew in her breath sharply.
"It is my fancy, perhaps," said the little man, as he dexterously polished one of the forks, "but I think that you have a yearning in you for interesting happenings.Eh bien, Mademoiselle, all through my life I have observed one thing—'All one wants one gets!' Who knows?" His face screwed itself up comically. "You may get more than you bargain for."
"Is that a prophecy?" asked Katherine, smiling as she rose from the table.