She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My words seemed to have given her food for thought.
“Listen,” she said, leaning forward. “Do you mean to say that that was your first visit to the Café des Deux Epingles?”
“Absolutely my first visit,” I answered. “I met Louis by accident that night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there.”
“You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were,” she remarked.
“That is quite true,” I admitted, “but I scarcely see that there was anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was because I was alone that we went out together.”
Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed speaking the truth.
“I do not understand at all,” she said. “You mean to tell me, then, that you know nothing of Louis except as a maître d’hôtel, that you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?”
“Absolutely,” I answered.
Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in the Café des Deux Epingles.
“How can I believe you?” she exclaimed. “Remember that I saw you strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it! You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly hurt. Is it true?”
“I believe so,” I answered. “I am afraid that I hope so.”
“And you,” she continued, “go free! You have not even the air of one who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of those—those—”
“Those what?” I asked eagerly.
“Those who frequent the Café des Deux Epingles,” she said slowly,—“those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends.”
I shook my head.
“I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit,” I answered. “I know nothing of Louis except as a maître d’hôtel in my favorite restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Café des Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night. You,” I added, “were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet.”
“What is your name?” she asked abruptly.
I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.
“You are an Englishman?” she asked, after a short pause.
“Decidedly!” I answered.
“I have not known many Englishmen,” she said slowly. “I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you rise to strike him.”
She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.
“Listen,” I said, “I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it.”
“From you?” she asked.
“From me!” I answered firmly. “It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,—listen, mademoiselle!” I continued. “He is a cripple. He was thrown from his horse—he was master of hounds in those days—and he has never been able to walk since. He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no chance affair,” I went on. “He set himself deliberately to win her heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that she left my brother’s home with him. The man was his guest at the time,—was his guest from the beginning of the affair.”
The girl’s eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.
“You did well!” she said. “For that I have no more to say. One who wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand this,” she added. “I do not understand why those people at the Café des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of them,—when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or other you will have to pay the price!”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I have never refused to pay my just debts,” I said. “If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it.”
“You are not already their servant, then?” she asked. “You are sure, quite sure of that?”
“In what way?” I asked.
“You look honest,” she said. “Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us—my uncle and me?”
“On my honor, no!” I answered earnestly.
She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.
“Tell me,” she said,—“do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,—is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?”
“He is scarcely that,” I answered. “He is simply the maître d’hôtelat a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him.”
She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was silent.
“Don’t you think,” I said, after a short pause, “that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?”
She seemed surprised.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Tell me, you are not English,” I said, “and you are not French. Yet you speak English so well.”
She smiled.
“My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard,” she answered. “I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always. My people”—she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him—“are all coffee planters.”
“You are going to stay long in London?” I asked.
“My uncle sells his year’s crops there,” she answered. “When he has finished his business we move on.”
“Will you tell me, then,” I asked, “why you, too, were at the Café des Deux Epingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious habits. What place had you there?”
She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert her, perhaps by reason of its directness.
“Well,” she said, “my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two or three times, and he is always welcome.”
“From what I have heard,” I remarked, “I should imagine that you and I are the only people who have been allowed to go there without qualifications.”
She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then, as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more that she must be quite young.
“Perhaps,” she answered. “I do not understand the place or its habitues. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful.”
“Tell me,” I asked, “what are you going to do in London while your uncle looks after his business?”
“Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose,” she answered carelessly. “There are always the shops, and the theatres in the evening.”
“Where are you going to stay?” I inquired.
“At the Milan, I think,” she answered.
Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan, of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively. In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.
“I may come across you, then,” I ventured.
She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.
“It would be very pleasant,” she said. “I know no one in London. I expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?” she asked.
“As much there as anywhere,” I answered. “I have never settled down since I sent in my papers.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith,” I answered, “and I could not get round in time. I haven’t altogether finished soldiering, though,” I added. “At least, I hope not.”
“But where do you call your home, then?” she asked timidly.
“I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one,” I answered. “I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother, and I have just a couple of rooms in town.”
The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The little current of air which came in through the half-open window was already murky and depressing.
“It is London?” she asked.
“We shall be there in ten minutes,” I answered, looking out.
She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.
“We shall be there in ten minutes,” she said.
“So soon!” he answered. “Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?” he asked me.
“On your side,” I answered.
He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.
“You will be smothered,” the girl remarked.
“I am cold,” he answered, in a low tone. “I am always cold after I have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful.”
Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!
The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform, and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.
“Can I be of any service to you?” I asked the girl, as I collected my small belongings. “I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the journey.”
She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than physical sickness.
“I thank you, sir,” he said rapidly. “You could, if you would, be of immense service.”
“I should be delighted,” I answered. “Tell me in what way?”
“I am exceedingly ill,” the man said, with a groan. “I suffer from heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment, and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good.”
I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with distressed face.
“If you will allow me,” I said, “it will give me very great pleasure to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have luggage to be examined.”
“It is very kind of you,” she said hesitatingly. “Don’t you think, though,” she added, turning to her uncle, “that I had better go with you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards.”
“No, no!” he objected impatiently. “I shall call at the chemist’s. I shall get something that will put me right quickly.”
“It is settled, then,” I declared.
Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary haste.
“We will have our small things put into an omnibus,” I said. “There will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our registered luggage.”
“You are very kind,” she murmured absently.
Her eyes were still watching the spot where her companion had disappeared.
X. DELORA DISAPPEARS
Table of Contents
I was fortunate enough to find a disengaged omnibus, and filled it with our rugs and smaller belongings. Then we made our way slowly back to the little space prepared for the reception of the heavier baggage, and around which a barrier had already been erected. There was a slight nervousness in my companion’s manner which made conversation difficult. I, too, could not help feeling that the situation was a difficult one for her.
“I am afraid,” I remarked, “that you are worried about your uncle. Is his health really bad, or is this just a temporary attack? I thought he looked well enough in the train on the other side.”
“He suffers sometimes,” she answered, “but I do not think it is anything really serious.”
“He will be all right by the time we get to the hotel,” I declared.
“Very likely,” she answered. “For myself, I think that I always feel a little nervous when I arrive at a strange place. I have never been here before, you know, and I could not help wondering, for a moment, what would become of me if my uncle were really taken ill. Everyone says that London is so big and cold and heartless.”
“You would have nothing to fear,” I assured her. “You forget, too, that your uncle has friends here.”
We leaned over the barrier and watched the luggage being handed out of the vans and thrown on to the low wooden platforms. By my side a dark young man, with sallow features and pince-nez, was apparently passing his time in the same manner. My companion, who was restless all the time, glanced at him frequently, or I should scarcely have noticed his existence. In dress and appearance he resembled very much the ordinary valet in private service, except for his eye-glasses, and that his face lacked the smooth pastiness of the class. For some reason or other my companion seemed to take a dislike to him.
“Come,” she said to me, “we will move over to the other side. I think we shall get in quicker.”
I followed her lead, and I saw her glance back over her shoulder at the young man, who seemed unaware, even, of her departure.
“I do hate being listened to,” she said, “even when one is talking about nothing in particular!”
“Who was listening to us?” I asked.
“The young man next to you,” she answered. “I could see him look up in that horrid stealthy way from under his eyelids.”
I laughed.
“You are a very observant person,” I remarked.
She drew a little closer to me. Somehow or other I found the sense of her near presence a delightful thing. All her garment seemed imbued with a faint perfume, as though of violets.
“I think that I have only become so quite lately,” she said. “Perhaps it is because I have lived such a quiet life, and now things are so different. My uncle has been so mysterious, especially during the last few days, and I suppose
it has made me suspicious. Wherever we go, I always seem to fancy that some one is watching us. Besides, I am sure that that young man was a South American, and I hate South Americans!”
“I fancy,” I said, “that the attention he bestowed upon us was due to a more obvious cause.”
“Please do not talk like that,” she begged. “I do not wish for compliments from you. I have been told always that Englishmen are so truthful. One has compliments from Frenchmen, from Spaniards, and from South Americans. They fall like froth from their lips, and one knows all the time that it means nothing, and less than nothing. It is such a pity!”
“Why a pity?” I asked, more for the sake of keeping her talking than anything. “Certainly it is a picturesque habit of speech.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I do not like it,” she said quietly. “By degrees, one comes to believe nothing that any man says, even when he is in earnest. Remember, Capitaine Rotherby, I hope that I shall never hear a compliment from you.”
“I will be careful,” I promised her, “but you must remember that there is sometimes a very fine distinction. I may be driven to say something which sounds quite nice, because it is the truth.”
She laughed at me with her eyes, a habit of hers which from the first I had admired. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten her anxieties.
“You are worse than these others,” she murmured. “I believe—no, I am quite sure, that you are more dangerous! Come, they are ready for us.”
The barriers were thrown open, and a little stream of people entered the enclosed space. My companion’s trunks were all together, and easily found. The officer bent over, chalk in hand, and asked a few courteous questions. At that moment I became aware that the young man in eye-glasses was standing once more by my side. Her trunks were promptly marked, and I directed the porter to take them to our omnibus. Then we moved on a little to where my things were. The young man sauntered behind us, and stopped to light a cigarette. My companion’s fingers fell upon my arm.
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