The Yellow Crayon

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  THE YELLOW CRAYON

  By E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER I

  It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into thedarkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced itsway through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor instrange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of beesand many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, restingfor a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purplesplendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair, there sat a man, his armsfolded, his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then, so had hesat for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of gladliving things, which alone broke the deep silence of the house, seemedneither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned tostone, his forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth setclose and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approachedhim, had set food by his side, which now and then he had mechanicallytaken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in darkness and inlight, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight, and the songs of thebirds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake belowthe lawns.

  At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He stretchedout his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left within hisreach. Almost immediately a man, pale-faced, with full dark eyes andolive complexion, dressed in the sombre garb of an indoor servant, stoodat his elbow.

  "Duson."

  "Your Grace!"

  "Bring wine--Burgundy."

  It was before him, served with almost incredible despatch--a smallcobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape, on which were beautifullyemblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly and deliberately.When he set the glass down it was empty.

  "Duson!"

  "Your Grace!"

  "You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York thisevening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms."

  "For how many days, your Grace?"

  "We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of the mosttrustworthy, who will remain as caretakers."

  The man's face was as immovable as his master's.

  "And Madame?"

  "Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for hermaid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal belongingsremain absolutely undisturbed."

  "Has your Grace any further orders?"

  "Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?"

  The man's head moved in respectful assent.

  "To Felix, "No 27, Rue de St. Pierre, "Avenue de L'Opera, Paris. "Meet me at Sherry's Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven p.m.--V. S."

  "It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York leavesat seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five minutes."

  The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

  "Duson!"

  "Your Grace!"

  "The Duc de Souspennier remains here--or at the bottom of the lake--whatmatters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom youengage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan ofEnglish proclivities."

  "Very good, sir!"

  "Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriagestarts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to seeme."

  The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from hischair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He leanedheavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him. Slowlyhis eyes traveled over the landscape.

  It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretchedthe gardens--Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here andthere a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge borderedthe rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. Awooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rollingpark, with little belts of pine plantations and a few larger trees hereand there. In the far distance the red flag was waving on one of theputting greens. Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,--his pipein his mouth, and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin watched, and thelines in his face grew deeper and deeper.

  "I am an old man," he said softly, "but I will live to see them sufferwho have done this evil thing."

  He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than wasusual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charminglyfurnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in theirvases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly hethreaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture, examiningas though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the Sevreschina, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisiteportraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights andgrey dawns of Corot. Everywhere treasures of art, yet everywhere therestraining hand of the artist. The faint smell of dead rose leaves hungabout the room. Already one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness asthough the genius of the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily uponhis stick, and his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectfulvoice came to him from the other room.

  "In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have yourcoat and hat here."

  Mr. Sabin looked up.

  "I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.

  * * * * *

  The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. Onthe way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the carhe sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastlyout of the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards,touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the trainwas rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a tunnel.Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of night didnot disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which he saw werehidden from other men.

  Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.

  "You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served. Therestaurant car will be detached at the next stop."

  "What of it?" Mr. Sabin asked calmly.

  "I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirtyhours since you ate anything save biscuits."

  Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

  "You are quite right, Duson," he said. "I will dine."

  In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently abox of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.

  Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train stoppedmore frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came into evidence.Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He bought a newspaper,and glanced through the list of steamers which had sailed during theweek. When the train glided into the depot he was on his feet and readyto leave it.

  "You will reserve our rooms, Duson, for one month," he said on the wayto the hotel. "We shall probably leave for Europe a month to-morrow."

  "Very good, sir."

  "You were Mrs. Peterson's servant, Duson, before you were mine!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You have been with her, I believe, for many years. You are doubtlessmuch attached to her!"

  "Indeed I am, sir!"

  "You may have surmised, Duson, that she has left me. I desire to ensureyour absolute fidelity, so I take you into my confidence to this extent.Your mistress is in the hands of those who have some power over her. Herabsence is involuntary so far as she is concerned. It has been a greatblow to me. I am prepared to run all risks to discover her whereabouts.It is late in my life for adventures, but it is very certain thatadventures and dangers are before us. In accompanying me you
willassociate yourself with many risks. Therefore--"

  Duson held up his hand.

  "I beg, sir," he exclaimed, "that you will not suggest for a moment myleaving your service on that account. I beg most humbly, sir, that youwill not do me that injustice."

  Mr. Sabin paused. His eyes, like lightning, read the other's face.

  "It is settled then, Duson," he said. "Kindly pay this cabman, andfollow me as quickly as possible."

  Mr. Sabin passed across the marble hall, leaning heavily upon his stick.Yet for all his slow movements there was a new alertness in his eyes andbearing. He was once more taking keen note of everybody and everythingabout him. Only a few days ago she had been here.

  He claimed his rooms at the office, and handed the keys to Duson, who bythis time had rejoined him. At the moment of turning away he addressedan inquiry to the clerk behind the counter.

  "Can you tell me if the Duchess of Souspennier is staying here?" heinquired.

  The young man glanced up.

  "Been here, I guess. Left on Tuesday."

  Mr. Sabin turned away. He did not speak again until Duson and he werealone in the sitting-room. Then he drew out a five dollar bill.

  "Duson," he said, "take this to the head luggage porter. Tell him tobring his departure book up here at once, and there is another waitingfor him. You understand?"

  "Certainly, sir!"

  Mr. Sabin turned to enter his bed-chamber. His attention was attracted,however, by a letter lying flat upon the table. He took it up. It wasaddressed to Mr. Sabin.

  "This is very clever," he mused, hesitating for a moment before openingit. "I wired for rooms only a few hours ago--and I find a letter. It isthe commencement."

  He tore open the envelope, and drew out a single half-sheet ofnote-paper. Across it was scrawled a single sentence only.

  "Go back to Lenox."

  There was no signature, nor any date. The only noticeable thing aboutthis brief communication was that it was written in yellow pencil of apeculiar shade. Mr. Sabin's eyes glittered as he read.

  "The yellow crayon!" he muttered.

  Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin thrust the letter andenvelope into his breast coat pocket.