III.
On the next afternoon but one, policemen were still fishing, without success, for the bracelet, and raising from the ancient duct long-buried odours which threatened to destroy the inhabitants of the quay. (When Kitty Sartorius had hinted that perhaps the authorities might see their way to drawing off the water from the canal, the authorities had intimated that the death-rate of Bruges was already as high as convenient.) Nevertheless, though nothing had happened, the situation had somehow developed, and in such a manner that the bracelet itself was in danger of being partially forgotten; and of all places in Bruges, the situation had developed on the top of the renowned Belfry which dominates the Grande Place in particular and the city in general.
The summit of the Belfry is three hundred and fifty feet high, and it is reached by four hundred and two winding stone steps, each a separate menace to life and limb. Eve Fincastle had climbed those steps alone, perhaps in quest of the view at the top, perhaps in quest of spiritual calm. She had not been leaning over the parapet more than a minute before Cecil Thorold had appeared, his field-glasses slung over his shoulder. They had begun to talk a little, but nervously and only in snatches. The wind blew free up there among the forty-eight bells, but the social atmosphere was oppressive.
“The Count is a most charming man,” Eve was saying, as if in defence of the Count.
“He is,” said Cecil; “I agree with you.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Thorold! Oh, no, you don’t!”
Then there was a pause, and the twain looked down upon Bruges, with its venerable streets, its grass-grown squares, its waterways, and its innumerable monuments, spread out maplike beneath them in the mellow October sunshine. Citizens passed along the thoroughfare in the semblance of tiny dwarfs.
“If you didn’t hate him,” said Eve, “you wouldn’t behave as you do.”
“How do I behave, then?”
Eve schooled her voice to an imitation of jocularity—
“All Tuesday evening, and all day yesterday, you couldn’t leave them alone. You know you couldn’t.”
Five minutes later the conversation had shifted.
“You actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal?” said Cecil.
“I actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal. And no one could have got it out while Kitty and I were away, because we weren’t away half a minute.”
But they could not dismiss the subject of the Count, and presently he was again the topic.
“Naturally it would be a good match for the Count—for any man,” said Eve; “but then it would also be a good match for Kitty. Of course, he is not so rich as some people, but he is rich.”
Cecil examined the horizon with his glasses, and then the streets near the Grande Place.
“Rich, is he? I’m glad of it. By the by, he’s gone to Ghent for the day, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, he went by the 9.27, and returns by the 4.38.”
Another pause.
“Well,” said Cecil at length, handing the glasses to Eve Fincastle, “kindly glance down there. Follow the line of the Rue St. Nicolas. You see the cream-coloured house with the enclosed courtyard? Now, do you see two figures standing together near a door—a man and a woman, the woman on the steps? Who are they?”
“I can’t see very well,” said Eve.
“Oh, yes, my dear lady, you can,” said Cecil. “These glasses are the very best. Try again.”
“They look like the Comte d’Avrec and Madame Lawrence,” Eve murmured.
“But the Count is on his way from Ghent! I see the steam of the 4.38 over there. The curious thing is that the Count entered the house of Madame Lawrence, to whom he was introduced for the first time the day before yesterday, at ten o’clock this morning. Yes, it would be a very good match for the Count. When one comes to think of it, it usually is that sort of man that contrives to marry a brilliant and successful actress. There! He’s just leaving, isn’t he? Now let us descend and listen to the recital of his day’s doings in Ghent—shall we?”
“You mean to insinuate,” Eve burst out in sudden wrath, “that the Count is an—an adventurer, and that Madame Lawrence—— Oh! Mr. Thorold!” She laughed condescendingly. “This jealousy is too absurd. Do you suppose I haven’t noticed how impressed you were with Kitty at the Devonshire Mansion that night, and again at Ostend, and again here? You’re simply carried away by jealousy; and you think because you are a millionaire you must have all you want. I haven’t the slightest doubt that the Count——”
“Anyhow,” said Cecil, “let us go down and hear about Ghent.”
His eyes made a number of remarks (indulgent, angry, amused, protective, admiring, perspicacious, puzzled), too subtle for the medium of words.
They groped their way down to earth in silence, and it was in silence that they crossed the Grande Place. The Count was seated on the terrasse in front of the hotel, with a liqueur glass before him, and he was making graceful and expressive signs to Kitty Sartorius, who leaned her marvellous beauty out of a first-storey window. He greeted Cecil Thorold and Eve with an equal grace.
“And how is Ghent?” Cecil inquired.
“Did you go to Ghent, after all, Count?” Eve put in. The Comte d’Avrec looked from one to another, and then, instead of replying, he sipped at his glass. “No,” he said, “I didn’t go. The rather curious fact is that I happened to meet Madame Lawrence, who offered to show me her collection of lace. I have been an amateur of lace for some years, and really Madame Lawrence’s collection is amazing. You have seen it? No? You should do so. I’m afraid I have spent most of the day there.”
When the Count had gone to join Kitty in the drawing-room, Eve Fincastle looked victoriously at Cecil, as if to demand of him: “Will you apologise?”
“My dear journalist,” Cecil remarked simply, “you gave the show away.”
That evening the continued obstinacy of the bracelet, which still refused to be caught, began at last to disturb the birdlike mind of Kitty Sartorius. Moreover, the secret was out, and the whole town of Bruges was discussing the episode and the chances of success.
“Let us consult Planchette,” said the Count. The proposal was received with enthusiasm by Kitty. Eve had disappeared.
Planchette was produced; and when asked if the bracelet would be recovered, it wrote, under the hands of Kitty and the Count, a trembling “Yes.” When asked: “By whom?” it wrote a word which faintly resembled “Avrec.”
The Count stated that he should personally commence dragging operations at sunrise. “You will see,” he said, “I shall succeed.”
“Let me try this toy, may I?” Cecil asked blandly, and, upon Kitty agreeing, he addressed Planchette in a clear voice: “Now, Planchette, who will restore the bracelet to its owner?”
And Planchette wrote “Thorold,” but in characters as firm and regular as those of a copy-book.
“Mr. Thorold is laughing at us,” observed the Count, imperturbably bland.
“How horrid you are, Mr. Thorold!” Kitty exclaimed.