The Powers and Maxine

by C. N. Williamson; A. M. Williamson

IVOR DUNDAS’ POINT OF VIEW

CHAPTER IV
IVOR TRAVELS TO PARIS

It is rather a startling sensation for a man to be caught suddenly by the nape of the neck, so to speak, and pitched out of heaven down to—the other place.

But that was what happened to me when I arrived at Victoria Station, on my way to Paris.

I had taken my ticket and hurried on to the platform without too much time to spare (I’d been warned not to risk observation by being too early) when I came face to face with the girl whom, at any other time, I should have liked best to meet: whom at that particular time I least wished to meet: Diana Forrest.

“The Imp”—Lisa Drummond—was with her: but I saw only Di at first— Di, looking a little pale and harassed, but beautiful as always. Only last night I had told her that Paris had no attractions for me. I had said that I didn’t care to see Maxine de Renzie: yet here I was on the way to see her, and here was Di discovering me in the act of going to see, her.

Of course I could lie; and I suppose some men, even men of honour, would think it justifiable as well as wise to lie in such a case, when explanations were forbidden. But I couldn’t lie to a girl I loved as I love Diana Forrest. It would have sickened me with life and with myself to do it: and it was with the knowledge in my mind that I could not and would not lie, that I had to greet her with a conventional “Good morning.”

“Are you going out of town?” I asked, with my hat off for her and for the Imp, whose strange little weazened face I now saw looking over my tall love’s shoulders. It had never before struck me that the Imp was like a cat; but suddenly the resemblance struck me—something in the poor little creature’s expression, it must have been, or in her greenish grey eyes which seemed at that moment to concentrate all the knowledge of old and evil things that has ever come into the world since the days of the early Egyptians—when a cat was worshipped.

“No, I’m not going out of town,” Di answered. “I came here to meet you, in case you should be leaving by this train, and I brought Lisa with me.”

“Who told you I was leaving?” I asked, hoping for a second or two that the Foreign Secretary had confided to her something of his secret—guessing ours, perhaps, and that my unexpected, inexplicable absence might injure me with her.

“I can’t tell you,” she answered. “I didn’t believe you would go; even though I got your letter by the eight o’clock post this morning.”

“I’m glad you got that,” I said. “I posted it soon after I left you last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when we were bidding each other good-bye, that you wouldn’t be able to see me this afternoon, instead of waiting to write?”

“Frankly and honestly,” I said (for I had to say it), “just at the moment, and only for the moment, I forgot about the Duchess of Glasgow’s bazaar. That was because, after I decided to drop in at the bazaar, something happened which made it impossible for me to go. In my letter I begged you to let me see you to-morrow instead; and now I beg it again. Do say ‘yes.’”

“I’ll say yes on one condition—and gladly,” she replied, with an odd, pale little smile, “that you tell me where you’re going this morning. I know it must seem horrid in me to ask, but—but—oh, Ivor, it isn’t horrid, really. You wouldn’t think it horrid if you could understand.”

“I’m going to Paris,” I answered, beginning to feel as if I had a cold potato where my heart ought to be. “I am obliged to go, on business.”

“You didn’t say anything about Paris in your letter this morning, when you told me you couldn’t come to the Duchess’s,” said Di, looking like a beautiful, unhappy child, her eyes big and appealing, her mouth proud. “You only mentioned ‘an urgent engagement which you’d forgotten.’”

“I thought that would be enough to explain, in a hurry,” I told her, lamely.

“So it was—so it would have been,” she faltered, “if it hadn’t been for—what we said last night about—Paris. And then—I can’t explain to you, Ivor, any more than it seems you can to me. But I did hear you meant to go there, and—after our talk, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t come to the station to find you; I came because I was perfectly sure I wouldn’t find you, and wanted to prove that I hadn’t found you. Yet—you’re here.”

“And, though I am here, you will trust me just the same,” I said, as firmly as I could.

“Of course. I’ll trust you, if—”

“If what?”

“If you’ll tell me just one little, tiny thing: that you’re not going to see Maxine de Renzie.”

“I may see her,” I admitted.

“But—but at least, you’re not going on purpose?”

This drove me into a corner. Without being disloyal to the Foreign Secretary, I could not deny all personal desire to meet Maxine. Yet to what suspicion was I not laying myself open in confessing that I deliberately intended to see her, having sworn by all things a man does swear by when he wishes to please a girl, that I didn’t wish to see Maxine, and would not see Maxine?

“You said you’d trust me, Di,” I reminded her. “For Heaven’s sake don’t break that promise.”

“But—if you’re breaking a promise to me?”

“A promise?”

“Worse, then! Because I didn’t ask you to promise. I had too much faith in you for that. I believed you when you said you didn’t care for—anyone but me. I’ve told Lisa. It doesn’t matter our speaking like this before her. I asked you to wait for my promise for a little while, until I could be quite sure you didn’t think of Miss de Renzie as—some people fancied you did. If you wanted to see her, I said you must go, and you laughed at the idea. Yet the very next morning, by the first train, you start.”

“Only because I am obliged to,” I hazarded in spite of the Foreign Secretary and his precautions. But I was punished for my lack of them by making matters worse instead of better for myself.

“Obliged to!” she echoed. “Then there’s something you must settle with her, before you can be—free.”

The guard was shutting the carriage doors. In another minute I should lose the train. And I must not lose the train. For her future and mine, as well as Maxine’s, I must not.

“Dearest,” I said hurriedly, “I am free. There’s no question of freedom. Yet I shall have to go. I hold you to your word. Trust me.”

“Not if you go to her—this day of all days.” The words were wrung from the poor child’s lips, I could see, by sheer anguish, and it was like death to me that I should have to cause her this anguish, instead of soothing it.

“You shall. You must,” I commanded, rather than implored. “Good-bye, darling—precious one. I shall think of you every instant, and I shall come back to you to-morrow.”

“You needn’t. You need never come to me again,” she said, white lipped. And the guard whistled, waving his green flag.

“Don’t dare to say such a cruel thing—a thing you don’t mean!” I cried, catching at the closed door of a first-class compartment. As I did so, a little man inside jumped to the window and shouted, “Reserved! Don’t you see it’s reserved?” which explained the fact that the door seemed to be fastened.

I stepped back, my eyes falling on the label to which the man pointed, and would have tried the handle of the next carriage, had not two men rushed at the door as the train began to move, and dexterously opened it with a railway key. Their throwing themselves thus in my way would have lost me my last chance of catching the moving train, had I not dashed in after them. If I could choose, I would be the last man to obtrude myself where I was not wanted, but there was no time to choose; and I was thankful to get in anywhere, rather than break my word. Besides, my heart was too sore at leaving Diana as I had had to leave her, to care much for anything else. I had just sense enough to fight my way in, though the two men with the key (not the one who had occupied the compartment first), now yelled that it was reserved, and would have pushed me out if I hadn’t been too strong for them. I had a dim impression that, instead of joining with the newcomers, the first man, who would have kept the place to himself before their entrance, seemed willing to aid me against the others. They being once foisted upon him, he appeared to wish for my presence too, or else he merely desired to prevent me from being dashed onto the platform and perhaps killed, for he thrust out a hand and tried to pull me in.

At the same time a guard came along, protesting against the unseemly struggle, and the carriage door was slammed shut upon us all four.

When I got my balance, and was able to look out, the train had gone so far that Diana and Lisa had been swept away from my sight. It was like a bad omen; and the fear was cold upon me that I had lost my love for ever.

At that moment I suffered so atrociously that if it had not been too late, I fear I should have sacrificed Maxine and the Foreign Secretary and even the Entente Cordiale (provided he had not been exaggerating) for Di’s sake, and love’s sake. But there was no going back now, even if I would. The train was already travelling almost at full speed, and there was nothing to do but resign myself to the inevitable, and hope for the best. Someone, it was clear, had tried to work mischief between Diana and me, and there were only too many chances that he had succeeded. Could it be Bob West, I asked myself, as I half-dazedly looked for a place to sit down among the litter of small luggage with which the first occupant of the carriage had strewn every seat. I knew that Bob was as much in love with Di as a man of his rather unintellectual, unimaginative type could be, and he hadn’t shown himself as friendly lately to me as he once had: still, I didn’t think he was the sort of fellow to trip up a rival in the race by a trick, even if he could possibly have found out that I was going to Paris this morning.

“Won’t you sit here, sir?” a voice broke into my thoughts, and I saw that the little man had cleared a place for me next his own, which was in a corner facing the engine. Thanking him absent-mindedly, I sat down, and began to observe my travelling companions for the first time.

So far, their faces had been mere blurs for me: but now it struck me that all three were rather peculiar; that is, peculiar when seen in a first-class carriage.

The man who had reserved the compartment for himself, and who had removed a bundle of golf sticks from the seat to make room for me, did not look like a typical golfer, nor did he appear at all the sort of person who might be expected to reserve a whole compartment for himself. He was small and thin, and weedy, with little blinking, pink-rimmed eyes of the kind which ought to have had white lashes instead of the sparse, jet black ones that rimmed them. His forehead, though narrow, suggested shrewdness, as did the expression of those light coloured eyes of his, which were set close to the sharp, slightly up-turned nose. His hair was so black that it made his skin seem singularly pallid, though it was only sallow; and a mean, rabbit mouth worked nervously over two prominent teeth. Though his clothes were good, and new, they had the air of having been bought ready made; and in spite of his would-be “smart” get up, the man (who might have been anywhere between thirty and thirty-eight) looked somewhat like an ex-groom, or bookmaker, masquerading as a “swell.”

The two intruders who had violated the sanctity of the reserved compartment by means of their railway key were both bigger and more manly than he who had a right to it. One was dark, and probably Jewish, with a heavy beard and moustache, in the midst of which his sensual and cruel mouth pouted disagreeably red. The other was puffy and flushed, with a brick-coloured complexion deeply pitted by smallpox. They also were flashily dressed with “horsey” neckties and conspicuous scarf-pins. As I glanced at the pair, they were talking together in a low voice, with an open newspaper held up between them; but the man who had helped me in against their will sat silent, staring out of the window and uneasily fingering his collar. Not one of the trio was, apparently, paying the slightest attention to me, now that I was seated; nevertheless I thought of the large, long letter-case which I carried in an inner breast pocket of my carefully buttoned coat. I would not attract attention to the contents of that pocket by touching it, to assure myself that it was safe, but I had done so just before meeting Di, and I felt certain that nothing could have happened to it since.

I folded my arms across my chest, glanced up to see where the cord of communication might be found in case of emergency; and then reflected that these men were not likely to be dangerous, since I had followed them into the compartment, not they me. This thought was reassuring, as they were three to one if they combined against me, and the train was, unfortunately, not entirely a corridor train. Therefore, having assured myself that I was not among spies bent on having my life or the secret I carried, I forgot about my fellow-travellers, and fell into gloomy speculations as to my chances with Diana. I had been loving her, thinking of little else but her and my hopes of her, for many months now; but never had I realised what a miserable, empty world it would be for me without Di for my own, as I did now, when I had perhaps lost her.

Not that I would allow myself to think that I could not get her back. I would not think it. I would force her to believe in me, to trust me, even to repent her suspicions, though appearances were all against me, and Heaven knew how much or when I might be permitted to explain. I would not be a man if I took her at her word, and let her slip from me, no matter how many times that word were repeated; so I told myself over and over. Yet a voice inside me seemed to say that nothing could be as it had been; that I’d sacrificed my happiness to please a stranger, and to save a woman whom I had never really loved.

Di was so beautiful, so sweet, so used to being admired by men; there were so many who loved her, so many with a thousand times more to offer than I had or would ever have: how could I hope that she would go on caring for me, after what had happened to-day? I wondered. She hadn’t said in actual words last night that she would marry me, whereas this morning she had almost said she never would. I should have nobody to blame but myself if I came back to London to-morrow to find her engaged to Lord Robert West—a man who, as his brother has no children, might some day make her a Duchess.

“Sorry to have seemed rude just now, sir,” said one of the two railway-key men, suddenly reminding me of his unnecessary existence. “Hardly knew what I was about when I shoved you away from the door. Me and my friend was afraid of missing the train, so we pushed—instinct of self-preservation, I suppose,” and he chuckled as if he had got off some witticism. “Anyhow, I apologise. Nothing intentional, ’pon my word.”

“Thanks. No apology is necessary,” I replied as indifferently as I felt.

“That’s all right, then,” finished the Jewish-faced man, who had spoken. He turned to his companion, and the two resumed their conversation behind the newspaper: but I now became conscious that they occasionally glanced over the top at their neighbour or at me, as if their whole attention were not taken up with the news of the day.

Any interest they might feel in me, provided it had nothing to do with a certain pocket, they were welcome to: but the little man was apparently not of the same mind concerning himself. His nervously twitching hand on the upholstered seat-arm which separated his place from mine attracted my attention, which was then drawn up to his face. He was so sickly pale, under a kind of yellowish glaze spread over his complexion, that I thought he must be ill, perhaps suffering from train sickness, in anxious anticipation of the horrors which might be in store for him on the boat. Presently he pulled out a red-bordered handkerchief, and unobtrusively wiped his forehead, under his checked travelling cap. When he had done this, I saw that his hair was left streaked with damp; and there was a faint, purplish stain on the handkerchief, observing which with evident dismay he stuffed the big square of coarse cambric hastily into his pocket.

“The little beast must dye his hair,” I thought contemptuously. “Perhaps he’s an albino, really. His eyes look like it.”

With that, he threw a frightened glance at me, which caused me to turn away and spare him the humiliation of knowing that he was observed. But immediately after, he made an effort to pull himself together, picking up a book he had laid down to wipe his forehead and holding it so close to his nose that the printed page must have been a mere blur, unless he were very near-sighted. Thus he sat for some time; yet I felt that no look thrown by the other two was lost on him. He seemed to know each time one of them peered over the newspaper; and when at last the train slowed down by the Admiralty Pier all his nervousness returned. His small, thin hands, freckled on their backs, hovered over one piece of luggage after another, as if he could not decide how to pile the things together.

Naturally I had not brought my man with me on this errand, therefore I had let my suitcase go into the van, that I might have both hands free, and I had nothing to do when the train stopped but jump out and make for the boat. Nevertheless I lingered, folding up a newspaper, and tearing an article out of a magazine by way of excuse; for it was not my object to be caught in a crowd and hustled, perhaps, by some clever wretches who might be lying in wait for what I had in my pocket. It seemed impossible that anyone could have learned that I was playing messenger between the British Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Maxine de Renzie: still, the danger and difficulty of the apparently simple mission had been so strongly impressed on me that I did not intend to neglect any precaution.

I lingered therefore; and the Jewish-looking man with his heavy-faced friend lingered also, for some reason of their own. They had no luggage, except a small handbag each, but these they opened at the last minute to stuff in their newspapers, and apparently to review the other contents. Presently, when the first rush for the boat was over, and the porters who had come to the door of our compartment had gone away empty-handed, I would have got out, had I not caught an imploring glance from the little man who had reserved the carriage. Perhaps I imagined it, but his pink-rimmed eyes seemed to say, “For heaven’s sake, don’t leave me alone with these others.”

“Would you be so very kind, sir,” he said to me, “to beckon a porter, as you are near the door? I find after all that I shan’t be able to carry everything myself.”

I did as he asked; and there was so much confusion in the carriage when the porter came, that in self-defence the two friends got out with their bags. I also descended and would have followed in the wake of the crowd, if the little man had not called after me. He had lost his ticket, he said. Would I be so extremely obliging as to throw an eye about the platform to see if it had fallen there?

I did oblige him in this manner, without avail; but by this time he had found the missing treasure in the folds of his travelling rug; and scrambling out of the carriage, attended by the porter I had secured for him, he would have walked by my side towards the boat, had I not dropped behind a few steps, thinking—as always—of the contents of that inner breast pocket.

He and I were now at the tail-end of the procession hastening boatward, or almost at the tail, for there were but four or five other passengers—a family party with a fat nurse and crying baby—behind us. As I approached the gangway, I saw on deck my late travelling companions, the Jewish man and his friend, regarding us with interest. Then, just as I was about to step on board, almost on the little man’s heels, there came a cry apparently from someone ahead: “Look out—gangway’s falling!”

In an instant all was confusion. The fat nurse behind me screamed, as the nervous fellow in front leaped like a cat, intent on saving himself no matter what happened to anyone else, and flung me against the woman with the baby. Two or three excitable Frenchmen just ahead also attempted to turn, thus nearly throwing the little man onto his knees. The large bag which he carried hit me across the shins; in his terror he almost embraced me as he helped himself up: the nurse, as she stumbled, pitched forward onto my shoulder, and if I had not seized the howling baby, it would certainly have fallen under our feet.

My bowler was knocked over my eyes, and though an officer of the boat cried the reassuring intelligence that it was a false alarm—that the gangway was “all right,” and never had been anything but all right, I could not readjust my hat nor see what was going on until the fat nurse had obligingly retrieved her charge, without a word of thanks.

My first thought was for the letter-case in my pocket, for I had a horrible idea that the scare might have been got up for the express purpose of robbing me of it. But I could feel its outline as plainly as ever under my coat, and decided, thankfully, that after all the alarm had had nothing to do with me.

I had wired for a private cabin, thinking it would be well to be out of the way of my fellow-passengers during the crossing: but the weather had been rough for a day or two (it was not yet the middle of April) and everything was already engaged; therefore I walked the deck most of the time, always conscious of the unusual thickness of my breast pocket. The little man paced up and down, too, though his yellow face grew slowly green, and he would have been much better off below, lying on his back. As for the two others, they also remained on deck, talking together as they leaned against the rail; but though I passed them now and again, I noticed that the little man invariably avoided them by turning before he reached their “pitch.”

At the Gare du Nord I regretted that I had not carried my own bag, because if I had it would have been examined on the boat, and all bother would have been over. But rather than run any risks in the crowd thronging the douane, I decided to let the suitcase look after itself, and send down for it with the key from the hotel later. Again the little man was close to my side as I went in search of a cab, for all his things had been gone through by the custom house officer in mid-channel, so that he too was free to depart without delay. He even seemed to cling to me, somewhat wistfully, and I half thought he meant to speak, but he did not, save for a “good evening, sir,” as I separated myself from him at last. He had stuck rather too close, elbow to elbow; but I had no fear for the letter-case, as he was on the wrong side to play any conjurer’s tricks with that. The last I saw of the fellow, he was walking toward a cab, and looking uneasily over his shoulder at his two late travelling companions, who were getting into another vehicle near by.

I went straight to the Élysée Palace Hotel, where I had never stopped before—a long drive from the Gare du Nord—and claimed the rooms for which “Mr. George Sandford” had wired from London. The suite engaged was a charming one, and the private salon almost worthy to receive the lovely lady I expected. Nor did she keep me waiting. I had had time only to give instructions about sending a man with a key to the station for my luggage, to say that a lady would call, to reach my rooms, and to draw the curtains over the windows, when a knock came at the salon door. I was in the act of turning on the electric light when this happened, but to my surprise the room remained in darkness—or rather, in a pink dusk lent by the colour of the curtains.

“The lady has arrived, Monsieur,” announced the servant. “As Monsieur expected her, she has come up without waiting; but I regret that something has gone wrong with the electricity, all over the hotel. It was but just now discovered, at time for turning on the lights, otherwise lamps and plenty of candles would have been provided, though no doubt the light will fonctionne properly in a few minutes. If Monsieur permits, I will instantly bring him a lamp.”

“No, thank you,” I said hurriedly, for I did not wish to be interrupted in the midst of my important interview with Maxine. “If the light comes on, it will he all right: if not, I will put back the curtains; and it is not yet quite dark. Show the lady in.”

Into the pink twilight of the curtained room came Maxine de Renzie, whose tall and noble figure I recognised in its plain, close-fitting black dress, though her wide brimmed hat was draped with a thickly embroidered veil that completely hid her face, while long, graceful lace folds fell over and obscured the bright auburn of her hair.

“One moment,” I said. “Let me push the curtains back. The electricity has failed.”

“No, no,” she answered. “Better leave them as they are. The lights may come on and we be seen from outside. Why,”—as she drew nearer to me, and the servant closed the door, “I thought I recognised that voice! It is Ivor Dundas.”

“No other,” said I. “Didn’t the—weren’t you warned who would be the man to come?”

“No,” she replied. “Only the assumed name of the messenger and place of meeting were wired. It was safer so, even though the telegram was in a cypher which I trust nobody knows—except myself and one other. But I’m glad—glad it’s you. It was clever of—him, to have sent you. No one would dream that—no one would think it strange if they knew—as I hope they won’t—that you came to Paris to see me. Oh, the relief that you’ve got through safely! Nothing has happened? You have—the paper?”

“Nothing has happened, and I have the paper,” I reassured her. “No adventures, to speak of, on the way, and no reason to think I’ve been spotted. Anyway, here I am; and here is something which will put an end to your anxiety.” And I tapped the breast of my coat, meaningly.

“Thank God!” breathed Maxine, with a thrilling note in her voice which would have done her great credit on the stage, though I am sure she was never further in her life from the thought of acting. “After all I’ve suffered, it seems too good to be true. Give it to me, quick, Ivor, and let me go.”

“I will,” I said. “But you might seem to take just a little more interest in me, even if you don’t really feel it, you know. You might just say, ‘How have you been for the last twelve months?’”

“Oh, I do take an interest, and I’m grateful to you—I can’t tell you how grateful. But I have no time to think either of you or myself now,” she said, eagerly. “If you knew everything, you’d understand.”

“I know practically nothing,” I confessed; “still, I do understand. I was only teasing you. Forgive me. I oughtn’t to have done it, even for a minute. Here is the letter-case which the Foreign—which was given to me to bring to you.”

“Wait!” she exclaimed, still in the half whisper from which she had never departed. “Wait! It will he better to lock the door.” But even as she spoke, there came a knock, loud and insistent. With a spring, she flung herself on me, her hand fumbling for the pocket I had tapped suggestively a moment ago. I let her draw out the long case which I had been guarding—the case I had not once touched since leaving London, except to feel anxiously for its outline through my buttoned coat. At least, whatever might be about to happen, she had it in her own hands now.

Neither of us spoke nor made a sound during the instant that she clung to me, the faint, well-remembered perfume of her hair, her dress, in my nostrils. But as she started away, and I knew that she had the letter-case, the knock came again. Then, before I could be sure whether she wished for time to hide, or whether she would have me cry “come in,” without seeming to hesitate, the door opened. For a second or two Maxine and I, and a group of figures at the door were mere shadows in the ever deepening pink dusk: but I could scarcely have counted ten before the long expected light sprang up. I had turned it on in more than one place: and a sudden, brilliant illumination showed me a tall Commissary of Police, with two little gendarmes looking over his shoulder.

I threw a glance at Maxine, who was still veiled, and was relieved to see that she had found some means of putting the letter-case out of sight. Having ascertained this, I sharply enquired in French what in the devil’s name the Commissary of Police meant by walking into an Englishman’s room without being invited; and not only that, but what under heaven he wanted anyway.

He was far more polite than I was.

“Ten thousand pardons, Monsieur,” he apologised. “I knocked twice, but hearing no answer, entered, thinking that perhaps, after all, the salon was unoccupied. Important business must be my excuse. I have to request that Monsieur Dundas will first place in my hands the gift he has brought from London to Mademoiselle de Renzie.”

“I have brought no gift for Mademoiselle de Renzie,” I prevaricated boldly; but the man’s knowledge of my name was ominous. If the Paris police had contrived to learn it already, as well as to find out that I was the bearer of something for Maxine, it looked as if they knew enough to play the game in their own way—whatever that might be.

“Perhaps I should say, the thing which Mademoiselle lent—to a friend in England, and Monsieur has now kindly returned,” amended the Commissary of Police as politely, as patiently, as ever.

“Really, I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and looking bewildered—or hoping that I looked bewildered. All the while I was wondering, desperately, if this meant ruin for Maxine, or if she would still find some way of saving herself. But all I could do for her at the moment was to keep calm, and tell as many lies as necessary. I hadn’t been able to lie to Diana; but I had no compunctions about doing it now, if it were to help Maxine. The worst was, that I was far from sure it would help her.

“I trust, Monsieur, that you do not wish to prevent the French police from doing their duty,” said the officer, his tone becoming peremptory for the first time. “Should you attempt it, I should unfortunately be compelled to order that Monsieur be searched.”

“You seem to forget that you’re dealing with a British subject,” said I.

“Who is offending against the laws of a friendly country,” he capped my words. “You can complain afterwards, Monsieur. But now—”

“Why don’t you empty your pockets, Mr. Dundas,” suggested Maxine, lightly, yet contemptuously, “and show them that you’ve nothing in which the police can have any interest? I suppose the next thing they propose, will be to search me.”

“I deeply regret to say that will be the next thing, Mademoiselle, unless satisfaction is given to me,” returned the Commissary of Police.

Maxine threw back her thick veil; and if this were the first time these men had ever seen the celebrated actress off the stage, it seemed to me that her beauty must almost have dazzled them, thus suddenly displayed. For Maxine is a gloriously handsome woman, and never had she been most striking, more wonderful, than at that moment, when her dark eyes laughed out of her white face, and her red lips smiled as if neither they, nor the great eyes, had any secret to hide.

“Look at me,” she said, throwing back her arms.

“Look at me,” she said, throwing back her arms in such a way as to bring forward her slender body, in the tight black sheath of the dress which was of the fashion which, I think, women call “Princess.” It fitted her as smoothly as the gloves that covered her arms to the elbows.

“Do you think there is much chance for concealment in this dress?” she asked. “I haven’t a pocket, you see. No self-respecting woman could have, in a gown like this. I don’t know in the least what sort of ‘gift’ my old friend is supposed to have brought me. Is it large or small? I’ll take off my gloves and let you see my rings, if you like, Monsieur le Commisaire, for I’ve been taught, as a servant of the public, to be civil to my fellow servants, even if they should be unreasonable. No? You don’t want to see my rings? Let me oblige you by taking off my hat, then. I might have put the thing—whatever it is— in my hair.”

As she spoke, she drew out her hatpins, still laughing in a half scornful, half good-natured way. She was bewitching as she stood smiling, with her black hat and veil in her hand, the ruffled waves of her dark red hair shadowing her forehead.

Meanwhile, fired by her example, I turned out the contents of my pockets: a letter or two; a flat gold cigarette case; a match box; my watch, and a handkerchief: also in an outer pocket of my coat, a small bit of crumpled paper of which I had no recollection: but as one of the gendarmes politely picked it up from the floor, where it had fallen, and handed it to me without examining it, mechanically I slipped it back into the pocket, and thought no more of it at the time. There were too many other things to think of, and I was wondering what on earth Maxine could have done with the letter-case. She had had no more than two seconds in which to dispose of it, hardly enough, it seemed to me, to pass it from one hand to another, yet apparently it was well hidden.

“Now, are you satisfied?” she asked, “Now that we have both shown you we have nothing to conceal; or would you like to take me to the police station, and have some dreadful female search me more thoroughly still? I’ll go with you, if you wish. I won’t even he indiscreet enough to ask questions, since you seem inclined to do what we’ve no need to do—keep your own secrets. All I stipulate is, that if you care to take such measures you’ll take them at once, for as you may possibly be aware, this is the first night of my new play, and I should be sorry to be late.”

The Commissary of Police looked fixedly at Maxine for a moment, as if he would read her soul.

“No, Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am convinced that neither you nor Monsieur are concealing anything about your persons. I will not trouble you further until we have searched the room.”

Maxine could not blanch, for already she was as white as she will be when she lies in her coffin. But though her expression did not change, I saw that the pupils of her eyes dilated. Actress that she is, she could control her muscles; but she could not control the beating of the blood in her brain. I felt that she was conscious of this betrayal, under the gaze of the policeman, and she laughed to distract his attention. My heart ached for her. I thought of a meadow-lark manoeuvering to hide the place where her nest lies. Poor, beautiful Maxine! In spite of her pride, her high courage, the veneer of hardness which her experience of the world had given, she was infinitely pathetic in my eyes; and though I had never loved her, though I did love another woman, I would have given my life gladly at this minute if I could have saved her from the catastrophe she dreaded.

CHAPTER V
IVOR DOES WHAT HE CAN FOR MAXINE

“How long a time do you think I had been in this room, Monsieur,” she asked, “before you—rather rudely, I must say—broke in upon my conversation with my friend?”

“You had been here exactly three minutes,” replied the Commissary of Police.

“As much as that? I should have thought less. We had to greet each other, after having been parted for many months; and still, in the three minutes, you believe that we had time to concoct a plot of some sort, and to find some safe corner—all the while in semi-darkness—for the hiding of a thing important to the police—a bomb, perhaps? You must think us very clever.”

“I know that you are very clever, Mademoiselle.”

“Perhaps I ought to thank you for the compliment,” she answered, allowing anger to warm her voice at last; “but this is almost beyond a joke. A woman comes to the rooms of a friend. Both of them are so placed that they prefer her call not to be talked about. For that reason, and for the woman’s sake, the friend chooses to take a name that isn’t his—as he has a right to do. Yet, just because that woman happens unfortunately to be well-known—her face and name being public property—she is followed, she is spied upon, humiliated, and all, no doubt, on account of some silly mistake, or malicious false information. Ah, it is shameful, Monsieur! I wonder the police of Paris can stoop to such stupidity, such meanness.”

“When we have found out that it is a mistake, the police of Paris will apologise to you, Mademoiselle, through me,” said the Commissary; “until then, I regret if our duty makes us disagreeable to you.” Then, turning to his two gendarmes, he directed them to search the room, beginning with all possible places in which a paper parcel or large envelope might be hidden, within ten metres of the spot where Mademoiselle and Monsieur had stood talking together when the police opened the door.

Maxine did not protest again. With her head up, and a look as if the three policemen were of no more importance to her than the furniture of the room, she walked to the mantelpiece and stood leaning her elbow upon it. Weariness, disgusted indifference, were in her attitude; but I guessed that she felt herself actually in need of the physical support.

The two gendarmes moved about in noiseless obedience, their faces expressionless as masks. They did not glance at Maxine, giving themselves entirely to the task at which they had been set. But their superior officer did not once take his eyes from the pure profile she turned scornfully towards him. I knew why he watched her thus, and thought of a foolish, child’s game I used to play twenty years ago, at little-boy-and-girl parties: the game of “Hide-the-Handkerchief.” While one searched for the treasure, those who knew where it was stood by, saying: “Now you are warm. Now you are hot—boiling hot. Now you are cool again. Now you are ice cold.” It was as if we were five players at this game, and Maxine de Renzie’s white, deathly smiling face was expected to proclaim against her will: “Now you are warm. Now you are hot. Now you are ice cold.”

There was a table in the middle of the room, with one or two volumes of photographs and brightly-bound guide books of Paris upon it, as well as my hat and gloves which I had tossed down as I came in. The gendarmes picked up these things, examined them, laid them aside, peered under the table; peeped behind the silk cushions on the sofa, opened the doors and drawers of a bric-â-brac cabinet and a small writing desk, lifted the corners of the rugs on the bare, polished floor; and finally, bowing apologies to Maxine for disturbing her, took out the logs from the fireplace where the fire was ready for lighting, and pried into the vases on the mantel. Also they shook the silk and lace window curtains, and moved the pictures on the walls. When all this had been done in vain, the pair confessed with shrugs of the shoulders that they were at a loss.

During the search, which had been conducted in silence, I had a curious sensation, caused by my intense sympathy with Maxine’s suffering. I felt as if my heart were the pendulum of a clock which had been jarred until it was uncertain whether to go on or stop. Once, when the gendarmes were peering under the sofa, or behind the sofa cushions, a grey shadow round Maxine’s eyes made her beautiful face look like a death-mask in the white electric light, which did not fail now, or spare her any cruelty of revelation. She was smiling contemptuously still—always the same smile—but her forehead appeared to have been sprinkled with diamond dust.

I saw that dewy sparkle, and wondered, sickeningly, if the enemy saw it too. But I had not long to wait before being satisfied on this point. The keen-eyed Frenchman gave no further instructions to his baffled subordinates, but crossing the room to the sofa stood staring at it fixedly. Then, grasping the back with his capable-looking hand, instead of beginning at once a quest which his gendarmes had abandoned, he searched the face of the tortured woman.

Unflinching in courage, she seemed not to see him. But it was as if she had suddenly ceased to breathe. Her bosom no longer rose and fell. The only movement was the visible knocking of her heart. I felt that, in another moment, if he found what she had hidden, her heart would knock no longer, and she would die. For a second I wildly counted the chances of overpowering all three men, stunning them into unconsciousness, and giving Maxine time to escape with the letter-case. But I knew the attempt would be useless. Even if I could succeed, the noise would arouse the hotel. People would come. Other policemen would rush in to the help of their comrades, and matters would be worse with us than before.

The Frenchman, having looked at Maxine, and seen that tell-tale beating of her bodice, deliberately laid the silk cushions on the floor. Then, pushing his hand down between the seat and the back of the sofa, he moved it along the crevice inch by inch.

I watched the hand, which looked cruel to me as that of an executioner. I think Maxine watched it, too. Suddenly it stopped. It had found something. The other hand sprang to its assistance. Both worked together, groping and prying for a few seconds: evidently the something hidden had been forced deeply and firmly down. Then, up it came—a dark red leather case, which was neither a letter-case nor a jewel-case, but might be used for either. My heart almost stopped beating in the intense relief I felt. For this was not the thing I had come from London to bring Maxine.

I could hardly keep back a cry of joy. But I did keep it back, for suspense and anxiety had left me a few grains of sense.

“Voila!” grunted the Commissary of Police. “I said that you were clever, Mademoiselle. But it would have been as well for all concerned if you had spared us this trouble.”

“You alone are to blame for the trouble,” answered Maxine. “I never saw that thing before in my life.”

I was astonished that there was no ring of satisfaction in her voice. It sounded hard and defiant, but there was no triumph in it, no joy that, so far, she was saved—as if by a miracle. Rather was her tone that of a woman at bay, fighting to the last, but without hope. “Nor did I ever see it before.” I echoed her words.

She glanced at me as if with gratitude. Yet there was no need for gratitude. I was not lying for her sake, but speaking the plain truth, as I thought that she must know.

For the first time the Commissary of Police condescended to laugh. “I suppose you want me to believe that the last occupant of this room tucked some valued possession down into a safe hiding place—and then forgot all about it. That is likely, is it not? You shall have the pleasure, Mademoiselle—and you, Monsieur—of seeing with me what that careless person left behind him.”

He had laid the thing on the table, and now he tapped it, aggravatingly, with his hand. But the strain was over for me. I looked on with calmness, and was amazed when at last Maxine flew to him, no longer scornful, tragically indifferent in her manner, but imploring—a weak, agonized woman.

“For the love of God, spare me, Monsieur,” she sobbed. “You don’t understand. I confess that what you have there, is mine. I have held myself high, in my own eyes, and the eyes of the world, because I—an actress—never took a lover. But now I am like the others. This is my lover. There’s the price I put on my love. Now, Monsieur, I ask you on my womanhood to hold what is in that leather case sacred.”

I felt the blood rush to my face as if she had struck me across it with a whip. My first thought, to my shame, was a selfish one. What if this became known, this thing that she had said, and Diana should hear? Then indeed all hope for me with the girl I loved would be over. My second thought was for Maxine herself. But she had sealed my lips. Since she had chosen the way, I could only be silent.

“Mademoiselle, it is a grief to me that I must refuse such a prayer, from such a woman. But duty before chivalry. I must see the contents of that case,” said the Commissary of Police.

She caught his hand and rained tears upon it. “No—no!” she implored. “If I were rich, I would offer you thousands to spare me. I’ve been extravagant—I haven’t saved, but all I have in the world is yours if—.”

“There can be no such ‘if,’ Mademoiselle,” the man broke in. And wrenching his hand free, he opened the case before she could again prevent him.

Out fell a cascade of light, a diamond necklace. It flashed to the floor, where it lay on one of the sofa cushions, sending up a spray of rainbow colours.

“Sacré bleu!” muttered the Frenchman, under his breath, for whatever he had expected, he had not expected that. But Maxine spoke not a word. Shorn of hope, as, in spite of her prayers and tears, the leather case was torn open, she was shorn of strength as well; and the beautiful, tall figure crumpling like a flower broken on its stalk, she would have fallen if I had not caught her, holding her up against my shoulder. When the cataract of diamonds sprang out of the case, however, I felt her limp body straighten itself. I felt her pulses leap. I felt her begin to live. She had drunk a draught of hope and life, and, fortified by it, was gathering all her scattered forces together for a new fight, if fight she must again.

The Commissary of Police turned the leather case wrong side out. It was empty. There had been nothing inside but the necklace: not a card, not a scrap of paper.

“Where, then, is the document?” Crestfallen, he put the question half to himself, half to Maxine de Renzie.

“What document?” she asked, too wise to betray relief in voice or face. Hearing the heavy tone, seeing the shamed face, the hanging head that lay against my shoulder, who—knowing a little less than I did of the truth—would have dreamed that in her soul she thanked God for a miracle? Even I would not have been sure, had I not felt the life stealing back into her half-dead body.

“The contents of the case are not what I came here to find,” admitted the Enemy.

“I do not know what you came to find, but you have made me suffer horribly,” said Maxine. “You have been very cruel to a woman who has done nothing to deserve such humiliation. All pleasure I might have taken in my diamonds is gone now. I shall never have a peaceful moment—never be able to wear them joyfully. I shall have the thought in my mind that people who look at me will be saying: ‘Every woman has her price. There is the price of Maxine de Renzie.’”

“You need have no such thought, Mademoiselle,” the man protested. “We shall never speak to anyone except those who will receive our report, of what we have heard and seen in this room.”

“Won’t you search further?” asked Maxine. “Since you seemed to expect something else—”

“You would not have had time to conceal more than one thing, Mademoiselle,” said the policeman, with a smile that was faintly grim. “Besides, this case was what you did not wish us to find. You are a great actress, but you could not control the dew which sprang out on your forehead, or the beating of your heart when I touched the sofa, so I knew: I had been watching you for that. There has been an error, and I can only apologise.”

“I don’t blame you, but those who sent you,” said Maxine, letting me lead her to a chair, into which she sank, limply. “I am thankful you do not tell me these diamonds are contraband in some way. I was not sure but it would end in that.”

“Not at all, Mademoiselle. I wish you joy of them. It is you who will adorn the jewels, not they you. Again I apologise for myself and my companions. We have but done our duty.”

“I have an enemy, who must have contrived this plot against me,” exclaimed Maxine, as if on a sudden thought. “It is said that ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ But what of a man who has been scorned—by a woman? He knew I wanted all my strength for to-night—the night of the new play—and he will be hoping that this has broken me. But I will not be broken. If you would atone, Messieurs, for your part in this scene, you will go to the theatre this evening and encourage me by your applause.”

All three bowed. The Commissary of Police, lately so relentless, murmured compliments. It was all very French, and after what had passed, gave me the sensation that I was in a dream.

CHAPTER VI
IVOR HEARS THE STORY

They were gone. They had closed the door behind them. I looked at Maxine, but she did not speak. With her finger to her lips she got up, trembling still; and walking to the door, she opened it suddenly to look out. Nobody was there.

“They may have gone into your bedroom to listen at that door,” she whispered.

I took the hint, and going quickly into the room adjoining, turned on the light. Emptiness there: but I left the door open, and the electricity switched on. They might change their minds, or be more subtle than they wished to seem.

Maxine threw herself on the sofa, gathering up the necklace from the cushion where it had fallen, and lifting it in both hands pressed the glittering mass against her lips and cheeks.

“Thank God, thank God—and thank you, Ivor, best of friends!” she said brokenly, in so low a voice that no ear could have caught her words, even if pressed against the keyhole. Then, letting the diamonds drop into her lap, she flung back her head and laughed and cried together.

“Oh, Ivor, Ivor!” she panted, between her sobs and hysterical gusts of laughter. “The agony of it—the agony—and the joy now! You’re wonderful. Good, precious Ivor—dear friend—saint.”

At this I laughed too, partly to calm her, and patted gently the hands with which she had nervously clutched my sleeve.

“Heaven knows I don’t deserve one of those epithets,” I said, “I’ll just stick to friend.”

“Not deserve them?” she repeated. “Not deserve them, when you’ve saved me—I don’t yet understand how—from a horror worse than death—oh, but a thousand times worse, for I wanted to die. I meant to die. If they had found it, I shouldn’t have lived to see to-morrow morning. Tell me—how did you work such a miracle? How did you get this necklace, that meant so much to me (and to one I love), and how did you hide the—other thing?”

“I don’t know anything about this necklace,” I answered, stupidly, “I didn’t bring it.”

“You—didn’t bring it?”

“No. At least, that red leather thing isn’t the case I carried. When the fellow pulled it out from the sofa, I saw it wasn’t what I’d had, so I thanked our lucky stars, and would have tried to let you know that all hope wasn’t over, if I’d dared to catch your eye or make a signal.”

Maxine was suddenly calm. The tears had dried on her cheeks, and her eyes were fever-bright.

“Ivor, you can’t know what you are talking about,” she said, in a changed voice. “That red leather case is what you took out of your breast pocket and handed to me when I first came into the room. At the sound of the knock, I pushed it down as far as I could between the seat and back of the sofa, and then ran off to a distance before the door opened. You did bring the necklace, knowingly or not; and as it was the cause of all my trouble in the beginning, I needn’t tell you of the joy I had in seeing it, apart from the heavenly relief of being spared discovery of the thing I feared. Now, when you’ve given me the other packet, which you hid so marvellously, I can go away happy.”

I stared at her, feeling more than ever like one in a dream.

“I gave you the only thing I brought,” I said. “It was in my breast pocket, inside my coat. I took it out, and put it in your hands. There was no other thing. Look again in the sofa. It must be there still. This red case is something else—we can try to account for it later. It all came through the lights not working. If it hadn’t been dusk you would have seen that I gave you a dark green leather letter-case—quite different from this, though of about the same length—rather less thick, and—v

Frantically she began ransacking the crevice between the seat and back of the sofa, but nothing was there. We might have known there could be nothing or the Commissary of Police would have been before us. With a cry she cut me short at last throwing up her hands in despair. She was deathly pale again, and all the light had gone out of her eyes leaving them dull as if she had been sick with some long illness.

“What will become of me?” she stammered. “The treaty lost! My God—what shall I do? Ivor, you are killing me. Do you know—you are killing me?”

The word “treaty” was new to me in this connection, for the Foreign Secretary had not thought it necessary that his messenger should be wholly in his secrets—and Maxine’s. Yet hearing the word brought no great surprise. I knew that I had been cat’s-paw in some game of high stakes. But it was of Maxine I thought now, and the importance of the loss to her, not the national disaster which it might well be also.

“Wait,” I said, “don’t despair yet. There’s some mistake. Perhaps we shall be able to see light when we’ve thrashed this out and talked it over. I know I had a green letter-case. It never left my pocket. I thought of it and guarded it every moment. Could those diamonds have been inside it? Could the Foreign Secretary had given me the necklace, instead of what you expected?”

“No, no,” she answered with desperate impatience. “He knew that the only thing which could save me was the document I’d sent him. I wired that I must have it back again immediately, for my own sake—for his—for the sake of England. Ivor! Think again. Do you want me to go mad?”

“I will think,” I said, trying to speak reassuringly. “Give me a moment—a quiet moment—”

“A quiet moment,” she repeated, bitterly, “when for me each second is an hour! It’s late, and this is the night of my new play. Soon, I must be at the theatre, for the make-up and dressing of this part for the first act are a heavy business. I don’t want all Paris to know that Maxine de Renzie has been ruined by her enemies. Let us keep the secret while we can, for others’ sakes, and so gain time for our own, if all is not lost—if you believe still that there’s any hope. Oh, save me, Ivor—somehow. My whole life is in this.”

“Let your understudy take your part to-night, while we think, and work,” I suggested. “You cannot go to the theatre in this state.”

“For an actress there’s no such word as ‘cannot,’” she said bitterly. “I could play a part to the finish, and crawl off the stage to die the next instant; yet no one would have guessed that I was dying. I have no understudy. What use to have one? What audience would stop in the theatre after an announcement that their Maxine’s understudy would take her place? Every man and woman would walk out and get his money back. No; for the sake of the man I love better than my life, or twenty lives—the man I’ve either saved or ruined—I’ll play tonight, if I go mad or kill myself to-morrow. Don’t ‘think quietly,’ Ivor. Think out aloud, and let me follow the workings of your mind. We may help each other, so. Let us go over together everything that happened to you from the minute you took the letter-case from the Foreign Secretary up to the minute I came into this room.”

I obeyed, beginning at the very beginning and telling her all, except the part that had to do with Diana Forrest. She had no concern in that. I told her how I had slept with the green letter-case under my pillow, and had waked to feel and look for it once or twice an hour. How when morning came I had been late in getting to the train: how I had struggled with the two men who tried to keep me out of the reserved compartment into which they were intruding. How the man who had a right to it, after wishing to prevent my entering, helped me in the end, rather than be alone with the pair who had forced themselves upon him. How he had stumbled almost into my arms in a panic, during the confusion after the false alarm on the boat’s gangway. How he had walked beside me and seemed on the point of speaking, later, in the Gare du Nord. How I had avoided and lost sight of him; but how I had many times covertly touched my pocket to be sure that, through all, the letter-case was still safe there.

Maxine grew calmer, though not, I think, more hopeful as I talked; and at last she folded up the diamonds neatly in the red case, which she gave to me. “Put that into the same pocket,” she said, “and then pass your hand over your coat, as you did often before. Now, does it feel exactly as if it were the green letter-case with which you started out?”

“Yes, I think it does,” I answered, doubtfully. “I’m afraid I shouldn’t know the difference. This may be a little thicker than the other, but—I can’t be sure. And, you see, I never once had a chance to unbutton my coat and look at the thing I had in this inner pocket. It would have attracted too much attention to risk that; and as a matter of fact, I was especially warned not to do it. I could trust only to the touch. But even granting that, by a skill almost clever enough for sleight of hand—a skill which only the smartest pickpocket in Europe could possess—why should a thief who had stolen my letter-case give me instead a string of diamonds worth many thousands of pounds? If he wanted to put something into my pocket of much the same size and shape as the thing he stole, so that I shouldn’t suspect my loss, why didn’t he slip in the red case empty, instead of containing the necklace?”

“This necklace, too, of all things in the world!” murmured Maxine, lost in the mystery. “It’s like a dream. Yet here—by some miracle—it is, in our hands. And the treaty is gone.”

“The treaty is gone,” I repeated, miserably.

It was Maxine herself who had spoken the words which I merely echoed, yet it almost killed her to hear them from me. No doubt it gave the dreadful fact a kind of inevitability. She flung herself down on the sofa with a groan, her face buried in her hands.

“My God, what a punishment!” she stammered. “I’ve ruined the man I risked everything to save. I will go to the theatre, and I will act to-night, my friend, but unless you can give me back what is lost, when to-morrow morning comes, I shall be out of the world.”

“Don’t say that,” I implored, sick with pity for her and shame at my failure. “All hope isn’t over yet; it can’t be. I’ll think this out. There must be a solution. There must be a way of laying hold of what seems to be gone. If by giving my life I could get it, I assure you I wouldn’t hesitate for an instant, now: so you see, there’s nothing I won’t do to help you. Only, I wish the path could be made a little plainer for me—unless for some reason it’s necessary for you to keep me in the dark. The word ‘treaty’ I heard for the first time from you. I didn’t know what I was bringing you, except that it was a document of international importance, and that you’d been helping the British Foreign Secretary—perhaps Great Britain as a Power—in some ticklish manoeuvre of high politics. He said that, so far as he was concerned, you might tell me more if you liked. He left it to you. That was his message.”

“Then I will tell you more!” Maxine exclaimed. “It will be better to do so. I know that it will make it easier for you to help me. The document you were bringing me was a treaty—a quite new treaty between Japan, Russia and France: not a copy, but the original. England had been warned that there was a secret understanding between the three countries, unknown to her. There was no time to make a copy. And I stole the real treaty from Raoul du Laurier, to whom I am engaged—whom I adore, Ivor, as I didn’t know it was in me to adore any man. You know his name, perhaps—that he’s Under Secretary in the Foreign Office, here in Paris. Oh, I can read in your eyes what you’re thinking of me, now. You can’t think worse of me than I think of myself. Yet I did the thing for Raoul’s sake. There’s that in my defence—only that.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying not to show the horror of Maxine’s treachery to a man who loved and trusted her, which I could not help feeling.

“How could you?—except that I’ve betrayed him! But I’ll tell you everything—I’ll go back a long way. Then you’ll pity me, even if you scorn me, too. You’ll work for me—to save me, and him. For years I’ve helped the British Government. Oh, I won’t spare myself. I’ve been a spy, sometimes against one Power, sometimes against another. When there was anything to do against Russia, I was always glad, because my dear father was a Pole, and you know how Poles feel towards Russia. Russia ruined his life, and stripped it of everything worth having, not only money, but—oh, well, that’s not in this story of mine! I won’t trouble you or waste time in the telling. Only, when I was a very young girl, I was already the enemy of all that’s Russian, with a big debt of revenge to pay. And I’ve been paying it, slowly. Don’t think that the money I’ve had for my work—hateful work often—has been used for myself. It’s been for my father’s country—poor, sad country—every shilling of English coin. As an actress I’ve supported myself, and, as an actress, it has been easier for me to do the other secret work than it would have been for a woman leading a more sheltered life, mingling less with distinguished persons of different countries, or unable to be eccentric without causing scandal. As for France, she’s the friend of Russia, and I haven’t a drop of French blood in my veins, so, at least, I’ve never been treacherous to my own people. Oh, I have made some great coups in the last eight or nine years, Ivor!... for I began before I was sixteen, and now I’m twenty-six. Once or twice England has had to thank me for giving her news of the most vital importance. You’re shocked to hear what my inner life has been?”

“If I were shocked, no doubt the feeling would be more than half conventional. One hardly knows how conventional one’s opinions are until one stops to think,” said I.

“Once, I gloried in the work,” Maxine went on. “But that was before I fell in love. You and I have played a little at being in love, but that was to pass the time. Both of us were flirting. I’d never met Raoul then, and I’ve never really loved any man except him. It came at first sight, for me: and when he told me that he cared, he said it had begun when he first saw me on the stage; so you see it is as if we were meant for each other. From the moment I gave him my promise, I promised myself that the old work should be given up for ever: Raoul’s fiancée, Raoul’s wife, should not be the tool of diplomatists. Besides, as he’s a Frenchman, his wife would owe loyalty to France, which Maxine de Renzie never owed. I wanted—oh, how much I wanted—to be only what Raoul believed me, just a simple, true-hearted woman, with nothing to hide. It made me sick to think that there was one thing I must always conceal from him, but I did the best I could. I vowed to myself that I’d break with the past, and I wrote a letter to the British Foreign Secretary, who has always been a good friend of mine. I said I was engaged, and hoped to begin my life all over again in a different way, though he might be sure that I’d know how to keep his secrets as well as my own. Oh, Ivor, to think that was hardly more than a week ago! I was happy then. I feel twenty years older now.”

“A week ago. You’ve been engaged only a week?” I broke in.

“Not many days more. I guessed, I hoped, long ago that Raoul cared, but he wouldn’t have told me, even the day he did tell, if he hadn’t lost his head a little. He hadn’t meant to speak, it seems, for he’s poor, and he thought he had no right. But what’s a man worth who doesn’t lose his head when he loves a woman? I adored him for it. We decided not to let anyone know until a few weeks before we could marry, as I didn’t care to have my engagement gossipped about, for months on end. There were reasons why—more than one: but the man of all others whom I didn’t want to know the truth found out, or, rather, suspected what had happened, the very day when Raoul and I came to an understanding—Count Godensky of the Russian Embassy. He called, and was let in by mistake while Raoul was with me, and, just as he must have seen by our faces that there was something to suspect, so I saw by his that he did suspect. Oh, a hateful person! I’ve refused him three times. There are some men so vain that they can never believe a woman really means to say ‘no’ to them. Count Godensky is one of those, and he’s dangerous, too. I’m afraid of him, since I’ve cared for Raoul, though I used to be afraid of no one, when I’d only myself to think of. Raoul was going away that very night. He had an errand to do for a woman who was a dear and intimate friend of his dead mother. You must know of the Duchesse de Montpellier? Well, it was for her: and Raoul is like her son. She has no children of her own.”

“I don’t know her,” I said, “but I’ve seen her; a charming looking woman, about forty-five, with a gloomy-faced husband—a fellow who might be rather a Tartar to live with. They were pointed out to me at Monte Carlo one year, in the Casino, where the Duchess seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, though the Duke had the air of being dragged in against his will.”

“No doubt he had been—or else he was there to fetch her out. Poor dear, she’s a dreadful gambler. It’s in her blood! I She lost, I don’t know how much, at Monte Carlo on an ‘infallible system’ she had. She’s afraid of her husband, though she loves him immensely; and lately a craze she’s had for Bridge has cost her so much that she daren’t tell the Duke, who hates her gambling. She confessed to Raoul, and begged him to help her—not with money, for he has none, but by taking a famous and wonderful diamond necklace of hers to Amsterdam, selling the stones for her there, and having them replaced with paste. It was all to be done very secretly, of course, so that the Duke shouldn’t know, and Raoul hated it, but he couldn’t refuse. He had no idea of telling me this story, that day when he ‘lost his head,’ while we were bidding each other good-bye before his journey. He didn’t mention the name of the Duchess, but said only that he had leave, and was going to Holland on business. But while he was away a dreadful thing happened—the most ghastly misfortune—and as we were engaged to be married, he felt obliged when he came back to let me know the worst.”

“What was the dreadful thing that happened?” I asked, as she paused, pressing her hands against her temples.

“The necklace was stolen from Raoul by a thief, who must have been one of the most expert in the world. Can you imagine Raoul’s feelings? He came to me in despair, asking my advice. What was he to do? He dared not appeal to the police, or the Duchess’s secret would come out. And he couldn’t bear to tell her of the loss, not only because it would be such a blow to her, as she was depending on the money from the sale of the jewels, but because she knew that he was in some difficulties, and might be tempted to believe that he’d only pretended the diamonds were stolen—while really he’d sold them for his own use.”

“As she’s fond of him, and trusts him, probably she would have thought no such thing,” I tried to comfort Maxine. “But certainly, it was a rather bad fix.”

“Rather bad fix! Oh, you laconic creatures, Englishmen. All you think of is to hide your feelings behind icy words. As for me—well, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to help him—nothing. My life would have been a small thing to give. I would have given my soul. And already a thought came flashing into my mind. I begged Raoul to wait, and say nothing to the Duchess, who didn’t even know yet that he’d come back from Amsterdam. The thought in my mind was about the commission from your Secretary for Foreign Affairs. As I told you, I’d just sent him word in the usual cypher and through the usual channels, that I couldn’t do what he wanted. He’d offered me eight thousand pounds to undertake the service, and four more if I succeeded. I believed I could succeed if I tried. And with the few thousands I’d saved up, and selling such jewels as I had, I could make up the sum Raoul had been told to ask for the necklace. Then he could give it to the Duchess, and she need never know that the diamonds had been stolen. All that night I lay awake thinking, thinking. Next day, at a time when I knew Raoul would be working in his office, I went to see him there, and cheered him up as well as I could. I told him that in a few days I hoped to have eighteen or twenty thousand pounds in my hands—all for him. To let him have the money would make me happier than I’d ever been. At first he said he wouldn’t take it from me—I knew he would say that! But, at last, after I’d cried and begged, and persuaded, he consented; only it was to be a loan, and some how, some time, he would pay me back. In that office there are several great safes; and when we had grown quite happy and gay together, I made Raoul tell me which was the most important of all—where the really sacred and valuable things were kept. He laughed and pointed out the most interesting one—the one, he said, which held all the deepest secrets of French foreign diplomacy. I was sure then that the thing I had to get for the British Foreign Secretary must be there, though it was such a new thing that it couldn’t have been anywhere for long. ‘There are three keys to that safe,’ said Raoul. ‘One is kept by the President; one is always with the Foreign Secretary; this is the third’; and he showed me a strange little key different to any I had seen before. ‘Oh, do let me have a peep at these wonderful papers,’ I pleaded with him. Before coming I had planned what to do. Round my throat I wore a string of imitation pearls, which I’d put on for a special purpose. But they were pretty, and so well made that only an expert would know they weren’t real. Raoul isn’t an expert; so at the moment he fitted the key into the lock of the safe to open the door, I gave a sly little pull, and broke the thread, making the pearls roll everywhere about the floor. He was quite distressed, forgot all about the key in the lock, and flew to pick up the pearls as if each one were worth at least a thousand francs.

“While he was busy finding the lost beads, I whipped out the key, took an impression of it on a piece of wax I had ready, concealed in my handkerchief, and slipped it back into the lock while he was still on his hands and knees on the floor. Then he opened the safe-door for a moment, just to give me the peep I had begged for, but not long enough for me to touch anything even if I’d dared to try with him standing there. Enough, though, to show me that the documents were neatly arranged in labelled pigeon-holes, and to see their general character, colour, and shape. That same day a key to fit the lock was being made; and when it was ready, I made an excuse to call again on Raoul at the office. Not that a very elaborate excuse was needed. The poor fellow, trusting me as he trusts himself, or more, was only too glad to have me come to him, even in that sacred place. Now, the thing was to get him away. But I’d made up my mind what to do. In another office, upstairs, was a friend of Raoul’s—the one who introduced us to each other, and I’d made up a message for him, which I begged Raoul to take, and bring his friend to speak to me. He went, and I believed I might count on five minutes to myself. No more—but those five minutes would have to be enough for success or failure. The instant the door shut behind Raoul, I was at the safe. The key fitted. I snatched out a folded document, and opened it to make quite, quite certain it was the right one, for a mistake would be inexcusable and spoil everything. It was what I wanted—the treaty, newly made, between Japan, Russia and France—the treaty which your Foreign Secretary thought he had reason to believe was a secret one, arranged between the three countries without the knowledge of England and to the prejudice of her interests. The one glance I had gave me the impression that the document was nothing of the kind, but quite innocent, affecting trade only; yet that wasn’t my business. I had to send it to the Foreign Secretary, who wanted to know its precise nature, and whether England was being deceived. In place of the treaty I slipped into its pigeon-hole a document I’d brought with me—just like the real thing. No one opening the safe on other business would suspect the change that had been made. My hope was to get the treaty back before it should be missed. You see, I was betraying Raoul, to save him. Do you understand?”

“I understand. You must have persuaded yourself that you were justified. But, good Heavens, Maxine,” I couldn’t help breaking out, “it was an awful thing to do.”

“I know—I know. But I had to have the money—for Raoul. And there was no other way to get it. You remember, I’d refused, till the diamonds were lost, and would have refused even if Raoul had nothing to do with the French Foreign Office. But let me go on telling you what happened. I had time enough. I had even a minute or two to spare. And fortunately for me, the man I’d sent Raoul to find was out. I looked at my watch, pretended to be surprised, and said I must go at once. I couldn’t bear to waste a second in hurrying the treaty off, so that it might the more quickly be on its way back. I hadn’t come to visit Raoul in my own carriage, but in a cab, which was waiting. As Raoul was taking me to it, Count Godensky got out of a motor-brougham, and saw me. If only it had been anywhere except in front of the Foreign Office! I told myself there was no reason why he should guess that anything was wrong, but I was in such a state of nerves that, as he raised his hat, and his eyebrows, I fancied that he imagined all sorts of things, and I felt myself grow red and pale. What a fool I was—and how weak! But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t wait to go home. I wrote a few lines in the cab, and sent off the packet, registered, in time I hoped, to catch the post—but after all, it didn’t. Coming out from the post office, there was Godensky again, in his motor-brougham. That could have been no coincidence. A horrid certainty sprang to life in me that he’d followed my cab from the Foreign Office, to see where I would go. Why couldn’t I have thought of that danger? I have always thought of things, and guarded against them; yet this time, this time of all others, I seemed fated.”

“But if Godensky had known what you were doing, the game would have been up for you before this,” I said.

“He didn’t know, of course. Only—if he wants to be a woman’s lover and she won’t have him, he’s her enemy and he’s the enemy of the man who is her lover. He’s too clever and too careful of his own interests to speak out prematurely anything he might vaguely suspect, for it would do him harm if he proved mistaken. He wouldn’t yet, I think, even warn those whom it might concern, to search and see if anything in Raoul’s charge were out of order or missing. But what he would do, what I think he has done, is this. Having some idea, as he may have, that my relations with certain important persons in England are rather friendly, and seeing me come from the Foreign Office to go almost straight to the post, it might have occurred to him to try and learn the name of my correspondent. He has influence—he could perhaps have found out: but if he did, it wouldn’t have helped him much, for naturally, my dealings with the British Foreign Secretary are always well under cover—hence a delay sometimes in his receiving word from me. What I send can never go straight to him, as you may guess. Godensky would guess that, too: and he would have perhaps informed the police, very cautiously, very unofficially and confidentially, that he suspected Maxine de Renzie of being a political spy in the pay of England. He would have advised that my movements be watched for the next few days: that English agents of the French police be warned to watch also, on their side of the Channel. He would have argued to himself that if I’d sent any document away, with Raoul’s connivance or without, I would be wanting it back as soon as possible; and he would have mentioned to the police that possibly a messenger would bring me something—if my correspondence through the post was found to contain nothing compromising. Oh, there have been eyes on me, and on every movement of mine, I’m sure. See how efficient, though quiet, the methods have been where you’re concerned. They—the police—knew the name of the man I was to meet here at this hotel; and if, as Godensky must have hoped, any document belonging to the French Government had been found on you or me, everything would have played into his hands. Raoul would have been ruined, his heart broken, and I—but there are no words to express what I would have suffered, what I may yet have to suffer. Godensky would be praised for his cleverness, as well as securing a satisfactory revenge on me for refusing him. The only thing which rejoices me now is the thought of his blank disappointment when he gets the news from the Commissary of Police.”

“You don’t believe then,” I asked, “that Godensky has had any hand in the disappearance of the treaty?”

“I would believe it, if it weren’t for the necklace being put in its place. Even if Count Godensky could have known of Raoul’s mission with the diamonds, and got them into his own hands, he wouldn’t have let them get out again with every chance of their going back to Raoul, and thus saving him from his trouble. He’d do nothing to help, but everything to hinder. There lies the mystery—in the return of the necklace instead of the treaty. You have no knowledge of it, you tell me; yet you come to me with it in your pocket—the necklace stolen from Raoul du Laurier, days ago, in Amsterdam or on the way there.”

“You’re certain it’s the same?”

“Certain as that you are you, and I am I. And I’m not out of my mind yet—though I soon shall be, unless you somehow save me from this horror.”

“I’m going to try,” I said. “Don’t give up hope. I wish, though, that you hadn’t to act to-night.”

“So do I. But there’s no way out of it. And I must go now to the theatre, or I shall be late: my make-up’s a heavy one, and takes a long time. I can’t afford to have any talk about me and my affairs to-night, whatever comes afterwards. Raoul will be in a box, and at the end of the first act, he’ll be at the door of my dressing-room. The agony of seeing him, of hearing him praise my acting, and saying dear, trusting, loving words that would make me almost too happy, if I hadn’t betrayed him, ruined his career for ever!”

“Maybe not,” I said. “And anyhow, there’s the necklace. That’s something.”

“Yes, that’s something.”

“Will Godensky be in the audience, too?” I asked.

“I’m sure he will. He couldn’t keep away. But he may be late. He won’t come until he’s had a long talk with the Commissary of Police, and tried to thrash matters out.”

“If only your theory’s right, then,—if he hasn’t dared yet to throw suspicion on du Laurier, and if the loss of that letter-case with its contents is as much of a mystery to him as it is to us, we have a little time before us still: we’re comparatively safe for a few hours.”

“We’re as safe,” answered Maxine, with a kind of desperate calmness, “as if we were in a house with gunpowder stored underneath, and a train laid to fire it. But“—she broke off bitterly, “why do I say ‘we’. To you all this can be no more than a regret, a worry.”

“You know that’s not just!” I reproached her. “I’m in this with you now, heart and soul. I spoke no more than the truth when I said I’d give my life, if necessary, to redeem my failure. Already I’ve given something, but—”

“What have you given?” she caught me up quickly.

“My hope of happiness with a girl I love as you love du Laurier,” I answered; then regretted my words and would have taken them back if I could, for she had a heavy enough burden to bear already, without helping me bear mine.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Don’t think of it. You can do nothing; and I don’t grudge the sacrifice—or anything,” I hurried on.

“Yet I will think of it, if I ever have time to think of anything beyond this tangle. But now, it must be au revoir. Save me, save Raoul, if you can, Ivor. What you can do, I don’t know. I’m groping in darkness. Yet you’re my one hope. For pity’s sake, come to my house when the play’s over, to tell me what you’ve done, if you’ve been able to do anything. Be there at twelve.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you. I shall live for that moment. Now, give me the diamonds, and I’ll go. I don’t want you to be seen with me outside this room.”

I gave her the necklace, and she was at the door before I could open it.

CHAPTER VII
IVOR IS LATE FOR AN APPOINTMENT

I was glad to be alone, for as I had said, I wanted to think quietly.

Maxine had taken the diamonds, but she had slipped the necklace into the bosom of her dress, pressing it down through the rather low-cut opening at the throat, and had therefore left the leather case. I picked the thing up from the table where she had thrown it, and examined it carefully for the first time.

It had not been originally intended as a jewel-case, that was clear; and as Maxine’s voice had rung unmistakably true when she denied all previous knowledge of it to the police, I judged that the diamonds had not been in it when the Duchess entrusted them to du Laurier. He would almost certainly have described to Maxine the box or case which had been stolen from him, and if the thing pulled out from the sofa-hiding-place had recalled his description, she must have betrayed some emotion under the keen eyes of the Commissary of Police.

The case which, it seemed, I had brought to Paris, looked as if it might have been made to hold a peculiar kind of cigar, much longer than the ordinary sort. Within, on either side, was a partition, and there was a silver clasp on which the hallmark was English.

“English silver!” I said to myself, thoughtfully. The three men who had travelled in the carriage with me from London to Dover were all English. Of the trio, only the nervous little fellow who had reserved the compartment for himself had found the smallest possible opportunity to steal the treaty from me, and exchange for it this red leather case containing a diamond necklace worth twenty thousand pounds. If he possessed the skill and quick deftness of a conjurer or a marvellously clever professional pickpocket, as well as the incentive of a paid spy, he might conceivably have done the trick at the moment of alarm on the boat’s gangway, not afterwards; for when he had pressed near me in the Gare du Nord he had been on the wrong side. But for my life I could not guess the motive for such an exchange.

Supposing him a spy, employed to track and rob me of what I carried, why should he have made me a present of these rare and precious diamonds? Would the bribe for which he used his skill reach anything like the sum he could obtain by selling the stones? I was almost sure it would not; and therefore, having the diamonds, it would have been far more to his advantage to keep them than to stuff them into my pocket, simply to fill up the space where the case with the treaty had lain. There would not have been time yet for the real diamonds to have been copied in Amsterdam, therefore it would be useless to build up a theory that the stones given me might be false.

Besides, I reminded myself, if the man were a spy whose business was to watch and be near me, why hadn’t he waited to see what I would do, where I would go, instead of taking a compartment, carefully reserving it, and trusting to such an unlikely chance as that I might force myself into it with him? Even if the three men had been in some obscure way playing into each others’ hands, I could not see how their game had been arranged to catch me.

Maxine and I had talked for a long time, but not two hours had passed yet since I saw the last of the little rat of a man in the railway-station. Though I could not understand any reason for his tricking me, still I told myself that nobody else could have done it, and I decided to go back at once to the Gare du Nord. There I might still be able to find some trace of the little man and of my two other fellow-travellers. If through a porter or cabman I could learn where they had gone, I might have a chance even now of getting back the stolen treaty. I had brought with me from London a loaded revolver, warned by the Foreign Secretary that to do so would be a wise precaution; and I was ready to make use of it if necessary.

I was beginning to be very hungry, but that was a detail of no importance, for I had no time to waste in eating. I went to the railway-station and looked about until I found a porter whose face I had seen when I got out of the train. He had, in fact, appeared under the window of my compartment, offering himself as a luggage carrier and had been close behind me when my late travelling companion walked by my side. Questioned, he appeared not to remember; but his wits being sharpened by the gift of a franc, he reflected and recalled not only my features but the features of the little man, whom he described with sufficient accuracy. What had become of le petit Monsieur he was not certain, but fancied he had eventually driven away in a cab accompanied by two other gentlemen. He recollected this circumstance, because the face of the cabman was one that he knew; and it was now again in the station, for the voiture had returned. Would he point out the cocher to me? He would, and did, receiving a second franc for his pains.

The cab driver proved to be a dull and surly fellow, like many another cocher of Paris, but the clink of silver and the sight of it mellowed him. I began by saying that I was in search of three friends of mine whom I was to have met when the boat train came in, but whom I had unfortunately missed. I asked him to describe the men he had driven away from the station at that time, and though he did it clumsily, betraying an irritating lack of observation when it came to details, still such information as I could draw from him sounded encouraging. He remembered perfectly well the place at which he had deposited his three passengers, and I decided to take the risk of following them.

When I say “risk,” I mean the risk that the man I was starting to chase might turn out not to be the man I wished to follow. Besides, as they had been driven to Neuilly, the distance was so great that, if I went there in a cab, and found at last that I had made a mistake, I should have wasted a great deal of valuable time on the wrong tack. If the driver had remembered the name of the street, and the number of the house at which he had paused, I would have hired a motor and flashed out to the place in a few minutes; but, despite a suggested bribe, he could say no more than that, when he had come to a certain place, one of his passengers had called, “Turn down the next street, to the left.” He had done so, and in front of a house, almost midway along that street, he had been bidden to stop. He had not bothered to look at the name of the street; but, though he was not very familiar with that neighbourhood, various landmarks would guide him to the right place, when he came to pass them again.

Having heard all he had to say, I reluctantly made up my mind that I could do no better than take the man as my conductor; and accordingly, with a horse already tired, I drove to Neuilly. There, the landmarks were not deceiving, as I was half afraid they would be; and in a quiet street of the suburb, we stopped at last before a fair-sized house with lights in many windows. Evidently it was a pension.

Of the man-servant who answered my ring, I enquired if three English gentlemen had lately arrived. He replied that they had, and were dining. Would Monsieur give himself the pain of waiting a few minutes, until dinner should be over?

My answer was to slip a five franc piece into the servant’s hand, and suggest that I should be shown at once into the dining-room, without waiting.

My idea was to catch my birds while they fed, and take them by surprise, lest they fly away. If I pounced upon them in the midst of a meal, at least they could not escape before being recognised by me: and as to what should come after recognition, the moment of meeting must decide.

The five franc piece worked like a charm. I was promptly ushered into the dining-room, and standing just inside the door, I swept the long table with a quick, eager glance. About eighteen or twenty people were dining, but, though several were unmistakably English, I saw no one who resembled my travelling companions.

Everyone turned and stared. There was no face of which I had not a good view. In a low voice I asked the servant which were the new arrivals of whom he had spoken. He pointed them out, and added that, though they had come only that day from England, they were old patrons, well known in the house.

As I lingered, deeply disappointed, the elderly proprietor of the pension, who superintended the comfort of his guests, trotted fussily up to enquire the stranger’s business in his dining-room. I explained that I had hoped to find friends, and was so polite that I contrived to get permission for my cabman to have a peep through the crack of the door. When he had identified his three passengers, all hope was over. I had followed the wrong men.

There was nothing to do but go back to the Gare du Nord, and question more porters and cabmen. Nobody could give me any information worth having, it seemed; yet the little man must have left the station in a vehicle of some sort, as he had a great deal of small luggage. Since I could learn nothing of him or his movements, however, and dared not, because of Maxine and the British Foreign Secretary, apply to the police for help, I determined to lose no more time before consulting a private detective, a man whose actions I could control, and to whom I need tell only as much of the truth as I chose, without fear of having the rest dragged out of me.

At my own hotel I enquired of the manager where I could find a good private detective, got an address, and motored to it, the speed bracing my nerves. Fortunately, (as I thought then) Monsieur Anatole Girard was at home and able to receive me. I was shown into the plain but very neat little sitting-room of a flat on the fifth floor of a big new apartment house, and was impressed at first glance by the clever face of the dark, thin Frenchman who politely bade me welcome. It was cunning, as well as clever, no doubt: but then, I told myself, it was the business of a person in Monsieur Girard’s profession to be cunning.

I introduced myself as Mr. Sanford, the name I had been told to give at the Élysée Palace Hotel. This seemed best, as it was in the hotel that I had been recommended to Monsieur Girard, and complications might arise if George Sandford suddenly turned into Ivor Dundas. Besides, as there were a good many things which I did not want brought to light, Sandford seemed the man to fit the situation. Later, he could easily disappear and leave no trace.

I said that I had been robbed of a thing which was of immense value to me, but as it was the gift of a lady whose name must not on any account appear in the case, I did not wish to consult the police. All I asked of Monsieur Girard’s well-known ability was the discovery of the supposed thief, whom I thereupon described. I added the fact that we had travelled together, mentioned the incident at the gangway, and explained that I had not suspected my loss until I arrived at the Élysée Palace Hotel.

Girard listened quietly, evidently realising that I talked to him from behind a screen of reserve, yet not seeking to force me to put aside that screen. He asked several intelligent questions, very much to the point, and I answered them—as seemed best. When he touched on points which I considered too delicate to be handled by a stranger, even a detective in my employ, I frankly replied that they had nothing to do with the case in hand. Shrugging his shoulders almost imperceptibly, yet expressively, he took my refusals without comment; and merely bowed when I said that, if the scoundrel could be unearthed within twenty-four hours, I would pay a hundred pounds: if within twelve, a hundred and fifty: if within six, two hundred. I added that there was not a second to waste, as the fellow might slip out of Paris at any minute; but whatever happened, Monsieur Girard was to keep the matter quiet.

The detective promised to do his best, (which was said to be very good), held out hopes of success, and assured me of his discretion. On the whole, I was pleased with him. He looked like a man who thoroughly knew his business; and had it not been for the solemn warning of the Foreign Secretary, and the risk for Maxine, I would gladly have put more efficient weapons in Girard’s hands, by telling him everything.

By the time that the detective had been primed with such facts and details as I could give, it was past ten o’clock. I could see my way to do nothing more for the moment, and as I was half famished, I whizzed back in my hired automobile to the Élysée Palace Hotel. There I had food served in my own sitting-room, lest George Sandford should chance inconveniently upon some acquaintance of Ivor Dundas, in the restaurant. I did not hurry over the meal, for all I wanted now was to arrive at Maxine de Renzie’s house at twelve o’clock, and tell her my news—or lack of news. She would be there waiting for me, I was sure, no matter how prompt I might be, for though in ordinary circumstances, after the first performance of a new play, either Maxine would have gone out to supper, or invited guests to sup with her, she would have accepted no invitation, given none, for to-night. She would hurry out of the theatre, probably without waiting to remove her stage make-up, and she would go home unaccompanied, except by her maid.

Maxine lives in a charming little old-fashioned house, set back in its own garden, a great “find” in a good quarter of Paris; and her house could he reached in ten minutes’ drive from my hotel. I would not go as far as the gate, but would dismiss my cab at the corner of the quiet street, as it would not he wise to advertise the fact that Mademoiselle de Renzie was receiving a visit from a young man at midnight. Fifteen minutes would give me plenty of time for all this: therefore, at about a quarter to twelve I started to go downstairs, and in the entrance hall almost ran against the last person on earth I expected to see—Diana Forrest.

She was not alone, of course; but for a second or two I saw no one else. There was none other except her precious and beautiful face in the world; and for a wild instant I asked myself if she had come here to see me, to take back all her cruel words of misunderstanding, and to take me hack also. But it was only for an instant—a very mad instant.

Then I realised that she couldn’t have known I was to be at the Élysée Palace Hotel, and that even if she had, she would not have dreamed of coming to me. As common sense swept my brain clear, I saw near the precious and beautiful face other faces: Lady Mountstuart’s, Lord Mountstuart’s, Lisa Drummond’s, and Bob West’s.

They were all in evening dress, the ladies in charming wraps which appeared to consist mostly of lace and chiffon, and evidently they had just come into the hotel from some place of amusement. The beautiful face, which had been pale, grew rosy at sight of me, though whether with amazement or anger, or both, I couldn’t tell. Lisa smiled, looking more impish even than usual; but it was plain that the others, Lord Mountstuart among them, were surprised to see me here.

“Goodness, is it you or your ghost?” exclaimed Lady Mountstuart, in the soft accents of California, which have never changed in spite of the long years of her married life in England.

If it had been my ghost it would have vanished immediately, to save Di from embarrassment, and also to prevent any delay in getting to Maxine’s. But, unfortunately, a flesh and blood young man must stop for conventional politeness before he can disappear, no matter what presses.

I said “How do you do?” to everyone, adding that I was as surprised to see them as they could be to see me. I even grinned civilly at Lord Robert West, though finding him here with Di, looking particularly pleased with himself, made me want to knock him down.

“Oh, it was a plan, as far as Mounty and Lord Robert and I are concerned,” explained Lady Mountstuart. “Of course, Lord Robert ought to have been at the Duchess’s bazaar this afternoon, but then he won’t show up at such things, even to please his sister, and Di and Lisa were to have represented me there. To-day and to-morrow are the only days all three of us could possibly steal to get away and look at a most wonderful motor car; made for a Rajah who died before it was ready. Lord Robert certainly knows more about automobiles than any other human being does, and he thought this was just what I would want. Di had the most horrid headache this morning, poor child, and wasn’t fit for the fatigue of a big crush, so, as she’s a splendid sailor, I persuaded her to come with us—and Lisa, too, of course. We caught the afternoon train to Boulogne, and had such a glorious crossing that we actually all had the courage to dress and dine at Madrid—wasn’t it plucky of us? But we’re collapsing now, and have come back early, as we must inspect the car the first thing to-morrow morning and do a heap of shopping afterwards.”

“If you’re collapsing, I mustn’t keep you standing here a moment,” I said, anxious for more than one reason to get away. Di wasn’t looking at me. Half turned from me, purposely I didn’t doubt, she had begun a conversation with Bob West, who beamed with joy over her kindness to him and her apparent indifference to me.

“‘Collapsing’ is an exaggeration perhaps,” laughed Lady Mountstuart. “But, instead of keeping us standing here, come up to our sitting-room and have a little talk—and whisky and soda.”

“Yes, do come, Dundas,” her husband added.

“Thank you both,” I stammered, trying not to look embarrassed. “But—I know you’re all tired, and—.”

“And perhaps you have some nice engagement,” piped Lisa.

“It’s too late for respectable British young men to have engagements in naughty Paris,” said Lady Mountstuart, laughing again (she looks very handsome when she laughs, and knows it). “Isn’t that true, Mr. Dundas?”

“It depends upon the engagement,” I managed to reply calmly. But then, as Di suddenly turned and looked straight at me with marked coldness, the blood sprang up to my face. I began to stammer again like a young ass of a schoolboy. “I’m afraid that I—er—the fact is, I am engaged. A matter of business. I wish I could get out of it, but I can’t, and—er—I shall have to run off, or I will be late. Good-bye,—good-bye.” Then I mumbled something about hoping to see them again before they left Paris, and escaped, knowing that I had made a horrid mess of my excuses. Di was laughing at something West said, as I turned away, and though perhaps his remark and her laugh had nothing to do with me, my ears burned, and there was a cold lump of iron, or something that felt like it, where my heart ought to have been.

Now was Lord Robert’s time to propose—now, when she believed me faithless and unworthy—if he but knew it. And I was afraid that he would know it.

I got out into the open air, feeling half-dazed as one of the under porters called me a cab. I gave the name of a street in the direction, but at some distance from Maxine’s, lest ears should hear which ought not to hear: and it was only when we were well away from the hotel that I amended my first instructions. Even then, I mentioned the street leading into the one where I was due, not the street itself.

“Depêchez vous” I added, for I had delayed eight or ten minutes longer than I ought, and this had upset the exactness of my calculations. The man obeyed; nevertheless, instead of reaching the top of Maxine’s street at two or three minutes before twelve, as I had intended, it was nearly ten minutes past when I got out of my cab at the corner: and when I came to the gate of the house a clock somewhere was striking the quarter hour after midnight.