The Oyster

by Peer

CHAPTER XIII

"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!"

"What is it, Den?"

Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, out about the place, arranging the day, looking at his horses, his herd of shorthorns, speaking to the keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him well.

Denise pushed a letter away.

She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink wrapper.

"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to get up, isn't it?"

"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour earlier."

"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise.

"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did you exclaim?"

An insistent man, he held out his hand for the letter.

"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. It's only from Esmé, grumbling. I couldn't show it to you. There are things about herself—her health." Denise talked very fast, growing a little breathless. "And she wants a little loan—and I'm short. She was so good to me that time abroad, you know—she—"

"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had slipped on one side; he saw the figures £200 written plainly. Sir Cyril sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him for more.

"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty."

"No, Cyril, not you—it would be a breach of confidence."

"There can be no breaches of confidence between a wife and her husband." His eyes hardened, his big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I tell you that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I should have known. I expect to know again."

Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the meaning in his voice, knew and dreaded him. The folly of her petty sinning had been crossed out, but since then she was his, and he would stand no deceiving.

"You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered Denise.

Esmé had written excitedly. She had raved on at Bertie, stormed, cried, grown calm, and then angry. Money must be found now—must! Two hundred was not enough. Denise must send three, advance the money for January; she must give at least two hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her letter was a flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," she wrote—"I must have money. I could have it of my own if I—if I—upset everything. You know what I mean. So don't refuse me, old girl, for old sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's grumbling, Claire pressing. You know what Hugh has said—that if I had a child he'd leave us money, and so—" then a long blank.

"She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the lips, shaking from sick fear. "If she told, if it came out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; but—if she did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking in, saw her.

"That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to himself.

"And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I don't think so, and I daren't send off jewels, for that tiresome Studley counts them all, and nothing wants mending."

She must slip into the town, get money and send it off. Cyrrie had been looking over her accounts lately; she had had to draw out money in small sums, and send them on.

Denise was frightened. She was going down when she saw the tell-tale letter lying on her bed. She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her fire; came to breakfast shaken and looking ill.

Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam.

"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't have any jam now, or egg—only bread and butter."

"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon."

"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril."

"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie."

"No—you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation on the boy.

Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, and, equally quietly, acted. Denise must not be weak enough to go on paying for one winter's kindness.

"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said Sir Cyril.

"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby eyes met Sir Cyril's, filled with the mystical reasoning of childhood. "Not a pupus—the dog joggled me, dad."

Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, and he helped the boys to egg.

Cyril, forgetting the wisdom of silence, wished to know why hens wouldn't lay eggs scrambled, an' save cook's trouble, and Cecil suggested telling the fowl-woman.

"I am going to Insminton, Cyril. I have to get some things."

"Yes. I'll come in with you. No one will be here before one."

Denise flushed; then she must go in the afternoon, and the bank would be shut.

She sat fidgeting, afraid to the bottom of her shallow soul of the big-jawed man she had married.

She had seen him angry—knew the depths of his cold anger, and his ideas of justice. The hard Blakeney pictured faces frowned down upon her from the dining-room walls; a race of human steamrollers, driven by the power of determination; diving aside respectfully for what they realized to be the rightful traffic of the road of life, but coming on mercilessly to grind what needed grinding.

"Coming, Den?" Sir Cyril called from the door.

Denise came reluctantly; she must pretend to have some errands, for she knew she would get no opportunity now of going to the bank. Her husband would do his own work quickly, then drive her about, waiting for her.

The big drapers scored by an order for silk and for table linen.

Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided that sardines must be about to be used as fish by the great, seeing that he had supplied a dozen boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen now.

"Finished, Den?"

"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." Denise was driven home, answering questions, but not speaking, frightened, and too visibly ill at ease.

"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself.

He went to his study to write, stayed there until the luncheon gong rang, came out to find the first arrivals in the morning-room, and to see Denise, her colour high, hurrying in.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the Vicarage to give the vicaress some books for her club. I forgot them this morning."

Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred pounds in notes from a beaming manager. She came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir Cyril. The big man would have made a good detective. His hard eyes narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. Denise was not in the least likely to have remembered the books for the vicar's wife without some other motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in his mind, he summed it all up.

"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she went to get her the money." After all, the Carteret woman had been once full of devotion; Denise had heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril Blakeney was a man who walked straight to his goal. He meant to ask Denise how much she had sent, to warn her against being bled.

He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in silence. A thorough Englishman, eating large helpings of roast beef and vegetables, topped up by a steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something highly flavoured had no attractions for Cyril Blakeney.

Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew brighter as she began to feel certain that she had managed everything so well. She would have her own money soon, send on the advance to Esmé.

Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into the Slough of Despond. She walked gaily again in the sunshine on firm ground.

And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her.

By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they took it in the big drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were twenty-four hours away.

Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her lean little husband, was only asked for her sake.

"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are."

Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods.

"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he wears...."

Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called openly for help.

"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes."

"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly.

"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin' of you, Mrs Rich—very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?"

Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily.

"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's Cyril."

The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her a telegram from a delayed guest.

"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too."

"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new pendant." Lucy Richmond forgot knickerbockers, and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those dear, old-fashioned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to buy myself a birthday present, and it had just come in to Benhusan's."

Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was the pendant she had given to Esmé. Why had the woman chosen this moment?

"It's just like yours, Den"—Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big fingers—"exactly the same."

"I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond. "As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves."

"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?"

A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly pendant. Oh, on such a day—at such an hour.

Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart fluttering.

"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise."

"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered.

"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry.

Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it all over London.

It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down.

And if Cyril knew.

He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at her.

Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously.

"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise."

"No," she said miserably.

"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?"

"I—I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve her best.

"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den—Esmé Carteret took that pendant, and—you lied to screen her."

The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet.

"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, was it not?"

Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and shaken.

"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, promise—promise! She wanted money so badly."

"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from sending her gifts of money."

Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esmé's allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, disgraced.

But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of managing the money.

Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why she had found so easy a way out.

"I don't blame you, Den—don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have truth. Must—and—will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, remember that."

He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. How much was it?"

"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted—fifty," stammered Denise. "I got a lot—I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair."

It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion.

"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you."

Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off in her glove.

Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her.

"You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds of things have happened, and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's."

Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, had talked too openly to Amos Benhusan; said more than he had perhaps intended to.

Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he talked a little, discreetly, but he talked.

Esmé bought her Paris frocks; paid something to Claire. Denise had sent her something valuable; but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable.

"When would her ladyship be in?"

"Could not say, madam."

The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, meeting her, passed her with a cold bow.

Esmé rang up furiously. What was it? She must know.

"Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice was hurried and strained. "Meet me at the club to-morrow—at eleven."

Esmé kept her appointment punctually.

"Down here, Esmé—down in this lounge." Denise hurried to a dim corner, poured out a badly-jointed tale.

It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; Esmé must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect."

A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the little son she had sold. Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend.

"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy comes first. Be good to him."

A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé had hated the idea of the baby coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. "No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es."

A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper innuendo.

A couple of women passing in saw the two.

"Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey."

Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," she drawled languidly. "Quite!"

When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot caution, only wanted to hurt.

"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," said Mary Ploddy.

"I was telling her I could not go on being friends and she resented it," said Denise, unsteadily.

"Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for Esmé that Denise should meet two women who loved a scandal dearly.

"Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me to. It's something I could not tell; nothing to do with morals."

"Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing with curiosity. "Only money and morals nowadays in the sin catalogue."

"Oh, never mind—she's impossible," snapped Denise, and, flustered, shaken, went out.

"It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret woman's name off the list of your Bridge Tournament, Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, too, for their dinner and dance."

So a whisper grew. Esmé, going to a big reception that night, caught one or two frigid bows from women who had smiled the day before.

The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. The reception was in honour of a French diplomatist and his wife; the tripping tongue was as much used in the rooms as English.

"There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr Legrand looked at the brilliant crowd. "Milady Blakeney."

"So, Monsieur. She is close to us—passing downstairs. There—in grey-blue—with the diamond stars."

"But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor stared, puzzled.

"My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she is fair."

"No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's muddled her with Esmé Carteret, who was with her. She is brilliantly fair. She might—yes—there she is, just going out."

Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esmé, started.

"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud.

"She is a pretty woman. Oh!"

For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the far doorway to get to Esmé, caught a glimpse of a fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer.

But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, for he wrote to Luigi:

"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is brown-haired, ordinarily pretty, no fair-haired goddess. If you will join me here for a day—get Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno."

Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' time.

As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London.

Esmé, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting at her name, down to dinner.

The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, dazzlingly handsome.

Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire.

"How cold it is!" Esmé had played bridge for years with the Ploddy women.

Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing.

"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esmé said, carelessly. "Been winning lately? We can play in the mornings here."

Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned.

"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, shall we sit down?"

The whisper to yet another friend:

"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise Blakeney, has had to cut her. Sir Cyril insisted. I heard that it was something about a pendant. Amos Benhusan told one or two people—you know, the big jeweller."

The chill deepened. Esmé was left alone at the fire, realizing suddenly that the women had drifted away from her. She looked at them curiously, turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and forgot it. Something had put out the old Ploddy women, she decided carelessly.

But that evening, next day, Esmé began to realize people were avoiding her. She saw glances as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden hush which told her she was being discussed.

What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' party gave her no pleasure. For a time she tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her gowns, but Esmé was not small-minded; the thought had to be put away.

She sat up for Bertie one night, called him in from the small room off hers, where he slept.

"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she flung out. "What is it? I've done nothing. They keep away from me—are almost rude; there's something, Bertie."

"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. She looked haggard, worn; older than her years. He began to think. People had been curiously kind to him since he had come. He had been almost fêted by the men; they had "dear old chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him horses, with a whispering undernote of pity in it all.

"Lord! It—must be nonsense, Butterfly," he said kindly, with something telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esmé's extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more than they had got?

"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's private man-property."

"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night."

Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing letters.

"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my love, having the woman here."

"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy Ardeane coming to-day."

"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. "Bad as the dancer. See the Morning Post, my love?"

He picked it up.

"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'"

"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse a Cabinet minister."

"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. But this is important. I can't have Esmé Carteret here."

Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed.

"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. "French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt."

"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria."

"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. "Think it over, Luke. Help me."

"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly.

And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, picking up the Morning Post, saw another paragraph.

"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery."

The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew numb and cold.

"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed him."

Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, dying!

Esmé got up slowly, came numb and white to her hostess.

She had had bad news; she lied dully, carelessly; a cousin was ill; she must leave at once. But if they liked to keep Bertie she was sure he would stay.

"I must be near him; I must be near him," rang the tortured longing of her heart. If he died she must see him buried; stand by his grave.

Something in the stricken face touched Mrs Holbrook. A motor could come round at once; catch the eleven-o'clock train; she was sorry.

"Thank you. My maid can follow. Thank you and good-bye."

"She went herself, my love," said Luke, contentedly.

Oh! crawling slowness of the big car; of the flying express train; biting fear of what might be as she reached London.

Their flat was cold, dusty; Esmé did not notice it; she unhooked the telephone.

"Who is that—Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "How is the child?"

Swaying, Esmé listened.

"Better—almost out of danger. It was exaggerated; his arm is crushed, but there are no internal injuries we hope. Who am I to say asked?"

The nurse had not recognized the hoarse voice.

"The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!"

A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. Her boy would not die. Then, later, fresh waves of depression. He was not out of danger. Children went out in a minute. The hours dragged and she was afraid to ask again. Then, still sitting there, hunched in a cold room, she rang up.

Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, Esmé. I'll shut the door. Now don't get hysterical, don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; it was his fault."

"You pushed him," stormed Esmé.

"Who told you?" Denise stopped, her voice grew ill-humoured. "No, you must not come here. I'll let you know. Oh, I promise I will. Don't be absurd."

Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing hours.

"But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she came in, "perished and alone."

Marie, of course, had made up her mind to an intrigue. Madame had not gone for nothing. Marie was disappointed. But she lighted the fire, sympathized, sent for hot tea and toast, flitted about with a world of surmise hidden behind her black eyes.

What was it? What trouble was Madame in? Knowledge was useful to clever people.

The telephone bell whirred; before Esmé could come Marie had snatched up the receiver.

"Is that you, Esmé? Quick! I've no time. The boy is doing well. What? Not Mrs Carteret? Oh, call her—at once."

No necessity to call the woman who came flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esmé listened for a moment, then came back to her tea slowly.

It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it.

"There is something then amiss with the little Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said softly.

"He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esmé burst out, then checked herself.

"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bébé should not have a little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...."

Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing to her tell-tale cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped her cup and cried out.

"When I left Madame," murmured Marie to herself, "and Madame is now so attached to the little boy Blakeney. I wonder, oh, I wonder!" muttered the Frenchwoman.

Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm were crushed, might never be used freely again; but there were no fatal injuries.

Deep in her heart, after the first remorse for the angry push which she had given the child, Denise had hoped that he might die. Once dead there would be no more danger of detection. Esmé would give up worrying her.

There was a dance next night given by a newcomer to London, an Italian Marchese.

Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger.

Three times Esmé had rung up to know if she might see the child, and Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not come."

The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment.

Esmé, with her cheeks too pink, her eyes bright and hard, felt anew the frost which was creeping about her. Friends bowed coldly; she saw nods, shrugged shoulders.

She met Jimmie Gore Helmsley near the ball-room door. He was watching for a new love, a pretty little woman of twenty, married to a dull man who merely adored her and therefore took no pains to show it. The girl turned from gold to tinsel, because tinsel glittered and was more pleasing to the eye.

"Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esmé was glad to see him. "Any news?"

"Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay to tell it you, fair lady. It's curious news."

Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly unfriendly. Esmé stood partnerless, hurt by the snub for a time, until she flashed smiles on boys who bored her, simply that she might not be alone.

She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to slip away to avoid a meeting.

"How is he?" Esmé darted through the crowd. Sir Cyril stood near his wife, his big face set coldly.

"The boy? Oh! much better, thank you. So nice of you to take an interest in him." Denise's voice shook from nervousness.

"May I not come to see him?"

Sir Cyril interrupted quietly. "Impossible," he said, "impossible, Mrs Carteret. The boy is to be kept quiet. Come, Denise."

It was an open snub, given before people who looked on full of malicious curiosity.

Esmé stood, white under her rouge; there was something, and she did not know what it was.

"Come, let us go to supper." She turned, laughing, to her partner. "I'm thirsty."

The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses and bright jewels, swam before her eyes. Then at the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave and smile to her.

The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate had brought him to London.

Mechanically she walked on.

"Ah, milady!"—his brown hand gripped hers. "Well met. And—you do not look well."

"Mr Herbert, I've dropped a brooch, just over there; try to find it for me." Esmé sent the boy away, stood staring at the Italian.

"I have not ten minutes," he said. "I have to go, but my uncle would have me come here to see the English monde. And so—I see the child is hurted, but is nearly well again. I came yesterday," he said. "I leave to-morrow, recalled to Italy, or I would have gone to see him and you."

He knew no one there. He was alone and he was leaving London. Yet at any moment he might meet Denise with her husband.

"I am so glad to see you," Esmé faltered. "See, come to supper, and I will try to find Esmé; she is here too."

She hurried him downstairs to the supper-room; saw Denise, and leaving Luigi ran across to her.

Denise was with Lord Ralph Karton.

"Denise!" Esmé bent down to her. "Get away. Luigi is here. He takes me for you. He is at supper with me. Get away, I say; but I must see the boy to-morrow, if I keep silence again—I must," she said.

Denise Blakeney slipped to the door, stood there panting, hiding; she was not well, she told Lord Ralph; sent him for her husband.

"Esmé—I dare not," she whispered back; "but here—you are hard up—take this for gratitude."

She slipped a great bar of diamonds from her bodice, held it out.

"It cost a thousand," she said. "But you've saved me."

"I'll take it if I see the boy," said Esmé, sullenly.

"Not until Cyril's out of London. Telephone to me. I dare not."

Esmé's fingers closed on the glittering toy she held. It was magnificent; meant ease, peace—for months.

"So again I sell him," she said bitterly. "Go, Denise, quickly, while there is time."

She was pressed against Denise by the crowd, struggled away just as Sir Cyril came down the stairs to his wife.

Esmé slipped the diamond bar inside her dress, fastening the clasp to some lace. She went back to the Italian doctor, sat talking to him, saw him leave, and at the last was almost discovered.

For Luigi, bowing low over his country-woman and hostess, had told joyously of his meeting with Milady Blakeney.

"I will tell the uncle who said she was not fair that he is blind," he laughed.

The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, perhaps," she said. "She has gone home, poor lady."

"But no," said Luigi, puzzled.

Then the crowd separated the two Italians. Luigi went back to his hotel, and on next day to Italy.

A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving had saved Denise from exposure.

She drove home so frightened that she looked really ill; went to her room, clinging to Cyril's arm. The husband she had once treated so lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and all misfortune. To lose him—lose her home, her position—

Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into her big chair, crouched there shivering.

Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging satin gown, brought a warm, rose-pink wrapper. Cyril ran for brandy.

"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone."

Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard.

"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid."

"I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, acidly.

"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?"

"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man round. The fastening was bad; search the car."

"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very stern. He remembered seeing Esmé pressed close to his wife. In his heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again.

Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round.

And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in the Park.

"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed it as she came to supper."

Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress.

London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect.