When I called the attention of the librarian to the torn pages, he summoned the assistant who had given out the book. Did the assistant know that these fourteen pages were missing? The young man replied that he had noticed that yesterday. He had intended to speak to his chief about it. When asked if he could describe the reader, he replied that he could not. Pressed still further, however, he thought he remembered that the reader of the book had been an old man and had brown eyes. It was useless to say any more. It was evident that the assistant had been bribed and was lying. I might have given the librarian a hint or two as to what had become of those fourteen pages, but I wished to keep the police out of our game. Before long, perhaps, I might have to trust to the duke’s generosity. In the meanwhile, I would go to Bellagio to learn why Jacqueline wished to see me so urgently.
CHAPTER XI
I saw no reason why I should inform either Mrs. Gordon or Jacqueline of my little trip to St. Petersburg. I greeted them both as if I had just come from Venice, and had duly received Mrs. Gordon’s invitation. It may be readily imagined that I was curious to know why Jacqueline had added her urgent[urgent] telegram in addition to her aunt’s note.
But Jacqueline was never a primer to be spelled out with simplicity and accuracy. She met my anxious and significant glance–and I took care not to ask questions–with smiling and open-eyed composure. She was evidently relieved to see me, but she made no effort to see me alone. Rather, she seemed to avoid me; at least, until my visit drew to a close. That close was sudden and startling. My departure from the Hotel Grande Bretagne was nothing less than a dismissal.
It was not until after dinner that Mrs. Gordon gave me any clue as to why she had asked me to spend a few days with Jacqueline and herself at Lake Como. Just how long my visit was to last I was in dubious ignorance. I was smoking my postprandial cigar on the terrace, wondering how I might tactfully sound the formidable Mrs. Gordon for this information, when she appeared with her niece. Jacqueline was reading a letter from home. Mrs. Gordon held up a jeweled hand impressively, and waved it significantly toward her.
“My dear, will you fetch me my shawl? Pray do not throw away your cigar, Mr. Hume. Be seated. I am anxious to have a talk with you.”
My heart thumped ridiculously. Had Jacqueline confessed to her aunt her love for me?
I professed myself properly at her disposal. She cleared her throat and folded her arms across her ample person. Unconsciously she was assuming the airs of one of the Council of Ten. But that was Mrs. Gordon’s way, and I waited expectantly.
“It is a great pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Hume,” she began with ponderous cordiality.
I hastened to assure her that there was no place more beautiful than Como in April, and looked wistfully after Jacqueline, who had brought the shawl, and was now strolling about the shrubbery.