For a moment Carew hesitated, then:
“As—what?” he asked bluntly. Surprised at the question, the Frenchman shot him a look of undisguised astonishment. It was unlike Carew to be curious about anybody, and in all the years he had known him he had never heard him even refer to a member of the English community.
“Patrice knows more about these things than I do,” he fenced, lighting a fresh cigarette with delicate precision. And turning to the pale youth in the corner who seemed absorbed in his secretarial duties, he raised his voice slightly.
“My good Patrice, can you tell us anything about the Englishman, Lord Geradine, who is living at the Villa des Ombres?”
The young man looked up quickly with a laugh which showed that his attention was not so wholly centered on his work as it appeared to be.
“I can tell you what happened chez Fatima last night, mon oncle,” he replied promptly, with a boyish grin that was faintly malicious. But the Governor raised a plump white hand in horrified protest. “I beg of you—no,” he said hurriedly. “Spare us the disgusting details, mon cher. Generalities will be amply sufficient, amply sufficient.”
His nephew shrugged acquiescence. “As you will,” he said complacently, “but it was amusing—oh, yes, distinctly amusing,” he mimicked, with the assurance of a highly privileged individual. And for five minutes he sketched with racy frankness the character and failings of the man who had won for himself an unenviable reputation even in a not too straight-laced society. It was an unsavoury revelation that provoked little exclamations of disgust from the visibly distressed Governor, but Carew listened with apparent indifference to the delinquencies of his fellow-countryman. “—a drunkard and a bully,” concluded the attaché, ticking off the final accusations on his fingers as if he were tabulating them for a formal process. “And married,” he added with a burst of indignation, “married, imaginez-vous, to a beautiful young girl with the face of an angel—”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” interrupted his uncle dryly, “they usually are married, ces gens là, to a beautiful young girl with the face of an angel! But we are not discussing Lady Geradine, my good Patrice. Not a pleasant character, I fear,” he added, turning deprecatingly to Carew as if apologising for his nephew’s outspoken comments, “but rich, immensely rich, I understand. If it is the question of a horse, perhaps—” he suggested tentatively, as a probable reason for Carew’s inquiry suddenly occurred to him. But Carew shook his head with a curt gesture of disdain.
“I value my horses too highly to sell them to a man of that type,” he said shortly, and took leave without vouchsafing any explanation of his curiosity.
Outside in the Place du Gouvernement he glanced at his watch as he turned his steps toward the native quarter. It was later than he had imagined. He would have to hurry to keep his appointment and get back to his own villa in time to dress for the dinner the Governor had planned so gleefully. Heedless of the traffic, too familiar with the varied types to even glance at the jostling crowd of cosmopolitan humanity about him, he strode through the busy streets with a heavy scowl on his face, immersed in his own thoughts. What on earth had made him ask the Governor that idiotic question? What on earth did the fellow matter to him! If the voluble young attaché’s story was true—and Patrice Lemaire was a social butterfly who knew everybody and everything in Algiers—he must be a pretty average blackguard. And if he were—what business was it of his? It mattered not one particle to him if the tenant of de Granier’s villa was a devil from hell or a saint from heaven. If the girl had married a scoundrel it was her own look-out. It was of no moment to him. He had no interest in either her or her husband. He had been forced to help her in her exigency, but the affair was over and done with—thank heaven.