CHAPTER XXII
THE FACE ON THE IVORY
When Gordon descended the stair he came upon a striking group at the villa entrance. Shelley, with his wife beside him, confronted the severe-faced syndic, who stood stolidly with the comfortably plump avocat. A look of indignation was on his brow, and Mary’s face was perturbed.
“Here he is,” said the functionary in his neighborhood patois, and with satisfaction.
“You have business with me?” asked Gordon.
“I have. I require you to accompany me at once to Cologny on a matter touching the peace of this canton.”
“And this matter is what?”
“You speak French,” returned the syndic tartly; “doubtless you read it as well,”—and handed him a clipping from the Journal de Belgique.
Gordon scanned the fragment of paper, first with surprise, then with a slow and bitter smile. He had not seen the story, but it differed little from scores of calumnies that had filled the columns of less credulous newspapers in London before his departure. It was a breath fresh from the old sulphur bed of hatred, brought sharply to him here in his solitude.
“I see,” he said; “this states that a certain English milord had turned highwayman and deprived an honest Fleming of a wagon? How does it affect me?”
“Do you deny that you have the wagon?” demanded the syndic curtly.