Lionel smiled. He had faith in Beatrice as a story-teller, even if he was a little doubtful of her other qualities. He settled himself on the sofa, prepared not only to hear but criticize. As for Mr. Hedderwick, he was so eager that he laid down the revolver on the table and leaned forward on his elbows. To all appearance he might have been a boy listening to a true yarn of pirates and savages.
Beatrice, without effort or hesitation, began to speak. A second Scheherezade, she was fighting for her husband and her own freedom, and everything conspired to lend her aid. She had a thrilling story to tell at first hand; she had the dramatic instinct and an appreciative audience. Not only Mr. Hedderwick but Lionel, too, listened with rapt attention. The tale lived, as told by her, bearing the stamp of truth and humor in every syllable her lips uttered. And Lionel, keeping guard over himself with a loving suspicion, noticed that in no particulars did she depart from the original version. He cursed himself that any shred of doubt could still cling about him. Did any cling? Surely not, and yet.... Pish! it was not merely disloyal—it was ludicrous: the two stories were identical. Had the first been lies she must now have betrayed herself.
Not that she told her story in such detail as she had to Lionel: there was not time for that. The précis of her life and adventures lasted no more than half an hour: all that mattered was there, but the smaller details were absent. A touch here, and the kidnaping was painted in a dozen words; a line there, and she had swept them to Constantinople: a paragraph depicted Lukos with a master hand—a few vivid sentences described the flight. Then came the stage, her meeting with Lionel (five pages to the rescue, the taxi deleted altogether, and three lines to the dressing-room), and lastly, the treachery of Mizzi. She brought her story down to the moment of their capture, not forgetting to tell how they had effected their entrance by means of skeleton keys. "And that is all," she said at last, drawing a breath of relief.
"Not quite all," said Mr. Hedderwick with rounded eyes. "Lord! what a tale! what a life! Compared with this ..."—his eyes wandered discontentedly round the room, and he did not finish the sentence. "But go on—go on! Tell me why you hid the papers here."
"Partly by chance, partly design. I meant to hide them in a stranger's house, thinking they would be safest there. One evening as I walked this way I saw a machine in front of your door. It was a vacuum cleaner! That decided me. It meant that after they had finished there was no likelihood of your carpets being lifted for some time."
"My carpets!" gasped Robert. "What the——"
"Oh, do wait!" said Beatrice pettishly; and he collapsed, as was only fitting. "I came next day and the cleaner had gone. During the morning I made discreet inquiries as to your habits and mode of life. In the evening I hired a cab, drove to Kensington to put any possible trackers off the scent, changed into another cab and drove back here. At seven-thirty I called. You were out, and your wife said you would not be back for at least half an hour. I asked if I might wait, as my business was important. She hesitated, but consented, my sables being a guarantee that I had not come with any designs on your plate.
"However, to my disgust she insisted on remaining in the room and discussing trivialities. Of course, as long as she remained I was helpless, and my well-meant hints were disregarded. I was in despair; but presently the cook burst in with a woeful tale of a scorched petticoat, and the situation was saved. Your wife darted out to survey the damage, and the next moment my precious papers were hidden beneath the carpet.
"Mrs. Hedderwick returned within a very few minutes, full of apologies and (I fear) regrets that she had left the room. I did not prolong my visit. On the plea that I could not wait further, and promising to call again, I managed to escape. If you wish for proof, look under the carpet beneath your chair."
Mr. Hedderwick sprang up like an eager schoolboy. He seized the poker, inserted it under the carpet, and with a crackling wrench prized up a yard or two. With trembling fingers he tore it back still farther, and then his face fell. He stood up, a disappointed man. "There is nothing here," he said accusingly. "This is an anticlimax to a capital tale."