CHAPTER XVI
THE DARKNESS DEEPENS AROUND NINETTE
The first thing Herbert Karne did, when he had thought over matters calmly, was to go to St. George’s Church, and with the assistance of the verger, look over the marriage register; where, to his satisfaction, he found the names of Percival Arthur Neville Williams, bachelor, and Marie Douste, widow, correctly inscribed. It was not exactly that he doubted Ninette’s word—she would always be “Ninette” to him—but he wished to settle the question of his freedom beyond the shadow of a doubt before informing Lady Marjorie Stonor of what had occurred. He also wrote to Harry Barnard, the friend who had been in his secret from the first, asking him, as he happened to be in Paris, to scour the cemeteries at Montmartre and Père Lachaise for the grave of Armand Douste. The same post also carried a letter to the curé of the church of S. Vincent de Paul, Marseilles, where Herbert was under the impression the marriage of Douste and Ninette had taken place; but not knowing the priest’s name or address, he had not much hope of eliciting a reply to this epistle.
Celia noticed the change in her brother’s manner at once, for it was strikingly evident in the brightness of his eyes, the briskness in his voice, the alertness of his step. He seemed like a man suddenly endowed with a new aim in life; his depression had vanished as at the touch of a magic wand.
She asked him the reason, but he did not see fit to tell her just then, promising she should know within a month. Her curiosity was whetted, however, and although she did not usually endeavour to obtain information that was not spontaneously vouchsafed, she was very anxious to know, in this case, at once. So she set herself the task of cross-questioning him, making fantastic guesses as to the cause of his jubilance.
“Perhaps it has something to do with Lady Marjorie?” she finally suggested.
“Perhaps,” he returned laconically, with a face as inexpressive as a mask.
“I am surprised at your looking so happy about it, then,” the girl continued, “considering that she is so ill.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Herbert blankly. “Who said she was ill?”
“Lord Bexley. He had a letter from her friend yesterday. Lady Marjorie recently took it into her head to go slumming, and on one of her expeditions managed to catch the malarial fever. Fortunately it is only a mild attack; but, according to her friend’s account she is very poorly and depressed. I should love to pay her a surprise visit, just for the sake of cheering her up.”