The dangerous game
that you entertained one single spark of affection for me. I only
regarded you as a chance-met friend. And, after all, you are only
that. I only think of you as one so famous!”
“My fame is of no account to me. It is simply luck; the same as any
other good or bad fortune,” he replied, with an inexpressibly sad
look. “I only tell you that I love you.”
Once more she looked straight into his deep eyes, as gradually again
she withdrew her hand. He felt it trembling within his grasp, and knew
that, though she possessed a calm exterior, she was, nevertheless,
stirred by wild emotion. Her dark, luminous eyes shone, and he
realized that a great struggle was taking place within her.
“Can you love me, Joan?” he whispered.
She shook her head mournfully.
“Seton,” she said in a strained voice, her eyes still upon him as she
stood before him. “You are asking impossibilities. I cannot--I--I dare
not allow myself to love you!”
“Why--why?” he demanded, even though his love-making was only
pretended.
“Because--because there are reasons--strong reasons. Your love is
debarred from me. Remember, I am married!”
“I know. But what does that matter?” asked the popular novelist.
“Surely I am not the first man who has loved the wife of another?”
“No. But--well--I can’t love you. That’s all,” she replied blankly.
“Why? Tell me the reason.”
“It is a strong one--a very strong one.”
“Of what nature?”
“Well--if you knew the truth, Seton,” she answered, her voice low and
trembling. “If you knew the bitter truth, you would never allow
yourself to declare your love for me”; and tears welled in her bright
eyes as she spoke.
“What truth? I don’t understand. You speak in enigmas, dear.”
“I know. But it is my secret--a secret which I am forced to hide, even
from you, Seton!” was her slow, pathetic response.
For a few seconds he remained silent. He was sorely puzzled. To what
secret did she refer? He had more than a suspicion--a suspicion which
it was his intention to confirm by his pretence of affection.
“Are you speaking of--well, of your past?” he asked hesitatingly in a
sympathetic voice. “If so, what does that matter to me? I have no wish
to pry into it.”
“No,” she answered promptly. “It concerns the present. But please do
not let us discuss it. I----”
“But, Joan! I love you!” exclaimed the round-faced man, whose books
were so popular the world over. “Cannot we leave this secret of yours
out of the question?”
“Alas! we cannot. I repeat that if you knew the truth you would--you’d
hate me!”
“Hate you!” he echoed. “How could I?”
“Because you would do so. Of that I am convinced,” was her slow answer
in a pained voice scarce above a whisper.
“You are really most mysterious, Joan,” he declared, placing his hand
tenderly upon her shoulder. “Cannot you be a little more explicit?”
“Unfortunately, no, Seton!” she said after a slight pause, her voice
tremulous and tears again showing in her eyes. “Please forgive me, but
I beg of you not to discuss it further. It is too tragic, too
terrible. You are my friend, but not my lover. Let us still remain the
good friends that we are,” she implored.
He pleaded with her for half an hour, holding her hand and more than
once kissing her upon the lips. But all to no avail. She refused to
satisfy him as to the secret reason why she refused to allow him to
pay her further attention, saying:
“No. Let us still be friends, just as we were last year at Wengen,
when you were so attentive to Edris Temperley.”
Mention of Edris caused him to reflect. Those days amid the Alpine
snows came back to him vividly, and that night, when they met again at
dinner, he showed her the same studied courtesy as before. He invited
her to his room to smoke and take coffee, but she preferred the
lounge, and later they went for a stroll together by the calm, moonlit
sea.
As they chatted, he once more was surprised at her wide knowledge of
Europe. Like himself, she had been in many towns and cities of Russia,
from the Volga to the Neva and from the Baltic to the Caspian. Her
knowledge of Egypt and Tunisia was equal to his own, while she
described towns in Bosnia, Serbia, and Bulgaria in a manner which
showed him plainly that she had been in them, just as he had been.
When they parted in the lounge of the hotel at eleven o’clock,
Darville went along to the bar where two Frenchmen he knew were
drinking, so he joined them, chatting in his excellent French and
discussing the French attitude towards England.
“There will be another war with Germany very soon,” declared one of
the Frenchmen, a man named Girand, who was Deputy for the Rhone.
“Everything points to it--the Monarchists have the upper hand again.
Read the French newspapers, and listen to what the President of the
Council is always saying. The warning has been sounded by the Allied
Commission of Control. They tell us emphatically that Germany is
making munitions, arms, aeroplanes, and most terrible poison-gases in
frantic haste.”
“When do you think war will break out?” asked Seton Darville, with a
somewhat disinterested air.
“Within one year,” replied the Deputy. “That is quite obvious. The
Minister told me so only a week ago. But, of course, the Government
are hiding the truth from the public.”
“He’s an alarmist,” declared the second Frenchman. “Germany will not
be ready by then.”
Darville listened eagerly to the discussion, but made no comment. He
found it all intensely interesting. Probably, had they but known who
their listener really was, they would have promptly become dumb.
As it was, the argument grew heated, and from it the novelist learnt
much of interest, for names were bandied about, and of them he took
careful note. Then, on ascending to his room, he sat down and wrote
far into the night. In the document he penned he mentioned certain of
those names which the Deputy and his friend had inadvertently
disclosed.
Next day he resumed his Platonic friendship with Joan. They spent the
morning motoring together over those delightful roads lined by aloes,
oranges, and olives, with the tangles of giant geraniums and the
profusion of carnations, leaving the sapphire sea behind and driving
inland across the gorgeous island. Indeed, for the next week the pair
were inseparable, a fact remarked by many visitors to the hotel who
knew that Joan’s husband was absent on business.
One night Seton Darville acted strangely, though no one saw him.
He wrote till nearly two o’clock in the morning, when, placing his
neat manuscript aside, he rose, and, taking a bunch of curious-looking
keys--skeleton keys they really were--and an electric torch, he
stepped out upon the thick carpet of the corridor and, without his
evening slippers, he stole along to Joan’s sitting-room in the
opposite wing of the hotel.
He had no difficulty in finding the room, having been there many times
before. The door was locked on the inside, but a small portion of the
barrel of the key protruded. He placed his hand in the pocket of his
dinner-jacket and brought out what appeared to be a small steel vice.
This he swiftly adjusted to the protruding end of the key and
tightened it. Then, holding it fast, he slowly turned the key, and the
door yielded. Next moment he switched on his torch and stepped into
the small sitting-room of the private suite. The door communicating
with Mrs. Caborn’s bedroom was happily closed. He breathed more freely
when he realized it, for it would have been dangerous to have remained
there had it been open. So emboldened, he switched on the light, which
revealed a very snug little apartment, with a center table upon which
stood a great vase filled with sweet-smelling mimosa. In the corner by
the window, which gave a view of the sea and sparkling lights, stood a
small writing-table. That interested him at once. With the aid of one
of his skeleton keys he swiftly opened all the drawers, and at once
began to unearth a quantity of letters which they contained.
In the center drawer was a small steel dispatch-box with a well-worn
cover of dark-green canvas. This he had considerable difficulty in
opening, for the lock was a patent one. At last he slowly opened the
lid, which creaked slightly, causing him to hold his breath. Inside
were several letters written to Joan to an address c/o Mr. Peke
O’Brien, in Longridge Road, Earl’s Court. Swiftly he read the letters,
which were of a highly amorous nature and written about four months
before, from a man who signed himself “Your Othmar.” One was dated
from Biarritz, and others from Paris, Brussels, and other places on
the Continent, which showed that the writer was constantly traveling,
and further it was apparent that from time to time he sent her sums of
money as presents, evidently unknown to her husband.
For nearly half an hour he went through the correspondence, then,
having satisfied his curiosity, he, without making a sound, relocked
the box, replaced it in the drawer, locked up the table, and after
locking the door as he found it, crept noiselessly back to his room.
CHAPTER III.
THE ELUSIVE JOAN
The sun shone brightly across Darville’s sitting-room, as next
morning he sat down as usual to write.
He placed before him the blank sheets of ruled manuscript paper, which
bore a red line from top to bottom, making the margin, and with a sigh
took up his fountain pen and began to work in that uneven scribbly
hand, specimens of which were ever and anon reproduced among the
handwritings of popular authors. His writing was characteristic of a
man of erratic temperament who scribbled swiftly, as indeed he did.
His pen flew over the paper, for his thoughts always arose quicker
than his pen could register them. He declared that he wrote
mechanically, and that he only conjured up his characters for the
moment, and next second all remembrance of them had left him. During
the hours of morning when he wrote, he lived with his characters, and
experienced within himself all their loves, their hatreds, their
sympathies, and their bitter regrets. But as soon as he rose from his
table all knowledge of the romance he was weaving left him, and he
again became just an ordinary being, a careless cosmopolitan without a
single thought in the world.
His mood that morning was a sad one. The heavy expression upon his
countenance showed it.
He lunched alone, for Joan was out on a motor picnic with an American
family who were their fellow-guests. He had been invited, but had
declined, because he was sadly behindhand with his work, and only the
previous day had received an urgent letter from his literary agent in
London pointing out that the new novel was already a month overdue,
and that the publishers were eager for the manuscript. Hence he had
decided in favor of work before pleasure, though, with his
happy-go-lucky nature, the reverse was usually the case.
In the afternoon he felt a trifle unwell, due perhaps to brain fag, a
malady from which most hard-worked writers suffer more or less. So he
went up to his room, lay upon the couch, and, over an old magazine,
dropped off into a heavy sleep.
In his unconsciousness he was unaware of the fact that about two hours
later the door opened noiselessly and Joan, still in her motor-coat
and hat, crept in on tiptoe, and, pausing, looked at him with a
strange expression of hardness, almost of hatred, upon her otherwise
charming face.
She whispered some words to herself, her hands clenching themselves as
though in anger. Then she crossed to where Darville’s dispatch-case
lay upon the table unlocked. Without making the slightest sound, she
opened it and swiftly examined its contents. She glanced at several
long slips of paper of a peculiar egg-shell blue, and, having