The Girl Philippa
"My dear chap," he said, "I'd do so if I were in England. I can't, as
matters stand. The French police are no use to me."
"Why don't you go to your consulate?"
"I did. The Consul is away on his vacation. And I didn't like the
looks of the vice-consul."
"What?"
"No. I didn't like his name, either."
"What do you mean?"
"His name is Schmidt. I--didn't care for it."
Warner laughed, and Halkett looked up quickly, smiling.
"I'm queer. I admit it. But you ought to have come to some conclusion
concerning me by this time. Do you think me a rotter, or a criminal, or
a lunatic, or a fugitive from justice? Or will you chance it that I'm
all right, and will you stand by me?"
Warner laughed again:
"I'll take a chance on you," he said. "Give me your envelope, you
amazing Britisher!"
*CHAPTER II*
Halkett cast a rapid glance around him; apparently he saw nothing to
disturb him. Then he whipped out from his pocket a long, very thin
envelope and passed it to Warner, who immediately slipped it into the
breast pocket of his coat.
"That's very decent of you," said Halkett in a low voice. His
attractive face had grown serious and a trifle pale. "I shan't forget
this," he said.
Warner laughed.
"You're a very convincing Englishman," he said. "I can't believe you're
not all right."
"I'm right enough. But you are _all_ white. What is your name?"
"I had better write it out for you."
"No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address
discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."
Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then:
"James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La
Peche d'Or at Sais."
"By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James
Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?"
"I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually
paint military subjects."
"I _knew_ you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the
way you paint _must_ be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did
'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"
Warner laughed, coloring a little.
"Did you really like those pictures?"
"Everybody liked them. I fancy every officer in our army owns a colored
print of one or more of your pictures. And to think I should run across
you in this God-forsaken French town! And to think it should be _you_
who is willing to stand by me at this pinch! Well--I judged you
rightly, you see."
Warner smiled, then his features altered.
"Listen, Halkett," he said, dropping instinctively the last trace of
formality with a man who, honest or otherwise, was plainly of his own
caste. "I have tried to size you up and I can't. You say you are a
writer, but you look to me more like a soldier. Anyway, I've concluded
that you're straight. And, that being my conviction, can't I do more
for you than carry an envelope about for you?"
"That's very decent of you, Warner. No, thanks, there is nothing else
you could do."
"I thought you said you are likely to get into a row?"
"I am. But I don't know when or where. Besides, I wouldn't drag you
into anything like that."
"Where are you stopping in Ausone?"
"At the Boule d'Argent. I got in only an hour before I met you."
"Do you still believe you are being followed?"
"I have been followed so far. Maybe I've lost them. I hope so."
Warner said:
"I came into town to buy canvases and colors. That's how I happen to be
in Ausone. It's only an hour's drive to Sais. Why don't you come back
with me? Sais is a pretty hamlet. Few people have ever heard of it.
The Golden Peach is an excellent inn. Why don't you run down and lie
snug for a while? It's the last place on earth anybody would think of
looking for a man who's done--what I suppose _you've_ done."
Halkett, who had been listening with a detached smile, jerked his head
around and looked at Warner.
"What do you suppose I've done?" he asked coolly.
"I think you're a British officer who has been abroad after military
information--and that you've got it--in this envelope."
Halkett's expressionless face and fixed eyes did not alter. But he said
quietly:
"You are about the only American in France who might have been likely to
think that. Isn't it the devil's own luck that I should pick _you_ for
my friend in need?"
Warner shrugged:
"You need not answer that implied question of mine, Halkett. My theory
concerning you suits me. Anyway, I believe you _are_ in trouble. And I
think you'd better come back to Sais with me."
"Thinking what you think, do you still mean to stand by me?"
"Certainly. I don't _know_ what's in your damned envelope, do I? Very
well; I don't wish to know. Shall we stroll back to the Boule
d'Argent?"
"Right-o! What a devilish decent chap you are, Warner!"
"Oh, no; I'm a gambler by disposition. This business amuses me!"
"Are you stopping at the Boule d'Argent, too?" asked Halkett after a
moment.
"I lunched there and left my stack of _toiles_ and my sack of colors
there. Also, I have a dogcart and a horse in the stables."
They turned away together, side by side, crossed the boulevard,
traversed the deserted square in front of the beautiful old church of
Sainte Cassilda, and entered the stony rue d'Auros, which led directly
into the market square.
The ancient town of Ausone certainly seemed to be very much _en fete_,
and the rue d'Auros--the main business thoroughfare--was crowded with
townspeople, country folk, and soldiers on leave, clustering not only
all over the sidewalks, but in the middle of the streets and squares,
filling the terraces of the cafes and the courts of the two hotels, the
Boule d'Argent and the Hotel des Voyageurs.
Sunlight filtered through the double rank of chestnut trees in full
leaf; the shade was even denser and cooler by the stone bridge where,
between stone walls, the little stony river flowed, crystal clear. Here
women and young girls, in holiday attire, sat on the benches, knitting
or chatting with their friends; children played along the stone
embankment, where beds of brilliant flowers bloomed; the red trousers of
soldiers and the glittering brass helmets of firemen added a gayety to
the color and movement.
"They're a jolly people, these French," remarked Halkett.
"They're very agreeable to live among."
"You've lived in France for some time?"
"Yes," said Warner. "My headquarters are in Paris, but every summer I
take a class of American art students--girls--to Sais for outdoor
instruction. I've half a dozen there now, plugging away at _Plein Air_."
"Do you like to teach?"
"Well, not particularly. It interferes with my own work. But I have to
do it. Painting pictures doesn't keep the kettle boiling."
"I see."
"I don't really mind it. Sais is a charming place; I've known it for
years. Besides, a friend of mine lives there--an American woman, Madame
de Moidrey. Her sister, Miss Brooks, is one of the young girls in my
class. So it makes it agreeable; and Madame de Moidrey is very
hospitable."
Halkett smiled.
"Painters," he said, "have, proverbially, a pretty good time in life."
"Soldiers do, too; don't they?"
Halkett's smile became fixed.
"I've heard so. The main thing about a profession is to choose one
which will take you out of doors."
"Yours does. You can sit under a tree and write your stories, can't
you?"
The Englishman laughed:
"Of course I can. That's the beauty of realism; all you have to do is
to walk about outdoors and jot down a faithful description of everything
you see."
They had reached the little stone _quai_ under the chestnut and lime
trees; the cool ripple of the river mingled with the laughter of young
girls and the gay voices of children at play made a fresh and cheerful
sound in the July sunshine.
They leaned against the mossy river wall and looked out under the trees
across the square which surged with people. Flags fluttered from booths
and white tents; the blare of bands, the tumult of wooden shoes, the
noises of domestic creatures, and human voices all mingled with the
unceasing music from the merry-go-rounds.
Across the esplanade there was a crowd around the Cafe de Biribi--people
constantly passing to and fro--and strains of lively music leaked out
from within.
After a moment Warner suggested that they go over and have something
light and cool to drink.
"I've never been in there," he remarked, as they started, "but I've
always intended to go. It's kept by a rascal named Wildresse--a
sporting man, fight promoter, and an ex-gambler. You've heard of the
Cabaret Wildresse in Paris, haven't you?"
"I think I have," replied Halkett. "It was an all night place on the
Grand Boulevard, wasn't it?"
"Yes; opposite the Grand Hotel. This is the same proprietor. He's an
American--a shady sort of sport--and he certainly must have been a
pretty bad lot, because the police made him leave Paris six years
ago--what for, I don't know--but they fired him out, and he started his
cabaret business here in Ausone. You hear of it everywhere. People
come even from Nancy and Liege and Louvain to dance, and dine
here--certain sorts of people, I mean. The cuisine is celebrated. There
are cockfights and other illegal attractions."
The Cabaret Biribi formed the corner of the square. It was a detached
stucco structure surrounded by green trees and pretty shrubbery; and in
the rear the grounds ran down to the river, where a dozen rowboats were
moored along that still, glassy reach of water which extends for several
miles south of Ausone between meadows and pleasantly wooded banks.
They found the Cabaret Biribi crowded when they went in; a lively young
person was capering on the little stage at the end of the dancing floor,
and singing while capering; soldiers and civilians, with their own or
other people's sweethearts, sat at the zinc tables, consuming light beer
and wine and syrups; a rather agreeable stringed orchestra played
intermittently.
Waiters scurried about with miraculously balanced trays on high; old man
Wildresse roamed furtively in the background, his gorilla arms behind
his back, his blunt fingers interlocked, keeping a sly and ratty eye on
waiters and guests, and sometimes on the young woman cashier who lounged
listlessly upon her high chair behind the wire cage, one rather lank leg
crossed over the other, and her foot swinging in idle time to the music.
The moment that Warner and Halkett appeared in the doorway, looking
about them to find a table, Wildresse crossed the floor and said to his
cashier in a whisper:
"It's one of those men. Schmidt's description might fit either. If
they don't make eyes at you and ask you to dance and drink with them,
come over and join them anyway. And I want you to pump them dry. Do
you hear?"
"Yes, I hear."
Warner looked across the room at her again when he and Halkett were
seated. She had considerable paint on her cheeks, and her lips seemed
too red to be natural. Otherwise she was tragically young, thin,
excepting her throat and cheeks--a grey-eyed, listless young thing with
a mass of chestnut hair crowning her delicately shaped head.
She made change languidly for waiter and guest; acknowledged the salutes
of those entering and leaving without more than a politely detached
interest; smiled at the jests of facetious customers with mechanical
civility when importuned; and, when momentarily idle, swung her long,
slim foot in time to the music and rested her painted cheek on one hand.
Her indifferent grey eyes, sweeping the hall, presently rested on
Warner; and remained on him with a sort of idle insolence until his own
shifted.
Halkett was saying: