The mystery of the Blue Train
probably regard it as an attempt to pay them off, though they will not
refuse it on that account."
"I can see that, and it can't be helped."
"I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put that idea out of your head."
Katherine shook her head. "You are quite right, I know, but I should
like it done all the same."
"They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards."
"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they like. We all have our own
ways of enjoying ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's only
relatives, and though they despised her as a poor relation and paid no
attention to her when she was alive, it seems to me unfair that they
should be cut off with nothing."
She carried her point, though the lawyer was still unwilling, and
she presently went out into the streets of London with a comfortable
assurance that she could spend money freely and make what plans she
liked for the future. Her first action was to visit the establishment
of a famous dressmaker.
A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like a dreaming duchess, received
her, and Katherine spoke with a certain _naïveté_.
"I want, if I may, to put myself in your hands. I have been very poor
all my life and know nothing about clothes, but now I have come into
some money and want to look really well dressed."
The Frenchwoman was charmed. She had an artist's temperament, which
had been soured earlier in the morning by a visit from an Argentine
meat queen, who had insisted on having those models least suited to
her flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized Katherine with keen,
clever eyes. "Yes--yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has a
very good figure; for her the simple lines will be best. She is also
_très anglaise_. Some people it would offend them if I said that,
but Mademoiselle, no. _Une belle Anglaise_, there is no style more
delightful."
The demeanour of a dreaming duchess was suddenly put off. She screamed
out directions to various mannequins. "Clothilde, Virginie, quickly, my
little ones, the little _tailleur gris clair_ and the _robe de soirée_
'_soupir d'automne_.' Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa suit of
crêpe de chine."
It was a charming morning. Marcelle, Clothilde, Virginie, bored
and scornful, passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling in the
time-honoured fashion of mannequins. The Duchess stood by Katherine and
made entries in a small notebook.
"An excellent choice, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle has great _goût_. Yes,
indeed. Mademoiselle cannot do better than those little suits if she is
going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter."
"Let me see that evening dress once more," said Katherine--"the pinky
mauve one."
Virginie appeared, circling slowly.
"That is the prettiest of all," said Katherine, as she surveyed the
exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. "What do you call it?"
"_Soupir d'automne_; yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle."
What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint
feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment?
"'_Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle._'"
Autumn, yes, it was autumn for her. She who had never known spring or
summer, and would never know them now. Something she had lost never
could be given to her again. These years of servitude in St. Mary
Mead--and all the while life passing by.
"I am an idiot," said Katherine. "I am an idiot. What do I want? Why, I
was more contented a month ago than I am now."
She drew out from her handbag the letter she had received that morning
from Lady Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood the _nuances_
of that letter as well as anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's
sudden show of affection towards a long-forgotten cousin was not lost
upon her. It was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady Tamplin was
so anxious for the company of her dear cousin. Well, why not? There
would be profit on both sides.
"I will go," said Katherine.
She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's
to clinch the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes.
The man with whom the clerk was engaged was also going to the Riviera.
Every one, she felt, was going. Well, for the first time in her life,
she, too, would be doing what "everybody did."
The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his
place. She made her demand to the clerk, but at the same time half of
her mind was busy with something else. That man's face--in some vague
way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly
she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning.
She had collided with him in the passage. Rather an odd coincidence
that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her
shoulder, rendered uneasy by something, she knew not what. The man was
standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over
Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending....
Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and
turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying.
9. An Offer Refused
It was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed his temper to get the better
of him. An easy-going insouciance was his chief characteristic, and it
had stood him in good stead in more than one tight corner. Even now, by
the time he had left Mirelle's flat, he had cooled down. He had need of
coolness. The corner he was in now was a tighter one than he had ever
been in before, and unforeseen factors had arisen with which, for the
moment, he did not know how to deal.
He strolled along deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and there was
none of the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well upon him. Various
possibilities floated through his mind. It might have been said of
Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool than he looked. He saw
several roads that he might take--one in particular. If he shrank
from it, it was for the moment only. Desperate ills need desperate
remedies. He had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war between
Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin could end only one way. Derek
damned money and the power of money vehemently to himself. He walked
up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed the offices of Messrs.
Thomas Cook & Sons his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however,
still turning the matter over in his mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod
of his head, turned sharply--so sharply as to collide with a couple of
pedestrians who were following in his footsteps, and went back the way
he had come. This time he did not pass Cook's, but went in. The office
was comparatively empty, and he got attended to at once.
"I want to go to Nice next week. Will you give me particulars?"
"What date, sir?"
"The 14th. What is the best train?"
"Well, of course, _the_ best train is what they call the 'Blue Train.'
You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais."
Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better.
"The 14th," murmured the clerk; "that is rather soon. The Blue Train is
nearly always all booked up."
"See if there is a berth left," said Derek. "If there is not--" He left
the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face.
The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned.
"That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one
of them. What name?"
"Pavett," said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.
The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning
politely, and turned his attention to the next client.
"I want to go to Nice--on the 14th. Isn't there a train called the Blue
Train?"
Derek looked round sharply.
Coincidence--a strange coincidence. He remembered his own
half-whimsical words to Mirelle, "_Portrait of a lady with grey eyes.
I don't suppose I shall ever see her again._" But he _had_ seen her
again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the
same day as he did.
Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was
superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might
bring him bad luck. Suppose--suppose that should prove to be true. From
the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk.
For once his memory had not played him false. A lady--a lady in every
sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with
something--grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he
went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He
had a sense of fatality.
He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.
"Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first thing in the morning, and
go around to Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there
booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back."
"Very good, sir."
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and picked up a handful of letters.
They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large
bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was
still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if--if
certain news became public property.
He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned
hole--that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting
out of that damned hole were not too promising.
Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
"A gentleman to see you--sir--Major Knighton."
"Knighton, eh?"
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone,
almost to himself: "Knighton--I wonder what is in the wind now?"
"Shall I--er--show him in, sir?"
His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming
and genial host awaiting him.
"Very good of you to look me up," said Derek.
Knighton was nervous.
The other's keen eyes noticed that at once. The errand on which the
secretary had come was clearly distasteful to him. He replied almost
mechanically to Derek's easy flow of conversation. He declined a drink,
and, if anything, his manner became stiffer than before. Derek appeared
at last to notice it.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "what does my esteemed father-in-law want
with me? You have come on his business, I take it?"
Knighton did not smile in reply.
"I have, yes," he said carefully. "I--I wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen
some one else."
Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.
"Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin skinned, I can assure
you, Knighton."
"No," said Knighton; "but this--"
He paused.
Derek eyed him keenly.
"Go on, out with it," he said kindly. "I can imagine my dear
father-in-law's errands might not always be pleasant ones."
Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally in tones that he strove
to render free of embarrassment.
"I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make you a definite offer."
"An offer?" For a moment Derek showed his surprise. Knighton's opening
words were clearly not what he had expected. He offered a cigarette to
Knighton, lit one himself, and sank back in his chair, murmuring in a
slightly sardonic voice:
"An offer? That sounds rather interesting."
"Shall I go on?"
"Please. You must forgive my surprise, but it seems to me that my dear
father-in-law has rather climbed down since our chat this morning. And
climbing down is not what one associates with strong men, Napoleons of
finance, etc. It shows--I think it shows that he finds his position
weaker than he thought it."
Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of
any kind showed itself on his rather stolid countenance. He waited