The Yellow Crayon
“Cannot I atone?” she murmured under her breath. “If I can I will.
And as for the present, well, I am outside his schemes now. Let us be
friends. You would find me a very valuable ally.”
“Let it be so,” he answered without emotion. “You shall help me, if you
will, to regain Lucille. I promise you then that my gratitude shall not
disappoint you.”
She bit her lip.
“And are you sure,” she whispered, “that Lucille is anxious to be won
back? She loves intrigue, excitement, the sense of being concerned
in important doings. Besides--you must have heard what they say about
her--and Brott. Look at her now. She wears her grass widowhood lightly
enough.”
Mr. Sabin looked across the table. Lucille had indeed all the appearance
of a woman thoroughly at peace with the world and herself. Brott was
talking to her in smothered and eager undertones. The Prince was waiting
for an opportunity to intervene. Mr. Sabin looked into Brott’s white
strong face, and was thoughtful.
“It is a great power--the power of my sex,” Lady Carey continued, with
a faint, subtle smile. “A word from Lucille, and the history book of the
future must be differently written.”
“She will not speak that word,” Mr. Sabin said. Lady Carey shrugged
her shoulders. The subtlety of her smile faded away. Her whole face
expressed a contemptuous and self-assured cynicism.
“You know her very well,” she murmured. “Yet she and I are no strangers.
She is one who loves to taste--no, to drink--deeply of all the
experiences of life. Why should we blame her, you and I? Have we not the
same desire?”
Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette.
“Once, perhaps,” he remarked. “You must not forget that I am no longer a
young man.”
She leaned towards him.
“You will die young,” she murmured. “You are not of the breed of men who
grow old.”
“Do you mean to turn my head?” he asked her, with a humorous smile.
“It would be easier,” she answered, “than to touch your heart.”
Then Lucille looked across at them--and Mr. Sabin suddenly remembered
that Reginald Brott knew them both only as strangers.
“Muriel,” she said, “you are behaving disgracefully.”
“I am doing my best,” Lady Carey answered, “to keep you in countenance.”
The eyes of the two women met for a moment, and though the smiles
lingered still upon their faces Lady Carey at any rate was not able to
wholly conceal her hatred. Lucille shrugged her shoulders.
“I am doing my best,” she said, “to convert Mr. Brott.”
“To what?” Lady Carey asked.
“To a sane point of view concerning the holiness of the aristocracy,”
Lucille answered. “I am afraid though that I have made very little
impression. In his heart I believe Mr. Brott would like to see us all
working for our living, school-teachers and dressmakers, and that sort
of thing, you know.”
Mr. Brott protested.
“I am not even,” he declared, “moderately advanced in my views as
regards matters of your sex. To tell you the truth, I do not like women
to work at all outside their homes.”
Lady Carey laughed.
“My dear,” she said to Lucille, “you and I may as well retire in
despair. Can’t you see the sort of woman Mr. Brott admires? She isn’t
like us a bit. She is probably a healthy, ruddy-cheeked young person who
lives in the country, gets up to breakfast to pour out the coffee for
some sort of a male relative, goes round the garden snipping off roses
in big gloves and a huge basket, interviews the cook, orders the dinner,
makes fancy waistcoats for her husband, and failing a sewing maid, does
the mending for the family. You and I, Lucille, are not like that.”
“Well, you have mentioned nothing which I couldn’t do, if it seemed
worth while,” Lucille objected. “It sounds very primitive and
delightful. I am sure we are all too luxurious and too lazy. I think we
ought to turn over a new leaf.”
“For you, dear Lucille,” Lady Carey said with suave and deadly satire,
“what improvement is possible? You have all that you could desire. It
is much less fortunate persons, such as myself, to whom Utopia must seem
such a delightful place.”
A frock-coated and altogether immaculate young man approached their
table and accosted Mr. Sabin.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but the manager would be much
obliged if you would spare him a moment or two in his private room as
soon as possible.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“In a few minutes,” he answered.
The little party broke up almost immediately. Coffee was ordered in the
palm court, where the band was playing. Mr. Sabin and the Prince fell a
little behind the others on the way out of the room.
“You heard my summons?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Yes!”
“I am going to be cross-examined as regards Duson. I am no longer a
member of the Order. What is to prevent my setting them upon the right
track?”
“The fact,” the Prince said coolly, “that you are hoping one day to
recover Lucille.”
“I doubt,” Mr. Sabin said, “whether you are strong enough to keep her
from me.”
The Prince smiled. All his white teeth were showing.
“Come,” he said, “you know better than--much better than that. Lucille
must wait her release. You know that.”
“I will buy it,” Mr. Sabin said, “with a lie to the manager here, or I
will tell the truth and still take her from you.”
The Prince stood upon the topmost step of the balcony. Below was the
palm court, with many little groups of people dotted about.
“My dear friend,” he said, “Duson died absolutely of his own free will.
You know that quite well. We should have preferred that the matter had
been otherwise arranged. But as it is we are safe, absolutely safe.”
“Duson’s letter!” Mr. Sabin remarked.
“You will not show it,” the Prince answered. “You cannot. You have kept
it too long. And, after all, you cannot escape from the main fact. Duson
committed suicide.”
“He was incited to murder. His letter proves it.”
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
“By whom? Ah, how your story would excite ridicule. I seem to hear the
laughter now. No, my dear Souspennier, you would bargain for me with
Lucille. Look below. Are we likely to part with her just yet?”
In a corner, behind a gigantic palm, Lucille and Brott were talking
together. Lady Carey had drawn Opperman a little distance away. Brott
was talking eagerly, his cheeks flushed, his manner earnest. Mr. Sabin
turned upon his heel and walked away.
CHAPTER XXXII
Mr. Sabin, although he had registered at the hotel under his accustomed
pseudonym, had taken no pains to conceal his identity, and was well
known to the people in authority about the place. He was received with
all the respect due to his rank.
“Your Grace will, I trust, accept my most sincere apologies for
disturbing you,” Mr. Hertz, the manager, said, rising and bowing at his
entrance. “We have here, however, an emissary connected with the police
come to inquire into the sad incident of this afternoon. He expressed a
wish to ask your Grace a question or two with a view to rendering your
Grace’s attendance at the inquest unnecessary.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“I am perfectly willing,” he said, “to answer any questions you may
choose to put to me.”
A plain, hard-featured little man, in a long black overcoat, and holding
a bowler hat in his hand, bowed respectfully to Mr. Sabin.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “My name is John Passmore.
We do not of course appear in this matter unless the post-mortem should
indicate anything unusual in the circumstances of Duson’s death, but it
is always well to be prepared, and I ventured to ask Mr. Hertz here to
procure for me your opinion as regards the death of your servant.”
“You have asked me,” Mr. Sabin said gravely, “a very difficult
question.”
The eyes of the little detective flashed keenly.
“You do not believe then, sir, that he died a natural death?”
“I do not,” Mr. Sabin answered.
Mr. Hertz was startled. The detective controlled his features admirably.
“May I ask your reasons, sir?”
Mr. Sabin lightly shrugged his shoulders.
“I have never known the man to have a day’s illness in his life,” he
said. “Further, since his arrival in England he has been acting in a
strange and furtive manner, and I gathered that he had some cause for
fear which he was indisposed to talk about.”
“This,” the detective said, “is very interesting.”
“Doubtless,” Mr. Sabin answered. “But before I say anything more I
must clearly understand my position. I am giving you personally a few
friendly hints, in the interests of justice perhaps, but still quite
informally. I am not in possession of any definite facts concerning
Duson, and what I say to you here I am not prepared to say at the
inquest, before which I presume I may have to appear as a witness.
There, I shall do nothing more save identify Duson and state the
circumstances under which I found him.”
“I understand that perfectly, sir,” the man answered. “The less said at
the inquest the better in the interests of justice.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“I am glad,” he said, “that you appreciate that. I do not mind going so
far then as to tell you that I believe Duson died of poison.”
“Can you give me any idea,” the detective asked, “as to the source?”
“None,” Mr. Sabin answered. “That you must discover for yourselves.
Duson was a man of silent and secretive habits, and it has occurred to
me more than once that he might possibly be a member of one of those
foreign societies who have their headquarters in Soho, and concerning
which you probably know more than I do.”
The detective smiled. It was a very slight flicker of the lips, but it
attracted Mr. Sabin’s keen attention.
“Your suggestions,” the detective said, “are making this case a very
interesting one. I have always understood, however, that reprisals of
this extreme nature are seldom resorted to in this country. Besides,
the man’s position seems scarcely to indicate sufficient
importance--perhaps--”
“Well?” Mr. Sabin interjected.
“I notice that Duson was found in your sitting-room. It occurs to me
as a possibility that he may have met with a fate intended for some one
else--for yourself, for instance, sir!”
“But I,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “am a member of no secret society,
nor am I conscious of having enemies sufficiently venomous to desire my
life.”
The detective sat for a moment with immovable face.
“We, all of us, know our friends, sir,” he said. “There are few of us
properly acquainted with our enemies.”
Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette. His fingers were quite steady, but this man
was making him think.
“You do not seriously believe,” he asked, “that Duson met with a death
which was intended for me?”
“I am afraid,” the detective said thoughtfully, “that I know no more
about it than you do.”
“I see,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I am no stranger to you.”
“You are very far from being that, sir,” the man answered. “A few years
ago I was working for the Government--and you were not often out of my
sight.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“It was perhaps judicious,” he remarked, “though I am afraid it proved
of very little profit to you. And what about the present time?”
“I see no harm in telling you, sir, that a general watch is kept upon
your movements. Duson was useful to us... but now Duson is dead.”
“It is a fact,” Mr. Sabin said impressively, “that Duson was a genius.
My admiration for him continually increases.”
“Duson made harmless reports to us as we desired them,” the detective
said. “I have an idea, however, that if this course had at any time been
inimical to your interests that Duson would have deceived us.”
“I am convinced of it,” Mr. Sabin declared.
“And Duson is dead!”
Mr. Sabin nodded gravely.
The little hard-visaged man looked steadily for a moment upon the
carpet.
“Duson died virtually whilst accepting pay from if not actually in the