The Yellow Crayon
“I shall be glad to take any commission from you, sir,” he said. “To
tell you the truth, I scarcely thought that you would be content to sit
down and wait.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“I think,” he said, “that very shortly I can find you plenty to do.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
Mr. Sabin a few minutes afterwards ordered his carriage, and was driven
to Dorset House. He asked for Lucille, but was shown at once into the
library, where the Duke was awaiting him. Then Mr. Sabin knew that
something had happened.
The Duke extended his hand solemnly.
“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “I am glad to see you. I was in fact on
the point of despatching a messenger to your hotel.”
“I am glad,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “that my visit is opportune. To tell
you the truth, Duke, I am anxious to see my wife.”
The Duke coughed.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will not for a moment consider me guilty
of any discourtesy to the Countess, for whom I have a great respect and
liking. But it has come to my knowledge that the shelter of my roof and
name were being given to proceedings of which I heartily disapproved.
I therefore only a few hours ago formally broke off all connection
with Saxe Leinitzer and his friends, and to put the matter plainly, I
expelled them from the house.”
“I congratulate you heartily, Duke, upon a most sensible proceeding,”
Mr. Sabin said. “But in the meantime where is my wife?”
“Your wife was not present at the time,” the Duke answered, “and I had
not the slightest intention of including her in the remarks I made.
Whether she understood this or not I cannot say, but I have since been
given to understand that she left with them.”
“How long ago?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Several hours, I fear,” the Duke answered. “I should like, Souspennier,
to express to you my regrets that I was ever induced to become connected
in any way with proceedings which must have caused you a great deal of
pain. I beg you to accept my apologies.”
“I do not blame you, Duke,” Mr. Sabin said. “My one desire now is to
wrest my wife away from this gang. Can you tell me whether she left
alone or with any of them?”
“I will endeavour to ascertain,” the Duke said, ringing the bell.
But before the Duke’s somewhat long-winded series of questions had gone
very far Mr. Sabin grasped the fact that the servants had been tampered
with. Without wasting any more time he took a somewhat hurried leave
and drove back to the hotel. One of the hall porters approached him,
smiling.
“There is a lady waiting for you in your rooms, sir,” he announced. “She
arrived a few minutes ago.”
Mr. Sabin rang for the elevator, got out at his floor and walked down
the corridor, leaning a little more heavily than usual upon his stick.
If indeed it were Lucille who had braved all and come to him the way
before them might still be smooth sailing. He would never let her go
again. He was sure of that. They would leave England--yes, there was
time still to catch the five o’clock train. He turned the handle of
his door and entered. A familiar figure rose from the depths of his
easy-chair. Her hat lay on the table, her jacket was open, one of his
cigarettes was between her lips. But it was not Lucille.
“Lady Carey!” he said slowly. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Have you
brought Lucille with you?”
“I am afraid,” she answered, “that I have no ropes strong enough.”
“You insinuate,” he remarked, “that Lucille would be unwilling to come.”
“There is no longer any need,” she declared, with a hard little laugh,
“for insinuations. We have all been turned out from Dorset House
neck and crop. Lucille has accepted the inevitable. She has gone to
Reginald’s Brott’s rooms.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“Indeed. I have just come from Dorset House myself. The Duke has
supplied me with a highly entertaining account of his sudden awakening.
The situation must have been humorous.”
Her eyes twinkled.
“It was really screamingly funny. The Duke had on his house of Lords
manner, and we all sat round like a lot of naughty children. If only you
had been there.”
Mr. Sabin smiled. Suddenly she laid her hand upon his arm.
“Victor,” she said, “I have come to prove that I am your friend. You do
not believe that Lucille is with Reginald Brott. It is true! Not only
that, but she is leaving England with him to-night. The man’s devotion
is irresistible--he has been gaining on her slowly but surely all the
time.”
“I have noticed,” Mr. Sabin remarked calmly, “that he has been
wonderfully assiduous. I am sure I congratulate him upon his success, if
he has succeeded.”
“You doubt my word of course,” she said. “But I have not come here to
tell you things. I have come to prove them. I presume that what you see
with your own eyes will be sufficient.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“Certainly not,” he answered. “I make it a rule to believe nothing that
I see, and never to trust my ears.”
She stamped her foot lightly upon the floor.
“How impossible you are,” she exclaimed. “I can tell you by what train
Lucille and Reginald Brott will leave London to-night. I can tell you
why Lucille is bound to go.”
“Now,” Mr. Sabin said, “you are beginning to get interesting.”
“Lucille must go--or run the risk of arrest for complicity in the murder
of Duson.”
“Are you serious?” Mr. Sabin asked, with admirably assumed gravity.
“Is it a jesting matter?” she answered fiercely. “Lucille bought poison,
the same poison which it will be proved that Duson died of. She came
here, she was the last person to enter your room before Duson was found
dead. The police are even now searching for her. Escape is her only
chance.”
“Dear me,” Mr. Sabin said. “Then it is not only for Brott’s sake that
she is running away.”
“What does that matter? She is going, and she is going with him.”
“And why,” he asked, “do you come to give me warning? I have plenty of
time to interpose.”
“You can try if you will. Lucille is in hiding. She will not see you if
you go to her. She is determined. Indeed, she has no choice. Lucille is
a brave woman in many ways, but you know that she fears death. She is in
a corner. She is forced to go.”
“Again,” he said, “I feel that I must ask you why do you give me
warning?”
She came and stood close to him.
“Perhaps,” she said earnestly, “I am anxious to earn your gratitude.
Perhaps, too, I know that no interposition of yours would be of any
avail.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“Still,” he said, “I do not think that it is wise of you. I might appear
at the station and forcibly prevent Lucille’s departure. After all, she
is my wife, you know.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I am not afraid,” she said. “You will make inquiries when I have gone,
and you will find out that I have spoken the truth. If you keep Lucille
in England you will expose her to a terrible risk. It is not like you to
be selfish. You will yield to necessity.”
“Will you tell me where Lucille is now?” he asked.
“For your own sake and hers, no,” she answered. “You also are watched.
Besides, it is too late. She was with Brott half an hour after the Duke
turned us out of Dorset House. Don’t you understand, Victor--won’t you?
It is too late.”
He sat down heavily in his easy-chair. His whole appearance was one of
absolute dejection.
“So I am to be left alone in my old age,” he murmured. “You have your
revenge now at last. You have come to take it.”
She sank on her knees by the side of his chair, and her arms fell upon
his shoulders.
“How can you think so cruelly of me, Victor,” she murmured. “You were
always a little mistaken in Lucille. She loved you, it is true, but all
her life she has been fond of change and excitement. She came to Europe
willingly--long before this Brott would have been her slave save for
your reappearance. Can’t you forget her--for a little while?”
Mr. Sabin sat quite still. Her hair brushed his cheeks, her arms were
about his neck, her whole attitude was an invitation for his embrace.
But he sat like a figure of stone, neither repulsing nor encouraging
her.
“You need not be alone unless you like,” she whispered.
“I am an old man,” he said slowly, “and this is a hard blow for me to
bear. I must be sure, absolutely sure that she has gone.”
“By this time to-morrow,” she murmured, “all the world will know it.”
“Come to me then,” he said. “I shall need consolation.”
Her eyes were bright with triumph. She leaned over him and kissed him on
the lips. Then she sprang lightly to her feet.
“Wait here for me,” she said, “and I will come to you. You shall know,
Victor, that Lucille is not the only woman in the world who has cared
for you.”
There was a tap at the door. Lady Carey was busy adjusting her hat.
Passmore entered, and stood hesitating upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin had
risen to his feet. He took one of her hands and raised it to his lips.
She gave him a swift, wonderful look and passed out.
Mr. Sabin’s manner changed as though by magic. He was at once alert and
vigorous.
“My dear Passmore,” he said, “come to the table. We shall want those
Continental time-tables and the London A.B.C. You will have to take a
journey to-night.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The two women were alone in the morning-room of Lady Carey’s house in
Pont Street. Lucille was walking restlessly up and down twisting her
handkerchief between her fingers. Lady Carey was watching her, more
composed, to all outward appearance, but with closely compressed lips,
and boding gleam in her eyes.
“I think,” Lady Carey said, “that you had better see him.”
Lucille turned almost fiercely upon her.
“And why?”
“Well, for one thing he will not understand your refusal. He may be
suspicious.”
“What does it matter? I have finished with him. I have done all that I
pledged myself to. What more can be expected of me? I do not wish to see
him again.”
Lady Carey laughed.
“At least,” she said, “I think that the poor man has a right to
receive his congé from you. You cannot break with him without a word of
explanation. Perhaps--you may not find it so easy as it seems.”
Lucille swept around.
“What do you mean?”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“You are in a curious mood, my dear Lucille. What I mean is obvious
enough. Brott is a strong man and a determined man. I do not think that
he will enjoy being made a fool of.”
Lucille was indifferent.
“At any rate,” she said, “I shall not see him. I have quite made up my
mind about that.”
“And why not, Countess?” a deep voice asked from the threshold. “What
have I done? May I not at least know my fault?”
Lady Carey rose and moved towards the door.
“You shall have it out between yourselves,” she declared, looking up,
and nodding at Brott as she passed. “Don’t fight!”
“Muriel!”
The cry was imperative, but Lady Carey had gone. Mr. Brott closed the
door behind him and confronted Lucille. A brilliant spot of colour
flared in her pale cheeks.
“But this is a trap!” she exclaimed. “Who sent for you? Why did you
come?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Lucille!”
His eyes were full of passionate remonstrance. She looked nervously from
him towards the door. He intercepted her glance.
“What have I done?” he asked fiercely. “What have I failed to do? Why
do you look as though I had forced myself upon you? Haven’t I the right?
Don’t you wish to see me?”
In Brott’s face and tone was all the passionate strenuousness of a great
crisis. Lucille felt suddenly helpless before the directness of his
gaze, his storm of questions. In all their former intercourse it had
been she who by virtue of her sex and his blind love for her had kept
the upper hand. And now the position was changed. All sorts of feeble
explanations, of appeals to him, occurred to her dimly, only to
be rejected by reason of their ridiculous inadequacy. She was