The Yellow Crayon
argument hopeless.
“I shall have no more to say to you, Lucille, on this subject,” she
said. “You are impossible. In a few days you will be forced to come
round to my point of view. I will wait till then. And in the meantime,
if you think I am going to tramp up and down those sloppy decks and gaze
at the sea you are very much mistaken. I am going to lie down like a
civilized being, and try and get a nap. You had better do the same.”
Lucille laughed.
“For my part,” she said, “I find any part of the steamer except the deck
intolerable. I am going now in search of some fresh air. Shall I send
your woman along?”
Lady Carey nodded, for just then the steamer gave a violent lurch, and
she was not feeling talkative. Lucille went outside and walked up and
down until the lights of Calais were in sight. All the time she felt
conscious of the observation of a small man clad in a huge mackintosh,
whose peaked cap completely obscured his features. As they were entering
the harbour she purposely stood by his side. He held on to the rail with
one hand and turned towards her.
“It has been quite a rough passage, has it not?” he remarked.
She nodded.
“I have crossed,” she said, “when it has been much worse. I do not mind
so long as one may come on deck.”
“Your friend,” he remarked, “is perhaps not so good a sailor?”
“I believe,” Lucille said, “that she suffers a great deal. I just looked
in at her, and she was certainly uncomfortable.”
The little man gripped the rail and held on to his cap with the other
hand.
“You are going to Paris?” he asked.
Lucille nodded.
“Yes.”
They were in smoother water now. He was able to relax his grip of the
rail. He turned towards Lucille, and she saw him for the first time
distinctly--a thin, wizened-up little man, with shrewd kindly eyes, and
a long deeply cut mouth.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will not think me impertinent, but it
occurred to me that you have noticed some apparent interest of mine in
your movements since you arrived on the boat.”
Lucille nodded.
“It is true,” she answered. “That is why I came and stood by your side.
What do you want with me?”
“Nothing, madam,” he answered. “I am here altogether in your interests.
If you should want help I shall be somewhere near you for the next few
hours. Do not hesitate to appeal to me. My mission here is to be your
protector should you need one.”
Lucille’s eyes grew bright, and her heart beat quickly.
“Tell me,” she said, “who sent you?”
He smiled.
“I think that you know,” he answered. “One who I can assure you will
never allow you to suffer any harm. I have exceeded my instructions in
speaking to you, but I fancied that you were looking worried. You need
not. I can assure you that you need have no cause.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I knew,” she said, “that those telegrams were forgeries.”
He looked carefully around.
“I know nothing about any telegrams,” he said, “but I am here to see
that no harm comes to you, and I promise you that it shall not. Your
friend is looking out of the cabin door. I think we may congratulate
ourselves, madam, on an excellent passage.”
Lady Carey disembarked, a complete wreck, leaning on the arm of her
maid, and with a bottle of smelling salts clutched in her hand. She
slept all the way in the train, and only woke up when they were nearing
Paris. She looked at Lucille in astonishment.
“Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she exclaimed.
“You look disgustingly fit and well.”
Lucille laughed softly.
“Why not? I have had a nap, and we are almost at Paris. I only want a
bath and a change of clothes to feel perfectly fresh.”
But Lady Carey was suspicious.
“Have you seen any one you know upon the train?” she asked.
Lucille shook her head.
“Not a soul. A little man whom I spoke to on the steamer brought me some
coffee. That is all.”
Lady Carey yawned and shook out her skirts. “I suppose I’m getting old,”
she said. “I couldn’t look as you do with as much on my mind as you must
have, and after traveling all night too.”
Lucille laughed.
“After all,” she said, “you know that I am a professional optimist, and
I have faith in my luck. I have been thinking matters over calmly, and,
to tell you the truth, I am not in the least alarmed.”
Lady Carey looked at her curiously.
“Has the optimism been imbibed,” she asked, “or is it spontaneous?”
Lucille smiled.
“Unless the little man in the plaid mackintosh poured it into the coffee
with the milk,” she said, “I could not possibly have imbibed it, for I
haven’t spoken to another soul since we left.”
“Paris! Here we are, thank goodness. Celeste can see the things through
the customs. She is quite used to it. We are going to the Ritz, I
suppose!”
CHAPTER XLI
At eight o’clock in the evening Lucille knocked at the door of Lady
Carey’s suite of rooms at the hotel. There was no answer. A chambermaid
who was near came smiling up.
“Miladi has, I think, descended for dinner,” she said.
Lucille looked at her watch. She saw that she was a few minutes late, so
she descended to the restaurant. The small table which they had reserved
was, however, still unoccupied. Lucille told the waiter that she would
wait for a few moments, and sent for an English newspaper.
Lady Carey did not appear. A quarter of an hour passed. The head waiter
came up with a benign smile.
“Madam will please to be served?” he suggested, with a bow.
“I am waiting for my friend Lady Carey,” Lucille answered. “I understood
that she had come down. Perhaps you will send and see if she is in the
reading-room.”
“With much pleasure, madam,” the man answered.
In a few minutes he returned.
“Madam’s friend was the Lady Carey?” he asked.
Lucille nodded.
The man was gently troubled.
“But, Miladi Carey,” he said, “has left more than an hour ago.”
Lucille looked up, astonished.
“Left the hotel?” she exclaimed.
“But yes, madam,” he exclaimed. “Miladi Carey left to catch the boat
train at Calais for England.”
“It is impossible,” Lucille answered. “We only arrived at midday.”
“I will inquire again,” the man declared. “But it was in the office that
they told me so.”
“They told you quite correctly,” said a familiar voice. “I have come
to take her place. Countess, I trust that in me you will recognise an
efficient substitute.”
It was the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer who was calmly seating himself
opposite to her. The waiter, with the discretion of his class, withdrew
for a few paces and stood awaiting orders. Lucille looked across at him
in amazement.
“You here?” she exclaimed, “and Muriel gone? What does this mean?”
The Prince leaned forward.
“It means,” he said, “that after you left I was in torment. I felt that
you had no one with you who could be of assistance supposing the worst
happened. Muriel is all very well, but she is a woman, and she has no
diplomacy, no resource. I felt, Lucille, that I should not be happy
unless I myself saw you into safety.”
“So you followed us here,” Lucille remarked quietly.
“Exactly! You do not blame me. It was for your sake--as well as my own.”
“And Muriel--why has she left me without farewell--without warning of
any sort?”
The Prince smiled and stroked his fair moustache.
“Well,” he said, “it is rather an awkward thing for me to explain, but
to tell you the truth, Muriel was a little--more than a little--annoyed
at my coming. She has no right to be, but--well, you know, she is what
you call a monopolist. She and I have been friends for many years.”
“I understand perfectly what you have wished to convey,” Lucille said.
“But what I do not understand are the exact reasons which brought you
here.”
The Prince took up the carte de jour.
“As we dine,” he said, “I will tell you. You will permit me to order?”
Lucille rose to her feet.
“For yourself, certainly,” she answered. “As for me, I have accepted no
invitation to dine with you, nor do I propose to do so.”
The Prince frowned.
“Be reasonable, Lucille,” he pleaded. “I must talk with you. There
are important plans to be made. I have a great deal to say to you. Sit
down.”
Lucille looked across at him with a curious smile upon her lips.
“You have a good deal to say to me?” she remarked. “Yes, I will believe
that. But of the truth how much, I wonder?”
“By and bye,” he said, “you will judge me differently. For hors
d’oeuvres what do you say to oeufs de pluvier? Then--”
“Pardon me,” she interrupted, “I am not interested in your dinner!”
“In our dinner,” he ventured gently.
“I am not dining with you,” she declared firmly. “If you insist upon
remaining here I shall have something served in my room. You know quite
well that we are certain to be recognised. One would imagine that this
was a deliberate attempt on your part to compromise me.”
“Lucille,” he said, “do not be foolish! Why do you persist in treating
me as though I were your persecutor?”
“Because you are,” she said coolly.
“It is ridiculous,” he declared. “You are in the most serious danger,
and I have come only to save you. I can do it, and I will. But
listen--not unless you change your demeanour towards me.”
She laughed scornfully. She had risen to her feet now, and he was
perforce compelled to follow her example.
“Is that a challenge?” she asked.
“You may take it as such if you will,” he answered, with a note of
sullenness in his tone. “You know very well that I have but to lift my
finger and the gendarmes will be here. Yes, we will call it a challenge.
All my life I have wanted you. Now I think that my time has come. Even
Souspennier has deserted you. You are alone, and let me tell you that
danger is closer at your heels than you know of. I can save you, and I
will. But I have a price, and it must be paid.”
“If I refuse?” she asked.
“I send for the chief of the police.”
She looked him up and down, a measured, merciless survey. He was a tall,
big man, but he seemed to shrink into insignificance.
“You are a coward and a bully,” she said slowly. “You know quite well
that I am innocent of any knowledge even concerning Duson’s death. But
I would sooner meet my fate, whatever it might be, than suffer even the
touch of your fingers upon my hand. Your presence is hateful to me. Send
for your chief of the police. String your lies together as you will. I
am satisfied.”
She left him and swept from the room, a spot of colour burning in her
cheeks, her eyes lit with fire. The pride of her race had asserted
itself. She felt no longer any fear. She only desired to sever herself
at once and completely from all association with this man. In the hall
she sent for her maid.
“Fetch my cloak and jewel case, Celeste,” she ordered. “I am going
across to the Bristol. You can return for the other luggage.”
“But, madam--”
“Do as I say at once,” Lucille ordered.
The girl hesitated and then obeyed. Lucille found herself suddenly
addressed in a quiet tone by a man who had been sitting in an
easy-chair, half hidden by a palm tree.
“Will you favour me, madam, with a moment’s conversation?”
Lucille turned round. She recognised at once the man with whom she had
conversed upon the steamer. In the quietest form of evening dress, there
was something noticeable in the man’s very insignificance. He seemed a
little out of his element. Lucille had a sudden inspiration, The man was
a detective.
“What do you wish to say?” she asked, half doubtfully.
“I overheard,” he remarked, “your order to your maid. She had something
to say to you, but you gave her no opportunity.”
“And you?” she asked, “what do you wish to say?”
“I wish to advise you,” he said, “not to leave the hotel.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“You cannot understand,” she said, “why I wish to leave it. I have no