[NOTE] (continued 3)

Things like nightmares! Here at last was a reference to the delusions both Jeanne and the doctor had mentioned. It was the first time Germaine had spoken of them, but the repressed terror in her manner showed the acuteness of her mental suffering.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Germaine,” declared Catherine stoutly. “But I’m sure it is all due to disordered nerves. Remember the shock you have had.”

“You mean my accident?” The thin hands quivered spasmodically. “Ah, if I could only believe it was due to that! But no—what I speak of began much later. Oh, a great deal later! That is what terrifies me so.”

Catherine caught the fluttering hands in hers with a firm pressure.

“Nonsense, dear! Everything is all right. But since you are so worried, why not let us call in another doctor? Someone who specializes in nervous cases. Mightn’t it be a good idea?”

At once she realized her mistake. With a violent movement the invalid recoiled from her, hiding her face in the pillows.

“Ah, not that, not that!” she whispered in an agonized appeal. “Ah, Catherine, if you love me, never call in a specialist! I implore you!”

There was nothing to do but soothe and coax her back into a quiet state. At last she lay back with closed eyes, seeing which Catherine gave up the attempt to make conversation and let her rest, thankful that the panic of the moment was over.

The fading light was all but gone. Catherine sat on, busy with her thoughts, believing that her cousin had fallen into a doze, although in the shadow of the bed-curtains it was difficult to tell. There was no sound save the faint ticking of the little tortoiseshell clock on the dressing-table, and the occasional honk of a motor-horn from the avenue.

Presently one of the draperies close to her side stirred slightly. She glanced at it, thinking the movement came from a breeze through the window, but no, the other curtains hung limp and still. The vibration continued, then a tiny, pricking noise reached her ears. What could it be? She sat motionless, holding her breath and watching fixedly descried a small, dark form creeping stealthily up the white fringe of the material from the floor. Surely she herself must be imagining things!

She stared harder. Good Heavens, it was a mouse!

Up, up it moved in jerks, its jewelled eyes glistening, its long tail slipping behind like a line of dark thread. It must have ventured forth in search of a meal, attracted by the cake-crumbs. But how bold, when there were people about! The thought came to the girl that it was treading familiar ground.

Fascinated, she stayed her impulse to shake it off, lest the sudden movement might alarm the sleeping woman. Now it had reached the surface of the bed, and with twinkling feet, halting and cocking its ears to listen, it proceeded confidently across the supine figure. Still Catherine did nothing. Into her mind had come the scrap of unintelligible conversation she had caught that first morning between the doctor and Jeanne. She heard again the deep voice saying. “Vous êtes sûre qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?”

Was Germaine asleep? Noiselessly bending forward, she stole a glance at the shadowed face. To her amazement she saw that the eyes were wide open, glued with horror and loathing to the darting form, while upon the forehead great drops of sweat stood out.

Catherine sprang to her feet, jostling the tea-table. The mouse vanished like a streak of light.

“Why, Germaine! Did you see? A mouse was actually running over your bed! Don’t be frightened, it’s gone now.”

She ran to the wall-button and switched on the lights.

“What an impudent creature!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Were you afraid?”

Then to her utter dismay she saw the poor invalid sitting bolt upright, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clasped.

“Catherine! Catherine! You saw it, too? It was real? Oh, my God, my God! And I thought it was my fancy!”

As long as she lived Catherine never forgot the anguished relief of the outcry, wrung from the Frenchwoman’s very soul.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next moment she was on her knees beside the bed, her arms round the trembling figure.

“But of course it was real!” she declared vigorously. “I tell you I watched it climb up the hangings and didn’t dare to speak for fear of waking you. There, it’s quite gone. We’ll set a trap and catch it. I promise you won’t see it again!”

The unnerved woman clung to her, weeping hysterically.

“It always comes—again and again. I have told her, but she can’t, she won’t believe me. At last I’ve become afraid to say anything, because—because it is so plain what she thinks!”

Understanding flooded the dark places of Catherine’s mind. This, then, was one of Germaine’s delusions—mice running unchecked about her bed, while her poor bewildered brain strove to deny the evidence of her senses! What incredible negligence did it reveal, what wilful refusal to face facts? Or was there some much worse explanation?

For a second it seemed as though a curtain had been lifted, giving a glimpse of a monstrous scheme to cast doubt upon the invalid’s sanity. Here was a single instance of it; there might be others. What if an organized attempt was going on to overthrow the insecure balance of this poor woman’s reason?

Instantly common sense pulled her round. The idea was too utterly fantastic. Carelessness, yes, and inconceivable stupidity, but surely nothing more grave.

Still, the known facts were bad enough, and must be dealt with at once. While she fetched smelling-salts and eau-de-Cologne, chattering lightly and treating the whole affair as a joke, her mind was busy planning a surprise-attack on the offender now due to return. High time someone took matters in hand, but at the thought of facing Jeanne she inwardly trembled.

Presently she contrived without being noticed to lift the bed-valance and peer at the floor beneath. What met her eye filled her with righteous anger. Now she was no longer afraid.

Ten minutes later a hurried step approached, and the familiar figure stood in the door.

“Madame is comfortable? She has not required anything?”

The invalid summoned a tremulous smile.

“No, no, Jeanne! I have not needed you,” she hastened to declare.

The maid’s nostrils dilated, sniffing the eau-de-Cologne. Then she went back into the dressing-room to remove her wraps. Not heeding the imploring hand stretched out to stop her, Catherine walked straight into the adjoining room and closed the door.

“Jeanne,” she said abruptly, “there are mice in madame’s room. Something must be done about it at once.”

The woman wheeled round in the act of taking off her hat. Her eyes glared with sudden annoyance.

“Mice?” she repeated shortly. “Impossible! Madame has been telling you that story.”

“Not at all,” retorted Catherine. “I myself have just seen a mouse crawling across madame’s bed. There is no doubt about it.”

For several seconds the two regarded each other fixedly. Then with a face hard as iron Jeanne turned deliberately and hung her coat upon a peg. She was silent so long that Catherine began to think she was not going to reply. Once more she started to remove her round, dark hat; then, changing her mind, left it on her head. When at last she spoke it was with great restraint.

“Mademoiselle will pardon me if I find it difficult to believe her. In all the years I have lived in this apartment I have never set eyes on a mouse.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” returned the girl with asperity. “In any case I must insist on your setting a trap in a place which I will show you. Madame is being terrified half out of her senses.”

The woman darted a glance at her full of hatred and scorn. If she was intimidated, she showed no sign of it.

“Jamais!” Catherine heard her mutter under her breath. “Jamais! I cannot think what you mean to insinuate.”

“Simply this, Jeanne. Quite obviously that room in there has not been properly cleaned for weeks, months even. I want you to come now and look under the bed. There has been something sticky there, and the mice have gnawed the carpet bare in patches.”

The sallow face swelled till the eyes were reduced to pinpoints. On the cheek-bones areas of mottled red appeared.

“Come, please, and let me show you what I mean,” said Catherine, holding open the door.

After a brief hesitation, still wearing her hat, the woman obeyed, stooped to examine the spot Catherine indicated, and straightened up, her features set in a mutinous mask.

“I see nothing beyond a few drops of spilled medicine. Madame herself knows whose fault it is that no one but me is allowed to do her room. I slave from morning to night; when I go to bed, I am often too tired to sleep. I am a human being, not a machine! No other person would do for madame what I do; but if my efforts are not appreciated, if I am to be criticized and called to account over trifles, it is time to give up. It is plain that mademoiselle came here for the purpose of setting her cousin against me!”

“Nothing of the sort, Jeanne. I only want you to remove whatever it is that is attracting mice. That is all.”

If Catherine spoke mildly, it was to spare Germaine, whose white face was quivering with agitated distress. Nothing could be gained by contradicting the maid, though what the valance concealed was not spilled medicine, but particles of food. She had even detected the odour of cheese.…

An hour later Catherine sat in the study, trying to think calmly. Difficult as it was to conceive of a well-trained servant leaving scraps of food upon the floor, it was equally incredible that the thing could have been done purposely. What was one to believe? One thing alone was certain. She had completely lost faith in Jeanne, whom she now regarded as a bad, if not dangerous, influence for Germaine. Devoted she might be, but for all that she was undermining the invalid’s confidence in herself, fostering, whether by ignorance or design, the poor creature’s fear of encroaching insanity. As things were, it was worse than hopeless to attempt to nurse the patient back to health.

“Somehow or other she must be got rid of!” she told herself, still shaken by indignation. “Perhaps this business will open the way. A thief; and incompetent into the bargain!”

She could not help feeling a little exultant over the recent scene. After this Jeanne must either mend her ways or go. She hoped it would be the latter.

However, she had much to learn, as the evening was to prove.

Amid the staid magnificence of the salle à manger she ate her solitary meal. Speculatively she looked round at the three fine pictures on the walls, at the tall, gold candelabra which once had adorned a palace. More objects easily convertible into money. Were the servants she now thought of as rogues merely waiting for her visit to be over before laying hands on these treasures? Well, they would wait in vain. It was her fixed intention to foil them at that or any other game they might be playing.

All at once her thoughts veered to the little notaire, A. Blom. What if he were in league with this pair, aiding them in disposing of their plunder? His visit here that night three weeks ago might have been to cast his appraising eye over things and possibly to take something off with him. Jeanne’s secret conferences with the man took on a new meaning. She wondered if there were any way of finding out the truth.

It was usual on the evenings she spent at home for Jeanne to call her when Mme. Bender was ready for bed, so that she could go in to say good night. However, the hour passed and there was no summons. This did not astonish her, for the feeling between Jeanne and herself was naturally strained; but when ten o’clock struck and nothing had happened she put down her book and went toward her cousin’s bedroom. The door was shut, but from the other side came sounds of tempestuous weeping.

She halted, full of consternation, thinking the strangled sobs came from Germaine, but a moment’s listening informed her that it was Jeanne herself who was indulging in the violent outburst. Somehow she had not expected this. A second later words reached her, stormy with protest.

“No, madame, it is useless! All is finished, all, all! I swear to you I am going away, at once; I shall pack to-night and leave quite early in the morning. Nothing can stop me. Eduardo, too, will go. Madame will be left absolutely alone, to face the doctors, the nurses, the strange enemies who will swoop down upon her. I have done my utmost, I; but if madame distrusts me, then my time with her is over. I have my future to think of. I cannot support plotting and scheming behind my back by those who have their own ends to serve!”

Catherine held her breath, appalled by the hurricane of tears and recriminations. Through the outcries she caught a despairing whimper which cut her to the heart.

“Jeanne, dear Jeanne, you must not say such things! Have I ever doubted you? It is cruel to torture me like this!”

The feeble protest was drowned in a renewed burst of weeping.

“Cruel? It is madame who is cruel! She accuses me of neglect, me who have given fifteen years of my life to her service! It is too much! How could I know this one thing was true, when every day madame sees and hears what is not there? Even now I cannot altogether believe. No, I see it plainly. I am no longer wanted, and am to be cast aside like an old shoe. Enough! I go to-morrow, to give place to some persons for whom madame will be only a mental case. But if when I am no longer here it is thought wise to shut madame up in an asylum——”

“Jeanne, you cannot, you must not leave me! Listen to me, I implore you to listen!”

“I will not hear madame! I go to my brother in the Vosges to take the long rest I have been needing this twelve-month. Then madame will realize what I have done for her, how I have protected her. She will know, she will know!”

Unable to bear more, Catherine burst into the room.

“Jeanne—what is the meaning of this?” she demanded in a stern whisper.

Quick as lightning the woman turned upon her, one finger outstretched in venomous accusation. She still wore her hat, while her face was swollen and streaked with tears.

“There!” she cried hoarsely. “Behold one who calls herself your friend! Why is she here if not to profit by madame’s weakness? Does madame flatter herself for one moment that this young American has come across the ocean for love of a bed-ridden woman? Ask her what she hopes to get for her pains! Ask her if she is not waiting for madame to die and leave her a fortune!”

The shameless attack deprived the girl of speech. She could only stare while the stream of abuse flowed on.

“Madame’s friends!” went on the voice with bitter scorn. “Who are they? I know of none but Mademoiselle Cushing and Mademoiselle West—paupers both! Why do they come here, why does the fat singer urge madame to make her will? Madame is indeed insane if she cannot see into the hearts of these creatures. Always this talk of the will, this fear that madame will die and leave these people penniless! Tell me—have I ever hoped that madame would leave me a single sou? Am I taking away with me more than I brought here? No, a thousand times no! Madame is turning away the one being who has tried to stand between her and these grasping——”

“Stop! Look, Jeanne, what you have done!”

The form on the bed had collapsed. Mme. Bender had fainted.

Instantly a miracle happened. Jeanne, her entire bearing transformed, every sign of hysteria vanished, cast a single appraising glance at the dead-white face of her mistress, then going to a little medicine-cupboard took out a bottle and measured a few drops of liquid into a glass.

Catherine watched the brisk, business-like movements with amazement, saw her raise the limp body, murmuring, “Buvez-ceci, madame!” in a tone of complete control.

Parenthetically she noticed that the bottle was labelled “Digitalis.”

In another second Mme. Bender’s eyelids fluttered open and a trembling sigh escaped her lips. With a grunt of satisfaction Jeanne turned to face the spell-bound girl.

“And now, mademoiselle,” she said in an even voice, “perhaps you had better leave madame with me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“But you aren’t actually afraid of anything, are you? You don’t think Mme. Bender is any the worse for what you’ve just told me?”

Geoffrey was trying hard to read Catherine’s thoughts. Was she keeping something back? He fancied she was more deeply troubled than she was willing to admit, but he could not quite get at the cause of her anxiety.

It was late Sunday afternoon; the air was soft with the first full tide of spring, and half the Latin Quarter thronged the pavements, or lingered at little tables in front of the cafés, sipping apéritifs. Everywhere were flower-sellers laden with tulips and daffodils, while on the street corners venders of balloons exhibited their huge soaring bunches of multi-coloured grapes. The whole presented an effect of pageantry and that outpouring of the holiday spirit which Paris knows so perfectly how to achieve.

Catherine and Geoffrey, having quitted the rue d’Assas, had sauntered aimlessly across the space beside the Café des Lilas, ancient haunt of long-haired poets, and turned into the narrow avenue of flowering chestnuts which leads like the neck of a bottle to the Luxembourg Gardens. Now that they were alone, the girl had hastened to pour out the story of the past week, her pent-up feelings finding relief in the recital. Yet that her companion, in spite of his evident sympathy, did not take the situation as seriously as she did, was plain from the question he asked at the end.

She bit her lip, and considered for several seconds before framing a reply.

“I don’t know what to say. On the surface things are going on much as usual. Mme. Bender was prostrated for two days, exactly as long as that woman kept to her word about leaving, but the minute Jeanne gave in and said she would stay my cousin revived again. Now she’s just as she was before.”

“Do you think this maid actually meant to go?”

“Not for a moment! I’m sure it was only a bluff on her part, but it was a most effective one. She’s got her mistress now exactly where she wants her, more than ever under her thumb. Oh, I was blind not to see it before! Hermione was right. It’s terrifying to think that any human being can be so completely dominated by another.”

He let his eyes dwell on the straight parallels of chestnuts stretching ahead before speaking.

“I wonder if there’s any use trying to persuade her to go into a nursing-home? It seems to me she would be better off with expert care.”

“Of course! I have thought so from the beginning. But it is very difficult, as the doctor pointed out to me when I spoke to him. She has got some morbid dread of being put under restraint, and if one overruled her there’s no telling what might happen. That, I begin to see, is at the root of her fear about losing Jeanne, who probably keeps her frightened with tales of French asylums.”

“So she believes Jeanne alone is standing between her and a sanatorium?”

“Exactly. I tell you that creature is fiendishly clever! Whether because of egotism and jealousy or from some other motive, she has made Germaine think no one but herself is capable of a disinterested devotion. Everyone else is an enemy—even I.”

Her cheeks flushed, there were tears in her eyes. He could see how deeply she was hurt.

“That’s absurd!” he exclaimed hotly.

“Absurd or not, it’s true! I can’t bear to speak of it. You see, ever since that afternoon I have noticed a change in Germaine towards me. There’s a barrier between us, she isn’t frank any more, and I know only too well it’s because of those vile accusations Jeanne made against me. She thinks—oh, it’s too shameful!—that I am staying there simply for what I hope to get out of her.”

“Can’t you make her see how false all this is?”

“How can I? If I protest against the insinuations, the fact of doing so amounts practically to an admission. It’s not as though she said anything openly, it’s only a sort of subtle reproach in her manner. No, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Except,” he suggested, “to leave there altogether.”

She turned for a moment in his direction, then shook her head.

“I can’t do that,” she answered firmly. “I’d like to, but I daren’t.”

“Why?” he demanded. “It’s not as though you could help matters by staying. What can you do?”

“Someone must be there,” she replied obstinately, “if only to keep an eye on those servants. She’s so utterly alone! Why, she even refuses now to see Hermione—another result of Jeanne’s work. If I go away, she’ll be completely cut off from the world.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I see your point,” he said. “But, after all, you can’t be with her long. What about your visit to Italy?”

“That’s off. I’ve written to the Hardwickes to say I’m not joining them after all. Too bad, but it can’t be helped.”

He stopped stock-still in astonishment.

“Is there any real need to sacrifice yourself like this?”

“I don’t know. I hope it may do some good! Anyhow I feel I must see things straightened out for Germaine before I go away. Perhaps you think I’m foolish, but I believe you would do the same in my place.”

He said no more. Secretly he was exulting over the knowledge that he was not going to lose her in a few weeks’ time. The future suddenly held out rosy hopes.

In silence they passed through the big iron gates into the gardens. Ahead of them stretched the grey palace of the Luxembourg, and in the amphitheater before it the round basin of water shimmered in the sun, white-winged boats flying across its bosom, and the fountain lifting a plume of diamond spray. Tiny children, dressed like gay dolls, darted about with hoops and balls, street urchins in black aprons chattered clamorously, rusty crows of old women huddled on the seats above which the stone queens of France gazed down in a majestic circle.

Close to the statue of Marguerite de Valois they found a seat and resumed their conversation.

“Now as to this thieving business,” said Geoffrey, offering his companion a cigarette. “I don’t say you are wrong, but it’s possible Mr. Bender did dispose of certain things before he died. It strikes me that for those servants to sell anything as conspicuous as a Manet would be taking a frightful risk.”

“Would it?” she retorted. “I’m not so sure. If I had not happened along, who would have been the wiser?”

He was forced to admit the logic of this.

“I daresay they are rogues,” he said reflectively. “The moment you spoke of their cutting down the household expenses I had my suspicions. You say no one comes to the flat?”

“Not a soul, except that horrid little man I told you about. I suppose he is Jeanne’s lawyer, but I am not satisfied about him somehow. I can’t help thinking he is mixed up in this, though I can’t guess how. Do you know, I actually went and had a hat copied at Honorine’s, merely to try to find out about him; but although I’ve been to her place several times, I have not seen him again.”

Geoffrey continued his own train of thought.

“Of course, the paintings would fetch large sums, even if sold through a receleur,” he remarked.

“A receleur? What’s that?”

“A receiver of stolen goods. Naturally such sales could not be conducted through legitimate channels.”

She made an excited gesture.

“The little notaire!” she cried. “Perhaps that’s what he is—a receiver of stolen goods. Had you thought of that?”

“By Jove, you may be right! That’s a thundering good suggestion. I wonder if we can find out?”

He pondered the idea, bending forward and examining the pebbles underfoot with close attention. Presently without looking at her he spoke again:

“When you said just now that you wanted to stay there to keep an eye on the servants, had you anything in mind beyond the fact that they may be dishonest?”

She started slightly, shifting her gaze from the impertinent profile of the sculptured queen to the leafy avenue stretching out behind them.

“Nothing definite,” she answered reluctantly. “After all, stealing is bad enough. No, I don’t know that there’s anything else.”

He studied the tip of his cigarette.

“Yet you are nervous about something. Am I right?”

How observant he was! She had tried to conceal her secret from him, but he had guessed it in spite of her.

“It’s only an instinctive feeling,” she admitted guiltily. “I can’t define it. Do you think me frightfully stupid?”

The confession brought relief. Since Wednesday she had battled with a nameless dread, vague yet sufficiently strong to account for her letter to the Hardwickes. She had been haunted by the consciousness of impending disaster, the more to be feared because of its obscurity—something which would require all her wits to circumvent.

Instead of replying he asked another question:

“Do you happen to know if this maid is trying to induce her mistress to make a will?”

“It’s odd you should speak of that,” she answered, surprised. “As a matter of fact, she has not done anything of the sort. It was the very point she made to prove to Germaine she had no mercenary motives. She brought it out like a trump card.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, “that’s good!”

“Why?” she demanded, puzzled.

“Why? Simply that if what she declares is true, then there can be no actual danger threatening your cousin. You see what I mean?”

“Not quite.”

“I’ll make it plainer. Unless we can show that this woman is trying to secure a will in her favour, then it is clear she has everything to lose and nothing to gain by her mistress’s death. In short, it is to her own interests to take the best possible care of Mme. Bender, knowing that she can profit so long as the latter lives, but no longer.”

“Of course!” she cried. “How dense I must seem!”

A load of anxiety slipped from her heart. Why had she overlooked this utterly reasonable point of view? She understood now something of the nature of her recent apprehension.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’ll go so far as to say that the surer we are that the maid and the butler are fleecing their mistress, the better guarantee we have for her personal safety. Not that the thefts can be allowed to go on. We must do all we can to find proof and send the servants packing. It may be hard, though, since we can’t look for any assistance from Mme. Bender herself.”

“She won’t believe anything wrong of Jeanne, nor does one dare ask her about the pictures, as any reference to Cousin Harry upsets her terribly. Besides, she does not think for herself any more, she only expresses Jeanne’s opinions.”

“Well, we must do our best without her. There’s another matter, too, I should like to mention now we’re on the subject. While I was in Havre the maid came to the office to obtain a duplicate key to Mme. Bender’s safety-deposit. I don’t know if there was anything wrong about it, but you might just try to find out if your cousin has that key in her possession.”

Her eyes dilated with fresh suspicion.

“The safety-deposit? That’s where Germaine’s pearls are kept, in fact most of her jewellery; Hermione told me so. Oh! do you suppose Jeanne has designs in that direction?”

He laughed.

“Even if she has, you needn’t worry. Banks are pretty careful.”

“Just the same, I don’t like the look of it. Poor Hermione! She’s dreadfully in the dumps. That’s another thing Jeanne is responsible for. She has succeeded in cutting Mme. Bender off from her one remaining friend.… Heavens! is it almost seven o’clock? I must fly!”

“I’ll drop you, if I may. I am going over to the other side anyhow,” he lied cheerfully.

“If you’re quite sure,” she agreed doubtfully.

His pulses leaped as he fancied he caught a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. Was it faintly possible that she, too, was glad to delay the moment of separation?

At the corner of the Boulevard they got into an open taxi, and in another moment were racing towards the river, the soft breeze in their faces. Catherine looked happier now. Colour stained her cheeks a delicate rose, and her eyes had lost the fear-ridden look so noticeable a little while ago. Geoffrey studied her with appreciation, delighting in the trim lines of her grey homespun coat and skirt, her tiny, close-fitting hat and the slender fineness of her hands and feet.

“Did you like my sister?” he inquired abruptly.

She started at the suddenness of the question.

“Oh, tremendously! She’s rather like you, don’t you think?” she added naïvely, then blushed a deeper red.

“I wanted you two to meet,” he said slowly, then was silent because of the thought in his mind. “I hope,” he went on, “that you’ll go and see her at Fontainebleau when she asks you, as she’s sure to do. You’ll like my brother-in-law—he’s an etcher. Odd chap, but a decent sort.”

“I’d love to go,” she said hesitatingly. “Perhaps a little later. Just now I hate leaving Germaine.”

“What rubbish! You can’t stay tied to her for the rest of your life!”

She laughed at his impatient tone.

“I know you think I’m over-scrupulous. Never mind—I’ve a plan in my head which may help to straighten things out. Don’t ask me what it is yet—it mayn’t succeed,” and she smiled at him tantalizingly.

At the Cours la Reine they were caught in a traffic block. It was dusk now, and the river on the one hand, the Place de la Concorde on the other glittered with a million stars. Suddenly Catherine gave a smothered cry.

“Look!” she whispered, grasping her companion’s arm. “There is Eduardo, driving Mme. Bender’s car. And do you see the man with him? It’s the creature from the rue d’Amsterdam I have been talking about!”

Following her eyes, Geoffrey spied a jet-black Rolls, upon whose front seat slouched the Portuguese, his sullen face lit by an adjacent street lamp. The features of the man beside him were hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, but as the taxi crept forward a few yards they could be seen in profile.

Geoffrey uttered an astonished exclamation.

“By Jove, I know the fellow! At least I’ve seen him.…”

“Where? Who is he?” demanded the girl eagerly.

He thought hard, then shook his head, chagrined.

“That’s the worst of it. I’m hanged if I know!” he admitted.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

All that evening Geoffrey cudgelled his brain to recall how and where he had come across the butler’s companion. There might be no special point in remembering, yet, on the other hand, if Catherine’s suggestion were correct any facts concerning the notaire might prove useful. However, try as he would, he could not bring back the circumstances of the chance encounter, and went to bed thoroughly exasperated.

Next morning at the very moment of setting foot in the outer office the thing flashed on him. Why, it was here, in this room! The man had been standing by the table, stolid and a little furtive, apparently waiting for an appointment. He had looked up suddenly, and his unwholesome pallor, together with his red-rimmed eyes, one of them marked by a curious blemish, had photographed themselves on the onlooker’s memory.

As soon as Geoffrey had run through his letters he called one of the under-clerks, a youngster named Ballou, into his private office.

“Guy,” he said, “do you happen to know of a notaire called A. Blom, living at 359, rue d’Amsterdam?”

The clerk, a dapper French stripling justly proud of his good command of English, gave the question careful consideration.

“Blom?” he repeated, his black eyes sharply alert. “No, sir, I think not. A notaire, you say?”—and his tone expressed conscious superiority. “I don’t often come across any of that lot, sir.”

“He was here on business about a couple of months ago—a small chap, pasty-faced, with something queer about one of his eyes. I’d like to find out what he wanted.”

Again the young man reflected, passing a long hand over his sleek, brilliantined hair.

“I will inquire, sir. One of the others may know.”

“Do so, Guy, and let me hear the result.”

Ten minutes later the youth returned to report failure.

“No one has heard of the person, sir. Of course, there’s Mr. Howard, who’s ill. Shall I get in touch with him?”

“You needn’t trouble to do that. Instead, I want you to go to the rue d’Amsterdam—here’s the address—and see what you can find out from the concierge. This much I will tell you: I have reason to believe Blom to be mixed up in the disposal of some stolen works of art. But don’t let any hint of this leak out.”

“Right, sir—you may depend on me,” and with an air of enjoyment Ballou departed on his mission.

Geoffrey resumed his work, but between him and the dull routine of deeds and titles floated a delicate, troubled face. He could not forget the look in Catherine’s eyes yesterday, nor the conviction forced upon him that she was living in the grip of constant if indefinable dread. Something must be done to set her mind at rest, and this move regarding Blom was the one immediate thing which occurred to him.

As for Mme. Bender herself, frankly he was not greatly concerned.

“It’s a pretty rotten business,” he said as, lighting a cigarette, he gave himself up to reflection. “She seems completely in that maid’s power, and yet for the life of me I can’t see any reason for alarm. The point is, there’s no motive.… To allow the poor creature to die would be simply killing the goose that lays the golden egg—a folly that precious pair of servants are much too clever to commit! No, they’ll play the game for all it’s worth, knowing that once their mistress is dead they’ll get nothing further, beyond a small legacy, which in any case is bound to come to them.… I can see, though, why they were furious when Catherine descended upon them. They don’t want any watchful eye checking their movements. I’d give a good deal to have a look at Mme. Bender’s pass-book, by the way. I’ll wager that tells a story.”

If the poor lady got either better or worse the position would right itself. In the former event she would be able to look after herself, in the latter his firm could assume authority. It was in this intermediate state that she presented such a problem and surely before long she would tend definitely one way or the other.

No, it was Catherine herself whose situation troubled him. He chafed at the thought of her living in proximity to a victim of mental illness, subjected to annoyances she had no power to check. He would have given much to put and end to it, but he could think of but one possible solution the risk of which he was frightened to take.

No, although he now knew he meant with all his soul to marry her if she would have him, he dared not put his chances to the test. Not till he felt more sure of her. Up till now he was miserably certain she did not care for him—at least not in the right way. Instinct warned him she would take a lot of winning.…

It was just before lunch-time that young Ballou re-entered the office with an important air, and laid his bowler hat and a pair of particularly smart new gloves upon the desk. His black eyes glistened with mystery.

“Well, Guy—any luck?”

“A little, sir.” The youngster cleared his throat nonchalantly. “Not much, I admit. I’ve been gossiping with the concierge in the rue d’Amsterdam, and I flatter myself there’s not much I can’t tell you about this person, Adolph Blom. I posed as a notaire myself, in search of a bureau, and as such it was natural to want to know something about my professional rival.”

“Excellent. What did you find out?”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say the concierge gives this fellow a most unassailable character. Nothing shady about him. It seems he is an Alsatian, who has lived for years at the same address, pays his rent regularly, numbers several of the locataires as his clients, and is universally regarded as a shrewd man of affairs. A little mean, perhaps, but that is not held against him. He is quiet, spends little on pleasure, and once a year takes a holiday of two weeks, always in Alsace, and invariably in August, like other people. A hard-working, reliable chap.”

Geoffrey raised his brows in disappointment. Whatever questionable there might be about the notaire, it evidently did not appear on the surface.

“However,” continued Guy, referring to a dossier, “this year he departed from his custom, and in February took an additional holiday, this time going South. From something he dropped on his return the concierge thinks he went to Bordeaux.”

“Bordeaux!”

The name suggested nothing except that the town was a port from which many boats departed. It might offer a suitable point, well removed from Paris, from which to conduct nefarious operations.

“I also inquired into his private life, but I don’t suppose that will interest you. Blom, it seems, is a bachelor, something over forty. Until quite recently he had a mistress, some young woman employed in a usine, but soon after this visit to the South he broke with her, and began paying serious attentions to a woman who lives across the court—a milliner named Mme. Baron. Husband killed in the war. Runs a business under the title of Honorine. She’s a client of Blom, who probably knows all about her affairs. The concierge thinks she must have saved considerable money, or else our friend would not find her attractive, for she’s middle-aged and not much to look at.”

Geoffrey pondered this bit of information, then shook his head slowly.

“Thanks, Guy. You’ve done a thorough job of it, and if you didn’t come across anything suspicious it’s not your fault. There was only a faint chance.”

But the clerk was in no hurry to depart. He picked up his hat, flicked an imaginary bit of dust from it, and coming a step closer, fixed his eyes on his employer’s face.

“One thing more, sir,” he remarked confidentially. “While I was in the loge the man we were discussing looked in to collect his letters, and although I kept well behind the door I had a good view of him. And, sir, I knew him at once.”

“You did?” exclaimed Geoffrey, startled. “Who is he, then?”

“Ah, that’s the question! You were right, he came to this office about two to three months ago. I saw him myself, and handed him on to Mr. Howard. I can’t recall what it was he wanted, but the name he gave wasn’t Blom. I can swear to that. It was something altogether different.”

Here was a new development. The thing had a definitely suspicious look.…

“You are sure of this?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir. As a matter of fact, I noticed him at the time rather particularly, because I had seen him once before.”

“Where?”

“At the archives bureau, sir. You remember that job I was doing in January? Well, I ran across him then, searching through some records. I thought he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files.”

Geoffrey pushed back his chair.

“Guy,” he said, “get on at once to Mr. Howard’s apartment, and see if he’s well enough to come to the telephone. I must just question him about this.”

While the call was put through he paced the room impatiently. In the past few minutes the notaire had suddenly assumed a definite importance, although in what way it was impossible to tell. However, it was quite likely he would soon know something from Howard, who was their oldest clerk, a steady-going Essex man, and a walking repository of stored information. Howard never forgot anything, nor for that matter divulged anything without reasonable justification.

After a short delay Guy returned, his face regretful.

“No good, sir—that avenue’s blocked. Mr. Howard is very ill, in fact, out of his head. It’s a bad case of pleurisy.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

On Tuesday evening Catherine dined with Miss Cushing with the idea of discussing a project formed in her mind. Since events had shown her how hopeless it was to get rid of Jeanne by ordinary means, she had concentrated on a plan which at first glance appeared impossible—namely, that of persuading the maid to go away of her own accord. If this could be accomplished, even for a short period, Germaine might become gradually accustomed to an altered régime, so that when a definite break came she could bear it with equanimity.

“For Jeanne has got to go,” she declared to herself with passionate vehemence. “Thief or not, she’s undermining the poor thing’s vitality to a terrifying extent. The more Germaine clings to her, the more dangerous the situation becomes.”

She had, in fact, begun to regard the maid as an insuperable barrier to her cousin’s improvement—she hoped the only one, though that was an optimistic thought. Still if Mme. Bender could be given a chance to believe in her own sanity, who could say what wonders might not be achieved? She would have to be provided with competent nurses, and against these she would fight tooth and nail, but Catherine trusted to her own persuasiveness to overcome the unreasoning prejudice. After all, was the latter not due to Jeanne’s insidious suggestions? Once the childish creature realized that she need not be removed from her home, she would probably cease to regard a professional nurse as an enemy.

Everything therefore depended on getting Jeanne away for a holiday. If she herself wished it, her mistress would raise no objection; but could she be induced to consider such a proposal? Catherine, after hours of thought, believed she had solved the problem.

However, she doubted if by herself she could accomplish her purpose. She was young and inexperienced, her word might carry little weight. She must have Hermione’s support.

She outlined her idea with earnestness, seated opposite the singer in the tiny salle à manger, and resolutely keeping her gaze from gravitating towards the large photograph of her hostess which displayed the latter’s ripe charms in the classic draperies of Thaïs, ready primed for seduction.

“You see, Jeanne is so clever that she has undoubtedly pulled the wool over that doctor’s eyes. He may not be willing to believe anything against her. Will you back me up in what I am going to tell him?”

“Mais certainement, ma chère—de grand coeur!” replied the artist emotionally. “C’est une bonne idée!”

With moist eyes and utter self-forgetfulness she was drinking many little glasses of Burgundy, under the influence of which her depressed spirits were rising by rapid degrees. In the beginning she had been steeped in misery, and had donned an emblematic costume, nothing less than the gown of voluminous net in which she had many times died a lingering death as La Dame aux Camélias; but now she had so far forgotten her intended rôle as to allow the angel sleeves to dip into the soupe à l’oignon, so that they left little trails of grease and cheese across the table-cloth.

“But naturellement I will come with you,” she cried, delighted at the prospect of outwitting her hated rival. “I scarcely know this man—comment s’appelle-t-il?—but he has undoubtedly heard of me. We will go at once, when we have finished dinner. I have eaten nothing for days, owing to my unhappiness, and Yvonne insists that I am in need d’être nourie.”

Whereupon she did justice to the excellent ragoût de veau, following it with several helpings of haricots verts, a crême renversée, and two cups of black coffee, managing so successfully to fortify herself that she was in danger of lapsing into lengthy reminiscences of her opera days if Catherine had not reminded her to change into street attire before it was too late for their venture.

At nine o’clock they sallied forth in a taxi to a quiet street leading out of the Avenue de la Grande Armée, and soon afterwards were ushered into Dr. Girard’s reception-room, ghastly with modern François Premier chairs and snowy marble groups set upon pedestals.

Catherine had barely time to collect her thoughts when the pompous figure of the physician appeared in the doorway. Bowing ceremoniously, he gazed at his visitors through thick convex lenses, meanwhile fingering his black, spade-shaped beard with a tentative hand.

“And what can I do for these ladies?” he inquired in his booming voice.

Hermione made the necessary introductions, then embarked with tumultuous dignity upon a narrative so jumbled and incoherent that presently Catherine was obliged to take pity on the poor man’s bewilderment and explain matters herself. She described simply and forcibly all that had come under her observation during the past weeks, emphasizing her belief that Jeanne’s influence on Mme. Bender was distinctly bad. The Frenchman listened with growing astonishment, and when she reached the mouse episode gave vent to an exclamation of shocked incredulity.

“Est-ce possible? Est-ce possible?” he murmured, wiping his glasses with a hand that trembled.

Catherine assured him it was.

“But, mademoiselle—you saw this animal, with your own eyes?”

“Not only that, monsieur, but I found traces of food under the bed, left—I believe purposely—to provide an attraction.”

“Mon Dieu!”

He rose, pacing the floor, his brow heavily corrugated. Both women watched him eagerly.

“But this alters everything! It puts the whole case in a different light!”

“I hoped you would see that,” cried Catherine earnestly. “Mind, I may be wrong about her doing this intentionally; it is possible she is only very careless; but the result is the same. Mme. Bender has been encouraged to think that she is suffering from delusions.”

He scarcely heard her, snapping his fingers impatiently. After a moment he subsided into his chair, deep in thought.

“Since you tell me this, mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am forced to admit that my knowledge of the poor lady’s hallucinations is founded chiefly on hearsay. There are indications to show that she is in a state of profound melancholia, but beyond that I can affirm little with exactitude. I now see that I have been disgracefully misled. I have looked upon this maid as a capable nurse, but if I had faintly suspected that she was falsifying her reports I should long ago have insisted on a trained attendant. It is mainly because madame herself so violently objected——”

“Ah, that is the difficulty!” interrupted the girl, and straightway described what had happened when Jeanne threatened to depart. “You see from this, monsieur, how useless it is to expect madame to send the woman away. She is completely under her thumb. That is why we want your assistance.”

She waited till the good man had roused himself sufficiently to give her full attention.

“Yes, mademoiselle? I am listening. What do you suggest?”

“It seemed to us,” began Catherine tactfully, “that if you could use your authority to order this Jeanne to take a rest—say that she was overtaxing herself and becoming unnerved—she would have to agree to go away. That would give us our chance. Once the woman is out of the house we could easily find an excuse to prevent her return, and meanwhile we might persuade my cousin to go into the country, where with new surroundings and expert care she could build up her strength again. Doesn’t it seem a feasible plan?”

He nodded with slow approval.

“Excellent, mademoiselle! Excellent! The chief obstacle will be the patient herself, but if we can over-rule her objections——”

“We can do nothing without you, monsieur. Neither Jeanne nor madame would listen to us.”

It was a wise move. The doctor was not immune to flattery.

“I see! Precisely! Well, then, I promise to do my utmost. I will warn this woman to-morrow that she is on the verge of a crise of nerves, order her to take a month’s rest, and voilà! the affair will soon right itself—or at least we shall hope so!”

With an impulse of glad relief Catherine sprang up and seized his big hands in hers.

“Oh, that is good of you!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If you only knew what a load you have taken off my mind!”

“It is nothing, mademoiselle, nothing!” replied Girard, not unmoved by this appreciation. “It is I who should thank you for shedding light on a most troublesome case—not, however, the first in my experience,” he added jealously. “For I can assure you, mesdemoiselles, I have seen some strange things in my practice!”

When the two were outside on the pavement Catherine breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s accomplished!” she cried with satisfaction. “We’ve opened his eyes a bit, which is something. Poor man, I felt rather sorry for him. He is now in a state where he doesn’t know what to think.”

“He is not the only one,” replied Hermione with an ominous shudder. The exhilarating effect of the Burgundy having worn off, she was becoming mysterious and pessimistic.

“Why do you say that?” asked Catherine, slightly annoyed.

The singer shrugged her vast shoulders.

“Jeanne. She is a deep one. I warn you, Catherine, we have not got the best of her yet, any more than we have got to the bottom of her devilment. You’ll see!” and she shook her head with a gesture Cassandra might have envied.

It was stupid to be cast down by any pronouncement so irrational. So Catherine told herself several hours later, when, unable to sleep, her mind tiresomely harped upon what she scornfully called the gipsy’s warning. Hermione was always dramatic; she invariably read mysteries into things. It was simply her temperament, unchecked by common sense.

“And yet Jeanne is deep,” she reflected apprehensively. “If she suspects this plan of ours she’ll find some way of outwitting us. Oh! How I distrust the woman! It’s her cleverness that frightens me.”

The hall clock struck twelve, half-past, then one, and still she was wide awake. At last just as consciousness was beginning to film over a stealthy sound in the passage outside roused her again to alert attention. She sat up in bed and listened.

Footsteps, muffled by pantoufles, were descending the stairs to the lower floor. She strained her ears, but after some time had elapsed the person or persons had not returned. With a feeling of puzzled uneasiness she slid out of bed, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and went quietly out.

From the downstairs hall, in which a light showed, voices reached her. She tried hard to catch what they were saying, but could make out nothing beyond an angry whispered wrangling.

Curiosity got the better of caution. She crept stealthily down a step at a time until, crouching at the turn, she was able to peer through the balustrade into the illumined space.

What she saw made her gasp.

Against the closed door of the picture gallery Eduardo was stationed, with his foot braced in an attitude of defiance. Jeanne was ranged beside him, a dark coat thrown over her night-gown, her eyes hard and sullen, while confronting the pair stood the meanly built figure of a man, quivering with rage. One glance at the latter’s black, broad-brimmed hat was enough. It hid the features of A. Blom.

What on earth was he doing here at this hour?

His manner frightened the watcher. Charged with malevolent animosity, it hinted at something arrogant and at the same time implacable. She held her breath, terrified lest he should turn and discover her, even while realizing that his fury was entirely concentrated on the two guarding the door. Guttural words reached her, but there was so much argot as to render their meaning unintelligible.

Catherine stared, fascinated. The Alsatian was no match for Eduardo, who could have throttled him with one powerful fist, yet for some reason the butler’s bravado seemed a hollow sham, while the gleam in his small eyes was distinctly nervous. Only Jeanne remained calm, glancing from one face to the other with a cold calculation.

The whispering stopped, there was a pause during which nothing was heard save stertorous breathing. Then the notaire spoke between his teeth:

“Enough! Give me the key. I am going to see for myself,” he commanded brutally.

“No! I refuse. It’s not your affair,” retorted Eduardo.

“Hein! Not my affair? Then listen: I will tell you something!”—and putting his lips close to the Portuguese’s ear the speaker hissed a few words venomously.

Some of the butler’s assurance wilted away. He wavered uncertainly, looking towards Jeanne in doubtful question. The latter considered for a moment, then with a shrug and a jerk of the head moved aside.

“Very well,” she agreed indifferently, “let him have his way.”

With slow reluctance the Portuguese drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The next instant the notaire had pushed him away, and with a muttered expletive had vanished into the gallery, switching on the light within. The others followed with less confident steps.

Silence ensued, broken only by hoarse exclamations of rage. Evidently Blom had made some discovery not to his liking, doubtless in connection with the missing pictures. Yet what could it mean? Catherine’s belief that the three were working in conjunction with each other was suddenly shaken.

If the listener had hoped to learn something conclusive, she was doomed to disappointment. The door was softly closed, and the voices, which had resumed their angry conference, sank into inaudibility. Still she remained, rooted to the spot, and shivering more from tension than cold, for the apartment was warm and close.

An endless time passed before the trio re-issued into the hall. They were no longer quarrelling, and Eduardo was obviously cowed, but Jeanne’s features remained an enigma. Without speaking, the notaire moved towards the street door and opened it. A damp breeze swept in, ruffling the tails of his ill-fitting coat. He turned and addressed his companions distinctly, with the air of laying down the law.

“Remember, this is the last time. Play that trick again, and you will find yourselves in the soup!”

In the glare of the overhead lustre his face showed pale like a fish-belly, his eyes horridly repellent. Catherine shuddered.

“Now mind what I say. I am the master here—I,” he repeated, striking his meagre chest.

He was gone, swallowed up in the darkness. The door shut upon him.

Eduardo and Jeanne exchanged questioning glances. Then the woman’s lips tightened with a mutinous expression.

“We shall see,” she muttered briefly. “Put out the light.…”

Once more they disappeared into the gallery, while Catherine seized the chance to escape unobserved. Safe in her room, she sank upon the bed and waited with pounding heart till she heard the two servants come up the stairs and separate in the passage outside. Only when all was quiet again did her strained muscles relax and her pulse resume its normal beat.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Berthe sauntered in with the breakfast-tray Catherine was already partially dressed.

“Mademoiselle is up early,” declared the massive blonde with engaging candour.

She herself looked half asleep, her hair untouched by the comb.

“Ah, well, what it is to be energetic,” she sighed with a luxurious yawn and, craning her neck towards the mirror, examined a pimple on her chin. “As for me, I could have slept all day. My young man took me to the Pastry-cooks’ Ball in Montmartre. I have not danced so much since Mi-Carême, and my feet are so swollen I can’t get on my shoes. I daresay mademoiselle is fond of dancing?”

“Very,” replied Catherine, pouring her coffee.

Difficult as it was to resent Berthe’s placid familiarity, she was in no mood to encourage it this morning. However, the cook meandered on undisturbed.

“You are right. Enjoy yourself while you are young, I say, for when you are old, what man will look at you? That is what I am always preaching to Jeanne, but she—bah!—is all for being serious, and would die rather than spend a sou on a good dress. She will not even wear the beautiful clothes madame gives her, but sells them to the wardrobe dealers. Such stupidity! She might at least keep an occasional one for herself and make a decent appearance.” She paused, then added with a change of tone: “By the by, that is a nice frock mademoiselle had sent home the other day—the green and silver. It looks as though it had come from one of the Grandes Couturières. If mademoiselle tires of it, she might care to sell it to me.”

In spite of her preoccupation Catherine could not repress a smile at the thought of Berthe’s buxom form compressed into her slender garments.

“Certainly, Berthe—but I intend to wear it for a long time.”

“She’s a sober one and no mistake, that Jeanne,” continued Berthe, resuming her former theme. “Slave, slave, from morning till night, never a thought of pleasure. No doubt there will be a fine seat for her in heaven one day, but as for me, it is not of the hereafter I’m thinking! Nor Eduardo either, let me tell you,”—and she winked broadly. “He likes his bit of fun, though he has to be sly about it. It is she who wears the trousers in that ménage, and she keeps a tight rein on him, poor man!”

Impatient though she was to be rid of the chatterer, Catherine gleaned something from the random remarks. Whatever manœuvres Jeanne might be engaged in, she kept them well hidden from other eyes. Even to Berthe she was a model of rectitude.

As soon as she was alone she finished her breakfast hurriedly and went along to the study, passing no one on the way. Then, with the door closed and keeping her voice low, she rang up the Macadam office and asked to speak to Geoffrey. A second later the familiar accents answered her.

“Geoffrey—it’s I, Catherine. I want to see you at once. No, I can’t tell you what it’s about, but it’s important. Are you very busy?”

“Of course not. But you sound upset. Is anything wrong?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I must see you. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

As she was about to ring off, her ear caught a faint but distinct click. Several times before she had heard that noise, which sounded like another receiver being replaced, but up till the present moment she had paid little attention to it. Now the idea came to her that some person might be listening-in to her conversation, perhaps close at hand.

Was there a second instrument in the apartment? She had never seen one, but she felt certain that formerly at least there must have been an extension, probably in her cousin’s bedroom. She walked back to her own quarters, filled with a fresh apprehension. If someone had taken the trouble to listen, that meant that her movements were regarded with suspicion. Only how could she make sure?

As she passed the corner bedroom, until recently Mme. Bender’s own, the door opened and Jeanne came out. Something in her face told the girl that her surmise was correct. Thank goodness she had said nothing definite, for she was sure the woman had overheard every word. The maid must have seen her go into the study, and had hastened to eavesdrop, as no doubt she had done on other occasions.

Returning after putting on her coat and hat, she tried the bedroom door, to find it locked. Yes, she was right. There was surely another telephone in there. In future she must not forget the fact.

Much as she now dreaded the moments spent with her cousin, she nerved herself to go and say good morning, partly to keep up the illusion that nothing was altered between them, and partly to make the inquiry about the safety-deposit key, a matter she felt must not be neglected. Now that she was going to report to Geoffrey, she wanted to tell him as much as possible.

Mme. Bender was alone, propped against pillows, her face shadowed by the white bed-curtains. After a single timid glance of reproach she averted her eyes so pointedly that Catherine, cut to the heart, found it hard to proceed. Yet in pursuance of her policy she ignored the tacit rebuff, making her usual inquiries as cheerfully as she could.

Presently she broached the difficult subject.

“By the way, Germaine,” she ventured, “Mr. Macadam wanted me to find out if the bank had sent you the key you asked for. Did it reach you safely?”

She was met by an uncomprehending stare.

“Key?” faltered the poor woman in a puzzled tone.

“Yes—don’t you remember? It was some weeks ago, I think. You lost the key to your safety-deposit, and had a duplicate made.”

There was no mistaking the blankness of the bewildered gaze.

“Did I? I—I don’t know. I can’t seem to recall. I—perhaps you are right.…”

The muddled brain was making an effort to capture an elusive memory. Catherine took pity on its confusion.

“Why not ask Jeanne? She will know,” she suggested casually. At the same time she was perfectly sure that this was the first time Germaine had heard the matter mentioned.

“Jeanne—yes. That is a good idea,” assented the invalid with obvious reluctance. “I will speak to her. She——”

But at that moment the ever-watchful maid appeared in the doorway. Without a glance at Catherine she went at once to the chest of drawers and, picking up a tortoiseshell box, rattled it crossly.

“Le voilà, madame!” she exclaimed in annoyance. “What is all this fuss about? Have you so soon forgotten the trouble you put me to, turning out everything to search for that wretched key? You mislaid it, and sent me to get another made. There! You see?”—and she produced the small object, tied with pink tape, and dangled it accusingly before the fascinated eyes of her mistress. “It came by special messenger from the bank. Is it possible you have no recollection of it?”

Mme. Bender gazed as though hypnotized.

“How stupid I am,” she apologized weakly. “Of course—it all comes back to me.”

But the maid was not content. Shaking her head as one might at a tiresome child, she spoke with exasperated patience.

“Really it is too much!” she scolded. “You would forget your head, if it were not fastened to your shoulders! And you try to tell me your memory is improving!”

Replacing the box with a shrug, she went out, leaving the patient overcome with shame.

Indignation swept over Catherine. Jeanne might or might not be telling the truth—it was impossible to say—but the manner in which she had put the poor woman in the wrong called only for condemnation. While she was wondering what she could say to relieve matters, she caught a sudden piteous expression in her cousin’s eyes, which could have but one interpretation. It was the craving for affection.

For a second she hesitated, then with a swift impulse ran to the bedside and put her arms round the emaciated figure. For a second she fancied the embrace was faintly returned. Then she felt herself pushed away, and before she could ask the reason was dismayed utterly to find that Mme. Bender had burst into a flood of tears. There was no word of reproach, no explanation, but none was needed. That silent, miserable weeping told her plainly that any advance of hers was unwelcome. For once she was almost relieved when Jeanne reappeared and with a single glance took in the situation.

“Leave madame to me,” she said with her quick air of authority. “I am afraid, mademoiselle, you can do little for her.”

The significant emphasis on the pronoun left nothing to the imagination. Catherine flushed and departed, a last glimpse of the room showing her the maid at the weeper’s side, ministering to her with prompt efficiency. Even as she tingled with resentment, the girl heard Germaine’s emotion subside under the influence of the cajoling voice, and told herself that Jeanne had done her work well. The unfortunate woman was firm in the belief that no one really cared for her except this single, humble companion.

Half an hour later in the office of Macadam Senior she sat facing the solicitors, father and son. Something severely sceptical in the older man’s bearing intimidated her, but, thrusting her fears aside, she set forth in as few words as possible the event of the night before.

“It is perfectly evident there is something afoot between those three,” she finished, her voice trembling a little from nervousness. “But what it is, or how it may affect Mme. Bender, I haven’t an idea. What do you make of it all?”

The senior partner, who had listened gravely, leaned back in his swivelled chair and thrust out his lower lip. He glanced at his son and drummed on the desk beside him.

“Would you mind repeating word for word, Miss West, exactly what you heard these people say?” he requested after a pause.

She did so.

“I could catch very little. Most of the time they were whispering.”

“And your impression was that this fellow, who appears to be their man of business, was put out with them over something, and that the dispute in some way related to the picture-gallery?”

“I was sure of that much. When the man was leaving he said, ‘Mind, this is the last time. Do this sort of thing again, and you will find yourself in the soup. Remember, I am the master here.’ ”

“That looks as though he had got wind of their tampering with the paintings, and was warning them not to continue.”

“Or else,” put in Geoffrey, “he had arranged that they were to dispose of certain things together, and had just discovered the servants were going ahead on their own.”

His father waved him aside.

“So far we can’t be sure that the woman was lying when she said that Bender sold the paintings himself. It is possible he did so.”

Catherine agreed doubtfully.

“You must realize, Miss West,” he went on, “that your own prejudice against these people does not constitute evidence of guilt. Before we can establish any case we shall have to get track of those missing pictures, discover the dates and circumstances of the sales, and so on. We can’t arrest the servants on suspicion. Exactly what paintings have disappeared?”

“The Manet is the only one I am sure about. Three more are gone, but I can’t say what they were. Then there is the Aubusson carpet, and all the tapestries off the furniture.”

Macadam made notes on a pad, then sat silent with wrinkled brow. The girl’s spirits sank as she watched him. Less imaginative than his son, he presented a familiar type of dry and hard lawyer, impeccably just, but difficult to impress. Her recital had left him so little moved that she began to wonder if she herself were not attaching undue importance to what had happened. Only the knowledge that Geoffrey did not discount her suspicions saved her from utter despondency.

“Do you think you can trace the pictures?” she inquired.

Macadam cleared his throat.

“I trust we can. We must get to work at once. If your cousin sold them, we may hope for quick results; otherwise the purchasers will not readily come forward, of that you may be sure. I take it you have not mentioned the affair to Mme. Bender herself?”

“No,” confessed the girl, more than ever ill at ease. “Besides, I doubt if she knows anything about them.”

“Still, unless her mind is entirely gone, she can’t be wholly unaware of anything so important as the disposal of a Manet.”

Catherine looked at Geoffrey.

“She refuses to trust her memory,” she said. “I had the most complete proof of that fact only this morning,”—and she went on to describe what had happened about the key. “I’m convinced she remembered nothing herself, but she was quite ready to accept Jeanne’s word for it.”

The old man glanced at his son in sharp inquiry.

“I asked Miss West to find out about the key the bank sent Mme. Bender. I admit I haven’t felt comfortable about it.”

“And you could swear that your relative had never heard of this matter?” demanded the solicitor.

“I can’t swear anything. I can only tell you my belief. That is the great trouble,” she added distractedly, “one can’t be absolutely sure of anything!”

Macadam looked annoyed, rubbing his unruly hair the wrong way. Finally he spoke:

“The position is this, Miss West. Unless Mme. Bender is certified as mentally incompetent, which I understand is not the case, then we have no authority to act for her. We cannot check her expenditures, nor enter her apartment to make any sort of investigation. As things are we can only hold a watching brief—not, I admit, a very satisfactory method of solving the difficulty.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” replied Catherine despairingly. “And yet—this man, Blom. Can’t one get hold of him and find out what he’s up to?”

“As a matter of fact, Catherine,” Geoffrey put in, “I have been making some inquiries about him. I was only waiting for a chance to tell you.”

“You don’t mean it! What have you found out?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Nothing that’s the least use, I fear,” Geoffrey answered regretfully. “He appears to be a decent, hard-working fellow of unimpeachable reputation, though naturally that’s not final. We may yet discover something.”

“How?”

“Why, by employing a private agent to shadow him. It could be done.”

Macadam senior tapped the arm of his chair. Who did the boy think was going to defray the expense? Not the firm, certainly. Geoffrey had no difficulty in interpreting the disparaging silence.

“If it were proved that this person was defrauding her,” he said calmly, “Mme. Bender would be only too glad to bear the cost of an investigation.”

Macadam raised his brows, but said nothing. There was an awkward pause during which Catherine rose.

“Anyhow,” she said desperately, “something must be done to get that woman away. I am already pulling wires to remove her, but if my plan doesn’t succeed we must try something else.”

“You?” inquired Geoffrey, with sudden interest. “What have you been doing?”

“I’ve seen the doctor and have got him on our side. He’s going to insist on Jeanne’s taking a rest.”

Admiration shone in the younger man’s eyes.

“I say, that was clever of you!”

She blushed, less at his open praise than because of the shrewd look directed at her from beneath the old man’s bushy brows.

“Miss Cushing went with me. She feels about it just as I do.”

Macadam turned on her suddenly.

“Miss Cushing is in this?” he asked a little sharply. “Miss Cushing, the singing-teacher?”

She was disconcerted by the abruptness of the question, feeling vaguely that she had suddenly weakened her case, though she did not know why.

“Yes. She is an old friend of my cousin’s.”

She said good-bye hastily, relieved to find herself in the corridor with Geoffrey beside her.

“Your father makes me feel not only a fool but a mischief-maker!” she confided with a half-laugh. “Am I really being stupid about all this?”

“Good God, no!”

He looked at her with concern. Although she had told her story with the utmost composure, it was easy to see that she was unnerved by last night’s experience.

“You mustn’t mind him,” he said quickly. “That manner of his is purely superficial. He means to take things in hand, never fear; but what is more to the point, I intend to have Blom shadowed. If there’s anything queer about him, we’ll run it to earth.”

“But you can’t do that,” she objected, recalling the elder man’s meaning silence.

“Of course I can. We’ll discuss details later. Meanwhile, keep in mind what I said yesterday, that as long as these rogues are profiting by your cousin’s condition she can’t possibly come to serious harm. I say—what about lunching with me on Sunday? By that time I may have something to report.”

She assented with a grateful look. It was comforting to know that she could rely upon his help, that he took a really personal interest in her difficulties. The memory of his shy and steady grey eyes dwelt with her reassuringly as the descending lift hid him from sight.

Outside the American Express a woman passed her with rapid, nervous steps, and vanished into the building she had just quitted. With a start Catherine turned to look after the disappearing figure.

It was Jeanne herself.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

His nerves still vibrating in response to the look he had just received, Geoffrey turned back for a moment to speak to his father. He found the old man running through some papers with an abstracted air, suggesting that his attention was already given to other matters.

“These Amalgamated Iron shares,” he remarked, “I think I’ve found the reason for their depreciation. It’s due to——”

“Never mind that now, father. I want to know your real opinion of this Bender affair.”

“Oh, that!”—Macadam removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. “When you’ve lived as long as I have and listened to as many stories of this kind, you won’t attach too great importance to them.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Geoffrey hotly.

“Oh, only that this girl has worked herself into a state where she is ready to believe anything. It’s a mistake her being there at all. She ought to go home.”

His son reddened with fury.

“I suppose you grasped why she was staying,” he retorted with sarcasm. “She is unselfishly trying to protect her cousin from——”

“From what?” inquired the other calmly. “You don’t know. Neither does she. Well, it’s my opinion she’s assuming far too much. Possibly the servants are stealing; how many would remain honest in the circumstances? If it’s true, we’ll put a stop to it. But I don’t see any reason to believe anything more against them, beyond the fact that they’ve antagonized her. They are not mistreating or neglecting their mistress in any way. On Miss West’s own statement, Mme. Bender is perfectly content with things as they are.”

He returned to his desk, impervious to the indignant gaze fixed upon him. The strained silence was still continuing when Henri, the old Frenchman employed to receive clients, tapped on the door and entered.

“A woman to see you, monsieur. She gives her name as Laborie.”

“Laborie!” repeated Macadam in surprise. “That, I believe, is the person who is causing all this fuss,”—and he exchanged glances with his son.

“Shall I stay?” inquired the latter, irritation giving way to curiosity.

“No, leave me to deal with her.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Show her in.”

Denied the satisfaction of hearing what the maid had come about, Geoffrey departed through the inner door. Left alone, the senior partner leaned back in his seat and was polishing his glasses with a grey silk handkerchief when Henri ushered Jeanne into the room.

“Bonjour, monsieur! I crave a thousand pardons for disturbing you. It is extremely kind of you to see me.”

Macadam nodded curtly and made a gesture towards a chair.

“Sit down. What is it this time?” he demanded briefly.

“Oh, thank you, monsieur!”

With a manner respectful but not cringing, Jeanne Laborie brought forward one of the straight mahogany chairs and placed it a couple of yards away from the solicitor, then sitting down stiffly on the edge of it she fingered her bag with nervous hesitation. She was decently dressed in black, well-brushed and neatly put on. She might have been the wife of some superior tradesman. From beneath the brim of her hard felt hat her brown eyes looked out of her sallow face, direct, unflinching, yet with something of appeal in them.

“Monsieur, I have come on a rather delicate matter. The truth is, I desire to ask your help, though I am well aware you will think it extraordinary. I should not have troubled you if there had been anyone else who could possibly be of assistance.”

She moistened her lips. Her entire manner, reasonable, restrained, conveyed the impression that she was embarking upon a painful undertaking solely because of a sense of duty.

“Go on. I am listening.”

“Monsieur, I think you know something of the state of Mme. Bender’s health. You are aware, perhaps, that she is subject to fits of depression, during which she has made attempts on her life.”

“Suicide!” exclaimed Macadam, raising his brows. “I didn’t know it was as bad as that.”

“Unfortunately it is, monsieur. I may venture to say that if she had been in the care of any person less understanding than myself she would not be alive to-day. You may remember that I have looked after madame for fifteen years?”

The old man nodded. What was the woman getting at? He could not even faintly guess, but her manner of addressing him, making no obvious bid for favour, commanded his grudging respect.

She continued in a low voice:

“Monsieur, a little more than a month ago, just after the second of these suicidal attacks, and at a time when the household was in great confusion, a young lady, an American, suddenly arrived upon the scene. I believe she is some distant connection of Monsieur Bender’s. I really do not know who she is. I had seen her before in Boston. She called repeatedly at the hospital and, if you will not misunderstand me, sought to ingratiate herself with madame when the poor lady was in a state even weaker than at present. Madame is soft-hearted. When this almost unknown young relative begged to be permitted to visit her in Paris she had not the power to refuse—or at least that is how I interpret it. Possibly I am wrong; but surely to invite a guest at such a time was not the act of a responsible person.”

The old lawyer knit his brows non-committally, and the speaker proceeded with still greater hesitation.

“I was afraid it was a mistake for this young lady to remain in the apartment with madame in so precarious a condition. I did my best to dissuade her from staying, but without success. She overrode all my objections, and there she has been ever since.… Monsieur, I wish to tell you that her presence has had a most distressing effect upon madame. Really at times I have not known what to do. She upsets the strict discipline it is necessary to maintain, excites the patient, and has even set herself to weaken madame’s confidence in me. In that respect she has happily failed; but all the same she has caused several severe crises. Last week, following a distressing scene, I was obliged to sit up the entire night with madame, and only this morning another terrible time occurred. I found my lady in violent hysterics, so uncontrolled that I had great difficulty in calming her. I have left her now in charge of the cook, for if she were unguarded I could not answer for the consequences. There was the look in her eye which warned me she was planning some fresh attempt to kill herself, only waiting for the opportunity. I must not be absent long, but I was so frightened I felt I must come at once and speak to you on the matter.”

She cast a glance at the clock fixed in the panel opposite, then continued more rapidly:

“Monsieur, I appeal to you. This young lady, Mademoiselle West, is known to your son. Cannot you or he induce her to go away and leave madame in peace before anything irrevocable happens? I assure you it is of the gravest importance.”

Macadam levelled a stern regard at her and swung his glasses to and fro by their slender chain.

“Why,” he demanded, “do you think Mademoiselle West has this disturbing effect upon your mistress?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I would rather monsieur did not ask me that question. You see, I may be prejudiced, and do not want to make unjust accusations. However, it has been clear to me from the outset that mademoiselle has designs of her own. She is hoping that madame will make a will in her favour, in which respect she is not alone. She is close friends with another lady who cherishes similar expectations. There has been correspondence between these two before Mademoiselle West left America, and I am convinced in my own mind that they have arranged things together, to become joint heirs to madame’s estate.”

Her declaration met with a stern frown.

“Are you aware of what you are saying?” the solicitor shot at her brusquely.

Jeanne bowed her head.

“I realize I do wrong to hint at such a thing. But,” she went on, speaking in measured, distinct tones, “right or wrong, madame herself suspects their intentions. She has told me so. It is for that reason that she is so distressed in their company. She does not wish to offend either of them by asking them to keep away, but she has at last implored me to forbid them to see her!”

The old man’s eyes were like steel.

“Is that true?”

Here Jeanne betrayed her first hint of emotion. She clasped her hands rigidly together, raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, shook with a vibrant tremor.

“As God is my witness, monsieur, that is the absolute truth!” she said.

The words had a ring of sincerity. Macadam deliberated, looking away from her.

“Who is this other friend you mention?” he asked presently.

“There is no reason why I should not tell you, monsieur. It is Mademoiselle Cushing, the singer.”

Macadam rose.

“I will look into the matter,” he said laconically. “I’ll see what can be done. Mind, I do not promise anything.”

With this she had to be content, but that she was not disappointed was shown by a sudden gleam in her intent eyes.

“Thank you, monsieur! I am glad you have not mistaken my meaning. Naturally, since I have laboured so long, organizing madame’s whole establishment with the sole idea of nursing her back to health, I do not like to see my efforts go for nothing. If this Mademoiselle West persists in going against the doctor’s orders and causing trouble, I cannot hold myself responsible for what may happen.”

He watched her go out with her dependable and unobtrusive air, then stood fingering his chin reflectively.

“By George,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve always known if one waited a bit one would hear the other side.”

He considered himself an excellent judge of character, not easily fooled. This woman had struck him as decent and straightforward, strongly biased, perhaps, but that was only natural. Of course he had purposely avoided sounding her on the missing articles, the mention of which matter could only serve to rouse her antipathy still further against Miss West, or, if she were indeed guilty, put her on her guard. No, he was too old a hand to commit that indiscretion.… Last night’s affair looked queer, but there were various possible explanations. On her own admission Miss West had understood little of what had been said. Her accusations were decidedly vague.

“Jealousy on both sides, I’d be willing to take my oath,” he concluded with a contemptuous snort. “There’s usually jealousy where women are concerned.”

After careful cogitation he drew a sheet of paper towards him and composed a letter in his own stiff angular hand. This he sealed and addressed, then turned it face downward on the blotter, just as his son appeared in the doorway.

“Well?” inquired Geoffrey shortly, “what did she want?”

Briefly the old man gave an account of the interview. The listener swore irritably.

“What unmitigated brass! You saw she was lying, of course?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. There may be truth on both sides.”

“On both——! You can’t mean to tell me that after one look at Miss West you could believe this abominable story?”

The old man raised a restraining hand.

“You mean about her having designs on Mme. Bender’s money? I didn’t say I believed it. But have you ever known a business of this kind cropping up where the person involved was penniless? I thought not. There would be no point in it.”

His son regarded him in cold fury.

“What exactly are you getting at?” he demanded.

“Nothing whatever, except that I’m fairly well convinced we are wasting valuable time. Take my advice: put your energies into persuading this girl to leave and find another place to live. I presume she’s not without means?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her,” returned the younger man with contempt.

“Anyhow, she’s only complicating matters by staying where she isn’t wanted. That will do, now. Send Parkin to me. I shall get him to look through Harry Bender’s papers in case there is any record of a picture-transaction. No use starting an inquiry till that point is cleared up.”

Curbing his wrath, Geoffrey did his father’s bidding, then called the French clerk, Ballou, to his own office.

“Guy,” he said, “yesterday you mentioned a young girl who had a connection with that notaire you were inquiring about. Do you know where she worked, and if one can get hold of her?”

“The young person in the usine?” replied Guy promptly, “Oh, yes, sir. The concierge told me she was employed in a manufactory for artificial flowers, near the Place Clichy. I daresay I could find the place and the girl, too, if you want me to try.”

“Thank you, Guy, it will be wiser to put someone else on the job. I’m glad you remembered about it, though.”

As soon as he was alone he searched in the telephone directory for a number, rang it up himself, and a few minutes later took a taxi to an address in the rue Blanche. Here he entered the dingy bureau of a private agent already known to him in connection with one or two affairs, a man he had found both trustworthy and acute.

A solemn, thin Frenchman rose at his approach. He had round, pensive black eyes, a lantern-jawed countenance, and a scrawny neck enclosed in a wide standing collar, the gold stud of which protruded above a rusty black cravat.

“Monsieur Macadam? I am happy to see you, monsieur. Be seated, please. What can I do for you?”

As concisely as possible Geoffrey made his business known, and while he spoke the Frenchman’s melancholy gaze ran this way and that, exploring the corners of the little room where dusty files were heaped upon the floor. Once or twice he coughed behind his bony hand, but beyond an occasional question in a lugubrious tone he remained silent.

“You see, although this man I refer to may be perfectly honest, I am not satisfied that he’s all he appears to be. If he’s mixed up in any nefarious proceedings, no matter what their nature, I must find it out.”

“You desire me to look into his record, monsieur?”

“Yes, and follow him if necessary. Here is the information I have obtained, addresses and so on. Do what you can.”

“You say this young woman is a discarded mistress?” remarked the agent sadly. “That would seem to provide our best mode of attack. Artificial flowers… I know the place—Achille Benet is the name. I will arrange to get in touch with the person and see what can be learned from her. No doubt I can persuade her to accompany me to a cinema or a Palais de Danse.”

He uttered the suggestion in much the same tone he would have employed in proposing a tour of the Montmartre Cemetery. However, knowing his man, Geoffrey did not despair, and departed with an easier feeling than he had had for some hours. He still felt indignant towards his father for his insensitive attitude, yet was forced to admit that if he himself had had less knowledge of Catherine he might have adopted the same view.

All at once he recalled that his father was ignorant of Blom’s visit to the office under an assumed name.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, in annoyance. “What a fool I was not to have told him that! If only poor Howard hadn’t chosen this precise moment to be laid up! I wonder how he is, by the way?”

Reproaching himself for not having inquired since yesterday, he hurried to the nearest public telephone and rang up the old clerk’s home, only to learn that Mr. Howard was still very ill. His lungs were badly congested, though he was putting up a brave fight.

“Nothing to be hoped for in that quarter for days,” reflected Geoffrey with exasperation.

Mixed with his genuine concern over the news was the thought that if the old man should die the knowledge he sought would pass beyond his reach.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Catherine’s first feeling was one of relief that Jeanne had not seen her leaving the Macadam offices. Next she asked herself what errand had brought the woman to consult the solicitors—for there could be no doubt as to her destination. The look of concentration on the tight-lipped face suggested fresh mischief afoot.

Then her thoughts turned to Mme. Bender, and her eyes filled with tears over the memory of the recent scene. Never in her life had she felt so helpless to combat injustice. Her cousin’s mind was poisoned against her, yet she could do nothing to put things right.

Worse, the talk with the old Scotchman had clearly shown her the weakness of her position. Thanks to his uncompromising logic she realized to what extent her suspicion against the servants rested upon isolated incidents, each capable of a dual construction. She began to wonder if she had magnified trifles till they pointed to conclusions wholly false.

Even Mr. Macadam’s promise to investigate the question of theft gave her little comfort, for during the long and tedious inquiry Jeanne would remain firmly entrenched, working her will upon her mistress’s susceptible imagination.

“What can I do? It’s now almost impossible for me to stay there. Soon it may be quite so, if Jeanne persists. She’ll end by driving me away.”

It was true. Her self-appointed guardianship was being thrust aside; Germaine herself did not desire her presence. It would certainly be more dignified to withdraw. Her income was sufficient to enable her to live comfortably in some small hotel, where she would be free from indignities.

“Yet God knows it’s not my own pleasure I’m considering!” she argued sincerely.

It was terribly difficult to help a person who did not want to be helped.

Pride drew her in one direction, conscientious scruples another, but now the latter’s voice was obscured by doubt. Suppose she was altogether wrong about Jeanne? The mouse incident, even last night’s scene, might have no guilty significance. The woman had been in her post for fifteen years, implicitly trusted long before Mme. Bender’s judgment became impaired. Hysterical and crabbed she might be, but as yet there was no positive proof against her.

Thinking all this over, she wandered along the Avenue de l’Opéra and sat for some time in the little garden of the Palais Royale. The fountain plashed, pigeons strutted about, occasionally a lounger looked at her, but she noticed nothing. Unable to bear the thought of going back to the apartment, she decided to lunch out; but although there were several friends she knew would be glad to welcome her, she was averse to company. She must be alone to wrestle with her problem.

At last she made up her mind on one point, driven thither all but against her will. She would spend the afternoon looking at hotels and pensions, not with the idea of definitely engaging a room, but in order to have a place ready to go to if during the next day or two she decided to leave. In her little book were a number of recommended addresses. She would take them in turn.

This settled, she glanced at her watch, and saw with surprise that it was past her usual hour of déjeuner. She was tired, too, possibly because of her inward struggle. Then she recalled a tiny restaurant close at hand in the rue d’Argenteuil, a simple, homely auberge, where the cooking was excellent. In five minutes she had reached it, chosen a table against the wall, and was studying the big purple-scrawled sheet of the menu.

It was late and only a few tables were occupied, mostly by quiet-looking men she imagined to be journalists. The cook, an immense man with a snowy apron round his Gargantuan paunch, crisp curly hair and sparkling black eyes, approached with a friendly welcome and with his hands upon his hips offered advice on the subject of dishes.

“If mademoiselle would care to try the plat de jour,” he suggested, pointing a fat red finger at the menu, “I can specially recommend it. Veal with mushrooms and little peas. Also the chateaubriand garnished is good to-day. With it I should like to serve some pommes soufflées.”

She chose the chateaubriand which when it appeared was so appetizing in its bed of fresh watercress and flanked by mounds of potatoes fried to a feathery lightness that she realized suddenly how hungry she was. She followed the course by spinach, piping hot and foaming up brilliant emerald green in a red copper pannikin, finishing the repast by a tarte de la maison. When at length she lit a cigarette and leaned back with a cup of coffee before her, she felt inclined to take a more cheerful view of things, letting her taut mind relax and drift where it would.