[NOTE] (continued 4)

On the seat near by lay a paper feuilleton in a gaudy cover, left there by some departed luncher. She picked it up idly, then seeing that it was a collection of four or five short stories of de Maupassant, opened it at a tale entitled Le Diable and began to read. In a few seconds she was engrossed, fascinated.

It was a story of a peasant who hires an old woman of the village to remain beside his dying mother while he gets his hay in from the fields. The mercenary crone, paid for the entire job, becomes exasperated by the poor creature’s slowness in dying and, loath to waste time over her, resolves to hasten the event by strategy. She describes with gruesome details what she declares to be a common experience with sufferers about to breathe their last, affirming that at the crucial moment the devil appears to them with horns and a pitchfork. Then, when she had worked the patient up to a suitable state of terror, she hides in a cupboard and steps forth suddenly, armed with a huge fork and wearing a three-legged saucepan on her head. The ruse succeeds, the peasant’s mother drops dead of shock.

“Good God!”

The booklet fell from her hand, she sat quite still staring ahead of her at the opposite wall. One by one the tables had been cleared, she was the last customer to remain. The big chef untied his apron, struggled into a short, tight-fitting jacket which, when buttoned, strained across his abdomen like a bursting pod, stuck a small Trilby hat jauntily upon his head and a cigar in his mouth, then sallied forth for a stroll, pausing near Catherine to bid her a courteous adieu. She scarcely saw him or the questioning glances cast at her by the waiters.

All she could think of was the curious parallel between the tale just read and what was going on in her cousin’s home. She had seen only too well the power of suggestion at work on the credulous victim. What if Germaine, left alone with the woman whose word she implicitly believed, should succumb to a like fate? In her present condition, how easy to administer a fright sufficient to kill her? The idea paralysed her with horror.…

At last she came to, as from a dreadful dream. What was she telling herself? Jeanne could not, by the remotest stretch of the imagination, wish her mistress to die. Geoffrey had pointed that out to her plainly. No, the more mercenary her motives, the more reason she must have for keeping Mme. Bender alive. All this had been thrashed out before to her entire satisfaction. With a shiver she shook herself free from the stupid obsession, motioned to the garçon, and paid her bill. She must not give way to these absurd fancies.

Yet oddly enough in those few minutes all her recent decisions had reversed themselves. She would go and look at hotels, since it was a way of killing time till evening, but she was resolutely determined not to abandon the field to Jeanne. However innocent the latter’s intentions might be, her influence represented a force capable of being used with evil result. No, even if things were made still more difficult for her, she would stick it out, at least till something occurred to alter the position.

“If anything should happen,” she whispered, “I should never forgive myself!”

Besides, she was forgetting the doctor’s promise. Even now he might have seen Jeanne and persuaded her to go away. What an enormous relief if that were so!

Entering the apartment at six o’clock, she heard Dr. Girard’s deep voice in the distance, and reflected with thanksgiving that the good man had not disappointed her. At the turn of the hall she stood trying to catch what he was saying, but although she listened hard she could make out nothing. Presently the front door closed.

Had he been successful? A thrill of anticipation shot through her as she told herself she would soon know the result.

On the table in the entrance hall several letters were awaiting her, one bearing an English stamp and writing she recognized as Claire Hardwicke’s. Going into the study, she curled herself up in the big chair and was speedily engrossed in her correspondence.

Claire was upbraiding her for her deflection. What was all this nonsense about a sense of responsibility towards Mme. Bender? The latter was little more than a stranger, and till recently had got on very well indeed without her supervision. Florence would be lovely in May. Jim meant to buy a little cheap car and they were going to tour about among the adjacent villages, working their way south.

The picture was an alluring one. Catherine put down the closely written pages and gave herself up to dreams of what she was going to miss. Then she realized that she was not quite so regretful as she had expected to be. Was it because Paris held someone whose companionship had grown steadily more agreeable than she cared to admit? She blushed at the thought. Geoffrey Macadam had never given her a single look which she could construe in terms other than those of impersonal friendship. Possibly he was beginning to regard her as a bit of a nuisance, what with her continued worries, real or imagined. He was wonderfully good about it all, but really she was making a great deal of trouble for him.…

Padded footsteps, probably those of Eduardo, passed by the door, lingered a moment, then receded again. She listened mechanically, but thought little of the circumstance till, on issuing from the study, she spied on the table a solitary white envelope, addressed to herself. That was odd—there was no post at this hour, nor had she heard the concierge’s customary knock. She wondered still more when she saw in the corner of the printed heading of Macadam and Langtree. The round yet crabbed writing was unfamiliar. Glancing quickly at the signature, she learned that the communication was from the senior solicitor.

So the old man had lost no time in writing to her! She felt a sudden qualm of misgiving.

In the seclusion of her own room she ran through the contents twice. Tactfully worded, it gave no hint that its author had anything other than her own interests at heart, yet the meaning was plain. When she had finished the second reading, she drew a deep breath and sat rigidly regarding the sheet with a smile that was lightly grim.

Here was an unexpected turn of events, not a pleasant one, either. Sensibly, convincingly and in no uncertain terms, Mr. Macadam was urging her to go away. What was this he said about unintentionally promoting discord? The phrase puzzled her. Then all at once she understood! Jeanne had been to him with her own version of things. This letter was composed after his talk with her.

Catherine tingled with sudden anger, then gave a little laugh at the irony of the affair.

“It really is rather funny! Here am I working hard to oust her, while she is equally determined to oust me. Mr. Macadam is the referee, and at the present stage of the game he’s inclined to take her side. Which of us is going to win?”

She picked up the envelope and fingered it curiously. The flap had come open with surprising readiness, and now she noticed that the gum on it was slightly moist. Did that mean that it had been secretly opened? If so, that fact would explain why the letter had not been with the others when she came in. Eduardo understood English. No doubt he and Jeanne had been anxious to find out how matters stood. Once more she recalled her telephone conversation of the morning, and her impression that someone was listening. Wheels within wheels.… What was it all about?

“Yet they can’t have any suspicion that I was spying on them last night. Why all this scheming to get rid of me? What have I done to make them afraid?”

For that they were afraid of her she had now little doubt. They must be apprehensive about those missing pictures, dreading lest she bring an accusation against them. She could think of no other reason for their actions.

Pondering this she changed slowly into another frock, still annoyed and a little resentful over the old lawyer’s attitude towards her, and was in the act of brushing her hair before the glass when a tap on the door jarred on her reflections. In answer to her “Entrez!” Jeanne came in.

“Pardon, mademoiselle, si je vous dérange…”

The maid’s manner was quietly respectful. She paused a second in the doorway, then crossing, laid a package wrapped in white paper upon the bed.

“The laundry has just brought mademoiselle’s linen. Perhaps mademoiselle will glance through the list to see that everything has been returned.”

“Thank you, Jeanne.”

Putting down the brush, Catherine undid the parcel and ran over the neat pile of clothing inside it—a combinaison and a crêpe de Chine night-gown, both beautifully pleated, a lace bodice, a sheaf of handkerchiefs. As she examined the articles she was uncomfortably aware of the woman’s lingering gaze. There was a tentative quality about it as though the owner had something on her mind.

“Do you want anything, Jeanne?”

“Only this, mademoiselle. I trust you were not wounded by what occurred this morning. I am afraid it is the sort of thing one has to be prepared for. Madame is apt to be like that,” she added with an air faintly conciliatory.

“You need not bother, Jeanne, I quite understand,” replied the girl evenly, masking her surprise.

Still the maid was not satisfied. She hung about, smoothing the creases from the bed-cover and folding up the paper in which the laundry had come.

“Madame takes notions into her head, and while they last it is wisest not to cross her. Does mademoiselle grasp my meaning?”

Catherine faced her squarely. “What exactly is it you wish to say, Jeanne? You may as well be frank about it.”

“Well, mademoiselle, I have been thinking it might be safer if you did not attempt to see madame for a little. No doubt madame’s dislike of you will pass in time, but while it continues is it best to annoy her?”

She finished with a significant glance which brought the blood into Catherine’s cheeks. Still one could not afford to get angry, thinking which, the girl replied with composure: “You may be right. At all events I shall not force myself upon madame.”

“Ah, I see that you understand, mademoiselle! Naturally it is painful for me to mention this, but after all it cannot inconvenience you long, since in all probability your stay is nearly at an end. No doubt you will soon be proceeding with your tour?”

So it was this the woman wanted to find out! Not a word of what Girard must surely have said to her half an hour ago, only the scarcely veiled suggestion that the visitor was to take her departure.

Rapidly it dawned on Catherine that here was the turning-point. She must decide once and for all whether she was to stick to her guns or leave her cousin to this jealous guardian who brooked no interference with her rule. Was she making a foolish mistake? Perhaps she was wrong to meddle in things which did not concern her. If so, now was the moment to withdraw.

For a moment Catherine wavered, meanwhile putting her lingerie into a drawer, laying the crisp pleats in place with fingers which shook. Then as she straightened up she caught sight in the mirror of Jeanne’s close-set brown eyes watching her every movement with an attention all too acute. In a flash her spirit rose to arms. Turning, she met the steadfast gaze with a fixed determination to fight the affair to a finish.

“I am not going to Italy, Jeanne,” she declared shortly. “In fact, I do not intend to leave for some time. I shall not trouble madame, but I expect to remain in this apartment perhaps for months.”

She saw the ragged brows shoot up, the nostrils widen with displeasure. A brief pause ensued while, like two fencers, the two eyed each other, wary and watchful. When the delayed reply came it was uttered in a tone of studied indifference, cold and calm.

“Ah? Ça m’étonne… Bien—c’est entendu, alors.”

That was all. The door closed, leaving Catherine with racing pulses, her heart pounding hard.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Meantime in the rue Auber investigations were going on with commendable thoroughness. Macadam himself telephoned to various well-known picture dealers to inquire first the approximate price a still-life of Manet was likely to fetch in the market, and second, whether at any recent time a Manet belonging to Harry Belmont Bender had passed through their hands. To the former question he received definite figures, quoted from sales, while the answer to the latter was an unequivocal negative. One of the dealers expressed surprise to learn that the painting had changed hands.

“Monsieur Bender made a number of deals through me,” he said. “In 1924 I sold a Renoir for him and got an excellent price for it. At the time he asked me to value his collection, including the Manet you speak of, and it was my impression that nothing was further from his thoughts than to part with it. As a matter of fact I made him an offer, which he refused.”

The dealer went on to say that if M. Bender’s widow had disposed of the picture she must have done so with extraordinary secrecy, for when a work of so great importance changed owners all the world of art connoisseurs got to know about it. As to the possibility of its having left the country, it was rare nowadays that such a thing could happen without being found out. The port authorities were exceedingly strict. Occasionally some canvas slipped through, but each year it became increasingly difficult.

Macadam hung up the receiver and scratched his ear thoughtfully. It began to look as though there were something in the American girl’s story after all, though he must not jump at conclusions. He had yet to hear the junior clerk’s report following his perusal of certain files, and there remained the study of his late client’s pass-book, about which he had written to the bank. If any sum sufficiently large had been deposited during the weeks preceding Bender’s death, it would tell a different tale. However, for the present there was nothing more to be done.

He had no suspicion of the fact that his son was pursuing another line of inquiry, and if he had been aware of it would have censured him severely for quixotic conduct. However, the mysterious Blom was not altogether absent from his thoughts was proved by a remark he made to Geoffrey the following day.

“This notary fellow,” he observed ruminatingly. “Thinking things over, it occurs to me there may be a fairly plausible explanation for his behaviour the other night.”

“What’s that?” inquired the young man sharply.

“Why, blackmail. He may have something on those servants which he’s using to force them to pay up. Have you thought of that?”

Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed.

“Then you admit they are thieves,” he replied shrewdly.

“I’m admitting nothing yet. I only say it’s a possible solution.” Whereupon he detailed for his son’s benefit the result of his conversations with the dealers.

Geoffrey listened with interest.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “I confess that’s what I expected. If you knew Cath—Miss West as well as I do, you’d know she’s not a girl to be easily deceived.”

“Be that as it may, we are still a long way from proving our case, and till we do so we can’t make any arrests. It’s a ticklish business prosecuting servants when their own employer regards them as perfect. We may not be thanked for our pains.”

Alone Geoffrey rejected the blackmail suggestion, holding firmly to his belief that Blom, engineering the thefts, had called his confederates to account for exceeding instructions. He had little doubt that the crafty Alsatian was under cover of his profession a secret receleur, and that the visit to Bordeaux was for the purpose of getting the stolen canvasses out of France.

Not till Saturday, however, did he hear from the inquiry agent, and meanwhile, though he was in frequent communication with Catherine, there was nothing to tell her. As soon as Bernard’s message reached him he hurried to the rue Blanche, hoping for news.

“I have made the young person’s acquaintance, monsieur,” his funereal friend informed him. “At first she was inclined to be off-hand and suspicious, but I have persuaded her to come out with me to a café to-morrow evening, and if things go well I may obtain some information from her.”

“How does she appear to regard Blom?” Geoffrey asked.

“Ah, that is difficult to say. But while she does not strike one as a young woman of deep feelings, I fancy she is a little vindictive. If so, she may lead us to the truth.”

On a sudden inspiration Geoffrey made a suggestion, to which the agent agreed.

“If you like, monsieur. There can be no harm in it. But mind, I do not promise anything startling.”

“Ten-thirty, then,” replied Geoffrey, and departed, tingling with anticipation.

Sunday broke warm and cloudless, a dazzling April day. The Bender salon, after the brilliance of outdoors, struck Geoffrey as more than ever depressing, but the girl who rose to greet him appeared the very incarnation of spring. She had put on a frock of crêpe de Chine the colour of young leaves, while her oval face was framed by a small felt hat also delicate green. Round her throat lay the necklace of plaited gold which suited her so well, and her suede gloves matched in tone her slender lizard-skin pumps. The faint fragrance of her garments went to Geoffrey’s head like champagne as he took her hand and gazed in unrestrained admiration.

“How ripping you look!” he exclaimed.

It was the first open compliment he had paid her. The blood swept in a wave to her cheeks.

For a second she caught something in his eyes which unsettled her previous conception of him. There was a self-conscious pause, during which they eyed one another awkwardly.

“I thought we’d lunch in town at Ledoyen, then drive out into the country.”

“Splendid! I was hoping you’d say that. I am longing to get out of Paris.”

In taking her coat to put it over his arm his hand brushed hers. The momentary contact sent an electric shock through him.

“I say,” he remarked, conscious of inner perturbation, “must you get back early? Because I’m going to suggest making a day of it and dining out as well.”

Her eyes shone.

“Oh! you don’t know how I should love it! I only meant to come back and write letters, a most dull proceeding. Let me run and tell Berthe not to expect me in,”—and she vanished on her errand.

She returned directly to say that the cook was enchanted, for now she could have the entire evening off.

“And Mme. Bender? Have you seen anything of her?”

Her face clouded.

“Not for days. There is no good forcing myself on her while she feels towards me as she does. Jeanne has advised me to keep away from her, but I shouldn’t try to go into her room in any case now. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

He preserved a significant silence, but once they were seated in the car he spoke to her with quiet decision.

“Listen to me, Catherine. I am not at all happy about you. I wish you could be persuaded to leave that place.”

She turned reproachful eyes on him.

“Et tu, Brute!” she murmured lightly, though with a catch in her voice.

“Why me, too?”

“Wait. I have something to show you.”

He was a little curious, but said nothing as the car slid into the Avenue Kléber and headed for the Étoile. In the Champs Élysées he halted before a flower-shop and, leaving his companion for a moment, returned with a large cluster of lilies of the valley, crisply fresh in their frame of satiny green leaves.

“They go with your frock,” he remarked shortly, laying the offering in her lap.

Something had happened to Geoffrey. It was like the preliminary melting of ice after a long winter.

He was aware of it when they entered the restaurant half-hidden by flowering chestnuts and made their way to the corner table he had reserved. The sun pouring into the glass-lined room shone no warmer than the glow within him, while the whole festive scene with its popping of corks, subdued chatter and tables garnished with spring blossoms formed a fitting background for his mood.

On a day like this every goose was a swan. The very waiters looked the best fellows in the world, to whom you might confide your heart’s secrets with perfect safety. Every woman present was a miracle of exquisite smartness, every paste brooch flashed like diamonds of the purest water. Best of all not a male eye failed to note Catherine as she passed serene in her little green frock and with that look of fresh naturalness doubly dear to an Englishman’s heart. A moment worth living for, to be recalled long afterwards with a thrill of pride.

“Now, what were you about to tell me?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they had ordered lunch.

He watched her fingers busy themselves, unfastening the glittering brooch on her shoulder in order to transfer the lilies of the valley to its keeping. Then when she had enshrined the nosegay in the V of her frock and surveyed the result with satisfaction, she opened her lizard-skin bag and took out an envelope.

“What do you think of this?” she asked. “Read it.”

She saw his eyebrows go up in astonishment as he recognized the crabbed writing, and an expression of annoyance settle over his face when he had run through the letter’s contents.

“The old devil!” he exclaimed softly. “What’s the meaning of this? He never told me he’d written to you.”

“It was sent off almost immediately,” she said with composure. “Soon after he had talked with Jeanne, I think.”

He looked quickly towards her.

“How did you know she came to see him?”

“I passed her in the street outside. She didn’t see me.”

She could tell that he was not only ruffled but embarrassed. For a moment he avoided her eye.

“Please don’t pay the least attention to this,” he said constrainedly. “I hardly know what to say.”

“I’m not angry,” she answered, “though I was a bit at first. He makes me feel he doesn’t believe a word I said. Not only does he imply that I’m a fool for meddling in what doesn’t concern me, but that I may be doing my cousin actual harm.”

“Rubbish!” he muttered, impatiently.

“It’s not rubbish. There’s a certain amount of truth in what he says—at the moment. She would be upset if I insisted on seeing her, only I am convinced that’s only temporary. Things can’t go on like this. I’m only biding my time.”

“God knows I hope we shall soon know something definite about these thefts,” he remarked after a pause.

“Do you believe we shall?”

“I don’t know. We’ve established the fact that the Manet hasn’t passed through any dealer’s hands, which is something.”

“That’s good!” she cried eagerly. “Oh! I hope we are not trying to hound down innocent people.”

“Don’t bother your head about that. I’m as sure as you are they have a good deal on their consciences.”

She took back the letter and glanced at it.

“Another thing—you see what he says about finding some older, more experienced woman to look after Mme. Bender. Surely he must know that she has no relations?”

He frowned over this information.

“You are certain there is no one?”

“Hermione declares that Germaine has absolutely no family, and she ought to know. Since I have been at the apartment I have not seen or heard of anyone connected with her. I have never known anyone so completely isolated.”

“That does make things extremely difficult,” he observed thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’d grasped that fact before. By the way, what was Mme. Bender’s maiden name?”

She told him, and he repeated it with a curious inflection.

“Dieulefit? Never heard it before. Most uncommon.”

“Very. Hermione says the line is extinct.”

He pondered the matter for a little, then drawing a note-book from his pocket scribbled the single word “Dieulefit” on an empty page. She watched him with interest but said nothing, though she noticed that his forehead was still knit with speculation.

The sole Mornay arriving, they attacked it with relish, nor until it was a thing of the past did they recur to any serious topic. Then Geoffrey asked if the doctor had yet settled the matter of Jeanne’s holiday.

“He came yesterday, but so far Jeanne has said nothing. Still, one is bound to know before long.”

It was nearly three o’clock when they again sought the out-of-doors to spin through the Bois, across the gardens of St. Cloud, and penetrate into the open reaches beyond. Larks sang high in the heavens where vague cloudlets drifted like puffs of smoke across an expanse of aquamarine. The whole warm sweet air breathed the fragrance of flowering trees, whose pink, white and yellow bouquets dotted the landscape.

Catherine sighed in utter contentment. April at its loveliest, a well-run car, a companion who all at once had become something rather more interesting than a brother—what more could one ask? Hard to believe that the past week had been spent in a turgid tangle of doubts and fears. At the moment all life was bathed in the same soft sunshine which spread its radiance over the low-lying hills.

At five o’clock they stopped at a place unknown to her, but familiar to Paris pleasure-seekers. An ancient farmhouse nestled beside a narrow stream spanned by an enclosed bridge where in bad weather one might eat under cover. Now a score of motorists in gay attire sat under orange umbrellas at tables with orange cloths, along the side of the brook, whose edges glowed with thickly planted spring flowers, vivid blue and yellow. Gardens like those in a picture-book spread on each side, and a little distance away an outlet from the stream chattered over a rockery to fall into a pool.

Tea in an orange tea-pot, crisp toast, home-made confiture, and butter smoothly-moulded into little brown crocks! It was good that the air had given them fresh appetites to do justice to the feast.

When they had lit cigarettes, Catherine suddenly remembered a matter she wished to discuss.

“Geoffrey,” she said. “About this agent you are employing. You understand, of course, that I must insist on paying for him. I can, you know. I don’t want you to think——”

He reddened a little.

“Must we speak of that? I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Well then, I won’t. But before we go any further, you must promise to let me know how much it comes to, otherwise I shall make it unpleasant for you!”

Seeing her determination, he nodded briefly.

“Well then, I promise. Now let’s talk about something else.”

But for a moment both were silent, while the look which passed between them left Catherine a little breathless. Why was Geoffrey so different to-day? She began to wonder if she knew him so well, after all.

They dined late at a small restaurant in the rue Jacob where the food was good, and although Catherine protested that she could not possibly be hungry again, the sight of the oysters Geoffrey ordered and the young duck with delicate petits pois made her change her mind.

“Oh dear!” she sighed, “when I’m with you I do nothing but eat!”

“You need to,” he assured her lightly. “I’m sure that when you are at home you are half-starved!”

It was true that, lovely as she looked to-day, she had grown a bit thinner since their first meeting, while he noticed a faint shadow beneath her eyes which disturbed him, suggesting as it did a constant state of apprehension. Not blind to the absurdity of his action, he heaped her plate high with fraises de bois and piled thick cream upon them till she was obliged to stay his hand.

“I’m not a Strasbourg goose, you know!” she reminded him, laughing.

When with her coffee before her she leaned back in her corner and lazily took out her powder-puff, he studied her carefully.

“Tired?”

She shook her head.

“No—only blissfully content. I can’t bear to think that to-day is over.”

“It isn’t,” he returned, glancing at his watch. “There is something else I want you to do this evening.”

“What is it?” she inquired languidly.

She fancied there was a slight air of secrecy about him as he paid the bill and left a ten-franc note on the saucer. Then with his characteristic caution he answered her question.

“Nothing much. Wait and see. But I hope it may prove worth while.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was almost ten o’clock, but according to Geoffrey it was yet too early for what he planned to do. Catherine asked no further questions and possessed her soul in patience as they drove slowly about for half an hour, along the quais, up to the Bois and back, and around the Cité and the Ile St. Louis. The night was perfect. The twin truncated towers of Notre Dame stood out in bold relief against a starlit sky; the river, swiftly flowing between its inky parapets, was studded with gems of light. One after another they passed the stately Palais de Justice, the Hôtel Dieu, and the tall house where Abelard introduced the classics into the head of Heloïse and love into her heart.

At last Geoffrey re-crossed the river, and threading the garishly lighted Boul’ Mich’, teeming with humanity, turned into the Boulevard Montparnasse. Here, a few hundred yards to the right, he parked his car at the tail end of a long queue of motors drawn up before a small building, the lower walls of which were painted in the crudest possible version of the Futurist style. Catherine looked at it with surprise. The name, “Tattenham Corner,” roughly inscribed over the door, told her that it was a night-haunt then much in vogue, but which she had not visited and had heard her companion mention with contempt. Why he had brought her here she could not guess.

A blare of strident jazz music greeted them together with a hot rush of fœtid air, heavily laden with scent, stale smoke and the odour of perspiring bodies. Shrill laughter and the babel of many tongues rose above unvibrant saxophones, and as they lifted a grimy curtain hung over a doorway and looked in upon the single cramped and crowded room, they had a confused impression of seething, jostling couples, hugged in tight embraces and swaying, cheek to cheek, upon a dance-floor little larger than a hearth-rug. Hell let loose was all Catherine could think of. Amusing but loathsome! Instinctively she drew closer to Geoffrey, who put out a strong arm to shield her from the horde of boisterous students who surged in behind them, shoving their way to the fore by brute force.

No one paid the least attention to them, and it was with difficulty that Geoffrey attracted the notice of the one frowsy waiter who plied his way among the jammed tables, executing orders and making charge with an air of stolid indifference. Finally the man approached, wiped his hands on a dirty apron, and listened with dull eyes while Geoffrey said a few words to him in French. After a second he nodded, cast a glance over the room, and undertook to pilot them towards the far end, where they managed to squeeze their way to the only vacant places, fortunately against the wall.

“We shall have to order something,” Geoffrey said, “but I warn you it will be bad.”

Whereupon he commanded a fine, while Catherine chose an orangeade, thinking it would be comparatively harmless. However, she was wrong. The drink, in a smudged tumbler, arrived, poisonous red in colour, syrupy and strangely chemical to taste. The garçon slopped it over on the table and made an ineffectual effort to mop it up with a filthy swab, his attention busy in other quarters.

What a place! Yet half the clients were of the leisured class, jaded but immaculately attired men, with women severely exquisite in the smartest of hats and the newest of ornaments. Why did they come here to stew in this stifling atmosphere, be served with nauseous drinks, and sit pressed like sardines against the unwashed bodies of midinettes, models and cocottes of the lowest type? It was a question only Paris can answer. They did not appear to be extracting any enjoyment from the experiment.

The music stopped, the dancers wormed their way to their seats. A thin girl with a chalked face, mouth like a vermilion scar, and hair plastered in dagger-points against her cheeks, threw herself into the chair opposite with a loud laugh and a wriggle of her snake-like figure. Her escort leered on her with a thick-lipped grimace, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and hammered loudly upon the table.

“Ent she sweet?” he carolled jocosely. “A walk-eeng down zhe street—I ask you confidont-zhallee, ent she sweet?” and he tweaked his lady’s ear, to be rewarded by a smack on the jaw.

In the comparative lull the curtain swayed, and an ancient dame, familiar to Montparnassians, stood like an image peering into the smoky interior. On her sparse grey hairs perched a man’s hat ornamented with a tiny bedraggled feather, while a soiled muffler was tied about her neck. Her toothless mouth was sunken between nose and withered chin, her bleared eyes ran slowly round with a knowing smile.

“A’ Ami du Peuple—A’ Ami du Peuple,” she piped in a monotonous sing-song, making it into a little tune.

No one noticed her, and presently she vanished, elbowed on her way by the waiter. She was promptly replaced by a little girl in a shawl, bare-headed, feet in ragged pantoufles, who carried a tray filled with bunches of flowers, one of which she extended in a grubby hand towards first one reveller, then another.

“Des violets—des muguets—touts frais—messieurs, mesdames, des violets, des muguets.…”

Then she, too, gave way before a jerk of the garçon’s head and departed without disposing of a single posy, but undaunted, calmly philosophical.

Geoffrey bent his head towards Catherine.

“I want you to notice the couple beside you,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “Watch the girl particularly and try to catch what she’s saying. She is the person I brought you here to see.”

She looked at him with amazed inquiry, then turned her head and surveyed her neighbour, whom till now she had scarcely noticed.

What she saw was a little wren-like creature of about twenty, jauntily arrayed in a bright blue jacket and skirt with a red-spotted neckerchief knotted round her throat and a hat like an aviator’s helmet worn so as to display a fringe of hennaed hair. Her perfectly round blue eyes had a babyish stare amidst black-beaded lashes raying out like the petals of a flower, her nose tilted up, and there was a circular patch of crimson painted upon each cheek, giving her the look of one of those naïve, slightly grotesque dolls seen in French shops. In a high, chirping falsetto she was chattering with an air familiar and inconsequent to a companion more than twice her age, a sober, hollow-eyed man, just now regarding her attentively while his bony fingers fumbled in a yellow packet of Maryland cigarettes.

“Who is she?” murmured Catherine, returning to Geoffrey in complete mystification.

“Never mind who she is. Listen.”

She obeyed wonderingly. For a few minutes she caught nothing of interest, only a childish description of some escapade at Mi-Carême, punctuated with argot and laughter. At the end of it the young person drained her glass, set it down with a smack of the lips, and gazed at her escort blandly, eyelashes in full play. At once the middle-aged man beat solemnly upon the marble with a coin till the waiter looked his way.

“Encore un porto pour mademoiselle,” he called, abstracting a note from a battered pocket-book.

Not until the full glass was brought did he speak, and though his tone was low, Catherine heard every syllable.

“And that was the last time you saw this Monsieur Blom?” he asked purringly.

Monsieur Blom!—Catherine repressed a start.

“Did you hear?” she whispered to Geoffrey.

He nodded and signed to her to continue listening. The girl at her side had risen to the bait like a hungry trout.

“Comment c’etait la dernière fois?” she retorted shrilly. “Ta mère accouchait un singe, alors!” she added with rude raillery, and sipped her port.

“No,” she continued more seriously. “I saw him lots of times after that. It wasn’t till a month after that Bordeaux visit that I told him he could go to the devil, nasty little toad! As if I was going to play second fiddle to that bag of bones. There are too many chances for a girl like me, I can tell you.” She sniffed contemptuously and ran a wetted thumb over her pencilled brows.

“I don’t know where his eyes were,” murmured her companion flatteringly, “to prefer this Madame Baron to you. Old, isn’t she?”

“Is she old?” chirped the damsel rhetorically. “Older than God, and a skin like an ostrich! Eyes—my word! They’re sharper than yours are, I’ll wager. They see where she’s got her savings hidden, Rich she must be, although you’d never guess it to look at her! That’s all he really cares about—money. He’d sell his soul to the devil for ten thousand francs!”

“But he must do pretty well, what with one thing and another,” suggested the other persuasively. “Shouldn’t you say so?”

“Oh, I daresay. He’s no spender, though. He was precious mean where I was concerned.”

“Ever hear him mention any pictures?”

There was a blank stare.

“Pictures? Never—unless you count some postcards he showed me once—filthy little beast!”—and with a grimace she produced her lipstick and applied it freely, studying her reflection in a small mirror.

“But what took him to Bordeaux? Have you any idea of his business there?”

“Bah! He never told me his affairs. Never talked much at any time—just sat drinking his beer and staring like this with his spotted eyes. Sacré! It used to get on my nerves!”

“Secretive sort of man, was he?”

“Man! He’s not a man at all, he’s an animal, a crawling reptile, who has no knowledge of life. Mind you, he’s not French.”

The all but untranslatable phrase, “qui n’a pas de savoir vivre” was indescribably ludicrous, coming from these childish lips with an air of arrogant authority.

So this little piece of painted femininity had known the notaire on the most intimate terms, might perhaps be acquainted with his secrets. Was she going to divulge anything important? Catherine listened eagerly.

“Did you ever hear him mention a client of his by the name of Jeanne Laborie?” pursued the agent smoothly, always with the manner of one not particularly concerned.

“Laborie? Never. Who is she? Friend of yours?”

“Only a lady’s maid, working at a place in the Avenue Henri Martin.”

She repeated the name of the street musingly.

“He had a man friend in the Avenue Henri Martin. Drove a big car, a Rolls-Royce. One Sunday we went for a drive with him, all the way to Chartres—had dinner at a hotel, and the friend stood us a bottle of champagne. It was just before Blom went away. I remember it, because I ruined my new skirt getting champagne on it, and the stingy little brute wouldn’t pay to have it re-pleated.”

“What was the friend like? A Frenchman?”

“No—Italian, or maybe Spanish. I don’t know which, but he could speak French well enough. Oh, he was quite chic, the friend. I could have had a good time with him, but I didn’t get a chance. I was a bit tight after dinner, and slept all the way home. He and Blom sat in front and talked.”

“What about?”

“How should I know? Didn’t I say I was asleep?” She gave him a push. “I only woke up to hear the Spaniard, or whatever he was, telling Blom the name of a hotel.”

“Ah! Can you remember what hotel it was?”

“No, of course I can’t. I wasn’t interested. But—well, now you speak of it, I believe I do know. It was the Hôtel des Négociants. Yes, that was it.”

“In Paris?”

She shook her head indifferently.

“Perhaps. I haven’t an idea. Anyhow, as he went away the next day, it may have been in Bordeaux.”

“Did he write to you from Bordeaux?”

“Not a line! But he was like that. I might have died for all he bothered.”

She sighed, but did not appear deeply affected. The agent continued to probe skilfully into her shallow little brain, but although the girl seemed quite willing to talk, there was no further information to be gained. However, just as Catherine was beginning to feel disappointed, she caught something which held her interest with a sort of fascination.

“No, I’m not sorry he’s gone,” observed the little creature callously. “I’m glad. I feel I can breathe again. I tell you, there was something about that little man I didn’t half like. So cold, so calculating—always planning, always thinking about something, I never knew what. He would sit and sit.… Say we were in a café, a gay place like this. He used to forget all about me, just sit and stare without blinking. If I spoke to him he didn’t answer, but kept his spotted eyes fixed on me with a sort of stillness, like…”

She broke off, wrapped in thought. Then with a laugh oddly nervous she went on again:

“I’ll tell you what it was like. Once in the packing-room at our place I found a huge spider in the middle of a web. Such a wicked devil—oh, a monster! It didn’t move, just stayed still and watched me. I screamed! You may laugh, but it was terrifying. There were flies tangled in the web, they couldn’t get away. I felt if he looked at me much longer I wouldn’t be able to get away either. You see? Well then, that is how I used to feel about Blom. He made me think of that spider, just sitting quiet in the midst of its web, waiting—and waiting. I wanted to shriek and run, and then it was as though my legs were tied together. Ah! It was frightful. If that Honorine can stand it, it’s more than I could!”

Her high-pitched voice trailed away, and she remained with round eyes staring at space, while one coarse little hand plucked at the scarf about her neck. At last she shook herself free from the disagreeable memory.

“Here, this is no good!” she cried brusquely, jumping to her feet. “What did you bring me here for, a funeral? Let’s dance.…”

When the space beside her was vacant Catherine drew a deep breath and turned to Geoffrey.

“Could you hear?” she asked, her eyes blazing.

He nodded with vexation.

“Total failure. The girl knows nothing against Blom.”

“Perhaps,” replied Catherine shaking her head. “But all the same she’s terrified of him. Did you notice her face when she spoke about the spider? She positively shuddered! She’s right, too, Geoffrey. There is something rather horrible about that little man. He gives me exactly that feeling of repugnance and—well, terror. I am quite, quite sure he is up to something evil.”

“Catherine, what a romantic imagination! Hermione Cushing couldn’t do better. I must take you home quickly, or you’ll be seeing spiders in your sleep!”

She laughed, crest-fallen.

“Am I such a fool? I wonder… Tell me, what did you gather from all this?”

“Very little, except the fact that Blom is evidently marrying the widow for her money. Moreover, the suddenness with which he began to pay court to her suggests that he wanted financial help in a hurry, for some definite purpose.”

It had, in fact, occurred to him that perhaps the notaire intended to set up as a picture-dealer in some other country, probably America, in which case he would need capital for the enterprise. He could even be buying the pictures from Jeanne and Eduardo, meaning to pay for them with his future wife’s savings. If this were true, the visit to Bordeaux, a seaport, no doubt had a connection with his plans, since he would most likely consider it safer to remove the paintings away from Paris, preparatory to smuggling them out of France. Here at last was a clue for Bernard to work on.

“Come along, let’s get out,” he said, reaching for Catherine’s coat. “This air is unbearable.”

In the fresh night outside the clamour they had left behind seemed as unreal as a drunken dream.

“My poor lilies-of-the-valley!” exclaimed Catherine, touching the fading flowers at her breast.

“You must be wilted too. Do you realize I’ve dragged you about with me for eleven long hours?”

“Eleven hours! It has gone like a flash.”

Twenty minutes later, inside the dark hall of the apartment, she held out her hand to bid him good night.

“Not just yet,” he whispered, “Listen…”

Out of the spring night floated the strains of a violin, piercingly sweet. She held her breath, her eyes lit with reminiscence.

“Is it—? It is! The Albeniz Tango again! How wonderful it sounds, coming out of nowhere, like music from another world!”

They looked at each other, and suddenly under the influence of the darkness and the wooing notes the air became charged with electricity. Before she knew what had happened his arms were around her, his lips upon hers.

Strength ebbed away, she gave herself up to moments of exquisite rapture, during which time stood still. Under her fingers she felt his arm muscles tighten, while the odour of his warm skin and hair, so close to her nostrils, swept her away with subtle intoxication.

Seconds passed while they clung thus hungrily together. Then with a gasp Catherine pushed him from her.

“Don’t! You mustn’t!” she murmured, frightened. “I—I didn’t want you to do that!”

“Didn’t you?” he demanded, holding her hands fast in his. “I don’t believe it!”

Her face burned. They were still so near each other that she could hear the pounding of his heart.

“Why?” he insisted urgently. “Catherine, I mean this—with my whole soul. Don’t tell me you don’t care too. Since that day in the train I’ve thought of nothing but you. I’ve never felt like this about any woman. I want you to marry me as soon as possible. Will you?”

The force of his tone took away her breath. She retreated a step, eyes wide and dark, trying desperately to think clearly.

He loved her, then! After all these weeks of calm, unemotional behaviour, he was begging her to marry him! She could hardly believe her senses.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she managed to answer in a shaking voice. “I—I don’t know. You see, for a whole year I was engaged to a man I didn’t love, and I swore never to make such a ghastly mistake again. I almost think I daren’t be engaged at all, but that some day, when I’m quite sure, I’ll marry someone all at once, before I can change my mind!” She finished with a wavering laugh.

“I’m not asking you to be engaged,” he muttered, smiling a little.

“But marriage is so irrevocable, isn’t it? I mean I’ve got to think things over… All the same, I did love—that.” Her breast rose. “Only, because I loved it I must be all the more cautious and not be carried away. It mayn’t be the real thing, and until I’m quite sure I mustn’t let you kiss me again.”

“Very well, then,” he said briefly. “But it will be hard-going—now.”

“Perhaps it will be hard for me, too,” she answered with shining eyes. “But I must stick to it, for I know I’m right.”

He was gone. She heard his car start, then with fluttering pulses groped her way towards the staircase.

Yes, she was right. Until she could determine the depth of this new emotion she dared not repeat the embrace which had robbed her of all reasoning power. Yet, oh, how terribly she longed to do so! She clung to the newelpost, weak with the memory of physical ecstasy.

Round her was heavy stillness, broken only by the ticking of the hall clock. Then, out of the enveloping gloom, her ear detected a faint, distant sound which rose and fell spasmodically. She raised her head and listened.

It came from the court side of the apartment, a stifled piteous sobbing, heart-rending to hear. Could it be Germaine, and if so, was she alone? At this hour, too, past midnight?

Without stopping to think she crept quietly along the passages to her cousin’s room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Outside Germaine’s door she stood, wondering what she ought to do. The sobbing continued softly, as though the hidden weeper were afraid of being overheard. It had a piteous sound which went to the girl’s heart and at the same time vaguely alarmed her. Where was Jeanne? Then she noticed that the dressing-room door was ajar. Cautiously she pushed it open and stole a glance inside.

The room was empty, the cover of the couch-bed smoothly drawn up. So much she could make out in the dimness, and drew her conclusions accordingly. Jeanne had gone out—perhaps to meet Blom. For once the invalid was left unguarded.

Not without a tremor of nervousness, she took her courage in both hands and went into Mme. Bender’s room.

But where was the occupant? The sobs had ceased. Two candles against the wall burned with a wavering light, casting black shadows across the disarranged but empty bed. The air was hot and stuffy.

All at once a movement caught her eye, and above the edge of the armchair showed a pallid face, tear-streaked, hair in disorder, eyes gazing fixedly.

“Germaine!” whispered the girl in consternation, mystified at the sight.

Then she realized that Mme. Bender was crouched on the floor before the crucifix, in an attitude of prayer.

It was a long second before she saw recognition come into the frightened eyes and the lips move stiffly, whispering her name.

“It’s you—it’s you—it’s you…” murmured the invalid over and over, clutching the bed-curtain with a shaking hand. “At first I thought…”

“But of course it’s me,” said Catherine soothingly. “I heard you and came to see what was wrong.”

She watched anxiously for any sign of recoil, but could detect none. Still puzzled, but with a feeling of relief, she put her arm about the older woman’s shoulders protectingly.

“But you will catch cold, dear. You must let me get you into bed again,” and she reached for the white peignoir lying on the chair and wrapped it round the unresisting frame.

“No, no, I am not cold. It is very hot in here—too hot. I could not sleep,” whispered Mme. Bender vaguely, her eyes fixed like those of a somnambulist. “Sometimes the sedative does not work. I think it is because I have taken it so often.”

She allowed herself to be led back to bed, and with complete docility let Catherine arrange the pillows and remove the stifling eiderdown. The window was closed, there was not a breath of fresh air. No wonder the poor creature could not rest.

“But where is Jeanne?” the girl could not help asking, as she lowered the upper sash a little and poured some water into a glass which she held to the patient’s dry lips.

Germaine regarded her as though in a dream.

“Jeanne? I don’t know… she went out, I think, an hour, two hours ago. Ah,” she added quickly, “you must not tell her I was awake! It will only distress her. Poor Jeanne—she does so much for me, and I am so selfish. No one in the world cares for me as she does. I know that only too well,” she muttered with curious insistence.

Catherine did not oppose her. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the trembling hand which she was glad to notice did not withdraw from her clasp. Then, seeing that the candles, still alight, were only a few inches removed from the draperies of the bed, she got up and extinguished them. The acrid smoke from the burning wicks filled her nostrils.

“Why did you light the candles, dear?” she asked, as she turned on the lamp. “You know, I don’t think it is quite safe to do that.”

The grey eyes avoided hers with a look of guilt.

“I was praying,” whispered the invalid childishly. “I was so unhappy, lying here… I couldn’t bear it any longer. I thought if I lit the candles and prayed I might get some relief from the pain here,”—and she touched her heart, while a spasm of suffering crossed her features.

“But why are you unhappy, Germaine? Won’t you try to tell me?” begged the girl, afraid to speak the words.

“Because—because I am so alone. Who would not feel as I do, with no one to care for me except Jeanne? Ah—if you knew! I am lonely, I am desolate—I have not a single friend. I would be happier if I were so poor that I had not a sou to call my own, for then I should perhaps have someone to love me!”

It was the old story. Jeanne had distilled the poisonous suggestion into the poor credulous mind until there was no removing it. It was almost unbelievably cruel.

“Germaine,” said Catherine firmly yet with an attempt at lightness, “all that is sheer nonsense. Listen to me, dear. Every one has friends—rich people as well as poor ones. It is Jeanne who has made you think this absurd thing—and is it possible you don’t realize why?”

The wan face expressed nothing but bewilderment.

“Jeanne? I don’t understand. Why should she?”

“Simply because she is jealous. She hates the thought of any other person sharing your affection. It has been plain to me from the beginning. I don’t blame her, but it is so. She is jealous of anyone who might come between you and her. Can’t you see that?”

She spoke with strong conviction, determined to drive home something she did not herself wholly believe any longer. She saw a light of wonderment come into her cousin’s eyes.

“But can this possibly be true?” faltered the poor woman in amazement.

“I’m sure of it. Think for a moment. Who are your friends? Tell me their names.”

The strained gaze wavered.

“Not many,” muttered the invalid after a moment. “Some are dead. There was, of course, Madeleine de Bréart…”

“The Comtesse de Bréart is in Africa, with her husband. She has been gone for many months. Surely you know that.”

But it was plain that Germaine did not know.

“A number of people have called to inquire about you, but you were not considered well enough to see them. They left cards and sometimes flowers. There was the Baronne de Grèves and Madame Strakosch.” She mentioned the names at random, shamelessly, bent only upon uprooting the fixed idea which was causing so much mischief.

Incredulous joy flamed up in the starved eyes.

“They came? You mean this? And I never knew! Or if I did I have forgotten it,” she added, pushing her hair off her forehead with a confused gesture.

“Of course! You see?” cried the young girl triumphantly. “Now you must never get such ideas into your head again.” She waited a moment, then, growing bolder, continued: “And then there is Hermione. You forget her. She cares for you very deeply, more, perhaps, than anyone.”

A shadow hovered over the sensitive face.

“Lili… do you think she does?”

“I swear it. For that matter, how is it possible you can doubt her devotion, after all these years, with nothing to go upon except the angry words of a servant?”

As she said this she shook inwardly, afraid that she had gone too far. However, the abashed expression on her companion’s features assured her she was right to take a firm line.

“You must not reproach me,” murmured the Frenchwoman, fidgeting. “She—she did urge me to make my will, you know.”

“And why not?” interrupted Catherine quickly. “She meant no harm. Everyone makes a will. Even I, with my tiny bit of property, made my will soon after my father died. It is the only sensible thing to do.” Here she paused to allow the common sense of this to sink into Germaine’s mind. “You cannot realize how hurt Hermione is when you refuse to see her. To be shut out like this by the one friend of her girlhood—surely you must know how terribly it has wounded her feelings. You really owe her an apology!”

“But—but——”

It was easy to read the meaning of Mme. Bender’s embarrassed hesitation. Half-convinced now that she had made a mistake, the poor woman was in terror of displeasing Jeanne by admitting it. She was far too weak to make any sort of stand by herself.

“Never mind that now,” said Catherine gently. “I don’t say this to upset you, only to make you understand things better. As for making your will, it is a matter only you can decide. No one wants to bother you about it. All we think of—Jeanne, Hermione, I—is to get you well again.”

The shaking hand picked at the sheet mechanically.

“I ought to do it—I know I ought,” whispered Mme. Bender indistinctly, as if arguing with herself. “Only feeling as I do about myself I dare not. My memory… Ah, what was that?” She started, trembling afresh. “Did you hear a noise?”

Listening, Catherine caught the sound of a door closing. It was Jeanne come back. Simultaneously the invalid’s eyes dilated with nervous dread.

“Go—go!” she urged, pushing the girl away with both hands. “She must not find you here. Quick, I beg of you! I shall pretend to be asleep.”

Catherine sprang up, put out the lamp, and slipped into the passage, shutting the door behind her. She was not a moment too soon, for barely had she time to step inside the neighbouring bathroom when she heard the maid’s brisk steps approach and enter the room she had just quitted. She waited till all was silent, then made her way back in the darkness to her own side of the apartment.

The past quarter of an hour had cheered her enormously, proving as it had how amenable Germaine was to the influence of any vigorous mind. How readily she had responded to the suggestion of Jeanne’s jealousy! A very little more and all that unhappy distrust in her soul could be melted away. Wonders might be achieved if only one had a free hand.

She took off her hat and began to unfasten the cuffs of her frock. Then, glancing down, she saw that the lilies of the valley which had been pinned into the front were gone. A little pang shot through her. Where could she have dropped them? They had been in place a little while ago, for she recalled their fragrance during the moments when she had leaned against the post at the top of the stairs. That meant they had fallen off either in the passage or in Germaine’s room.

Suddenly oppressed, she retraced her steps cautiously all the way to the distant bedroom, feeling the carpet every inch of the way. No, the flowers were not there. She had certainly lost them in her cousin’s room, where they would remain till the maid discovered them, silent evidence of her presence there.

Would the incident lead to further trouble? It had been only too plain just now that Germaine was afraid of what Jeanne would say if she knew. Well, the damage was done now, there was no help for it. One must simply hope for the best.

In bed at last, with weary body but alert mind, she saw the day’s events pass before her in a series of vivid pictures. The brilliant restaurant of Ledoyen, the April countryside, moonlight on the dark quais, the lurid interior of Tattenham Corner…

Those round staring eyes of the Montmartre grisette! What a note of fascinated loathing there had been in the piping voice when it described the huge spider, watchful in its web! Almost as though the girl herself were the hapless fly entangled in those paralysing meshes.… Geoffrey was right, all the same. One must not let one’s fancy be governed by such absurdities!

Candles… too close to Mme. Bender’s bed. They were dangerous. One flicker of a draught, and the draperies might be set on fire. All that must be changed. Never mind, to-night’s conversation was a distinct step forward. A little more scheming, reasonable luck, and Jeanne with her bad influence and slack ways would be gone forever.…

Meanwhile a warm thought flooded her consciousness. Geoffrey loved her, wanted her! Just now it mattered little what her own feelings were. Enough that she had been held in strong arms and kissed as all her life she had longed to be kissed…

She fell asleep, the Albeniz Tango pulsing rhythmically in her inner ear. Peace, oblivion, and not one disturbing hint of what the following day was to bring forth.…

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She felt strangely sick and queer, her head going round. What was wrong with her? She had slept till ten, rung for her coffee and drunk it before she had noticed anything amiss. Then, after reading her letters—one a note from Geoffrey’s sister, Elspeth Baxter, inviting her to spend a week with her at Fontainebleau—she had risen lazily to dress, only to discover an unexpected faintness combined with racking pains in her stomach.

Oh, well, it could not be serious. Yesterday she had eaten and drunk rather unwisely. Her thoughts flew to the poisonous, over-sweet concoction, falsely called orangeade, which she had imbibed at Tattenham Corner. Foolish to drink the stuff, only she had been so thirsty.

“I’ll take a starvation cure to-day,” she told herself, plying her hair-brush vigorously.

What about her lost flowers? Had Jeanne found them? If so she would instantly jump at the idea of collusion and perhaps make trouble. How annoying, at this crucial time!

Elspeth’s invitation.… How much she longed to accept it! She knew that Geoffrey would spend as much time as possible out there, and she thrilled at the prospect of rambles in the forest with him these warm, sunny days. If only she dared to go! But she must not think of it while things hung in the balance. Perhaps later on, with affairs satisfactorily settled—but they couldn’t be for some time yet. She did not even know what had come of the doctor’s interview with Jeanne.

She rose to go into the bathroom, then had to steady herself with a hand on the nearest chair. A wave of giddiness overtook her, thick beads of perspiration broke out all over her body.

Really, it was too stupid! Why, yesterday she had felt more than usually fit!

“I can’t, I won’t be ill!” she declared angrily, making a second movement to pick up her bath-towel. “I’ll dress and go out into the fresh air. All this is nonsense!”

The next moment she had collapsed across the bed, panting for breath and doubled up with pain like the stab of a knife. She tried to rise, but gave up in despair.

There she lay, uncovered in her thin crêpe de Chine night-dress, helpless and weak as a baby, for what must have been twenty minutes, before she could summon strength to ring the bell. All but unconscious, she wondered dimly what could possibly be the cause of the alarming attack. Her skin burned, her mouth felt parched, while her body seemed strangely swollen. Appendicitis occurred to her. Never in her life had she given it a thought, but now all at once the disease seemed a dreadful reality.

She was too miserable when the door opened to feel surprised that it was Jeanne and not Berthe who answered the call. She could not even raise her head as she lay huddled and racked with agony, and was barely able to articulate.

“Jeanne—I am feeling dreadfully ill. I can’t imagine what it is.” She succumbed again, speechless with a terrific fit of cramp.

“Ah, ah, mademoiselle! Vous êtes bien souffrante!”

The voice came from far away. At the same time practised hands lifted her capably, placed her between the sheets, while dimly she heard something about a possible chill and the advisability of summoning the doctor. Then she was once more alone.

Whatever this was, it was no joking matter. She was shivering from head to foot, her teeth chattered like castanets, and for a little time it seemed as though she would lose consciousness.

Presently Jeanne returned with a hot-water bottle which she placed at her icy feet.

“Eduardo is telephoning to Dr. Girard,” she said. “I am afraid to give you any medicine, as I do not know what is wrong. Where are the pains?”

Catherine tried to show her. It was an unwelcome turn of events which had brought this woman to minister to her needs. She would far rather have had Berthe, but there was no help for it.

“In the stomach, is it? Ah!” There was a grunt and a faint shrug. “Ah, well, that looks bad, but perhaps it is nothing serious!”

Through half-closed eyes Catherine saw the maid straighten up and survey her with an appraising frown.

“A hot drink will do you no harm, and may bring some relief. Lie quite still, and I will prepare you a tisane.” She departed briskly on her errand.

At least, thought Catherine, the doctor will soon be here. Then in a momentary cessation of pain she recalled an additional reason for wanting to see him. She could now find out if he had settled matters satisfactorily. What a blessing if Jeanne had given in!

Ten minutes passed, then the maid returned to hold a steaming cup to her lips. She took a sip of the hot liquid only to cough and choke with a qualm of renewed nausea.

“What bitter stuff!” she murmured in disgust.

“Bitter? But no! It is simply tilleul. Sure mademoiselle has tasted it many times?”

“Never.”

She forced herself to drink, then fell back exhausted.

“That is better. Now rest, it will do you good.”

For a brief interval it seemed that Jeanne was right. A sort of numbness ensued during which she drifted into a half-doze. Then she was roused anew by horrible sickness and suffering worse than before. Mentally she resolved not to touch tilleul again…

“Fancy,” remarked Jeanne, busily tidying the room. “We have been wondering why Dr. Girard failed to come yesterday. Now we learn that he has met with an accident—slipped on the parquet, and torn some ligaments in his leg. Poor man, he will not be able to go out for several days. However he is sending his assistant to see you.”

What bad luck! Nothing seemed to go smoothly. In the midst of her anguish the girl found time to question the complacent ring she detected in Jeanne’s voice. Did it mean that Girard had been stupid enough to betray some hint of their scheme?

So violent were the paroxysms now that she scarcely knew when Jeanne left her, nor was she able to speak to Berthe, who presently appeared, round-eyed and awed, to offer suggestions of brandy and mustard-plasters. She shook her head and with set teeth waited for the doctor, wondering if he would hurry her off to a hospital for an immediate operation. Even the thought of an anæsthetic was welcome in her present torture.

It was midday when the door opened to admit a plump, serious-looking young man, ushered in by Jeanne. He glanced at the patient’s white face, removed his gloves with deliberation, then turning his back on the bed engaged in a whispered colloquy with the maid. Catherine could not catch what they said, nor did she care, but she was aware of a brusque hardness in the assistant’s manner which would have roused antagonism if she had been less ill.

At length, as though satisfied, he motioned Jeanne outside, closed the door, and proceeded to make a brief examination, muttering to himself with an air of displeasure. Finally he sat down close to the bedside and leaned forward, solemnly confidential.

“And now, mademoiselle,” he began with a sort of accusing disapproval, “I want you to tell me precisely what it is you have taken, and how much.”

“Taken?” echoed Catherine in amazement. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, certainly,” he persisted. “I want to know what drug you have taken. Do not be afraid. I will not give you away.”

She stared at him mystified. What was the man driving at?

“But I haven’t taken anything. What do you mean?”

He uttered an abrupt exclamation, jerking his plump shoulders. She could not think why he seemed so annoyed with her.

“Mademoiselle, I beg of you, don’t attempt to deceive me! It is most foolish. If I am to help you, you must play fair with me. Now, once again—what medicine, what drug did you take last night? I insist upon knowing.”

Weak though she was, she felt bewilderment succumb to irritation, and roused herself to a more emphatic denial.

“I tell you, nothing whatever. I drank some rather horrid orangeade at a café last night, and I had two cocktails, one at lunch and one at dinner. But I haven’t taken any medicine, and I felt all right till after breakfast this morning.”

“And that is all, absolutely all?”

“Certainly. Why should I want to deceive you?”

By the half-veiled scorn in his eyes she could see that he only partly believed what she had said. An explosive sigh escaped him as he fixed his full eyes on the wall over her head, muttering to himself:

“Ces jeunes filles—tellement stupides, tellement ignorantes!”

Catching the indistinct words, she was stirred to a vague resentment. A flush mounted to her cheeks, but she forebore to argue.

“Eh bien! If you are determined to keep silent, I must do what I can without your help.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” she said bluntly, “and I wish you would say what is in your mind. You believe I’ve taken a drug. Is it possible”—she hesitated, frowning incredulously—“is it possible you think I have been trying to kill myself?”

“Kill?” He gave vent to a short, ironic laugh which grated on her ear.

“No, mademoiselle, not that. Assuredly not! But if one tampers with dangerous medicines, no matter for what purpose, one runs the risk of committing suicide!”

She gave up trying to understand, and mastered her growing indignation. What a disagreeable young man! Then the idea occurred to her, only to be rejected, that perhaps he had got hold of this notion from his talk with Jeanne. There had been something odd in Jeanne’s manner, only how could the woman have any opinion one way or the other? There was no point in it.

He began to ask a great many questions, some of them intimate ones, the bearing of which she could dimly surmise. She answered him frankly enough, but with an inward sense of embarrassment. Then, as the consultation went on she saw his expression change, grow less cocksure, and finally take altogether another phase. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and still looking at her with searching eyes, led the inquiry in another direction.

“Enfin, mademoiselle, let us hear what you had to eat yesterday. Everything, please. Don’t leave out a single article of food.”

Thinking back carefully, she enumerated the items of the various menus. When she came to last night’s dinner he gave an exclamation of triumph.

“Oysters!” he cried. “The end of April! You have been poisoned by the oysters, there is little doubt of it. The trouble is gastric.”

She did not know why all at once he should appear both relieved and mollified. His brow cleared and he looked at her in quite a different way.

“Well, mademoiselle, first of all I must prescribe for you a large dose of an unpleasant remedy. I will give directions to have it prepared for you at once, with orange juice.”

He mentioned the name—huile de ricine. That was merely castor oil. She nodded, quite ready to believe that it was the oysters which had caused the mischief. As for the trouble being gastric, it had never entered her head that it could be anything else.

“I will call again this evening. Meantime you are to keep warm and eat nothing until the middle of the afternoon, when you may have a cup of tea. You English like your five o’clock, is it not?” he added, heavily jocose.

She smiled at him wanly. After all, he meant no harm.

Yet, thinking it over after he had gone she was again affronted by his disbelief and the severe cross-examination he had put her through. She was still dwelling upon these things when Berthe entered with the castor oil, and she could not help noticing that in the friendly cook’s eyes she was an object of interest and curiosity. Why should Berthe look at her like that? A moment later, while the door was temporarily ajar, she caught a scrap of whispered conversation, which explained it even while it increased her mystification.

“Mais non! Tu crois?” She heard Berthe gasp in astonishment.

“Humph! J’en suis sûre,” retorted Jeanne’s voice, contemptuously emphatic.

Whatever it was the maid was so sure about, it seemed certain, after all, that the doctor had taken his original cue from her.

After this she dozed from exhaustion, but at seven o’clock when the physician reappeared she was still in so much pain that it was necessary to administer an injection of morphia.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The suffering passed, but she was distressingly ill for three whole days, during which she was ably cared for by Jeanne, who proved an efficient nurse. Berthe, too, bestirred herself to prepare the simple dishes ordered by the doctor, and hung about, much concerned as to the patient’s progress. From her Catherine learned that Geoffrey had telephoned several times daily, a fact which brought solace even while she felt too weak to see him.

Also he had sent flowers—more lilies-of-the-valley and great bunches of golden daffodils, filling the room with colour. She lay feasting her eyes on them, now and then slipping the accompanying notes from beneath her pillow to read again his ardent messages.

The fourth afternoon Dr. Girard himself arrived, hobbling with a stick. He had been fully informed of her alarming symptoms, which he agreed were those of acute ptomaine poisoning, occasioned by the oysters eaten on Sunday evening. Oysters at this season were a bit of a risk. She might think herself fortunate to have got off so lightly.

“But fortunate or not, mademoiselle,” he added with pompous kindliness, “you have had a bad time which has left you extremely weak. You must go slow, and as soon as possible get away from Paris into the country, for a change of air.”

She stared at him in slight annoyance. This was not the right tack at all—for her to go away. It was the last thing she had thought of.

“But I’d rather not leave Paris just now,” she said. “And I shall be all right in a few days.”

“Not so soon as you think,” he contradicted with a shake of his head. “I should really like to insist on your getting out of town. It is what you need to put you on your feet.”

Why was he so determined? In spite of his amiable face suspicion assailed her that Jeanne had been getting at him. This might mean a fresh manœuvre on her part.

“Tell me, doctor,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “has anyone suggested this to you?”

He wavered a little.

“Well, yes, I admit it. Someone has, only yesterday.”

Ah! She knew it! What an exasperating irony!

“Does it occur to you that this person is being rather officious on my behalf?” she inquired sarcastically.

“I would hesitate to call it that,” replied the old man in a conciliatory tone. “As a matter of fact, it was a young man, who appears to take a very warm interest in your welfare.”

So! It was not Jeanne but Geoffrey who had stolen a march on her. She was relieved, yet could not repress a rueful smile at the doctor’s insinuating repetition of the words, “Un jeune monsieur, très distingué—un Anglais.” What a reversal of the situation! Here she had lain, praying for Girard to order the maid away, and now it was herself he was virtually commanding to go!

“But, monsieur, have you forgotten our conversation last Friday?” she asked, ready to cry with disappointment.

“Ah, no, mademoiselle, assuredly not! I had meant to speak of it this afternoon. I broached the subject to the person in question the last time I was here, and I am happy to report that I met with almost no opposition. The affair is arranged most satisfactorily.”

“Arranged?” she exclaimed, electrified with astonishment. “You mean she is willing to go?”

“But certainly—quite willing, even pleased at the prospect. She desires only a little time to make her plans. She was to write to her brother to prepare him for her visit and make sure he has room for her. That is all. You can put your mind at rest.”

Catherine sank back, overcome by the unexpected good news. How simple it all was! If only she had known, she might have spared herself endless anxiety. She began to laugh softly, while tears of weakness came into her eyes. She wiped them away hurriedly, aware that Girard was watching her with concern.

“There, mademoiselle, you see? It is you who are unnerved now. Your friend the Englishman was right, you must get away from this atmosphere for a little in order to recover your strength. Yes, the woman was most reasonable. She only stipulates that madame should be gradually accustomed to her leaving, and that she should not be left entirely alone with a strange nurse during her absence. In short, she wishes that you yourself should be here while she is away.”

“I?” echoed Catherine, hardly able to believe her ears.

Either Jeanne had experienced a change of heart, or else her own suspicions were hopelessly false. It was difficult to take it in.

“Yes, you, mademoiselle. As she says, Mme. Bender is attached to you and will be less likely to feel the change if you are with her. It is for that very reason that I urge you to get your own holiday first, so you will be perfectly strong and equal to the responsibility.”

She looked at him searchingly, wondering if he knew what a clever method he had hit upon for gaining her consent. His heavy features gave no hint of duplicity, showing merely complacence at his management of the situation.

“Eh bien! We may regard the matter as settled. Naturally you must stay in bed for a few days longer, while we watch the diet and give you a tonic to put some strength into you. Towards the end of the week we might think of getting you to the country. What do you say to Fontainebleau?” he added, with a look of arch cunning.

She was silent. Much as she wanted to go to Fontainebleau the idea that wires were being pulled to make her do so was distasteful. Moreover, Jeanne’s complete veering round provided food for conjecture. Not once had the woman mentioned the flowers she must surely have discovered in Mme. Bender’s room, or hinted at the possibility of a reconciliation. True, all this week she had been extraordinarily assiduous and kind, a gesture one might construe as a desire to bury the hatchet.

Catherine pondered the matter, languidly puzzled.

“Perhaps she has some reason for wanting to placate me,” she reflected. “Or is it that I’ve been mistaken about her all along?”

At the moment she felt thoroughly confused.

Still her main purpose was accomplished. Soon Germaine would be under competent care, free from adverse influence. A month was not long, to be sure, but before it was over one might reasonably hope to find means to prevent Jeanne’s return to power. Eduardo, too, must be dealt with, but alone he presented no formidable difficulties.

A knock sounded and Berthe’s voice was heard saying that a gentleman had called. Might he be permitted to come in?

For the first time in days Catherine’s heart leaped with glad expectancy, while a flush crept into her cheeks.

“One minute, Berthe. Fetch me my mirror and powder-puff, please.”

Vanity had revived—a healthy sign. Hastily, with Berthe’s aid, she made herself presentable, smoothing the dark mass of her hair and rebraiding the twin, short pigtails which fell over her shoulders. The thinness of her face shocked her. She had not looked in a glass since early Monday morning.

“Un peu de parfum, n’est-ce pas?” whispered her attendant with the air of a sympathetic conspirator.

She assented, laughing, and the thick finger of Berthe planted a spot of scent behind each of her ears.

When Geoffrey entered he found her propped up against pillows, her eyes shining in their wells of dark shadow. He took her hand in his warm clasp and stood looking down on her with intensity.

“Catherine—my dear! What is the meaning of this?”

She shook her head with a grimace.

“Oysters, I suppose. Anyhow, that’s what they tell me.”

“It’s my fault. I was a fool to suggest the damned things in this weather. I ought to be kicked!”

“What rubbish! Besides, I’m well now. In a few days I shall be up.”

“In a few days,” he retorted grimly, “I mean to have you out of this. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to leave this place.”

Her eyes opened wide with amazement.

“Aren’t you a bit premature with your airs of authority?” she demanded with severity. “For that matter, what do you mean by plotting with the doctor behind my back?”

He looked slightly abashed.

“Maybe I’d no right to,” he muttered doggedly. “But someone has got to take you in hand. It was bad enough knowing you were ill, but much worse to think of you at the mercy of these slovenly servants. I very nearly had the American Hospital at Neuilly send an ambulance to fetch you away.”

“You needn’t have bothered. I’ve had nothing to complain of, except feeling absolutely rotten.”

He sat down, still retaining her hand, which she could not bring herself to withdraw. She was battling with a sudden absurd desire to cling to him and weep upon his shoulder; instead of which she assumed a bantering smile and tried to turn the conversation away from her illness.

“Elspeth wrote you,” he said presently. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Oh, that! I haven’t felt up to making plans.”

“You needn’t make plans. Decide now when you think you can go, and I’ll send her a telegram.”

His new assurance astonished her. Had those brief moments on Sunday night been to him like the tiger’s first taste of blood? The idea amused her, at the same time causing a faint thrill. Clearly it was impossible for them to resume their former friendly relations.

Yet his very urgency roused in her a perverse desire to object.

“I’m not sure I want to go just yet, Geoffrey. You see the unexpected has happened. Jeanne has consented to take a holiday.”

“The devil she has!” His thick brows shot up in rueful consternation. “By George, that alters things, doesn’t it? I mean if she’s really a bad hat, would she be willing to walk out and give us a free hand at investigation? Either she’s extremely sure of herself, or else…”

Their eyes met guiltily.

“I know,” replied Catherine, nodding. “I’ve been thinking that, too. Perhaps we—or rather I—have been misjudging her all along. It makes me feel so ashamed. Oh, Geoffrey, do you think me an utter lunatic to have stirred up this hornet’s nest?”

“Your suspicions were quite natural.”

“Yes, they were, weren’t they?” she whispered. “However innocent she may be in the main, her conduct has been open to reproach in many ways. In any case I am positive about one point—her really bad effect on Mme. Bender. That is what actually matters.”

He agreed heartily, not thinking it necessary to tell her that, judging by his own talk with Dr. Girard, the latter’s opinion of the maid was not seriously shaken. It was just as well, according to the doctor, to supplant Jeanne, or at least to supplement her services by professional ones, but on the whole she seemed to him a devoted, obstinate servant, a person of one idea, unwilling to admit herself in error, as the unfortunate mouse episode proved. She had been on a long, severe strain at a time of life when a woman’s nerves are apt to prove uncertain; moreover, quite possibly she had a touch of the type hystérique in her make-up, which would account for many peculiarities. This was his pronouncement, uttered sanely, without rancour. He struck Geoffrey as an intelligent and well-meaning man, kindly disposed towards Catherine, but withal anxious to be just.

Coming out of a brief reverie, Geoffrey again attacked the subject of Elspeth’s invitation.

“If, as you say, Jeanne means to get off as soon as she hears from her brother, then obviously you ought to lose no time over your own visit. What about Saturday? Do you think you’ll be well enough by then?”

She remained quite still for a few moments, her brows knit over troubled eyes which avoided his gaze.

“I don’t like being hurried into a thing,” she murmured presently, trying to take a light tone.

“My dear!” he laughed, but was plainly annoyed. “Don’t you realize you’ve been deucedly ill, and that the doctor says it’s most important for you to have a change?”

She gave him a scornful look.

“I realize he said that before he’d seen me at all,” she retorted. “Besides, I always pick up with amazing speed. No, that doesn’t mean anything,” she added, as he spread her thin, olive-tinted hand out on his palm and traced the bones with a significant finger. “I can gain that back in a fortnight. Anyhow, I don’t intend to go, so that’s that,” she finished, her chin stubborn.

“Why?”

She resented the fashion in which the question was shot at her. How could she put into words the rather preposterous idea which was wandering about in her brain, seeking confirmation? Already she had exposed herself to sufficient ridicule.

“The same old reasons, I suppose,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t want to leave Germaine till Jeanne is away.”

He exclaimed in exasperation, giving her hand a squeeze which made her wince.

“Catherine, you’re impossible! Can’t you see it will be only for such a short time that it can’t make any difference to anyone? That you’ll come home feeling strong and able to cope with things? I’ve no patience with you. You deserve a smacking.”

“Who’s going to inflict it?” she laughed at him.

He hesitated, eyeing her sternly.

“I am. I made up my mind what I should do if you took up this unreasonable stand. I’m going to resort to pressure.”

She could not be sure whether he were joking or serious.

“That sounds like a threat,” she said lightly.

“It is. Here’s the situation in a nutshell. The doctor has definitely ordered you to go away from Paris. If you refuse, I shall simply send a cablegram to your family in Boston and tell them the whole story.”

She stared at him, drawing in her breath.

“You don’t mean that. You couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing,” she said, laughing, “you don’t know their address.”

He smiled confidently.

“I have already got your brother-in-law’s cable address, which shows how much you know about it. I intend to send a night-letter outlining the position.”

He meant it, that was plain. In a flash she foresaw the appalling row which would ensue when Barbara and John learned what was going on here, realizing that her own silence on the subject would make a bad matter worse. Barbara could not compel her to return to America, but she could stir up a deal of trouble. The prospect frightened her.

Geoffrey saw her eyes smoulder with indignation, but he did not give in an inch.

“Think it over,” he said calmly. “I’ll give you till to-morrow morning, but no longer.”

Without rhyme or reason a quick change came over her face. Her mouth softened into a smile wholly disarming, her eyes shone at him through a mist as she answered with a catch in her voice.

“Very well. I’ll go. Tell Elspeth, if you like, to expect me on Saturday.”

“Good girl!”

The abrupt capitulation took the wind out of his sails. With a laugh he bent his head and kissed the hand he held, outside and in.

“But mind, it’s only because you’re being so horrid to me,” she warned him reproachfully. “And remember I haven’t promised anything about—you know what.”

With a deep breath he relinquished the imprisoned hand.

“I understand.”

Now she had made the decision her brain was working feverishly.

“I must put certain things right before I go. Germaine will have to make it up with Hermione, so there will be someone to keep an eye on Jeanne. I think I can manage that though. Will you ask her to come and see me?”

“Miss Cushing? Certainly, if you think it a good idea.”

Why did he hesitate in that embarrassed manner? Had she said anything wrong?

“Don’t, if you’d rather not. I’ll drop her a line.”

“No, no. I’ll telephone her. I was only thinking that in your present wobbly state she might prove slightly overpowering.”

He was a bad liar, and consequently became disturbingly self-conscious when her eyes rested on him thoughtfully. Had she guessed that he was feeling more than a little queer about Hermione?

It was nothing serious, of course, but all the same an incident had occurred that very afternoon to sow doubts in his mind regarding the singer and set him once more struggling against a crop of peculiar surmises.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Geoffrey earnestly hoped his stupidity about Miss Cushing had passed unnoticed. Seriously concerned over Catherine, his one idea was to get her quickly and safely into his sister’s care, a project easily jeopardized if one introduced her to fresh worries.

Besides, the information recently obtained might prove of no importance, though he had to admit it had given him a jar.

Two hours ago he had had his first talk with the senior clerk since the latter’s illness, and questioning him about Blom’s visit to the office had received a somewhat startling reply.

“I recall the fellow,” the old man had said at once. “Rénier was the name he gave, and he came on a rather delicate mission, respecting one of our clients—in fact Mme. Belmont Bender. He wanted to know if this lady had executed a will.”

“Why should he wish to know that?” Geoffrey had demanded, suspiciously.

“He was acting on behalf of another lady, who, as she is a personal friend of Mme. Bender’s, felt a natural hesitancy in approaching us on the matter. It seems this individual has hopes of inheriting something substantial in the event of Madame’s decease, and was anxious to learn if the bequest had been put into legal form. Rénier also inquired the terms of Mr. Bender’s own will, and as the request appeared a harmless one I informed him that Mr. Bender had left the whole of his property unconditionally to his widow. That was all.”

Geoffrey’s mind had leaped to the conclusion that Jeanne, fearing her mistress had stolen a march on her, had taken this roundabout means of learning the truth.

“I suppose you don’t know who the client was?” he asked.

“Oh, but I do. It seems she is an American lady by the name of Cushing.”

Hermione! Geoffrey had sprung from his chair, all his previous ideas in confusion.

“Yes, Miss Cushing, the singer. I heard her once, at the Salle Erard—a large woman, with a wreath of rosebuds on her hair. No kind of voice, but I believe she has an influential connection.…”

Feeling as though he had doubled on his own tracks, Geoffrey had departed, chagrined and mortified. The revelation that the mysterious Blom was acting for Hermione shocked him curiously. Was it possible that under cover of pretended hatred the singer was in collusion with Mme. Bender’s servants? For a wild moment he asked himself if Miss Cushing herself was concerned in the thefts, using Blom as a go-between. It was a monstrous thought.

Going over the circumstances he felt it could not be true. The singer bore a blameless character, and moreover had herself asked him frankly about this will some time ago. In any case as a femme de monde she would not be likely to employ a common notaire. Then, too, it was she who had first dropped hints of the servants’ possible dishonesty, a proceeding manifestly absurd if she was in league with them towards a mercenary end.

The only other explanation was that Blom was representing Jeanne, and had substituted Miss Cushing’s name to hide his client’s identity.

Ah, that must be it! The maid was plotting to establish herself as her mistress’s legatee!

Ambitious, yes—but it was not the first time such a thing had been done. Possibly Jeanne’s protestations were so much dust in the eyes of onlookers, while she played a devious game to obtain her object. To alienate the poor woman from her friends by doubts cast upon their disinterestedness, to work upon her affections by subtle degrees—did it not all point in one certain direction?

This was what he had feared in the beginning, only Catherine’s statement had put him off the track. Now he was filled with a new uneasiness, which was relieved only when he recalled the fact that Jeanne was undoubtedly profiting by her mistress’s present condition. Yes, he had overlooked that point. There was as yet no talk of a will, and whatever the maid’s secret intentions might be she was pocketing all she could lay hands on. He breathed again.

Still—Miss Cushing! Her name stuck in his mind like a burr. Perhaps she did have an obscure connection with Blom, who, innocent of thieving, might be acting in a quite different capacity from the one first suspected.