[NOTE]

No reference is intended in this story to any living person.

CHAPTER ONE

Catherine did not at first know what to make of Geoffrey Macadam. Did his stiffness betoken mere British reserve, or was he trying to hide a natural annoyance at having a stranger thrust upon him, threatening the peace of his journey to Paris?

If the latter, she longed to tell him how hotly she shared his resentment, how for eight days across the Atlantic she had been fleeing from the officious patronage of the lady now needlessly effecting the introduction.

“It’s no fault of mine,” her eyes strove to convey. “I promise not to take advantage of it!”

The very next instant she caught that curious, almost startled look on his face which set her wondering, asking herself if he were really as wooden as she had imagined.

That look one may take as the starting point of the story…

Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope—the Hugh rendered as Huge by some of their fellow-travellers—was no more to be denied than the forces of nature. She overcame by sheer weight of fatuity, and having constituted herself Catherine’s protectress on the voyage was determined to see matters through. Useless for the girl to protest that she wanted no assistance in finding her seat. Overborne by the pressure of a mighty bust she was propelled the full length of the train, while a voice richly-oiled with kind intentions shouted for the benefit of all and sundry:

“Now, if only we’d met you sooner, dear, we could have had your place reserved along with ours. Such a pity! It’s just too dreadful to think of you travelling all this way by your little lonesome! Still it can’t be helped now, the train’s so jammed. Is this your seat? So it is. At any rate it’s a corner one. Porter! Mettay le grand sac de Mademerselle ploos au coin, il y a un carton aussi. These foreigners don’t give a hoot for your convenience, you have to show ’em everything.”

It was at this precise moment that, clogging the aisle with her immense mink coat and treading on one pair of toes after another, she had spied the retiring male in the opposite corner and shrilled with recognition.

“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Macadam! Now, what do you know about that? Been up to Havre on business? Well, well! Catherine, my dear—I want you to meet the very nicest man in all Paris, Englishman. Mr. Macadam, let me present a little friend of mine I’ve met on the boat, Miss West, from Boston. She’s on her way to visit a relative in the Avenoo Henri Martin—you know, Mrs. Harry Belmont Bender, whose husband was killed last year in that awful motor accident in Massachoosetts. So sad!”

Extremely painful, nor was this the end. Not content with entrusting her young friend to the Englishman’s care (“As though I were a congenital idiot,” thought Catherine bitterly), she had dragged her victim back into the corridor and confided a parting message at the top of her lungs.

“Now wasn’t that luck? Such a nice man for you to know. Macadam and Langtree. Lawyers. Everybody knows them. This one’s the son, quiet, you understand, but such perfect manners. Be nice to him… Well, au revoir, dear! Don’t forget to ring me up, and come to my very next At Home.”

So saying Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope careened up the swaying corridor and out of Catherine’s life. Her part was played, nor did Catherine, inwardly cursing her, suspect what an important part it was.

Self-consciously, now, she sank into her seat. To her relief the Englishman had retired behind his magazine, so that she was able to settle herself calmly and collect her scattered thoughts.

To tell the truth, they needed collecting. Various uneasy qualms, hitherto stifled at birth, rose anew to trouble her, growing more insistent with each repetition.

Had she done right to come?

A guilty voice whispered that she had been unwisely precipitate over the whole affair, and might live to regret it.

“Yet why?” she argued crossly. “Germaine certainly wants me with her. There’s no doubt about that.”

Yes, Mme. Bender’s letter, for all its characteristic vagueness, had expressed an earnest wish for her company. She would have bothered no more about it if it had not been for this other, rather odd epistle now hidden in her bag, a communication she had shown to no one.

Ah, there she had been wrong, there was no blinking the fact. She ought to have confided in her married sister Barbara and her sober brother-in-law, John. Catherine made her home with these two, and usually asked their advice on matters. Only sometimes, when she foresaw the result, she omitted the formality.

To be frank, she had been feverishly eager to leave Boston behind and with it the irksome associations of an engagement just terminated. She felt she could not walk down Boylston Street or across the Common without encountering a certain injured young man or some member of his family, in bitter league against her. Yes, she had dashed off instantly to secure her passage, and when later this curious missive penned by a complete stranger had arrived she had kept silent about it for fear of shipwrecking her plans.

Oh, well, it was done now, there was no looking back. Besides there was nothing definite in the letter, no fact that one could get hold of, in spite of its emotional tone. Who was this woman, anyhow? Probably some excitable friend of Germaine’s, prone to exaggeration. The hysterical note spoke for itself. Naturally that accident last year had dealt poor Mme. Bender’s nerves a shattering blow, but there could be nothing worse. She would put the whole thing out of her mind.…

Why did her vis-à-vis keep stealing those furtive glances in her direction? The covert survey, always quickly withdrawn, disturbed her like the prickings of her own conscience. There was a queer look of interest in his face, the same expression she had noticed a little while ago.

Discreetly she took stock of him. He was of slender build, wiry and muscular, his skin ruddy with health, features unremarkable, and eyes grey and keen, beneath strong bushy brows. His whole appearance had an air of restraint, extending to his clothing, which was well-cut, not too new, and by no detail claimed attention. Altogether he looked a man who would do nothing rash. Like John, she decided. John, too, was a lawyer. No, in a situation like her present one, he would undoubtedly have weighed the pros and cons carefully, and then—she was sure of it!—stayed at home…

“I beg your pardon?”

She started out of her reverie.

“Yes?”

He coloured in confusion.

“Nothing. I fancied you spoke.”

“No, I was only thinking.” Then she added with a little laugh, “You didn’t overhear my thoughts, did you?”

A glint of humour was her only answer. Still, a thaw had set in, and from now on the glances became more frequent and less furtive. Soon she was sure he had something to say, but that his reticence was fighting against it. Twice he cleared his throat, then at last the question came forth.

“I beg your pardon, but did I understand Mrs. Pope to say you are a relation of Mme. Belmont Bender?”

He had leaned forward, voice lowered, as though the matter were a private one.

“Mr. Bender was my cousin,” she replied in surprise. “Mme. Bender is French.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course!”

“Perhaps you know Mme. Bender?” she suggested.

“I have met her,” he said cautiously. “Not in a social way. You see,” he went on after a pause, “my firm—we happen to be solicitors—has had the handling of the Benders’ affairs for a very long time. Your cousin was one of our oldest clients.”

“Oh! So that’s it!”

Catherine’s eyes lit up, transforming her entire appearance miraculously. Her eyes were her most striking feature. Rather sombre in repose, with a brooding melancholy recalling the famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci, they had a trick of flaming up with the rise of any sudden emotion and becoming twin lakes of liquid fire.

“That’s extremely interesting,” she exclaimed, and bent towards him, flecks of red straining her cheeks. “I—I wonder if you’d mind telling me just how she seemed to you when you last saw her? I’d rather like to know.”

He was gazing straight into her eyes now, as though fascinated, half against his will, by their molten glory. He took a moment to reply.

“It was some time ago,” he answered slowly. “Before Mr. Bender’s death, in fact. Few people have seen her recently, and I am told that she’s by way of being a complete—” he hesitated, choosing the right word—“invalid. Probably you know more of her than I do.”

Her face fell.

“I know very little indeed,” she said uncertainly. “Except for one short note, I’ve had no news for almost a year.… You see, I have never known her well. She and Cousin Harry were seldom in America, and it wasn’t till after the accident, when she was ill in a sanatorium——”

“Sanatorium?” he repeated quickly.

“She was injured, you know—a bad concussion.”

She thought he looked a trifle embarrassed.

“But do you mean to say,” he ventured gravely, “that her mind was affected?”

“Certainly not!” she retorted with energy. “Why do you ask that?”

He reddened again.

“I’m sorry! In England a sanatorium usually means a home for mental patients.”

“Oh, I see! With us it’s simply a private hospital.”

It was odd, though, his suggesting such a thing. Suppose, after all…

“I interrupted you. Please go on.”

“I was only about to say that while Mme. Bender was recovering I used to go and see her every afternoon. She seemed so alone, so helpless and so crushed. You know, she had always depended on Cousin Harry for everything, gone everywhere with him, let him act for her, think for her even. Why, she’s never bothered to learn English properly. There was no need, her husband spoke such beautiful French.”

“I recall that he did.”

“She was so overwhelmed by grief and shock that she was utterly incapable of making any plans. She even turned to me for advice, like a little child, perhaps because I could talk French with her, and scarcely anyone else could. She wanted me to go back to Paris with her then, but it wasn’t possible.”

There was a far-away look in her eyes as she thought of her broken engagement, rejoicing that the ring she had worn for a year—its stone cut like a piece of rock quartz because her fiancé had thought it bad taste for diamonds to sparkle—was no longer on her finger.

He was watching her closely.

“But was Mme. Bender entirely alone in Boston?”

“Oh, no! There was a maid, a most excellent woman, who had been with her for years and understood her perfectly. Indeed, there were two servants, a man and a woman, who used to travel with the Benders wherever they went—Egypt, Biarritz, Cannes, all those places. The man was a sort of courier-valet, spoke a dozen languages—very efficient.… I wonder if those same servants are still looking after her?” she added, “because, poor dear, she had such a horror of strangers!”

“The servants? Oh, yes, they are still there,” he assured her quickly; then in reply to her look of surprised inquiry continued by way of explanation, “At least I saw them at her apartment a few months ago. Mme. Bender sent for me on a business matter, but when I arrived she was too ill to see me, so that the maid you mention had to speak to me instead.”

Inexplicably Catherine felt that he was withholding some item of importance. Moreover his interest in her had become so pointed that she grew positively ill at ease, and saying no more, resolutely directed her attention to the flying landscape.

They were in the heart of Normandy, which early spring had garnished with rainwashed tints delicate and vague. Through a mist of green, thatched cottages appeared, each with its little rectangle of farmyard, walled in by slender poplars. There was a flush upon the budding hedges, and here and there showed the pink bouquet of a flowering almond.

Catherine feasted her eyes, but her soul was troubled. The letter in her bag suggested anew such alarming possibilities that she was impelled to run through it again, hoping to fathom the writer’s real meaning.

No use. It was a tangled mass of contradictions, framed in extravagant phraseology which left her baffled and irritated. She sat staring at the blue pages as though they contained some strange hieroglyph she had not the wit to decipher.

Minutes passed. The other occupants of the carriage had lapsed into whole or partial somnolence, with the exception of the Englishman, who having donned a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles was frowning sternly at the cover of his magazine.

Suddenly Catherine addressed him.

“Do you happen to know anyone in Paris by the name of Cushing—Hermione Cushing?” she inquired.

He started violently, the copy of The Bystander sliding to the floor.

“Hermione Cushing?” he echoed, obviously to gain time.

Their eyes met, and in a flash Catherine realized that there was something in the letter after all.

CHAPTER TWO

During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal profession. She thought she knew the breed.

“Hermione Cushing?” he repeated again with a sort of negative inflection. “Oh, yes! You mean the singer.”

“Do I?” she demanded bluntly. “I didn’t know she was a singer.”

The gleam in his eye was altogether human.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer,” he amended. “In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.”

“You do know her, then?”

“Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known figure in Paris.”

That was all. He had shut up like a clam.

“Oh dear!” fumed Catherine inwardly, “he’s going to be tiresome like John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that when I mentioned her name?”

There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her cards on the table.

“Mr. Macadam,” she began, glancing hastily at their comatose companions, “just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme. Bender’s, and as such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?”

He considered briefly.

“Oh, yes. I believe—indeed, I know that she is.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?”

She fancied his smile was reminiscent.

“Nothing,” he replied discreetly. “Beyond a certain excitability, which one may put down to the artist temperament.” Yet even as he spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her. Why couldn’t he be more open?

“Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully bothered to know what to make of this.” She fingered the pages with hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. “If you won’t think me stupid, I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my feeling nervous about it.”

She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness; then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention, she held her breath, studying him anxiously.

Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue to his thoughts.

“You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out of her mind,” she put in presently. “And about it’s being an undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?”

“Of course,” he assented, “it puts the idea into one’s head.”

“That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s naturally very upsetting.”

He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.

“If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?”

Catherine blushed.

“No,” she confessed guiltily. “I had made my plans, and frankly I didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender herself——.”

“Oh, she wrote to you, did she?”

“Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact, on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that Eduardo—that’s the manservant—could meet me with the car and see me through the customs.”

“You are sure she wrote the letter herself?”

Catherine stared at him astonished.

“Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have written it?”

Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he would let her share it!

“Besides,” she argued, to justify herself, “it is not as though Miss Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed, she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get that idea?”

“Very much so,” he agreed. “She appears to think she will have a better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.”

Catherine gave a quick nod.

“Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne. Here—what is it she says?—‘She detests me, cette femme là, and will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder what is at the back of that?”

Macadam stirred uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.

“Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what these old servants are like. Will you smoke?”

“Oh, thanks!” She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette, then puffing thoughtfully remarked: “That probably explains it. But it occurred to me—what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?”

“Oh, perfectly! I see your point.”

Indeed, he saw it only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were not wanted. Various information, all emanating from the singer herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had done the best he could.…

“Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane,” he remarked with apparent irrelevance. “Often there are completely lucid intervals, so that two observers might easily have different opinions.”

“That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion, must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.”

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to do so by her companion’s evasiveness.

Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her, showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body. When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?

“At any rate,” he said, “I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who probably understands her case.”

“An American?”

“No—French, I believe.”

“She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope so.”

So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had known at least one case of so-called “circular insanity,” where the patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.

When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confused surging exodus of passengers on to the grimy platform.

Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years ago! The staccato babble filling her ears had an exotic sound, heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset herself over imagined difficulties! Everything was going to be perfect.…

What was Mr. Macadam saying?

“Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet you?”

“Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel Portuguese, looks as though he ought to have rings in his ears and a knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be somewhere among the crowd.”

While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with an eager eye.

“I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him,” suggested her companion tentatively.

“Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be here.”

She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices shouted “Attention!” and more than once she was glad of the protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.

Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face she could descry no one faintly resembling him.

“Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you through all this business so as not to waste time.”

She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with uncertainty.

“It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?”

“I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner,” he assured her. “Here we are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.”

It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.

“Like the Last Judgment—the graves giving up their secrets!” she laughed. “I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to declare.”

It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.

Eduardo was not there.

CHAPTER THREE

In the open space taxis honked and porters jostled each other with the peculiarly vicious abandon characteristic of Paris. A few private cars were drawn up, and each of these they examined searchingly, sure that one among them must be Mme. Bender’s. However, in turn they were claimed, and drove away.

“You say you sent a telegram?” inquired the Englishman.

“Certainly, as soon as the boat docked. Of course it may have gone astray.”

“Possibly. That does, of course, occasionally happen.”

She glanced at him with indecision. Twenty minutes had now passed, and there was no sign that anyone was coming to meet her. She could not deny feeling disappointed.

“Oh, well, there’s no good hanging about. I’ll just get into a taxi and go along by myself.”

He had not noticed in the train how young she looked, and how slender, almost fragile. Standing now against the dingy building with the cold draught whipping her squirrel coat about her silk-clad knees, she seemed to him altogether unfit to be venturing across a strange city unescorted.

He found himself suggesting solicitously:

“Perhaps you’ll let me drop you at the apartment? I’d very much like to.”

She shook her head quickly.

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t dream of it! You’ve been too awfully good as it is.”

She was conscious of a warm appreciation, more pronounced than if the offer had come from one of the cheerful, less restrained youths of her acquaintance. She had begun by considering him stiff and severe. Now she was not so sure.

“Here’s a taxi. I don’t in the least mind going alone, really. It’s not as if I didn’t speak French.”

Her manner brooking no argument, he somewhat reluctantly handed her into the waiting cab and gave directions to the driver. Then, not quite satisfied, he hung on to the sill, looking in at her.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Oh, absolutely! I’m not a baby, you know. I’ve been looking after myself for years,”—and she laughed, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s this question of your cousin, Mme. Bender. I daresay you’ll find everything as it should be, but if it isn’t—if for any reason you don’t want to stay there”—here he floundered a little not sure as to what he wanted to say—“well, perhaps you might let me know.”

“I will, if you like,” she agreed readily, though a little astonished.

“I’ll give you my telephone number—both my numbers, in fact. The first is the office, the second my home.”

He scribbled on a card and handed it to her through the window.

“You won’t forget, will you? I shall be rather anxious to hear how you’re getting on.”

For an instant his two hands rested on the ledge. She noted that they were unexpectedly large and sinewy for his medium build, and that there were dark brown hairs on the backs. A detached part of her brain reflected that they were utterly unlike the pale smooth hands of Miles Waring, her late affianced—hands which for some inexplicable reason had always roused in her a faint repugnance.

She thanked him with a grateful smile, and the taxi lunged away, leaving him upon the kerb, gazing after it with doubt in his eyes.

Beastly annoying of these people to let a young girl arrive like this with no one to meet her. Nothing in it, of course, but all the same he ought to have told her plainly the things Hermione Cushing had said to him a few weeks ago. As it was, he had let her go to her destination totally unprepared. Well, it was too late now.…

Meanwhile, at breakneck speed the taxi hurtled along crowded thoroughfares. Lights twinkled through the violet dusk, cars flashed past, the air was heavy with the distinctive scent of French petrol, so oddly thrilling because of its associations. Intoxicated by the well-remembered odour, by the hurrying people and the gay shop windows, Catherine sat upon the edge of her seat, keyed up with anticipation of all that Paris was going to mean.

Presently she glanced at the card in her hand. “Mr. Geoffrey Blair Macadam,” she read, with the address in the corner, 59, rue d’Assas. She recalled the rue d’Assas. It was across the river, by the Luxembourg Gardens, a delightful place to live. How thoughtful he had been! She wondered if she was likely to see him again.

With a lightning swerve the taxi rounded a corner, and behold, the Champs Élysées, broad and darkly glistening like a ballroom floor. Far ahead, in the evening gloom, rose the shadowy Arc of the Étoile, grandly beautiful, the climax to a perfectly planned vista. Beyond it spread the Bois de Boulogne, full of mystery, with its young bare trees, and over the Seine to the left lay the heights of St. Cloud forest. The thought of the myriad slim poplars, pale green even to the mossy stems, pierced her heart with a joy that hurt.

Ah, here was the Avenue Kléber! Two minutes more and she would reach Mme. Bender’s magnificent apartment, where four years ago she had spent a few pleasant days. At the thought sudden stage-fright chilled her exultation. She was quite forgetting the possible state of her hostess, and a qualm of self-reproach assailed her. Still, in spite of last year, she felt almost a stranger to her cousin’s widow, that intangible creature, so extremely difficult to know. One pitied rather than loved her, but that was inevitable. Ardently Catherine hoped that these rumours about her mental condition were exaggerated. Until she had actually seen her she would feel a bit nervous.

She recalled her first, childish impression of Mme. Bender, long years ago. Always there had been something unreal, a clinging, orchidaceous quality, suggesting that she was constitutionally incapable of existing alone. In the positive personality of her American husband she had taken root, but recently, torn from that support and sustenance, her entire character had wilted and sagged, a fact pathetically apparent a year ago. What would she be like now? With age creeping pitilessly upon her, it was hopeless to expect her to build for herself an independent life.

They turned into the Avenue Henri Martin, a spacious street with a double row of chestnuts down the central parkway. The handsome building on the left contained the Benders’ two-floored apartment. There, just round the corner in the side-street, was a private door, through which one might go without passing the concierge’s loge; but naturally now she would use the main entrance.

Queer for that telegram, properly addressed, to go astray. Would her arrival take them by surprise?

The driver descended, unstrapped her trunk, and dumped it unceremoniously within the flagged court. Catherine got out, paid the fare, and started to enter the archway.

Then an incident occurred which in itself meant nothing at all, and which would have been speedily erased from her memory if subsequent happenings had not served to emphasize it. As she crossed the pavement she collided forcibly with a lounger who, idling along, head upturned towards the windows above, had not observed her approach. She recoiled with the impact, straightening her disarranged hat, as a muttered apology met her ears.

“Pardon, mademoiselle!”

“Pas de quoi, monsieur,” she replied mechanically, still tingling with the blow, which had all but knocked the breath from her body.

He drew back to let her pass, and to her slight discomfiture favoured her with a long, penetrating stare. How like a Frenchman, she reflected indignantly. She lowered her eyes, but her brief glance had shown her a slight, meagrely-built person, execrably dressed in black, with a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. Above an old-fashioned winged collar with a cravat rose a small, pasty-white face, the skin recalling the unwholesome pallor of a fish-belly, while pale, red-rimmed eyes, one of them marked with a black triangular blemish, gazed forth with an unwinking fixity.

He was still standing there behind her on the pavement when she reached the high glass doors of the concierge’s loge, the official occupant of which came forth to greet her, grudgingly, after the manner of her class. A dried, spare little woman with a nut-cracker countenance and a black crocheted shawl about her shoulders, she bent on the new-comer a vulture-eyed look of mingled curiosity and suspicion.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle!” she accosted Catherine with metallic precision. “On desire——?”

“Madame Bender,” announced Catherine briefly.

A quick change came over the hard old features. Eyebrows and shoulders hoisted themselves with one movement, and the sharp eyes narrowed for a closer inspection of the young girl’s face.

“Ah!” breathed the concierge with an upward, insinuating inflection. “Madame Bender! I was not informed that madame was expecting a visitor. However, that is no affair of mine.” She made a curt gesture with her gnarled hand, at the same time jerking her head towards the octagonal court beyond the covered way. “Montez, mademoiselle. L’ascenseur est à droit.”

Catherine thought her manner definitely unpleasant. In some annoyance she motioned to her luggage asking to have it sent up as soon as possible, then turned towards the shallow steps at the right side of the court. She had not gone two paces, however, before the hard voice called out with what sounded like malicious enjoyment:

“Mademoiselle has chosen an unfortunate moment for her visit. If she expects madame to receive her in person, she must prepare for a disappointment.”

Catherine looked around.

“What do you mean?” she demanded quickly. “Is anything wrong?”

There was a second meaning shrug.

“I cannot tell you. I know nothing, I! All I can say is that the doctor was summoned for madame last night at nine o’clock, and that he has only this instant gone out of these doors. Almost twenty-four hours he remained there, but everyone has been in too fine a state of excitement to tell me what has happened. Mademoiselle will soon know the truth, though. She has only to inquire.”

She turned her back and thrusting her scrawny neck in through the glass doors, screamed “Gaston!” in a strident voice.

Her heart pounding, Catherine ran across the court, past the group of trimly clipped box trees, to the big double-doors. A final glance over her shoulder showed her a fat, sluggish old man lumbering out to join the woman under the archway. There the pair stood, planted beside the little pile of luggage and stared after her with a concentration which had something ominous about it. Why should they look at her like that? She was filled at once with antagonism and dread.

A second later she had shut herself into the bronze cage of the lift and was juggling with the automatic buttons. Up rose the ascenseur and halted at the entresol. She sprang out and with rapid steps crossed the thickly carpeted floor to the imposing mahogany door on the left.

She rang and rang again, but there was no response. Within was complete silence, as though the big flat were untenanted. Really it was incredible that no one should answer the bell! Impatiently, she pressed her finger once more to the bronze button and kept it there.

All at once, without warning, the door opened to reveal the thick, squat figure of a man in conventional butler’s attire.

It was Eduardo.

Out of the broad, swarthy face his smallish black eyes stared at her without a trace of recognition. The wide mouth tightened with an expression unfriendly, faintly contemptuous. Was this the suave manservant she knew, this uncompromising person who barred the entrance with his body, making no attempt to admit her? She felt curiously dashed, as though cold water had been thrown in her face.

“Eduardo!” she cried, to jog his memory. “Surely you recall me? I am Miss West, madame’s cousin. Madame is expecting me, you know.”

Only then did he stand aside, an unwilling smile breaking over his features.

“Oh—Miss West,” he mumbled indistinctly. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t recognize you.”

Then with something approaching his former manner he removed himself from her path and by an after-thought took from her the umbrella and small dressing-bag she was carrying.

Catherine was less annoyed by the nature of her reception than alarmed at what it might indicate. The thought struck her that something had occurred to upset the whole morale of the household.

“Didn’t madame get my telegram? She was going to send you to meet me. However, that’s of no consequence,” she added quickly. “The point is, what has happened? Is madame ill?”

In spite of his command of many languages, Eduardo was a man of few words. He muttered something unintelligible in which she could only make out “accident” and “very bad,” then after an awkward hesitation he showed her towards the wide doors of the salon.

“Perhaps you’d better go in there, miss,” he said, with a jerk of his head. “I’ll fetch Jeanne to talk to you——” and without further explanation he vanished, his tread making no sound on the padded carpet.

Catherine was bewildered. Why, he had addressed her with the inarticulate but casual manner he might have used towards one of his own station! Certainly Harry Bender, easy-going though he had been in many ways, would never have tolerated this rude familiarity. Yet she knew that this man had for years been almost indispensable, something approaching a major-domo. Had the accident to which he referred overthrown his customary balance? She hoped it was only that.

She pushed open the salon doors and entered; then, too perturbed to sit down, gazed round her at the rich furnishings. The immense double-room, built on two levels, was divided through the middle by graceful gates of wrought iron and gilded bronze, placed at the head of broad shallow steps. Both portions were filled with exquisite examples of the Louis Quinze period, genuine pieces, fit for a museum, the upholstery of delicate petit point. On the left wall hung a large tapestry, and here and there stood vitrines containing collections of miniatures and snuff-boxes. The whole effect was much as she recalled it, yet there was a subtle difference which she was now too preoccupied to define. Probably it was due to the general air of neglect and complete absence of flowers, which, together with a stuffy atmosphere, gave the impression that no one had used the apartment for a very long period.

Minutes went by. She wandered restlessly about, longing for the maid to come and put an end to her suspense. Whatever had occurred, she had perfect confidence in Jeanne, whom she remembered as capable and full of good sense. Sometimes she fancied her a bit too ingratiating, but that was merely a manner.

Why didn’t Jeanne come? The prolonged wait intensified her fears. Again and again her eyes strayed towards the doors, but there was neither sight nor sound of anyone approaching.

She walked to the end of the room, where two long windows gave upon a narrow balcony. The curtains of old-gold brocade had not been drawn, and through the opening she could see the trees and glimmering lights of the avenue. Between the windows was a wide fireplace, over which hung an eighteenth-century mirror with a painting in the Watteau style let in at the top. Facing her, flanked by twin lustres with pear-shaped drops, stood a columned pendule of white marble with ormolu mounts. Mechanically she compared the time with that of her wrist-watch, then saw that the clock was not going. At the same instant she discovered a thin coating of dust on the delicate surface. Odd! She touched the crystal pendants of the lustres, ran a light finger over the strip of brocade beneath. Dust again.…

Suddenly she felt her eyes gravitate upward towards a reflection in the glass. Through the iron tracery of the gates a strange face appeared, sallow and lined, a woman’s face, out of which, with a fixed and hostile expression, two opaque eyes stared straight into her own. She gave a little gasp. Who was this person? For a second she gazed back, unpleasantly fascinated. Those black bars between gave her a curious sensation.

It wasn’t—it couldn’t be——

She wheeled about with a nervous laugh of relief and made an eager movement towards the steps, pushing the gates wide.

“Jeanne!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t recognize you! Oh, thank goodness you’re here at last!”

She extended an impulsive hand, and the woman took it, after a brief hesitation, and with little answering pressure.

“It is you, mademoiselle. Pardon me for keeping you so long.”

Catherine saw that she was indeed altered, her strong features haggard and drawn with fatigue, discoloured semi-circles like bruises under her eyes, the brow deeply furrowed. A year ago she had thought the maid almost handsome with her good white teeth always showing in a cheerful smile, but now, sapped and strangely preoccupied, she appeared actually ugly.

“Jeanne, I am frightened! What has happened to madame?”

The vertical cleft deepened where bristling hairs met over the snub nose.

“How did you know anything had happened to madame?” the woman parried in accents resentful, almost suspicious.

“Why, I heard it from the concierge. She told me the doctor had been here since last night.”

A stubborn look settled over the close-lipped face. An appreciable pause elapsed before the reply came, cautious, deliberate.

“Madame is very ill,” she said shortly.

A doubt swept into the girl’s mind.

“Oh, Jeanne—you don’t mean she’s—dead?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“No, no! Certainly not!”

This time she spoke with quick impatience, as though for some reason she were vexed by the suggestion.

“Well, then, tell me what is wrong. I insist on being told.”

The idea came to her that there was some mystery in all this. Why couldn’t the woman come straight out and tell her?

“Very well, mademoiselle, since you must know, but I warn you it will give you a shock.” She came a step closer, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice: “The fact is, last evening madame attempted to commit suicide. There—now you have the truth!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Catherine was aghast. Her eyes dilated with horror, while an inner voice whispered that rumour had not lied. Poor Mme. Bender was certainly deranged.

“When—how did it happen?” she gasped.

“It was last evening. Madame tried to drink a glass of strong disinfectant. I only managed to summon the doctor in time to save her life.”

For a few seconds the girl remained speechless, her eyes fixed on the maid’s worn face.

“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed at last. “I had no idea it was as bad as this. But”—with a faint glimmer of hope—“are you quite sure she meant to do it? Couldn’t it have been accidental?”

Jeanne shook her head slowly and with decision.

“That is what she wishes us to believe,” she replied with a shrug and in a leaden manner, as though fatigue had dulled her faculties. “By good luck she had only drunk a little of the liquid when I discovered what she was doing. I seized her arm and dragged it away. To-day, of course, she is ashamed, and pretends she took it in mistake for her sleeping-draught, which I need hardly tell you is extremely unlikely.”

“Ashamed, Jeanne? What do you mean?”

“Only that madame in her sane moments suspects that we are watching her, as indeed we are. Invalids with her complaint become cunning.”

“Oh, Jeanne, is it true then, about madame’s mental condition?”

A shade of reproach almost scornful passed over the other’s face.

“In my opinion madame has never been normal since the death of monsieur. Surely you must have realized that last year in Boston, when, ill as she was, she suggested your coming to visit her.”

Catherine flushed a little.

“No, Jeanne, she seemed to me perfectly sane at the time. Indeed, I should never have dreamed anything was wrong if I had not heard…” Here she checked herself, not sure that it was wise to divulge her informant’s confidences.

A look of shrewd intelligence came into the heavy eyes.

“Oh, I see! It was Mademoiselle Cushing who told you,” remarked Jeanne rather coldly. “I am not surprised that you have heard from her.”

Catherine felt curiously ill at ease, as though she were being accused of some wrongdoing.

“As a matter of fact, Miss Cushing did write to me,” she admitted. “But I may as well tell you she doesn’t think Mme. Bender is insane—only very nervous and depressed.”

A long silence greeted her statement. Then the woman spread her hands outward with an expressive gesture.

“Eh bien,” she commented with singular emphasis, as though she had expected this. “There is another who believes what it suits her to believe.”

Although Catherine did not grasp the meaning of this cryptic utterance, she felt vaguely disturbed at the undercurrent of hostility, directed, it seemed, at her as much as at Miss Cushing. What had either of them done to incur the maid’s displeasure? Still one must not judge a person who so clearly had just passed through a painful ordeal and had not yet recovered her poise.

“Never mind, Jeanne,” she ventured soothingly. “The point is, how is madame now? Is she quite out of danger?”

“Ah, yes! She is sleeping. The doctor ordered her a sedative, and she is not to be disturbed.”

“That is good. What a mercy she has you to look after her!”

The Frenchwoman turned on her suddenly with a hint of suppressed passion.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you may well say that!” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Little do you know what I have been through these past weeks. It has been one crisis after another. I live in terror! I dare not leave poor madame, day or night, for fear she will do harm to herself!”

The girl was forcibly impressed by the devotion, almost fanatical, which blazed forth from the sunken dark eyes. Not knowing what to say, she laid her hand upon the arm nearest her with impulsive sympathy.

At her touch a change came over the woman. Pulling herself together she spoke in a business-like tone, almost cheerful:

“And now, mademoiselle, we must think what is to be done about you. Naturally you could not know the situation here, or else——”

Catherine interrupted her reassuringly:

“Don’t think of me, Jeanne, I shall be all right. Just show me my room and I’ll give you no trouble whatever. You must go to bed and get some sleep.”

Her remark was met by a blank stare. She saw the maid’s body stiffen slightly.

“Your room? But surely, mademoiselle, you cannot have any idea of remaining here!”

Catherine was taken aback by the almost irritable incredulity of the exclamation. For the second time she felt the blood mount to her cheeks. This was a Jeanne she had not encountered before.

“Why not? I shan’t bother anyone. And, of course, I mean to do all I can to help you.”

“I do not require help,” retorted the maid quickly. “But—visitors, at a time like this! Really, mademoiselle, it is not to be thought of! The apartment is like a maison de santé! No, assuredly, it would never do. Eduardo will assist you at once in finding an hotel. There are many small, quite comfortable ones in the quarter.”

Her determined manner brooked no contradiction. Catherine was silent for a moment, dashed and puzzled. Then a rush of obstinacy overtook her, and she made up her mind not to be dealt with in so peremptory a fashion. After all, she was not suggesting anything unreasonable.

“Listen to me, Jeanne,” she replied, kindly but firmly. “Madame invited me to stay here, and I do not intend to go to an hotel. Show me where I am to sleep, and I will look after myself. Which room is it?”

For a long moment the two regarded one another. The girl felt herself in conflict with a will of steel, but she did not waver. At length she saw that she had won.

“I am not sure that any bedroom is ready,” muttered the maid rather sullenly. “But if you are determined to stay, mademoiselle, I must see what can be done.”

She turned and left the salon, irate protest in every muscle of her rigid back.

It was a chilling reception. Easy to understand that in the recent crisis no thought could be spared for the coming guest, yet for all that Catherine could not help feeling that Jeanne was assuming an unjustifiable amount of authority. Besides, in an apartment full of servants a single extra person could hardly prove a serious inconvenience.

She felt damped and depressed. What an idiot she had been not to make sure of the situation before plunging into it! Her own fault, too, for she had received a sort of warning. Yet perhaps, after all, she had not done wrong to come; perhaps in some small way she might be able to assist her unhappy relative. It was selfish to think only of her own comfort, which really did not matter very much. She would not have done so but for the fact that she was tired after her journey. Once she could wash and change and have some food, she would take a brighter view of things. A glance at her watch told her it was past eight o’clock. She had eaten nothing since lunch.

All at once a disconcerting thought occurred to her. What if her coming had precipitated this action on Mme. Bender’s part? Suppose the poor, tormented woman had brooded upon the prospect of her arrival, yet had not had the courage to put her off? There was no saying what vagaries and exaggerations neurasthenia might attain. For an instant she was half inclined to run after Jeanne and tell her she had changed her mind about remaining. She even went as far as the entrance hall, but before she could carry out her intention common sense pulled her up.

No, it was hardly possible Germaine could feel like that about her. At all events it was better to do nothing till she had seen and spoken with the invalid. It could not possibly matter if she spent the night here. Her cousin would not even be aware of the fact.

She stood looking round the formal hall with its carved chairs and big Sèvres vases, the latter bare and a little dusty. Always before there had been a profusion of flowers, frequently renewed—Madonna lilies, delphiniums, roses. The wide fireplace used to be banked with azaleas, in and out of season, but now it gaped empty, with an unsightly wad of paper thrown carelessly upon the hearth.

Paper? The crumpled fragment, of a pale blue colour, stirred a chord in her memory. She picked it up and straightened it out. Could it possibly be——?

Yes, here it was—the telegram sent from Havre this very afternoon. It had come, then, and been tossed aside as of no account. Queer, that. She studied it abstractedly, and again saw before her the butler’s unfriendly stare, the hard, resentful face of Jeanne seen just now in the mirror. Why, it had not looked like Jeanne at all! She still recalled her sense of shock at finding the baleful glare fixed on her.

She shook herself free of disturbing fancies. Why make a mountain out of a molehill? These servants had had twenty-four hours of tension calculated to upset the evenest dispositions. Now things had calmed down, they would come to their senses. They could not bear her any personal ill will.

In the passage which cut across the main hall a whispered colloquy was going on between Jeanne and another maid. She could distinguish no words, but the voices sounded irritable, breaking now and again into smothered exclamations of annoyance. Finally a sentence uttered by Jeanne reached her ears:

“Alors, la chambre Empire, c’est tout ce qu’on peut faire! Changez les draps, tout de suite!”

Evidently they were holding a hurried debate as to where they were going to put her. Oh, well, one room was as good as another, if only they would be quick about it.

She caught sight of a blowsy female crossing the archway with an armful of linen. This person, who had a mop of straw-coloured hair and was unsuitably attired in a short black pleated skirt and a blue satin jumper very open at the neck, stared at her curiously. Catherine also stared. Never could she have imagined anyone here going about domestic duties clad in so incongruous a fashion. Even a femme de ménage would not be allowed to wear such clothes.

A quarter of an hour elapsed, then Jeanne came to inform her that her room was prepared.

“If you will come with me, mademoiselle, I will show it to you.”

She was composed now, still not altogether friendly, but much her usual self. Catherine began to feel more comfortable.

“Thanks, Jeanne, I shall be glad to get off my things.”

“You will understand our being a little confused, what with last night’s excitement. None of us has slept since the night before last, and it never occurred to me to give orders for you, as I felt so sure you would not wish to stay.”

She smiled, showing her very good, white teeth, but her agreeable air did not quite hide the reproach of her last words. Catherine felt unaccountably small and guilty, but she said nothing and followed the brisk figure along the passage which led to the far side of the apartment. Here, turning a corner, she saw ahead of her the stairway which communicated with the ground floor, and just beyond it an open door, in front of which her guide halted.

“I thought it best to put you as far from madame as possible,” remarked the maid, signing to her to enter. “Madame sleeps badly, and is apt to be disturbed by the slightest noise.”

“Quite right, Jeanne. This will do splendidly.”

A glance assured her that her luggage had been brought up, the cabin-trunk placed on a stand at the foot of the bed.

“I hope you will not object to unpacking for yourself,” continued her companion with a tentative manner. “The truth is I dare not leave madame for more than a few minutes in case she wakes. Just now is a critical time.”

She seemed indeed rather preoccupied and a little restless, as though anxious to get away.

“Certainly, Jeanne—don’t let me keep you. I shan’t need anything.”

A dozen questions regarding last night’s affair crowded to her lips, but she decided to postpone them till to-morrow. She saw the maid bow her head in an absent, detached fashion.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. I will wish you good night.”

The door was quickly shut, and Catherine was alone.

With a sigh of relief she removed her hat and looked about her. At once she realized that the room, although decent and comfortable, was one of the poorest in the apartment. It was furnished in Empire style, good mahogany with mountings of gilded bronze, the sort of thing now highly prized but twenty years ago picked up for little money. Walls, curtains and covers were alike of a cheap printed toile in Empire design, bees and lyres in medallions of rose and yellow. Upon the marble mantelpiece were candlesticks made of gun-metal with crystal drops, while the centre was occupied by a pierced basket of the kind of enamelled iron-work known as tôle.

The atmosphere was close, laden with a pungent, cloying odour, suggesting inferior scent. She could not think what it came from, but as she hated the smell she crossed to the curtained window and threw open the casement, letting in the damp night air.

Below lay the narrow side-street, lit by an arc-light at the corner. An occasional motor-car whizzed along the avenue, a section of which was visible. She remained for a few minutes looking out, still shaken by the news lately received. How near this had come to being a house of death! If it had not been for Jeanne’s timely intervention, poor Mme. Bender would have breathed her last, no doubt in agony. Yet she found it difficult to grasp the fact of her cousin’s suicidal impulses, so cheerful had been the letter written only a few weeks ago. It was frightening to know that a period of gloom could follow so quickly upon apparently tranquil spirits. The thought made her tremble with apprehension. Still she meant to stay. After all, it was only for two months, for she had promised to join some American friends later on and go with them to Italy. These people, a young Harvard professor and his wife, were enjoying a Sabbatical year in Europe, and were to pick her up in May or June, after they had completed the work they were doing at the British Museum.

Gazing absently down, she noticed a small man in a wide-brimmed black hat detach himself from the shadow of the chestnuts and stroll into the circle of light. In him she recognized the lounger she had encountered on entering the building. Still there! What did he want, hanging about like that for almost an hour? He had the appearance of waiting for something.

A moment later the mystery was solved. Below, a few yards to the left, she saw the private door of the apartment open, and a woman issue from it, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a plain pull-on hat. On the threshold she glanced rapidly about, then made straight for the corner, where she joined the black-clad lounger.

In the full glare of the lamp her identity was revealed. It was Jeanne.

Catherine experienced a mild astonishment. After what the maid had said only three minutes ago about not daring to leave her charge alone, it was a little surprising to find her going out, cloaked and hatted. She must be bent on some urgent errand. Hardly unforeseen, though, for the gesture with which she greeted the loiterer—brusquely familiar and charged, it seemed with irritation—showed plainly she expected to find him there. The two exchanged a few words, then hurried away together, down the avenue, out of sight.

It occurred to Catherine that this man, whose rude stare she had not forgotten, must be a relation of Jeanne’s, or perhaps an admirer. Of course the woman must have some personal life, difficult as it was to imagine such a thing. For that matter, Catherine had sometimes wondered if there were not some sort of attachment between Jeanne and Eduardo, who for so many years had travelled about together in their service to the Benders. Not that she had ever seen any sign in either remotely suggesting the tender passion.

As she mused thus idly there sounded on the door a sharp rat-tat. She turned with a start.

“Entrez!” she called.

CHAPTER FIVE

A servant entered with a tray upon which a meal was set, with silver-covered dishes.

She was none other than the blowsy woman Catherine had seen in the hall, and though she had put on a small, rather absurd apron, she still wore the satin blouse, and her bulging legs, encased in flesh-coloured stockings, ended with patent leather shoes run over at the sides. The mop of bleached hair stuck out unrestrainedly from a vapid, rouged face.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle! As it is so very late, and as mademoiselle no doubt wishes to go early to bed, Jeanne thought it best that I should bring mademoiselle her dinner to her room.”

“Oh, thank you! Put it here, on the little table.”

The woman set down the tray, and as she bent over Catherine caught an overpowering blast of the same scent already permeating the atmosphere. The creature reeked of it. Instinctively the girl moved away, hoping the abominable odour might not cling to her own person.

Realizing that this extraordinary female was actually attached to the household, she inquired her name, whereupon the blonde vision beamed with a fatuous smile, placed her red hands on her hips, and volunteered a considerable amount of information regarding herself.

She was called Berthe, she was the cuisinière, and she had been in her present situation barely two months. The place was not too bad, for although there were only three domestics kept, there was the advantage of no entertaining, and she had all her evenings to herself. She was not much interested in cooking now, since she was going to be married before long, and in company with her prospective husband was planning to start a business of letting rooms in Paris Plage.

“But do you mean to say there are only three servants here now?” Catherine could not help inquiring in amazement.

The creature opened her china-blue eyes wide.

“Mais si, mademoiselle, il n’y a que trois—Eduardo, Jeanne, et moi. Mais c’est suffisant, puis ce qu’il n’y a pas beaucoup à faire,” she returned with a friendly yawn.

She added that she had only once seen madame, who kept strictly to her room and issued orders through Jeanne, if indeed she issued them at all. Since the housekeeper left Jeanne was in command. Poor madame dreaded strangers and saw no one, not even her friends when they called, but that was not remarkable as, bien entendu, madame was a little odd. Here Berthe touched her forehead with meaning. The poor lady, she went on, had to be constantly guarded, for fear she should do away with herself. Several times she had given them a fright, and last night, vraiment! there had been a scène affreuse. No one had closed an eye, and she herself had not been able to get out to see her fiancé.

Left alone, Catherine sat down to her solitary repast. It was decently served and not unpalatable, though the cold chicken and galantine suggested a hasty visit to a pastry-cook’s, while the soup had most certainly come out of a tin. However, she was not disposed to be critical, especially as she felt sure the cook had received no notification of her arrival. Indeed, the woman had assured her that Jeanne was in a state of stupefaction at the idea of anyone choosing to remain here at a time like this.

So Berthe, with her satin blouse and flagrant make-up, was the cook! It was a violent change from the days when Harry Bender’s table had been noted, and his chef, in a tall white cap, had on occasions of ceremony been invited into the dining-room to receive congratulations and to partake of a glass of fine champagne. She sighed, not because she had expected to find anything approaching the former standard, but simply over things in general—her genial cousin gone, his widow mentally unbalanced and confined to her room, the home in which he had taken so much pride given over to domestics who neglected, if not abused, his cherished possessions. Already her eye had detected small evidences of slipshod management. The best of servants, she reflected, grow careless when left to their own devices.

Oh well, of what importance was it, so long as the invalid herself was properly attended? She had seen a good deal of Jeanne, and felt sure that, however imperfect she might be as an administrative, she would never fail in devotion to her mistress.

Except for the breezy cook, who returned to bring coffee, no one came near her that evening. She might as well have been in an hotel. In half an hour’s time she heard Jeanne re-enter the apartment, but saw nothing of her. Somewhere close by she assumed that Mme. Bender was sleeping, prostrated from shock and stupefied by a sedative. She wondered when she would see her, if at all, and the uncertainty as to what to expect filled her with vague discomfort. Easy to picture the clinging woman as rudderless, dependent, her grip of life shaken, but the idea of recurring mania was difficult to grasp. One could not associate the gentle Germaine with any violent action.

She set about unpacking and arranging her belongings, and in so doing made several minor discoveries of a disagreeable nature. First, the enamelled basket on the mantel contained cigarette stumps and ashes; in the dressing-table drawer was a little cheap, red comb, the teeth of which held a wisp of fair hair; the paper at the bottom of the drawer was smeared with grease-paint and powder, at the same time sending forth a wave of the now familiar perfume.

Last she noticed with disgust that the bright pink soap on the wash-stand was partly used and still moist.

The conclusion was unavoidable. The room until this evening had been used by Berthe herself, who, in her haste to turn out of it, had neglected to remove all traces of her occupancy.

Really this was too much! In an apartment of this size, was there no other room available? How poor Germaine would suffer if she knew! She could not help resenting the advantage taken of a helpless invalid, and most of all she held Jeanne responsible, excellent though she was. For a moment she was conscious of a personal affront, and in order to calm herself had to bring to mind the maid’s long and faithful care of her mistress, the undeniable fact that the woman had proved herself both kind and trustworthy.

The hot bath soothed her ruffled temper, and eventually she fell asleep between soft, monogrammed sheets, with the sound of pattering raindrops in her ears. Just before dozing off she thought of the young solicitor she had met in the train. What attentive, serious eyes he had, lighting up now and again with a most agreeable flash of humour! At the beginning there had been a sort of barrier between them, probably because he was English and did not quite know what to make of Americans, but at the last, on the station platform, she had felt suddenly as though he were a real friend. She longed to tell him what had happened here, but she did not know if she would have the courage to ring him up as he had begged her to do. Once more she asked herself if he had known anything about her cousin’s condition which he had not seen fit to disclose; but even as the question crossed her mind it was eclipsed by the vision, wholly inconsequent, of his strong, big hands as they had grasped the sill of the taxi.…

Morning broke brilliant and windy. It promised well that Berthe, bringing her breakfast, should have had the grace to make herself almost presentable, appearing in a clean print frock, even though her hair was adorned with tiny combs to achieve a “water-wave” and secured in place by a purple veil. The coffee was capital, the croissants crisp and delicious.

Eagerly Catherine inquired news of her hostess, and learned that she had passed a peaceful night and, according to Jeanne, was in a fairly calm state of nerves. Perhaps, after the doctor had paid his call, mademoiselle might be permitted to see her. It all depended on the physician’s verdict.

This was slightly reassuring, yet to tell the truth she was nervous at the thought of conversing with a woman who two days ago had tried to take her own life. One never knew when another crisis might occur, or what might cause it. Still, she could ascertain whether or not her visit was welcome, and act accordingly.

As soon as she was dressed she ventured forth, in search of some place to sit and read till the doctor had come and gone. The formal salon oppressed her, especially in its present state of dustiness, but she recalled a small, cheerful room next it, used by her cousin as his study. The door stood ajar, she pushed it wide to enter.

The next instant she gave a faint gasp.

In a big leather chair sprawled Eduardo, legs upon the writing-table, face hidden by a copy of Le Petit Parisien. Around him hung wreaths of cigarette smoke, while ashes lay thick on the brown carpet.

Catherine drew back as though struck, but before she could escape the butler had muttered something hardly to be construed as an apology and shuffled out. As he passed her his eyes, muddy like those of an angry bull, surveyed her with abashed but scornful defiance.

Her colour rose, her heart pounded uncontrollably. What insufferable insolence! The man was disgracefully untidy, too, his usually sleek hair bristling rough above the narrow strip of forehead, his chin blue from lack of shaving, carpet slippers on his feet.

After a few seconds she forced herself to treat the matter as a joke. Why work herself up over what did not concern her? Eduardo had simply fallen back to what must have been his original state, a reversion not to be wondered at in the circumstances. After opening the window to rid the room of smoke, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and picked up her book.

However, it was hard to fix her attention. Everything here, from the big mahogany desk to the painting of a favourite race-horse over the mantel, recalled insistently her late relative’s presence. Shutting her eyes she could plainly see the tall, blond New Englander leaning back in the chair the butler had just vacated, his silvered hair smooth above keen boyish eyes, his fresh, unlined face so oddly suggesting that of a handsome schoolmaster.

She had always liked Cousin Harry. Her mother’s first cousin, the sole heir to a wealthy Boston banker, he had come to France in his youth, married a French wife, and from thence on had pursued a care-free, generous existence, travelling widely, collecting objets d’art, and breeding race-horses. In spite of his pleasure-loving instincts he had somehow preserved the backbone of his Puritan ancestry, and had remained singularly unspoiled, never drinking too much, never running after women. His attachment to Germaine had been well known, and for all his popularity he had been happiest in her company. Probably he alone had understood the shy, elusive woman now so shipwrecked by his death.

Thinking of these things Catherine heard a ring at the bell and soon afterwards saw through the crack of the door a heavily-built man with a spade-shaped black beard lumber past, escorted by Jeanne. In the distance a door closed. Then there was silence again, presently broken by subdued whistling which the listener attributed to the cook.

Twenty minutes elapsed, after which the doctor, still accompanied by Jeanne, returned along the hall. Close to the study the two halted for a conference, and Catherine heard a deep bass rumble alternating with the staccato utterance of the maid, whispered and mysterious.

At first there was only a confused babble but eventually after a pregnant pause a few sentences emerged clear. The physician inquired in booming accents oddly puzzled.

“Vous êtes sûre, entendu, qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?”

To which the reply came, positive and a little impatient:

“Mais, voyons, monsieur! Un souris, dans cet apartement, parfaitement soigné, tout propre? Elle rêve, la pauvre—c’est évident!”

“Ah, la malheureuse! Je crains que vous avez raison.”

The two moved away.

Catherine knit her brows, perplexed. A mouse? What had a mouse to do with madame, and why should Jeanne make so indignant a denial? She could think of no explanation.

It seemed an age before she caught Jeanne’s voice, brisk and business-like, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mademoiselle West. Without waiting for a reply, Catherine jumped up and ran into the hall.

“I am here, Jeanne. What did the doctor say?”

She fancied the maid looked a little annoyed at finding her at her elbow, but her countenance quickly cleared, resuming its old expression of suavity.

“Ah, there you are, mademoiselle! Madame is much better to-day. The doctor thinks you may be allowed to see her for a quarter of an hour—no longer, for it would not be wise. You will, of course, be careful not to excite her in any way, as she is still in a very nervous state.”

“You may trust me, Jeanne.”

Keyed up with expectancy, she followed the maid along the transverse passage which communicated with the rooms opening on the court. At the third door Jeanne paused, listened a moment, then grasped the girl’s arm and whispered in her ear.

“Another thing, mademoiselle, which the doctor told me to caution you about. Whatever you do, try not to contradict madame. She is apt to get strange ideas into her head, to imagine things which are not true. It is part of her illness, and to oppose her may bring on a crise. You will be very careful about this?”

Catherine nodded, and the next instant the maid had slipped quietly into the room, motioning to her to wait. From the other side of the door came a plaintive voice which she well knew. It filled her with surprise to find it so little altered.

“She is there? Tell her to come in—at once, at once! I am longing to see her.”

“Yes, yes, madame. I only wished to make sure that madame is ready to receive mademoiselle.”

“But of course I am ready! I am waiting! Catherine, my dear child, come in, come in!”

With inward trepidation Catherine opened the door and entered.

CHAPTER SIX

She found herself in a room unexpectedly small and narrow, furnished with sparse simplicity. Nearly everything was white, walls, covers, the bed-hangings, pendent from a sort of crown. The only colour was contained in the dull mauve-grey carpet and in the dark wood of the severely beautiful Directoire furniture. The curtains were drawn, so that although it was nearly midday there was a clear, luminous twilight. On the panel beside the bed, facing the entrance, hung a silver crucifix, under which were wax candles in brackets.

All this was but a general impression. What the girl chiefly saw was the fragile figure in the bed, the grey eyes staring out of the drawn and pallid face, the thin arms outstretched to greet her.

“Catherine! You have come, then! I did not know till a moment ago. My dear—my dear!”

There was strained pathos in the quivering features, a catch in the voice which poured forth its words in a rapid torrent. Tears dimmed the invalid’s eyes, the veins stood out on her waxen temples as with feverish intensity she kissed the young girl on both cheeks, then clung to the warm hands with her own transparent ones.

“My darling Germaine!”

Now the first shock was over Catherine felt easier. Until this moment she had nurtured a cankering doubt as to whether or not Mme. Bender would recognize her.

“Madame! madame! Calm yourself! You will suffer for this.”

It was Jeanne who spoke, solicitous and reproving, hovering near by as though in readiness to interpose at the slightest warning symptom. Catherine had a fleeting impression of watchful eyes regarding them anxiously.

“No, no, Jeanne, I am quite myself. You need have no fear. Only I am so very, very glad to see this dear child, who has come all the way across the ocean to be with me. Leave us for a little. I promise I shall not become excited.”

“Very well, madame, I will go, but I shall not be far away. If madame wants me, she has only to call.”

She withdrew into the adjoining room, not without a backward glance full of doubt, and, it seemed to the girl, distrust. Through the half-open door she could be heard moving about, as if reluctant to remove herself from earshot. Evidently, although the patient appeared quite normal, she was not satisfied. Probably experience had taught her not to rely upon these fortunate phases too implicitly.

The Frenchwoman still detained Catherine’s hands, stroking them with trembling, quick movements. Her eyes devoured the vivid young face.

“Sit there, my child, in the big chair, quite close to me. Now, tell me everything about yourself. Did you have a good crossing, and was Eduardo in time at the station? You were well looked after?”

“Everything was perfect, Germaine dear! Quite, quite perfect.”

On no account must Mme. Bender know what had actually happened. Clearly she had not the least suspicion that her orders were neglected.

“And your room? Do you like it? I told Jeanne to give you my own old one, at the corner. I have lain here thinking how charming you would look against the green and gold. Are you happy there?”

“It is a beautiful room, Germaine. It is like you to think of it.”

“No, no. I have nothing pleasanter to think of, here alone. I have always marvelled how, out of that dull, cold New England, where no one has any eyebrows, you could have got that colouring of a Tintoretto. It warms one, like the sun.”

She ran on flutteringly in her pure and lovely French, and as the sentences followed one another with rapid irrelevance the girl scanned her features for some sign of aberration. After a few minutes he began to feel less uneasy. Germaine was much as she had always been—aged, of course, and tremulous from weakness, but otherwise little changed. In the haggard features it was still possible to trace remnants of the beauty which had first captivated Harry Bender. The luxuriant hair was streaked with grey, but it retained its natural wave, and was worn as she had always worn it, drawn back from a central parting to show her delicate ears. On the right temple it revealed the end of the ugly scar which marked the injury of last year.

Above all else it was the eyes which held Catherine’s attention. Wide, strained and wistful, the eyes of a neurasthenic, they now riveted their gaze eagerly on the girl’s face, now darted this way and that with frequent watchful glances towards the open door. They expressed timidity, lack of assurance, and some other less easily defined emotion baffling to the onlooker; yet in them Catherine could detect nothing to indicate loss of reason.

Nor in the rather childish prattle, skipping like a dragonfly from topic to topic, was there anything unusual. At no time had Mme. Bender possessed a keen or logical brain, though fineness of taste and an evasive charm had in a great measure made up for lack of understanding. Always she had given the impression of being withdrawn in an inner fantastic world, and when it came to practical affairs she had accepted the dictates of her husband without question. Now it struck Catherine that these characteristics had assumed exaggerated form. She had definitely reverted to a child-like state, trusting and fearing without reason, shrinking from reality and claiming protection. Just how far this retirement might extend it was impossible to say.

All was now silent in the next room, though the girl did not remark the fact until upon her companion’s face she caught an expression of acute listening. Then she knew that Germaine wished to tell her something, and had been waiting for the maid to go away.

“Catherine, my dear!”

She whispered the words, meantime clutching Catherine’s arm in a nervous grasp.

“What is it, Germaine?”

“Yesterday—or was it the day before?—I had a dreadful experience. Something so stupid happened. Have they told you?”

“A little, Germaine. You drank something by mistake. Wasn’t that it?” returned the girl, embarrassed to find a suitable reply.

The grey eyes took on an eager glitter.

“A mistake—yes, yes! Just that. So foolish of me—I cannot yet think how it came about.” She paused, again listening, then continued earnestly: “I want you to believe me when I say it was an accident. I had here on my table my sleeping-draught in a little glass, and in another glass a solution of carbolic in which at night I put a little dental plate. You understand?” she demanded urgently, her eyes searching Catherine’s face.

“Of course. What happened then?”

“You see, one of the glasses is green. That is the one that contains the sleeping-draught. Well, while Jeanne was out of the room getting me a hot-water bottle, I took up the green glass and drank a little. Only a very little, for at once I knew I had taken the wrong thing. Ah!” with a convulsive shudder, her eyes closing, “it was strong, so strong! It burnt my throat. My throat is still raw, though Jeanne declares that is my imagination. You know sometimes my imagination is very vivid.… Yet I cannot see how…” Her voice trailed off and she pressed her fingers to her throat with a distracted gesture. “Anyhow I screamed. ‘Jeanne, Jeanne, come at once!’ I called, ‘I have taken poison!’ But she was at the back of the apartment, she could not hear me. Meantime the drop I had swallowed burnt like fire all the way down. I was in agony. It was a long time before I could make her hear—poor Jeanne! She was terribly upset.”

Spent by the recollection, she lay back upon her pillows, while perspiration broke out and lay in heavy drops on the waxen skin. Catherine eyed her in keen distress.

“There, dear, it is all over now. Try to forget about it.”

Suddenly the prone figure stiffened, sat bolt upright, staring with a look of terror. At the quick change Catherine realized the fact that she was alone with a patient who a short time ago had suffered an alarming attack. Ought she to summon Jeanne? Yet a second before she had been impressed by the lucidity, the poignant underlying conviction, of the invalid’s recital. She watched, uncertain what to do.

“Forget it! Ah, that is what I must not do!” breathed the hoarse voice fearfully. “I must remember it, so I cannot commit so frightful an error again. The great trouble is my memory. I forget things so easily—so easily! I must have forgotten which glass was which, otherwise how could I have done what I did? You see? It shakes one’s confidence. It——”

She checked herself with a gasp, eyes dilating. Following the direction of their gaze, Catherine saw that Jeanne had come back, was standing just inside the door. So engrossed had she been by her cousin’s excitement she had not heard the light footfall.

The maid approached, anxious and disapproving.

“Madame! madame!” she declared with authority, “this will not do! I implore you not to speak of that affair. Mademoiselle, you see? She is getting into a panic again. Did I not warn you?” she ended accusingly.

Catherine thought it better not to reply. Besides, her attention was transfixed by the instant alteration which had taken place with the patient. Mme. Bender’s wan features assumed a timid, conciliatory smile as she relaxed and lay back, breathing hard.

“It is nothing, Jeanne! I was only telling mademoiselle how imbecile it was of me to mistake the plain glass for the green. Never in my life have I done such a thing. It makes me feel quite, quite odd!” She finished with an hysterical laugh of apology infinitely pathetic.

The maid, now on the other side of the bed, nodded at Catherine with grim significance.

“One makes these mistakes sometimes when one is not quite oneself,” she remarked soothingly yet with emphasis. “One imagines all sorts of things. Madame knows now that she was wrong, because I showed her the plain glass with the disinfectant still in it. Is it not so, madame?”

“Ah, yes, that is so. You were right, of course,” agreed the invalid with eager alacrity. Then she caught the maid’s unresponsive hand in hers and pressed it affectionately. “What should I do, where should I be, without my dear, good Jeanne? No one, Catherine, would do for me what she does,” she added, as though longing to assure the other of her appreciation.

“You had better go now, mademoiselle,” suggested the woman firmly. “This has been quite enough for one day.”

The girl rose, but a lightning clutch at her sleeve pulled her back again.

“No, Jeanne, let her stay! I will not excite myself, really I will not!”

With unmoved face the maid bent and loosed the fragile fingers.

“No, madame,” she said quietly, then stooping so that her lips were close to the other’s ear she whispered in a low, distinct tone: “Madame must try to behave reasonably, if she wishes to be permitted company at all.”

At once Mme. Bender gave in with complete docility.

“Very well, then, I will do as you say. But she is to come again soon? Catherine, my dear, you will sit with me often, will you not? I am alone so much, and I think and think—such strange, disturbing thoughts…”

“But of course, dear, I mean to be with you every day. As long as you will have me.”

She kissed the thin cheek and withdrew, gravely nonplussed by the recent scene. Jeanne followed her out, closing the door softly, and when they had reached the bend in the passage spoke in an undertone.

“You see?” she said, and her tone though sorrowful held a touch of triumph—almost, thought Catherine, as if she believed her word had been doubted.

“I don’t know what to say, Jeanne,” faltered the girl. “Madame was much more rational than I expected. In fact, if I had not been told about this insanity, I doubt if I should have noticed anything. It was only when she mentioned the poison——”

A quick gleam came into the other’s eyes.

“Ah, yes, I heard a little of what madame was saying. It is as I told you, she is trying to justify her action and make us think it was unintentional.”

“You are quite certain it wasn’t accidental?” suggested Catherine doubtfully. “It seemed to me——”

The maid raised her eyebrows.

“Who can say?” she returned after a pause. “But it is strange, is it not, how the mention of it throws her into a fever? No, I am afraid she has lain there making up this story, which she now believes to be true. She is often like that.”

“Do you mean, Jeanne,” whispered Catherine, recalling the marked discrepancy between the invalid’s statement and the maid’s, “that what she says about calling you and your not hearing her is an invention?”

A pitying smile broke over the sallow face.

“I am sorry to say, mademoiselle, there is not one word of truth in it,” she replied positively. “I was upon the threshold at the time, and snatched the glass from her lips. She did not know, of course, that I was watching. Eduardo, Berthe, both heard me cry out, and ran to see what was the matter.”

There seemed no doubt about it. Catherine pondered the matter unhappily.

“But why? Why should she want to take her life?” was all she could manage to say. “A year ago I saw no sign of such a thing, wretched though she was.”

“Ah, that is the nature of her malady. Melancholia. It comes in fits, and when the spell is upon her the poor creature cannot be held responsible. Only three weeks ago—but no, I must not alarm you unduly,” she broke off, closing her lips with determination.

“Tell me, Jeanne, I would much rather know the truth.”

“Well, then,” admitted the woman reluctantly, watching her as she spoke, “if you must know, I came into the room there to find madame, in her nightdress, standing upon the window-sill, preparing to throw herself into the court below. If you will look you will see that I have had two bars fastened across the opening, to prevent her attempting it a second time.”

Catherine drew in her breath sharply. This was something not easily explained away. Painfully she inquired the details, and learned that after the rescue Mme. Bender suffered from nervous collapse, following which the entire affair appeared to be erased from her memory. Not once had she referred to it, nor asked why the bars were there.

“You understand why it is I have moved my bed into madame’s dressing-room,” went on the maid. “As I told you last night, it is not safe to leave her for any length of time.”

Inconsequently Catherine recalled Jeanne’s departure the evening before, but naturally said nothing. After all, her charge had no doubt been sound asleep.

“Of course it isn’t,” she replied earnestly. “But all the same it is too much for you. Oughtn’t you to engage a professional nurse?”

The look of fanatical obstinacy she had seen before tightened the strongly marked features.

“Ah, no, mademoiselle. Such a thing might drive the poor creature to desperation. No, I have served her for fifteen years, and I shall continue to do so now that her need of me is so great. Who so well as myself understands her, who would protect her, not only from herself, but”—she hesitated, then finished with slow emphasis—“from those who perhaps might do her injury?”

What on earth could she mean? Catherine stared at her in astonishment.

“Surely, Jeanne, there can be no such person. Why do you suppose there is?”

For a second there was guarded silence. Then the maid, with a suggestion of a shrug, replied:

“I must not make any accusations, mademoiselle. But does it not strike you as strange, to say the least, that on the occasion I have mentioned and also two days ago the attempts at suicide should have followed close upon the visits of an old friend?”

This was news indeed!

“Whom do you mean, Jeanne? I understood madame saw no visitors.”

“No one, except”—here she halted and glanced about her, then brought out the name with apparent reluctance—“Mademoiselle Cushing.”

Hermione Cushing! Catherine could not suppress a start. She gazed fixedly into the unflinching eyes of the maid.

“Miss Cushing!” she echoed, wonderingly. “But what possible reason is there to connect her visits with—with——”

“There may be no connection. Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle. Only, since you have put the question to me, I will say plainly that this lady, who calls herself an old and intimate friend, seems to me to exert a bad, a depressing influence on madame. So sure am I of this that I have done my utmost to discourage her coming; but,” and she made a gesture of helplessness, “I cannot always keep her away. I know that she persistently speaks of things which are distressing to anyone in madame’s condition.”

“What sort of things, Jeanne?” demanded the girl curiously.

At the same time she rapidly reviewed the disjointed letter which had so upset her peace of mind, recalling the writer’s complaints about the difficulty in seeing her friend. Was there anything behind it all?

The maid’s eyes turned from hers secretively.

“Mademoiselle Cushing cannot forget that madame is a rich woman, has been for years her patron and supporter. No doubt she is afraid that madame will die and leave her unprovided for. In short, she thinks always of feathering her nest.”

Indefinite as the explanation was, it hinted at unpleasing possibilities. It seemed to her she was beginning to understand in part the problem with which Jeanne had to cope. Had she not somewhere heard the prayer, “Oh, Lord, save us from our friends!”?

She came to herself to find the intelligent brown eyes regarding her shrewdly.

“And now, mademoiselle, that you see what all this is like, do you not think it would be happier for you to leave this sad abode? You can do no good here—you are young, you wish to be gay. It is no life for one whose duty does not call her to it. Believe me, I know what I am saying when I beg you to go elsewhere to live.”

Catherine had not expected this renewed importunity.

“On the contrary, Jeanne, I shall be quite content to stay, at least for a few months, and I honestly think I may have a good effect on madame’s spirits. She was so evidently glad to see me just now——”

She stopped in time to see an expression of strong displeasure settle over her companion’s features. Before she could finish her sentence, however, the silence was pierced by a long ring at the telephone. She found herself listening mechanically to the gruff voice of Eduardo answering the call.

A moment later the butler issued from the study, came a step towards them, then, spying Catherine, halted.

“A gentleman to speak to you, miss,” he announced in an offhand manner, more loudly than was necessary. “A Mr. Geoffrey Macadam.”

Her friend of the train! The tension snapped, as with a glad sense of relief she hurried towards the study.

She could not say what instinct made her glance back at the two servants, nor why the penetrating look of question passing between them should cause her such poignant discomfort. Certainly it told her that she was an unwelcome alien in their midst, but she half-fancied an additional meaning less easy to interpret.

A tremor shook her voice as she spoke into the telephone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Geoffrey Macadam had been going through a struggle. Why this consuming eagerness to acquire news of an American girl whom he had not known existed till yesterday afternoon? Was it genuine anxiety for her welfare, or simply the hankering to hear again a voice which for some inscrutable reason lingered disturbingly in his memory? Suspecting his motives he had fought for an entire hour, during which the telephone drew him like a magnet.

Sheer nonsense, this! She was there haunting him the whole time. Twice last night he had dreamed about her, and even now her dark, shining eyes came between him and the work upon his desk, scattering his ideas to the winds of heaven. There was a kind of spell about it.… Not that it would last, of course. This sort of thing never did. In all likelihood after he had looked at the original eyes a time or two…

This decided him. He would ring her up, ask her to lunch—not immediately, that was too impetuous—but later, say the end of the week. Then he would see that she was just an ordinary mortal, and as such put her into her proper place.

On firm ground now, his scruples placated, he did what he had been longing to do and put through the call.

Two minutes more, and his prudent resolutions were broken to bits, all because the familiar voice had a catch in it and an undercurrent of excitement vibrating through its guarded replies. Clearly Miss West was upset about something. Lunch at the end of the week became dinner to-night—if she could manage it. Could she? There was a little gasp of astonishment, a pause, then a wavering consent, in which it thrilled him to detect a note of thankfulness. That meant that she really wanted to talk to him about her cousin. Well, he also wanted to talk about her cousin. Only there was no use pretending that Mme. Bender’s affairs could cause his pulse to beat in this ridiculous fashion, or rouse in him a thirsty craving like the desire for water after a hectic night. What had come over his well-ordered self? He must take his emotions in hand, or there was no knowing to what stupidity they might lead.