The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (page 3)

“I am very sorry to hear this news about Jules,” he began quickly. “I hope you are not really anxious about him?”

Madame Poulain stared at him fixedly, reproachfully. “It is all this affair,” she said with a heavy sigh. “If it had only been the police, our own police, we should not have minded, Monsieur le Sénateur–we are honest people–we have nothing to fear from the police,” she lifted her head proudly. “But when it came to that impudent young man–“

For a moment the Senator was at a loss–then he suddenly remembered:–“You mean the gentleman attached to the British Consulate?” he said uncomfortably. And as she nodded her head, “But surely it was quite reasonable that he should come and ask those questions. You must remember that both Mr. and Mrs. Dampier are English people. They have a right to the protection and help of their Consulate.”

“I do not say to the contrary, monsieur. I am only telling you the truth, namely that that English lawyer–for lawyer I suppose he was–terrified Jules. And had it not been that I and my husband are conscious of–of our innocence, Monsieur le Sénateur, he would have terrified us also. Then your son attacked Jules too. Surely the matter might have been left to the police–our own excellent police.”

“I am glad you feel as you do about the police,” said the Senator earnestly, “for as a matter of fact the Prefect of Police, whom I have just been consulting about Mr. Dampier’s disappearance, suggests that the Hôtel Saint Ange be searched.”

“Searched?” exclaimed Monsieur Poulain, staring at the Senator.

“Searched?” shrieked Madame Poulain indignantly.

“Yes,” said Senator Burton quietly, and trying to speak as if a police Perquisition of a respectable hotel was the most ordinary thing in the world. “They are sending their men at eleven to-morrow morning. Let me add that they and Mrs. Dampier are most eager to study your convenience in every way. They would doubtless choose another time should eleven o’clock be inconvenient to you.”

Madame Poulain was now speechless with indignation, and yes, with surprise. When at last she did speak, her voice trembled with pain and anger.

“To think,” she said, turning to her husband, and taking for the moment no notice of her American client–“to think that you and I, Poulain, after having lived here for twenty-one years and a half, should have our hotel searched by the police–as if it were the resort of brigands!” She turned to the Senator, and quietly, not without a measure of dignity, went on:–“And to think that it is you, Monsieur le Sénateur, who we have always thought one of our best patrons, who have brought this indignity upon us!”

“I am very, very sorry for all the trouble you are having about this affair,” said Senator Burton earnestly. “And Madame Poulain? I want to assure you how entirely I have always believed your statement concerning this strange business.”

“If that is so then why all this–this trouble, Monsieur le Sénateur?” Husband and wife spoke simultaneously.

“I wonder,” exclaimed the Senator, “that you can ask me such a question! I quite admit that the first twenty-four hours I knew nothing of this unfortunate young woman whose cause I championed. But now, Madame Poulain, I have learnt that all she told me of herself is true. Remember she has never faltered in the statement that she came here accompanied by her husband. I, as you know,” he lowered his voice, “suppose that in so thinking she is suffering from a delusion. But you cannot expect my view to be shared by those who know her well and who are strangers to you. As I told you only this morning, we hope that towards the end of this week Mrs. Dampier’s lawyer will arrive from England.”

“But what will happen then?” cried Madame Poulain, throwing up her hands with an excited, passionate gesture. “When will this persecution come to an end? We have done everything we could; we have submitted to odious interrogatories, first from one and then from the other–and now our hotel is to be searched! None of our other clients, and remember the hotel is full, Monsieur le Sénateur, have a suspicion of what is going on, but any moment the affair may become public, and then–then our hotel might empty in a day! Oh, Monsieur le Sénateur”–she clasped her hands together–“If you refuse to think of us, think of our child, think of poor little Virginie!”

“Come, come, Madame Poulain!”

The Senator turned to the good woman’s husband, but Poulain’s usually placid face bore a look of lowering rage. The mention of his idolised daughter had roused his distress as well as anger.

“Now, Poulain, do tell your wife that there is really nothing to worry about. The police speak of you both in the very highest terms! As to the search that will take place to-morrow, it is the merest formality.”

“I hope, monsieur, that you will do us the honour of being present,” said Madame Poulain quickly. “We have nothing to hide, and we should far prefer you to be there.”

“If such is your wish I will certainly be present,” said Senator Burton gravely.

And then, as he walked away to the escalier d’honneur, he told himself that on the whole the poor Poulains had taken his disagreeable piece of news very well. Gerald was not showing his usual sense over this business: he had let his sympathies run away with him. But the Senator loved his son all the better for his chivalrous interest in poor Mrs. Dampier. It wasn’t every young man who would have put everything aside in the way of interest, of amusement, and of pleasure in such a city as Paris, for the sake of an entire stranger.

As to Gerald’s view of the Poulains, that again was natural. He didn’t know these people with the same kindly knowledge the Senator and Daisy had of them. Gerald had been at college, and later working hard in the office of America’s greatest living architect, at the time the Senator and his daughter had spent a whole winter at the Hôtel Saint Ange.

It was natural that the young man should take Mrs. Dampier’s word instead of the hotel-keepers’. But even so, how extraordinary was the utter divergence between the two accounts of what had happened!

For the hundredth time Senator Burton asked himself where the truth lay.

A sad change had come over Nancy Dampier in the three long days. She could not sleep, and they had to force her to eat. The interrogatories to which she had had to submit, first from one and then from another, had worn her out. When going over her story with the Consular official, she had suddenly faltered, and putting her hand to her head with a bewildered gesture, “I can’t remember,” she had said, looking round piteously at the Senator, “I can’t remember!”

And he asked himself now whether those three words did not embody more of the truth than the poor girl would admit. Had she ever really remembered what had happened on that first evening of her arrival in Paris?

Such were Senator Burton’s disconnected and troubled thoughts as, leaving the perturbed hotel-keepers, he slowly went to join his children and their guest.

To his relief, neither Daisy nor Nancy were in the salon, and his thoughts were pleasantly forced into another channel, for on the table lay a cable from some people called Hamworth, Mr. Hamworth was one of the Senator’s oldest friends: also there was a pretty clever daughter who had always shown a rather special liking for Gerald….

The Hamworths were arriving in Paris at ten the next morning, and they asked the Senator and his children to join them at lunch at Bignon’s.

Mingling with a natural pleasure at the thought of seeing old friends, and of getting away from all this painful business for a short time, was added a secret satisfaction at the thought that he would thus escape being present at the search of the Hôtel Saint Ange.

CHAPTER XI

“I suppose we ought to start in about half an hour,” said the Senator genially. They were sitting, he and Gerald, at breakfast.

Madame Poulain, with the adaptability of her kind–the adaptability which makes the French innkeeper the best in the world, always served a real “American breakfast” in the Burtons’ salon.

As his son made no answer to his remark, he went on, “I should like to be at the station a few minutes before the Hamworths’ train is due.”

Senator Burton was sorry, very, very sorry indeed, that there was still no news of the missing man, on this third morning of Dampier’s disappearance. But he could not help feeling glad that poor little Mrs. Dampier had stayed in bed; thanks to that fact he and his children were having breakfast together, in the old, comfortable way.

The Senator felt happier than he had felt for some time. What a comfort it would be, even to Gerald and to Daisy, to forget for a moment this strange, painful affair, and to spend three or four hours with old friends!

Gerald looked up. “I’m not coming, father. You will have to make my apologies to the Hamworths. Of course I should have liked to see them. But Mrs. Dampier has asked me to be present at the search. Someone ought, of course, to be there to represent her.” He jerked the words out with a touch of defiance in his voice.

“I’m sorry she did that,” said the Senator coldly. “And I think, Gerald, you should have consulted me before consenting to do so. You see, our position with regard to the Poulains is a delicate one–“

“Delicate?” repeated Gerald quickly. “How do you mean, father?”

“We have known these people a long while. It is fifteen years, Gerald, since I first came to this hotel with your dear mother. I have received nothing but kindness from Madame Poulain, and I am very, very sorry that she now associates us in her mind with this painful business.”

“All I can say is, sir, that I do not share your sorrow.”

The Senator looked up quickly. This was the first time–yes, the very first time that Gerald had ever spoken to him with that touch of sarcasm–some would have said impertinence–which sits so ill on the young, at any rate in the view of the old. Perhaps Gerald repented of his rude, hasty words, for it was in a very different tone that he went on:–

“You see, father, I believe the whole of Mrs. Dampier’s story, and you only believe a part. If I shared your view I should think very ill of her indeed. But you, father (I don’t quite know how you do it) manage to like and respect her, and to believe the Poulains as well!”

“Yes,” said the Senator slowly, “that is so, Gerald. I believe that the Poulains are telling the truth, and that this poor young woman thinks she is telling the truth–two very different things, my boy, as you will find out by the time you know as much of human nature as I now do. When you have lived as long as I have lived in the world, you will know that many people have an extraordinary power of persuading themselves of that which is not–“

“But why–” asked Gerald eagerly,–“why should Mrs. Dampier wish to prove that her husband accompanied her here if he did nothing of the kind?”

And then just as he asked the question which the Senator would not have found it very easy to answer, Daisy came into the room.

“I have persuaded Mrs. Dampier to stay in bed till the search is over. She’s just worn out, poor little dear: I shall be glad when this Mr. Stephens has arrived–she evidently has the greatest faith in him.”

“I shall be glad too,” said the Senator slowly: how glad he would be neither of his children knew or guessed. “And now, Daisy, I hope you won’t be long in getting ready to start for the station. I should be sorry indeed if the Hamworths’ train came in before we reached there.”

“Father! Surely you don’t want me to leave Nancy this morning of all mornings? She ought not to be alone while the search is going on. She wanted to be actually present at it, didn’t she, Gerald?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, but Daisy and I persuaded her that that was not necessary, that I would be there for her. It seems that Mr. Dampier had a very large portmanteau with him. She is sure that the Poulains have got it hidden away.”

“She has told Gerald exactly what it is like,” chimed in Daisy.

The Senator looked from one to the other: he felt both helpless and indignant. “The Hamworths are among the oldest friends we have in the world,” he exclaimed. “Surely one of you will come with me? I’m not asking you to leave Mrs. Dampier for long, Daisy.”

But Daisy shook her head decidedly. “I’d rather not, father–I don’t feel as if I wanted to see the Hamworths at all just now. I’m sure that when you explain everything to them, they will understand.”

Utterly discomfited and disappointed, and feeling for the first time really angry with poor Nancy Dampier, Senator Burton took his departure for the station, alone.

Perquisition?

To the French imagination there is something terrifying in the very word. And this justifiable terror is a national tradition. To thousands of honest folk a Perquisition was an ever present fear through the old Régime, and this fear became acute terror in the Revolution. Then a search warrant meant almost certainly subsequent arrest, imprisonment, and death.

Even nowadays every Frenchman is aware that at any moment, and sometimes on the most frivolous pretext, his house may be searched, his most private papers ransacked, and every member of his household submitted to a sharp, informal interrogation, while he stands helpless by, bearing the outrage with what grace he may.

Gerald Burton, much as he now disliked and suspected Monsieur and Madame Poulain, could not but feel sorry for them when he saw the manner in which those hitherto respectable and self-respecting folk were treated by the Police Agent who, with two subordinates, had been entrusted with the task of searching the Hôtel Saint Ange.

The American was also surprised to see the eagerness with which the Poulains had welcomed his presence at their unpleasant ordeal.

“Thank you for coming, Monsieur Gerald; but where is Monsieur le Sénateur?” asked Madame Poulain feverishly. “He promised–he absolutely promised us that he would be here this morning!”

“My father has had to go out,” said Gerald courteously, “but I am here to represent both him and Mrs. Dampier.”

A heavy frown gathered over the landlady’s face. “Ah!” she muttered, “it was a dark day for us when we allowed that lady to enter our hotel!”

Gerald, putting a strong restraint on his tongue, remained silent, but a moment later, as if in answer to his feeling of exasperation and anger, he heard the Police Agent’s voice raised in sarcastic wrath. “I must ask you to produce the plan before I begin my Perquisition.”

“But, monsieur,” exclaimed the hotel-keeper piteously, “I cannot give you a plan of our hotel! How should we have such a thing? The house is said to be three hundred years old. We have even been told it should be classed as an Historical Monument!”

“Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his hotel,” said the Agent roughly. “And I shall report you for not complying with the law. If a plan of the Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to have one made at your own expense.”

“Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done,” said Poulain resignedly.

“To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!” said the man, this time addressing Gerald Burton. “An absolute farce! In such an old house as this there may be many secret hiding-places.”

“There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel,” screamed Madame Poulain angrily. “We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatest detail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some time to carry through.”

The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. “Come along,” he said sharply. “Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your own rooms, madame.”

Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, more normal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustive inspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in the eighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building.

For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling in the profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work–the work he so much enjoyed–for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some of the old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested and stimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificent specimen of a French town mansion.

When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and his wife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap on the arm. “Go in, go in!” she said tartly, but he saw there were tears in her eyes. “We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room of memories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I think it would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!”

Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged as are all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house.

Over the bed hung Madame Poulain’s wedding wreath of artificial orange blossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie taken at various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the sole other adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicately carved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls.

“What have we here?” cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels which formed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace.

“It is a way through into our daughter’s room,” said Poulain sullenly, and opening what appeared to be a cupboard door.

The American took an eager step forward.

This must be the place in which, according to Nancy’s account, John Dampier had stood concealed during that eventful moment when he, Gerald, and his sister Daisy, had stood looking into the tiny room.

Yes, two or three people might well stand hidden in this deep recess, for the cupboard was almost as large as the smaller of the two apartments of which it formed the connecting link.

The Police Agent, following young Burton, stepped down into Virginie’s room:–his voice softened:–“A very charming room,” he said, “this little nest of mademoiselle your daughter!”

“We had to cut a window out of the wall,” observed Madame Poulain, “When we first came here this was a blind closet where the aristocrats, it seems, used to powder their hair–silly creatures that they were! As if anyone would like to be white before their time!”

“We had better go up this staircase,” said the Police Agent, passing out of Mademoiselle Poulain’s room.

And the six of them all filed up the narrow staircase, glancing into many a curious, strange little apartment on the way.

Every inch of space had been utilised in view of the business the Exhibition rush had brought the Poulains. Still, even on the upper floors, Gerald Burton noticed that there remained intact many beautiful suites of apartments now divided and let out as single rooms.

Not a word had been said of the coming Perquisition to those staying in the hotel. But Madame Poulain, by some means best known to herself, had managed to get rid of them all for the morning. And it was well that she had done so, for in more than one case the Police Agent and his men lifted the lid of travelling trunks, unhesitatingly pulled out drawers, and flung open the doors of hanging cupboards.

Gerald Burton was in turn amused, interested, and disgusted. The glimpses which this search revealed into other people’s lives seemed dishonourable, and instinctively he withdrew his gaze and strove to see as little as possible.

Having thoroughly examined all the street side of the Hôtel Saint Ange, the three police emissaries started their investigations on the other side of the quadrangle, that which gave on the courtyard and on the garden.

When the party came round to the rooms occupied by Senator Burton and his family, Madame Poulain came forward, and touched the Police Agent on the arm:–“The lady who imagines that we have made away with her husband is here,” she whispered. “You had better knock at the door, and then walk straight in. She will not be pleased–perhaps she will scream–English people are so prudish when they are in bed! But never mind what she says or does: there is no reason why her room should not be searched as well as that of everybody else.”

But the woman’s vengeful wish was to remain ungratified.

Nancy Dampier had dressed, and with Daisy’s help she had even made her bed. The Police Agent–Gerald Burton was deeply grateful to him for it–treated her with consideration and respect.

“C’est bien! C’est bien! madame,” he said, just glancing round the room, and making a quick sign to his men that their presence was not required there.

At last the weary party, for by that time they were all very weary, reached the top floor of the Hôtel Saint Ange.

Here were rough garrets, oppressively hot on a day like this, but each and all obviously serving some absent client of the hotel as temporary dwelling-place.

Madame Poulain looked quite exhausted. “I think,” she said plaintively, “I will remain here, monsieur, at the end of the passage. You will find every door unlocked. Perhaps we ought to tell you that these rooms are not as a rule inhabited, or indeed used by us in any way. That must excuse their present condition. But in a season like this–well, dame! we could fill every cranny twice over!”

Gerald and the three Frenchmen walked along the corridor, the latter flinging open door after door of the curious cell-like little bedrooms furnished for the most part with only an iron bed, a couple of chairs, and the usual walnut-wood wardrobe.

“What’s this?” asked one of the men sharply. “We find a door plastered up here, Monsieur Poulain.”

But it was Madame Poulain who came languidly forward from the end of the passage. “Yes,” she said. “If you wish to see that room you will have to get a ladder and climb up from the outside. A young Breton priest died here last January from scarlet fever, monsieur–” she lowered her voice instinctively–“and the sanitary authorities forced us to block up the room in this way–most unfortunately for us.”

“It is strange,” said the man, “that the seal of the sanitary authorities is not affixed to the door.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Madame Poulain uncomfortably, “the seal was there, but I removed it. You see, monsieur, it would not have been pleasant, even when all danger of infection was gone, to say anything to our other clients about so sad an event.”

The man nodded his head, and went on.

But the incident made a disagreeable impression on Gerald Burton. And when they all finally came down to the courtyard, the Police Agents being by this time on far better terms with Monsieur and Madame Poulain than they had been at the beginning–on such good terms indeed that they were more than willing to attack the refreshments the hotel-keeper had made ready for them–he drew the head Agent aside.

“There was one thing,” he said, “which rather troubled me–“

The man looked at him attentively. “Yes, monsieur?” He realised that this young man, whom he took for an Englishman, had been present on behalf of the people at whose request the Perquisition had been ordered. He was therefore inclined to treat him with civility.

“I mean that closed room on the top floor,” said Gerald hesitatingly. “Is there no way of ascertaining whether Madame Poulain’s story is true–whether, that is, the room was ever condemned by the sanitary authorities?”

“Yes,” said the Agent, “nothing is easier, monsieur, than to find that out.”

He took a note-book out of his pocket, tore out a sheet, and wrote a few lines on it. Then he called one of his subordinates to him and said a few words of which Gerald caught the sense. It was an order to go to the office of the sanitary inspector of the district and bring back an answer at once.

In a quarter of an hour the man was back.

“The answer is ‘Yes,'” he said a little breathlessly, and he handed his chief a large sheet of paper, headed:

VILLE DE PARIS,
Sanitary Inspector’s Department.

In answer to your question, I have to report that we did condemn a room in the Hôtel Saint Ange for cause of infectious disease.

The Police Agent handed it to Gerald Burton. “I felt sure that in that matter,” he observed, “Madame Poulain was telling the truth. But, of course, a Perquisition in a house of this kind is a mere farce, without a plan to guide us. Think of the strange winding passages along which we were led, of the blind rooms, of the deep cupboards into which we peeped! For all we can tell, several apartments may have entirely escaped our knowledge.”

“Do you make many of these Perquisitions?” asked Gerald curiously.

“No, monsieur. We are very seldom asked to search a whole house. Almost always we have some indication as to the special room or rooms which are to be investigated. In fact since I became attached to the police, six years ago, this is the first time I have ever had to carry out a thorough Perquisition,” he laughed a little ruefully, “and it makes one dry!”

Gerald Burton took the hint. He put a twenty-franc piece into the man’s hand. “For you and your men,” he said. “Go and get a good lunch: I am sure you need it.”

The Police Agent thanked him cordially. “One word, monsieur? Perhaps I ought to tell you that we of the police are quite sure that the gentleman about whom you are anxious left this hotel–if indeed he was ever in it. The Poulains bear a very good character–better than that of many hotel-keepers of whom I could tell you–better than that of certain hotel-keepers who own grand international hotels the other side of the river. Of course I had to be rough with them at first–one has to keep up one’s character, you know. But, monsieur? I was told confidentially that this Perquisition would probably lead to nothing, and, as you see, it has led to nothing.”

Gerald sighed, rather wearily, for he too was tired, he too would be glad of his luncheon. Yes, this search had been, as the Police Agent hinted, something of a farce after all, and he had led not only himself, but, what he regretted far more, poor Nancy Dampier down a blind alley.

He found her waiting, feverishly eager and anxious to hear the result of the Perquisition. When the door of the salon opened, she got up and turned to him, a strained look on her face.

“Well?” she said. “Well, Mr. Burton?”

He shook his head despondently. “We found nothing, absolutely nothing which could connect your husband with any one of the rooms which we searched, Mrs. Dampier. If, after leaving you, he did spend the night in the Hôtel Saint Ange, the Poulains have obliterated every trace of his presence.”

She gave a low cry of pain, of bitter disappointment, and suddenly sinking down into a chair, buried her head in her hands–“I can’t bear it,” she wailed. “I only want to know the truth, whatever the truth may be! Anything would be better than what I am going through now.”

Gerald Burton came and stood by the bowed figure. He became curiously pale with that clear, not unhealthy, pallor which is induced by exceptional intensity of feeling.

“Mrs. Dampier?” he said, in a very low voice.

She lifted her head and looked at him fixedly.

“Everything that a man can do I will do to find your husband. If I fail to find him living I will find him dead.”

CHAPTER XII

But it is far easier to form such a resolution and to make such a promise as that which Gerald Burton had made to Nancy Dampier than it is to carry it out.

The officials of the Prefecture of Police grew well accustomed to the sight of the tall, good-looking young American coming and going in their midst, and they all showed a sympathetic interest in his quest. But though the police officials were lavish in kindly words, and in permits and passes which he found an open sesame to the various places where it was just conceivable that John Dampier, after having met with some kind of accident, might have been carried, they were apparently quite unable to elucidate the growing mystery of the English artist’s disappearance.

Early on the Friday morning Gerald Burton telephoned to Nancy Dampier’s friend and lawyer the fact that they were still entirely without any clue to the whereabouts of the missing man. And, true to his word, Mr. Stephens arrived in Paris that same evening.

He found his poor young client awaiting him in the company of the new friends to whom she owed so deep a debt of gratitude, and this lessened, to a certain extent, the awkwardness of their meeting. Even so, the shrewd, kindly Englishman felt much shocked and distressed by the change which had taken place in Nancy.

Just a month ago he had seen her standing, most radiant as well as prettiest of brides, by her proud husband’s side. Perhaps because she had had so lonely a girlhood there had been no tears at Nancy Tremain’s wedding, and when he had put her in the carriage which was to be the first little stage of her honeymoon, she had whispered, “Mr. Stephens? I feel as if I was going home.” And the lawyer had known all that the dear, to her till then unfamiliar, word–had meant to her.

And now, here she was with strangers, wan, strained and unutterably weary-looking; as she stood, her hand clasped in his, looking, with dumb anguish, up into his face, Mr. Stephens felt a thrill of intense anger against John Dampier. For the present, at any rate, he refused to entertain the theory of crime or accident. But he kept his thoughts entirely to himself.

The irruption of any human being into a small and, for any reason, closely welded together set of people produces much the same effect as does the addition of a new product to a chemical mixture. And the arrival of the English lawyer affected not only Nancy herself but, in varying ways, Senator Burton and his son.

A very few moments spent in the Englishman’s company brought to the American Senator an immense measure of relief. For one thing, he was sincerely glad to know that the poor young stranger’s business was about to pass into capable and evidently most trustworthy hands: also a rapid interchange of words the first time they were left alone together put an end, and that for ever, to Senator Burton’s uneasy suspicions–suspicions which had persisted to the end–as to Mrs. Dampier’s account of herself.

Whatever else was obscure in this strange story, it was now clear that Nancy had told nothing but the truth concerning her short, simple past life. And looking back the Senator found it difficult, as a man so often finds it difficult when he becomes wise after an event, to justify, even to himself, his former attitude of distrust.

As to Gerald Burton, he felt a little jealousy of the lawyer. Till the coming of Mr. Stephens it was to him that Mrs. Dampier had instinctively turned in her distress and suspense; now she naturally consulted, and deferred to the advice of, the older man and older friend.

But Mr. Stephens was not able to do more than had already been done. He listened to what all those about him had to say concerning John Dampier’s disappearance, and he carefully went over the ground already covered by Senator Burton and his son. He, too, saw the British Consul; he, too, was granted a short but cordial interview with the Prefect of Police; but not even to the Senator did he advance any personal theory as to what could account for the extraordinary occurrence.

Members of the legal profession are the same all the world over. If they are wise men and good lawyers, they keep their own counsel.

Perhaps because he himself had a son who was Gerald’s age, the English solicitor took, from the first, a very special interest in the young American architect. Soon they were on excellent terms with one another–indeed, it was with Gerald Burton that he found he had most to do. The young man naturally accompanied him to all those places where the presence of a first-rate interpreter was likely to be useful, and Gerald Burton also pursued a number of independent enquiries on his own account.

But nothing was of any avail; they were baffled at every turn, and soon this search for a vanished man became, to one of the two now so strenuously engaged in it, the most sinister and disturbing of the many problems with which he had had to deal as a trusted family lawyer.

The screen of memory bears many blurred and hazy impressions on its surface, but now and again some special dramatic happening remains fixed there in a series of sharply-etched pictures in which every line has its retrospective meaning and value.

Such was to be the case with Mr. Stephens and the curious days he spent in Paris seeking for John Dampier. He was there a whole week, and every succeeding day was packed with anxious, exciting interviews and expeditions, each of which it was hoped might yield some sort of clue. But what remained indelibly fixed on the English lawyer’s screen of memory were three or four at the time apparently insignificant conversations which in no case could have done much to solve the problem he had set himself to solve.

The first of these was a short conversation, in the middle of that busy week, with Nancy Dampier.

After the first interview in which she had told him her version of what had happened the night of her own and her husband’s arrival in Paris, he had had very little talk with her, and at no time had he expressed any opinion as to what could have happened to John Dampier. But at last he felt it his duty to try and probe a little more than he had felt it at first possible to do into the question of a possible motive or motives.

“I’m afraid,” he began, “that there’s very little more to do than has been already done. I mean, of course, for the present. And in your place, Nancy, I should come back to England, and wait there for any news that may reach you.”

As she shook her head very decidedly, he went on gravely:–“I know it is open to you to remain in Paris; but, my dear, I cannot believe that your husband is in Paris. If he were, we must by now, with the help of the French police–the most expert in the world, remember–have come across traces of him, and that whether he be dead or alive.”

But Nancy did not take the meaning he had hoped to convey by that last word. On the contrary:–

“Do you think,” she asked, and though her lips quivered she spoke very quietly, “that Jack is dead, Mr. Stephens? I know that Senator Burton’s son has come to believe that he is.”

“No,” said the English lawyer very seriously, “no, Nancy, I do not believe that your husband is dead. It is clear that had he been killed or injured that first morning in the Paris streets we should know it by now. The police assert, and I have no reason to doubt them, that they have made every kind of enquiry. No, they, like me, believe that your husband has left Paris.”

“Left Paris?” repeated Nancy in a bewildered tone.

“Yes, my dear. As to his motive in doing so–I suppose–forgive me for asking you such a question–I suppose that you and he were on quite comfortable and–well, happy terms together?”

Nancy looked at him amazed–and a look of great pain and indignation flashed into her face.

“Why of course we were!” she faltered. “Absolutely–ideally happy! You didn’t know Jack, Mr. Stephens; you were always prejudiced against him. Why, he’s never said–I won’t say an unkind word, but a cold or indifferent word since our first meeting. We never even had what is called”–again her lips quivered–‘”a lovers’ quarrel.'”

“Forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I had to ask you. The question as to what kind of relations you and he were on when you arrived in Paris has been raised by almost every human being whom I have seen in the last few days.”

“How horrible! How horrible!” murmured Nancy, hiding her face in her hands.

Then she raised her head, and looked straight at the lawyer:–“Tell anyone that asks you that,” she exclaimed, “that no woman was ever made happier by a man than my Jack made me. We were too happy. He said so that last evening–he said,” she ended her sentence with a sob, “that his happiness made him afraid–“

“Did he?” questioned Mr. Stephens thoughtfully. “That was an odd thing for him to say, Nancy.”

But she took no notice of the remark. Instead she, in her turn, asked a question:–“Do the police think that Jack may have left me of his own free will?”

Mr. Stephens looked extremely uncomfortable. “Well, some of them have thought that it is a possibility which should be kept in view.”

“But you do not think so?” She looked at him searchingly.

The lawyer’s courage failed him.

“No, of course not,” he said hastily, and poor little Nancy believed him.

“And now,” he went on quickly, relieved indeed to escape from a painful and difficult subject, “I, myself, must go home on Saturday. Cannot I persuade you to come back to England with me? My wife would be delighted if you would come to us–and for as long as you like.”

She hesitated–“No, Mr. Stephens, you are very, very kind, but I would rather remain on in Paris for a while. Miss Burton has asked me to stay with them till they leave for America. Once they are gone, if I still have no news, I will do what you wish. I will come back to England.”

The second episode, if episode it can be called, which was to remain vividly present in the memory of the lawyer, took place on the fifth day of his stay in Paris.

He and Gerald had exhausted what seemed every possible line of enquiry, when the latter put in plain words what, in deference to his father’s wish, he had hitherto tried to conceal from Mr. Stephens–his suspicions of the Poulains.

“I haven’t said so to you before,” he began abruptly, “but I feel quite sure that this Mr. John Dampier is dead.”

He spoke the serious words in low, impressive tones, and the words, the positive assertion, queerly disturbed Nancy’s lawyer, and that though he did not in the least share in his companion’s view. But still he felt disturbed, perhaps unreasonably so considering how very little he still knew of the speaker. He was indeed almost as disturbed as he would have been had it been his own son who had suddenly put forward a wrong and indeed an untenable proposition.

He turned and faced Gerald Burton squarely.

“I cannot agree with you,” he spoke with considerable energy, “and I am sorry you have got such a notion in your mind. I am quite sure that John Dampier is alive. He may be in confinement somewhere, held to ransom–things of that sort have happened in Paris before now. But be that as it may, it is my firm conviction that we shall have news of him within a comparatively short time. Of course I cannot help seeing what you suspect, namely, that there has been foul play on the part of the Poulains. But no other human being holds this theory but yourself. Your father–you must forgive me for saying so–has known these people a great deal longer than you have, and he tells me he would stake everything on their substantial integrity. And the police speak very highly of them too. Besides, in this world one must look for a motive–indeed, one must always look for a motive. But in this case no one that we know–I repeat, Mr. Burton, no one that we know of–had any motive for injuring Mr. Dampier.”

Gerald Burton looked up quickly:–“You mean by that there may be someone whom we do not know of who may have had a motive for spiriting him away?”

Mr. Stephens nodded curtly. He had not meant to say even so much as that.

“I want you to tell me,” went on the young American earnestly, “exactly what sort of a man this John Dampier is–or was?”

The lawyer took off his spectacles; he began rubbing the glasses carefully.

“Well,” he said at last, “that isn’t a question I find it easy to answer. I made a certain number of enquiries about him when he became engaged to Miss Tremain, and I am bound to tell you, Mr. Burton, that the answers, as far as they went, were quite satisfactory. The gentleman in whose house the two met–I mean poor Nancy and Dampier–had, and has, an extremely high opinion of him.”

“Mrs. Dampier once spoke to me as if she thought you did not like her husband?” Gerald Burton looked straight before him as he said the words he felt ashamed of uttering. And yet–and yet he did so want to know the truth as to John Dampier!

Mr. Stephens looked mildly surprised. “I don’t think I ever gave her any reason to suppose such a thing,” he said hesitatingly. “Mr. Dampier was eager, as all men in love are eager, to hasten on the marriage. You see, Mr. Burton”–he paused, and Gerald looked up quickly:–

“Yes, Mr. Stephens?”

“Well, to put it plainly, John Dampier was madly in love”–the speaker thought his companion winced, and, rather sorry than glad at the success of his little ruse, he hurried on:–“that being so he naturally wished to be married at once. But an English marriage settlement–especially when the lady has the money, which was the case with Miss Tremain–cannot be drawn up in a few days. Nancy herself was willing to assent to everything he wished; in fact I had to point out to her that it is impossible to get engaged on Monday and married on Tuesday! I suppose she thought that because I very properly objected to some such scheme of theirs, I disliked John Dampier. This was a most unreasonable conclusion, Mr. Burton!”

Gerald Burton felt disappointed. He did not believe that the English lawyer was answering truly. He did not stay to reflect that Mr. Stephens was not bound to answer indiscreet questions, and that when a young man asks an older man whether or no he dislikes someone, and that someone is a client, the question is certainly indiscreet.

In a small way the painful mystery was further complicated by the attitude of Mère Bideau. Bribes and threats were alike unavailing to make the old Breton woman open her mouth. She was full of suspicion; she refused to answer the simplest questions put to her by either Mr. Stephens or Gerald Burton.

And the lawyer felt a moment of sharp impatience, as business men are so often apt to feel in their dealings with women, when, in answer to his remark that Mère Bideau would be brought to her knees when she found her supplies cut off, Nancy, with tears running down her cheeks, cried out in protest:–“Oh, Mr. Stephens, don’t say that! I would far rather go on paying the old woman for ever than that she should be brought, as you say, to her knees. She was such a good servant to Jack: he is–he was–so fond of her.”

But Mère Bideau’s attitude greatly disconcerted and annoyed the Englishman. He wondered if the old woman knew more than she would admit; he even suspected her of knowing the whereabouts of her master; the more impenetrable became the mystery, the less Mr. Stephens believed Dampier to be dead.

And then, finally, on the last day of his stay in Paris something happened which, to the lawyer’s mind, confirmed his view that John Dampier, having vanished of his own free will, was living and well–though he hoped not happy–away from the great city which had been searched, or so the police assured the Englishman, with a thoroughness which had never been surpassed if indeed it had ever been equalled.

CHAPTER XIII

With Mr. Stephens’ morning coffee there appeared an envelope bearing his name and a French stamp, as well of course as the address of the obscure little hotel where the Burtons had found him a room.

The lawyer looked down at the envelope with great surprise. The address was written in a round, copybook hand, and it was clear his name must have been copied out of an English law list.

Who in Paris could be writing to him–who, for the matter of that, knew where he was staying, apart from his own family and his London office?

He broke the seal and saw that the sheet of notepaper he took from the envelope was headed “Préfecture de Police.” Hitherto the police had addressed all their communications to the Hôtel Saint Ange.

The letter ran as follows:

Dear Sir,
I am requested by the official who has the Dampier affair in hand to ask you if you will come here this afternoon at three o’clock. As I shall be present and can act as interpreter, it will not be necessary for you to be accompanied as you were before.

Yours faithfully,
Ivan Baroff.

What an extraordinary thing! Up to the present time Mr. Stephens had not communicated with a single police official able to speak colloquial English; it was that fact which had made him find Gerald Burton so invaluable an auxiliary. But this letter might have been written by an Englishman, though the signature showed it to be from a foreigner, and from a Pole, or possibly a Russian.

Were the police at last on the trail of the missing man? Mr. Stephens’ well-regulated heart began to beat quicker at the thought. But if so, how strange that the Prefect of Police had not communicated with the Hôtel Saint Ange last night! Monsieur Beaucourt had promised that the smallest scrap of news should be at once transmitted to John Dampier’s wife.

Well, there was evidently nothing for it but to wait with what patience he could muster till the afternoon; and it was characteristic of Nancy’s legal friend that he said nothing of his mysterious appointment to either the Burtons or to Mrs. Dampier. It was useless to raise hopes which might so easily be disappointed.

Three o’clock found Mr. Stephens at the Prefecture of Police.

“Ivan Baroff” turned out to be a polished and agreeable person who at once frankly explained that he belonged to the International Police. Indeed while shaking hands with his visitor he observed pleasantly, “This is not the kind of work with which I have, as a rule, anything to do, but my colleagues have asked me to see you, Mr. Stephens, because I have lived in England, and am familiar with your difficult language. I wish to entertain you on a rather delicate matter. I am sure I may count on your discretion, and, may I add, your sympathy?”

The English lawyer looked straight at the suave-spoken detective. What the devil did the man mean? “Certainly,” said he, “certainly you can count on my discretion, Monsieur Baroff, and–and my sympathy. I hope I am not unreasonable in hoping that at last the police have obtained some kind of due to Mr. Dampier’s whereabouts.”

“No,” said the other indifferently. “That I regret to tell you is not the case; they are, however, prosecuting their enquiries with the greatest zeal–of hat you may rest assured.”

“So I have been told again and again,” Mr. Stephens spoke rather impatiently. “It seems strange–I think I may say so to you who are, like myself, a foreigner–it seems strange, I say, that the French police, who are supposed to be so extraordinarily clever, should have failed to find even a trace of this missing man. Mr. John Dampier can’t have vanished from the face of the earth: dead or alive, he must be somewhere!”

“There is of course no proof at all that Mr. Dampier ever arrived in Paris,” observed the detective significantly.

“No, there is no actual proof that he did so,” replied the English solicitor frankly. “There I agree! But there is ample proof that he was coming to Paris. And, as I suppose you know, the Paris police have satisfied themselves that Mr. and Mrs. Dampier stayed both in Marseilles and in Lyons.”

“Yes, I am aware of that; as also–” he checked himself. “But what I have to say to you to-day, my dear sir, is only indirectly concerned with Mr. Dampier’s disappearance. I am really here to ask if you cannot exert your influence with the Burton family, with the American Senator, that is, and more particularly with his son, to behave in a reasonable manner.”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“Well, it is not so very easy to explain! All I can say is that young Mr. Burton is making himself very officious, and very disagreeable. He has adopted a profession which here, at the Prefecture of Police, we naturally detest”–the Russian smiled, but not at all pleasantly–“I mean that of the amateur detective! He is determined to find Mr. Dampier–or perhaps it would be more true to say”–he shrugged his shoulders–“that he wishes–the wish perhaps being, as you so cleverly say in England, father to the thought–to be quite convinced of that unfortunate gentleman’s obliteration from life. He has brought himself to believe–but perhaps he has already told you what he thinks–?”

He waited a moment.

But the English lawyer made no sign of having understood what the other wished to imply. “They have all talked to me,” he said mildly, “Senator Burton, Mr. Burton, Miss Burton; every conceivable possibility has been discussed by us.”

“Indeed? Well, with so many clever people all trying together it would be strange if not one hit upon the truth!” The detective spoke with good-natured sarcasm.

“Perhaps we have hit upon it,” said Mr. Stephens suddenly. “What do you think, Monsieur Baroff?”

“I do not think at all!” he said pettishly. “I am far too absorbed in my own tiresome job–that of keeping my young Princes and Grand Dukes out of scrapes–to trouble about this peculiar affair. But to return to what I was saying. You are of course aware that Mr. Gerald Burton is convinced, and very foolishly convinced (for there is not an atom of proof, or of anything likely to lead to proof), that this Mr. Dampier was murdered, if not by the Poulains, then by some friend of theirs in the Hôtel Saint Ange. The foolish fellow has as good as said so to more than one of our officials.”

“I know such is Mr. Burton’s theory,” answered Mr. Stephens frankly, “and it is one very difficult to shake. In fact I may tell you that I have already tried to make him see the folly of the notion, and how it is almost certainly far from the truth.”

“It is not only far from the truth, it is absolutely untrue,” said the Russian impressively. “But what I now wish to convey to the young man is that should he be so ill-advised as to do what he is thinking of doing he will make it very disagreeable for the lady in whom he takes so strangely violent an interest–“

“What exactly do you mean, Monsieur Baroff?”

“This Mr. Gerald Burton is thinking of enlisting the help of the American newspaper men in Paris. He wishes them to raise the question in their journals.”

“I do not think he would do that without consulting his father or me,” said Mr. Stephens quickly. He felt dismayed by the other’s manner. Monsieur Baroff’s tone had become menacing, almost discourteous.

“Should this headstrong young man do anything of that kind,” went on the detective, “he will put an end to the efforts we are making to find Mrs. Dampier’s husband. In fact I think I may say that if the mystery is never solved, it will be thanks to his headstrong folly and belief in himself.”

With this the disagreeable interview came to an end, and though the English lawyer never confided the details of this curious conversation to any living soul, he did make an opportunity of conveying Ivan Baroff’s warning to Gerald Burton.

“Before leaving Paris,” he said earnestly, “there is one thing I want to impress upon you, Mr. Burton. Do not let any newspaper people get hold of this story; I can imagine nothing that would more distress poor Mrs. Dampier. She would be exposed to very odious happenings if this disappearance of her husband were made, in any wide sense of the word, public. And then I need not tell you that the Paris Police have a very great dislike to press publicity; they are doing their very best–of that I am convinced–to probe the mystery.”

Gerald Burton hesitated. “I should have thought,” he said, “that it would at least be worth while to offer a reward in all the Paris papers. I find that such rewards are often offered in England, Mr. Stephens.”

“Yes–they are. And very, very seldom with any good result,” answered the lawyer drily. “In fact all the best minds concerned with the question of crime have a great dislike to the reward system. Not once in a hundred cases is it of any use. In fact it is only valuable when it may induce a criminal to turn ‘King’s evidence.’ But in this case I pray you to believe me when I say that we are not seeking to discover the track of any criminal–” in his own mind he added the words, “unless we take John Dampier to be one!”

It was on the morning of Mr. Stephens’ departure from Paris, in fact when he and Senator Burton, who had gone to see him off, were actually in the station, walking up and down the Salle des Pas Perdus, that the lawyer uttered the words which finally made up the American Senator’s mind for him.

“You have been so more than good to Mrs. Dampier,” the Englishman said earnestly, “that I do not feel it would be fair, Mr. Senator, to leave you in ignorance of my personal conviction concerning this painful affair.”

The American turned and looked at his companion. “Yes?” he said with suppressed eagerness. “Yes, Mr. Stephens, I shall be sincerely grateful for your honest opinion.”

They had all three–he and Daisy and Gerald–tried to make this Englishman say what he really thought, but with a courtesy that was sometimes grave, sometimes smiling, Mr. Stephens had eluded their surely legitimate curiosity.

Even now the lawyer hesitated, but at last he spoke out what he believed to be the truth.

“It is my honest opinion that this disappearance of Mr. Dampier is painful rather than mysterious. I believe that poor Nancy Tremain’s bridegroom, actuated by some motive to which we may never have the clue, made up his mind to disappear. When faced with responsibilities for which they have no mind men before now have often disappeared, Mr. Senator. Lawyers and doctors, if their experience extend over a good many years, come across stories even more extraordinary than that which has been concerning us now!”

“I take it,” said Senator Burton slowly, “that you did not form a good impression of this Mr. Dampier?”

The lawyer again hesitated, much as he had hesitated when asked the same question by young Burton, but this time he answered quite truthfully.

“Well, no, I did not! True, he seemed entirely indifferent as to how the money of his future wife was settled; indeed I could not help feeling that he was culpably careless about the whole matter. But even so I had one or two very disagreeable interviews with him. You see, Senator Burton, the man was madly in love; he had persuaded poor Nancy to be married at once–and by at once I mean within a fortnight of their engagement. He seemed strangely afraid of losing her, and I keenly resented this feeling on his part, for a more loyal little soul doesn’t live. She has quite a nice fortune, you know, and for my part I should have liked her to marry some honest country gentleman in her own country–not an artist living in Paris.”

“You don’t attach much importance to love, Mr. Stephens?”

The lawyer laughed. “Quite enough!” he exclaimed. “Love causes more trouble in the world than everything else put together–at any rate it does to members of my profession. But to return to poor Nancy. She’s a fascinating little creature!” He shot a quick glance at Senator Burton, but the latter only said cordially:–

“Yes, as fascinating as she’s pretty!”

“Well, she had plenty of chances of making a good marriage–but no one touched her heart till this big, ugly fellow came along. So of course I had to make the best of it!” He waited a moment and then went on. “I ought to tell you that at my suggestion Dampier took out a large insurance policy on his own life: I didn’t think it right that he should bring, as it were, nothing into settlement, the more so that Nancy had insisted, on her side, that all her money should go to him at her death, and that whether they had any children or not! You know what women are?” he shrugged his shoulders.

“If that be so,” observed the Senator, “then money can have had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

“I’m not so sure of that! In fact I’ve been wondering uneasily during the last few days whether, owing to his being an artist, and to his having lived so much abroad, John Dampier could have been foolish enough to suppose that in the case of his disappearance the insurance money would be paid over to Mrs. Dampier. That, of course, would be one important reason why he should wish to obliterate himself as completely as he seems to have done. I need hardly tell you, Mr. Senator, that the Insurance Office would laugh in my face if I were to try and make them pay. Why, years will have to elapse before our courts would even consider the probability of death.”

“I now understand your view,” said the Senator gravely. “But even if it be the true solution, it does not explain the inexplicable difference between Mrs. Dampier’s statement and that of the Poulains–I mean, their statements as to what happened the night Mr. and Mrs. Dampier arrived in Paris.”

“No,” said the lawyer reluctantly. “I admit that to me this is the one inexplicable part of the whole story. And I also confess that as to that one matter I find it impossible to make up my mind. If I had not known poor little Nancy all her life, I should believe, knowing what women are capable of doing if urged thereto by pride or pain–I should believe, I say, that she had made up this strange story to account for her husband’s having left her! I could tell you more than one tale of a woman having deceived not only her lawyer, but, later, a judge and a jury, as to such a point of fact. But from what I know of Mrs. Dampier she would be quite incapable of inventing, or perhaps what is quite as much to the purpose, of keeping up such a deception.”

“From something my daughter said,” observed Senator Burton, “I think you have been trying to persuade the poor little lady to go back to England?”

“Yes, I tried to make her come back with me to-day. And I am bound to say that I succeeded better than I expected to do, for though she refuses to come now, she does intend to do so when you yourselves leave Paris, Mr. Senator. Fortunately she does not know what sort of a time she will come back to: I fear that most of her friends will feel exactly as I feel; they will not believe that John Dampier has disappeared save of his own free will–and some of them will suppose it their duty to tell her so!”

“It is the view evidently held by the French police,” observed the Senator.

The English lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “Of course it is! The fact that Dampier had hardly any money on him disposes of any crime theory. A wonderful thing the Paris police system, Mr. Burton!”

And the other cordially agreed; nothing could have been more courteous, more kind, more intelligent, than the behaviour of the high police officials, from the Prefect himself downwards, over the whole business.

Mr. Stephens glanced up at the huge station clock. “I have only five minutes left,” he said. “But I want to say again how much I appreciate your extraordinary kindness and goodness to my poor client. And, Mr. Senator? There’s just one thing more I want to say to you–” For the first time the English lawyer looked awkward and ill at ease.

“Why yes, Mr. Stephens! Pray say anything you like.”

“Well, my dear sir, I should like to give you a very sincere piece of advice.” He hesitated. “If I were you I should go back to America as soon as possible. I feel this sad affair has thoroughly spoilt your visit to Paris; and speaking as a man who has children himself, I am sure it has not been well, either for Miss Daisy or for your son, to have become absorbed, as they could hardly help becoming, in this distressing business.”

The American felt slightly puzzled by the seriousness with which the other delivered this well-meant but wholly superfluous advice. What just exactly did the lawyer mean by these solemnly delivered words?

“Why,” said the Senator, “you’re quite right, Mr. Stephens; it has been an ordeal, especially for my girl Daisy: she hasn’t had air and exercise enough during this last fortnight, let alone change of thought and scene. But, as a matter of fact, I am settling about our passages to-day, on my way back to the hotel.”

“I am very glad to hear that!” exclaimed the other, with far more satisfaction and relief in his voice than seemed warranted. “And I presume that your son will find lots of work awaiting him on his return home? There’s nothing like work to chase cobwebs from the brain or–or heart, Mr. Senator.”

“That’s true: not that there are many cobwebs in my boy’s brain, Mr. Stephens,” he smiled broadly at the notion.

“Messieurs! Mesdames! En voiture, s’il vous plait. En voiture–!”

A few minutes later Mr. Stephens waved his hand from his railway carriage, and as he did so he wondered if he himself had ever been as obtuse a father as his new American friend seemed to be.

As he walked away from the station Senator Burton made up his mind to go back on foot, taking the office of the Transatlantic Steamship Company on his way. And while he sauntered through the picturesque, lively streets of the Paris he loved with so familiar and appreciative an admiration, the American found his thoughts dwelling on the events of the last fortnight.

Yes, it had been a strange, an extraordinary experience–one which he and his children would never forget, which they would often talk over in days to come. Poor little Nancy Dampier! His kind, fatherly heart went out to her with a good deal of affection, and yes, of esteem. She had behaved with wonderful courage and good sense–and with dignity too, when one remembered the extraordinary position in which she had been placed with regard to the Poulains.

The Poulains? For the hundredth time he wondered where the truth really lay…. But he soon dismissed the difficult problem, for now he had reached the offices of the French Transatlantic Company. There the Senator’s official rank caused him to be treated with very special civility; at once he was assured that three passages would be reserved for him on practically what boat he liked: he suggested the Lorraine, sailing in ten days time, and he had the satisfaction of seeing good cabins booked in his name.

And as he walked away, slightly cheered, as men are apt to be, by the pleasant deference paid to his wishes, he told himself that before leaving Paris he must arrange for a cable to be at once dispatched should there come any news of the mysterious, and at once unknown and familiar, John Dampier. Mrs. Dampier would surely find his request a natural one, the more so that Daisy and Gerald would be just as eager to hear news as he himself would be. He had never known anything take so firm a hold of his son’s and daughter’s imaginations.

On reaching the Hôtel Saint Ange the Senator went over to Madame Poulain’s kitchen; it was only right to give her the date of their departure as soon as possible.

“Well,” he said with a touch of regret in his voice, “we shall soon be going off now, Madame Poulain. Next Tuesday-week you will have to wish us bon voyage!”

And instead of seeing the good woman’s face cloud over, as it had always hitherto clouded over, when he had sought her out to say that their stay in Paris was drawing to a close, he saw a look of intense relief, of undisguised joy, flash into her dark expressive eyes, and that though she observed civilly, “Quel dommage, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you cannot stay a little longer!”

He moved away abruptly, feeling unreasonably mortified.

But Senator Burton was a very just man; he prided himself on his fairness of outlook; and now he reminded himself quickly that their stay at the Hôtel Saint Ange had not brought unmixed good fortune to the Poulains. It was natural that Madame Poulain should long to see the last of them–at any rate this time.

He found Gerald alone, seated at a table, intent on a letter he was writing. Daisy, it seemed, had persuaded Mrs. Dampier to go out for a walk before luncheon.

“Well, my boy, we shall have to make the best of the short time remaining to us in Paris. I have secured passages in the Lorraine, and so we now only have till Tuesday-week to see everything in Paris which this unhappy affair has prevented our seeing during the last fortnight.”

And then it was that the something happened, that the irreparable words were spoken, which suddenly and most rudely opened the Senator’s eyes to a truth which the English lawyer had seen almost from the first moment of his stay in Paris.

Gerald Burton started up. His face was curiously pale under its healthy tan, but the Senator noticed that his son’s eyes were extraordinarily bright.

“Father?” He leant across the round table. “I am not going home with you. In fact I am now writing to Mr. Webb to tell him that he must not expect me back at the office for the present: I will cable as soon as I can give him a date.”

“Not going home?” repeated Senator Burton. “What do you mean, Gerald? What is it that should keep you here after we have gone?” but a curious sensation of fear and dismay was already clutching at the older man’s heart.

“I am never going back–not till John Dampier is found. I have promised Mrs. Dampier to find him, and that whether he be alive or dead!”

Even then the Senator tried not to understand. Even then he tried to tell himself that his son was only actuated by some chivalrous notion of keeping his word, in determining on a course which might seriously damage his career.

He tried quiet expostulation: “Surely, Gerald, you are not serious in making such a decision? Mrs. Dampier, from what I know of her, would be. the last to exact from you the fulfilment of so–so unreasonable a promise. Why, you and I both know quite well that the Paris police, and also Mr. Stephens, are convinced that this man Dampier just left his wife of his own free will.”

“I know they think that! But it’s a lie!” cried Gerald with blazing eyes. “An infamous lie! I should like to see Mr. Stephens dare suggest such a notion to John Dampier’s wife. Not that she is his wife, father, for I’m sure the man is dead–and I believe–I hope that she’s beginning to think so too!”

“But if Dampier is dead, Gerald, then–” the Senator was beginning to lose patience, but he was anxious not to lose his temper too, not to make himself more unpleasant than he must do. “Surely you see yourself, my boy, that if the man is dead, there’s nothing more for you to do here, in Paris?”

“Father, there’s everything! The day I make sure that John Dampier is dead will be the happiest day of my life.” His voice had sunk low, he muttered the last words between his teeth; but alas! the Senator heard them all too clearly.

“Gerald!” he said gravely. “Gerald? Am I to understand–“

“Father–don’t say anything you might be sorry for afterwards! Yes, you have guessed truly. I love Nancy! If the man is dead–and I trust to God he is–I hope to marry her some day. If–if you and Mr. Stephens are right–if he is still alive–well then–” he waited a moment, and that moment was the longest the Senator had ever known–“then, father, I promise you I will come home. But in that case I shall never, never marry anybody else. Daisy knows,” went on the young man, unconsciously dealing his father another bitter blow. “Daisy knows–she guessed, and–she understands.”

“And does she approve?” asked the Senator sternly.

“I don’t know–I don’t care!” cried Gerald fiercely. “I am not looking for anyone’s approval. And, father?” His voice altered, it became what the other had never heard his son’s voice be, suppliant:–“I have trusted you with my secret–but let it be from now as if I had not spoken. I beg of you not to discuss it with Daisy–I need not ask you not to speak of it to anybody else.”

The Senator nodded. He was too agitated, too horror-stricken to speak, and his agitation was not lessened by his son’s final words.

EPILOGUE

I

It is two years to a day since John Dampier disappeared, and it is only owing to one man’s inflexible determination that the search for him has not been abandoned long ago.

And now we meet Senator Burton far in body, if not in mind, from the place where we last met him.

He is standing by an open window, gazing down on one of the fairest sights civilised nature has to offer–that of an old English garden filled with fragrant flowers which form scented boundaries of soft brilliant colour to wide lawns shaded by great cedar trees.

But as he stands there in the early morning sunlight, for it is only six o’clock, he does not look in harmony with the tranquil beauty of the scene before him. There is a stern, troubled expression on his face, for he has just espied two figures walking side by side across the dewy grass; the one is his son Gerald, the other Nancy Dampier, still in the delicate and dangerous position of a woman who is neither wife, maid, nor widow.

The Senator’s whole expression has changed in the two years. He used to look a happy, contented man; now, especially when he is alone and his face is in repose, he has the disturbed, bewildered expression men’s faces bear when Providence or Fate–call it which you will–has treated them in a way they feel to be unbearably unfair, as well as unexpected.

And yet the majority of mankind would consider this American to be supremely blessed. The two children he loves so dearly are as fondly attached to him as ever they were; and there has also befallen him a piece of quite unexpected good fortune. A distant relation, from whom he had no expectations, has left him a fortune “as a token of admiration for his high integrity.”

Senator Burton is now a very rich man, and because Daisy fancied it would please her brother they have taken for the summer this historic English manor house, famed all the world over to those interested in mediaeval architecture, as Barwell Moat.

Here he, Daisy, and Nancy Dampier have already been settled for a week; Gerald only joined them yesterday from Paris.

Early though it is, the Senator has already been up and dressed over an hour; and he has spent the time unprofitably, in glancing over his diary of two years ago, in conning, that is, the record of that strange, exciting fortnight which so changed his own and his children’s lives.

He has read over with pain and distaste the brief words in which he chronicled that first chance meeting with Nancy Dampier. What excitement, what adventures, and yes, what bitter sorrow had that chance meeting under the porte cochère of the Hôtel Saint Ange brought in its train! If only he and Daisy had started out an hour earlier on that June morning just two years ago how much they would have been spared.

As for the fortune left to him, Senator Burton is now inclined to think that it has brought him less than no good. It has only provided Gerald with an excuse, which to an American father is no excuse, for neglecting his profession. Further, it has enabled the young man to spend money in a prodigal fashion over what even he now acknowledges to have been a hopeless quest, though even at the present moment detectives in every capital in Europe are watching for a clue which may afford some notion as to the whereabouts of John Dampier.

John Dampier? Grim, relentless spectre who pursues them unceasingly, and from whose menacing, shadowy presence they are never free–from whom, so the Senator has now despairingly come to believe, they never, never will be free….

He had stopped his diary abruptly on the evening of that now far-off day when his eyes had been so rudely opened to his son’s state of mind and heart. But though he has no written record to guide him the Senator finds it only too easy, on this beautiful June morning, to go back, in dreary retrospective, over these two long years.

Gerald had not found it possible to keep his rash vow; there had come a day when he had had to go back to America–indeed, he has been home three times. But those brief visits of his son to his own country brought the father no comfort, for each time Gerald left behind him in Europe not only his heart, but everything else that matters to a man–his interests, his longings, his hopes.

Small wonder that in time Senator Burton and Daisy had also fallen into the way of spending nearly the whole of the Senator’s spare time in Europe, and with Nancy Dampier.

Nancy? The mind of the watcher by the window turns to her too, as he visions the slender, graceful figure now pacing slowly by his son’s side.

Is it unreasonable that, gradually withdrawing herself from her old friends, those friends who did not believe that Dampier had left her save of his own free will, Nancy should cling closer and closer to her new friends? No, not at all unreasonable, but, from the Senator’s point of view, very unfortunate. Daisy and Nancy are now like sisters, and to the Senator himself she shows the loving deference, the affection of a daughter, but with regard to the all-important point of her relations to Gerald, none of them know the truth–indeed, it may be doubted if she knows it herself.

But the situation gets more difficult, more strained every month, every week, almost every day. Senator Burton feels that the time has come when something must be done to end it–one way or the other–and the day before yesterday he sought out Mr. Stephens, now one of his closest friends and advisers, in order that they might confer together on the matter. As he stands there looking down at the two figures walking across the dewy grass, he remembers with a sense of boding fear the conversation with Nancy’s lawyer.

“There’s nothing to be done, my poor friend, nothing at all! Our English marriage laws are perfectly clear, and though this is a very, very hard case, I for my part have no wish to see them altered.”

And the Senator had answered with heat, “I cannot follow you there at all! The law which ties a living woman to a man who may be dead, nay, probably is dead, is a monstrous law.”

And Mr. Stephens had answered very quietly, “What if John Dampier be alive?”

“And is this all I can tell my poor son?”

And then it was that Mr. Stephens, looking at him doubtfully, had answered, “Well no, for there is a way out. It is not a good way–I doubt if it is a right way–but still it is a way. It is open to poor little Nancy to go to America, to become naturalized there, and then to divorce her husband, in one of your States, for desertion. The divorce so obtained would be no divorce in England, but many Englishmen and Englishwomen have taken that course as a last resort–” He had waited a moment, and then added, “I doubt, however, very, very much if Nancy would consent to do such a thing, even if she reciprocates–which is by no means sure–your son’s–er–feeling for her.”

“Feeling?” Senator Burton’s voice had broken, and then he had cried out fiercely, “Why use such an ambiguous word, when we both know that Gerald is killing himself for love of her–and giving up the finest career ever opened to a man? If Mrs. Dampier does not reciprocate what you choose to call his ‘feeling’ for bet, then she is the coldest and most ungrateful of women!”

“I don’t think she is either the one or the other,” had observed Mr. Stephens mildly; and he had added under his breath, “It would be the better for her if she were–Believe me the only way to force her to consider the expedient I have suggested–” he had hesitated as if rather ashamed of what he was about to say, “would be for Gerald to tell her the search for Mr. Dampier must now end–and that the time has come when he must go back to America–and work.”

Small wonder that Senator Burton found it hard to sleep last night, small wonder he has risen so early. He knows that his son is going to speak to Nancy, to tell her what Mr. Stephens has suggested she should do, and he suspects that now, at this very moment, the decisive conversation may be taking place.

II

Though unconscious that anxious, yearning eyes are following them, both Nancy Dampier and Gerald Burton feel an instinctive desire to get away from the house, and as far as may be from possible eavesdroppers. They walk across the stretch of lawn which separates the moat from the gardens in a constrained silence, she following rather than guiding her companion.

But as if this charming old-world plesaunce were quite familiar to him, Gerald goes straight on, down a grass path ending in what appears to be a high impenetrable wall of yew, and Nancy, surprised, then sees that a narrow, shaft-like way leads straight through the green leafy depths.

“Why, Gerald?” she says a little nervously–they have long ago abandoned any more formal mode of address, though between them there stands ever the spectre of poor John Dampier, as present to one of the two, and he the man, as if the menacing shadow were in very truth a tangible presence. “Why, Gerald, where does this lead? Have you ever been here before?”

And for the first time since they met the night before, the young man smiles. “I thought I’d like to see an English sunrise, Nancy, so I’ve been up a long time. I found a rose garden through here, and I thought it would be a quiet place for our talk.”

It is strangely dark and still under the dense evergreen arch of the slanting way carved through the yew hedge; Nancy can only grope her way along. Turning round, Gerald holds out his strong hands, and taking hers in what seems so cool, so impersonal a grasp, he draws her after him. And Nancy flushes in the half darkness; it is the first time that she and Gerald Burton have ever been alone together as they are alone now, and that though they have met so very, very often in the last two years.

Nancy is at once glad and sorry when he suddenly loosens his grasp of her hands. The shadowed way terminates in a narrow wrought-iron gate; and beyond the gate is the rose garden of Barwell Moat, a tangle of exquisite colouring, jealously guarded and hidden away from those to whom the more familiar beauties of the place are free.

It is one of the oldest of English roseries, planned by some Elizabethan dame who loved solitude rather than the sun. And if the roses bloom a little less freely in this quiet, still enclosure than they would do in greater light and wilder air, this gives the rosery, in these hot June days, a touch of austere and more fragile beauty than that to be seen beyond its enlacing yews.

A hundred years after the Elizabethan lady had designed the rosery of Barwell Moat a Jacobean dame had added to her rose garden a fountain–one brought maybe from Italy or France, for the fat stone Cupids now shaking slender jets of water from their rose-leaved cornucopias are full of a roguish, Southern grace.

When they have passed through into this fragrant, enchanted looking retreat, Nancy cries out in real delight: “What an exquisite and lovely place! How strange that Daisy and I never found it!”

And then, as Gerald remains silent, she looks, for the first time this morning, straight up into his face, and her heart is filled with a sudden overwhelming sensation of suspense–and yes, fear, for there is the strangest expression on the young man’s countenance, indeed it is full of deep, of violent emotion–emotion his companion finds contagious.

She tells herself that at last he has brought news. That if he did not tell her so last night it was because he wished her to have one more night of peace–of late poor Nancy’s nights have become very peaceful.

John Dampier? There was a time–it now seems long, long ago–when Nancy would have given not only her life but her very soul to have known that her husband was safe, that he would come back to her. But now? Alas! Alas! Now she realises with an agonised feeling of horror, of self-loathing, that she no longer wishes to hear Gerald Burton say that he has kept his word–that he has found Dampier.

She prays God that nothing of what she is feeling shows in her face; and Gerald is far too moved, far too doubtful as to what he is to say to her, and as to the answer she will make to him, to see that she looks in any way different from what she always does look in his eyes–the most beautiful as well as the most loved and worshipped of human creatures.

“Tell me!” she gasps. “Tell me, Gerald? What is it you want to say to me? Don’t keep me in suspense–” and then, as he is still dumb, she adds with a cry, “Have you come to tell me that at last you have found Jack?”

And he pulls himself together with a mighty effort. Nancy’s words have rudely dispelled the hopes with which his heart has been filled ever since his father came to his room last night and told him what Mr. Stephens had suggested as a possible way out of the present, intolerable situation.

“No,” he says sombrely, “no, Nancy, I have brought you no good news, and I am beginning to fear I never shall.”

And he does not see even now that the long quivering sigh which escapes from her pale lips is a sigh of unutterable–if of pained and shamed–relief.

But what is this he is now saying, in a voice which is so unsteady, so oddly unlike his own?

“I think–God forgive me for thinking so if I am wrong–that I have always been right, Nancy, that your husband is dead–that he was killed two years ago, the night he disappeared–“

She bends her head. Yes, she too believes that, though there was a time when she fought, with desperate strength, against the belief.

He goes on breathlessly, hoarsely, aware that he is making what Mr. Stephens would call a bad job of it all: “I am now beginning to doubt whether we shall ever discover the truth as to what did happen. His body may still lie concealed somewhere in the Hôtel Saint Ange, and if that is so, there’s but small chance indeed that we shall ever, ever learn the truth.”

And again she bends her head.

“I fear the time is come, Nancy, when the search must be given up.”

He utters the fateful words very quietly, very gently, but even so she feels a pang of startled fear. Does that mean–yes, of course it must mean, that Gerald is going away, back to America?

A feeling of dreadful desolation fills her heart. “Yes,” she says in a low tone, “I think you are right. I think the search should be given up.”

She would like to utter words of thanks, the conventional words of gratitude she has uttered innumerable times in the last two years–but now they stick in her throat.

Tears smart into her eyes, stifled sobs burst from her lips.

And Gerald again misunderstands–misunderstands her tears, the sobs which tear and shake her slender body. But he is only too familiar with the feeling which now grips him–the feeling that he must rush forward and take her in his arms. It has never gripped him quite as strongly as it does now; and so he steps abruptly back, and puts more of the stone rim of the fountain between himself and that forlorn little figure.

“Nancy?” he cries. “I was a brute to say that. Of course I will go on! Of course we won’t give up hope! It’s natural that I should sometimes become disheartened.”

He is telling himself resolutely that never, never will he propose to her the plan his father revealed to him last night. How little either his father or Mr. Stephens had understood the relation between himself and Nancy if they supposed that he, of all men, could make to her such a suggestion.

And then he suddenly sees in Nancy’s sensitive face, in her large blue eyes that unconscious beckoning, calling look every lover longs to see in the face of his beloved….

They each instinctively move towards the other, and in a flash Nancy is in his arms and he is holding her strained to his heart, while his lips seek, find, cling to her sweet, tremulous mouth.

But the moment of rapture, of almost unendurable bliss is short indeed, for suddenly he feels her shrinking from him, and though for yet another moment he holds her against her will, the struggle soon ends, and he releases her, feeling what he has never yet felt when with her, that is, bewildered, hurt, and yes, angry.

And then, when she sees that new alien glance of anger in eyes which have never looked at her but kindly, Nancy feels a dreadful pang of pain, as well as of shamed distress. She creeps up nearer to him, and puts her hand imploringly on his arm–that arm which a moment ago held her so closely to him, but which now hangs, apparently nerveless, by his side.

“Gerald!” she whispers imploringly. “Don’t be angry with me,” and her voice drops still lower as she adds piteously, “You see, I knew we were doing wrong. I–I felt wicked.”

And then, as he still makes no answer, she grows more keenly distressed. “Gerald?” she says again. “You may kiss me if you like.” And as he only looks down at her, taking no advantage of the reluctant permission, she falters out the ill-chosen words, “Don’t you know how grateful I am to you?”

And then, stung past endurance, he turns on her savagely:–“Does that mean that I have bought the right to kiss you?”

But as, at this, she bursts into bitter tears, he again takes her in his arms, and he does kiss her, violently, passionately, hungrily. He is only a man after all.

But alas! These other kisses leave behind them a bitter taste. They lack the wild, exquisite flavour of the first.

At last he tells her, haltingly, slowly, of Mr. Stephens’ suggestion, but carefully as he chooses his words he feels her shrinking, wincing at the images they conjure up; and he tells himself with impatient self-reproach that he has been too quick, too abrupt–that he ought to have allowed the notion to sink into her mind slowly, that he should have made Daisy, or even his father, be his ambassador.

“I couldn’t do that!” she whispers at last, and he sees that she has turned very white. “I don’t think I could ever do that! Think how awful it would be if–if after I had done such a thing I found that poor Jack was not dead? Some time ago–I have never told you of this–some friend, meaning to be kind, sent me a cutting from a paper telling of a foreigner who had been taken up for mad in Italy, and confined in a lunatic asylum for years and years! You don’t know how that story haunted me. It haunted me for weeks. You wouldn’t like me to do anything I thought wrong, Gerald?”

“No,” he says moodily. “No, Nancy–I will never ask you to do anything you think wrong.” He adds with an effort, “I told my father last night that I doubted if you would ever consent to such a thing.”

And then she asks an imprudent question:–“And what did he say then?” she says in a troubled, unhappy voice.

“D’you really want to know what he said?”

She creeps a little nearer to him, she even takes his hand. “Yes, Gerald. Tell me.”

“He said that if you wouldn’t consent to do some such thing, why then I should be doing wrong to stay in Europe. He said–I little knew how true it was–that soon you would learn that I loved you, and that then–that then the situation would become intolerable.”

“Intolerable?” she repeats in a low, strained tone. “Oh no, not intolerable, Gerald! Surely you don’t feel that?”

And this time it is Gerald who winces, who draws back; but suddenly his heart fills up, brims over with a great, an unselfish tenderness–for Nancy, gazing up at him, looks disappointed as a child, not a woman, looks, when disappointed of a caress; and so he puts his arms round her and kisses her very gently, very softly, in what he tells himself is a kind, brotherly fashion. “You know I’ll do just whatever you wish,” he murmurs.

And contentedly she nestles against him. “Oh, Gerald,” she whispers back, “how good you are to me! Can’t we always be reasonable–like this?”

And he smiles, a little wryly. “Why, yes,” he says, “of course we can! And now, Nancy, it’s surely breakfast time. Let’s go back to the house.”

And Nancy, perhaps a little surprised, a little taken aback at his sudden, cheerful acceptance of her point of view, follows him through the dark passage cut in the yew hedge. She supposes–perhaps she even hopes–that before they emerge into the sun light he will turn and again kiss her in the reasonable, tender way he did just now.

But Gerald does not even turn round and grasp her two hands as he did before. He leaves her to grope her way behind him as best she can, and as they walk across the lawn he talks to her in a more cheerful, indifferent way than he has ever done before. Once they come close up to the house, however, he falls into a deep silence.

III

It is by the merest chance that they stay in that afternoon, for it has been a long, a wretched day for them all.

Senator Burton and his daughter are consumed with anxiety, with a desire to know what has taken place, but all they can see is that Gerald and Nancy both look restless, miserable, and ill at ease with one another. Daisy further suspects that Nancy is avoiding Gerald, and the suspicion makes her feel anxious and uncomfortable.

As for the Senator, he begins to feel that he hates this beautiful old house and its lovely gardens; he has never seen Gerald look as unhappy anywhere as he looks here.

At last he seeks his son out, and, in a sense, forces his confidence. “Well, my boy?”

“Well, father, she doesn’t feel she can do it! She thinks that Dampier may be alive after all. If you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about her just now.”

And then the Senator tells himself, for the hundredth time in the last two years, that they have now come to the breaking point–that if Nancy will not take the only reasonable course open to her, then that Gerald must be nerved to make, as men have so often had to make, the great renouncement. To go on as he is now doing is not only wrong as regards himself, it is wrong as regards his sister Daisy.

There is a man in America who loves Daisy–a man too of whom the Senator approves as much as he can of anyone who is anxious to take his daughter from him. And Daisy, were her heart only at leisure, might respond; but alas! her heart is not at leisure, it is wholly absorbed in the affairs of her brother and of her friend.

At last the high ritual of English afternoon tea brings them out all together on the lawn in front of the house.

Deferentially consulted by the solemn-faced, suave-mannered butler, who seems as much part of Barwell Moat as do the gabled dormer windows, Daisy Burton decides that tea is to be set out wherever it generally is set out by the owners of the house. Weightily she is informed that “her ladyship” has tea served sometimes in that part of the garden which is called the rosery, sometimes on the front lawn, and the butler adds the cryptic information, “according as to whether her ladyship desires to see visitors or not.”

Daisy does not quite see what difference the fact of tea being served in one place or another can make to apocryphal visitors, so, with what cheerfulness she can muster, she asks the others which they would prefer. And at once, a little to her surprise, Nancy and Gerald answer simultaneously, “Oh, let us have tea on the lawn, not–not in the rosery!”

And it is there, in front of the house, that within a very few minutes they are all gathered together, and for the first time that day Senator Burton’s heart lightens a little.

He is amused at the sight of those three men–the butler and his two footmen satellites–gravely making their elaborate preparations. Chairs are brought out, piles of cushions are flung about in bounteous profusion, even two hammocks are slung up–all in an incredibly short space of time: and the American tenant of Barwell Moat tells himself that the scene before him might be taken from one of the stories of his favourite British novelist, good old Anthony Trollope.

Ah me! How happy they all might be this afternoon were it not for the ever present unspoken hopes and fears which fill their hearts!

Daisy sits down behind the tea-table; and the cloud lifts a little from Gerald’s stern, set face; the three young people even laugh and joke a little together.

The Senator glances at Nancy Dampier; she is looking very lovely this afternoon, but her face is flushed, her manner is restless, agitated, she looks what he has never seen her look till to-day, thoroughly ill at ease, and yet, yes, certainly less listless, more alive than she looked yesterday–before Gerald’s arrival.

What strange creatures women are! The Senator does not exactly disapprove of Nancy’s decision, but he regrets it bitterly. If only she would throw in her lot with Gerald–come to America, her mind made up never to return to Europe again, why then even now they might all be happy.

But her face, soft though it be in repose, is not that of a weak woman; it is that of one who, thinking she knows what should be her duty, will be faithful to it; and it is also the face of a woman reserved in the expression of her feelings. Senator Burton cannot make up his mind whether Nancy realises Gerald’s measureless, generous devotion. Is she even aware of all that he has sacrificed for her? Daisy says yes–Daisy declares that Nancy “cares” for Gerald–but then Daisy herself is open-hearted and generous like her brother.

And while these painful thoughts, these half-formed questions and answers, weave in and out through Senator Burton’s brain, there suddenly falls a loud grinding sound on his ears, and a motor-car sweeps into view.

Now, at last, Daisy Burton understands the butler’s cryptic remark! Here, in front of the house, escape from visitors is, of course, impossible. She feels a pang of annoyance at her own stupidity for not having understood, but there is no help for it–and very soon three people, a middle-aged lady and two gentlemen, are advancing over the green sward.

The Senator and his daughter rise, and walk forward to meet them. Gerald and Nancy remain behind. Indeed the young man hardly sees the strangers; he is only conscious of a deep feeling of relief that the solicitous eyes of his father and sister are withdrawn from him and Nancy.

Since this morning he has been in a strange state of alternating rapture and despair. He feels as if he and Nancy, having just found one another, are now doomed to part. Ever since he held her in his arms he has ached with loneliness and with thwarted longing; during the whole of this long day Nancy has eluded him; not for a single moment have they been alone together. And now all his good resolutions–the resolutions which stood him in such good stead in that dark, leafy tunnel–have vanished. He now faces the fact that they cannot hope, when once more alone and heart to heart, to be what Nancy calls “reasonable.”…

Suddenly he comes back to the drab realities of every-day life. His father is introducing him to the visitors–first to the lady: “Mrs. Arbuthnot–my son, Gerald Burton. Mrs. Dampier–Mrs. Arbuthnot.” And then to the two men, Mr. Arbuthnot and a Mr. Dallas.

There is a quick interchange of talk. The newcomers are explaining who and what they are. Mr. Robert Arbuthnot is a retired Anglo-Indian official, and he and his wife have now lived for two years in the dower house which forms part of the Barwell Moat estate.

“I should not have called quite so soon had it not been that our friend, Mr. Dallas, is only staying with us for two or three days, and he is most anxious to meet you, Mr. Senator. Mr. Dallas is one of the Officers of Health for the Port of London. He read some years ago”–she turns smilingly to the gentleman in question–“a very interesting pamphlet with which you seem to have been in some way concerned, about the Port of New York.”

The Senator is flattered to find how well Mr. Dallas remembers that old report of which he was one of the signatories. For a moment he forgets his troubles; and the younger people–Mrs. Arbuthnot also–remain silent while these three men, who have each had a considerable experience of great affairs, begin talking of the problems which face those who have vast masses of human beings to consider and legislate for.

Mr. Dallas talks the most; he is one of those cheerful, eager Englishmen who like the sound of their own voices: he is also one of those fortunate people who take an intense interest in the work they are set to do. In Mr. Dallas’s ears there is no pleasanter sounding word than the word “sanitation.”

“Ah,” he says, turning smilingly to the Senator, “how I envy my New York colleagues! They have plenary powers. They are real autocrats!”

“They would be but for our press,” answers the Senator. “I wonder if you heard anything of the scrape Dr. Cranebrook got into last year?”

“Of course I did! I heard all about it, and I felt very sorry for him. But our London press is getting almost as bad! Government by newspaper–” he shakes his head expressively. “And my friend Arbuthnot tells me that it’s becoming really serious in India; there the native press is getting more and more power. Ah well! They do those things better in France.”

And then Mrs. Arbuthnot’s voice is heard at last. “My husband and Mr. Dallas have only just come back from Paris, Miss Burton. Mr. Dallas went over on business, and my husband accompanied him. They had a most interesting time: they spent a whole day at the Prefecture of Police with the Prefect himself–“

She stops speaking, and wonders a little why a sudden silence has fallen over the whole group of these pleasant Americans–for she takes Nancy to be an American too.

But the sudden silence–so deep, so absolute that it reminds Mrs. Arbuthnot of the old saying that when such a stillness falls on any company someone must be walking over their graves–is suddenly broken.

Mr. Dallas jumps to his feet. He is one of those men who never like sitting still very long. “May I have another lump of sugar, Miss Burton? We were speaking of Paris,–talk of muzzling the press, they know how to muzzle their press in grim earnest in Paris! Talk of suppressing the truth, they don’t even begin to tell the truth there. The Tsar of Russia as an autocrat isn’t in it with the Paris Prefect of Police!”

And two of his listeners say drearily to themselves that Mr. Dallas is a very ignorant man after all. He is evidently one of the many foolish people who believe the French police omnipotent.

But the Englishman goes happily on, quite unconscious that he is treading on what has become forbidden ground in the Burton family circle. “The present man’s name is Beaucourt, a very pleasant fellow! He told me some astounding stories. I wonder if you’d like to hear the one which struck me most?”

He looks round, pleased at their attention, at the silence which has again fallen on them all, and which he naturally takes for consent.

Eagerly he begins: “It was two years ago, at the height of their Exhibition season, and of course Paris was crammed–every house full, from cellar to attic! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that there were more than five hundred thousand strangers in the city for whose safety, and incidentally for whose health, he was responsible!”

He waits a moment, that thought naturally impresses him more than it does his audience.

“Well, into that gay maelstrom there suddenly arrived a couple of young foreigners. They were well-to-do, and what impressed the little story particularly on Monsieur Beaucourt’s mind was the fact that they were on their honeymoon–you know how sentimental the French are!”

Mr. Dallas looks around. They are all gazing at him with upturned faces–never had he a more polite, a more attentive circle of listeners. There is, however, one exception: his old friend, Mr. Arbuthnot, puts his hand up to conceal a yawn; he has heard the story before.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, these young people–Monsieur Beaucourt thinks they were Americans–had gone to Italy for their honeymoon, and they were ending up in Paris. They arrived late at night–I think form Marseilles–and most providentially they were put on different floors in the hotel they had chosen in the Latin Quarter. Well, that very night–“

Mr. Dallas looks round him triumphantly. He does not exactly smile, for what he is going to say is really rather dreadful, but he has the eager, pleased look which all good story-tellers have when they have come to the point of their story.

“I don’t believe that one man in a million would guess what happened!” He looks round him again, and has time to note complacently that the son of his host, who has risen, and whose hands grip the back of the chair from which he has risen, is staring, fascinated, across at him.

“A very, very strange and terrible thing befell this young couple. That first night of their stay in Paris, between two and three the bridegroom developed plague! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that the poor fellow behaved with the greatest presence of mind; although he cannot of course have known what exactly was the matter with him, he gave orders that his wife was not to be disturbed, and that the hotel people were to send for a doctor at once. Luckily there was a medical man living in the same street; he leapt on the dreadful truth, sent for an ambulance, and within less than half an hour of the poor fellow’s seizure he was whisked away to the nearest public hospital, where he died five hours later.”

Mr. Dallas waits a moment, he is a little disappointed that no one speaks, and he hurries on:–

“And now comes the point of my story! Monsieur Beaucourt assures me that the fact was kept absolutely secret. He told me that had it leaked out it might have half emptied Paris. French people have a perfect terror of what they call ‘la Peste.’ But not a whisper of the truth got about, and that though a considerable number of people had to know, including many of the officials connected with the Prefecture of Police. The Prefect showed me the poor fellow’s watch and bunch of seals, the only things, of course, that they were able to keep; he really spoke very nicely, very movingly about it–“

And then, at last, the speaker stops abruptly. He has seen his host’s son reel a little, sway as does a man who is drunk, and then fall heavily to the ground.

It is hours later. The sun has long set. Gerald opens his eyes; and then he shuts them again, for he wants to go on dreaming. He is vaguely aware that he is lying in the magnificent Jacobean four-post bed which he had been far too miserable, too agitated to notice when his father had brought him up the night before. But now the restful beauty of the spacious room, the fantastic old coloured maps lining the walls, affect him agreeably, soothe his tired mind and brain.

During that dreamy moment of half-waking he has seen in the shadowed room,