Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter had a mocking, ironical sound.
"I ran into the lady in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel."
"Well! What did she say?"
"As far as I can remember, I said, 'I beg your pardon,' and she said,
'It doesn't matter,' or words to that effect."
"And then?" persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
"And then--nothing. That was the end of the incident."
"I don't understand a word of what you are talking about," declared the
dancer.
"Portrait of a lady with grey eyes," murmured Derek reflectively. "Just
as well I am never likely to meet her again."
"Why?"
"She might bring me bad luck. Women do."
Mirelle slipped quickly from her couch, and came across to him, laying
one long, snake-like arm round his neck.
"You are foolish, Dereek," she murmured. "You are very foolish. You
are _beau garçon_, and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor--no,
decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is
very simple. You must make it up with your wife."
"I am afraid that's not going to be actually in the sphere of practical
politics," said Derek drily.
"How do you say? I do not understand."
"Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any. He is the kind of man who makes
up his mind and sticks to it."
"I have heard of him," nodded the dancer. "He is very rich, is he not?
Almost the richest man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought
the most wonderful ruby in the world--'Heart of Fire' it is called."
Kettering did not answer. The dancer went on musingly:
"It is a wonderful stone--a stone that should belong to a woman like
me. I love jewels, Dereek; they say something to me. Ah! to wear a ruby
like 'Heart of Fire.'"
She gave a little sigh, and then became practical once more.
"You don't understand these things, Dereek; you are only a man. Van
Aldin will give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose. Is she his
only child?"
"Yes."
"Then when he dies, she will inherit all his money. She will be a rich
woman."
"She is a rich woman already," said Kettering drily. "He settled a
couple of millions on her at her marriage."
"A couple of millions! But that is immense. And if she died suddenly,
eh? That would all come to you?"
"As things stand at present," said Kettering slowly, "it would. As far
as I know she has not made a will."
"_Mon Dieu!_" said the dancer. "If she were to die, what a solution
that would be."
There was a moment's pause, and then Derek Kettering laughed outright.
"I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle, but I am afraid what you
desire won't come to pass. My wife is an extremely healthy person."
"_Eh, bien!_" said Mirelle; "there are accidents."
He looked at her sharply but did not answer.
She went on.
"But you are right, _mon ami_, we must not dwell on possibilities. See
now, my little Dereek, there must be no more talk of this divorce. Your
wife must give up the idea."
"And if she won't?"
The dancer's eyes narrowed to slits.
"I think she will, my friend. She is one of those who would not like
the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she would not
like her friends to read in the newspapers."
"What do you mean?" asked Kettering sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
"_Parbleu!_ I mean the gentleman who calls himself the Comte de la
Roche. I know all about him. I am Parisienne, you remember. He was her
lover before she married you, was he not?"
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.
"That is a damned lie," he said, "and please remember that, after all,
you are speaking of my wife."
Mirelle was a little sobered.
"You are extraordinary, you English," she complained. "All the same,
I dare say that you may be right. The Americans are so cold, are they
not? But you will permit me to say, _mon ami_, that she was _in love
with him_ before she married you, and her father stepped in and sent
the Comte about his business. And the little Mademoiselle, she wept
many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you must know as well as I do,
Dereek, that it is a very different story now. She sees him nearly
every day, and on the fourteenth she goes to Paris to meet him."
"How do you know all this?" demanded Kettering.
"Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek, who know the Comte
intimately. It is all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so she
says, but in reality the Comte meets her in Paris and--who knows! Yes,
yes, you can take my word for it, it is all arranged."
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
"You see," purred the dancer, "if you are clever, you have her in the
hollow of your hand. You can make things very awkward for her."
"Oh, for God's sake be quiet," cried Kettering. "Shut your cursed
mouth!"
Mirelle flung herself down again on the divan with a laugh. Kettering
caught up his hat and coat and left the flat, banging the door
violently. And still the dancer sat on the divan and laughed softly to
herself. She was not displeased with her work.