On the afternoon of the 15th of February a thick yellow fog had settled
down on London. Rufus Van Aldin was in his suite at the Savoy and was
making the most of the atmospheric conditions by working double time.
Knighton was overjoyed. He had found it difficult of late to get his
employer to concentrate on the matters in hand. When he had ventured to
urge certain courses, Van Aldin had put him off with a curt word. But
now Van Aldin seemed to be throwing himself into work with redoubled
energy, and the secretary made the most of his opportunities. Always
tactful, he plied the spur so unobtrusively that Van Aldin never
suspected it.
Yet in the middle of this absorption in business matters, one
little fact lay at the back of Van Aldin's mind. A chance remark of
Knighton's, uttered by the secretary in all unconsciousness, had given
rise to it. It now festered unseen, gradually reaching further and
further forward into Van Aldin's consciousness, until at last, in spite
of himself, he had to yield to its insistence.
He listened to what Knighton was saying with his usual air of keen
attention, but in reality not one word of it penetrated his mind. He
nodded automatically, however, and the secretary turned to some other
papers. As he was sorting them out, his employer spoke:
"Do you mind telling me that over again, Knighton?"
For a moment Knighton was at a loss.
"You mean about this, sir?" He held up a closely written Company report.
"No, no," said Van Aldin; "what you told me about seeing Ruth's maid in
Paris last night. I can't make it out. You must have been mistaken."
"I can't have been mistaken, sir; I actually spoke to her."
"Well, tell me the whole thing again."
Knighton complied.
"I had fixed up the deal with Bartheimers," he explained, "and had gone
back to the Ritz to pick up my traps preparatory to having dinner and
catching the nine o'clock train from the Gare du Nord. At the reception
desk I saw a woman whom I was quite sure was Mrs. Kettering's maid. I
went up to her and asked if Mrs. Kettering was staying there."
"Yes, yes," said Van Aldin. "Of course. Naturally. And she told you
that Ruth had gone on to the Riviera and had sent her to the Ritz to
await further orders there?"
"Exactly that, sir."
"It is very odd," said Van Aldin. "Very odd, indeed, unless the woman
had been impertinent or something of that kind."
"In that case," objected Knighton, "surely Mrs. Kettering would have
paid her down a sum of money, and told her to go back to England. She
would hardly have sent her to the Ritz."
"No," muttered the millionaire; "that's true."
He was about to say something further, but checked himself. He was
fond of Knighton and liked and trusted him, but he could hardly discuss
his daughter's private affairs with his secretary. He had already felt
hurt by Ruth's lack of frankness, and this chance information which had
come to him did nothing to allay his misgivings.
Why had Ruth got rid of her maid in Paris? What possible object or
motive could she have had in so doing?
He reflected for a moment or two on the curious combination of chance.
How should it have occurred to Ruth, except as the wildest coincidence,
that the first person that the maid should run across in Paris should
be her father's secretary? Ah, but that was the way things happened.
That was the way things got found out.
He winced at the last phrase; it had arisen with complete naturalness
to his mind. Was there then "something to be found out"? He hated to
put this question to himself; he had no doubt of the answer. The answer
was--he was sure of it--Armand de la Roche.
It was bitter to Van Aldin that a daughter of his should be gulled
by such a man, yet he was forced to admit that she was in good
company--that other well-bred and intelligent women had succumbed just
as easily to the Count's fascination. Men saw through him, women did
not.
He sought now for a phrase that would allay any suspicion that his
secretary might have felt.
"Ruth is always changing her mind about things at a moment's notice,"
he remarked, and then he added in a would-be careless tone: "The maid
didn't give any--er--reason for this change of plan?"
Knighton was careful to make his voice as natural as possible as he
replied:
"She said, sir, that Mrs. Kettering had met a friend unexpectedly."
"Is that so?"
The secretary's practised ears caught the note of strain underlying the
seemingly casual tone.
"Oh, I see. Man or woman?"
"I think she said a man, sir."
Van Aldin nodded. His worst fears were being realized. He rose from
his chair, and began pacing up and down the room, a habit of his when
agitated. Unable to contain his feelings any longer, he burst forth:
"There is one thing no man can do, and that is to get a woman to
listen to reason. Somehow or other, they don't seem to have any kind of
_sense_. Talk of woman's instinct--why, it is well known all the world
over that a woman is the surest mark for any rascally swindler. Not one
in ten of them knows a scoundrel when she meets one; they can be preyed
on by any good-looking fellow with a soft side to his tongue. If I had
my way--"
He was interrupted. A page-boy entered with a telegram. Van Aldin tore
it open, and his face went a sudden chalky white. He caught hold of the
back of a chair to steady himself, and waved the page-boy from the room.
"What's the matter, sir?"
Knighton had risen in concern.
"Ruth!" said Van Aldin hoarsely.
"Mrs. Kettering?"
"Killed!"
"An accident to the train?"
Van Aldin shook his head.
"No. From this it seems she has been robbed as well. They don't use the
word, Knighton, but my poor girl has been murdered."
"Oh, my God, sir!"
Van Aldin tapped the telegram with his forefinger.
"This is from the police at Nice. I must go out there by the first
train."
Knighton was efficient as ever. He glanced at the clock.
"Five o'clock from Victoria, sir."
"That's right. You will come with me, Knighton. Tell my man, Archer,
and pack your own things. See to everything here. I want to go round to
Curzon Street."
The telephone rang sharply, and the secretary lifted the receiver.
"Yes; who is it?"
Then to Van Aldin.
"Mr. Goby, sir."
"Goby? I can't see him now. No--wait, we have plenty of time. Tell them
to send him up."
Van Aldin was a strong man. Already he had recovered that iron calm of
his. Few people would have noticed anything amiss in his greeting to
Mr. Goby.
"I am pressed for time, Goby. Got anything important to tell me?"
Mr. Goby coughed.
"The movements of Mr. Kettering, sir. You wished them reported to you."
"Yes--well?"
"Mr. Kettering, sir, left London for the Riviera yesterday morning."
"What?"
Something in his voice must have startled Mr. Goby. That worthy
gentleman departed from his usual practice of never looking at the
person to whom he was talking, and stole a fleeting glance at the
millionaire.
"What train did he go on?" demanded Van Aldin.
"The Blue Train, sir."
Mr. Goby coughed again and spoke to the clock on the mantelpiece.
"Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer from the Parthenon, went by the same
train."