As Derek Kettering passed the car, Mirelle leant out.
"Dereek--I must speak to you for a moment--"
But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight on without stopping.
When he got back to his hotel, the concierge detached himself from his
wooden pen and accosted him.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur."
"Who is it?" asked Derek.
"He did not give me his name, Monsieur, but he said his business with
you was important, and that he would wait."
"Where is he?"
"In the little salon, Monsieur. He preferred it to the lounge he said,
as being more private."
Derek nodded, and turned his steps in that direction.
The small salon was empty except for the visitor, who rose and bowed
with easy foreign grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had
seen the Comte de la Roche only once, but found no difficulty in
recognizing that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned angrily. Of all
the consummate impertinence!
"The Comte de la Roche, is it not?" he said. "I am afraid you have
wasted your time in coming here."
"I hope not," said the Comte agreeably. His white teeth glittered.
The Comte's charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men,
without exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering was already
conscious of a distinct longing to kick the Count bodily out of the
room. It was only the realization that scandal would be unfortunate
just at present that restrained him. He marvelled anew that Ruth could
have cared, as she certainly had, for this fellow. A bounder, and worse
than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the Count's exquisitely
manicured hands.
"I called," said the Comte, "on a little matter of business. It would
be advisable, I think, for you to listen to me."
Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick him out, but again he
refrained. The hint of a threat was not lost upon him, but he
interpreted it in his own way. There were various reasons why it would
be better to hear what the Comte had to say.
He sat down and drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table.
"Well," he said sharply, "what is it?"
It was not the Comte's way to come out into the open at once.
"Allow me, Monsieur, to offer you my condolences on your recent
bereavement."
"If I have any impertinence from you," said Derek quietly, "you go out
by that window."
He nodded his head towards the window beside the Comte, and the latter
moved uneasily.
"I will send my friends to you, Monsieur, if that is what you desire,"
he said haughtily.
Derek laughed.
"A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don't take you seriously enough for that.
But I should take a good deal of pleasure in kicking you down the
Promenade des Anglais."
The Comte was not at all anxious to take offence. He merely raised his
eyebrows and murmured:
"The English are barbarians."
"Well," said Derek, "what is it you have to say to me?"
"I will be frank," said the Comte, "I will come immediately to the
point. That will suit us both, will it not?"
Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.
"Go on," said Derek curtly.
The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined the tips of his fingers
together, and murmured softly:
"You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur."
"What the devil has that got to do with you?"
The Comte drew himself up.
"Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am suspected--accused--of foul
crime."
"The accusation does not come from me," said Derek coldly; "as an
interested party I have not expressed any opinion."
"I am innocent," said the Comte, "I swear before heaven"--he raised his
hand to heaven--"that I am innocent."
"M. Carrège is, I believe, the Juge d'Instruction in charge of the
case," hinted Derek politely.
The Comte took no notice.
"Not only am I unjustly suspected of a crime that I did not commit, but
I am also in serious need of money."
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
"I was waiting for that," he said softly; "you blackmailing brute! I
will not give you a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal that you can
make can touch her now. She wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If I
were to buy them from you for a round sum at this minute, I am pretty
certain that you would manage to keep one or two back; and I will tell
you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing is an ugly word both in England
and in France. That is my answer to you. Good afternoon."
"One moment"--the Comte stretched out a hand as Derek was turning
to leave the room. "You are mistaken, Monsieur. You are completely
mistaken. I am, I hope, a 'gentleman.'" Derek laughed. "Any letters
that a lady might write to me I should hold sacred." He flung back his
head with a beautiful air of nobility. "The proposition that I was
putting before you was of quite a different nature. I am, as I said,
extremely short of money, and my conscience might impel me to go to the
police with certain information."
Derek came slowly back into the room.
"What do you mean?"
The Comte's agreeable smile flashed forth once more.
"Surely it is not necessary to go into details," he purred. "Seek whom
the crime benefits, they say, don't they? As I said just now, you have
come into a lot of money lately."
Derek laughed.
"If that is all--" he said contemptuously.
But the Comte was shaking his head.
"But it is not all, my dear sir. I should not come to you unless I
had much more precise and detailed information than that. It is not
agreeable, Monsieur, to be arrested and tried for murder."
Derek came close up to him. His face expressed such furious anger that
involuntarily the Comte drew back a pace or two.
"Are you threatening _me_?" the young man demanded angrily.
"You shall hear nothing more of the matter," the Comte assured him.
"Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever struck--"
The Comte raised a white hand.
"You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince you I will tell you
this. My information was obtained from a certain lady. It is she who
holds the irrefutable proof that you committed the murder."
"She? Who?"
"Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Derek drew back as though struck.
"Mirelle," he muttered.
The Comte was quick to press what he took to be his advantage.
"A bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs," he said. "I ask no more."
"Eh?" said Derek absently.
"I was saying, Monsieur, that a bagatelle of one hundred thousand
francs would satisfy my--conscience."
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He looked earnestly at the Comte.
"You would like my answer now?"
"If you please, Monsieur."
"Then here it is. You can go to the devil. See?"
Leaving the Comte too astonished to speak, Derek turned on his heel and
swung out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and drove to Mirelle's hotel. On
inquiring, he learned that the dancer had just come in. Derek gave the
concierge his card.
"Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if she will see me."
A very brief interval elapsed, and then Derek was bidden to follow a
_chasseur_.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek's nostrils as he stepped over
the threshold of the dancer's apartments. The room was filled with
carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle was standing by the window in
a _peignoir_ of foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.
"Dereek--you have come to me. I knew you would."
He put aside the clinging arms and looked down on her sternly.
"Why did you send the Comte de la Roche to me?"
She looked at him in astonishment, which he took to be genuine.
"I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you? But for what?"
"Apparently--for blackmail," said Derek grimly.
Again she stared. Then suddenly she smiled and nodded her head.
"Of course. It was to be expected. It is what he would do, _ce type
là_. I might have known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not send him."
He looked at her piercingly, as though seeking to read her mind.
"I will tell you," said Mirelle. "I am ashamed, but I will tell you.
The other day, you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite mad--" she
made an eloquent gesture. "My temperament, it is not a patient one. I
want to be revenged on you, and so I go to the Comte de la Roche, and
I tell him to go to the police and say so and so, and so and so. But
have no fear, Dereek. Not completely did I lose my head; the proof
rests with me alone. The police can do nothing without my word, you
understand? And now--now?"
She nestled up close to him, looking up at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast
heaving, her eyes narrowing to a cat-like slit.
"Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You have come back to me, have
you not?"
"I shall never come back to you," said Derek steadily.
"Ah!"
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
"So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh!
am I right?"
"I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know."
"That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one
moment? Ah, no." Her beautiful lithe body quivered. "Listen, Dereek,
do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only
thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted
that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your
brain. And more than an accident."
"I suppose," said Derek contemptuously, "that it was this conversation
that you repeated to the Comte de la Roche."
Mirelle laughed.
"Am I a fool? Could the police do anything with a vague story like
that? See--I will give you a last chance. You shall give up this
Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And then, _chéri_, never, never
will I breathe--"
"Breathe what?"