Five minutes later Roger, hastily attired in his shirt, trousers and
dressing-gown, his eyes heavy with sleep and fever, descended the
stairs and looked inquiringly about. The hall was empty.
"Why, where has she got to?" he murmured in perplexity, then rang the
bell and called for Chalmers at the same time.
The butler appeared without delay.
"Where is Miss Rowe, Chalmers?"
The old man looked surprised.
"I'm sure I've no idea, sir. I left her here a short time ago. She
was waiting to speak to you, sir."
"Was she still here when you came downstairs?"
"I can't say, sir. I went down the back way. Perhaps she's with Miss
Clifford, sir. Shall I see, sir?"
"Never mind, I'll go."
He found his aunt lying back on her pillows with her closed.
"Dido, have you seen Miss Rowe?" he asked without preliminaries.
"Yes, dear, about a quarter of an hour ago. She came to say good-bye."
"Good-bye! You don't mean she's left us? Why, what does this mean?"
"Well, my dear, I was as much astonished as you. It seems that Thérèse
dismissed her at about tea-time; simply said she didn't need her any
longer."
Roger gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance.
"Dismissed her! See here, Dido, do you think Thérèse was rude or
anything?"
"I'm sure I don't know. I didn't like to ask, naturally. Miss Rowe
didn't say anything, she simply seemed in rather a hurry to get away."
"And you let her go without seeing me?"
"You were asleep, dear. We neither of us thought we ought to disturb
you. Besides it isn't as if she were leaving Cannes, we shall soon see
her again."
He frowned, dissatisfied.
"That's not the point. A moment ago she sent me a message by Chalmers
saying she wanted to speak to me about something important. I dashed
into my clothes expecting to find her downstairs, but she'd
disappeared."
"It is odd. Still, I should find out if the doctor is about. I hear
he was going to drive her into Cannes."
"Oh, was he? I'll look for him."
He discovered Sartorius in his own bedroom, sorting out the contents of
his black leather bag.
"Have you seen Miss Rowe, doctor?" he demanded rather abruptly.
With a visible effort the big man tore his attention away from his
occupation.
"Miss Rowe?" he repeated vaguely. "Oh, yes, I believe she left the
house a little while ago."
"But wasn't she going with you?"
"I offered to drive her, but as I was not ready as soon as she was
Captain Holliday gave her a lift instead."
"Holliday!" exclaimed Roger, puzzled. "Are you sure?"
He noticed that the doctor had the air of being slightly bored by his
importunities, but he was indifferent, merely determined to get to the
bottom of the matter.
"Oh, quite, Mr. Clifford. I helped the Captain transfer her luggage
from my car to his, and I saw them start off."
It seemed conclusive enough; there was no question as to her being
gone. Roger thanked the doctor briefly and left him, feeling perplexed
and exasperated. Why had she sent him that urgent message, only to
hurry away before he could possibly get downstairs to see her? Why,
for that matter, was she in such a rush to be off that she had accepted
Holliday's offer of a lift? Not that she had any reason for disliking
Arthur, only the whole affair struck him as decidedly odd, unlike
Esther. He resolved to wait a quarter of an hour and then telephone
the Pension Martel, which was where he knew she had intended to go: he
had heard her say so several days before.
On the telephone the proprietress of the pension informed him that no
person of the name of Rowe had arrived, in fact there had been no new
arrivals to-day. This did not altogether surprise him, because the
pension was some distance away. Esther might not have had sufficient
time to reach there. He tried again considerably later, but the answer
was the same. She must have changed her mind and gone somewhere else.
No doubt she would ring up in a day or two, but he was impatient to
find out what had happened, why she had been so anxious to see him; he
could not let the matter wait. Somewhat reluctantly he sought out
Thérèse, whom he found in her bedroom surrounded by decorative
hat-boxes and mounds of tissue-paper, engaged in trying small black
hats with the aid of Aline.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, Thérèse, but can you tell where Arthur
Holliday is staying?"
Her grey eyes regarded him with a look of instant suspicion, but he
allayed her fears by adding amicably:
"I only want to ask him where he left Miss Rowe. He drove her down
into town just now."
"Oh, did he?" she inquired thoughtfully, "I didn't know. I think he
told me he was staying at the Carlton."
"Thanks. That's all I wanted to know."
As he turned on his heel she took a quick step towards him and put both
hands on his shoulders.
"Roger, dear, why will you persist in wandering about in this stupid
fashion? Why won't you go to bed and stay there till you're better?
You know you are running such a frightful risk!"
He shook her off a little impatiently.
"Oh, don't bother about me, Thérèse. I'm not so very ill, not enough
for you to worry about."
He hoped he did not seem rude, but the fact was he felt anxious to get
away. He was unpleasantly aware of the black, gimlet eyes of the maid
fixed upon him from the background; he knew that both she and Thérèse
were inwardly commenting upon the interest he took in Esther, that they
would speak of it the moment he was gone. Since his father's death he
had known himself an alien in this house, in spite of Thérèse's
protestations regarding his health. Never mind, he would not remain
here much longer.
Back at the telephone he rang through to the Carlton Hotel. Yes, he
was told, Captain Holliday was staying there, but he had not been in
since the morning. Roger dropped the receiver angrily. There was
nothing to do, then, but to wait for Esther to telephone him. She
would surely do so soon if what she wished to tell him was really
important. What could it have been? He had no idea.
Still, the day passed and no message came. In all likelihood she had
decided that the matter could wait after all, but in his present
restless mood Roger did not find this explanation satisfactory.
Besides, he was unreasonably displeased by the fact that Holliday had
given Esther a lift when she left. There was no reason why he
shouldn't have done so, yet the fact remained that to Roger the mere
suggestion seemed a piece of impudent effrontery. What was the fellow
up to? Roger bitterly resented Arthur Holliday. He resented his
dashing back post-haste for the funeral, it was too officious. Thérèse
had said during that memorable interview which Esther had interrupted
that her lover was gone, that she had sent him away. Yet here he was
back again, walking about as if he owned the place, almost before the
old man's body was cold. And now he had taken Esther away, no one
could say where! It was too much for human endurance.
When at eight o'clock Chalmers came up bringing him some dinner on a
tray, Roger questioned him closely. What exactly had Miss Rowe said?
"Only that I was to wake you at once, sir, and tell you wanted to see
you--that it was very important."
"How did she seem to you?"
"Why, sir, very excited, as if she was upset about something. She was
just coming out of the cloak-room, sir, which made me think perhaps she
had been telephoning, but I may be wrong."
Roger pondered this information, but could make nothing of it. He
resumed frowningly:
"I suppose you have no idea why she went off so suddenly, have you,
Chalmers?"
"Why, no, sir, I was very much surprised myself. Almost as surprised
as I was when I heard ..."
He did not finish the sentence, and looked sorry he spoken.
"Go on, Chalmers, what were you about to say?"
"Oh, it was nothing, sir, not of the least consequence," returned the
old man, embarrassed. "Only women's gossip, sir, and Frenchwomen's
gossip at that."
Roger looked at him keenly.
"Never mind, I must insist on your telling me what it was you heard, if
it has the least bearing on Miss Rowe."
"I'd rather not, sir. I'm extremely sorry I mentioned it. It was a
slip, sir."
"Chalmers, you can't say that much without telling me the rest, so go
ahead."
"Very good, sir, though I hope you won't attach any importance to it,
sir. It seems that one of the maids--Marie it was, sir--went out to
post a letter at about half-past five. Coming back she met the
Captain's car..."
"Yes, go on."
"She says the car was going fast, but as it passed her she could see
inside very plainly, and the nurse was sitting quite close to the
Captain, with her head resting on his shoulder. That's all, sir, and
it's not the kind of thing I care to repeat, though of course there may
be nothing in it, sir."
"No, certainly not, Chalmers, nor does it explain what I'm trying to
find out. Thank you."
He had preserved an indifferent air, but what the butler had told him
was in the nature of a great shock. He felt suddenly quite sick with
disillusionment. Had he been a fool all along, completely wrong in his
estimate of this girl? Was she simply like so many others, possessed
of two sides, one which she kept for him, and the other, perhaps, not
quite so restrained? But for this story he would not have believed it
possible.... After all, why attach so much importance to the tale of
an idle servant? What if she had made a mistake, what if she had
invented it out of mischief? Surely he knew Esther too well to be
deceived in her. Impatiently he strove to thrust the suspicion aside.
Yet in his unhappy brain, buzzing now with fever, a voice sardonically
demanded, "What man ever does really know a girl?" Particularly--he
winced at the thought--what man who has money? Isn't it a common
sight, that of a woman making herself attractive to a man because of
what he can give her, while all the time she is secretly drawn towards
someone else? For that matter Esther herself had admitted to him that
she found Holliday attractive. Then what about that occasion, a
trifling incident enough, when he had come upon the two of them
standing so close together, gazing into each other's eyes? He had
thought at the time that the moment held at least the germ of a
flirtation. Why should Esther be immune from suspicion? Wasn't it
possible that from the beginning she had cherished a hidden penchant
for the callous Arthur? She would not be the first victim by a long
shot.
Yet--Esther! He could picture her now, her clear, frank eyes looking
straight into his with an expression of boyish simplicity. How could
one suspect her? Surely she was incapable of intrigue; why, he had
believed in her so! She was the one girl he felt he wanted for his
wife, if she would have him. Only a little North Country streak of
caution had held him back from asking her the actual question--or at
least it was partly due to caution and partly to the circumstances of
his father's death and his own illness. He had meant to as soon as
this business was over. Good God! Suppose he had proposed and she had
accepted him, but without caring for him--suppose without any love in
her heart she had married him! He might not have found out the truth
until too late. The very idea revolted him; he clenched his fists so
violently that the nails of his right hand dug deep into his injured
thumb. Feeling the pain and seeing the red ooze up through the
bandage, he struggled briefly with unwelcome recollections, then on a
sudden impulse tore off the enfolding gauze and flung it angrily into
the fireplace. He had broken open the plagued wound again, but he did
not care.
If only he could know for certain whether to believe that maid's story
or not! Was Esther in plain language "that kind of girl"? The thought
that he might never know the truth goaded him to fury. If she was all
he wanted to believe her, how could one account for that detestable
picture of her nestling close to Holliday, her head on his shoulder?
How explain her disappearance? For that is what he began to call it.
During the course of the evening he rang up every hotel and pension in
Cannes and the neighbourhood without finding any news of her.
Moreover, the one person who could give him any information about her
movements--Holliday himself--had at midnight not returned to the
Carlton. What was one to make of that fact? It seemed to indicate
that the pair of them were off somewhere together dining--and after
that, what?
There was no real sleep for him that night, and the morning found him
decidedly worse. He did not even demur when the doctor came with Dido
and quietly laid down the law about rest and diet. He agreed
listlessly, unwilling to cause poor Dido additional anxiety. After
all, why not give in to them? They were only giving him good advice;
he had been stupid.
An hour later, however, he was not too ill to crawl to the telephone
when no one was about. Once again he rang up the Carlton in quest of
Holliday, only to be told that the Captain had not returned all night,
was still away.
The inference of this, acting upon his present state of mind, was like
pouring petrol on a smouldering fire. So she had gone off with the
fellow, had spent the night with him somewhere! The thing was true;
there was no good trying to shut one's eyes to it any longer. A dozen
tiny incidents recurred to him, each magnified a hundredfold, together
bearing incontrovertible evidence against Esther. What a good thing he
had found her out in time! He ought to be thankful. Why wasn't he
thankful? He was only furious, sick at heart, utterly miserable...
He must have sat for an hour on the side of his bed, huddled in his
dressing-gown, shivering and moistening his dry lips. He was like that
when Thérèse came in to inquire how he was feeling. He saw her face
alter as she caught sight of him, and he dully surmised that he must
look pretty queer. He submitted without protest when she urged him to
get back into bed.
"Is anything the matter?" she inquired gently, smoothing the covers
over him with her white, well-manicured hands.
"I'm devilish thirsty," he told her with a laugh.
"Ah, I will get you some water!" she cried quickly, and going into the
bathroom brought him a bottle of Evian water and a glass. He drank
greedily, finished what was left in the bottle.
"You'd like some more, wouldn't you?" he heard her say, and started to
utter a protest, but she was already gone. He hated to have Thérèse
waiting on him; but if she would she would, he couldn't stop her. She
was trying to be decent; after all, he mustn't behave like a bear.
She was back almost at once with a full bottle of mineral water, and he
drank another glassful thirstily.
"I really think, my dear, we shall have to have a nurse for you," she
remarked softly, studying his face.
"Nurse!" he exclaimed, starting up in a rage. "No, I won't have a
nurse. I tell you it's no good. I'm not going to be ill--but if I am
I'm going to..."
When it came to the point he couldn't bring himself to mention the
nursing-home idea. In the face of Thérèse's kindness it seemed so
ungrateful. He lay back and closed his eyes with a frown, conscious
that she was watching him curiously.
"Thérèse," he said after a pause, "I suppose you haven't had any word
from Arthur Holliday, have you?"
"From Arthur? But yes, certainly; he telephoned me a little while ago."
Roger sat up again, galvanising into life.
"He telephoned you? What did he say? About Miss Rowe, I mean."
"I asked him. He said after they left here he had a breakdown; I
forgot what he said went wrong. The nurse was in a hurry, so he got
her a taxi, put her into it with her luggage, and she drove off.
That's all he knows."
"Oh! Did he happen to mention why he didn't go back to his hotel last
night?"
She smiled shrewdly, as if she guessed his thoughts.
"Yes; he said he dined at the Casino with a man he ran into, took a
bank at baccarat, and as he was winning he didn't like to leave off
until the room closed. After that he went to a Turkish bath."
It furnished an excellent, complete alibi, if one could believe it.
After all, why not? It could easily be true.
"He's catching the night train back to Paris," she went on. "He only
came for the funeral. You know he was so fond of poor Charles."
"So he's going to South America, after all," mused Roger. "I thought
he'd given it up."
"Why should you think that?" she demanded quickly. "He must do
something to make a living."
He was not listening, his thoughts busy again with the question of why,
if Esther had not gone off with Holliday, she had failed to communicate
with him? In one way he felt slightly relieved, yet the business was
as mysterious as ever.
"Roger," Thérèse said suddenly, sitting down on the side of the bed, "I
believe you are still worrying about that nurse. Isn't that so?"
He was silent, unwilling to discuss the matter with Thérèse. Yet, in
spite of himself, something in her tone made him look at her
attentively.
"If I were you," she continued slowly, "I shouldn't think too much
about her. I feel I ought to tell you that."
His eyes flashed at her a belligerent glance.
"Just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"I hadn't meant to tell you," she went on with slight hesitation. "But
you know I had a reason for sending her away yesterday. If it hadn't
been for the fact that your father seemed to like her so much the
doctor would have made a change some little time ago. He wasn't
altogether ... pleased with her."
"Pleased with her! What are you getting at?"
"Roger, don't upset yourself; lie down quietly, or I won't tell you."
"Very well, I'm perfectly quiet; now tell me. This is something I want
to hear. What did he think was wrong about Miss Rowe?"
The hardness in his voice was a challenge. Thérèse examined the nails
of her right hand and lightly polished them on the palm of her left.
Then she replied carefully:
"Well, you know soon after she came here she began to behave just a
little oddly at times. At first the doctor did not think it serious,
but towards the end he was afraid that she was a little--a little----"
"A little what?"
"Well--unbalanced. Have you ever heard of anyone having 'confusional
attacks'?"
"I don't know. Yes, perhaps. What about it?"
"That is what the doctor thinks she has."
"Utter rubbish! Miss Rowe is one of the most normal people I have ever
known."
"So she impressed me, at least most of the time. Indeed the doctor
says that a person who has those attacks may be quite normal part of
the time, only sometimes they get strange ideas into their heads and
behave queerly. That was what Miss Rowe was doing. It didn't seem
altogether wise to have her here."
There was an ominous glitter in the ill man's eyes, the muscles in his
cheeks twitched as his lips tightened.
"What do you mean by 'not altogether wise'?" he inquired coldly.
"I see you don't believe me, Roger. I don't suppose you noticed
anything wrong with her. I don't know that I should have done so, if
the doctor hadn't told me certain things. But the fact is, she wasn't
always quite to be trusted in emergencies. She was a little--what do
you call it?--erratic, that's the word. The doctor is even convinced
that she was largely responsible for your father's relapse. There! I
had not meant to speak of it!"
"That at least is a lie, a barefaced attempt to injure her!" cried
Roger, unable to bear any more.
"My dear! How can you!" murmured Thérèse so incredulously that he felt
slightly ashamed.
"I don't say you invented it, Thérèse, but it's a lie for all that."
"I heard, too, from Dido about her sending you an excited message and
then going off without seeing you," continued his stepmother calmly.
"That is quite typical behaviour, so the doctor says. It is just the
sort of thing she would do; it is really a mild mental case."
He made a gesture of weariness, suddenly feeling he must get rid of her.
"It may all be true, Thérèse; I'm sure I don't know. At any rate I
think I'll try to get a nap, if you'll leave me. I didn't sleep well
last night."
"Of course, dear! Thank Heaven you are going to be sensible. Perhaps,
too, you'll let the doctor advise you about that anti-toxin? I should,
if I were you."
"Yes, I'll let him talk to me, if you like."
Anything to get rid of her, he thought. He kept his eyes tight closed
until she was well out of the room and the door shut behind her. Then
he sprang out of bed and with trembling haste put on his clothes. When
he was completely dressed he rang for Chalmers and demanded a taxi.
"But you're not going out, Mr. Roger! I don't know what the doctor or
your aunt will say, sir!"
"Look here, Chalmers, you're not going to mention this to anyone, do
you hear? I'm absolutely all right; I know what I'm about. Just you
get me that taxi and be quick about it."
Five minutes later he slipped quietly out of the house and with a
whirling head fell into the waiting taxi. He might or might not be
doing a foolish thing, but no matter what happened he intended to scour
Cannes in search of Esther.