THE PLAINTIFF IS STARTLED
Miss Angel was dressed for dinner. She was in the drawing-room with
other guests of the hotel, waiting for the gong to sound, when she was
informed that a gentleman wished to see her. On the heels of the
information entered the gentleman himself. It seemed that Mr. Roland
had only eyes for her. As if oblivious of others he moved rapidly
forward. She regarded him askance. He, perceiving her want of
recognition, introduce himself in a fashion of his own.
"Miss Angel, I'm the man who travelled with you from Nice to Dijon."
At once her face lighted up. Her eyes became as if they were illumined.
"Of course! To think that we should have met again! At last!"
To judge from certain comments which were made by those around one
could not but suspect that Miss Angel's story was a theme of general
interest. As a matter of fact, they were being entertained by her
account of the day's proceedings at the very moment of Mr. Roland's
entry. People in these small "residential" hotels are sometimes so
extremely friendly. Altogether unexpectedly Mr. Roland found himself an
object of interest to quite a number of total strangers. He was not the
sort of man to shine in such a position, particularly as it was only
too plain that Miss Angel misunderstood the situation.
"Mr. Roland, you are like a messenger from Heaven. I have prayed for
you to come, so you must be one. And at this time of all times--just
when you are most wanted! Really your advent must be miraculous."
"Ye-es." The gentleman glanced around. "Might I speak to you for a
moment in private?"
She regarded him a little quizzically.
"Everybody here knows my whole strange history; my hopes and fears; all
about me. You needn't be afraid to add another chapter to the tale,
especially since you have arrived at so opportune a moment."
"Precisely." His tone was expressive of something more than doubt.
"Still, if you don't mind, I think I would rather say a few words to
you alone."
The bystanders commenced to withdraw with some little show of
awkwardness, as if, since the whole business had so far been public,
they rather resented the element of secrecy. The gong sounding, Miss
Angel was moved to proffer a suggestion.
"Come dine with me. We can talk when we are eating."
He shrank back with what was almost a gesture of horror.
"Excuse me--you are very kind--I really couldn't. If you prefer it, I
will wait here until you have dined."
"Do you imagine that I could wait to hear what you have to say till
after dinner? You don't know me if you do. The people are going. We
shall have the room all to ourselves. My dinner can wait."
The people went. They did have the room to themselves. She began to
overwhelm him with her thanks, which, conscience-striken, he
endeavoured to parry.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming in this
spontaneous fashion--at this moment, too, of my utmost need."
"Just so."
"If you only knew how I have searched for you high and low, and now,
after all, you appear in the very nick of time."
"Exactly."
"It would almost seem as if you had chosen the dramatic moment; for
this is the time of all times when your presence on the scene was most
desired."
"It's very good of you to say so;--but if you will allow me to
interrupt you--I am afraid I am not entitled to your thanks. The fact
is, I--I haven't the bag."
"You haven't the bag?"
Although he did not dare to look at her he was conscious that the
fashion of her countenance had changed. At the knowledge a chill seemed
to penetrate to the very marrow in his bones.
"I--I fear I haven't."
"You had it--I left it in your charge!"
"Unfortunately, that is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair."
"What do you mean?"
He explained. For the second time that night he told his tale. It had
not rolled easily off his tongue at the first time of telling. He found
the repetition a task of exquisite difficulty. In the presence of that
young lady it seemed so poor a story. Especially in the mood in which
she was. She continually interrupted him with question and
comment--always of the most awkward kind. By the time he had made an
end of telling he felt as if most of the vitality had gone out of him.
She was silent for some seconds--dreadful seconds; Then she drew a long
breath, and she said:--
"So I am to understand, am I, that your sister has lost the bag--my
bag?"
"I fear that it would seem so, for the present."
"For the present? What do you mean by for the present? Are you
suggesting that she will be able to find it during the next few hours?
Because after that it will be too late."
"I--I should hardly like to go so far as that, knowing my sister."
"Knowing your sister? I see. Of course I am perfectly aware that I had
no right to intrust the bag to your charge even for a single instant:
to you, an entire stranger; though I had no notion that you were the
kind of stranger you seem to be. Nor had I any right to slip, and fall,
and become unconscious and so allow that train to leave me behind.
Still--it does seems a little hard. Don't you think it does?"
"I can only hope that the loss was not of such serious importance as
you would seem to infer."
"It depends on what you call serious. It probably means the difference
between affluence and beggary. That's all."
"On one point you must allow me to make an observation. The will was
not in the bag."
"The will was not in the bag!"
There was a quality in the lady's voice which made Mr. Roland quail. He
hastened to proceed.
"I have here all which it contained."
He produced a neat packet, in which were discovered four keys, two
handkerchiefs, scraps of what might be chocolate, a piece of pencil, a
pair of brown shoe-laces. She regarded the various objects with
unsympathetic eyes.
"It also contained the will."
"I can only assure you that I saw nothing of it; nor my sister either.
Surely a thing of that kind could hardly have escaped our observation."
"In that bag, Mr. Roland, is a secret pocket; intended to hold--secure
from observation--banknotes, letters, or private papers. The will was
there. Did you or your sister, in the course of your investigations,
light upon the secret of that pocket?"
Something of the sort he had feared. He rubbed his hands together,
almost as if he were wringing them.
"Miss Angel, I can only hint at my sense of shame; at my consciousness
of my own deficiencies; and can only reiterate my sincere hope that the
consequences of your loss may still be less serious than you suppose."
"I imagine that nothing worse than my ruin will result."
"I will do my best to guard against that."
"You!--what can you do--now?"
"I am at least a juryman."
"A juryman?"
"I am one of the jury which is trying the case."
"You!" Her eyes opened wider. "Of course! I thought I had seen you
somewhere before today! That's where it was! How stupid I am! Is it
possible?" Exactly what she meant by her disjointed remarks was not
clear. He did not suspect her of an intention to flatter. "And you
propose to influence your colleagues to give a decision in my favour?"
"You may smile, but since unanimity is necessary I can, at any rate,
make sure that it is not given against you."
"I see. Your idea is original. And perhaps a little daring. But before
we repose our trust on such an eventuality I should like to do
something. First of all, I should like to interview your sister."
"If you please."
"I do please. I think it possible that when I explain to her how the
matter is with me her memory may be moved to the recollection of what
she did with my poor bag. Do you think I could see her if I went to her
at once?"
"Quite probably."
"Then you and I will go together. If you will wait for me to put a hat
on, in two minutes I will return to you here."