We passed from room to room, chatting freely with the old Frenchwoman,
who garrulously told me everything I wanted to know, and showed not the
least reluctance to discuss her master and his affairs.
I had previously warned Doris to be on the look-out for anything of
interest, and, pleased with the idea of helping me, she was keenly on
the alert. I was soon to have good reason to bless the lucky
inspiration which had led me to fetch her to Mentone at a time when most
people prefer to give it a wide berth.
After visiting a number of rooms, we came at last to the front entrance,
and the aged housekeeper seemed to think we were leaving. But I had not
yet caught sight of Cauvin's private room, and I knew that unless I saw
that my journey would be fruitless.
"It is a very nice house," I said to our guide, "and the gardens are
beautiful. But I have much writing to do, and there does not seem to be
any room which would serve well as a study."
She hesitated obviously. "Well," she said slowly, "there is monsieur's
private room, but it is locked. If monsieur desires it, I will fetch
the key."
"I might as well see it," I said, as carelessly as I could. "I must
have some private den of my own," I went on.
The old dame shuffled off for the key, and I gave Doris a special hint
to keep her eyes wide open. When the old woman returned she led us
directly to Cauvin's private room, a good-sized apartment, furnished
something after the pattern of the library of the ordinary English
house. I noticed immediately that it had double doors; evidently Cauvin
had good reasons for making sure that there should be no eavesdropping
when he was at home. Leading from it was a large salon, upholstered in
pale blue silk, and the old woman passed into this in order to open the
sun-shutters and admit the light.
In the window of the library was a big American roll-top desk, which
stood open and was rather dusty. The green blotting-pad remained just
as the master of the house had left it, and near it lay a pile of
miscellaneous and dusty-looking papers.
I was glancing round when I was startled by a faint, gasping sob, and,
looking round, saw with alarm that Doris had dropped into a chair,
apparently faint. The old woman had rushed to her assistance.
"It is nothing--only the heat," murmured Doris faintly. "Please get me
a glass of water."
The old woman hurried away, and, much concerned, I bent over Doris. I
had no idea that her illness was anything but real, and I was surprised
when she said crisply but quietly, "Now is your chance."
Then I realised her purpose and began a hurried examination of the desk,
keeping my ears open for any sound of the old woman's return. But I
could find nothing. Evidently Cauvin left little to chance. The
drawers of the desk were not even locked, and I soon concluded that I
had drawn a blank, and that the key to the mystery I was bent on solving
must be sought elsewhere. Of course I was not surprised. It was not in
the least likely that Cauvin would leave incriminating documents in his
winter quarters, but in the work upon which I was engaged it would never
do to miss the opportunity that might be afforded by the momentary
carelessness which is the ever-besetting peril of even the cleverest of
rogues. As events proved, we were to learn once again the truth of the
old adage that no man can be wise at all times.
When the old lady returned with water Doris soon "recovered," and
assured the volubly sympathetic dame that she was quite herself again.
As we stood for a moment saying farewell, her quick eye caught something
which I had overlooked.
"Why," she said, "here is an invitation to a wedding in England!" And
she picked up from a small side table, where it lay in a china bowl, a
card printed in silver ink--an invitation, as she said, to a wedding,
and printed in English.
"Has Monsieur Cauvin many English friends?" I asked the old
Frenchwoman, hoping that something useful might slip out.
"_Non, monsieur_," she replied. "I do not think so; I have never seen
English letters come, and you are the first Englishman who has ever been
here."
I glanced at the card with an interest I took care to conceal. It had
been issued six months before by the brother of the bride, a certain
Agnes Wheatley, and invited "Monsieur et Madame Cauvin" to be present at
her marriage to Captain James Easterbrook, of the Royal Fusiliers, at
St Mary's Church, Chester. The address given for the reply was "118,
Whitefriars, Chester"--an address which I took early opportunity of
scribbling upon my shirt-cuff.
Suddenly Doris, who had taken the card from my hand, raised it to her
nostrils and sniffed at it. "Why," she said, "it is scented. I never
saw an English wedding card scented before." And she sniffed again and
handed the card to me. I raised it to my nostrils and decided that the
odour was either that of lemon-scented verbena or the old-fashioned
stag-leaved geranium. The scent was fast disappearing, and it was
evident, from the age of the card, that it must have been very pungent
when fresh.
Small things mean much in our profession, and it struck me at once that
Doris's discovery might be decidedly important. Here we had a perfectly
innocent-looking invitation to a wedding in England, printed in quite
the ordinary English style, and, judging from the type employed,
evidently the work of an English printer. Yet the card, found by chance
in the house of a foreign suspect, showed a variation from English
social customs which Doris, womanlike, had instantly detected. The fact
of the card being scented, had I been alone, would certainly not have
struck me as being of any peculiar significance; very few men, I am
certain, would have given it a second thought. Yet the trivial
circumstance was to be the means of leading us finally towards our goal.
"Are you sure they never perfume wedding cards in England?"