AN INDISCREET FRIENDSHIP
“Dieu! Why are you here, M’sieur Dick? You are an imbecile! If you are
seen here, in Bournemouth, you may spoil everything.”
“It was imperative, Alza, that I should come here,” Jervoise answered
in French. “I have come to give you warning.”
“Warning!” cried the good-looking young Frenchwoman. “Of what, pray?”
They were seated together in a corner of the winter-garden of the Royal
Bath Hotel at Bournemouth.
Arriving from London half an hour before, he had found her lolling
lazily in one of the wicker armchairs, displaying a neat ankle and just
a suspicion of finest _lingerie_ for the admiration of a clean-shaven
young fellow in blue serge, who had the unmistakable bearing of a naval
officer. Dressed with quiet elegance in black, with a big black hat and
some fine sables around her neck, she presented a very ladylike and
refined appearance, her _chic_ being that of the true Parisienne.
The meeting was quite unexpected on her part, yet Dick for the last
week, ever since that evening at Owen’s house, had been endeavouring
to trace her whereabouts. He had hastened next day down into Rutland,
only to discover that she had left for Edinburgh. North he went, and
on making inquiries at the Caledonian Hotel, learnt that, after a
week, she had gone to London, leaving an address at Baron’s Court,
Kensington, for letters to be forwarded. At this address, a house at
which she had lodged on one or two occasions, he had ascertained her
whereabouts at Bournemouth, and had that morning arrived in order to
consult her.
There were several idlers in the winter-garden, including an old
Anglo-Indian and his wife; therefore Dick suggested that they might
walk out and talk where there were no eavesdroppers. None who chanced
to see that well-dressed and essentially refined young lady, who always
kept herself aloof from everybody, and who passed her lonely hours in
reading fiction or doing fancy needlework, would have for one moment
guessed that she was actually what Owen Odd had declared her to be.
None, indeed, would believe that she was at that watering-place with a
fixed purpose, and that that purpose was an evil one.
For the past ten days or so she had been at the hotel, living there
in the name of Duveen, and half the men were longing to make her
acquaintance. But she disregarded them all, and remained entirely apart
from everybody. The other guests noticed that she seldom went out,
but attributed it to the fact that the weather had turned bitterly
cold, and if she were weak-chested the East winds were the reverse of
beneficial.
The advent of Dick Jervoise, therefore, surprised those tea-table
gossips, who spent the greater part of the day in the winter-garden, a
kind of great conservatory with palms, fishponds, and tropical birds.
Therefore, Alza, quick to note any impression upon her neighbours,
rose, fastened her furs, took up her muff, and they both passed out and
down the hill leading towards the pier.
“Fortunately, he has gone motoring with two men to Salisbury
to-day,” she said as they went along. “Otherwise I dare not be seen
out—especially in your company.”
“Then Bourtzeff is here—eh?” he asked quickly.
“Of course—at the Grand. If he were not here I should not be. I prefer
my own Paris, cher M’sieur Dick, I assure you! This place—ugh!” and she
made a wry face and shuddered.
Her companion laughed.
“It must be very dull for you to be so much alone, of course.”
“I need not be alone, but unfortunately I cannot afford to make
chance acquaintances. They always have a habit of turning up just at
the moment when one does not desire them. You know,” was her answer,
“I nearly met with complete disaster once, owing to an indiscreet
friendship.”
“Ah! Alza,” he said as they passed the pier entrance and continued
along the cliffs. “You are an exceedingly clever woman.”
“You have more than once made that remark before,” she replied,
smiling, at the same time drawing her furs closer about her throat;
for, though the day was bright, yet the winter wind was strong and
exceedingly cold. There were few people about, for on such a day
visitors prefer the shelter of the Invalid’s Walk to the rough wind of
the cliffs.
“I have not come to seek you to pay you compliments, my dear
mademoiselle,” he said seriously when they had strolled some distance.
“As I have already said, I am here to warn you—to warn you seriously.”
She turned her dark, luminous eyes towards him, and with an air of
careless merriment exclaimed:
“Good! Tell me—what’s the danger now?”
“My friend Odd has discovered who and what you are. He knows
practically everything!”
She stared at him, a trifle paler, holding her breath.
“Then I hope he is interested,” she said briefly.
“But you do not seem to realise your danger!” he pointed out. “You were
seen in his company, and recognized by a detective. The officer told
him who you were.”
She pursed her shapely lips, and twisted her skirt more tightly about
her shapely hips.
“You think I ought not to remain in England—eh?” she asked in a hard
voice.
“I certainly think there is a grave peril if you do,” he said. “Why are
you still watching Bourtzeff?”
“For reasons of my own—personal reasons.”
“He is your enemy, that I know. But if he discovers you will he not
again turn upon you—as he did once before?”
“He will not have a chance,” responded the girl in a determined tone,
still speaking in French. “He gave information to the Prefecture of
Police which sent the man I love to Cayenne, remember! Because he
turned police informant he fancies himself safe. But he is unaware of
the fate that I—I, Alza Dresler—have marked out for him!” she cried,
her dark eyes flashing with a fire which plainly showed her hatred.
“You are safe neither in England nor in France, Alza,” the man said
quietly. “You once did me a great service—one that I have never
forgotten, and have ever thanked you for. You——”
“Oh! enough, mon cher Dick!” she declared, interrupting him and putting
up her black-gloved hand to stay his words. “You forget how deeply I
regard you for that great kindness, that generosity you showed to me.
You could have handed me over to the police, but you let me go free
because I was a woman. I know I’m bad—I can’t help it! My father was a
thief, and, as you know, I have lived among thieves all my life. My
whole existence has been one of fraud, subterfuge, and deception. My
friends are the worst and most unscrupulous in all Europe. I admit it
all—all. Yet how can I change it?”
“I know, mademoiselle,” said Dick in a low, sympathetic voice. “I
entirely understand your position and appreciate your difficulty.
You are an associate of certain undesirable persons through no fault
of your own. You were born in criminal surroundings, and taught
dishonesty from childhood. Your intelligence has been sharpened by
long association with keen, clever men and women who live upon their
wits, until now you are as expert as they. You can assume refinement
and innocence so marvellously that your victims become as wax in your
hands. I know it all, mademoiselle, and no one more regrets your
position than I do myself.”
A serious expression was upon her dark, handsome face. She had always
liked the tall Englishman, always respected him, and had ever been
ready to listen to his advice.
At that moment there arose before her eyes the recollection of one
day, a few years before, when they had met at the Hotel du Parc, at
Vichy, and a month later at the Sudbahn Hotel, at Semmering in Austria;
of their long walks together in the mountains, and of the friendship
that sprang up between them. Then, of that fateful night when, at the
instigation of a certain man living in the hotel, she had managed to
step into the little _salon_ occupied by the pretty French actress,
and, on searching, had discovered the string of fine pearls she was
known to possess.
Could she ever forget that moment? She had taken them from their velvet
case, and was holding them in her hand beneath the green-shaded lamp
when she heard a movement behind her, and, turning in alarm, saw the
tall Englishman, who happened to be a friend of the actress, standing
there! He knew the truth. He barred her passage, and charged her with
the theft. He had caught her red-handed! “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I
followed you here, and I have seen you take the pearls. Your friend is
that stout man in spectacles who speaks German, and who has been here
for the past fortnight, yet whom you have pretended not to know. He
is your accomplice. I have seen you meet in secret. I shall ring, and
hand you over to the police.” His finger was already upon the electric
button near the door, when she had dashed across, and, flinging herself
wildly upon her knees before him, begged forgiveness—begged his
silence, begged his protection—even though she were a thief.
In those brief, exciting moments, as they now walked together, she
recollected his hesitation, his deep, earnest, reproachful words, and
how, taking her hand, he had assisted her to rise. He had taken the
pearls from her, returned them to their case, and, with a generosity
she had seldom found in men, had given her his word of honour to remain
silent.
The next moment she slipped along the corridor to her room, and half
an hour later faced the actress in the big _salon_, smiling as though
nothing had happened.
Her German-speaking friend was already at the station, on his hurried
departure for Vienna, while she, later that same night, had written
a brief note of heartfelt thanks to the Englishman, and, giving her
address in Paris, promised that if ever he wanted a friend he had but
to write to her. “All my friends are in future your friends,” she
wrote in that note. “We all owe you a deep debt of gratitude for your
generosity towards me.”
As she walked along that broad, sandy pathway, with the grey sea
stretched deep below, she was wondering if he, too, were thinking of
the same strange, almost romantic circumstances—that startling incident
which had sealed their curious friendship.
Had he denounced her that night, her fat friend, who was wanted on
half a dozen different charges of placing certain forged bonds into
circulation, would have also fallen into the drag-net of the police.
Ugly revelations would, no doubt, have ended, and the identity of the
various members of that circle of unscrupulous undesirables would have
been exposed.
As it was, he had urged her to reform. Ah! she recollected too well
those deep, earnest words of his! How they had rung in her ears ever
since. They recurred to her now. And after that brief but bitter
reproach, he had allowed her to pass out. She owed her liberty to the
silence of Richard Jervoise.
And now her present visit to England had been at his request. He had
written to her asking her to redeem her promise, and perform him a
service. The same day she had received his letter she had crossed the
Channel, and next morning called at his flat at Barnes.
In his own snug den he had told her the story of the strange death of
Paul Grinevitch—a story to which she had listened with the deepest
interest. She had written down the address in Keppel Street, and,
having discovered that Nicholas Bourtzeff visited the house in
question, her vigilance had never for one instant been relaxed.
Dick knew that this Russian was her bitterest enemy, yet it was by no
means plain why she should exercise that constant surveillance upon his
movements. That he had been travelling from place to place was clear
from her own erratic journeys, yet why she should be ever at his heels,
and why she should risk detection and betrayal, as she no doubt was
daily risking, remained to him a complete enigma.
“My duty was to come here and warn you, mademoiselle,” he went
on as he strode at her side. “For aught you know, the police are
making inquiries concerning your whereabouts, now that you have been
recognized with Owen.”
“And your friend the doctor, of course, believes what he has been told
concerning me,” she remarked very quietly.
“Without a doubt. I have tried to cast disbelief upon the statements of
the police officer, but denial in the circumstances, is, as you see,
rather difficult.”
“You need not deny it, M’sieur Jervoise,” she answered in a low, bitter
voice. “One day, ere long, I know I must find myself under arrest. I
have had many narrow escapes in my career; therefore I can’t always
hope for success.” And she smiled sadly, looking into his grave eyes.
“But why run this risk?” he cried. “Surely it is unnecessary? Why
not slip away to Germany, Holland, Denmark—anywhere save here and in
France?”
She was silent for a few moments. Then, halting and turning her eyes to
his, she said in a calm, thoughtful tone:
“M’sieur Dick! Did you not ask me to perform for you a service? You
love the Norwegian lady, Thyra. Is not that so? Tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” he stammered after a brief pause, the colour rising to his face.
“I do not hide the truth from you—my friend. Why should I? I love her.”
“Then if you do,” she answered quickly, “if you do—then please allow
me to remain here—and act in your interests. I am your friend, as you
have declared—your sincere friend, M’sieur Dick, and one who owes her
liberty to you!”