AN INTERRUPTED REVUE
Madame Félanie sat before the gaily-decorated mirror which swung upon
her dressing table, contemplating the result of her maid's careful and
strenuous attentions. Her dressing-room, during the many months of her
great success, had become transformed into a little bower of luxury and
comfort. A telephone stood at her elbow amongst a chaos of
tortoiseshell-backed toilet articles. There was a soft green carpet
upon the floor, a wonderful divan in the most comfortable corner, a few
trifles of Empire furniture, an etching or so upon the wall. Madame
Félanie was a clever woman and she understood the art of environment.
Her costume now for the second act of the brilliant revue in which her
success had been almost phenomenal, was practically completed. She
wore still a rose-coloured dressing-gown over garments not remarkable
for their prodigality, and though the evening papers, a French novel, a
little volume of poetry sent from the author, and a box of Russian
cigarettes stood at her elbow, she still continued to gaze a little
abstractedly at the reflection of her own features in the
looking-glass. London had found her beautiful, seductive, vivacious.
She was all of these. Her dark and beautifully-set eyes restrained
their gleam of natural violet notwithstanding the encompassment of
stage make-up. No rouge could conceal the pearly brilliancy of her
complexion, no cake of powder the charming lines of her mouth. It was
not at these things, however, that she looked. Her eyes were fixed
steadily upon the roots of her blue-black hair, drawn back from her
forehead in a manner peculiar to herself. She even raised the tiny
magnifying glass on the table before her, to concentrate her regard,
and there was in her face almost at that moment a shadow, as though
some faint foreboding was hovering over her, even in these halcyon days
of her great triumph.
She laid the magnifying glass down.
'It is impossible,' she murmured to herself, stretching out her hand
for a cigarette.
There was a knock at the door. Her maid came softly in--an elderly
woman in prim black, softly-shod and with the art of moving
noiselessly. She carried a card in her hand, which she presented to
her mistress.
'Madame,' she announced, 'this gentleman desires the favour of a word
with you.'
Félanie stretched out her hand.
'You know so well, Marie,' she complained, 'that I receive here only
those who need send no card. Give him my address, if it is a gentleman
from the Press.'
'I thought madame would prefer to see this gentleman,' the maid said
quietly.
Still with a queer reluctance, Félanie took the card into her white
fingers. Before she glanced at it she knew very well what name she
would find written there, and she hated the knowledge. The black
letters stared up at her--
_Mr. Ambrose Lavendale,
17 Sackville Street._
Félanie turned her head slowly and looked upwards at her maid. The
woman's face, however, was blank.
'The gentleman is doubtless known to Mr. Wiltshaw,' the latter
continued. 'He secured the entrée here without difficulty. He waits
now in the passage.'
'You can show him in,' her mistress ordered.
There were a few seconds during which another woman looked into that
gaily-hung mirror, and another reflection appeared there. The mouth
was no longer seductive, but grim. The eyes were no longer insolent,
half challenging conquest, half promising tenderness, but seemed,
indeed, to have receded a little, to be filled with the shrinking light
of fear. The transition was extraordinary and complete. Here sat a
terrified woman, face to face with some evil thing!
Then there came a knock at the door. As with the touch of her fingers
upon the switch the gloom of the room was changed into brilliant light,
so Félanie almost miraculously recovered herself. She swung round in
her dainty revolving chair. Her lips, even, fell naturally and easily
into the lines of her most seductive smile. What fear there was at the
woman's heart showed itself no longer in her face.
'Monsieur Lavendale--Monsieur Ambrose Lavendale, is it not?' she added,
with a momentary glance at the card. 'You wish to see me?
Lavendale came a little further into the room and bowed. At a glance
from her mistress, the maid softly withdrew, closing the door. In his
severely simple evening clothes, Lavendale seemed in that little room
to be taller even than his six feet two. Félanie, who had risen to her
feet, felt herself suddenly dominated.
'Madame,' Lavendale said, 'I have ventured to present myself in order
to renew a very delightful acquaintance.'
She played the game bravely.
'But, monsieur,' she protested, 'I have not the pleasure of knowing
you.'
He sighed.
'It is, alas! then, your memory, madame, which is at fault.'
'Or yours?' she queried softly.
He shook his head.
'Those who have had the privilege of knowing the lady who calls herself
now Madame Félanie, could make no mistake.'
'Yet it seems,' she persisted, acknowledging his courtesy with a smile,
'that that is what has happened. You are gallant, monsieur, but there
are so many of us upon the stage who resemble one another.'
He shook his head with a self-confidence which she hated.
'There is no man in this world,' he declared, 'who could fail to
recognize Adèle Goetz, even under the guise of Madame Félanie. May I
congratulate you upon your great success? Your revue, they tell me,
will run for ever.'
'You are very kind,' she said, her knees beginning to tremble a little,
'but indeed you are mistaken. My name is Elaine Félanie. It is my own
name. I came from the Odéon. I am so well-known in Paris. This lady
of whom you speak perhaps resembled me.'
Lavendale did not for a moment reply. His face had become a shade
graver, his grey eyes held hers.
'Is there, then, a reason, madame,' he asked, 'why Adèle Goetz
preferred to disappear and Madame Félanie to rise from her ashes? Am I
not one of those who could be trusted? My memories of Mademoiselle
Adèle are too delightful for me to bear anything but good-will towards
Madame Félanie.'
She stood for a moment quite still. Her brain was working quickly.
After all, the man was an American. She looked at him a little
doubtfully. He smiled--and she yielded. She gave him both her hands.
'Monsieur Ambrose,' she said, 'it can go on no longer. I thought
myself an actress but you have conquered. You are my friend?'
'Your devoted friend,' he assured her.
'You can imagine, then, why here in England it is Elaine Félanie alone
who exists?'
'Adèle Goetz, if I remember rightly,' he replied, 'was of German birth.'
She glanced almost nervously around her. He went on without pause.
'So far as that simple fact is concerned,' he continued, 'you will
not--you need have no fear of my discretion.'
She gave him her hands again and this time there was more of invitation
in her gesture.
'You were always kind to me,' she murmured. 'We shall see something of
one another now, is it not so?'
He shook his head.
'Alas! no, madame,' he sighed. 'I am engaged to be married.'
'And mademoiselle is jealous?' she inquired, with a little pout.
'There is no woman in the world,' he told her, 'who would not be
jealous of Madame Félanie.'
She laughed at him with something of her old gaiety, threw herself back
in her chair and passed him the cigarettes.
'We have a few minutes longer, at least,' she pleaded, 'before we make
our pathetic farewells. You have not lost the gift of saying pleasant
things, Ambrose.'
'Nor you, Adèle, the art of inspiring them,' he replied.
'Oh, là, là!' she exclaimed lightly. 'Tell me of your life here in
London? Tell me why you came to renew our acquaintance if it is to be
only a matter of this one visit?'
He had refused her offer of a chair and the cigarette, still unlit, was
between his fingers.
'Yes, I will tell you that,' he said. 'You read, without a doubt, of
the sinking of the _Marabic_?'
She shrugged her shoulders.
'Who has talked of anything else in London these few days?'
'I was amongst the saved,' he continued, 'I and the young lady to whom
I am engaged to be married. We were in the last boat that left the
ship and lost everything except the clothes we stood up in. That
circumstance has, to a certain extent, changed my outlook upon this
struggle.'
There was the slightest of frowns upon her velvet brow. She waited.
He had the air of one, however, who has concluded all he has to say.
He turned towards the door. She stopped him with an imperative gesture.
'You have not given me the promise I desire--I demand?' she cried.
'Monsieur Ambrose, you will not leave me like this?'
'That promise,' he said gravely, 'is yours--conditionally.'
His departure was a little abrupt and her gesture to recall him too
late. She sat for a moment thinking, a curious shadow upon her face.
Then she touched the bell.
'Ask Monsieur Anders to spare me a moment,' she directed her maid.
There was a brief interval, then the sound of a cheerful whistling
outside. The door was opened and Monsieur Anders himself appeared. He
was a small man with a strangely-lined face, a mouth whose humour
triumphed even over his plastic make-up. He was attired with great
magnificence in the costume of a beau of the last century. His fingers
glittered with rings, lace cuffs fell over his wrists and a little waft
of peculiar perfume entered with him. It was not for nothing that for
many years he had been considered upon the French stage the embodiment
of a certain type of elegance.
'You have had a visitor, _chérie_?' he remarked.
'I have,' she replied. 'Shut the door.'
He obeyed at once. From outside came the voice of the stage carpenter,
the occasional rumbling of scenery, the music of the orchestra, the
murmur now and then of applause. The curtain was up upon a fresh scene
in the revue.
'Mysterious?' Anders murmured.
Suddenly, even as the word passed his lips, apprehension seemed to
seize him. He remained for a moment dumb and motionless. Then he,
too, glanced around before he leaned towards her.
'It is trouble?'
'Perhaps not,' she answered. 'One cannot tell. A young American has
been to see me. He is one of the few who would remember. We were
friends in Paris nine years ago. He was a boy then, but,
notwithstanding everything, he recognized me.'
'An American,' Anders muttered. 'Better that than an Englishman!
Well?'
'He was serving his apprenticeship in the American Diplomatic Service
in those days,' she went on. 'What he is doing now I do not know,
except that he and the girl whom he is engaged to marry, were amongst
survivors from the _Marabic_. He went out of his way to pay me a visit
here, just to tell me that he recognized me, and he made it plain that
although he is not an Englishman, he is in sympathy with them.'
'Did he threaten?' Anders asked quickly.
'No,' she replied, 'and yet he terrified me. He promised
silence--conditionally.'
'Conditionally? How?'
'He left that for me to understand. I am still puzzled. He does not
want to see me any more--he took pains to tell me that he was engaged
to be married. Yet underneath his manner I seemed to discover a
threat.'
Anders stood perfectly still for a moment. Underneath all the paint
and make-up of his face, he was suddenly haggard.
'Is it worth it, Henri?' she faltered. 'Why not America at once, and
safety? We could get a great engagement there.'
He stood biting his nails, agitated.
'There is this last affair to be carried through,' he reminded her.
'And the money--think of it! How can one live without money!'
'Our salaries,' she murmured.
'Pooh! What man with my tastes could live on any salary?'
'Is it worth while to trifle with life and death?' she asked him
bluntly. 'It is a warning, this, Henri.'
The call-boy's voice was suddenly heard.
'Monsieur Anders! Monsieur Anders!'
The Frenchman turned mechanically towards the door.
'You have destroyed my nerve,' he muttered. 'You have perhaps ruined
my performance. Afterwards we will see.' ...
It was 'French Night' at Luigi's Restaurant, a gala night even in those
strenuous war days. Every table in the place was taken, and others had
been wheeled in. The waiters made their way about with difficulty.
Bohemia and the sycophantic scions of fashion sat arm in arm. The
grimmer duties of patriotism were for a moment forgotten. Its other
claims met with ample recognition. Félanie sang the 'Marseillaise'
twice amidst a scene of wild applause. A great French actress from the
legitimate stage had recited a patriotic ode. The flags on the tables
had been sold for absurd sums by a sympathetic duke who should clearly
have been an auctioneer. A hundred messages of sympathy, of love, of
faith, were sent across the wineglasses to the country whom it was
designed to honour. Back in their corner, Lavendale and Suzanne looked
on curiously. Once Lavendale drank a little toast with his companion.
'This,' he murmured, 'is to our fuller alliance.'
She drank with him, although she seemed a little puzzled.
'Listen, dear,' he went on, 'there is just one little thing I'd like to
say to you to-night. You and I have helped one another at times, but
there has always been a certain reserve. I told you months ago that I
was for America above all things, and America only. To-day I feel
differently. I have been a witness--you and I together--of foul and
brutal murder. I have seen women drowned, have heard their shrieks.
America may keep the peace with Germany. It may be in the interests of
the highest diplomacy that she should. As for me, I am at war with
Germany. I am your ally.'
Her fingers rested upon his.
'Then there is some good,' she whispered, 'which has come out of that
great and abominable evil.'
'A very small good,' he said, 'but it may count. Tell me, do you know
who that fair, almost sandy young man is, sitting at the table with
Félanie and her friends?'
'Of course,' she answered. 'That is Lenwade, the great flying man.'
She dropped her voice suddenly. The young man had risen from his
chair, and, in the act of passing down the room to speak to some
acquaintances, paused before their table. He bowed to Suzanne and held
out his hand to Lavendale. They were old acquaintances and spoke for
some time on indifferent subjects.
'What have you been doing with yourself lately?' Lavendale inquired.
'Not much flying,' the other confessed. 'I have been down giving
lessons and breaking in a lot of the youngsters, but I can't stick it
myself as I used to. Plays the devil with your nerves.'
'Rubbish!' Lavendale laughed. 'You haven't a nerve in your body.'
'Haven't I?' the other replied. 'I remember the time when I could say
that. I'd give anything to be at the front now if I felt equal to it,
or if my doctor would let me.'
Lavendale smiled, and glanced around to be sure that his neighbours
were not listening.
'What were you doing at Ypres the week before last, then?' he asked,
dropping his voice a little.
Lenwade for a moment was silent, then he shrugged his shoulders.
'You must have mistaken me for some one else,' he declared.
'Good-night!'
He took his leave a little abruptly. Lavendale watched him disappear.
Then he glanced towards his companion. His face had become graver.
'Let me put a case to you, my fellow conspirator,' he begged.
'I will put one to you instead,' she replied. 'I know for a fact that
Philip Lenwade has been in France for two months, flying every day,
engaged upon some special task. He denies it to us--quite properly,
perhaps--but should he come to places like this, should he drink
champagne so that he is compelled to hold the table while he stands?
It is true that all the world knows of his infatuation for Félanie.
She is safe, perhaps--a Frenchwoman and a patriot--yet there is
something about it which I do not like. She and Lenwade have been
whispering together half the evening, and more than once I have seen
Lenwade shake his head and push her away.'
'Supposing Félanie,' he whispered, 'were not a Frenchwoman at all?'
Suzanne said nothing. She waited, watching her companion with
wide-open eyes. Lavendale looked down upon the tablecloth.
'From you,' he continued simply, 'I have no secrets. Nine years ago I
knew Félanie in Paris. She went then by the name of Adèle Goetz. She
was a German.'
'Go on.'
'I watched her from the box to-night. At first I was oppressed, as I
have been before, by some vague sense of familiarity in her gestures.
Suddenly--I think it was the way she shrugged her shoulders, one higher
than the other--anyhow, something brought it all back to me. That was
why I left you, Suzanne. I went to her room. Her flaxen hair has
become blue-black, she has altered in many ways but I discovered that I
was right.'
'She is a German, posing as a Frenchwoman, in London to-day?' Suzanne
exclaimed. 'Why does she run this risk?'
'That is what I have asked myself,' he whispered, 'that and another
question--what is her interest in Lenwade? Hush! We are talking too
earnestly. That fellow Anders--they say he is really her
husband--watches us. Here comes Luigi. Talk to him for a moment.'
The manager paused at their table and received their compliments on the
success of the evening. When he passed on, Félanie had risen as though
to go, and Lenwade was arranging her cloak around her shoulders.
Anders was still talking to some other members of the company, and
friends seated at the great round table in front of the orchestra.
Félanie and Lenwade were half-way down the room before the others began
to follow. Lavendale rose quickly to his feet.
'Listen,' he said, 'I am going upstairs and shall come down again just
far enough, in case I can hear anything. You go through alone and wait
for me on the divan. Tell me if those two go away together, and if so,
what is their destination.'
They separated at once. A few minutes later Lavendale descended from
the balcony and stood just out of sight upon the stairs which led into
the entrance hall. The little place was full of the hubbub of cheerful
laughter. On one side, however, Félanie and Lenwade were talking
earnestly. Félanie had turned suddenly round to Anders, who had just
arrived.
'Mr. Lenwade is going to drive me home,' she announced. 'Au revoir,
all you good people!'
There was much handshaking.
'Vive la France, madame,' a young Englishman exclaimed fervently, as he
bent over Félanie's fingers, 'and may you, too, live for ever!'
'If one would paint France, madame,' a painter murmured, 'I would
choose you for the emblematic figure.'
There were more compliments, another little burst of patriotic fervour.
Some one even struck up a few bars of the 'Marseillaise' as Félanie and
her escort disappeared. Lavendale descended the last few stairs and
elbowed his way good-humouredly through the group. He took Suzanne by
the arm.
'Well?' he whispered, as he led her towards the doorway.
'I am not sure,' she answered under her breath, 'but I think they went
to his rooms--number 25 Half Moon Street.'
Lavendale's car was a few minutes delayed. He gave the man the address
almost in a whisper. Behind, pushing his way out on to the pavement,
was Anders. He watched Lavendale drive off with a slightly disturbed
air.
'What are you going to do?' Suzanne asked.
'Make a fool of myself, very likely,' Lavendale replied. 'I am just
working out a theory, that's all. She is going back to his rooms.
Anders remains behind, content, and all the world knows that Anders,
whether he is her husband or not, is in love with her and furiously
jealous. You see, there must be a reason for her little expedition.
She is hoping to fetch something.'
'Where are we going?'
'To his rooms,' Lavendale explained. 'Oh! don't look startled, dear.
I shall have a very good explanation to offer to Lenwade, even if I
break in upon the most ordinary amour.'
They were in Half Moon Street within a few minutes. Just as
Lavendale's car slackened speed, Félanie issued from the door of number
25, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, sprang into a
waiting taxicab and drove off. Lavendale leaped out on to the pavement.
'Follow her, Suzanne,' he directed. 'I hope to God she's going
straight home! If not, you must find out where she does go. I'll come
in a taxi. I must see Lenwade first.'
He whispered a direction to the chauffeur, passed through the door of
number 25, rang for an automatic lift and ascended to the second
storey. Leaning over the banisters, as the lift stopped, was Lenwade.
He gazed at his visitor in amazement.
'What the mischief are you doing here, old fellow?' he asked thickly.
'Whom are you looking for?' Lavendale retorted.
'Madame Félanie,' the other confessed. 'She has gone down to fetch her
vanity case from the cab. Can't think why she doesn't come back.'
Lavendale pushed him suddenly back into his room and closed the door.
'You idiot!' he thundered. 'She isn't coming back! Now pull yourself
together, do you hear? Listen to me. You're half drunk, but I am
going to tell you something that ought to sober you. That woman
Félanie is a born German, and a spy. What have you given her?'
Even through the bluster of his stormy denial, Lenwade was obviously
shaken.
'What bally rot!' he exclaimed. 'She's a Frenchwoman to her
finger-tips. They all love her. Didn't you hear her
sing--Marseillaise? Frenchwoman to her finger----'
'Shut up!' Lavendale interrupted fiercely. 'I tell you I knew her nine
years ago under another name. She is a German, and it's my belief
she's a spy, she and Anders. What have they worked on you? Out with
it, man!'
Lenwade swayed on his feet. He looked back across his shoulder to a
roll-top writing desk which stood open. Then he snatched up a tumbler
from the table by his side, filled it with soda-water and drank it off.
'Lavendale, you're not in earnest!'
'In God's own earnest, man! Quick, if you want to repair the mischief
you've done, tell me what you gave her?'
'I've lent her my plans,' Lenwade faltered. 'I've been two months
making them, up above the clouds. I'm the only real draughtsman
amongst those who can keep high enough--plans of the German
fortifications and the railways behind, from the coast beyond where our
lines touch the French. I say, Lavendale----!'
There was no Lavendale. He sprang down the stairs three at a time, out
into the street and at a double into Piccadilly, where he sprang into a
passing taxicab.
'Milan! Look sharp!' he ordered.
The man drove swiftly through the half-empty streets. With a little
gasp of relief Lavendale recognized his own car waiting in the
courtyard. Without a pause, however, he pushed open the swing doors of
the Court and leaned over the counter towards the night porter.
'What is Madame Félanie's number?' he asked.
'Sixty-four, sir,' the man replied, glancing dubiously at Lavendale.
'Monsieur Anders is up there now, however.'
Lavendale stepped into the lift, ascended to the third floor, hurried
down the dimly-lit corridor and paused outside the door of number
sixty-four. He listened for a moment. Inside he could hear voices.
Then he pressed the bell. There was a moment's hesitation, then
Anders' voice speaking in French.
'Lenwade, perhaps.'
He heard Félanie's scornful little laugh, the flutter of her garments
as she crossed the room. The door was suddenly opened and she stood
there, looking out at him. She gazed at this unexpected visitor and
the colour slowly faded from her cheeks and the light from her eyes.
Lavendale made his way firmly across the threshold and closed the door.
Félanie caught at her throat.
'What do you want here, sir?' Anders demanded.
Lavendale pushed them both back into the sitting-room. There was an
ugly look in the man's face, but Félanie's courage seemed to have
deserted her. She clutched at the air for a moment and sank into an
easy-chair, hiding her face amongst the cushions. Lavendale's hand
fell firmly upon the loose sheets of paper strewn over the table.
'These are what I have come for,' he announced, collecting them and
thrusting them into his pocket. 'I presume you have had no time to
make a copy?'
He glanced searchingly around the apartment. It was obvious that
nothing of the sort had been attempted. Anders stole slowly back
towards the writing-table, his hand was upon the knob of one of the
drawers, but Lavendale suddenly gripped him by the coat collar and
swung him almost off his feet.
'Listen,' he said coldly, 'I know nothing of you, Anders, except that
it is my belief that you are one of the vermin of the war, a spy
selling his own country. The woman there was once my friend. For that
reason, if you leave England on Saturday for America, this matter is
finished. If either of you remain in London, or make any attempt to
cross to Holland, France or any other country, between now and then,
something very ugly will happen. You understand?'
Anders' courage had failed him pitifully. Félanie, on the contrary,
had recovered herself.
'I have been a fool, perhaps,' she confessed. 'You were just one of
the few chances against me. Very well, we go to America on Saturday.'
'But our contract?' Anders faltered. 'The revue? Elaine's success?
They have doubled our salaries. London is at her feet.'
'After Saturday,' Lavendale reminded him calmly, 'the best that can
happen to you, Anders, is a bandaged forehead and twelve bullets, in
the courtyard of the Tower. I will not offend your taste by
suggesting----'
Félanie stamped her foot and turned her shoulder contemptuously upon
Anders.
'It is finished, Monsieur Lavendale,' she pronounced. 'If there were
any bribe in the world I could offer you----'
It was her one rather faint-hearted effort and he laughed at the
seduction in her eyes.
'You will be watched from this moment until the steamer leaves
Liverpool,' he concluded, leaving the room and closing the door behind
him....
In the hall he met Lenwade, waiting for the lift, incoherent still but
sober. Lavendale drew him out into the courtyard, where Suzanne was
still seated in the car.
'Lenwade,' he announced, 'I have your plans. They are safe with me. I
shall keep them until to-morrow morning. You can come to me at 17
Sackville Street at ten o'clock. Until then they will be safe.'
'Thank God!' the other murmured. 'How did you manage it?'
Lavendale shook him off a little contemptuously and took his place by
Suzanne's side.
'They leave on Saturday for Liverpool,' he told her. 'I hand the care
of them, from now until then, over to your branch.'
She pressed his hand and drew a little closer to him.
'My dear ally!' she murmured.