WHO IS MR. SABIN?
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was not at home to ordinary callers. Nevertheless
when a discreet servant brought her Mr. Francis Densham's card she gave
orders for his admittance without hesitation.
That he was a privileged person it was easy to see. Mrs. Satchell
received him with the most charming of smiles.
"My dear Francis," she exclaimed, "I do hope that you have lost that
wretched headache! You looked perfectly miserable last night. I was so
sorry for you."
Densham drew an easy chair to her side and accepted a cup of tea.
"I am quite well again," he said. "It was very bad indeed for a little
time, but it did not last long. Still I felt that it made me so utterly
stupid that I was half afraid you would have written me off your
visitors' list altogether as a dull person. I was immensely relieved to
be told that you were at home."
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed gaily. She was a bright, blonde little
woman with an exquisite figure and piquante face. She had a husband whom
no one knew, and gave excellent parties to which every one went. In her
way she was something of a celebrity. She and Densham had known each
other for many years.
"I am not sure," she said, "that you did not deserve it; but then, you
see, you are too old a friend to be so summarily dealt with."
She raised her blue eyes to his and dropped them, smiling softly.
Densham looked steadily away into the fire, wondering how to broach the
subject which had so suddenly taken the foremost place in his thoughts.
He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The
time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now.
Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and
delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her
attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright
eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding
thrill.
"You are very good to me," he said, thoughtfully. "May I have some more
tea?"
Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to ask a question, and he
was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry
matters--that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close
of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during
which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a
success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then
there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious
effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night,
in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him.
But nothing of the sort happened. The reception had not interested
her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his
pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously
after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed,
and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at
that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask.
"My dear Francis," she said, quietly, "why don't you tell me what is the
matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind.
Is it anything you wish to ask of me?"
"Yes," he said, boldly, "I have come to ask you a favour."
She smiled at him encouragingly.
"Well, do ask it," she said, "and get rid of your woebegone face. You
ought to know that if it is anything within my power I shall not
hesitate."
"I want," he said, "to paint your portrait for next year's Academy."
This was a master stroke. To have Densham paint her picture was just at
that moment the height of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell's ambition. A flush of
pleasure came into her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
"Do you really mean it?" she exclaimed, leaning over towards him. "Are
you sure?"
"Of course I mean it," he answered. "If only I can do you justice, I
think it ought to be the portrait of the year. I have been studying you
for a long time in an indefinite sort of way, and I think that I have
some good ideas."
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed softly. Densham, although not a great
artist, was the most fashionable portrait painter of the minute, and he
had the knack of giving a _chic_ touch to his women--of investing them
with a certain style without the sacrifice of similitude. He refused
quite as many commissions as he accepted, and he could scarcely have
flattered Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell more than by his request. She was
delightfully amiable.
"You are a dear old thing," she said, beaming upon him. "What shall I
wear? That yellow satin gown that you like, or say you like, so much?"
He discussed the question with her gravely. It was not until he rose to
go that he actually broached the question which had been engrossing all
his thoughts.
"By the bye," he said, "I wanted to ask you something. You know
Harcutt?"
She nodded. Of course she knew Harcutt. Were her first suspicions
correct! Had he some other reason for this visit of his?
"Well," Densham went on, "he is immensely interested in some people
who were at that stupid reception last night. He tried to get an
introduction but he couldn't find any one who knew them, and he doesn't
know the Princess well enough to ask her. He thought that he saw you
speaking to the man, so I promised that when I saw you I would ask about
them."
"I spoke to a good many men," she said. "What is his name?"
"Sabin--Mr. Sabin; and there is a girl, his daughter, or niece, I
suppose."
Was it Densham's fancy or had she indeed turned a shade paler. The
little be-jewelled hand, which had been resting close to his, suddenly
buried itself in the cushions. Densham, who was watching her closely,
was conscious of a hardness about her mouth which he had never noticed
before. She was silent some time before she answered him.
"I am sorry," she said, slowly, "but I can tell you scarcely anything
about them. I only met him once in India many years ago, and I have not
the slightest idea as to who he is or where he came from. I am quite
sure that I should not have recollected him last night but for his
deformity."
Densham tried very hard to hide his disappointment.
"So you met him in India," he remarked. "Do you know what he was doing
there? He was not in the service at all, I suppose."
"I really do not know," she answered, "but I think not. I believe that
he is, or was, very wealthy. I remember hearing a few things about
him--nothing of much importance. But if Mr. Harcutt is your friend," she
added, looking at him fixedly, "you can give him some excellent advice."
"Harcutt is a very decent fellow," Densham said, "and I know that he
will be glad of it."
"Tell him to have nothing whatever to do with Mr. Sabin."
Densham looked at her keenly.
"Then you do know something about him," he exclaimed.
She moved her chair back a little to where the light no longer played
upon her face, and she answered him without looking up.
"Very little. It was so long ago and my memory is not what it used to
be. Never mind that. The advice is good anyhow. If," she continued,
looking steadily up at Densham, "if it were not Mr. Harcutt who was
interested in these people, if it were any one, Francis, for whose
welfare I had a greater care, who was really my friend, I would make
that advice, if I could, a thousand times stronger. I would implore him
to have nothing whatever to do with this man or any of his creatures."
Densham laughed--not very easily. His disappointment was great, but his
interest was stimulated.
"At any rate," he said, "the girl is harmless. She cannot have left
school a year."
"A year with that man," she answered, bitterly, "is a liberal education
in corruption. Don't misunderstand me. I have no personal grievance
against him. We have never come together, thank God! But there were
stories--I cannot remember them now--I do not wish to remember them, but
the impression they made still remains. If a little of what people said
about him is true he is a prince of wickedness."
"The girl herself----?"
"I know nothing of," she admitted.
Densham determined upon a bold stroke.
"Look here," he said, "do me this favour--you shall never regret it. You
and the Princess are intimate, I know: order your carriage and go and
see her this afternoon. Ask her what she knows about that girl. Get her
to tell you everything. Then let me know. Don't ask me to explain just
now--simply remember that we are old friends and that I ask you to do
this thing for me."
She rang the bell.
"My victoria at once," she told the servant. Then she turned to Densham.
"I will do exactly what you ask," she said. "You can come with me and
wait while I see the Princess--if she is at home. You see I am doing for
you what I would do for no one else in the world. Don't trouble about
thanking me now. Do you mind waiting while I get my things on? I shall
only be a minute or two."
Her minute or two was half an hour. Densham waited impatiently. He
scarcely knew whether to be satisfied with the result of his mission
or not. He had learnt a very little--he was probably going to learn
a little more, but he was quite aware that he had not conducted the
negotiations with any particular skill, and the bribe which he had
offered was a heavy one. He was still uncertain about it when Mrs.
Thorpe-Satchell reappeared. She had changed her indoor gown for a soft
petunia-coloured costume trimmed with sable, and she held out her hands
towards him with a delightful smile.
"Celeste is wretchedly awkward with gloves," she said, "so I have left
them for you. Do you like my gown?"
"You look charming," he said, bending over his task, "and you know it."
"I always wear my smartest clothes when I am going to see my particular
friends," she declared. "They quiz one so! Besides, I do not always have
an escort! Come!"
She talked to him gaily on the stairs, as he handed her into the
carriage, and all the way to their destination, yet he was conscious
all the time of a subtle change in her demeanour towards him. She was a
proud little woman, and she had received a shock. Densham was making use
of her--Densham, of all men, was making use of her, of all women. He had
been perfectly correct in those vague fears of his. She did not believe
that he had come to her for his friend's sake. She never doubted but
that it was he himself who was interested in this girl, and she
looked upon his visit and his request to her as something very nearly
approaching brutality. He must be interested in the girl, very deeply
interested, or he would never have resorted to such means of gaining
information about her. She was suddenly silent and turned a little pale
as the carriage turned into the square. Her errand was not a pleasant
one to her.
Densham was left alone in the carriage for nearly an hour. He was
impatient, and yet her prolonged absence pleased him. She had found the
Princess in, she would bring him the information he desired. He sat
gazing idly into the faces of the passers-by with his thoughts very far
away. How that girl's face had taken hold of his fancy; had excited in
some strange way his whole artistic temperament! She was the exquisite
embodiment of a new type of girlhood, from which was excluded all that
was crude and unpleasing and unfinished. She seemed to him to combine
in some mysterious manner all the dainty freshness of youth with the
delicate grace and _savoir faire_ of a Frenchwoman of the best period.
He scarcely fancied himself in love with her; at any rate if it had been
suggested to him he would have denied it. Her beauty had certainly taken
a singular hold of him. His imagination was touched. He was immensely
attracted, but as to anything serious--well, he would not have admitted
it even to himself. Liberty meant so much to him, he had told himself
over and over again that, for many years at least, his art must be his
sole mistress. Besides, he was no boy to lose his heart, as certainly
Wolfenden had done, to a girl with whom he had never even spoken. It was
ridiculous, and yet----
A soft voice in his ear suddenly recalled him to the present. Mrs.
Thorpe-Satchell was standing upon the pavement. The slight pallor had
gone from her cheeks and the light had come back to her eyes. He looked
at her, irresistibly attracted. She had never appeared more charming.
She stepped into the carriage, and the soft folds of her gown spread
themselves out over the cushions. She drew them on one side to make room
for him.
"Come," she said, "let us have one turn in the Park. It is quite early,
although I am afraid that I have been a very long time."
He stepped in at once and they drove off. Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell
laughingly repeated some story which the Princess had just told her.
Evidently she was in high spirits. The strained look had gone from her
face. Her gaiety was no longer forced.
"You want to know the result of my mission, I suppose," she remarked,
pleasantly. "Well, I am afraid you will call it a failure. The moment
I mentioned the man's name the Princess stopped me.
"'You mustn't talk to me about that man,' she said. 'Don't ask why,
only you must not talk about him.'
"'I don't want to,' I assured her; 'but the girl.'"
"What did she say about the girl?" Densham asked.
"Well she did tell me something about her," Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell said,
slowly, "but, unfortunately, it will not help your friend. She only told
me when I had promised unconditionally and upon my honour to keep her
information a profound secret. So I am sorry, Francis, but even to
you----"
"Of course, you must not repeat it," Densham said, hastily. "I would not
ask you for the world; but is there not a single scrap of information
about the man or the girl, who he is, what he is, of what family or
nationality the girl is--anything at all which I can take to Harcutt?"
Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell looked straight at him with a faint smile at the
corners of her lips.
"Yes, there is one thing which you can tell Mr. Harcutt," she said.
Densham drew a little breath. At last, then!
"You can tell him this," Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell said, slowly and
impressively, "that if it is the girl, as I suppose it is, in whom he
is interested, that the very best thing he can do is to forget that he
has ever seen her. I cannot tell you who she is or what, although I
know. But we are old friends, Francis, and I know that my word will be
sufficient for you. You can take this from me as the solemn truth. Your
friend had better hope for the love of the Sphinx, or fix his heart upon
the statue of Diana, as think of that girl."
Densham was looking straight ahead along the stream of vehicles. His
eyes were set, but he saw nothing. He did not doubt her word for a
moment. He knew that she had spoken the truth. The atmosphere seemed
suddenly grey and sunless. He shivered a little--he was positively
chilled. Just for a moment he saw the girl's face, heard the swirl of
her skirts as she had passed their table and the sound of her voice as
she had bent over the great cluster of white roses whose faint perfume
reached even to where they were sitting. Then he half closed his eyes.
He had come very near making a terrible mistake.
"Thank you," he said. "I will tell Harcutt."