Christopher and Gerald were taking an early morning stroll and
displaying an almost feminine partiality for the shop windows, when the
former suddenly felt his friend’s hand tighten upon his arm. They had
paused to look through the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop in
the Rue de Paris.
“What is it, old chap?” Christopher asked.
Gerald pointed to a pearl necklace which hung in the window.
“You see that?” he exclaimed tragically. “That belonged to Pauline--to
Mademoiselle de Ponière. And that marquise ring below--I am perfectly
certain her aunt was wearing it. Wait a moment, old fellow.”
Gerald entered the shop hastily. A very suave Frenchman came forward to
meet him.
“Can you tell me anything about that pearl necklace and the rings
below?” Gerald enquired.
“But certainly, sir,” the man replied. “One moment.”
He unfastened the window and brought out the stand on which the
necklace rested. The colour of the pearls was wonderful. They were not
large, but they had an almost pink glow.
“I have no doubt monsieur is a judge and I need say little about these
pearls,” the shopman began. “I would point out to you, however, that
they were matched for royalty itself, and the quality of each one is
superlative. If monsieur is a purchaser, I could quote him seven
thousand pounds, and for that sum there is not such another necklace in
the world.”
“I recognise the necklace,” Gerald admitted. “I might, under certain
circumstances, be induced to buy it. I came in, however, to ask you how
you obtained possession of it, and the rings below?”
The man’s manner changed.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I am not able to explain exactly how this
jewellery came into our hands. There are certain confidences which, in
the interests of our clients, we are forced to respect.”
“Quite so,” Gerald agreed, “but I can assure you that I am not an
impertinent enquirer. This is my name,”--he handed the man a card--“and
I was an acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Ponière, from whom you must
have obtained this necklace. I last saw Madame and Mademoiselle de
Ponière under very tragical circumstances, and I understand that they
have now left Monte Carlo. I am most anxious to obtain word as to their
whereabouts.”
“As regards that, milord,” the jeweller said, with a measure of
increased respect but with no signs of yielding, “I regret that I am
unable to help you. The transaction, such as it was, is finished. I was
entrusted with no address.”
“You would not buy jewellery of such value,” Gerald persisted, “unless
you knew something of your clients. You can probably tell me whether De
Ponière is their real name, and you can at least give me a hint as to
where they are to be found.”
“I regret deeply that I am entirely powerless in the matter, milord,”
the man replied.
Gerald held up the pearls and let them slip through his fingers. He
remembered something which Pauline had once said to him,--“Pearls are
the maidens’ children. They love and care for them as such.”
“I have reason to surmise,” Gerald went on, “that a misfortune has
befallen these ladies. If they had confided in me, it would have given
me the greatest pleasure to have offered them assistance.”
The jeweller smiled inscrutably.
“I fear that it would have been useless, milord,” he said. “I have had
the privilege of knowing the elder of these ladies for some thirty
years, and I supplied the first string of pearls which the younger lady
ever wore, at the time of her confirmation. I would willingly have
undertaken the payment of such debts as were owing in Monte Carlo,
without security, but I should never have had the courage to suggest
it. You will see an announcement in the evening paper, milord, that all
claims against the ladies will be settled by me on demand.”
“If I buy the necklace,” Gerald proposed bluntly, “will you tell me how
and where to find Mademoiselle de Ponière?”
The jeweller’s bow was almost frigid.
“My word is passed to these two ladies, milord. I have no information
whatever to give you.”
“You cannot even tell me what relation they were to Monsieur Zubin?”
“Monsieur Zubin?” the jeweller repeated, a little vaguely.
“The man who committed suicide a few nights ago outside the Sporting
Club.”
The jeweller shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no question of relationship, milord. Monsieur Zubin was,
I understand, the steward entrusted with the realisation of certain
properties belonging to Mademoiselle. I do not know whether I
have a right even to say so much,” he continued, after a moment’s
hesitation, “but it suggests itself that it was owing to Monsieur
Zubin’s embezzlements--he is reported to have lost several millions at
the tables here--that the ladies whom we have been discussing found
themselves temporarily embarrassed.”
Gerald laid down the pearls.
“If you care to keep these for me for a week,” he proposed, “until I
get the money from London, I will have them.”
The man bowed.
“Milord can take them with him,” he said, “or permit me to send them to
the hotel. Payment can be as desired.”
“You can send them round to the Hôtel de Paris,” Gerald directed. “If
you are as loyal to all your clients, you deserve to prosper in your
business.”
The man bowed lower than ever as he showed Gerald out.
“Perhaps some day,” he said, “it will be my privilege to explain to
milord that loyalty.”
“I have committed an extravagance,” Gerald confessed, as the two young
men continued their stroll.
“You have bought the presents for your supper party?” Christopher
suggested.
“I never thought of them,” was the candid reply. “I have given seven
thousand pounds for a pearl necklace.”
“Great Scott! Why?”
“Because I was right in my surmise. It was Pauline’s necklace, left
there so that they could pay their bills. Madame’s rings are there,
too. Pretty sort of adventuresses, Christopher!”
“But what are you going to do with the necklace?” Christopher, always
intensely practical, demanded.
“I am going to keep it until I meet Mademoiselle de Ponière again,”
Gerald replied. “Then I shall beg to be allowed to present it to her.”
“Have you found out who she is?”
“I have not, but I have found a loyal and honest tradesman. If I had
asked him another question, I should have felt a cad.”
Christopher looked up towards the hills.
“It’s too misty for golf,” he said. “Shall we go and see Myrtile?”
“I suppose so,” Gerald agreed, without marked interest. “Any news from
your nursery governess friends?”
“They can’t take her for a month or so,” Christopher replied. “I don’t
quite know what to do about it. I must leave on Thursday week.”
Gerald laughed.
“And you daren’t trust her here with me, old chap, is that it?”
“Something like it, I’m afraid,” the other admitted frankly.
Gerald sighed.
“What a Lothario you must think me!” he declared. “As a matter of fact,
Chris, I don’t think that the ingénue does attract me very much. I
am too young and unsophisticated myself. It is hardened sinners like
you who are bowled over by rusticity and morals. I prefer something a
little more advanced in the world’s ways.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, leave the others alone!” Christopher enjoined
curtly. “We have a difficult task before us with Myrtile, especially
as, for once in her life, Mary doesn’t seem inclined to help us. Treat
the child sensibly, for heaven’s sake.”
“What do you mean by ‘sensibly’, old chap?”
“Well, remember that she has to be a nursery governess and not a
Parisian demi-mondaine. It’s idiotic to take her to these smart
restaurants and dancing places. It’s outside her life. It gives her
false ideas.”
“This from the man who took her to the Opera on a gala night!” Gerald
scoffed.
“I took her to the Opera in a small box and in her ordinary clothes,”
Christopher retorted. “I took her for the sake of the music, and she
didn’t think of a thing except the music from the beginning to the end.”
“Frankly, you bore me about Myrtile,” Gerald declared. “You ought to
have been born in the days of dear old Oliver Cromwell. My idea is that
girls were made to live like butterflies, to be happy just in the few
hours when the sun shines.”
“You have not even the philosophy of the pagan,” Christopher retorted.
“You forget that the butterfly enjoys the supreme advantage of being
unencumbered with a soul.”
The street door was suddenly opened in their faces. They had arrived at
Myrtile’s lodgings, to find her issuing into the street. She seemed to
look through Christopher at Gerald, who was a pace or two behind. Her
smile was wonderful.
“I knew that something pleasant was going to happen this morning!” she
exclaimed. “I felt it when I got up.”
“You were quite right,” Gerald assured her. “Something very pleasant
is going to happen. I am going to take you over to Nice in the car to
lunch.”
Myrtile clapped her hands.
“Wait one moment,” she begged. “I must go and get some different
gloves. I’ll catch you up before you get to the corner of the street.”
The two young men strolled slowly on. There was a serious expression on
Christopher’s face.
“I am lunching with your people to-day, Gerald--at least I promised to
if there was no golf,” he observed.
“I heard Mary say so,” was the indifferent reply. “Good luck to you!”
“And you are taking Myrtile to Nice--Mademoiselle de Ponière having
left,” Christopher continued thoughtfully.
Gerald frowned.
“That was rather my idea,” he admitted. “Have you anything against it?”
Christopher passed his hand through his friend’s arm. They had reached
the end of the street and turned slowly back again.
“Look here, old fellow, don’t be shirty,” he begged. “You know I’m
right. We can only look after this girl decently in one way, and that
is by finding her some sort of a situation not too far removed from the
way she has been brought up, in which she can earn an honest living.
I’m on my way to secure this for her, but if you go turning her head by
taking her about to these smart restaurants, and developing her taste
for the gaieties of life, you’ll only unsettle her terribly and spoil
her chances of contentment.”
“You’ve taken her out yourself once or twice,” Gerald reminded him.
“I never take her to the very fashionable places,” Christopher insisted
earnestly, “and I try all the time to impress upon her the necessity
of work and the fact that life out here is merely a holiday existence.
Take her to Nice, by all means, if you want to, Gerald, but don’t turn
her head.”
Myrtile came down the street towards them. Gerald’s face cleared--as he
watched her, it was lit with a wave of admiration.
“She is like a piece of floating sunshine,” he declared enthusiastically.
“Chris, I’m not at all sure that she ought to be a nursery governess.
She’s going to be beautiful enough to turn the heads of half the men in
Europe.”
“It will be very largely our responsibility,” Christopher said,
lowering his voice a little as Myrtile drew near, “whether that beauty
is going to be a curse or a happiness to her. Don’t you forget that,
Gerald--or our bargain.”