On entering the pavilion, Loder's first feeling was one of annoyed
awkwardness at finding himself in almost total darkness. But as his eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, the feeling vanished and the absurdity of
the position came to his mind.
The tent was small, heavily draped with silk and smelling of musk. It
was divided into two sections by an immovable curtain that hung from the
roof to within a few feet of the floor. The only furniture on Loder's
side was one low chair, and the only light a faint radiance that, coming
from the invisible half of the pavilion; spread across the floor in a
pale band. For a short space he stood uncertain, then his hesitation was
brought to an end.
“Please sit down,” said a low, soft voice.
For a further moment he stood undecided. The voice sounded so
unexpectedly near. In the quiet and darkness of the place it seemed
to possess a disproportionate weight--almost the weight of a familiar
thing. Then, with a sudden, unanalyzed touch of relief, he located the
impression. It was the similarity to Lady Bramfell's sweet, slow tones
that had stirred his mind. With a sense of satisfaction he drew the
chair forward and sat down.
Then, for the first time, he saw that on the other side of the gauze
partition, and below it by a few inches, was a small table of polished
wood, on which stood an open book, a crystal ball, and a gold dish
filled with ink. These were arranged on the side of the table nearest
to him, the farther side being out of his range of vision. An amused
interest touched him as he made his position more comfortable. Whoever
this woman was, she had an eye for stage management, she knew how to
marshal her effects. He found himself waiting with some curiosity for
the next injunction from behind the curtain.
“The art of crystal-gazing,” began the sweet, slow voice after a pause,
“is one of the oldest known arts.” Loder sat forward. The thought of
Lady Bramfell mingled disconcertingly with some other thought more
distant and less easy to secure.
“To obtain the best results,” went on the seer, “the subject lays his
uncovered hands outspread upon a smooth surface.” It was evident that
the invisible priestess was reading from the open book, for when the
word “surface” was reached there was a slight stir that indicated
the changing of position; and when the voice came again it was in a
different tone.
“Please lay your hands, palms downward, upon the table.”
Loder smiled to himself in the darkness. He pictured Chilcote with
his nerves and his impatience going through this ordeal; then in
good-humored silence he leaned forward and obeyed the command. His hands
rested on the smooth surface of the table in the bar of light from the
unseen lamp.
There was a second in which the seer was silent; then he fancied that
she raised her head.
“You must take off your rings,” she said smoothly. “Any metal interferes
with the sympathetic current.”
At any other time Loder would have laughed; but the request so
casually and graciously made sent all possibility of irony far into
the background. The thought of Chilcote and of the one flaw in their
otherwise flawless scheme rose to his mind. Instinctively he half
withdrew his hands.
“Where is the sympathetic current?” he asked, quietly. His thoughts were
busy with the question of whether he would or would not be justified in
beating an undignified retreat.
“Between you and me, of course,” said the voice, softly. It sounded
languid, but very rational. The idea of retreat seemed suddenly
theatrical. In this world of low voices and shaded lights people never
adopted extreme measures--no occasion made a scene practicable, or even
allowable. He leaned back slowly, while he summed up the situation. If
by any unlucky chance this woman knew Chilcote to have adopted jewelry
and had seen the designs of his rings, the sight of his own scarred
finger would suggest question and comment; if, on the other hand, he
left the pavilion without excuse, or if, without apparent reason, he
refused to remove the rings, he opened up a new difficulty--a fresh road
to curiosity. It came upon him with unusual quickness--the obstacles
to, and the need for, a speedy decision. He glanced round the tent, then
unconsciously he straightened his shoulders. After all, he had stepped
into a tight corner, but there was no need to cry out in squeezing
his way back. Then he realized that the soft, ingratiating tones were
sounding once more.
“It's the passing of my hands over yours, while I look into the crystal,
that sets up sympathy”--a slender hand moved swiftly into the light and
picked up the ball--“and makes my eyes see the pictures in your mind.
Now, will you please take off your rings?”
The very naturalness of the request disarmed him. It was a risk. But, as
Chilcote had said, risk was the salt of life!
“I'm afraid you think me very troublesome.” The voice came again,
delicately low and conciliatory.
For a brief second Loder wondered uncertainly how long or how well
Chilcote knew Lady Astrupp; then he dismissed the question. Chilcote had
never mentioned her until to-night, and then casually as Lady Bramfell's
sister. What a coward he was becoming in throwing the dice with Fate!
Without further delay he drew off the rings, slipped them into his
pocket, and replaced his hands on the smooth table-top.
Then, at the moment that he replaced them, a peculiar thing occurred.
From the farther side of the dark partition came the quick, rustling
stir of a skirt, and the slight scrape of a chair pushed either backward
or forward. Then there was silence.
Now, silence can suggest anything, from profound thought to imbecility;
but in this case its suggestion was nil. That something had happened,
that some change had taken place, was as patent to Loder as the darkness
of the curtain or the band of light that crossed the floor, but what had
occasioned it, or what it stood for, he made no attempt to decide. He
sat bitingly conscious of his hands spread open on the table under
the scrutiny of eyes that were invisible to him vividly aware of the
awkwardness of his position. He felt with instinctive certainty that
a new chord had been struck; but a man seldom acts on instinctive
certainties. If the exposure of his hands had struck this fresh note,
then any added action would but heighten the dilemma. He sat silent and
motionless.
Whether his impassivity had any bearing on the moment he had no way
of knowing; but no further movement came from behind the partition.
Whatever the emotions that had caused the sharp swish of skirts and the
sharp scrape of the chair, they had evidently subsided or been dominated
by other feelings.
The next indication of life that came to him was the laying down of the
crystal ball. It was laid back upon the table with a slight jerk that
indicated a decision come to; and almost simultaneously the seer's voice
came to him again. Her tone was lower now than it had been before,
and its extreme ease seemed slightly shaken--whether by excitement,
surprise, or curiosity, it was impossible to say.
“You will think it strange--” she began. “You will think--” Then she
stopped.
There was a pause, as though she waited for some help, but Loder
remained mute. In difficulty a silent tongue and a cool head are usually
man's best weapons.
His silence was disconcerting. He heard her stir again.
“You will think it strange--” she began once more. Then quite suddenly
she checked and controlled her voice. “You must forgive me for what I
am going to say,” she added, in a completely different tone, “but
crystal-gazing is such an illusive thing. Directly you put your hands
upon the table I felt that there would be no result; but I wouldn't
admit the defeat. Women are such keen anglers that they can never
acknowledge that any fish, however big, has slipped the hook.” She
laughed softly.
At the sound of the laugh Loder shifted his position for the first time.
He could not have told why, but it struck him with a slight sense of
confusion. A precipitate wish to rise and pass through the doorway into
the wider spaces of the conservatory came to him, though he made no
attempt to act upon it. He knew that, for some inexplicable reason,
this woman behind the screen had lied to him--in the controlling of her
speech, in her charge of voice. There had been one moment in which an
impulse or an emotion had almost found voice; then training, instinct,
or it might have been diplomacy, had conquered, and the moment had
passed. There was a riddle in the very atmosphere of the place--and he
abominated riddles.
But Lady Astrupp was absorbed in her own concerns. Again she changed her
position; and to Loder, listening attentively, it seemed that she leaned
forward and examined his hands afresh. The sensation was so acute that
he withdrew them involuntarily.
Again there was a confused rustle; the crystal ball rolled from the
table, and the seer laughed quickly. Obeying a strenuous impulse, Loder
rose.
He had no definite notion of what he expected or what he must avoid. He
was only conscious that the pavilion, with its silk draperies, its scent
of musk, and its intolerable secrecy, was no longer endurable. He
felt cramped and confused in mind and muscle. He stood for a second
to straighten his limbs; then he turned, and, moving directly forward,
passed through the portiere.
After the dimness of the pavilion the conservatory seemed comparatively
bright; but without waiting to grow accustomed to the altered light he
moved onward with deliberate haste. The long, green alley, was speedily
traversed; in his eyes it no longer possessed greenness, no longer
suggested freshness or repose. It was simply a means to the end upon
which his mind was set.
As he passed up the flight of steps he drew his rings from his pocket
and slipped them on again. Then he stepped into the glare of the
thronged corridor.
Some one hailed him as he passed through the crowd, but with Chilcote's
most absorbed manner he hurried on. Through the door of the supper-room
he caught sight of Blessington and Eve, and then for the first time his
expression changed, and he turned directly towards them.
“Eve,” he said, “will you excuse me? I have a word to say to
Blessington.”
She glanced at him in momentary surprise; then she smiled in her quiet,
self-possessed way.
“Of course!” she said. “I've been wanting a chat with Millicent Gower,
but Bobby has required so much entertaining--” She smiled again, this
time at Blessington, and moved away towards a pale girl in green who was
standing alone.
Instantly she had turned Loder took Blessington's arm.
“I know you're tremendously busy,” he began--in an excellent imitation
of Chilcote's hasty manner--“I know you're tremendously busy, but I'm
in a fix.”
One glance at Blessington's healthy, ingenuous face told him that plain
speaking was the method to adopt.
“Indeed, sir?” In a moment Blessington was on the alert.
“Yes. And I--I want your help.”
The boy reddened. That Chilcote should appeal to him stirred him to an
uneasy feeling of pride and uncertainty.
Loder saw his advantage and pressed it home. “It's come about through
this crystal-gazing business. I'm afraid I didn't play my part--rather
made an ass of myself; I wouldn't swallow the thing, and--and Lady
Astrupp--” He paused, measuring Blessington with a glance. “Well, my
dear boy, you--you know what women are!”
Blessington was only twenty-three. He reddened again, and assumed an air
of profundity. “I know sir,” he said, with a shake of the head.
Loder's sense of humor was keen, but he kept a grave face. “I knew you'd
catch my meaning; but I want you to do something more. If Lady Astrupp
should ask you who was in her tent this past ten minutes, I want you--”
Again he stopped, looking at his companion's face.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to tell an immaterial lie for me.”
Blessington returned his glance; then he laughed a little uncomfortably.
“But surely, sir--”
“She recognized me, you mean?” Loder's eyes were as keen as steel.
“Yes.”
“Then you're wrong. She didn't.”
Blessington's eyebrows went up.
There was silence. Loder glanced across the room. Eve had parted from
the girl in green and was moving towards them, exchanging smiles and
greetings as she came.
“My wife is coming back,” he said. “Will you do this for me,
Blessington? It--it will smooth things--” He spoke quickly, continuing
to watch Eve. As he had hoped, Blessington's eyes turned in the same
direction. “'Twill smooth matters,” he repeated, “smooth them in--in a
domestic way that I can't explain.”
The shot told. Blessington looked round.
“Right, sir!” he said. “You may leave it to me,” And before Loder could
speak again he had turned and disappeared into the crowd.