A WOMAN'S FACE.
It was such an unusual thing for Lord Ravenspur to show his feelings
so plainly. For the most part he passed as one of the most
self-contained men in London. He had always boasted, too, of perfect
health. His nerves were in the best condition. And now he had started
to his feet, his hand pressed to his heart, his face white, and wet
with terror. More than one of the guests came forward, but Ravenspur
waved them aside.
"I am behaving like a child," he said. "I suppose the time comes when
all of us begin to feel the effect of approaching age. I don't know
why Seton's misfortunes should have upset me so much. But, perhaps,
coming on the horrors of this morning, it has been a little too much
for me. It is a most scandalous thing that a gentleman can't go out to
dinner without being molested in this fashion. What are the police
thinking about?"
Ravenspur spoke in hot indignation; in fact, he was slightly overdoing
it. He fussed about Seton, and insisted that the latter should go up
to his room, which suggestion the guest waived aside. He was the far
more collected of the two.
"Oh, nonsense," he said; "a canful of hot water will repair all the
damage. Don't you worry about me. You go in to dinner, and leave me to
young Walter here."
A door opened at that moment, and a young man entered, and came
eagerly across the room in the direction of the speaker. Walter Lance
might have been Lord Ravenspur as he had been twenty years ago. As a
matter of fact, they were uncle and nephew, Lance being the son of
Ravenspur's favorite sister, who had died some years before. For the
rest, he was a barrister eagerly waiting his chance of success, and,
in the meantime, occupied himself in the capacity of Ravenspur's
private secretary. He seemed to have heard all that had taken place.
He was warm in his sympathy as he piloted Sir James Seton to his own
room. They were going down again almost before the dinner gong had
ceased to sound, and by this time a knot of dinner guests were
discussing ordinary topics again.
To the casual observer there was no sign of trouble or tragedy here.
Everything was perfect in its way. The oval table glittered with
silver and old Bohemian glass. The banks of flowers might have been
arranged by the master hand of an artist. Ravenspur sat there gaily
enough now, his conversation gleaming with wit and humour, the most
perfect host in London. There was no sign whatever of his earlier
agitation. And yet, strive as he would, from time to time the name of
Louis Delahay crept into the conversation. It was in vain that Lord
Ravenspur attempted to turn the stream of thought into other channels.
He was glad enough at length when the dinner came to an end, and the
party of guests broke up into little groups. The host approached Seton
presently with a request to know whether he would care to play bridge
or not.
"No bridge," Sir James said emphatically. "I am tired of the tyranny
of it. I wonder that you should make such a suggestion, Ravenspur,
seeing how you detest the commonplace. But, at any rate, I will have
another of those excellent cigarettes of yours."
"It shall be just as you please, my friends," Ravenspur said wearily.
"Now let us go and have a coffee in the studio. It is much cooler
there, and there is more space to breathe."
The suggestion was received with general approval, and a move was
immediately made in the direction of the studio. The apartment lay at
the end of a long corridor, which cut it off from the rest of the
house, the studio being in reality a huge garden room, which Ravenspur
had built for reasons of privacy. He took a latchkey from his pocket
and opened the door.
"I always keep this place locked," he explained. "Some years ago my
three Academy pictures were stolen just as they were finished, and
since then I have taken no risk. The annoying part of the whole thing
was that one of the missing pictures was the best thing I ever did.
What became of it is a mystery."
"I remember the picture perfectly well," one of the guests remarked.
"It was the study of a woman. Do you recollect my coming in one night
and you asked me my opinion of it?"
"I think I can remember it," Ravenspur said.
"Well, it was a superb piece of work," the first speaker went on;
"anything more fascinating than the woman's face I don't recollect
seeing. I don't know who your model was, Ravenspur, but you had a rare
find in her."
"I had no model," Ravenspur explained. "The face was more or less an
ideal one--composite, if you like, but resembling nobody in
particular. However, the thing was a great loss to me, and I have
never ceased to regret it. That is why I always keep this place locked
up; even when the room is cleaned out, I am always present to see that
nothing is disturbed. It is a whim of mine."
As he spoke Ravenspur switched on the electric lights, until the whole
of the beautiful apartment glowed to the illumination of the shaded
lamps. The studio itself was circular in shape, and finished in a
great dome of stained glass. The floor was littered with rare old
Persian carpets, and lounges from all parts of the world were dotted
about here and there. Round the walls was an almost unique collection
of armour. From the centre of the floor rose a fine acacia tree, the
vivid green foliage of which seemed to suffer nothing from being cut
off from the outer light and air. Altogether the place was quite
unique in its way, and striking evidence of Ravenspur's originality
and good taste. On little tables here and there were hundreds of
photographs, most of them signed, testifying to the great popularity
which Ravenspur enjoyed amongst all classes of society.
"You will have to leave these to the Nation," a guest laughed. "What a
cosmopolitan gallery it is--a prince on the one side, and a prominent
socialist on the other! Yet, after all, photographs are very
commonplace things. You might look over a thousand before your fancy
is taken by a face like this."
As he spoke the guest took up a portrait from one of the tables, and
held it out at arm's length, so that the light fell upon the features.
Unlike the rest, the photograph was not framed, and, judging from the
edges, it had had a certain amount of rough usage in its time. As to
the picture itself, it presented the features of a young and beautiful
girl, with a great cloud of hair hanging over her shoulders. There was
something almost tragic in the dark eyes; they seemed to tell a story
all their own.
"A beautiful face," the guest went on. "The sort of face that a poet
would weave an epic around. I don't want to be impertinent, Ravenspur,
but I should like to know who she is."
"Where did you get that from?" Ravenspur asked. His voice sounded hard
and cold, so that the man with the photograph in his hand turned in
some surprise. "Where did you find it?"
"My dear fellow, I took it up off this table, as you might have done.
Of course, it is no business of mine, and I am sorry if any careless
words I have spoken----"
"The apology is mine," Ravenspur put in quickly. "I was annoyed, just
for the moment, to think that that portrait should have been left
about. I could have sworn that I had locked it carefully away in a
safe. You are perfectly right, my dear Seymour, there is a tragedy
behind that charming face. But you will quite understand that I cannot
discuss the matter with anybody."
"Oh, quite," the offending guest said hastily. "Still, it is a most
lovely face. Now who does it remind me of?"
"The likeness is plain enough," Seton put in. "Why, it is the very
image of our host's young ward, Miss Vera Rayne. Is there any
relationship between them, Ravenspur?"
"Why, so it is!" Walter Lance cried. "Who can she be, uncle?"
Ravenspur had crossed the studio in the direction of a safe let into
the wall. He placed his hand in one of the little pigeon holes there,
as if seeking for something. Apparently he was unsuccessful in his
search, for he shook his head doubtfully.
"Not there," Ravenspur said to himself. "Most extraordinary lapse of
memory on my part. Of course, I must have taken that photograph from
the safe when I was looking for something else, and----"
The speaker broke off abruptly. He slammed the door of the safe behind
him, and returned to his guests. But the light had gone out of his
eyes; he seemed to have suddenly aged.
"Let us have some coffee," he said. "Is it true, Marrion, that there
is likely to be a serious split in the cabinet?"