SUPPER AT TWELVE
The house taken furnished by Lyda Pavoya belonged to a woman well known
in society, who had gone abroad. Jack Manners had visited there before
the war; but the drawing room was changed. There had been banal things
in it. Now they were gone. Banality could not exist near Lyda. It
seemed that in every form it must shrivel up, burnt away by the still
fire of her strange, secret soul.
Jack had pictured himself entering a room full of people, fellow
guests, and finding no one, he feared that he had come too soon. If
stage stars invited one for midnight, they probably meant one to turn
up at half-past twelve, so that, if they sailed in at one o'clock, one
would not be annoyed. When the door opened five minutes after his
arrival, therefore, he expected to see some theatrical or social
"swell." But it was Lyda who appeared--alone.
He had never met her off the stage until yesterday, at the door of the
Phayre house. Then she had been dressed in black, and thickly veiled.
He had guessed her identity from the extreme grace and slimness of her
tall figure, and the flame of her red hair glimpsed through embroidered
net. In Paris, where she had danced, he had sat too far away to
criticise her features, and at the theatre to-night he'd been dazzled
by the wonder of her as a swan-woman.
Now, as she drifted in with the air of a tired, overworked girl needing
rest, and mutely asking for help in securing it, Jack had the thrill of
a new revelation. How many sides had this Polish dancer's nature? Was
he to have a different sort of thrill each time he met her, always more
poignant, more soul-piercing than before?
"I am glad to see you," she said. "I thought I should be here first.
I hope I've not kept you waiting?"
"Not five minutes," Jack assured her.
"Good! Will you take off my wrap for me? When I heard you had come I
wouldn't wait for my maid."
She had unfastened the emerald clasps of a long, oddly shaped cloak of
purple velvet lined with clouds of green chiffon over gold.
As Jack lifted it from her white shoulders, to his surprise he heard
himself exclaim, "I'd imagined you in sables." (What right had he to
make a "personal" comment like that?)
"So other people have told me," she said. "But I have one peculiarity:
I never wear furs. To me it is horrible that women can cover
themselves with the skins of lovely creatures murdered for their
pleasure: pathetic little faces and feet and tails dangling all over
them! No. When I was a child I suffered too much from the cruelty of
the strong to the weak to find joy in profiting from it."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack. "I've thought sometimes of that sort of
thing. But I didn't suppose it ever occurred to women, even the
tenderest ones I've known."
"The women you have known haven't had childhoods like mine," said Lyda.
"Yet I hoped you'd not be one to make fun of my feeling. Another
thing: I do not eat meat for the same reason. You will see, at supper.
But you shall have some, so don't be discouraged!"
As she spoke, she smiled, and Jack realized that it was the first time
he had seen her smile. That was strange! Or, it would have been
strange in another woman. Now he saw that it would be more strange,
altogether out of keeping with this character voluntarily opening
itself to him, if she laughed or smiled often.
Jack had obeyed a gesture of hers, and laid the faintly perfumed cloak
on a sofa. Lyda wore a dress simple enough for the first dinner-gown
of a schoolgirl: grey and short--almost "skimpy," yet somehow perfect,
without a single touch of trimming or a jewel. "Shall we go into the
dining room?" she asked. "Supper will be ready. It always is. I
never have it announced unless I've a party. To-night it's only you
and me. You'll not mind?"
"Mind!" The word spoke itself with a boyish sincerity that Jack could
not have pretended. "I didn't dare dream----"
She led the way through open sliding doors to an adjoining room, not
turning her head to listen as she let Jack push the half-drawn
portières aside. What a divine back she had, and what dimples in the
delicate, flat shoulder-blades! An almost overpowering desire gripped
Jack to kiss the white neck just where a knot of shining red hair was
kept in place by a jade pin. He would no more have ventured upon a
liberty with this creature of unfathomed reserves than he would have
thrown himself into the cage of a tigress. All the same, he had
definitely "lost his head." He knew that he would have sacrificed
Juliet and Pat for this girl, not deliberately, not through conviction,
but because he couldn't help himself if it came to a choice!
In the octagon-shaped room where its late mistress had given famous
dinners for eight--never less, never more--a small table was laid and
lit with shaded candles, but no servants were there. Violets were
scattered on the lace table-cover, the only flower decorations. For
the guest there were several elaborate cold dishes and champagne in
ice; for the hostess, brown bread and a jug of milk! When she saw Jack
look at this, Lyda laughed out aloud.
"I never take anything else at night," she explained. "I suppose I'm a
queer person. Probably you're thinking me odd in many ways: for one,
to have you alone with me at supper. I've a companion who lives with
me, Madame Lemercier, a nice woman. But I do what I wish without
thinking of conventions, if I hurt no one. People say so many things
about me, they can say no worse, whatever I do! That's partly why I
act as I please. Yet I think I'd do the same without an excuse. I
invited you because I want to talk with you alone; no Madame Lemercier;
no servants. I'll wait on you myself."
"Not that!" said Manners. "You must let me wait on you!"
"We'll wait on each other," she smiled.
A sense of exquisite intimacy with this girl, or woman (he knew not
what to call her) took possession of Jack. For a few minutes they ate,
and he talked of anything that flashed into his mind. When Lyda had
finished her milk he jumped up, and filled the glass again. Then she
said abruptly: "I recognized you, at the theatre--from _yesterday_.
Did you think I would?"
"No!" Jack reddened to his sun-bleached hair.
"But--you must have known I was in Claremanagh's study when--you were
there."
"I--wasn't sure."
"Yet you thought so! You're not a man who can lie well. And you are
the cousin of Claremanagh's wife. You thought badly of me."
"I'd no right to think badly," Jack staved her off. "It wasn't my
affair!"
"I asked you here to-night to _make_ it your affair."
Jack had a shock of disappointment. That wonderful, heart-piercing
first look of hers which he had read, "You are _the_ man: I am _the_
woman!" hadn't meant much after all.
"You see," Lyda went on, "I think that perhaps you and I have known
each other a long time: in another life: perhaps in more lives than
one. Souls that have been friends--or more than friends--group
together on earth many times, no doubt. Did you feel this when we met
to-night?"
"Yes!" Jack said, his breath choked. "I know it must have been that.
I knew even then it was the most wonderful thing ever!"
"_I_ felt it even yesterday, when I passed you at Claremanagh's door,"
she told him. "I thought: 'There's a man I may never see again, but we
could be friends, and we _have_ been friends, though maybe he has
forgotten.' When I was in the study behind the curtains--Claremanagh
put me there: he didn't want me seen--I was sorry you should believe
things not true."
"I did not!" Jack protested.
"No? Then--I am glad."
The man felt ashamed, remembering suddenly what he _had_ believed
yesterday--even to-day. Her words, "I am glad," cut him to the quick,
and he hurried on along the way of atonement. "You say you asked me
here to 'make it my affair'--about Claremanagh. Tell me what you want
me to do, and I'll do it."
"I don't know yet what is best. We will talk it over," she answered.
"But first you will have to hear a story. It's a long story: how I met
Claremanagh, and a great many things that came of the meeting. You
won't be bored?"
"Do you need an answer to that question?"
Lyda gave him one of her rare smiles. "No. It was conventional of me
to ask. But--it will not be conventional to tell you the story. It
would be--even _dangerous_ to tell it to some men. I'm not afraid with
you."
"Thank you for saying that!"
She held out her hand to him across the small round table. Jack seized
it, and pressed it closely instead of kissing the pink palm as he was
tempted to do.
For a moment Lyda sat still, her eyes cast down, as if she sought for
words which eluded her. Then she began in a low voice that was
slightly monotonous, as though she spoke out of an old dream. She
paused sometimes; but Manners remained silent, asking no questions. He
felt that she would prefer this.
She took him back with her to Petrograd (St. Petersburg then) when she
was sixteen, ten years before. She was dancing in a second-rate café,
and attracted attention, so that the place became popular. A man named
Konrad Markoff was the real owner, though he posed as an amateur
patron. By his advice, the manager got Lyda to sign a hard and fast
contract to dance at the same salary for the next five years. Markoff
pretended a fatherly kindness for her; and she was invited occasionally
to visit his wife, a Frenchwoman who had lived for years in England.
One night Markoff brought a good-looking English boy of nineteen or so
to the café. This boy applauded Lyda's dancing, and was introduced to
her at his own request: The Duke of Claremanagh. From the first he was
enthusiastic about her talent: not in love ("oh, not at all in love!"
Lyda insisted), but anxious to "help a budding genius." At the end of
a week he had thought out a practical plan. He would pay for the
dancing lessons of which she had dreamed, as of an impossible Paradise:
lessons from the great Sophia Verasova. It would cost a lot, yes, but
he'd just had a few unexpected thousands left to him by an aunt. If
Lyda wouldn't accept, they were sure to be spent on some foolery. She
did accept. Perhaps she might have accepted even if Claremanagh hadn't
made it quite clear how impersonal, how disinterested were his motives!
Never--the dancer confessed--had she met a "good man" in those days.
She would have made an idol of this handsome boy; but he didn't want
her idolatry. He was fancying himself in love with the wife of a Don
at Oxford just then!
To free her from slavery at the café, Claremanagh paid a big indemnity;
and at the time Lyda was grateful to Markoff for arranging the
business, not then aware that he was the power behind the throne. It
was nearly two years later when the truth was sprung upon the girl,
just as she expected to go with Verasova to make her début in Paris.
Markoff had wished her to be educated and become a great dancer without
expense to himself. There were several ways in which she could be
valuable, and unless she promised her services to him, he would prevent
her from leaving Petrograd.
Claremanagh had been too carelessly trustful to have the release from
her contract framed in a legal document, and Lyda could still be
compelled to carry it out. Unless she agreed to use the charm she had,
the fame she might win, in the secret service of Russia, she _would_ be
thus compelled!
Lyda was not old enough to understand the hideousness of this bargain.
She wasn't yet eighteen; and not to go with Verasova would have seemed
worse than death. It was only later, when she had soared to brilliant
success, that she realized fully what she was expected to do.
Engagements were offered to her in the capitals of different countries:
after Paris, Rome, and then London. She met many men of distinction,
sailors, soldiers, diplomats, financiers. She was to flirt with these
men--just how seriously, was her own affair!--and get them
inadvertently to tell her things useful to the Tsar's government.
Well, she _had_ flirted! But she had sickened at the business behind
the flirtations. Very little information reached Russia through Lyda
Pavoya! Reproaches and threats came to her from Markoff; and as a
warning of what he could do to bring about her ruin if he chose,
Russians in England, France, Italy, America, set the ball of scandal
rolling against her. According to them she was a professional siren, a
mercenary blood-sucker, a "tigress woman," a devourer of men's
happiness and honour! Against such a campaign a woman, placed as she
was, found herself helpless. She could only shrug her shoulders, go
her own way, and try not to care!
But the war, like an ill wind that blows good to some, changed the
world for Lyda. She worked heart and soul in Paris for the Red Cross.
The Russian Revolution broke like a red sunrise and with the end of
Tsardom she hoped that Markoff's power over her would end also. For
some months she had no word from him. Then he appeared in Paris--at a
bad moment for her.
Claremanagh had been there on leave. He had come to her house,
complaining that he felt ill. At luncheon he had fallen from his chair
in a dead faint. The doctor had pronounced the attack a virulent case
of influenza. Claremanagh couldn't be moved. Lyda, helped by Madame
Lemercier, had nursed him. He thought she had saved his life--vowed
that he owed her more than she had ever owed him. There was endless
gossip, of course, but Lyda had been so glad to repay her debt of
gratitude that she hadn't much cared.
It was soon after Claremanagh had gone back to the front, and while
people were still coupling their names in a scandalous way, that Konrad
Markoff arrived in Paris.
"At last the time has come when you can be of real use to me," he had
said.
Lyda had hoped that this was "bluff." But Markoff explained. He
explained things of which she had never dreamed.
With brutal frankness he told the girl that he had made Claremanagh's
acquaintance in Petrograd for a very special purpose. He had married
his French wife because she had been maid to the young Duchess of
Claremanagh, and knew something about the famous pearls. Always he,
and men associated with him, had kept track of the family fortunes. He
had known that the boy intended to visit the scene of his ancestor's
great romance. Had it not been for some treachery (he believed that
his own wife had sent anonymous warnings to the Claremanaghs) the lost
treasure would long ago have returned to Russia. Now, though his
associates were dead or in Bolshevik prisons, and the crown was a
legend, he--Markoff--wanted the pearls for himself.
Lyda had more than repaid Claremanagh's generosity, all of which,
Markoff argued, she owed directly to _him_. She was in a position to
demand any favour she liked of the Duke. She must get him to lend her
the Tsarina pearls. If she refused to do this, she should be denounced
as a spy. Even though her activities had been stopped by the
revolution, the war was still on! Markoff had letters which would
convict her. She--the adored one, the divine dancer--would be tried
and shot some morning at dawn.
It would be nothing to die, Lyda had thought. But she loved France.
She could not bear to die as a traitor! What to do then? Suddenly a
plan came to her. She agreed to ask Claremanagh for the pearls.
"You see," she explained to Manners, "Markoff had had a copy made, from
an old portrait of the Tsarina. He meant me to hand him over the real
pearls, and give the false to Claremanagh. But he didn't know that
Claremanagh's mother had had them copied. Hardly any one did know.
But Claremanagh had told me. And it was that copy I asked him to lend!
He couldn't bear to refuse my very first request. Poor fellow, he
hated to grant it, though! It was just after he'd fallen in love with
Miss Phayre--before they were engaged. There was enough talk about him
and me, without my wearing those well-known pearls. It was part of my
bargain with Markoff to appear with them in public, for he wanted my
name to be coupled with Claremanagh's. It would give me more power
over his future. And even if the Duke told people that he was lending
me a copy, they wouldn't believe it. They would have laughed at the
idea of Pavoya accepting false pearls.
"Claremanagh sent to London for the things. My wearing them made a
sensation! Markoff was wild with rage when he saw what they were--wild
against Claremanagh, not me. He believed that I'd been tricked. Of
course the copy was of no use to him. He did not take it. But he
would not let me give it back to the Duke. He was working up a scheme
of blackmail against us both. I dared not disobey--and once the
mischief was done by my wearing the rope Claremanagh didn't much mind
whether I kept it or not. I pretended to forget, and he didn't mention
the subject. Then I got this surprise offer to dance in New York. I
was _so_ glad! I thought I might get rid of Markoff. How foolish! He
sailed in the ship with the Duke and Duchess, but kept out of their
way. Claremanagh never knew he was on board--and perhaps wouldn't have
remembered him from those old Petrograd days if he had seen his face.
"Now, we come to these last few weeks in New York," Lyda finished. "Do
you begin to see Markoff's game?"
"Not quite," Jack answered. It was the first time he had spoken since
she began her story. "It isn't clear to me yet--at least where Pat
Claremanagh's concerned."
"It wasn't to me at first. But Markoff made it clear. He didn't try
direct blackmail against the Duke. He was afraid, I think, that
Claremanagh would fight--even though he'd hate scandal for his wife's
sake. I was the catspaw. Markoff really did have letters which I had
sent him in those hateful days when I had to content him with a
pretense of spying. There were always those to hold over my head. And
he threatened to order the wearing of those wretched false pearls again
as an open insult to the Duchess. He thought that, for answer, she
would wear the real ones! Then he would be sure they were in New York,
and he might have the chance at last which he'd been trying for all
these years: the chance to steal them."
"By Jove, you are unravelling the whole mystery!" Jack broke out. But
Lyda shook her head. "No! I'm afraid you'll not think that when
you've heard what's to come," she said. "I'm afraid I shall make the
mystery even deeper. I was faced with shame for myself and the ruin of
Claremanagh's happiness--through my fault--my seeming selfishness. The
alternative was money--oh, but a great sum of money--enough to console
Markoff for giving up his hope of the pearls. Never till then had I
told Claremanagh of Markoff's tyranny. But for his own sake and mine I
had to explain something. We consulted--about what was best to be
done. Claremanagh wished to do what he called 'wave the red flag.'
But I made him realize what his wife's feelings would be if he were
mixed up in such a case at law, with me. At last we agreed that it
would be wise to pay Markoff and be free of him. I earn a great deal
of money, and--spend it. It took some time to get the sum together. I
sold nearly all my jewels, and what I didn't sell, I pawned. Still
there wasn't enough, and Claremanagh came to the rescue. He said it
was for _himself_--but of course it was far more for me! It was only
when the money was every _sou_ in hand that I dared give back the
imitation pearls. I went to do that when you met me at the door: to do
that and to hand Claremanagh two thirds of the hush-money for Markoff.
The rest he had ready in his safe. He offered--he wanted--to meet the
man and exchange the money for the letters. Now, Captain Manners, you
know the whole history of the 'Pavoya'-Claremanagh affair. But perhaps
you don't yet understand all the reasons why I've told it, two hours
after we were introduced to each other--you and I!"
Her eyes challenged him. Jack saw that she wished him to understand,
and so he did not mean to make a mistake. He thought before he spoke.
"I wonder?" he said. "I could be more sure where I am if I knew
whether you're in the secret of Pat's doings to-night."
Lyda looked puzzled and pale. "His doings--to-night? No, last night
he saw Markoff and got back the letters. But to-night's doings--no. I
am not in the secret--if there is a secret."
Jack caught at her words. He was intensely excited by what she had
told him, but he kept his outward coolness. Lyda had gone through a
great strain. He did not care to alarm her needlessly.
"You say Pat saw Markoff, and got the letters. You're sure of that?"
"Yes, he sent me the letters with a short note, just after receiving
them, saying 'all was right.'"
"Did the note come from home?"
"No, from a club: the 'Grumblers'. It was written rather late."
"Didn't Pat say anything about himself--where he was going from the
club, what had happened since you met, or what he meant to do to-day?"
"Nothing--except that he was writing in a hurry after 'settling up with
Markoff' and seeing the last of him, for he had 'something rather
important to do.' That was all, absolutely all. Captain Manners, you
look strange! What have you to tell me in exchange for my story?"
"Why, to begin with, that I don't understand as I thought I did, why
you've told it," Jack stammered. "I imagined it was because you knew
Pat and my cousin had quarrelled, that he had left her--or anyhow
disappeared--and you wanted me to justify you with Juliet."
Lyda stared at him across the table, her hands suddenly pressed over
her heart. "_Mon Dieu!_" she whispered. "Claremanagh disappeared!"
"But," went on Jack, collecting his wits, "if you didn't know, what did
you mean when you said that Markoff's hand in the pearl business didn't
clear up the mystery, but only made it more mysterious?"
"I meant, of course, those innuendos in that horrible paper--the hints
that the Duchess was wearing false pearls. It is not to Markoff's
advantage to start such a rumour now. He has nothing to gain--no
longer any hold over Claremanagh or me. He would do himself no good,
but much harm. Oh, Captain Manners, where can the Duke be?"
"I came here to-night racking my brains vainly as to that," Jack
encouraged her. "Now, thanks to you, I've something to go upon,
something to tell the detective whom I shall see first thing to-morrow.
This Markoff is my starting point now: his scheme of years to steal the
pearls. How he can have got into the house, opened the safe, taken the
things out of the box, and sealed it up again with the false pearls
inside, I can't see yet, but----"
Lyda sprang to her feet. "You say--he has done _that_!"
"Someone has done that. You--Pat didn't tell you in his letter, about
what had happened to the box you must have seen?"
"No--no. He didn't mention the pearls--or the box. Who discovered the
theft?"
"Juliet. Pat gave her the sealed packet, and--she's rather an
expert!--she found the pearls were false."
"Yet--she wore them."
"Yes."
"Then that was because she thought I----"
"Don't say it!"
"Can _you_ say it wasn't her thought?"
"She's accused her own husband--whom she adores."
"Or me! Was that not it?"
Jack was silent.
With a little cry Lyda covered her face with her hands, and he saw that
she trembled. Hardly knowing what he did he went to her, took the two
cold hands and held them to his lips. She looked up to him with eyes
bright with tears, and--the next instant she was in his arms.
"We'll work together," he said, "you and I. We'll drag this mystery up
by the roots. We'll find Pat, wherever he is, and Juliet shall beg
your pardon on her knees."