THE FORTUNE TELLER
Manners did not go to his hotel when he left Lyda. He walked for
miles. He was happy. He was proud. He was wretched. He was ashamed.
He believed in Lyda Pavoya. He doubted her. There would not have been
room for the volcano of his feelings between four walls.
That moment when he had held her in his arms had been the most
wonderful if not the greatest in his life. But it had been only a
moment. Her surrender for a few seconds had seemed to him then the
most exquisite thing in the world: the childlike longing for a man's
chivalrous protection, in the heart of a woman who had known little
chivalry! In an instant she had drawn herself gently away, and he had
not held her. He had wished Lyda to know that, if he did not
understand everything, at least he understood why she had crept into
his arms for that brief breathing space, and that he would take no
advantage of her yielding.
He had armoured himself with an almost exaggerated friendliness
afterward; and for a while they had talked not at all of themselves,
but of Juliet and Pat. They tried to form some theory which might
account for the disappearance of the pearls from the locked safe whose
combination was known to only two persons; the replacing of the parcel
there, sealed with fresh seals. They had striven to implicate Markoff
in the affair, but all their deductions stumbled against the same blank
wall in the end. It seemed impossible that Markoff could even have
entered the house, much less have got into the study or opened the
safe. Lyda did not know how Pat had obtained the money to help her out
with the payment to Markoff. It had not seemed strange to her that he
should have it. Looking back, it seemed strange now. Yet it was
incredible that he should have juggled with the packet, and risked
losing his wife's respect by palming off false pearls on her, in order
to get money for another woman.
Incredible! And yet, Lyda said, like one in a dream, that he was the
only person who could have done the thing--_except herself_!
"I know _I_ didn't do it, and--yes, I know he didn't do it!" she cried
to Jack. So, again and again they came through darkness to that blank
wall! And at last, deadly tired in body and brain, Lyda sent Manners
away.
He was all exaltation at first. The glamour and perfume of her ran
through his veins. She was noble, magnificent. It was great of this
glowing creature to trust him so generously, to tell him her life
story, putting herself in his power in a way, for the sake of
Claremanagh's happiness. It was fine of her to say he might repeat all
to Juliet, who--Lyda must know--detested and distrusted her with the
obstinacy of a spoiled, jealous child: to say that, if necessary, a
detective might be trusted with her secrets.
But as the chill of the night iced his veins, Jack's mood changed.
Juliet's point of view suddenly showed itself sharply to his eyes. It
was as if she had come from round the corner of the last street he had
passed, to walk with him. _Had_ Lyda told him the story for
Claremanagh's sake and Juliet's? _Why not for her own_--in the daring
wish to make a "friend at court?" Would that not be more like
her--more like the woman she was supposed to be?
She knew that he had seen her go into the Phayre house; that he must
have guessed she was hidden in the study; that he was Juliet's cousin
and would naturally be inclined to work for Juliet's interest. Would
it not be a bold and clever stroke to win him to her side?
If it were some other man, not himself, whose prejudices had been thus
broken down in an hour by a woman's eyes and voice, wouldn't he pity
the poor idiot who believed that he alone fathomed the depths of her
smile?
Lyda practically admitted that she had fooled many men. Some of them
had doubtless known far more about women than he knew. Why, she must
have been laughing at him all through! He had been a child in her
hands!
Lies that were half truths could be welded into a fabric hard to break
down. No doubt there were true details in that life history of Pavoya.
But how many true ones? And was it "fine" of her to "consent" that he
should tell Juliet, and if necessary a detective? Wasn't that just
what she'd worked up to, and wanted? Wasn't she purposely turning
suspicion toward Pat when she said, as if dazed, that only he or she
could have changed the pearls?
Jack heard himself again, warmly promising that they two should work
together, that they'd drag up the mystery by the roots, and that Juliet
should beg her pardon.
A spider's dainty web of opal-gauze, glittering with dew, must look a
fairy palace to a big, blundering bluebottle!
Did such a man as Markoff from Petrograd even _exist_?
Dawn flowed like a pale river through the canyons of the New York
streets when Manners' walk ended at his own hotel.
He felt as if he had been through a battle--a battle that he hadn't
won. But a cold splash, and then dead sleep for an hour, braced him
physically. He woke with a start, as if somebody had knocked; yet no
one was at the door. The thought of food disgusted him; hot, strong
black coffee, however, was refreshing.
It was early still, yet he was sure that Juliet would be awake, and
called her up, learning at once that she had no news. Yes, he _had_
things to tell, he answered her eager question. "Not news exactly, but
important." Before going to her, however, he intended to see the
detective they'd talked about: a man named Henry Sanders--used to be in
the police--sharp chap; had the nickname of "Hawkeye Harry"; retired,
but got bored with doing nothing, and started as a private detective;
had made a big success in the last few years; absolutely to be trusted:
silent as the grave and sharp as a razor.
Jack added that he knew the man personally, and as he didn't wish to
wait for office hours, would ring Sanders up at his own house. He
would call there and tell the man something of the case to save Juliet
useless questions and answers. Then, he hoped, they could both come
round to see her.
As it turned out, however, Manners went alone to the Phayre house. He
had not seen Sanders. The detective (to whom Jack had vainly tried to
'phone the night before) had not yet returned from the country where he
had spent the last few days. He had luckily left word that he would be
at his office by ten o'clock; and having sent a request for an
immediate appointment there, Jack was ready for a talk with his cousin.
It was hard to put Lyda Pavoya's case impersonally and impartially to
Juliet. As he framed the story in his own words, he saw Lyda again as
he had seen her last night, heard her sweet, vibrating voice with its
delicious accent. The glamour of the woman took possession of him once
more. He tried to be judicial, but he could be so only in manner.
Telling the tale, he was impressed with the way detail after detail
fitted itself into probability; and as Juliet's face showed how the
door of her mind shut against Lyda, his own opened. He had left Lyda,
and had become her judge. Juliet's silent antagonism made him again
Lyda Pavoya's defender.
"I don't believe one word!" Juliet flamed out, when he had finished.
Manners found himself quite unreasonably angry: he, who had walked the
streets raging against his own weakness for Pavoya!
"You wanted me to get her story," he said. "Well, I've _got_ it, and
all you have to say is that it's a pack of lies. I can do no more."
Juliet felt stricken. "Do you mean you take it all as gospel truth
yourself?" she challenged.
"It seems to me to hang together perfectly."
"It _would_! She's clever as--a serpent."
Jack frowned. "You don't seem pleased to have your own husband turned
into a hero instead of a villain."
Colour flew to Juliet's pale cheeks. "I don't need Lyda Pavoya to do
that for me!"
"Then," said Manners, coolly, "you make this distinction. You believe
the good part about Pat, and not the good part about her."
Juliet broke into tears. "Oh, Jack," she reproached him. "I might
have known! You've gone over absolutely to the enemy!"
Jack was conscience-stricken, for in a way it was true. He tried to
console the girl as he had consoled her yesterday, and in the old days
when she was a child. There was no "enemy," he said, or at all events
the enemy wasn't Mademoiselle Pavoya. It was essential that they
should at least seem to work in harmony. Juliet must trust him. She
must pull herself together, and be ready soon to see the detective.
The Duchess was quieter when he had argued for a while, and patted her
shoulder, and called her "darling child." She dried her tears, and
promised to "be good"--but when Jack had gone to keep his appointment
at Sanders' office, her heart was lead. "He's Pavoya's man now!" she
said to herself.
Having Lyda's permission to speak, and knowing Sanders to be
trustworthy, Manners kept nothing back. He began with a brief outline
of the history of the pearls, and Pat's business transaction with
Mayen. This brought him to the arrival of the messenger with the
packet, and its delivery in his own presence. There, for the first
time, Sanders stopped him and asked questions: what had been
Defasquelle's manner, what the Duke's? And Jack believed that his
answers impressed the detective favourably toward the Frenchman. It
proved the messenger's bona fides that he had insisted upon the opening
of the box in his presence. Besides, after the theft, it appeared
certain that the new seals had been made with the Duke's ring; and
before that could have happened, Manners had seen Defasquelle leave the
house.
Sanders would, of course, wish to meet Defasquelle, but would prefer to
talk with the Duchess first of all. Whether Mademoiselle Pavoya's
version of her visit to the Phayre house and her acquaintance with the
Duke were true, remained to be seen. Sanders had never heard of
Markoff, but would take immediate steps through the aid of his "best
boys" to find out all about the man--_if_ he existed! As for the Duke,
the detective didn't mind admitting to Jack as a friend--not in an
official capacity--that he didn't yet believe there had been foul play.
He wasn't sure that, in Claremanagh's place (assuming his injured
innocence) _he_ wouldn't have gone away to punish his wife.
"These spoiled heiresses are the limit when they get going!" he said.
"And this Duke chap's Irish. I'm Irish myself. We fellows can't sit
still when even the prettiest woman forgets the Marquis of
Queensberry's rules in a scrap! It gets our goat!"
Jack was not sure whether Juliet would prefer an outside opinion that
Pat had been kidnapped, or had left her of his own free will. But the
girl's pale beauty bowled Sanders over at first sight. His prejudice
against the "spoiled heiress" melted like ice in morning sunlight, and
his Irish heart--as well as his trained discretion--kept back any word
which he thought might wound her. The assumption (meant to be
comforting) that with Markoff lay the clue to the mystery, was,
however, salt on an unhealed scar for Juliet. She took it instantly
for granted that Sanders agreed with Jack in believing Lyda Pavoya had
told the truth.
"They're going the wrong way to work!" she thought, bitterly, when the
two men had gone, promising a report the moment there should be news of
any sort. "The wrong way! ... If they find out where Pat is, it will
be just blundering--by accident!"
In thwarted wretchedness, the girl realized that it would be worse than
useless to make such protests to Sanders. _He_ was the detective, not
she--though he had complimented her upon her "smartness" in the matter
of the ring and the magnifying-glass. He would only pity and despise
her for jealousy and prejudice if she gave him the advice she burned to
give. And Jack--Jack was _hopeless_! He was lost to her.
She felt as miserably alone as if Jack had not promised to be her
"knight," and as if he had not brought to her one of the best private
detectives in the land. She longed to strike out on her own account,
to be first in the field, and be able to say to these men: "See, while
you were wandering all round Robin Hood's barn, _I've_ found the place
where the secret was buried, and dug it up!"
It was mostly about Pat that Juliet thought, and his disappearance.
Upon the pearls she wasted little anxiety, though she hated to think
that Pavoya should have them. She had cried out to Pat that she
believed not one word of the dancer's story: and she had meant it at
the time; but brooding alone over the history of Pavoya's years, and
the link between her and Pat, Juliet found herself almost arbitrarily
accepting certain details here and there. Yes, that must have been the
way those two first met! Pat had told her that he had heard the call
of romance in Russia--his great-great-grandfather's romance--and had
left Oxford to spend the long vacation among those scenes. How like
Pat at nineteen to create a romance of his own on the same spot!
Her heart yearned to Pat with the thought that he had helped Pavoya
because of _charity_, not love. In that case he had told the truth--or
as much truth as his wife could expect of a man where women were
concerned. But certainly, Juliet assured herself, Pavoya had loved Pat
and moved heaven and earth to compromise him. That was really why
she'd asked him to lend her the pearls. No doubt she'd begged for the
real ones, and he'd lent her the copy. She'd kept the wretched beads,
not because of some melodramatic blackmail "stunt," but because she
wished to wear them as if they were real, and get herself talked about
with Pat. Then, he'd married, and having sent to France for the true
pearls for his wife, he couldn't leave the false ones knocking about
for Pavoya to play with. He'd practically ordered the woman to return
them; and in revenge, when an amazing chance came her way, Pavoya had
somehow stolen the genuine rope, changing the contents of the packet!
It all seemed clearer and clearer to Juliet, and she wondered that a
man with such good brains as Jack's could be so easily deceived. In
pride of her own superior talent as a detective, the girl would have
had moments of triumphant joy had it not been for her wearing anxiety
about Pat.
Days passed. Pat did not return or write to Juliet or the bank. And
no news of importance was obtained for her by Sanders or Jack. Markoff
the detective was unable to trace by name, though he had got upon the
track of a Russian who had lately arrived in New York with some good
introductions. His description answered that given of Konrad Markoff
by Mademoiselle Pavoya. Boris Halbin (who had figured at various New
York clubs, and was now supposed to have sailed for France) was a
person of inconspicuous appearance. So, too, was Markoff. Many
Russians over forty are "darkish, stoutish, big faced, blunt featured,
with beards turning grey!"
Juliet bravely kept up the fiction with her friends that she and Pat
were on the best of terms. He was away on business for the bank. He
would soon return. That story about the pearls being false was too
silly for words! The reason she'd stopped wearing them was because she
had broken the string, and didn't want the responsibility of choosing
the person to mend it till Pat came back. The girl would have given
thousands of dollars for the privilege of "sporting her oak," and
refusing to see the many people whose devotion she attributed to
curiosity. But for the sake of the future, and her own pride's sake,
she would not do that. She went out a good deal, kept all her
engagements, and made new ones. Her nerves, however, revenged
themselves upon her mercilessly. Once she had hardly realized that she
possessed such things as nerves. Now they made themselves felt each
moment of the day, and through hours of the long, restless nights.
Against his will, Sanders had consented to an advertisement appearing
in the "personal" column of several papers. Juliet had pleaded that no
one would know for whom it was meant, and--she should die if she
couldn't put it in! Consequently, curious eyes in many cities of the
United States were reading every day this appeal:--"Play Boy: 'American
Beauty' believes in you and wants you. Write or come back if you would
not break her heart."
Who could guess that the Duchess of Claremanagh's pet name for the Duke
was "Play Boy," and that he had sent her "American Beauty" roses every
day since they were engaged, because it was the name he had found
sweetest, most appropriate for her?
Yet, someone must have guessed: because in the _Inner Circle_ (a week
after the sensational pearl "Whisper") the secret was given away. No
names were mentioned: yet none who knew the Claremanaghs could have
avoided reading between the lines.
It was while Juliet sat with the paper in her hands, shamed,
bewildered, almost stunned, that a sealed envelope was brought on a
tray to her boudoir. Mechanically she opened it. Within was a
visiting card, with something written upon it in pencil.
For an instant the girl's bruised brain could not find the Comtesse de
Saintville in the index of her memory. Then, suddenly, she saw the
woman, playing opposite her at some bridge table. Yes, of course, Lyda
Pavoya's friend.
"Forgive my calling uninvited. I hope you can see me. I have
something to say which may be important to you," the woman, whom Juliet
vaguely disliked, had scribbled in French under her name.
Juliet thought for a minute, with the card in her hand. It seemed
"pushing" of this person to come, and probably if
she--Juliet--consented to see her, she would regret the weakness.
Still, the one really important thing on earth was news of Pat. Madame
de Saintville _might_ know something! She might have quarrelled with
Pavoya, and be ready to "give her away." "Bring the lady up here," the
Duchess instructed Huji.
Presently the visitor was shown in; and Juliet, rising to receive her,
towered like a tall young goddess over a small, smart creature, painted
to look as pretty as she thought she ought to be.
"She'll begin to speak of Pavoya," Juliet thought. But she was
mistaken.
"I have come on a very queer errand," were the Countess's first words,
spoken with much throaty rolling of "rs". "Perhaps you will be angry.
I made up my mind only to-day that it was my duty to call."
Her eyes darted to the _Inner Circle_ which Juliet had just thrown
aside, and quickly returned to a flower with which she herself was
playing. But Juliet read that side-glance to mean--"After reading that
paper to-day, I decided."
"When people tell one it's a duty to say or do something in particular,
it's generally disagreeable," Juliet said, drily.
"Ah, this is an exception! It is not disagreeable at all--I hope. It
is only--unusual," replied the Comtesse de Saintville. "But I will not
keep you in suspense. Have you ever heard of a palmist and fortune
teller named Madame Veno?"
"Possibly. I'm not sure," answered Juliet, surprised.
"She is not--or rather she has not been--fashionable, I think,"
explained the other. "I have not lived long enough in New York to know
these things. I happened to hear of her through a friend of mine
(yours also, is it not?)--Mrs. Billee Lowndes. It was there I met you
once. Mrs. Lowndes knew I was interested in the psychic things:
crystal gazing, palmistry. She spoke of Madame Veno, who is supposed
to be only a manicurist. Her real profession is a secret. It has to
be! It seems that 'Madame Veno' is a name several women have used,
like--one would say, a '_trade_ name,' because they have hired the same
rooms, or offices, and 'Madame Veno, Manicurist' is on a doorplate.
That is odd, is it not? But the first Madame Veno died--or something.
The present one is--ah, Duchess, she is _merveilleuse_. She has told
me things about myself--but things only _le bon Dieu ou le diable_ had
in their knowledge! Naturally, I have been to her more than once.
Last time she looked through her crystal. I do not know if that is
forbidden by your law? _En tout cas_, she does it. The picture she
saw must have been strange. It seemed to frighten her. When I asked
some questions, she said the vision was not for me. It was for
another. Why it came, she could not tell unless that person was in my
thoughts. Then, Duchess, she spoke your name. _The picture was for
you_."
"Really!" exclaimed Juliet. She pretended to be amused; but the
woman's tone was meant to impress, and did impress, the girl in spite
of herself. "What did the picture represent?"
"Madame Veno did not mention, except that it concerned the Duke. She
felt it would be wrong to speak if not to you alone. She wished me to
give you a message: to say, if you would come to her place, she would
look again in the crystal, and tell you what she saw. I did not like
to call on you. I am not long enough of your acquaintance. But
to-day----"
"Don't be afraid to speak out what's in your thoughts," Juliet said
with a painful smile. "You have read the _Inner Circle_. You think
the disgusting 'Whisperer' is right! That the advertisement which
people have been talking about is _mine_. Of course that's all
nonsense! Please tell everybody you meet, who's interested in my
affairs! But probably you meant to be kind. Anyhow, I think fortune
tellers are great fun! I shall go to this one--some day soon: when I
have time. You'll give me the address?"
"_Par coincidence_, Madame Veno is in the same building with that
_journal des blagues_," replied the Countess. "It goes without saying
that they have no connection, one with the other. It is a mere
accident. Mrs. Lowndes has told me that the first woman of that trade
name, 'Madame Veno,' was really a manicurist: so it was necessary to
have an office, and not be in a private house in some quiet street."
"I see," said Juliet. "I must thank you for coming. As Madame knows
my name, she must know a good deal about me, so her 'pictures' won't be
as exciting as if I went to her a stranger. But they may be amusing."
Her tone, though perfectly courteous, was meant to end the interview.
Madame de Saintville rose. Juliet did the same, and rang. The moment
she was alone, she ran to her bedroom and commanded Simone, who was
there, to give her a hat and coat.
She had said she would go "some day" to Madame Veno. But she was going
now--at once--at once!