"Love is by fancy led about,
From hope to fear, from joy to doubt."
It was a week before John Faunce appeared upon the troubled scene
of Grace Perivale's life. He had been in Vienna, and he called in
Grosvenor Square at half-past nine o'clock on the evening of his
return, in answer to three urgent letters from her ladyship which he
found on his office table in Essex Street.
Susan Rodney had been dining with her friend, and they were taking
their coffee in the morning-room when Faunce was announced.
"Bring the gentleman here," Lady Perivale told the servant, and then
turned to Miss Rodney.
"You don't mind, do you, Sue? If you have never seen a detective, it
may be rather interesting."
"Mind? No! I am as keen as you are about this business. What a fool I
was not to suggest a detective at the beginning. I shall love to see
and talk with a detective. I have been longing to meet one all my life.
Unberufen," added Miss Rodney, rapping the table.
"Mr. Faunce," said the butler; and a serious-looking, middle-aged man,
of medium height and strong frame, with broad, high forehead, kindly
black eyes, and short, close-cut black whiskers, came into the room.
There was a pleasant shrewdness in his countenance, and his manner was
easy without being familiar.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Faunce," said Lady Perivale. "I am very glad to
see you. This lady is Miss Rodney, my particular friend, from whom I
have no secrets."
Faunce bowed to Miss Rodney, before seating himself very composedly
outside the circle of light under the big lamp-shade.
"I must apologize for coming so late in the evening, madam; but I only
arrived at my office, from Dover, an hour ago; and, as your letters
seemed somewhat urgent----"
"It is not a moment too late. I would have seen you at midnight.
But--perhaps you have not had time to dine. We have only just left the
dining-room. Will you let them get you some dinner there before we
begin our business?"
"Your ladyship is too good. I dined on the boat--a saving of time--and
am quite at your service."
Lady Perivale told her story, Faunce watching her all the time with
those tranquil eyes of his, never very keen, never restless. They were
absorbent eyes, that took hold of things and held them tight; and
behind the eyes there was a memory that never failed.
He watched and listened. He had heard such stories before--stories of
mistaken identity. They were somewhat common in divorce court business,
and he very seldom believed them, or found that they would hold water.
Nor had he a high opinion of women of fashion--women who lived in rooms
like this, where a reckless outlay was the chief characteristic, where
choicest flowers bloomed for a day, and delicate satin pillows were
tossed about the carpet for dogs to lie upon, and toys of gold and
silver, jewelled watches, and valuable miniatures, were crowded upon
tables to invite larceny. Yet it seemed to him that Lady Perivale's
voice rang true, or else that she was a more accomplished actress than
those other women.
"Mr. Harding was right, madam," he said, when he had heard her to the
end, and had questioned her closely upon some details. "We must find
out who your double is."
"And that will be difficult, I'm afraid."
"It may take time and patience."
"And it will be costly no doubt; but you need not be afraid of spending
money. I have no father or brother to take my part; no man-friend who
cares enough for me----" She stopped, with something like a sob in her
voice. "I have nothing but my money."
"That is not a bad thing to begin the battle with, Lady Perivale,"
answered Faunce, with his shrewd smile; "but money is not quite such
an important factor in my operations as most people think. If things
cannot be found out in a fairly cheap manner they cannot be found out
at all. When a detective tells you he has to offer large bribes to get
information, you may take it from me that he is either a fool or a
cheat. Common sense is the thing we have most use for, and a capacity
for putting two and two together and making the result equal a hundred."
"And when you have found this shameless creature what are we to do? Mr.
Harding says I can't bring an action for slander, because I am not a
housemaid, and loss of character doesn't mean loss of my daily bread."
"There are other kinds of actions."
"What--what action that I could bring? I should like to go to law with
every friend I ever had. I think I shall spend the rest of my days in
the law courts, pleading my own cause, like that pretty lady whose name
I forget."
"You might bring an action for libel, if you had a case."
"But I have not been libelled--a libel must be written and published,
must it not?"
"That is the meaning of the word, madam--'a little book.'"
"Oh that my enemy would write a book about me!"
"Are you sure there has been no offensive allusion to this rumour in
any of the newspapers?"
"How can I tell? I have not been watching the papers."
"I should advise you to send a guinea to Messrs. Rosset and Son, the
Press agents, who will search the papers for your name, and save you
trouble."
Lady Perivale made a hurried note of Messrs. Rosset's address.
"An action for libel, if any one libelled me--what would that mean?"
"It would mean a thorough sifting of your case before a jury, by two of
the cleverest counsel we could get. It would mean bringing your double
into the witness-box, if possible, and making her declare herself
Colonel Rannock's companion in those places where you are said to have
been seen with him."
"Yes, yes; that would be conclusive. And all those cold-hearted
creatures, whom I once called friends, would be sorry--sorry and
ashamed of themselves. But if there is no libel--if people go on
talking and talking, and nobody ever publishes the slander----"
"Make your mind easy, Lady Perivale. When we are ready for it _there
will be a libel_."
"I don't understand."
"You may safely leave the matter in my hands, madam, and in Mr.
Harding's. If I succeed in finding the lady who resembles you, the rest
will not be difficult."
"And you think you will find her?"
"I mean to try. I shall start for Algiers to-morrow morning."
"May I give you a cheque for travelling expenses?" Lady Perivale asked,
eagerly.
"That is as you please, madam. You may leave my account to be settled
by Mr. Harding, if you like."
"No, no," she said, going to her davenport. "In spite of what you say
about money, I want you to have plenty of cash in hand, to feel that
you have no occasion to stint outlay."
"That is what I never do, when character is at stake."
She handed him a hastily written cheque for five hundred pounds.
"This is a high figure, madam, to start with," said Faunce, as he
slipped the cheque into his letter-case.
"Oh, it's only a trifle on account. Call upon me for whatever sums you
require. I would rather beggar myself than exist under this odious
imputation."
"There is one thing more I must ask for, madam."
"What is that?"
"Your photograph, if you will be so good as to trust me with it."
"My photograph?" wonderingly, and with a touch of hauteur.
"It will help me to identify your double."
"Yes, of course! I understand."
She opened a drawer and took out a cabinet photograph of herself,
choosing the severest dress and simplest attitude.
Faunce promised to report progress from Algiers. If he drew blank
there, he would go on to Corsica and Sardinia. He would have bowed
himself out of the room, with a respectful distance, but Grace held out
her hand to him.
"You believe in me, don't you, Mr. Faunce?" she said, as they shook
hands.
"With all my heart, madam."
"And you don't always believe in your clients, I think?"
Faunce smiled an enigmatic smile.
"I have some queer clients now and then," he said.
He had taken up his hat, and Lady Perivale's hand was upon the bell,
when Susan broke in suddenly, exclaiming--
"Don't ring, Grace. Pray don't go, Mr. Faunce, unless you are in a
desperate hurry."
"I am in no hurry, madam."
"Then pray sit down again, and let us have a little talk with you--now
that we have done with Lady Perivale's business. Do you know that,
ever since I read the 'Moonstone'--and I was little more than a child
when I read that most enthralling book--I have been longing to meet a
detective--a real detective?"
"I feel honoured, madam, for my profession. People are apt to think
unkindly of our trade, though they can't do without us."
He was still standing with his hat in his hand, waiting for some sign
from Lady Perivale.
"The world is full of injustice," she said. "Pray sit down, Mr. Faunce,
and gratify my friend's curiosity about the mysteries of your art."
"I am flattered, madam, to find a lady interested in such dry work."
"Dry!" cried Susan; "why, it is the quintessence of fiction and the
drama. And now, Mr. Faunce, tell me, to begin with, how you ever
contrive to track people down when once they have got a fair start?"
"Well, you see, as we don't do it by following them about, the start
doesn't much matter, provided we can pick up a trace of them somewhere."
"Ah, but that's where the wonder is! How do you pick up the first
trace?"
"Ah, that's a secret!" Faunce answered gravely; and then, after
a pause, smiling at Susan Rodney's eager face, all aglow in the
lamplight, he added, "We generally have to leave that to the chapter of
accidents."
"Then it is only a fluke when you run a man down?" asked Susan.
Lady Perivale was sitting on the sofa, caressing the irresponsive
poodle, and too deep in thought about her own case to be greatly
concerned in the secrets of Mr. Faunce's calling. She was glad for her
friend to be amused, and that was all.
"Well, not quite a fluke," replied Faunce. "We expect a fugitive to do
something foolish, something that puzzles some thick-headed person, who
communicates with the police. A great deal of our information comes
from the outside public, you see, madam. It's often good for nothing;
but there's a little gold among the quartz."
"But if the fugitive is too clever for you?"
"Well, even if our man plays the game, we are on the look out for his
moves. You see, my lady," turning to Lady Perivale, whose obvious
indifference piqued him, "an old hand like me has a good many friends
scattered up and down the world. I am able to put a good thing in the
way of my friends every now and then. Consequently they are anxious to
help me if they can, and they keep their eyes open."
"What sort of people are these friends of yours, Mr. Faunce?" asked
Lady Perivale, feeling that the detective's shrewd eyes were upon her
face, and that he wanted her to be interested in his discourse.
"That's another secret, a secret of the trade. I can only answer
questions about myself, not about my friends. But I might suggest that
the porter of a large Metropolitan hotel, anywhere on the main stream
of travel, would be a useful ally for a man like me. Then there are
people who have retired from the French or English police, who are fond
of their old work, and not too proud to undertake an odd job."
"And these people help you?" asked Susan.
"Yes, Miss Rodney"--the name clearly spoken; no mumbled substitute for
a name imperfectly heard, or forgotten as soon as heard. John Faunce's
educated memory registered every name at the first hearing.
"Experience has taught me never to task them beyond their power. That's
the keystone of my business. Only the other day, my lady"--addressing
himself pointedly to Lady Perivale, in whom he saw signs of flagging
attention, "I nearly let some one slip through my fingers by
over-taxing the ability of one of my agents. I had great confidence in
the man--a first-rate watcher! Tell him to look out for a particular
person at a particular place, and, sure as that person came to that
place, my man would spot him, and most likely would find out where he
went. Well, I gave the fellow a little job last week that required
delicate handling--a good many discreet questions had to be put to a
certain person's domestics, and no alarm raised in their minds that
might communicate itself to their master."
"And did your man prove a failure?" Miss Rodney asked eagerly.
"He did, madam. He overdid the part--gave himself away, as the Yankees
say. The bird was scared off the nest, took wing for foreign parts, and
I might have lost him altogether. But it wasn't my man's fault. He is
quite reliable at his own work--watching. It was my own fault. I ought
to have done the thing myself."
"Then you do things yourself sometimes?" Lady Perivale asked, her
interest re-awakened, since she wanted the man to give her case his
individual attention.
"Yes, madam, often. I am going to Algiers, for instance, to hunt down
Colonel Rannock's travelling companion. I would not trust that task to
the best of my agents. I may say that, for the higher class of inquiry,
I have never found any one whom I could trust absolutely. The fact is,
no one can be sufficiently keen who hasn't the whole game in sight."
"And are you not afraid of your agents turning rogues and trying to
make money out of your clients' secrets?" asked Susan.
"No, Miss Rodney--because I never tell them my clients' secrets. They
have to ferret out certain facts, to watch certain people; but they
never know the why and the wherefore. Human nature is weak. I know my
people. They wouldn't attempt blackmail: that's the rock ahead in our
business, Lady Perivale. But they might talk, and I am not sure that
isn't worse sometimes."
"I dare say it is," said Susan; "for the blackmailer doesn't want to
peach upon his victim. It's only a question of hard cash."
"I see you understand the business, madam. I have been at the game a
good many years, and there are things I can do that would puzzle a
younger hand. Ah, Miss Rodney," said Faunce, attracted by her keen and
animated expression, "I could tell you incidents in my professional
career that would make your hair stand on end."
"Oh, pray do. I adore stories of that kind."
"But it is nearly eleven o'clock!" glancing at the Sèvres timepiece
opposite him, "and I have already trespassed too long on Lady
Perivale's patience. And I have to catch a train for Putney, where I
live when I am at home. I haven't seen my wife for ten days, and I
shall start for Marseilles at nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
"You are not often at home, I suppose?"
"No, madam. A good deal of my life is spent like Satan's, 'Going to and
fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it;' and then I have my
_pied à terre_ in Essex Street, where I am generally to be found for
business purposes when I am in London. I used to live in Bloomsbury,
where I was always on the spot, ready for contingencies; but when I
left the Force some years ago, I took a cottage at Putney--a pretty
little place enough--where my wife lives, and where I go when I have a
little leisure, and where I am supposed to be very fond of the garden."
"And don't you love your garden? It must be such a relief after your
exciting work."
"Oh yes, I like the garden. I find the slugs particularly interesting."
"The slugs!"
"Oh, there's more in a slug than most people think. His capacity has
been very much under-rated. Of course he's not a patch upon the spider.
The subtle villainy of the spider is worth a life-long study. I know
nothing but a sixty per cent. money-lender that can touch him. And the
ant--well, he's a thorough-going Philistine, always moves in a grove,
and doesn't so much appeal to my fancy. But again, I am encroaching,"
said Faunce, standing up straight and stiff, in an attitude reminiscent
of "the Force." "I wish you good night, ladies, and I hope your
ladyship will pardon me for having prosed all this time."
"I am greatly obliged to you for having given us so much interesting
information."
"And some day you will tell us one of your blood-curdling stories?"
said Susan Rodney, shaking hands with him.
"I like that man!" exclaimed Susan, when the door closed upon him. "I
have always wanted to know a detective, like Bucket, the beloved of my
childhood; or Mr. Cuff, the idol of my riper years. You must invite Mr.
Faunce to a quiet little luncheon some day. There is no question of
class distinction with a clever man like that."
Lady Perivale smiled. She was accustomed to her friend's enthusiasms
and ultra-Liberal ideas.
"It's time for me to go home, Grace. I asked Johnson to order a cab at
eleven. Oh, by-the-by, it is ages since you took a cup of tea in my
cottage. I wish you'd come at five o'clock next Saturday. I have picked
up an old print or two--genuine Bartolozzis--rural subjects--that I am
dying to show you."
"I should love to go to you, Sue. But you may have people."
"No, no; Friday is my day. I never expect any one on Saturday."
"Then I'll come. It will seem like old times--like last year, when I
had nothing on my mind."
"Oh, but that business is on Mr. Faunce's mind now, and off yours. You
are going to be in good spirits again; and I shall come and make music
with you once or twice a week, if you'll have me. There is that little
German, who fiddles so beautifully, Herr Kloster. You heard him at my
party, last year. I'll bring him to play duets with you."
"It would be delightful; but I doubt if I shall be in spirits for
music."
"Oh, I am not going to let you mope. What a fool I was not to suggest
a detective the day you came home. Good night, dear. Saturday next, as
soon as you like after half-past four."
Miss Rodney lived in a pretty little house facing Regent's Park, the
kind of house that agents describe as a bijou residence, and which
rarely contains more than two habitable bedrooms. It was a picturesque
little house, with a white front, a verandah below, and a balcony
above, and a tiny pretence of a garden, and the rent was higher than
Susan could afford when she set up in London as a teacher of singing
and the pianoforte, leaving her three sisters to vegetate in the
paternal home, a great red-brick house in a Midland market town, where
their father was everybody's family solicitor.
During the earlier years of her London career, Susan had worked hard
for her house, and for her pretty furniture, her bits of genuine
Sheraton and Chippendale, picked up cheaply in back streets and
out-of-the-way corners, her chintz curtains and chair-covers and
delicate carpets. Her own maintenance, and her one devoted servant, who
did all the work of the house, yet always looked a parlourmaid, cost so
little; and, after helping the girls at home with handsome additions to
their pocket-money, Miss Rodney could afford to dress well, and keep
her house in exquisite order, every now and then adding some artistic
gem to that temple of beauty.
The view from her windows, her old prints, her little bits of Lowestoft
china, her small but choice collection of books, were the delight of
her solitary existence; and, perhaps, there were few happier women in
London than Susan Rodney, who worked six days in the week, and rarely
for less than an eight hours' day, and who had long ago made up her
mind that for some women there is nothing better in life than freedom
from masculine control and a congenial avocation.
The afternoon sunshine was shining full upon the house-front when Lady
Perivale was announced; so the sliding venetian shutters had been drawn
across the two French windows, and Miss Rodney's drawing-room was in
shadow. Coming in out of the vivid out-of-door light, Grace did not, on
the instant, recognize a gentleman, who rose hurriedly and took up his
hat as she entered the room. But a second glance showed her that the
visitor was Arthur Haldane.
She shot an angry glance at Susan. Was it chance, or some mischievous
plan of hers that brought him here? They bowed to each other coldly,
and neither held out the hand of friendship.
"You are not going, Mr. Haldane?" said Susan. "Tea will be in directly.
You must have some tea. You know I am rather proud of my tea. It is the
only thing a pauper with one servant can be proud of."
"I--I have an engagement in the City," Haldane answered rather vaguely,
moving towards the door, but with his eyes on Grace Perivale's pale
face.
"The City? Why, the City will be dead asleep before you can get there."
"True. You are very kind. I know how good your tea is." He put down his
hat, and dropped into a chair near the sofa where Lady Perivale had
seated herself.
"I hope you are not one of those horrid men who make believe to like
tea, and then go about reviling one for offering it to them," said
Susan, who foresaw a dead silence.
"Oh no; I am a genuine tea-drinker. The male tea-drinker is by no means
a rare animal."
"When are you going to write another novel, Mr. Haldane?" asked Susan,
while the inimitable parlourmaid, in a Parisian cap, was bringing in
the tea-tray.
"You have been good enough to make that inquiry two or three times a
year, for the last five years. I know you think it flatters my vanity."
"And I shall go on asking the same question. When? When? When?" handing
him a cup and saucer, which he carried, with the cream-jug, to Lady
Perivale, without relaxing the stiffness that had come over his manner
when she entered the room.
But the moment had come when he must speak to her, or seem absolutely
uncivil.
"Don't you think there are novelists enough between Central Europe and
London without my pushing into the field, Lady Perivale?" he asked.
"Oh, but you have been in the field, and have won your battle. I think
everybody would like another story from the author of 'Mary Deane.'"
"You do not consider how easily people forget," he said.
"Oh yes, I do," she answered, moved by that faint tremor in his voice
which a less interested hearer might not have observed. "You yourself
are an instance. It is just a year since you called upon me one
afternoon--when Colonel Rannock and I were playing a duet. I suppose
our music frightened you, for you stayed hardly five minutes, and you
have been unconscious of my existence ever since."
She was determined to speak of Rannock, to let him see that the name
was not difficult of utterance; but she could not help the sudden
flame-spot that flew into her cheeks as she spoke it.
"Perhaps I had an idea that you did not want me," he said; and then his
heart sickened at the thought that this woman, whom he had honoured and
admired, whose face had haunted his solitary hours, whose beauty still
attracted him with a disquieting charm, was possibly a woman of lost
character, whom no self-respecting man could ever dream of as a wife.
He took two or three sips out of the Swansea tea-cup which Susan handed
him, put it down hurriedly, snatched his hat, shook hands with his
hostess, bowed to Lady Perivale, and had left the house before even the
most alert of parlour-maids could fly to her post in the hall.
"Well, Susan," said Grace, when the door had closed upon him. "Don't
you think you have done a vastly clever thing?"
"Anyhow, I would rather have done it than left it undone!" her friend
answered savagely, furious at Haldane's conduct.
"What on earth possessed you to bring that man and me together?"
"I wanted you to meet. I know you like him, and I know he worships you."
"Worships! And he would scarcely hand me a cup of tea--did it as if he
were carrying food to a leper! Worship, forsooth! When it's evident he
believes the worst people say of me."
"Perhaps he takes the scandal more to heart than another man would,
because you have been his bright particular star."
"Nonsense! I know he used to like coming to my house--he used to jump
at my invitations. I thought it was because I always had pretty people
about me, or that it was on account of my _chef_. But as for anything
more----"
"Well, there was something more. He was deeply in love with you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"He is not that kind of man. But he and I have been pals ever since
I came to London. I taught a sister of his when his people lived in
Onslow Square--a sister he adored. She married a soldier, and died in
India a year after her marriage, and Arthur likes to talk to me about
her. She was very fond of me, poor girl. And then, last year, I found
that he liked to talk about you--and I know the inside of people's
minds well enough to know most of the things they don't tell me."
"If he cared for me last year why didn't he ask me to marry him?"
"Because he is, comparatively speaking, a poor man, and you are rich."
"It's all nonsense, Sue. If he cared for me--in that way--he could
never condemn me upon an idle rumour."
"You allow nothing for jealousy. He thought you were encouraging
Rannock, and that you meant to marry him."
"And I had refused the wretch three times," said Grace, despairingly.
"What was the good of refusing him if you let him hang about you--lunch
at your house twice a week--dance attendance upon you at Ascot and
Henley?"
"Yes, it was foolish, I suppose. Everybody can tell me so, now it is
too late. Good-bye, Sue. Don't lay any more traps for me, please. Your
diplomacy doesn't answer."
"I'm sorry he behaved like a bear; but I am glad you have met, in spite
of his coldness. I know he loves you."
"And you think that an ostracized person like me ought to be grateful
for any man's regard?"
"No, Grace; but I think Arthur Haldane is just the one man whose
affection you value."
"I have never said as much to you."
"There was no necessity. Don't be down-hearted, dear. Things will right
themselves sooner than you think."
"I am not down-hearted. I am only angry. Good-bye. Come to lunch
to-morrow, if you want me to forgive you."
"I'll be there. I believe I am more appreciative of your _chef_ than
Arthur Haldane ever was."