Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey
little room writing letters. The room was worse than pokey, it was
shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs,
wholly uninspiring. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who
was enjoying himself. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of
his tie and hair were almost rakish. He stamped his last letter as
Annabel entered.
She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was
accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.
"John," she declared, "I must eat or die. Do get your hat, and we will
go to that corner cafe."
"Right," he answered. "I know the place you mean--very good cooking
for such an out-of-the-way show. I'll be ready in a moment."
Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his
moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass.
"I really do not believe," he announced with satisfaction, "that any
one would recognize me. What do you think, Annabel?"
"I don't think they would," she admitted. "You seem to have cultivated
quite a jaunty appearance, and you certainly look years younger. One
would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into
hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife."
"Upon my word," he declared, "you are right. I really am enjoying it.
It is like a second honeymoon. If it wasn't for the fear that after
all--but we won't think of that. I don't believe any one could have
traced us here. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the
least known quarter of Paris. To-night we leave for Marseilles. On
Thursday we embark for South America."
"You are a marvellous courier," she declared, as they passed into the
street. "You see, I will take your arm. It looks so French to be
affectionate."
"There are some French customs," he declared, "which are admirable. I
presume that I may not kiss you in the street?"
"Certainly not, sir," she replied, laughing. "If you attempted such a
thing it would be in order that I should smack you hard with the palm
of my hand upon the cheek."
"That is another French custom," he remarked, "which is not so
agreeable. Here we are. Shall we sit outside and drink a _petit verre_
of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?"
"Certainly not," she answered. "I am already so hungry that I shall
begin on the _petit pains_. I have an appetite which I dare not
increase."
They entered the place, a pleasant little cafe of the sort to be met
with in the outlying parts of Paris. Most of the tables were for those
who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with
tablecloths and laid for dinner. Sir John and Annabel seated
themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small
dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a
waiter.
"Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?" with a
low bow. The _carte de jour_ was before Monsieur. He had but to give
his orders. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for
the cooking--well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to
him year after year. And always they were well satisfied. He waited
the pleasure of Monsieur.
Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a
word, and anglicizing others. When he had finished he took up the wine
list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
"I am afraid," he said to Anna afterwards, "that it was a mistake to
order the champagne sec. They will guess that I am English."
Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in
her eyes.
"Did you--did you really think that they would take you for a
Frenchman?" she exclaimed.
"I don't see why not," he answered. "These clothes are French, and I'm
sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Perhaps I
ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it
pretty well."
"You did," Anna exclaimed. "Thank Heaven, they are bringing the _hors
d'oeuvres_. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. Do take them
away from me after I have had four."
"After all," Sir John remarked complacently, "it is astonishing how
easy it is for people with brains and a little knowledge of the world
to completely hide themselves. I am absolutely certain that up to the
present we have escaped all notice, and I do not believe that any
casual observer would take us for English people."
A man who had been sitting with his hat tilted over his eyes at an
adjacent table had risen to his feet and stood suddenly before them.
"Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir
John," he said, holding out a _Daily Telegraph_. "You may find in it a
paragraph of some interest to you."
Sir John was speechless. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
"You--appear to know my name, sir," Sir John said.
"Oh, yes," the stranger remarked good-humouredly. "I know you very
well by sight, Sir John. It is my business to know most people. We
were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow
lodgers in the Rue d'Entrepot. I trust you will not accuse me of
discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie
apart."
A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John's attention. The
stranger with a bow returned to his table.
"Read this, John."
"THE BUCKNALL MANSIONS MYSTERY.
"Montague Hill, the man who was found lying wounded in Bucknall
Mansions late on Wednesday night in the rooms of a well-known
artiste, has recovered sufficiently to make a statement to the
police. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the
lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of
drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined
attempt at suicide. He further gave the name and address of the
firm from whom he purchased the revolver and cartridges, a member
of which firm has since corroborated his statement.
"Hill's confession will finally refute a number of absurd stories
which have been in circulation during the last few days. We
understand that, notwithstanding the serious nature of the man's
injuries, there is every possibility of his recovery."
Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. Sir John filled his
glass with trembling hand.
"Thank God," he exclaimed. "The fellow is not such a blackguard, after
all."
Annabel's hand stole into his.
"And I have dragged you all over here for nothing," she murmured.
"For nothing, do you call it?" he declared. "I wouldn't have been
without this trip for worlds. It has been a real honeymoon trip,
Annabel, for I feel that it has given me a wife."
Annabel pulled up her veil.
"You are a dear," she exclaimed affectionately. "I do hope that I
shall be able to make it up to you."
Sir John's reply was incoherent. He called a waiter.
"Garcon," he said, "will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he
will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me."
The stranger came over to them smiling. He had been on the point of
leaving the restaurant. He accepted the glass of wine, and bowed.
"I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall," he
said, "and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. If I might
take the liberty, Sir John," he added, with a humorous gleam in his
eyes, "I should like to congratulate you upon your tie."
"Oh, damn the thing!" Sir John exclaimed, tucking the loose ends
inside his coat.
* * * * *
"I propose," Sir John said, "that we pay for our dinner--which we
haven't had--tip the garcon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz."
Annabel shook her head.
"Look at our clothes," she exclaimed, "and besides, the funny little
proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. He would be so
disappointed. I am sure it will be good, John, and I could eat
anything. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the
boulevards. We can take our things up with us and stay at the
Continental or the Ritz."
"Excellent," Sir John declared. "We will do Paris like the tourists,
and thank God here comes dinner."
Everything was good. The garcon was tipped as he had never been tipped
before in his life. They drove up into Paris in an open _fiacre_ with
a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the
rug. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the
boulevards. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected
them both. They laughed and talked and stared about them. She took his
hand in hers.
"Dear John," she whispered. "We are to begin our married life
to-night--here where I first met you. I shall only pray that I may
reward you for all your goodness to me."
Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her
into his arms and kissed her. Then he stood up and hailed a _fiacre_.
"Hotel Ritz!"
_Chapter XXXI_