"Yet another railway mystery! The dead body of a woman has been found in
a first-class compartment in a train which left Paris at 7 P. M. last
Wednesday. As the discovery was not made till the train reached Orange,
it is, of course, impossible to know where the unfortunate woman, who,
by her dress, belonged to the leisured class, entered the train. Her
hand baggage had disappeared, no doubt stolen at some intervening
station by someone who, having made the gruesome discovery, thought it
wise to make himself scarce. The police do not, however, consider that
they are in the presence of a crime. Dr. Fortoul, the well-known
physician of Orange, has satisfied himself that the lady died of heart
disease."
Vanderlyn went on staring down at the printed words. They seemed to make
more true, more inevitable, the fact of Margaret Pargeter's death, and
of his own awful loss.
But with the agony of this thought came infinite relief, for this, or so
he thought, meant that his own personal ordeal was at last drawing to a
close. The fact of so strange and unwonted an occurrence as the finding
of a woman's dead body in a train, would surely be at once connected by
the trained intellects of the Paris Police with the disappearance of
Mrs. Pargeter.
He let the paper fall to the ground and began to think intently. When
that came to pass, as it certainly must do within the next few hours, it
would become his grim business to persuade Tom Pargeter that the clue
was one worth following. The mystery solved, the question of how
Margaret Pargeter came to be travelling in the demi-rapide would be
comparatively unimportant--at any rate not a point which such a man as
Tom Pargeter would give himself much trouble to clear up.
Then with some uneasiness he remembered that before such an item of news
could have found its way into an English newspaper, the fact must have
been known to the French police for at least twelve hours. If that were
so, their acumen was not as great as that with which Vanderlyn credited
them.
But stay! The Prefect of Police was convinced that Mrs. Pargeter was
alive, and that he, Vanderlyn, knew her whereabouts; it was not for
Peggy dead, but for Peggy living, that they were still searching so
eagerly.
He opened the _Figaro_ and the _Petit Journal_, and ran a shaking finger
down the columns; there, in each paper, hidden away among unimportant
items, and told more briefly and in much balder language, he at last
found the story of the discovery which the _Daily Telegraph_ had served
up as a tit-bit to thrill the readers of its Paris news columns.
Vanderlyn made up his mind to spend the whole of the next day with
Pargeter; he must be at the villa, ready to put in his word of
advice,--even, if need be, of suggestion,--when the moment came for him
to do so.
For the first time for many nights Vanderlyn's sleep was unbroken; and
early the next morning he made his way to the Avenue du Bois de
Boulogne.
As he walked through the hall of the villa, already peopled with a score
of the Pargeters' acquaintances, eager to show their sympathy with the
wealthy sportsman in this most untoward and extraordinary occurrence,
the American was obliged to shake hands with many men whom he had
hitherto only known by sight, and to answer questions some of which
impressed him as strangely indiscreet. More than one of those with whom
he found himself thus face to face looked at him with cruel, inquisitive
eyes, and a scarcely veiled curiosity, for it was of course well known
that Laurence Vanderlyn had been an intimate, not only of the husband,
but also of the wife.
At last Pargeter's valet threaded his way up to him: "Will you please
come upstairs, sir? Mr. Pargeter told me to say that he would be glad if
you would go to his dressing-room as soon as you arrived."
"There's no news, Grid,--no news at all! It's getting awful, isn't
it?--quite beyond a joke! You know what I mean--I'm sick of answering
stupid questions. I was waked this morning at seven--had to see a man in
bed! They don't seem to understand that I can tell them nothing beyond
the bare fact that she's vanished; they actually sent two women here
last night----"
"Two women?" echoed Vanderlyn. "What sort of women?"
"Ugly old hags," said Pargeter, briefly, "from the Prefecture of Police.
They brought an impudent letter asking me to allow them to turn out
Peggy's room and look over all her things! But I refused----" he looked
at his friend for sympathy--and found it.
"You were quite right," said Vanderlyn quickly. His face became rigid
with anger and disgust. "Quite right, Tom! Whatever made them think of
suggesting such a thing? Where would be the use of it?"
"Oh! well, of course they had a reason. The police are particularly keen
that we should look over any old letters of hers; they think that we
might find some kind of clue. But I don't believe she kept her
letters--why should she? I don't keep mine. However, I've promised to do
the job myself----" he looked uncertainly at Vanderlyn. "Would you mind,
Grid, coming with me into Peggy's room? Of course Plimmer, that's her
maid, you know, will help us. She knows where Peggy keeps all her
things."
"Why not ask Madame de Léra to do it?" said Vanderlyn, in a low voice.
He turned away and stared at a sporting print which hung just on the
level of his eyes. Had he ever written imprudent letters to Peggy? Not
lately, but in the early days,--in that brief time of uncertain ecstasy,
and, on his part, of passionate expression, which had preceded their
long successful pretence at friendship? He himself had preserved later
letters of hers--not love-letters assuredly, but letters which proved
clearly enough the strange closeness of their intimacy.
But what was this that Pargeter was saying? "Madame de Léra? Why should
I ask her to interfere? I don't want to mix her up in this business more
than I can help! If it hadn't been for her--and that ridiculous
invitation of hers, Peggy would be here now! Peggy wouldn't mind your
looking over her things, Grid. She's really fond of you--as fond of you
as she can be of anyone, that is."
He got up, and, preceding Vanderlyn down a connecting passage, flung
open the door giving access to a spacious airy bedchamber of which the
pale mauve and grey furnishings reminded both men of Peggy's favourite
flower and scent. The sun-blinds were down and the maid was standing, as
if waiting for them, by the dressing-table.
They both instinctively hesitated on the threshold. "Tom," said
Vanderlyn, hoarsely, "I don't think I ought to come in here----"
"Don't be a fool! I tell you she wouldn't mind a bit. Surely you're not
going to cut--now?"
Pargeter took a step forward; then he stood for a moment looking round
him, evidently perplexed, and ill at ease at finding himself thus
suddenly introduced into his wife's intimate atmosphere.
"I don't believe she kept any letters," he repeated, then glanced
uncertainly at the lady's-maid who stood primly by.
"Mrs. Pargeter kept some letters in that writing-desk over there,
sir,--at least I think she did."
Close to the small tent-bed stood an old-fashioned rosewood davenport, a
relic of Margaret Pargeter's childhood and girlhood, brought from her
distant English home.