During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that
this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely
to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal
profession. She thought she knew the breed.
“Hermione Cushing?” he repeated again with a sort of negative
inflection. “Oh, yes! You mean the singer.”
“Do I?” she demanded bluntly. “I didn’t know she was a singer.”
The gleam in his eye was altogether human.
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer,” he
amended. “In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.”
“You do know her, then?”
“Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known
figure in Paris.”
That was all. He had shut up like a clam.
“Oh dear!” fumed Catherine inwardly, “he’s going to be tiresome like
John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that
when I mentioned her name?”
There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching
her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her
cards on the table.
“Mr. Macadam,” she began, glancing hastily at their comatose
companions, “just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from
this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme.
Bender’s, and as such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is
it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?”
He considered briefly.
“Oh, yes. I believe--indeed, I know that she is.”
“Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?”
She fancied his smile was reminiscent.
“Nothing,” he replied discreetly. “Beyond a certain excitability,
which one may put down to the artist temperament.” Yet even as he
spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her.
Why couldn’t he be more open?
“Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully
bothered to know what to make of this.” She fingered the pages with
hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. “If you won’t think me
stupid, I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I
ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my
feeling nervous about it.”
She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness;
then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention,
she held her breath, studying him anxiously.
Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the
pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue
to his thoughts.
“You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out
of her mind,” she put in presently. “And about it’s being an
undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she
herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I
can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the
suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t
be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?”
“Of course,” he assented, “it puts the idea into one’s head.”
“That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s
naturally very upsetting.”
He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.
“If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?”
Catherine blushed.
“No,” she confessed guiltily. “I had made my plans, and frankly I
didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender
herself----.”
“Oh, she wrote to you, did she?”
“Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a
little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact,
on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as
soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that
Eduardo--that’s the manservant--could meet me with the car and see me
through the customs.”
“You are sure she wrote the letter herself?”
Catherine stared at him astonished.
“Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have
written it?”
Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he
would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he
would let her share it!
“Besides,” she argued, to justify herself, “it is not as though Miss
Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she
apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed,
she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get
that idea?”
“Very much so,” he agreed. “She appears to think she will have a
better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.”
Catherine gave a quick nod.
“Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne.
Here--what is it she says?--‘She detests me, _cette femme là_, and
will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder
what is at the back of that?”
Macadam stirred uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.
“Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what
these old servants are like. Will you smoke?”
“Oh, thanks!” She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette,
then puffing thoughtfully remarked: “That probably explains it. But it
occurred to me--what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss
Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?”
“Oh, perfectly! I see your point.”
Indeed, he saw it only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him
so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in
question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not
making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were
not wanted. Various information, all emanating from the singer
herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had
investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had
done the best he could.…
“Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane,” he
remarked with apparent irrelevance. “Often there are completely lucid
intervals, so that two observers might easily have different
opinions.”
“That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has
known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion,
must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone
who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting
Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.”
She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all
the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to
do so by her companion’s evasiveness.
Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes
were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped
a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of
firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately
modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was
too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her,
showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body.
When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though
emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very
soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than
most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he
longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?
“At any rate,” he said, “I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to
know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who
probably understands her case.”
“An American?”
“No--French, I believe.”
“She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh,
well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope
so.”
So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over
the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become
the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She
might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had
known at least one case of so-called “circular insanity,” where the
patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with
startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a
knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of
things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so
forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded
warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of
discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.
When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into
night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages
clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confused surging exodus of
passengers on to the grimy platform.
Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she
had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years
ago! The staccato babble filling her ears had an exotic sound,
heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset
herself over imagined difficulties! Everything was going to be
perfect.…
What was Mr. Macadam saying?
“Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet
you?”
“Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel
Portuguese, looks as though he ought to have rings in his ears and a
knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be
somewhere among the crowd.”
While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and
slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with
an eager eye.
“I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him,” suggested
her companion tentatively.
“Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be
here.”
She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step
and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure
towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices
shouted “_Attention!_” and more than once she was glad of the
protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled
ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.
Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be
searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face
she could descry no one faintly resembling him.
“Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you
through all this business so as not to waste time.”
She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with
uncertainty.
“It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?”
“I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner,” he assured her. “Here we
are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.”
It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through
the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their
contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.
“Like the Last Judgment--the graves giving up their secrets!” she
laughed. “I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to
declare.”
It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done
with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her
eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the
Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.
Eduardo was not there.