Geoffrey Macadam had been going through a struggle. Why this
consuming eagerness to acquire news of an American girl whom he had
not known existed till yesterday afternoon? Was it genuine anxiety for
her welfare, or simply the hankering to hear again a voice which for
some inscrutable reason lingered disturbingly in his memory?
Suspecting his motives he had fought for an entire hour, during which
the telephone drew him like a magnet.
Sheer nonsense, this! She was there haunting him the whole time. Twice
last night he had dreamed about her, and even now her dark, shining
eyes came between him and the work upon his desk, scattering his ideas
to the winds of heaven. There was a kind of spell about it.… Not that
it would last, of course. This sort of thing never did. In all
likelihood after he had looked at the original eyes a time or two…
This decided him. He would ring her up, ask her to lunch--not
immediately, that was too impetuous--but later, say the end of the
week. Then he would see that she was just an ordinary mortal, and as
such put her into her proper place.
On firm ground now, his scruples placated, he did what he had been
longing to do and put through the call.
Two minutes more, and his prudent resolutions were broken to bits, all
because the familiar voice had a catch in it and an undercurrent of
excitement vibrating through its guarded replies. Clearly Miss West
was upset about something. Lunch at the end of the week became dinner
to-night--if she could manage it. Could she? There was a little gasp
of astonishment, a pause, then a wavering consent, in which it
thrilled him to detect a note of thankfulness. That meant that she
really wanted to talk to him about her cousin. Well, he also wanted to
talk about her cousin. Only there was no use pretending that Mme.
Bender’s affairs could cause his pulse to beat in this ridiculous
fashion, or rouse in him a thirsty craving like the desire for water
after a hectic night. What had come over his well-ordered self? He
must take his emotions in hand, or there was no knowing to what
stupidity they might lead.
Freeing himself from his reverie, he crossed the reception room to his
father’s office. He wanted to inform his parent of his meeting with
the late Harry Bender’s cousin, a fact he had not previously mentioned
because the elder Macadam had been dining out last night. Secretly he
suspected himself of a fatuous need to speak to someone about the
subject of his thoughts.
Blair Macadam was leaning back in his swivelled chair dictating to his
secretary, an attractive-looking English girl with well-waved hair and
a smart blue serge frock. He glanced at his son from beneath heavy
grizzled brows, but went dryly on, now and then running his fingers
through the coarse grey hair which stood up stiffly above his furrowed
forehead. He was a big, powerfully built Scot, who in his forty years’
exile from his native Edinburgh had never lost his accent, noticeable
even in his careful French.
Geoffrey walked to the window and looked down upon the busy traffic of
the rue Auber. Across the way loomed the square, dingy bulk of the
Opera, round whose island circled a ceaseless stream of hooting taxis
and motor-busses, constant menace to the harassed pedestrian. The sun
streamed down, spring was in the air.
“_Croyez-vous, cher monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments_--and so
forth. Get those typed as soon as you can. That will be all now, Miss
Curwen.”
The secretary gathered up her pads and departed, not without an
unobtrusive flicker of the eye towards the junior partner’s
unconscious back. It was characteristic of the old man that he took
note of the glance, but paid absolutely no attention to it.
“Well, Geoffrey?” he said, turning over the letters on his desk.
“It’s nothing much,” replied his son. “Only coming up from Havre on
the boat-train I met an American--West her name is--who it seems is
some relation of Harry Bender’s. I thought you might be interested.”
“Going to stay with the widow, is she?” remarked the old lawyer with
no evidence of special concern. “What age is she? Responsible woman?”
“No--quite young. Twenty-three, perhaps.”
Suddenly self-conscious Geoffrey lit a cigarette, offering his case to
his father.
“Thanks, not till after lunch. Well, I daresay it will be dull enough
for her.” He continued to sort papers. “Odd your mentioning the
Benders, though. While you were away that woman came in again to me.
Second or third time in six months.”
“What woman?”
“Mme. Bender’s maid. Seems to have a good deal of authority.”
The younger man made a movement of interest.
“Oh! What did she come about?”
“A message from her mistress, who apparently sees to nothing for
herself these days. Lost the key of her safety-deposit box at the
bank, and wanted to get a duplicate.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Oh, communicated with the bank. Told her, of course, that it would be
necessary to have a written order, signed by Mme. Bender. However she
knew all about that, and produced the paper properly signed.
Thoroughly business-like.”
Geoffrey frowned suddenly. Had not Miss Cushing, at his one memorable
interview with her, made some obscure reference to the contents of the
safety-deposit? He was sure, he recalled something of the sort.
“What do you suppose Mme. Bender keeps at the bank?” he inquired.
“Jewels, I should say. You know she seldom wore any, though Bender
must have given her some valuable ones.”
“Did this maid happen to speak of her mistress’s health? Her mental
condition, I mean. You know I mentioned it to you some time ago.”
“Did you? I forget. In any case nothing was said about it the other
day. I gather that she’s merely confined to the apartment. She can
sign her name, at all events. Why do you ask? Nothing wrong, is
there?”--and he glanced up keenly.
His son paused on the threshold.
“I don’t know that there is. I happened to hear that she is regarded
as rather--well, erratic.”
“Always was,” murmured his father. “Nothing new about that.”
“By the way,” remarked the young man, pausing in his exit, “you might
tell Elspeth I’m dining out.”
Elspeth was his married sister, who lived at Fontainebleau, but who at
the moment was staying with his father and himself at their flat in
the rue d’Assas. Father and son maintained a bachelor existence they
liked to feel was all sufficient, yet both were quick to fall into
consulting and relying upon Elspeth during her brief visits to their
_ménage_.
At a little before eight that evening Geoffrey drove his Citroën over
the Pont de la Concorde, along the Cour la Reine and so past the Place
d’Iéna and the Place du Trocadéro to the Avenue Henri Martin. He was
conscious of a vivid elation, yet in proportion as this sensation
soared within him he felt himself growing each moment stiffer and more
awkward. Why, he asked angrily, should anticipation exert so
petrifying an effect upon his powers of speech and movement? With his
whole soul he envied the easy, expansive youths of his generation,
their readiness to pay compliments and to take small liberties without
giving offense. Never could he hope to be one of these lucky beings.
He was far removed from a prig, nor did he cherish any footling
illusions about womenfolk. Except for his school and university days
he had spent his life in Paris, a city which does not foster illusions
of any kind. No, it was not from ignorance nor prudery if he froze at
a glance the exceedingly desirable girl he was hastening to meet. It
was some despised quality handed down to him through a long line of
Scottish forebears, as inseparable from their fibre as the heather
from their hills. He could as easily cut off his right arm as to rid
himself of its restraint.
It might have soothed his ire to know that this adamantine exterior
carried its own compensations, that a fair number of women, French as
well as English, regarded him with covetous interest, feeling as women
do that a nut hard to crack must contain a rewarding kernel; but
little suspicion of this penetrated his mind, even though for the past
year he had been dodging the advances of at least two damsels,
well-bred and amply dowered. What vanity was his left him uninformed
as to his powers of personal seduction.
He crossed the well of the court and entered the _ascenseur_.
Alighting at the _entresol_ he became at once aware of angry voices, a
man’s and a woman’s, engaged in turbulent altercation. The sounds came
from the direction of the Bender apartment, and as he turned the
corner he saw the maid, Jeanne, making vigorous efforts to shut the
door upon an intruder, a man in chauffeur’s uniform, who, having
wedged his foot within the entrance, stubbornly refused to budge.
“I tell you, I am not going to take my dismissal from such as you!”
shouted the aggressor furiously. “After five years, to be sent about
my business, and by another domestic! No, a thousand times no! It is
not done--a serious man, with a family, too, chucked for no reason! I
won’t have it! I insist on seeing madame, devil take you and yours!”
The woman’s features glowered with black rage.
“Must I repeat, dirty pig, that madame is ill, can see no one, by the
doctor’s orders? I have given you her message. Let that be enough for
you. Now take yourself off!”
“Not till I’ve been told why I’m given the sack. Do you imagine I am
going to say to my next patron that Mme. Bender, of the Avenue Henri
Martin, has sent me packing after five years, without a character?
Name of a pipe, no, you infernal schemer! I intend to see madame in
person and get to the bottom of this!”
Here the brawlers caught sight of Geoffrey and lapsed into sullen
silence. With slow reluctance the chauffeur withdrew his foot and
turned away, breathing hard. Geoffrey had a glimpse of a white,
enraged face, chin mutinous, eyes blazing. He was a youngish man of
decent appearance, and, contrary to Geoffrey’s first impression,
seemed to be perfectly sober. He shot a glance at the new-comer as
though of half a mind to appeal to him for support, thought better of
it, and made off towards the stairs. The woman gave a snort of
triumph.
“Another time,” she muttered in vitriolic accents, “he will not get
past the concierge. I’ll see to that! Making a scene like this in a
respectable house!”
Then pulling herself together she addressed Geoffrey with courteous
composure.
“Monsieur----?”
“Good evening. Will you kindly tell Mademoiselle West that Monsieur
Macadam is here?”
On hearing the name a subtle alteration came over the pronounced
features. The lips drew back in a mechanical smile, the brown eyes
scrutinized the visitor with searching keenness.
“Ah-h-h!” breathed the maid with a prolonged inflection. “It is for
mademoiselle! Come in, monsieur. I will inform mademoiselle.”
It was needless to do so, however, for at that moment Catherine, ready
in her coat and hat, issued from the salon. At once the expression of
her face arrested Geoffrey’s attention to such an extent of
self-consciousness and deserted him and he forgot everything except
curiosity and concern. He could not say that she looked frightened;
that was too strong a word; but her shining eyes were wide with
bewilderment, and in each cheek burned a spot of crimson evidently not
rouge. She approached him eagerly, hand outstretched with the
informality of an old friend.
“Oh!” she cried, with what he fancied was relief in her tone, “how
nice to see you! I’ve got such a lot to talk to you about!”
She faltered in the midst of the last sentence, as though disconcerted
by the fixed gaze of the maid’s eyes, somehow at variance with her
smiling mouth. Neither she nor Geoffrey had any idea as to how much
English the woman understood, but both detected a quick narrowing of
the lids not altogether friendly.
“Mademoiselle has the key I gave her?” inquired the woman with smooth
solicitude.
“Certainly, Jeanne, it is in my bag.”
“And if you should come in late, mademoiselle, you will be careful not
to make a noise?” pursued the other with perfect suavity. “It is so
easy for madame to be disturbed.”
“I’ll be very quiet,” returned the girl. “And I shan’t be at all
late.”
Rather quickly she preceded Geoffrey through the door, and as he
reached her side he thought that the colour staining her cheeks burned
a still brighter hue, but she said nothing till the cage of the lift
was sinking to the ground floor. Then suddenly she let herself go with
a burst of confidence, though her voice remained lowered.
“Oh! how thankful I am to get away!” she cried, with a half-ashamed
laugh. “That flat is getting horribly on my nerves. Silly, isn’t it?”
she added, with an appeal for tolerance.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded anxiously. “Anything gone wrong?”
She hesitated, biting her lip.
“Yes and no. I don’t know what to say. Mostly it’s just a--a feeling.…
What happened a few minutes ago, for instance. Did you see a man
talking to Jeanne as you came up?”
“Yes, Mme. Bender’s chauffeur, I fancy. They were having some sort of
shindy.”
“So that’s who it was! I wondered. You see, I heard nearly the whole
of the dispute, I couldn’t help it. It was quite right, of course, for
Jeanne to refuse to let him see Mme. Bender, but--well, she was
abusively rude to him from the beginning, and I somehow felt he had a
real grievance. Odd for him to be dismissed without any reason, don’t
you think? Not a bit like my cousin to do that. I can’t understand
it.”
It flashed into Geoffrey’s mind that in all probability the dismissal
had come from the maid herself, in which case Mme. Bender knew nothing
about it, but he shook his head in silence. After all, it was only
supposition, founded on a knowledge of the autocratic ways of old and
trusted servants.
“Oh, well”--and Catherine sighed as though trying to throw off an
irksome load. “Why bother? I came out to enjoy myself.”
“Right! Then first of all, where shall we go? A lively restaurant with
music, or a quiet one?”
“Oh, a quiet one! You see I want to tell you about something rather
dreadful which happened just before I arrived. That and other things.
The fact is, it’s all decidedly worse here than I thought.”
“In what way?” he demanded quickly.
While they were abreast of the concierge’s domain she made no reply,
but as soon as she was seated in the car she described the incident
which two nights ago had thrown the household into confusion.
“Good God!” he cried, seriously shocked. “So it’s as bad as that! I’d
no idea.”
“I’m afraid it is. But let’s talk of cheerful topics for a bit. Later
on I’ll tell you everything.”
They whirled along by the way of the Champs Élysée to a typically
French restaurant in one of the Grand Boulevards, where the food was
noted for its excellence. Here, against the wall in an alcove with
shaded lights, they pored together over a menu-sheet, while an elderly
functionary with a bottle nose bent an attentive ear to catch their
gastronomic wishes.
Catherine was to find that her new friend knew how to order a meal.
The first sip of the amber, icy cocktail set the stamp of success upon
the evening and by the time the _œufs Bourgognaises_ arrived,
embedded in their incomparable sauce, she was prepared to pay him the
tribute of a willing admiration. With the first real hunger she had
felt since she reached Paris, she fell to in appreciative silence.
Meanwhile Geoffrey studied her as closely as he dared, almost
chagrined to find her much lovelier than the picture he had carried
about with him. American women were as smart as the French, he
decided, with better figures, too, and a look of finer breeding. Also
they knew not only what to put on but what to leave off, scorning to
distract the eye with irrelevant detail.
How effective her plain parchment-coloured velvet was against the red
plush of the seat! It defined her slender body delicately, while her
tiny, black hat was so close-fitting as to appear almost
indistinguishable from her hair. Round her throat lay a necklace of
flat, plaited gold, toning subtly with her warm pallor, and she wore
but one other ornament, a ruby ring with a big decorative setting, its
single stone repeating the crimson which formed her present
background.
For the moment the luminous eyes were veiled by the pensive sweep of
her lashes. He longed, man-like, to rekindle the dancing flames in
them, but found himself tongue-tied. Poor girl, he was afraid she had
been going through a nasty time. Better leave her in peace till she
was ready to speak.
At last she looked up, absently twisting her wine-glass between
nervous fingers.
“Do you know why I wasn’t met at the _gare_ last night?” she asked.
“No. Wasn’t the telegram delivered?”
“It wasn’t that. There was another reason.”
She glanced for a moment at the adjacent tables. The sole diners
within earshot were a pair of pompous, middle-aged Frenchmen greedily
intent on their meal.
“The truth is, those servants don’t want me there, and thought they’d
begin by making things uncomfortable for me. They’re rude, they’re
overbearing, they act as if they hated me. In fact,” she finished with
a rueful laugh, “both Jeanne and Eduardo are doing their utmost to
drive me away!”