For a single instant her heart almost stopped beating. Germaine at
the telephone? But this was impossible! Yet it was unmistakably her
voice. Confused ideas rushed headlong upon her, instinctive attempts
to supply an explanation for the phenomenon. At the same time she was
so paralysed from shock that speech deserted her, and she could only
gasp, clutching the receiver in a hard grip. When the pause had become
noticeable, the voice at the other end of the line spoke again, this
time with impatience:
“_Allô! C’est de la part de qui? Est-ce que c’est Mademoiselle West
qui parle?_”
_Mademoiselle West!_ A second shock neutralized the first, leaving her
weak. So it was not Germaine at all, but Jeanne herself. Jeanne--but
with a tone, an accent indistinguishable from those of her mistress!
What an amazing similarity! Never before had Catherine noticed it, but
then never till now had she spoken to the woman over the telephone.
People’s voices played strange tricks over the wire.…
All this passed rapidly through her brain as she forced herself to
reply calmly:
“Yes, yes, Jeanne. I only want to know if madame passed a good night,
and is feeling well this morning?”
The answer came promptly, with reassuring emphasis:
“But certainly, mademoiselle, everything is going marvellously well!
Madame is quite cheerful, and looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle
Cushing this afternoon. You need have no concern for her.”
Replacing the instrument, Catherine sank on the nearest chair. What a
turn that deceptive voice had given her! She had been totally
unprepared for it, simply because she had never before spoken to
Jeanne over the telephone. She could not get over the startling
illusion.
Growing calmer, she recalled that this was not the first time she had
noticed a similarity between a maid’s voice and that of her mistress.
Indeed, she knew that the conscious or unconscious aping of an
employer’s speech is a fairly familiar phenomenon. That in this case
it was unintentional she felt almost sure, for why should Jeanne want
to deceive her?
A step in the doorway made her jump with a nervous start. Geoffrey,
fresh in grey flannels, stood before her.
“What’s this--up already? Why--is anything wrong?”
She sprang up, smiling at him.
“Of course not! I’ve been telephoning to inquire about Mme. Bender,
that’s all.”
His keen eyes searched her face.
“You look as though you had seen a ghost.”
Laughing apologetically, she explained what had happened.
“The most amazing likeness--inflection, tone, everything. I could have
sworn it was Germaine.”
He stared at her hard as though puzzled.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed under his breath, and then again, “By
Jove!”--in a manner betokening a sudden revelation.
“Is anything wrong about it?” she inquired curiously.
He shook his head.
“No, only it struck me as queer.”
She was unconvinced, but said no more till they had wandered out into
the garden and seated themselves on a bench beneath the lime-trees.
Then, seeing that he was distrait, his brow furrowed in perplexity,
she attacked him boldly.
“Geoffrey, you can’t fool me. What is it you’ve got in your mind?”
“Nothing important--I swear it. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“What a bad liar you are! You ought not to be a lawyer if you can’t
hide your feelings better than that.”
He laughed.
“Are you praising or condemning me?”
“Never mind which. I’m determined to know what you are thinking.”
“Catherine, you’re incorrigible! If I don’t tell you everything, it’s
because you are so quick to worry over trifles.”
“I shall worry ten times more over this trifle if I don’t know what it
is.”
Seeing that she was in earnest, he gave in reluctantly and in a few
words related what he had learned about Jeanne and the bank manager.
“I should not have given it much thought if you hadn’t mentioned this
trick about the voices. Now I am naturally asking myself if Ellsworth
didn’t mistake Jeanne’s voice for Mme. Bender’s.”
She leaped up with a feverish light in her eyes.
“You say she took the pearls away with her?”
“Calmly, my dear! Only the copy The actual necklace is in the bank
now.”
She quivered with excitement, her brain working rapidly.
“But don’t you see? The whole affair is probably a fraud. I am quite
sure Germaine has not spoken on the telephone for many months, and as
for the note supposed to have come from her, couldn’t it have been a
forgery? By the way, was it written by hand, or typewritten and simply
signed?”
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t inquire, but I will do so.”
It was a searching question. To copy or trace a mere signature
presented fewer difficulties than forging an entire letter, yet both
he and his father had overlooked the point. He wondered if the note
was still on file, as well as the one in which Mme. Bender had applied
for the new key.
“Still, if all the woman did was to take out a string of imitation
pearls----”
She turned on him with withering scorn.
“You poor innocent! Have you ever seen a really good copy of an actual
pearl necklace? You couldn’t tell it was imitation. I couldn’t. Only
an expert would know the difference, and a bank clerk is no expert.
No, the more I think of it the surer I am that Jeanne put the copy
into the box and took away the real ones!”
No good trying to smooth down her ruffled feathers. He could only
stand abashed by her ruthless argument.
“She’s stolen them, Geoffrey--I know she has! Even now they are
probably disposed of, one by one. Oh! to think what the wretched
creature has been up to, while we’ve looked quietly on.”
“We are not sure of this yet, you know,” he reminded her. “Besides, it
happened before you arrived in Paris, so you can’t reproach yourself.”
She seemed not to hear him, staring before her unseeingly. A breeze
stirred the lime trees, sifting a few petals down upon her dark hair
where they rested like snowflakes. Gently he put both hands on her
arms and pressed her down upon the seat.
“You may be right. I’ve a suspicion myself that there’s been mischief
going on. But as far as the pearls are concerned, we can do nothing
without a statement from your cousin. We can’t open her private box
and examine its contents. Do you think we ought to tell her what we
believe?”
She looked at him dumbly.
“I daren’t risk it,” she murmured after a pause. “The shock might kill
her. Later, when Jeanne is away and we have got her into a more normal
frame of mind, I might sound her on the subject.”
“I thought you’d say that. It’s a question of which is more
important--Mme. Bender’s recovery, or the loss of something she can
well afford to part with.”
She nodded, her face filled with painful doubt.
“Those were Hermione’s pearls. What a blow it will mean to her!”
“Never mind Hermione,” he retorted with slight impatience. “What we’ve
got to be careful about now is to see that Mme. Bender does not
execute some fantastic will, leaving her property to Jeanne.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Then you think that is what she is up to?”
“I do. I’ve come to believe that her pretending other people are after
her mistress’s money is merely a blind.”
“But why----? I don’t understand. She seems to be actually trying to
prevent her from making her will.”
“So she is--now. That is because she’s afraid the money would go to
someone else. But I am pretty certain she pictures herself ultimately
as the fortunate legatee.”
“Good heavens!” cried the girl, jumping up in fresh agitation. “Then
I’d better hurry back at once!”
He laughed at her look of fright.
“It’s not so bad as all that. Even if the will were drawn up it
wouldn’t be irrevocable, and besides I fancy Miss Cushing will act as
a restraining influence while you are away.”
“That is so,” she admitted thoughtfully. “What a blessing I managed to
make it up between them! No, I suppose there’s no danger at the
moment. For that matter, Jeanne’s practically beaten, although she has
used every possible weapon against me. Why, I almost believe she…”
She checked herself abruptly, on the verge of relating the notion
which had just come to her regarding her illness. If Geoffrey believed
it to be true he would certainly try to prevent her going back. His
recent conquest over her will made her nervous of a second encounter.
Fortunately he did not notice her sudden pause.
“There’s one thing we can do,” he remarked. “We can submit those
letters of Mme. Bender’s to a handwriting expert, and determine if
they’re genuine. If they turn out to be forgeries, we can arrest
Jeanne on the spot.”
“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that! What a marvellous idea!”
He was not feeling particularly brilliant. Here, obviously, was
something he ought to have considered days ago.
“Of course it’s possible the letters have been destroyed, but we’ll
hope for the best, I’ll see to it the first thing to-morrow. Come
along now,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve a couple of hours
before lunch. Let’s take a drive through the forest. I’ve brought the
car round.”
They spent the rest of the morning exploring the leafy fastnesses,
winding their way along cloistered roads, where immense trees
interlaced overhead. Occasionally they came on patches of warm sand
heaped with rugged boulders, amethyst in the shade, then plunged back
again into the cool green depths of woodland, silent but for distant
bird-calls. Once in a clearing they surprised a group of villagers in
Sunday attire, dancing out-of-date steps to the thin strains of a few
stringed instruments. The tunes, simple and sugary, like all popular
French music, reminded Catherine of an old musical-box, while the
entire scene was singularly charming in its total absence of
sophistication. Far through the forest sounded the tinkling notes,
punctuated by singing and laughter.
It was a relief to Catherine that Geoffrey did not refer to the
question he had put to her a little more than a week ago. Sometimes
she fancied he was on the brink of doing so, but always the momentary
tension passed with the words unspoken. She did not yet know her mind,
and conscious of physical languor wanted simply to let herself drift,
absorbing the beauty and peace of the spring day. There was ample time
to decide, provided her companion’s sentiments did not alter--and she
was sure from the look in his eyes that there was little likelihood of
that.
It was not until she was alone that evening that she permitted her
thoughts to return to Mme. Bender. Then it was that she remembered the
letter, written by her cousin in February, just before she planned to
leave for Paris. Here was a genuine instance of the invalid’s
handwriting which might prove of value to the expert Geoffrey intended
to consult. It was still in the back pocket of her bag. She read it
over once again, then enclosed it in a note to Geoffrey who was
leaving too early in the morning for her to see him.
As she made ready for bed she found herself wondering uneasily what
was going on in her absence, and whether Jeanne was using the
opportunity to press her impudent claims. What a leech she was! She
was doing her utmost to suck her victim dry, always under cover of
intense devotion. Nothing more detestable could be conceived.…
Yet was she alone in her infamous designs? Was there some guiding
intelligence in the background, thinking for her, actuating her
conduct? More than once this idea had occurred to her vaguely, yet
except for the definite instances of theft, she could not think of any
way in which the woman could have an associate other than the stupid
Eduardo. The little _notaire_ might be helping her to dispose of
stolen objects, but did he play any other part? According to Geoffrey,
the man bore an impeccable reputation.
Thinking this over, she stood by her window gazing out into the dark
garden below. Along the wall the inky shapes of the lime-trees stirred
and whispered together, while at the far corner, aloof from the rest,
a small, malformed hornbeam stood remote. Its stunted trunk and
branches like antennæ seemed to her distorted fancy like a gigantic
spider watchful in the centre of an invisible web. Almost she could
imagine that the other trees were prisoners, spellbound in the evil
power of this misshapen creature.…
“_It didn’t move--just stayed still and watched me… there were flies
tangled in the web.…_”
She could hear again the little _grisette’s_ shrill voice uttering the
words. Geoffrey had laughed at her, but she had never been able to get
the haunting impression out of her mind. Even now, when a black cloud
blotted out the moon, she could feel the presence of something coldly
insensate and grasping, lying in wait to drain its captives’ blood.
She swept the curtains together with a jerk. What a childish idea!
Besides, there was no positive danger, could be none. She had thrashed
the whole thing out to her satisfaction.
Yet the face she turned to the mirror was pale, the eyes dilated with
speculative dread.