THE INDISCRETIONS OF A LADY’S MAID
[Illustration]
“THE MASTER OF MYSTERY”
WILLIAM LE QUEUX’S NOVELS
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THE INDISCRETIONS
OF A LADY’S MAID
BEING SOME STRANGE STORIES RELATED BY
MADEMOISELLE MARIETTE LE BAS
FEMME-DE-CHAMBRE
AND CHRONICLED BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
“_Nobody in a large household knows so much, or sees so much,
as Madame’s maid—especially if Madame is ‘chic’ and inclined to
be—well a trifle vain and frivolous, as is so often the case._”
LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH
1912
_Second Impression._
_Copyright in the United States of America
by William Le Queux, 1911._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I MADAME’S GENTLEMAN FRIEND 7
II THE WARDROBE DRAWER 31
III LITTLE MRS. OTWAY 55
IV THE NOAH’S ARK 80
V GUILTY BONDS 108
VI THE MYSTERY OF MONSIEUR 137
VII THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS 161
VIII WHAT WAS IN THE STRONG ROOM 184
IX CONCERNS TWO VISITORS 207
X CONTAINS SOME REVELATIONS 219
XI A QUEER MÉNAGE 233
XII A PEER OF THE REALM 257
XIII CONCERNING MADAME’S LUGGAGE 268
XIV MADAME AND THE BUTLER 287
XV THE PEOPLE AT LANCASTER GATE 309
CHAPTER I
MADAME’S GENTLEMAN FRIEND
APRIL 10TH
_Là! là!_ To-day, the 10th of April, at half-past three o’clock, I have
entered upon my new situation—the seventeenth in the five years I have
been in service as _femme-de-chambre_.
Though only a lady’s maid, I suppose I ought to introduce myself to those
_messieurs et mesdames_ who may be interested in reading my various
adventures in England and elsewhere.
My name is Mariette Le Bas, daughter of Jacques Le Bas,
peasant-proprietor of Pont-Pagny, near Auxerre in the Yonne, aged
twenty-four, dark hair, _bonne taille_, good needlewoman and
hair-dresser, and the holder of the highest references, including one
from the wife of one of your English Cabinet Ministers—who, by the way,
was a most evil-tongued person. I speak French, Italian, English, and a
little German, am told I am a good reader, and the wages I demand are
forty-eight pounds a year.
Nobody in a large household knows so much, or sees so much, as Madame’s
maid—especially if Madame is _chic_ and inclined to be—well, a trifle
vain and frivolous, as is so often the case. I have spent the greater
part of my time in the service of English ladies, and I have seen some
strange things.
Some of them I will relate, and you will, I think, agree that if the
servants’ hall may not be an exactly romantic place, yet there is as much
scandal and gossip there as in the drawing-room.
The last post I held before coming here, to the excessive dullness of
Bournemouth, was with a certain Mrs. Engleheart, who lived in a smart,
prettily-furnished house in Cleveland Square, and whose husband was
engaged in business in the City.
_Ah! oui_, I remember well how, after being engaged through the registry
office of old Mrs. Banks—who, as you know, if you read the advertisement
columns, makes a speciality of foreign maids—I arrived one wintry
afternoon with my trunk on the top of a four-wheeler. The manner in which
the butler, a snappy old Englishman named Francis, looked at me when
I entered aroused my curiosity. Madame was quite affable, about my own
age, a rather pretty _blonde_, who possessed a very smart collection of
gowns, and who knew how and when to wear them—which, alas! few women do.
She delighted in the daintiest of _linge intime_, and was a mistress
whom a foreign _femme-de-chambre_ could appreciate, and who did her maid
great credit—which cannot be said of several of the coarse, over-dressed
dowagers in whose service I have been.
Monsieur, too, was quite pleasant and chatty when, on his arrival for
dinner, I was introduced to him. He was about thirty, tall, clean-shaven,
well-groomed, and rather good-looking.
As I left the room, however, I heard him say to his wife in Italian, a
language of which he believed me ignorant—
“_Benissimo!_ She is really smart. I wonder if she’ll keep a still
tongue?”
As the days went on I found the place an almost ideal one. Madame was
kind, and never exacting. Monsieur, who was absent all day, was always
polite, and sometimes smiled at me, while the other four servants, all
of them recent arrivals, expressed themselves quite contented. The only
person for whom I held an instinctive dislike was the butler, Francis. He
was too prying, too inquisitive regarding my family, my past situations,
my friends in London, and whether I had had any little affair of the
heart, as we say in French.
_Parbleu!_ He was a bald-headed man, and his moustache was dyed. I was
surprised to discover that when he waited at table he was on terms of
remarkable familiarity with his mistress and master. I actually once
overheard him speaking with Madame in the drawing-room as though he were
her equal.
The Englehearts had a good many friends, mostly smart people, including
many rather foppish young men about town. Madame went out with Monsieur
almost every evening, supping two or three times each week at the Savoy
or Carlton or Waldorf, and often not returning home till three or even
four o’clock. Yet each morning, punctually at half-past nine, Madame’s
husband kissed her good-bye, and took his taxi-cab to the City, leaving
her to her own devices.
What was his profession I tried in vain to learn. To a lady’s maid
Madame’s husband is often an enigma. One day, while seated at table
in the servants’ hall, I expressed wonder as to Monsieur’s vocation,
whereupon Francis looked up from his place sharply, saying—
“What does that concern us? The master is a gentleman. I’ve been in his
service these eight years, and I know. All you have to do is to keep a
still tongue—and you’ll be well paid for it.”
It was curious that the finances of my master and mistress seemed to
fluctuate. At one time everything was sacrificed for economy, and at
others they were recklessly extravagant.
One day Madame had gone out alone to lunch with friends when, on glancing
in a little drawer on the dressing-table, I found something which caused
me to ponder. It was Madame’s wedding-ring. On two other occasions I
found it in the same place. She seemed to have contracted a habit of
leaving it behind when she went out! _Figurez-vous!_
I had been in the Englehearts’ service about a month when, one morning,
Madame made the welcome announcement that we were to start for Monte
Carlo next day. _Très bien!_ The trunks were fetched in feverish
haste from the lumber-room, and I commenced to pack. Madame’s best
_robes_—three or four of them by the best _couturières_ of Paris—I
folded, she assisting me in eager excitement, and Francis packing
Monsieur’s crocodile suit case.
Three days later we installed ourselves in one of the most expensive
suites at the Hôtel de Paris, opposite the Casino.
On the day following, while I was lacing Madame’s corsets, she said—
“Mariette, I shall only require you in the morning, and to dress me again
at six each evening. Therefore you can have the whole of each day to
yourself. Here, in Monte Carlo, there is very little for a maid to do,
so, if I were you, I should run over to Nice or to Mentone. You will find
life there much more pleasant, and, with the trams, all the places are
nowadays so accessible.”
I had been on the Riviera half-a-dozen times before, and knew it well.
Yet, somehow, this generosity of hers in the matter of leave struck me as
a little peculiar. Did she wish to get rid of me?
Very soon I decided that such was the case, for, curiously enough,
Monsieur used to leave Monte Carlo each morning about eleven, generally
taking the _rapide_ to Nice, while Madame amused herself across at the
Rooms as best she could.
For a _chic_, well-dressed young lady like Madame amusement would
not be difficult. Indeed, she quickly formed the acquaintance of
quite a number of people, and she played constantly at _roulette_ or
_trente-et-quarante_. What was the extent of her losses I have no idea,
for servants are debarred entrance to the Casino. Yet each evening,
as I dressed her long, luxuriant hair, she generally bewailed her bad
luck. As the days passed she developed a _chic_ almost unparalleled in
my experience. She used the best products of Lentheric or Houbigant,
and patronised Hartog and the Maison Lewis, running up heavy bills
which Monsieur willingly paid. Indeed, I believe I can say, without
contradiction, that she was the best-dressed woman at Monte Carlo that
season. The set she had entered was certainly one of the gayest, for
about her there hung half-a-dozen wealthy men of various ages—those
idlers who bask in the smiles of a pretty woman.
Monsieur’s attitude was always one of utter unconcern. His eyes seemed
closed to his wife’s flirtations, which were outrageous, especially with
a certain clean-shaven, pale-faced young American who was immensely
wealthy. His name was Oswald B. Ogden, and he had, a few months before,
inherited a colossal fortune from his father, who was one of the princes
of Wall Street, for he had two years previously made over a million and a
half sterling by cornering leather. The young man had been on the Riviera
the whole season, and had become most popular everywhere. All the women
with marriageable daughters buzzed about him, but his only intimate
friend seemed to be my pretty young mistress.
Truly they were a charming, well-dressed pair. I saw them together
everywhere, seated together on the terrace, at the café, at Ciro’s
lunching, or out in Mr. Ogden’s big yellow motor-car. More than once he
had the audacity to send Madame a big basket of roses or carnations,
yet Monsieur never objected. Really some husbands are so easily blinded
by their wife’s kisses. Ah! if you would watch domestic happiness,
and realise the deep cunning of a clever woman, you should become a
_femme-de-chambre_. Your eyes would be opened to a good deal of the
unsuspected.
For fully three weeks Madame and the young American were inseparable.
Monsieur went almost daily over to Nice; so constantly, indeed, that it
seemed as though business took him there.
Of a sudden Madame’s leniency of manner towards me changed; for one
evening, while fastening her _corsage_, she suddenly exclaimed in a
petulant tone—
“Mariette, you go over to Nice far too much. I suppose you’ve found a
lover there, eh?”
“Madame is quite mistaken,” I replied, laughing; “I have no lover. My
cousin Justine is in service with the Baronne Montvallier, at the Villa
Magnan, and I go often to see her.”
“Well, I think, in future, you had better remain here. I so often want
you,” she said.
“As Madame desires,” was my reply.
Nevertheless, as that was Justine’s night out, I went over to Nice as
usual after Madame had gone with Mr. Ogden to dine at the Hermitage.
Justine went with me to the Casino Municipal for an hour, and afterwards
we strolled back in the moonlight along the wide, palm-lined Promenade
des Anglais.
We were chatting and laughing, for as we had passed a gentleman he had
spoken to us, as is the habit of the _vieux marcheur_ in France. We had,
however, hurried on, when, of a sudden, I caught sight of two other
gentlemen approaching us, one of whom I recognised by his white felt hat
was my master.
The form of the other seemed familiar, yet I did not at first realise
whom it could be. The pair were deep in conversation, Monsieur Engleheart
striking his open palm with his fist as though clenching an argument.
Then, as they passed, the moonlight fell full upon their faces, and in an
instant—ah! _voilà!_ I saw that my master’s companion was none other than
Francis, our butler at Cleveland Square!
_Extraordinaire!_
I could scarce believe my eyes. There, walking beside Monsieur
Engleheart, on terms of equality, was Francis, dressed fashionably,
wearing a smart straw hat stuck jauntily upon his head and swinging his
cane with all the carelessness of an idler.
I halted for a second, utterly stupefied, then, next moment, hurried on,
for fortunately they had not seen me.
_Tiens!_ What could this mean?
I recollected the familiar attitude of Francis towards my mistress, and
the air of proprietorship, unbecoming a servant, with which he went about
the house. I also recollected his advice to me to “keep a still tongue.”
I resolved to watch; therefore, excusing myself to Justine that I had
to catch my train, I left her and, turning, followed the pair. Was the
reason of Madame forbidding me to come to Nice because she did not wish
me to discover Francis’s presence!
The two men walked leisurely along the Promenade, engrossed in their
conversation. Then suddenly they halted, and after a few moments parted,
Francis turning back in my direction.
I drew into the shadow beneath one of the big palms which line the
handsome roadway, and watched him cross and enter a big new hotel which
faced the sea.
It was, I saw, the Hôtel Royal—the same hotel where Oswald Ogden had a
suite of rooms.
So when he had passed in I also crossed, and approaching the gold-laced
concierge who was standing outside the door, asked in French—
“Could you tell me the name of the gentleman who has just entered? I am a
_femme-de-chambre_, and my mistress is anxious to ascertain.”
I added those words, knowing that one servant is always ready to give
information to another.
“The gentleman in the straw hat. Ah! That is Monsieur Vernon—_un Anglais,
très riche_.”
“You have Monsieur Ogden, the rich young American here. Is Monsieur
Vernon a friend of his?”
“Oh, yes, a very intimate friend. They are always motoring together.”
I thanked him, and, passing outside, strolled slowly back towards the
station, absolutely convinced that some plot was in progress. But its
nature I failed to imagine.
As the warm, fevered days of winter gaiety went on, Madame grew more
irritable, more addicted to nerves, fuller of fads and fancies. Her
dresses did not suit her, so she ordered two new evening gowns from
Migno, in Nice, and an exquisite hat.
Mr. Ogden liked her in turquoise, so she ordered yet another gown of
pale turquoise chiffon, an exact replica of a beautiful creation that
Mademoiselle Helya Terry, one of the leaders of the _mode_, was wearing
on the stage at the Gymnase in Paris.
Yet she grew melancholy. Her losses at _roulette_ were severe, I
supposed. Besides, I had a suspicion that there was a little difficulty
about that week’s hotel bill. A letter from Griffiths, the head housemaid
at Cleveland Square, told me that mysterious persons had been calling of
late, inquiring for Monsieur. It seemed as though financial difficulties
had again arisen, for two writs had been left at the door. Francis, or
“Mr. Jennings,” as Griffiths called him, had gone on a holiday to his
brother at Yarmouth, and things at Cleveland Square were horribly dull.
The others, she said, envied me the sunshine, the flowers, and the gaiety
of the Riviera. I read and re-read that letter, full of gravest doubts.
_Evidemment_, Madame in the last few weeks had developed certain
idiosyncrasies. She had taken to standing before the long mirror,
admiring her bust and her waist. Indeed, she said to me one day—
“Mariette, tell me the truth now; I wear my clothes properly, do I not?
If I don’t, just tell me.”
“Madame wears her robes perfectly,” was my prompt reply, as I placed her
black silk stocking upon her white, well-shapen foot. “I have never seen
an English lady who looks so _tout à fait parisienne_,” I declared.
This was in no sense of flattery, for Madame Engleheart, wherever she had
learnt the art of dressing, dressed uncommonly well. Ah, you should have
seen her! She was _très chic_.
I espied Francis another afternoon, a week later, seated at one of the
tables in front of the Café de la Régence, in Nice. He was with Monsieur,
smoking leisurely and drinking _bock_, while Madame was, I supposed,
lunching with Mr. Ogden at Ciro’s, or at the Reserve over at Beaulieu, as
had now become their daily habit.
That same night, while I was arranging Madame’s hair, she being already
in her _robe de nuit_, a marvel of delicate lingerie adorned with pale
blue ribbons, Monsieur suddenly entered, pale and agitated.
“I want to speak to you, dear. I——” he said, and then he glanced
apprehensively at me.
“Mariette,” she exclaimed, “you can go. Good-night.”
I put down the brush, and, wishing my master and mistress _bon soir_,
promptly retired.
But, having traversed the corridor some distance, I crept back to the
door and listened.
I was rewarded. They were speaking low and earnestly—so low that I had
great difficulty in catching any words. But by placing my ear at the
key-hole—for which I hope in the circumstances the reader will forgive
me—I overheard Monsieur exclaim—
“Look here, Lucy! This game is all very fine, but it can’t last any
longer. Francis is determined—so am I. We must make hay while the sun
shines. If we don’t act quickly the golden chance will slip through our
fingers.”
“If you hurry it, you’ll spoil it, mark me,” was Madame’s quick reply.
“Francis has all in his hand at present—but it won’t be for long,”
Monsieur said. Then he added: “I hope that girl Mariette doesn’t suspect
anything, eh?”
“Not in the least,” laughed my mistress. “She is such a good girl that
evil never enters her mind.”
“But she knows that Oswald is always with you. She must have seen that.
Francis’s advice is to discharge her at once. Give her five hundred
francs, and let her go.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” was my mistress’s reply. “Mariette is a
treasure. I will not part with her. Besides, she is pretty, remember—so
she may be useful in several ways.”
Then she dropped her voice to a whisper, and though I strained my ear at
that key-hole for a long time I heard no more.
What ingenious manœuvre was intended? I was not alarmed, for in my
capacity of _femme-de-chambre_ I had witnessed many strange things, some
of which it is my intention to relate in these reminiscences.
The mystery of it all kept me in constant reflection. That the young
American was aware that Madame was married was, of course, certain.
Still, friendships at Monte Carlo are often strange ones, and where
Prince Rouge-et-Noir reigns manners are slightly different from those in
any other part of the world.
Next afternoon, about two o’clock, Madame sent for me.
“_Ecoutez_, Mariette,” she said. “I want you to go over to Nice at once
for me, and find Mr. Ogden at the Hôtel Royal. Wait for him if he is
out, and deliver this note—into his own hand, remember. There may be a
reply. Of that, I am not certain. But you must find him before dinner—you
understand?”
“Perfectly, Madame,” was my reply, and I took the note, dressed myself,
and went by the next train to Nice, hoping perhaps to see Francis. But he
was invisible.
I had no difficulty in finding the young American, for he was seated at
one of the little tables in the garden facing the Promenade, chatting
with a fair-haired man about his own age, and smoking a cigarette.
“Ah! Mariette,” he exclaimed with his slight American drawl, jumping up
as I approached. “Say, how is Madame? I haven’t seen her these three
days.”
“Madame is quite well,” I replied. “I have a note for you, m’sieur.”
He took it eagerly, broke it open, and glanced at its contents. Then
instantly his face fell; he grew as white as paper.
“Anything the matter, old chap?” asked his friend.
“No, nothing,” he managed to stammer. “Nothing,” and he smiled grimly.
Then, turning to me, he said—
“Mariette, walk with me outside on the Promenade. I want to speak to you.”
Willingly I strolled at his side, and when we were out of hearing, he
said in a strange, hard voice—
“I want you to tell Madame that I must see her to-night. I will be on
the lower terrace in front of the Casino at Monte Carlo at eleven. Tell
her that—but not before Mr. Engleheart, you understand.” He seemed
apprehensive, and much perturbed by Madame’s note.
“Certainly, m’sieur,” I replied. Then he slipped a louis into my hand,
and left me.
When Madame entered her room that evening, and I told her his request,
she flew into a great rage, threw her hat-pins so viciously upon the
dressing-table that she broke a new bottle of “Idéale,” tore her veil,
and in throwing her hat upon the bed broke one of the feathers.
“So he orders me to meet him!” she cried. “It has come to this, eh? He is
not a gentleman. These rich Americans are always impossible people.”
Whether Madame met him I am unaware. All I know is that she entered the
hotel shortly before one o’clock in the morning, and had a long and
animated discussion with Monsieur.
On the following evening, as I sat at dinner with the maids and valets a
message came to me that Madame required me at once, and, on entering the
room, I found her bustling about.
“We must start packing at once, Mariette,” she said. “We are returning to
London by the Côte d’Azur express at 7.24 to-morrow morning.”
From this, I concluded she had quarrelled with Oswald Ogden and had
resolved to return home.
Next day’s journey up to Paris was—as you know from experience—long and
fatiguing. At the bookstall at Lyons I bought a _Daily Mail_, and was
idling over it, being in the same compartment as Madame and Monsieur,
there being no second class on the day _rapide_.
Suddenly, under the “_Mondanités_” I read the following paragraph—
“The announcement was confirmed in New York yesterday by Mr.
Charles H. Dominick, the President of the Philadelphia Railway,
that his only daughter, Miss Gloria Dominick, is engaged to be
married to Mr. Oswald B. Ogden, of New York, whose father, it
will be remembered, cornered leather two years ago, and who
died recently, leaving his son over five millions sterling.”
For a moment I held my breath. _Tiens! Tiens! Ah! la vie est vraiment
trop dure!_ Then, as Monsieur was asleep in his corner, I handed the
paper across to Madame and pointed to the paragraph.
“Yes,” she said in a hard, low voice. “I already know.”
And then she lapsed into silence, thoughtfully gazing out of the window.
_Enfin_, on arrival at Cleveland Square, Francis, grave and urbane as
usual, opened the door with a low bow and words of welcome, as though he
had not seen his master or mistress since our departure. But Madame’s
irritability increased. She complained of one servant after the other in
turn, and for the first few days gave us a most uncomfortable time. To
a certain Mrs. Cooper, a friend who visited her, I heard her admit that
she had lost over a thousand pounds at the tables, a fact which did not
surprise me in the least.
Monsieur, too, seemed anxious and worried. Strange men called, and were
closeted with him in his study, whilst Madame received hosts of telegrams
at all hours.
One evening, after we had been at home about a week, it being my night
out, I had been over to Hoxton to see an old fellow-servant. On my way
back, about ten o’clock, I turned into Cleveland Square, at that hour
quiet and deserted, when I passed a man who appeared to be idling beneath
the lamp-post a short distance from the house.
Our recognition was mutual. It was Madame’s friend of Monte Carlo, Mr.
Ogden. I noticed, too, another man was idling near, the same fair-haired
man whom I had seen with him in Nice.
In an instant he was at my side.
“Mariette,” he exclaimed, “you must not say you have seen me. Say,
is your mistress well? Is she likely to come out, upon any pretext,
to-night, do you think?”
“Madame is quite well,” was my reply. “But she has friends to dinner this
evening—two gentlemen. So she will remain at home.”
He sighed, apparently much disappointed.
Then he pressed a sovereign into my hand, saying—
“Not a word that you have seen me—eh?”
And I promised. Afterwards, he rejoined his friend, who had been standing
back in the shadow.
A few days later Madame rang for me to the drawing-room in the afternoon,
and said—
“I expect Mr. Ogden at nine o’clock to-night, Mariette. Answer the door
if any one rings, will you? Francis has gone out this evening.”
He had gone out, I supposed, to avoid recognition.
Madame seemed in high spirits, and laughed heartily with Monsieur. Then
she crossed to the piano and played a gay _chanson_. They afterwards
dined together and drank champagne. Apparently Monsieur was in funds
again.
A few minutes after nine the front-door bell rang, and I admitted the
wealthy young American, conducting him to the study, where Madame, who
looked very sweet in a gown of pale carnation chiffon, awaited him.
He bowed on entering, and I was about to retire when Madame exclaimed—
“Mariette, I wish you to remain here.”
“Why?” asked the young man, surprised. “How can we discuss the matter
before her?”
“There is surely nothing to discuss. Besides Mariette knows of our
friendship,” was her quick reply, as she drew herself up.
“Pardon me, but there is something to discuss, and if you are not averse
to Mariette hearing the truth—well, I’m not, I assure you,” he said with
a short laugh.
“The matter is quite simple, is it not? I think that my husband is
behaving most handsomely to both of us. Few men are so lenient as he.”
“My dear Mrs. Engleheart,” he said, “I know I’m in a hole; I quite admit
that. Yet I can’t quite see why you’ve invited me to your house. Surely
our discussion would have been much better if held somewhere else. But
as you wish, let us by all means review the situation. Your husband has,
unfortunately, got hold of those silly letters of mine to you, and will
sue for a divorce, and at the same time hand copies of my letters to Miss
Dominick. That, I admit, is most unfortunate—for him.”
“For him!” she cried. “Why is it not unfortunate for me—and for you,
engaged to be married, as you are?”
The young man, whose hands were behind his back, pulled a wry face.
“Your husband asks five thousand pounds for those letters—eh?”
“Yes, and I sincerely hope you have come prepared to pay him, and so end
all this terrible fuss and worry. It is really awful for me, I assure
you, Oswald. Think of the scandal,” she exclaimed.
“I shall not pay a red cent, my dear little woman,” was his cool response.
She looked at him in blank dismay.
“Perhaps you had better tell my husband that yourself,” she managed to
exclaim, flushing angrily, and she rang the bell, whereupon Monsieur came
in at once from the dining-room.
The meeting between the two men was cool in the extreme. In a few brief
words Madame explained the young American’s unfortunate refusal to accept
the terms offered, whereupon Monsieur turned savagely upon their visitor,
abused him, and said that he should send the letters at once to his
_fiancée_.
Oswald Ogden took the castigation quite coolly. He calmly lit a
cigarette, offering neither apology nor defence.
When Monsieur, crimson with anger and bluster, paused for breath, he
coolly replied—
“My dear sir, pray keep cool. It is I who ought to create the scene—not
you.”
“Not me!” shrieked the injured husband. “Why——”
“One moment,” laughed the young American. “Yours has been an intensely
amusing game of blackmail, and I give your wife credit for being a deuced
sharp woman. But I’ll trouble you to hand me over five hundred pounds by
twelve o’clock to-morrow, otherwise I shall lay information and have you
both arrested.”
“Why—what do you mean?” blustered Monsieur, thrusting his head forward
into the other’s face.
“I mean, sonny, that instead of plucking a pigeon, as you’ve so often
done before, this time you’ve caught a wasp,” was his reply. “You can
send the letters to Miss Dominick, if you like. She’ll be amused with
them, no doubt. Every woman dearly loves a scandal. But the fact is, I’m
not the Oswald Ogden that they thought me to be down at Monte Carlo!
Because you knew that Oswald Ogden of New York had become engaged to old
Charles Dominick’s daughter you thought to play a devilish clever game.
But I saw through it. A pal of mine recognised you; so I waited for you
to open your mouth. You’ve done so, and I’ve jumped down your throat for
five hundred of the best and brightest. That will just about pay the
expenses which your precious wife ran me in for—see?” and he laughed in
triumph.
Madame and Monsieur exchanged glances.
“Now,” went on Madame’s gentleman friend, “you’ll have to find that five
hundred before twelve to-morrow, or I shall go to the police with your
letters demanding your terms. I shall stand no nonsense. Guess neither
you nor that clever old blackguard, your butler, who came out to nobble
on to me, will like a visit from the police, will you? You’ve played the
game once too often this time. So cough up, or prison—whichever you like.”
_Oh! là! là!_ I left the room, and a couple of hours later left the house
with my trunk on the top of a four-wheeler, unable to get any wages due
to me.
Two days afterwards I called, hoping to obtain my money from Madame, but,
_au contraire_, the blinds were down, and there was a man in possession.
_Pensez-vous!_ Madame and Monsieur had, he said, disappeared in the
night, leaving many debts behind in Bayswater.
_Ma foi!_ He had the laugh—did Madame’s gentleman friend!