LITTLE MRS. OTWAY
JUNE 23RD
_Tiens!_ My next experience was, indeed, a strange one.
Quickly back in London after leaving Lady Allardyce’s service, I had,
with my excellent testimonials, no difficulty in obtaining another
situation.
This time I found myself engaged by a lady named Otway, who lived at
the Park Lane end of Grosvenor Street. A large house, toilettes by
Worth, hats from the Rue de la Paix, smart dinner parties, brilliant
entertainments every Wednesday, grand _chic_!
Madame was not more than thirty—_petite_, fair-haired, with limbs
full-sized and shapely. Her head was small and gracefully poised, her
neck long, her features regular, her smile fascinating. Her complexion
was fair as a lily, with a faint rose blush to brighten it. _Superbe!_
In the first hour of my arrival I found upon her dressing-table Crême
Floreine and a bottle of Rose d’Orsay. This discovery was, in itself,
sufficient to stamp her as smart. She had an abundance of soft wavy
hair, well arranged to suit the oval form of her expressive and
intelligent face, while the mode in which it was dressed, with all the
_chi-chi_, was the latest in Paris.
From the first moment I knew that Madame would do me credit. No second
glance was required to ascertain that her _couturière_ was not English,
and that she was well used to a maid of the first order, like myself.
And so I had quickly settled down to my duties, enthusiastic,
quick-handed and content.
From Joseph, the butler, I learnt that Monsieur, a tall, thin-faced and
extremely active gentleman, was proprietor of a great daily journal,
one of the most powerful political organs in England, and that he was
one of those many men in London who have by a lucky hit got rich quick.
Within ten years, by giving the public what it wanted, he had become a
millionaire.
Now it is a curious anomaly in social life that while the prosperous
business-man finds it extremely difficult, notwithstanding his
money-bags, to enter the inner ring of London society, unless either son
or daughter sell themselves for a title, yet the proprietor of any daily
newspaper steps at once across the gulf, is received, even hailed, by the
smartest and most exclusive set, and his wife—though she may have been
bred in Brixton—is affectionately called “My dear” by dowager-duchesses.
So in the case of the Otways.
Madame, it was whispered, had been the daughter of a small grocer—what
you call “stores”—at Lower Sydenham, while clean-shaven Monsieur had
started life as junior clerk in an insurance office. Yet now at forty
he controlled one of the several London newspapers which claim the
largest-circulation-in-the-world, and was busy distributing charitable
donations of a thousand pounds at a time in order to attract public
attention and claim a baronetcy from his Party.
The evening of my arrival happened to be a Wednesday—the day of the
weekly entertainment. The hall, staircase and reception-rooms were hung
with choice roses, while about the whole place was a sweet perfume, an
air of unbridled luxury and wealth. Half smart London came there to
listen to the splendid music in the drawing-room. The fees to the great
violinist and the renowned pianist must have run into hundreds—unless,
perhaps, they performed for nothing in order to secure in Monsieur’s
journal flattering notices of their public entertainments. _Bien sûr_,
to the rich newspaper proprietor half the world falls upon its knees in
these days when geniuses are so easily manufactured by “boom” and the
press-agent.
But of Madame Otway I have nothing to complain. _Mais non._
Monsieur, whose fine library was really the editorial room of the great
offices somewhere in Fleet Street, received many strange men between the
hours of six and eight each evening. Hinkson, the footman, was always
busy opening the door to them, and telephones were ringing all the time.
Monsieur’s room, with its ever-clicking news and stock-exchange “tapes”
in the corner, was then a perfect hive of industry. _Oui, vraiment_, it
was a house of business at that hour.
Those who came and went were of all classes, from shabby and beery
broken-down journalists, to Cabinet Ministers and political peers with
axes to grind.
It must not be supposed, however, that Monsieur devoted his whole time to
the progress of his journal. _Au contraire_, he went everywhere, motored
a great deal in his big six-cylinder, enjoyed himself hugely, and left
Madame a great deal to her own devices.
Quite two months was I in Madame’s service before I began to know her.
True, she occupied with consummate tact the position which money had so
suddenly given her, yet she was extremely reserved, and would go out and
return day after day without ever once letting drop where she had been,
or what she had been doing.
More than once in her absence Monsieur, when he had encountered me, had
spoken cheerfully and had shown himself _très gentil_. Curious that it
might seem, yet he somehow appeared as though he wished to make friends
with me. _Moi_, I gave him no encouragement. With the _femme-de-chambre_
any such encouragement is always fatal. And I think I know my place too
well.
Flirtation with a good-looking male servant is, of course, permissible,
but with Monsieur, never.
It may have been because of my somewhat dignified attitude towards
Monsieur that Madame grew at last less frigid. She would often laugh
and gossip with me as I dressed her pretty hair, buttoned her blouse,
or laced her shoes, while every now and then she would make me little
presents of trifles of left-off clothing. The perquisites of the
_femme-de-chambre_ can always be turned into money, and fortunately for
me Madame quickly flung aside a gown or blouse. Worth’s bill was never
questioned by Monsieur, who was shrewd enough to know that half his power
lay in his wife’s success.
Madame, like most mistresses, was a person of moods, and subject to
headaches, real or imaginary. _Diable!_ the _cachet_ of antipyrine was
ever at hand.
Though devoted to Monsieur, she was inclined to be—well, a trifle
skittish. A woman cannot deceive her _femme-de-chambre_ for very long.
Often have I laughed at the ingenuity of some of my mistresses in their
vain attempts to hide their secrets from me. They always forget that a
woman has a far keener sense of intuition than a man, and that what may
be hidden from Monsieur, the husband, is as open as the light of day to
the girl who dresses her hair.
Secrets! _Bon Dieu!_ I have known many. I have witnessed some amusing
comedies, and more than one tragedy.
I admit, however, that I was entirely unsuspicious of Madame Otway until
one evening, while brushing her motor-coat, I found a letter crumpled
in the pocket—a brief little affectionate note from Isaac Blumfeld, the
well-known financier, who lived around in Park Lane, and who very often
dined _en famille_ with Monsieur and Madame.
He was a short, thick-set, thick-speaking man, with a red, rather pimply,
face, and an oleaginous and pompous manner. _Un snob!_ It was said that
he had once been an acrobat, until fortunate speculations in South Africa
had brought him his huge fortune.
The Blumfeld group were well known in the City, but owing to certain
reports he was never received by the smart set who came so regularly to
Grosvenor Street every Wednesday.
And so Madame was on friendly terms with Monsieur, unknown to her
husband! _Pas extraordinaire!_
I replaced the letter and shrugged my shoulders. Madame’s little affairs
of the heart did not concern me. She was a kind, generous mistress.
_Assez!_
An hour later, as I sat mending some _lingerie_ in the dressing-room,
Monsieur entered, saying—
“Mariette, send down your mistress’s fur motor-coat to the car. I’m going
to pick her up at the theatre, and she’ll be cold.”
“_Oui, m’sieur_,” I replied, and then went along to get the coat. But
before I handed it to him I took possession of the letter.
And I burned it.
Next evening Madame went forth alone in a walking gown, Monsieur having
been called to Glasgow on business. I knew that she went to dinner with
old Isaac Blumfeld at a snug little restaurant in Clifford Street, where
neither would be recognised.
She returned about ten, slipped on a smart evening gown and went out
to a bridge-party at old Lady Staverton’s, in Mount Street. She was an
inveterate player, and often won large sums, as I knew sometimes when she
came home.
I had dropped off to sleep before the fire, for it was past three when
she returned, tired, short-tempered, and with a bad headache.
She looked so very pale and distressed that I asked whether she were not
well, to which I received a snappy reply. So I held my tongue, wondering
what had happened.
Next morning before luncheon, while dressing her hair as she sat
before her big toilet-table upon which were ranged the massive silver
requisites, Madame suddenly said—
“Mariette, have you ever been in love?”
Love! _Moi!_ The question nonplussed me. I felt the colour rising to my
cheeks and was compelled to give an affirmative, if halting, response.
Madame sighed, and remained silent for some moments.
“Ah!” she said at last, “though you may have loved, you cannot have
realised the perils consequent upon a forbidden affection.”
I made no reply, but I knew too well to what she alluded. She was a young
and pretty _dame du monde_, and surely it was not surprising.
“Mariette,” she said, turning to me and fixing me with her fine big eyes,
“I—well, to tell you the truth I am in a great difficulty—a very great
difficulty. I wonder whether, if I asked you to help me, you would ever
betray me?”
“Madame, I have never yet betrayed any confidence with which my
mistresses have entrusted me,” I said, not without some little dignity.
“I know, Mariette. I read honesty in your face,” she hastened to say.
“Help in this unfortunate affair will mean my salvation.”
I knew that Monsieur entertained no suspicion of what might be in
progress, therefore her attitude puzzled me. I had never dreamed for a
moment that the stout, over-dressed financier was her admirer; but on the
contrary, had believed that the Honourable Frank Carew, of the Foreign
Office, was the most-favoured cavalier. The last-named, a tall, handsome,
dark-haired, well-groomed young fellow, was for ever hanging at Madame’s
heels, and very often took her out to the theatre, or brought her home
from parties or dances.
One night I had noticed when he bade her farewell in the hall that her
hand had rested in his just a second longer than it might have done. And
from that I had formed my own conclusions.
_Chacun son idée!_ But that letter of Isaac Blumfeld’s had been
sufficient to place all doubt at rest.
Madame was, I believe, about to reveal to me some further secret, when
there came a tap at the door, and Hinkson announced that Lady Staverton
was below, and wished to see Madame very urgently.
My mistress started, turned slightly pale, and after a moment’s
hesitation gave orders for her to be shown up-stairs.
“You may go, Mariette,” she added curtly. “I shall want you again
presently.”
So I finished Madame’s hair hurriedly, helped her off with her lace
dressing-jacket and handed her a warm wrap. Then as I left I encountered
the thin-faced, middle-aged woman upon the threshold.
When at last my bell rang and I re-entered the room I found Madame
bathing her face in eau-de-Cologne, her eyes betraying signs of recent
tears.
“Mariette,” she said one day about a fortnight afterwards, “Do you know
Mr. Blumfeld’s house in Park Lane—the big white one on the corner, with
the glass-covered verandah?”
“_Oui_, Madame.”
“Well—I want you to do something in strict secrecy,” Madame said, “for my
sake, to help me.”
“_Volontairement._”
“Remember, the servants must know nothing, otherwise they will talk. You
will not say a word to Hinkson. Promise me.”
“Madame may repose the most perfect confidence in me,” I assured her. “Am
I not Madame’s _femme-de-chambre_?”
“Well, what I want you to do may strike you as somewhat curious—yet
it is highly necessary. All depends upon it—upon your shrewdness,” she
said. “I want you to put on another dress and go and watch outside Mr.
Blumfeld’s to see whether a gentleman calls there—a gentleman you have
seen here—Mr. Carew. You know him, of course.”
“_Parfaitement_, Madame.”
“You must go now, as soon as possible, and watch the house—if necessary
till midnight. Mr. Carew has left his rooms, and I am unaware of his
whereabouts. I shall remain here awaiting your report. If he calls, then
hurry round at once in a taxi and let me know. Or—or better. I think
he does not know you. If you see him in the street, go straight up to
him and tell him that, before he enters Mr. Blumfeld’s, a friend wishes
to see him. Suggest that he goes somewhere to await the mysterious
friend—the lounge of the Criterion is quiet. Send him there—and come
round to me at once.”
“_Bien_, Madame; and my dress?”
“Put on your best dress. The police will not then suspect you of
loitering. If so, refer the constable to me. They all know my husband. So
run along, eat your lunch quickly, and go out to watch.”
My mission was certainly of interest. I swallowed my meal quickly,
dressed, and telling Hinkson that I was going out upon an errand for
Madame, hurried along Grosvenor Street into Park Lane, where, turning to
the left, was soon before the big white mansion of the great financier—a
mansion well known, I expect, to most readers of these my memoirs.
As idling opposite by the park railings I watched the big front-door of
Blumfeld’s house, I saw several persons arrive and depart; a man in a
yellow motor-car, two telegraph messengers and a tall, rather elderly
lady in a hansom. To the latter the footman announced “not at home,” and
the same reply was given to two other men of distinctly business air.
And though I never relaxed my vigilance all the cold, dry afternoon, yet
Madame’s friend did not come.
Your London policeman is always suspicious of the loitering woman. I had
attracted the attention of the constable on the beat. Therefore, just as
twilight was falling, I was compelled to go within the park-railings and
watch from there.
It grew dark soon after four o’clock, the street-lamps were lit, but
the traffic of taxis and motor-buses remained unceasing. The few people
passing up and down in the Park had gradually disappeared, while I
remained there alone upon the iron seat, watching eagerly from out the
darkness.
Suddenly, about six o’clock, just as rain began to fall, I saw a tall,
well-dressed young man in soft felt hat and dark overcoat approach the
house from Piccadilly.
Ere I recognised that it was the man for whom I was watching, he had
ascended the steps.
In an instant I had dashed along the railings to the nearest gate in an
endeavour to prevent him from entering. But unfortunately, before I could
gain the house, he had been admitted. Isaac Blumfeld was evidently at
home to him.
I hailed a passing taxi, and within five minutes had told Madame. She
started, put on her hat and coat hurriedly, and sped round to Park Lane.
When she returned half-an-hour or so later, I found her in her boudoir
white as death and trembling in every limb.
“Madame is unwell!” I cried in alarm. “May I telephone for the doctor?”
“No, Mariette,” she responded in a low, hard voice, and as she turned
to me I saw that she had strangely altered. Her countenance bore a
haunted, haggard look, and she seemed greatly agitated. “No, there is no
necessity. All the doctors in the world can—can be of no avail!”
“But cannot I assist Madame?” I urged in alarm. “Let me order something.”
“No. I—I want no dinner. I’ll go to my room,” and with uneven steps she
walked along to her dressing-room, where I divested her of coat and hat,
and soon she was lying upon the couch in her pretty pink kimono.
_Ma foi!_ What could have happened!
I sat with her all that evening, but she hardly spoke a dozen words; she
lay with her eyes fixed upon the fire in thoughtful silence.
About eleven o’clock, just as I had taken in a cup of hot milk to her as
usual, Monsieur, who had returned, burst in, crying—
“I say, Lucy! A most terrible thing has happened. Carr, the news-editor,
has just rung up to tell me that poor old Blumfeld has been found dead
in his library! The butler was speaking with him just after six, but at
half-past he went in again with a telegram, and found him dead on the
floor—shot. The curious feature of the affair was that Blumfeld is said
to have received a mysterious visitor by appointment, and opened the door
to this unknown person himself. The police suspect murder.”
Madame sat open-mouthed, a deathlike pallor upon her cheeks. For a second
her startled eyes met mine, then she sat rigid, staring straight at her
unsuspecting husband.
“Murder!” she echoed. “They suspect!”
“Yes; awful, isn’t it? He was such a good old sort, too. I suppose I’ll
have to go to the funeral.”
And then Monsieur hurried back to the library, where several callers
awaited him.
Madame, rising, staggered across to the door and turned the key.
Then she said in a hoarse whisper—
“Mariette, you—you alone saw Mr. Carew enter there. While your lips
remain closed he is safe!”
“Madame need have no apprehension,” I replied. “I have already forgotten
all that I saw.”
“And you will continue to assist me?” she asked eagerly. “Ah! you do not
know how strange are the facts, or how great the sacrifice.”
“Madame has but to command. I am her servant,” was my brief response.
She reflected a moment, then rose and passed into her bedroom. Five
minutes later she returned with a sealed note, saying—
“Take this at once to Mr. Carew. You know where he lives—in Carlos Place.
Give it into his own hand. If he is not at home, wait until he returns.”
Twenty minutes later I rang at the door of the rooms of Madame’s admirer.
I was invited by his man into an ideal bachelor’s abode, a book-lined
room, which smelt strongly of cigars, and where the pictures and
photographs were mostly of my own sex—some, perhaps, a little risky.
Presently Monsieur came in, his face almost transparent in its paleness,
and starting in surprise at finding a visitor. Next second he smiled
pleasantly when I explained who I was, and taking Madame’s note he broke
it open and eagerly read it.
His brows contracted, and he bit his lip.
“Your mistress says that we can trust you implicitly,” he said, as he
closed the door and looked straight at me. He had fine dark eyes, and was
_très gentil_.
“_Oui_, m’sieur.”
“A certain—well—a certain unfortunate affair will be in the papers
to-morrow,” he said hesitatingly in a hard, strained voice. “Some
inquiries may be made. Possibly they will be awkward ones, mademoiselle.
If the truth became known it would not only mean ruin to your mistress
and to myself, but there would be exposed a great secret which, at all
hazards, must be kept. I want to speak quite frankly, so that you may
realise the true seriousness of the situation. With a word I could
clear up the whole matter, but by doing so that secret—a great and most
important one—would become revealed. The irony of the whole thing is that
your master is seeking to learn that secret, to publish it in his paper
and create a sensation through the country. He little dreams that he is
working in direct opposition to your mistress, who, for the preservation
of her own honour, must, of necessity, prevent the truth from becoming
known.”
“But what is the secret, m’sieur?” I inquired eagerly.
“Ah! That, I regret to say, I am not permitted to divulge. Sufficient for
you to know that your mistress and I have united to safeguard it. Yet, by
our joint action, many evil-disposed persons will probably scent scandal.”
Madame had spoken of a sacrifice. Had this young man sacrificed himself
for her sake? _Vraiment!_ The mystery of it all became very puzzling.
“Your mistress was in peril—a deadly peril,” he added slowly, “—until
this evening. The danger has now been removed.”
“By the death of Isaac Blumfeld,” I said, in a low meaning whisper.
He nodded gravely, but no word escaped his pursed-up lips.
“Mariette,” he said at last, “you are loyal to your mistress, and are
prepared to help her—are you not?”
“Certainly, m’sieur.”
“To assist her, you must also assist me,” he declared quickly, in a voice
that betrayed eagerness and apprehension. “If there are any inquiries,
Mariette, will you be prepared to declare that from half-past five
o’clock till seven this evening you were here in my rooms with me?”
“M’sieur!” I cried, with indignation.
“I know it is much to ask of you,” he said, _très sérieux_. “I am asking
you to condemn yourself in order—well, to—to save me!”
“To save m’sieur!” I echoed, pretending not to understand.
“Yes, yes,” he cried quickly. He seemed very nervous and unstrung.
“Later on you shall know everything. For the present I only desire to be
assured that I may rely upon you to prove that I was at home here between
half-past five and seven.”
“But I returned to Grosvenor Street before half-past six.”
“Who saw you?”
“Only Madame. I remained in her room while she went out for
half-an-hour—round to Monsieur Blumfeld’s.”
“To Blumfeld’s!” he cried, starting quickly. “Did your mistress go round
to Park Lane after six o’clock?” he demanded in amazement.
“Certainly she did.”
He sank back in his arm-chair with a deep sigh, covering his face with
both his hands.
“Then she knows—she—she suspects?” he asked of me suddenly, regarding me
with a strange expression.
“Suspects what?”
“That Isaac Blumfeld——”
“I know nothing, m’sieur,” I declared. “Nothing,” I protested.
“Ah, yes, Mariette,” he said very earnestly, with an attempt to smile,
“you are diplomatic. You know nothing—good—and you will stand my
friend—and Madame’s friend also, will you not?” he added appealingly,
holding forth his hand.
I was silent. Truly I had been drawn into a pretty complication. My word
could save an assassin! _Pensez à ça!_
His hand was stretched towards me, but I shrank from taking it.
I merely replied that, in order to shield Madame from any unpleasantness,
I was willing to do as he requested.
By this he became at once reassured. He poured out a glass of wine and
insisted that I should drink it, while he swallowed a liqueur-glass of
cognac to steady his nerves.
“I shall not write to your mistress,” he said. “Letters are always
dangerous. Tell her that I shall lunch at the Berkeley to-morrow, and ask
her to meet me there by accident. Tell her that I acted as I promised.
She will understand.”
Then, with reiterated expressions of thanks, and confidence in my
judgment, he wished me a laughing _bon soir_, and bowed me out.
_Malheureusement_, next day in the papers I read of the discovery of
the mysterious murder of Isaac Blumfeld, and the search for the missing
visitor suspected of the crime. Just before six, it appeared, the great
financier had told the butler that he expected a visitor, and would
open the door himself. This was not unusual, for the deceased, like
other financiers, had been in the habit of receiving strange people
in strictest secrecy—people who were supposed to furnish him with
confidential information—and the library being close to the front door,
these persons arrived and departed without being seen by the servants.
The tragic affair was shrouded in mystery, and, as such, was made the
most of by the Press.
Madame put on a smart walking-gown and her sables and went forth to
the Berkeley about one o’clock, not returning till half-past three.
Afterwards, when we were alone in the boudoir, she said—
“Mariette, Mr. Carew has told me of your generous promise. You do not
know what great assistance you are now rendering us. You will be well
rewarded—never fear.”
“I look for no reward,” I replied. “I know Madame is very unhappy, and it
is surely my duty to help her.”
“Hardly your duty to be ready even to lie to save a man for whom you have
no affection,” she remarked kindly.
“For Madame’s sake,” I said simply.
_Autre chose._ I could only put the crime down as being due to jealousy.
To me, it now seemed plain that Monsieur Carew had made a secret
appointment with Blumfeld, and that Madame had, by some means, learnt of
it. The two men had quarrelled, and the younger had raised his weapon and
fired.
If not, why did Monsieur Carew so earnestly beseech of me to tarnish my
own reputation by clearing him of suspicion?
_Ah! quel monde!_ An anxious week went by. The coroner’s jury had
returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person unknown,” and
the dead man had been buried, Monsieur following at the funeral.
One night three weeks later Monsieur Carew came to dine at Grosvenor
Street, and Madame’s husband seemed particularly cordial.
When they returned to the library to smoke, I went down at Madame’s
suggestion and listened eagerly at the door.
After some desultory conversation, I heard Monsieur exclaim in a
persuasive way—
“My dear Carew, you know the truth. You could easily get me a copy of
those documents. I’d make it well worth your while.”
“Thanks, but I’m not so desperately hard-up as I was a little time ago. I
got two or three rather good tips on the Stock Exchange.”
“Glad to hear it; nevertheless, I’m very anxious, you know, to publish
the whole thing. It would create such a scandal that our political
opponents would be ruined and crushed. It would turn the elections in
our favour.”
“And I’m afraid you would be ruined also, while at Downing Street they
would know that I had betrayed them.”
“Ruined! How?”
“Well, among the official correspondence there unfortunately is a report
from one of the embassies concerning certain heavy subsidies paid to your
journal by a foreign power, in consideration that you foster the belief
that the country is perfectly safe from attack—rather damaging, in face
of the belief in your unwavering patriotism.”
“Good heavens!—but how do you know this?” gasped Monsieur, alarmed.
“The papers have been through my hands, and——”
“Come, Carew, now out with it, man! I see by your face there’s something
wrong. Tell me the truth, and let me face the music. Who knows this
beside yourself?”
“An enemy knew—but, fortunately, you have been saved.”
“Saved! Who saved me?” he cried.
“Ask your wife to come here. If she permits, then I will speak.”
I heard the bell ring, so I slipped away.
Presently I caught the _frou-frou_ of Madame’s skirts as she passed along
the hall, and next moment I was again listening at the door.
“Yes, Frank—speak, if you like,” I heard her say in a low, hoarse voice
quite unusual to her.
“Then simply this, Otway,” explained the young man. “Your wife, I
believe, lost heavily at bridge at Lady Staverton’s a few weeks ago, and
that old scoundrel Blumfeld offered to lend her the money to pay. She
accepted, rather than admit to you she had been gambling. I, too, was
hard up, and a month ago, I’m sorry to confess, sold to Blumfeld for a
big price a copy of that secret treaty you want, together with all the
correspondence.”
Whereupon Madame interrupted.
“With the letters he threatened me,” I heard her declare. “He vowed that
if I refused to meet him in secret he would publish the whole of the
official correspondence, and ruin you, Jack! He had lent me money, and I
had fallen entirely into his power.”
“Well?” asked Monsieur hoarsely.
“I defied him, and I told Frank, who—who came forward as my friend.”
“Your friend—my enemy, eh?” snarled Monsieur.
“Perhaps, Otway, I had better reveal the truth—make a clean breast of
it,” exclaimed the young man. “When your wife told me the use to which
the secret information was to be put I was horrified. I thought he only
wanted it for financial reasons. Therefore I made an appointment to see
the fellow in secret, and came from Paris for that purpose. Your wife
knew I was coming. The fellow opened the door to me, and I, having raised
all the ready money I possibly could, endeavoured to buy back the copy of
the treaty and the correspondence. But unfortunately he would not part
with them. I failed, and so after a quarter of an hour, I left.”
“Listen,” I heard Madame again interrupt. “On that evening I also had an
appointment with the man who intended to crush and ruin us both, Jack,”
she said. “He watched me as I passed his window, and opened the door to
me. Alone in his room, for Frank had gone, I begged him to have pity
upon me, and give me back those incriminating papers. He had them spread
before me upon his table, and answered brutally that as I had refused
to meet him in secret he should, that same night, hand them over to an
opposition newspaper. He—he seized me by the wrist, and tried to kiss
me. In desperation I drew your revolver, which I had taken with me, and
threatened to shoot myself. He tried to get possession of it, but—I—I
struggled—and—and in the struggle, Jack—it went off! In horror, I saw him
stagger back and sink to the floor—dead! I hardly know what I did next,
save that I seized the papers lying upon his table, and stole noiselessly
out. No one saw me enter; no one saw me leave! And—_and no one knows the
truth_!”
Both men uttered cries of dismay. It was evident that Monsieur Carew was
quite as much astounded at the confession as was her husband.
“And does no one suspect you, Lucy?” asked Monsieur in a low, strained
voice.
“Nobody—except, perhaps, Mariette. I was compelled to take her into my
confidence.”
“Then we must not take any risks. Mariette must be paid well and
dismissed,” Monsieur said in a decisive tone. “If she remained, it would
constantly remind us both of the very ugly affair. To-morrow I shall give
her a little present of a hundred pounds.”
_Eh bien!_ And this Monsieur did, in Madame’s presence, after breakfast
on the following morning.
_Pou!—Pou!!—Pou!!! Mort aux Juifs!_