Let us go back a little in point of time, and follow the movements of
Sir Charles Collingham.
It was barely 11 A.M. when he left the Lyons Station with his brother,
the Reverend Silas, and the military attaché, Colonel Papillon. They
paused for a moment outside the station while the baggage was being got
together.
“See, Silas,” said the General, pointing to the clock, “you will have
plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Calais for London, but you must
hurry up and drive straight across Paris to the Nord. I suppose he can
go, Jack?”
“Certainly, as he has promised to return if called upon.”
And Mr. Collingham promptly took advantage of the permission.
“But you, General, what are your plans?” went on the attaché.
“I shall go to the club first, get a room, dress, and all that. Then
call at the Hôtel Madagascar. There is a lady there,—one of our party,
in fact,—and I should like to ask after her. She may be glad of my
services.”
“English? Is there anything we can do for her?”
“Yes, she is an Englishwoman, but the widow of an Italian—the Contessa
di Castagneto.”
“Oh, but I know her!” said Papillon. “I remember her in Rome two or
three years ago. A deuced pretty woman, very much admired, but she was
in deep mourning then, and went out very little. I wished she had gone
out more. There were lots of men ready to fall at her feet.”
“You were in Rome, then, some time back? Did you ever come across a man
there, Quadling, the banker?”
“Of course I did. Constantly. He was a good deal about—a rather
free-living, self-indulgent sort of chap. And now you mention his name,
I recollect they said he was much smitten by this particular lady, the
Contessa di Castagneto.”
“And did she encourage him?” “Lord! how can I tell? Who shall say how a
woman’s fancy falls? It might have suited her too. They said she was
not in very good circumstances, and he was thought to be a rich man. Of
course we know better than that now.”
“Why _now?_”
“Haven’t you heard? It was in the _Figaro_ yesterday, and in all the
Paris papers. Quadling’s bank has gone to smash; he has bolted with all
the ‘ready’ he could lay hands upon.”
“He didn’t get far, then!” cried Sir Charles. “You look surprised,
Jack. Didn’t they tell you? This Quadling was the man murdered in the
sleeping-car. It was no doubt for the money he carried with him.”
“Was it Quadling? My word! what a terrible Nemesis. Well, _nil nisi
bonum_, but I never thought much of the chap, and your friend the
Countess has had an escape. But now, sir, I must be moving. My
engagement is for twelve noon. If you want me, mind you send—207 Rue
Miromesnil, or to the Embassy; but let us arrange to meet this evening,
eh? Dinner and a theatre—what do you say?”
Then Colonel Papillon rode off, and the General was driven to the
Boulevard des Capucines, having much to occupy his thoughts by the way.
It did not greatly please him to have this story of the Countess’s
relations with Quadling, as first hinted at by the police, endorsed now
by his friend Papillon. Clearly she had kept up her acquaintance, her
intimacy to the very last: why otherwise should she have received him,
alone, been closeted with him for an hour or more on the very eve of
his flight? It was a clandestine acquaintance too, or seemed so, for
Sir Charles, although a frequent visitor at her house, had never met
Quadling there.
What did it all mean? And yet, what, after all, did it matter to him?
A good deal really more than he chose to admit to himself, even now,
when closely questioning his secret heart. The fact was, the Countess
had made a very strong impression on him from the first. He had admired
her greatly during the past winter at Rome, but then it was only a
passing fancy, as he thought,—the pleasant platonic flirtation of a
middle-aged man, who never expected to inspire or feel a great love.
Only now, when he had shared a serious trouble with her, had passed
through common difficulties and dangers, he was finding what accident
may do—how it may fan a first liking into a stronger flame. It was
absurd, of course. He was fifty-one, he had weathered many trifling
affairs of the heart, and here he was, bowled over at last, and by a
woman he was not certain was entitled to his respect.
What was he to do?
The answer came at once and unhesitatingly, as it would to any other
honest, chivalrous gentleman.
“By George, I’ll stick to her through thick and thin! I’ll trust her
whatever happens or has happened, come what may. Such a woman as that
is above suspicion. She _must_ be straight. I should be a beast and a
blackguard double distilled to think anything else. I am sure she can
put all right with a word, can explain everything when she chooses. I
will wait till she does.”
Thus fortified and decided, Sir Charles took his way to the Hôtel
Madagascar about noon. At the desk he inquired for the Countess, and
begged that his card might be sent up to her. The man looked at it,
then at the visitor, as he stood there waiting rather impatiently, then
again at the card. At last he walked out and across the inner courtyard
of the hotel to the office. Presently the manager came back, bowing
low, and, holding the card in his hand, began a desultory conversation.
“Yes, yes,” cried the General, angrily cutting short all references to
the weather and the number of English visitors in Paris. “But be so
good as to let Madame la Comtesse know that I have called.”
“Ah, to be sure! I came to tell Monsieur le Général that madame will
hardly be able to see him. She is indisposed, I believe. At any rate,
she does not receive to-day.”
“As to that, we shall see. I will take no answer except direct from
her. Take or send up my card without further delay. I insist! Do you
hear?” said the General, so fiercely that the manager turned tail and
fled up-stairs.
Perhaps he yielded his ground the more readily that he saw over the
General’s shoulder the figure of Galipaud the detective looming in the
archway. It had been arranged that, as it was not advisable to have the
inspector hanging about the courtyard of the hotel, the clerk or the
manager should keep watch over the Countess and detain any visitors who
might call upon her. Galipaud had taken post at a wine-shop over the
way, and was to be summoned whenever his presence was thought
necessary.
There he was now, standing just behind the General, and for the present
unseen by him.
But then a telegraph messenger came in and up to the desk. He held the
usual blue envelope in his hand, and called out the name on the
address:
“Castagneto. Contessa Castagneto.”
At sound of which the General turned sharply, to find Galipaud
advancing and stretching out his hand to take the message.
“Pardon me,” cried Sir Charles, promptly interposing and understanding
the situation at a glance. “I am just going up to see that lady. Give
me the telegram.”
Galipaud would have disputed the point, when the General, who had
already recognized him, said quietly:
“No, no, Inspector, you have no earthly right to it. I guess why you
are here, but you are not entitled to interfere with private
correspondence. Stand back;” and seeing the detective hesitate, he
added peremptorily:
“Enough of this. I order you to get out of the way. And be quick about
it!”
The manager now returned, and admitted that Madame la Comtesse would
receive her visitor. A few seconds more, and the General was admitted
into her presence.
“How truly kind of you to call!” she said at once, coming up to him
with both hands outstretched and frank gladness in her eyes.
Yes, she was very attractive in her plain, dark travelling dress
draping her tall, graceful figure; her beautiful, pale face was
enhanced by the rich tones of her dark brown, wavy hair, while just a
narrow band of white muslin at her wrists and neck set off the dazzling
clearness of her skin.
“Of course I came. I thought you might want me, or might like to know
the latest news,” he answered, as he held her hands in his for a few
seconds longer than was perhaps absolutely necessary.
“Oh, do tell me! Is there anything fresh?” There was a flash of crimson
colour in her cheek, which faded almost instantly.
“This much. They have found out who the man was.”
“Really? Positively? Whom do they say now?”
“Perhaps I had better not tell you. It may surprise you, shock you to
hear. I think you knew him—”
“Nothing can well shock me now. I have had too many shocks already. Who
do they think it is?”
“A Mr. Quadling, a banker, who is supposed to have absconded from
Rome.”
She received the news so impassively, with such strange
self-possession, that for a moment he was disappointed in her. But
then, quick to excuse, he suggested:
“You may have already heard?”
“Yes; the police people at the railway station told me they thought it
was Mr. Quadling.”
“But you knew him?”
“Certainly. They were my bankers, much to my sorrow. I shall lose
heavily by their failure.”
“That also has reached you, then?” interrupted the General, hastily and
somewhat uneasily.
“To be sure. The man told me of it himself. Indeed, he came to me the
very day I was leaving Rome, and made me an offer—a most obliging
offer.”
“To share his fallen fortunes?”
“Sir Charles Collingham! How can you? That creature!” The contempt in
her tone was immeasurable.
“I had heard—well, some one said that—”
“Speak out, General; I shall not be offended. I know what you mean. It
is perfectly true that the man once presumed to pester me with his
attentions. But I would as soon have looked at a courier or a cook. And
now—”
There was a pause. The General felt on delicate ground. He could ask no
questions—anything more must come from the Countess herself.
“But let me tell you what his offer was. I don’t know why I listened to
it. I ought to have at once informed the police. I wish I had.”
“It might have saved him from his fate.”
“Every villain gets his deserts in the long run,” she said, with bitter
sententiousness. “And this Mr. Quadling is—But wait, you shall know him
better. He came to me to propose—what do you think?—that he—his bank, I
mean—should secretly repay me the amount of my deposit, all the money I
had in it. To join me in his fraud, in fact—”
“The scoundrel! Upon my word, he has been well served. And that was the
last you saw of him?”
“I saw him on the journey, at Turin, at Modane, at—Oh, Sir Charles, do
not ask me any more about him!” she cried, with a sudden outburst,
half-grief, half-dread. “I cannot tell you—I am obliged to—I—I—”
“Then do not say another word,” he said, promptly.
“There are other things. But my lips are sealed—at least for the
present. You do not—will not think any worse of me?”
She laid her hand gently on his arm, and his closed over it with such
evident good-will that a blush crimsoned her cheek. It still hung
there, and deepened when he said, warmly:
“As if anything could make me do that! Don’t you know—you may not, but
let me assure you, Countess—that nothing could happen to shake me in
the high opinion I have of you. Come what may, I shall trust you,
believe in you, think well of you—always.”
“How sweet of you to say that! and now, of all times,” she murmured
quite softly, and looking up for the first time, shyly, to meet his
eyes.
Her hand was still on his arm, covered by his, and she nestled so close
to him that it was easy, natural, indeed, for him to slip his other arm
around her waist and draw her to him.
“And now—of all times—may I say one word more?” he whispered in her
ear. “Will you give me the right to shelter and protect you, to stand
by you, share your troubles, or keep them from you—?”
“No, no, no, indeed, not now!” She looked up appealingly, the tears
brimming up in her bright eyes. “I cannot, will not accept this
sacrifice. You are only speaking out of your true-hearted chivalry. You
must not join yourself to me, you must not involve yourself—”
He stopped her protests by the oldest and most effectual method known
in such cases. That first sweet kiss sealed the compact so quickly
entered into between them.
And after that she surrendered at discretion. There was no more
hesitation or reluctance; she accepted his love as he had offered it,
freely, with whole heart and soul, crept up under his sheltering wing
like a storm-beaten dove reëntering the nest, and there, cooing softly,
“My knight—my own true knight and lord,” yielded herself willingly and
unquestioningly to his tender caresses.
Such moments snatched from the heart of pressing anxieties are made
doubly sweet by their sharp contrast with a background of trouble.