THE FALLING OF THE HANDKERCHIEF
Monsieur Albert looked over her shoulder for the man who must surely be
in attendance--but he looked in vain.
"Mademoiselle wishes a table--for herself alone!" he repeated
doubtfully.
"If you please," she answered.
It was obvious that Mademoiselle was of the class which does not
frequent night cafés alone, but after all that was scarcely Monsieur
Albert's concern. She came perhaps from that strange land of the free,
whose daughters had long ago kicked over the barriers of sex with the
same abandon that Mademoiselle Flossie would display the soles of her
feet a few hours later in their national dance. If she had chanced to
raise her veil no earthly persuasions on her part would have secured for
her the freedom of that little room, for Monsieur Albert's appreciation
of likeness was equal to his memory for faces. But it was not until she
was comfortably ensconced at a corner table, from which she had a good
view of the room, that she did so, and Monsieur Albert realized with a
philosophic shrug of the shoulders the error he had committed.
Phyllis looked about her with some curiosity. It was too early for the
habitués of the place, and most of the tables were empty. The
scarlet-coated band were smoking cigarettes, and had not yet produced
their instruments. The conductor curled his black moustache and stared
hard at the beautiful young English lady, without, however, being able
to attract a single glance in return. One or two men also tried to
convey to her by smiles and glances the fact that her solitude need
continue no longer than she chose. The unattached ladies put their heads
together and discussed her with little peals of laughter. To all of
these things she remained indifferent. She ordered a supper which she
ate mechanically, and wine which she scarcely drank. All the while she
was considering. Now that she was here what could she do? Of whom was
she to make inquiries? She scanned the faces of the newcomers with a
certain grave curiosity which puzzled them. She neither invited nor
repelled notice. She remained entirely at her ease.
Monsieur Albert, during one of his peregrinations round the room, passed
close to her table. She stopped him.
"I trust that Mademoiselle is well served!" he remarked with a little
bow.
"Excellently, I thank you," she answered.
He would have passed on, but she detained him.
"You have very many visitors here," she remarked. "Is it the same
always?"
He smiled.
"To-night," he declared, "it is nothing. There are many who come here
every evening. They amuse themselves here."
"You have a good many strangers also?" she asked.
"But certainly," he declared. "All the time!"
"I have a brother," she said, "who was here eleven nights ago--let me
see--that would be last Tuesday week. He is tall and fair, about
twenty-one, and they say like me. I wonder if you remember him."
Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly.
"That is strange," he declared, "for as a rule I forget no one. Last
Tuesday week I remember perfectly well. It was a quiet evening. La Scala
was here--but of the rest no one. If Mademoiselle's brother was here it
is most strange."
Her lip quivered for a moment. She was disappointed.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped that you might have been able to
help me. He left the Grand Hotel on that night with the intention of
coming here--and he never returned. I have been very much worried ever
since."
She was no great judge of character, but Monsieur Albert's sympathy did
not impress her with its sincerity.
"If Mademoiselle desires," he said, "I will make inquiries amongst the
waiters. I very much fear, however, that she will obtain no news here."
He departed, and Phyllis watched him talking to some of the waiters and
the leader of the orchestra.
Presently he returned.
"I am very sorry," he announced, "but the brother of Mademoiselle could
not have come here. I have inquired of the garçons, and of Monsieur
Jules there, who forgets no one. They answer all the same."
"Thank you very much," she answered. "It must have been somewhere else!"
She was unreasonably disappointed. It had been a very slender chance,
but at least it was something tangible. She had scarcely expected to
have it snapped so soon and so thoroughly. She dropped her veil to hide
the tears which she felt were not far from her eyes, and summoned the
waiter for her bill. There seemed to be no object in staying longer.
Suddenly the unexpected happened.
A hand, flashing with jewels, was rested for a moment upon her table.
When it was withdrawn a scrap of paper remained there.
Phyllis looked up in amazement. The girl to whom the hand had belonged
was sitting at the next table, but her head was turned away, and she
seemed to be only concerned in watching the door. She drew the scrap of
paper towards her and cautiously opened it. This is what she read,
written in English, but with a foreign turn to most of the letters:--
"Monsieur Albert lied. Your brother was here. Wait till I
speak to you."
Instinctively she crumpled up this strange little note in her hand. She
struggled hard to maintain her composure. She had at once the idea that
every one in the place was looking at her. Monsieur Albert, indeed, on
his way down the room wondered what had driven the hopeless expression
from her face.
The waiter brought her bill. She paid it and tipped him with prodigality
which for a woman was almost reckless. Then she ordered coffee, and
after a second's hesitation cigarettes. Why not? Nearly all the women
were smoking, and she desired to pass for the moment as one of them. For
the first time she ventured to gaze at her neighbor.
It was the young lady from Vienna. She was dressed in a wonderful
demi-toilette of white lace, and she wore a large picture hat adjusted
at exactly the right angle for her profile. From her throat and bosom
there flashed the sparkle of many gems--the finger which held her
cigarette was ablaze with diamonds. She leaned back in her seat smoking
lazily, and she met Phyllis's furtive gaze with almost insolent
coldness. But a moment later, when Monsieur Albert's back was turned,
she leaned forward and addressed her rapidly.
"A man will come here," she said, "who could tell you, if he was
willing, all that you seek to know. He will come to-night--he comes all
the nights. You will see I hold my handkerchief so in my right hand.
When he comes I shall drop it--so!"
The girl's swift speech, her half-fearful glances towards the door,
puzzled Phyllis.
"Can you not come nearer to me and talk?" she asked.
"No! You must not speak to me again. You must not let any one,
especially the man himself, know what I have told you. No more now.
Watch for the handkerchief!"
"But what shall I say to him?"
The girl took no notice of her. She was looking in the opposite
direction. She seemed to have edged away as far as possible from her.
Phyllis drew a long breath.
She felt her heart beating with excitement. The place suddenly seemed to
her like part of a nightmare.
And then all was clear again. Fortune was on her side. The secret of
Guy's disappearance was in this room, and a few careless words from the
girl at the next table had told her more than an entire police system
had been able to discover. But why the mystery? What was she to say to
the man when he came? The girl from Vienna was talking to some friends
and toying carelessly with a little morsel of lace which she had drawn
from her bosom. Phyllis watched it with the eyes of a cat. Every now
and then she watched also the door.
The place was much fuller now. Mademoiselle Flossie had arrived with a
small company of friends from Maxim's. The music was playing all the
time. The popping of corks was almost incessant, the volume of sound had
swelled. The laughter and greeting of friends betrayed more abandon than
earlier in the evening. Old acquaintances had been renewed, and new ones
made. Mademoiselle from Vienna was surrounded by a little circle of
admirers. Still she held in her right hand a crumpled up little ball of
lace.
Men passing down the room tried to attract the attention of the
beautiful young English demoiselle who looked out upon the little scene
so indifferently as regarded individuals, and yet with such eager
interest as a whole. No one was bold enough, however, to make a second
effort. Necessity at times gives birth to a swift capacity. Fresh from
her simple country life, Phyllis found herself still able with
effortless serenity to confound the most hardened boulevarders who
paused to ogle her. Her eyes and lips expressed with ease the most
convincing and absolute indifference to their approaches. A man may
sometimes brave anger; he rarely has courage to combat indifference. So
Phyllis held her own and waited.
And at last the handkerchief fell. Phyllis felt her own heart almost
stop beating, as she gazed down the room. A man of medium height, dark,
distinguished, was slowly approaching her, exchanging greetings on every
side. His languid eyes fell upon Phyllis. Those who had watched her
previously saw then a change. The cold indifference had vanished from
her face. She leaned forward as though anxious to attract his
attention. She succeeded easily enough.
He was almost opposite her table, and her half smile seemed to leave him
but little choice. He touched the back of the chair which fronted hers,
and took off his hat.
"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked softly.
"But certainly," she answered. "It is you for whom I have been waiting!"
"Mademoiselle flatters me!" he murmured, more than a little astonished.
"Not in the least," she answered. "I have been waiting to ask you what
has become of my brother--Guy Poynton!"
He drew out the chair and seated himself. His eyes never left her face.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, "this is most extraordinary!"
She noticed then that his hands were trembling.