A BOX AT THE ALHAMBRA
The Baroness lowered her lorgnettes and turned towards Wrayson.
"There is a man," she remarked, "in the stalls, who finds us apparently
more interesting than the performance. I do not see very well even
with my glasses, but I fancy, no! I am quite sure, that his face is
familiar to me."
Wrayson leaned forward from his seat in the back of the box and looked
downward. There was no mistaking the person indicated by the Baroness,
nor was it possible to doubt his obvious interest in their little party.
Wrayson frowned slightly as he returned his greeting.
"Ah, then, you know him," the Baroness declared. "It is a friend,
without doubt."
"He belongs to my club," Wrayson answered. "His name is Heneage. I beg
your pardon! I hope that wasn't my fault."
The Baroness had dropped her lorgnettes on the floor. She stooped
instantly to discover them, rejecting almost peremptorily Wrayson's aid.
When she sat up again she pushed her chair a little further back.
"It was my clumsiness entirely," she declared. "Ah! it is more restful
here. The lights are a little trying in front. You are wiser than I, my
dear Louise, to have chosen a seat back there."
She turned towards the girl as she spoke, and Wrayson fancied that there
was some subtle meaning in the swift glance which passed between the two.
Almost involuntarily he leaned forward once more and looked downwards.
Heneage's inscrutable face was still upturned in their direction. There
was nothing to be read there, not even curiosity. As the eyes of the two
men met, Heneage rose and left his seat.
"You know my friend, perhaps?" Wrayson remarked. "He is rather an
interesting person."
The Baroness shrugged her shoulders.
"We are cosmopolitans, Louise and I," she remarked. "We wander about so
much that we meet many people whose names even we do not remember. Is it
not so, _chérie_?"
Louise assented carelessly. The incident appeared to have interested her
but slightly. She alone seemed to be taking an interest in the
performance, which from the first she had followed closely. More than
once Wrayson had fancied that her attention was only simulated, in order
to avoid conversation.
"This ballet," she remarked, "is wonderful. I don't believe that you
people have seen any of it--you especially, Amy."
The Baroness glanced towards the stage.
"My dear Louise," she said, "you share one great failing with the
majority of your country-people. You cannot do more than one thing at a
time. Now I can watch and talk. Truly, the dresses are ravishing.
Doucet never conceived anything more delightful than that blend of
greens! Tell me about your mysterious-looking friend, Mr. Wrayson. Is
he, too, an editor?"
Wrayson shook his head.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I know very little about him. He is
one of those men who seldom talk about themselves. He is a barrister, and
he has written a volume of travels. A clever fellow, I believe, but
possibly without ambition. At any rate, one never hears of his doing
anything now."
"Perhaps," the Baroness remarked, with her eyes upon the stage, "he is
one of those who keep their own counsel, in more ways than one. He does
not look like a man who has no object in life."
Wrayson glanced downwards at the empty stall.
"Very likely," he admitted carelessly, "and yet, nowadays, it is a little
difficult, isn't it, to do anything really worth doing, and not be found
out? They say that the press is lynx-eyed."
Louise leaned a little forward in her chair.
"And you," she remarked, "are an editor! Do you feel quite safe, Amy? Mr.
Wrayson may rob us of our most cherished secrets."
Her eyes challenged his, her lips were parted in a slight smile.
Underneath the levity of her remark, he was fully conscious of the
undernote of serious meaning.
"I am not afraid of Mr. Wrayson," the Baroness answered, smiling. "My age
and my dressmaker are the only two things I keep entirely to myself, and
I don't think he is likely to guess either."
"And you?" he asked, looking into her companion's eyes.
"There are many things," she answered, in a low tone, "which one keeps
to oneself, because confidences with regard to them are impossible.
And yet--"
She paused. Her eyes seemed to be following out the mystic design painted
upon her fan.
"And yet?" he reminded her under his breath.
"Yet," she continued, glancing towards the Baroness, and lowering her
voice as though anxious not to be overheard, "there is something
poisonous, I think, about secrets. To have them known without disclosing
them would be very often--a great relief."
He leaned a little towards her.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked, "if I can find out?"
The colour left her face with amazing suddenness. She drew away from him
quickly. Her whisper was almost a moan.
"No! for God's sake, no!" she murmured. "I meant nothing. You must not
think that I was speaking about myself."
"I hoped that you were," he answered simply.
The Baroness turned in her chair as though anxious to join in the
conversation. At that moment came a knock at the door of the box. Wrayson
rose and opened it. Heneage stood there and entered at once, as though
his coming were the most natural thing in the world.
"Thought I recognized you," he remarked, shaking hands with Wrayson. "I
believe, too, I may be mistaken, but I fancy that I have had the pleasure
of meeting the Baroness de Sturm."
The Baroness turned towards him with a smile. Nevertheless, Wrayson
noticed what seemed to him a strange thing. The slim-fingered, bejewelled
hand which rested upon the ledge of the box was trembling. The Baroness
was disturbed.
"At Brussels, I believe," she remarked, inclining her head graciously.
"At Brussels, certainly," he answered, bowing low.
She turned to Louise.
"Louise," she said, "you must let me present Mr. Heneage--Miss Deveney.
Mr. Heneage has a cousin, I believe, of the same name, in the Belgian
Legation. I remember seeing you dance with him at the Palace."
The two exchanged greetings. Heneage accepted a chair and spoke of the
performance. The conversation became general and of stereotyped form. Yet
Wrayson was uneasily conscious of something underneath it all which he
could not fathom. The atmosphere of the box was charged with some
electrical disturbance. Heneage alone seemed thoroughly at his ease. He
kept his seat until the close of the performance, and even then seemed in
no hurry to depart. Wrayson, however, took his cue from the Baroness, who
was obviously anxious for him to go.
"Goodnight, Heneage!" he said. "I may see you at the club later."
Heneage smiled a little oddly as he turned away.
"Perhaps," he said.
It was not until they were on their way out that Wrayson realized that
she was slipping away from him once more. Then he took his courage into
his hands and spoke boldly.
"I wonder," he said, "if I might be allowed to see you ladies home. I
have something to say to Miss Fitzmaurice," he added simply, turning to
the Baroness.
"By all means," she answered graciously, "if you don't mind rather an
uncomfortable seat. We are staying in Battersea. It seems a long way out,
but it is quiet, and Louise and I like it."
"In Battersea?" Wrayson repeated vaguely.
The Baroness looked over her shoulder. They were standing on the
pavement, waiting for their electric brougham.
"Yes!" she answered, dropping her voice a little, "in Frederic Mansions.
By the bye, we are neighbours, I believe, are we not?"
"Quite close ones," Wrayson answered. "I live in the next block of
flats."
The Baroness looked again over her shoulder.
"Your friend, Mr. Heneage, is close behind," she whispered, "and we are
living so quietly, Louise and I, that we do not care for callers. Tell
the man 'home' simply."
Wrayson obeyed, and the carriage glided off. Heneage had been within a
few feet of them when they had started, and although his attention
appeared to be elsewhere, the Baroness' caution was obviously justified.
She leaned back amongst the cushions with a little sigh of relief.
"Mr. Wrayson," she inquired, "may I ask if Mr. Heneage is a particular
friend of yours?"
Wrayson shook his head.
"I do not think that any man could call himself Heneage's particular
friend," he answered. "He is exceedingly reticent about himself and his
doings. He is a man whom none of us know much of."
The Baroness leaned a little forward.
"Mr. Heneage," she said slowly, "is associated in my mind with days and
events which, just at present, both Louise and I are only anxious to
forget. He may be everything that he should be. Perhaps I am
prejudiced. But if I were you, I would have as little to do as possible
with that man."
"We do not often meet," Wrayson answered, "and ours is only a club
acquaintanceship. It is never likely to be more."
"So much the better," the Baroness declared. "Don't you agree with
me, Louise?"
"I do not like Mr. Heneage," the girl answered. "But then, I have never
spoken a dozen words to him in my life."
"You have known him intimately?" Wrayson asked the Baroness.
She shrugged her shoulders and looked out of the window.
"Never that, quite," she answered. "I know enough of him, however, to be
quite sure that the advice which I have given you is good."
The carriage drew up in the Albert Road, within a hundred yards or so of
Wrayson's own block of flats. The Baroness alighted first.
"You must come in and have a whisky and soda," she said to Wrayson.
"If I may," he answered, looking at Louise.
The Baroness passed on. Louise, with a slight shrug of the shoulders,
followed her.