A REPORT FROM PARIS
"For the first time in my life," Deyes declared, accepting the cigarette
and the easy-chair, "I have appreciated Paris. I have gone there as a
tourist. I have drunk strange drinks at the Cafe de la Paix. I have sat
upon the boulevards and ogled the obvious lady."
"And my little guide?" she asked.
"Has disappeared!" he answered.
"Since when?"
"A month ago! It is reported that he came to England."
Wilhelmina sat still for several moments. To a casual observer she might
have seemed unmoved. Deyes, however, was watching her closely, and he
understood.
"I am sorry," he said, "to have so little to tell you. But that is the
beginning and the end of it. The man had gone away."
"That is precisely what I desired to ascertain," she said. "It seemed to
me possible that the man had come to England. I wished to know for
certain whether it was true or not."
"I think," Deyes said, withdrawing his cigarette and looking at it
thoughtfully, "that it is true."
"You have any further reason for thinking so," she asked, "beyond your
casual inquiries?"
"Well, yes!" he admitted. "I went a little farther than those casual
inquiries. It seemed such a meagre report to bring you."
"Go on!"
"The ordinary person," he continued smoothly, "would never believe the
extreme difficulty with which one collects any particulars as to the
home life of a guide. More than once I felt inclined to give up the task
in despair. It seemed to me that a guide could have no home, that he
must sleep in odd moments on a bench at the _Hotel de Luxe_. I tried to
fancy a guide in the bosom of his family, carving a Sunday joint, and
surrounded by Mrs. Guide and the little Guides. I couldn't do it. It
seemed to me somehow grotesque. Just as I was giving it up in despair,
the commissionaire at a night cafe in Montmartre told me exactly what I
wanted to know. He showed me the house where Johnny, as they called him,
had a room."
"You went there?" she asked.
"I did," he answered.
"It was locked up?"
"On the contrary," he declared, "Mrs. or Miss Guide was at home, and
very pleased to see me."
"There was a woman there?"
"Assuredly. Whether she is there now or not I cannot say, for it is
three days ago, and to me she seemed nearer than that to death!"
"And about this woman! What was she like? Was she his wife or his
daughter?"
"He called her his daughter. I am not sure about the relationship. She
had been good-looking, I should say, but she was very ill."
"What did she tell you--about the man Johnson?"
"That he had gone to England to try to get some money. They were almost
destitute! He was a good guide, she said, but people came so often to
Paris, and they liked some one fresh. Then she coughed--how she
coughed!"
"Did she tell you to what part of England the man Johnson had gone?"
"I asked her, but she was not sure. I do not believe that she knew. She
said that there was some one in England who was very rich, and from whom
he hoped to be able to get money."
"Anything else?"
"No! I spoke of myself as an old client of Johnny's, and I left money.
Afterwards, at the cafe where I lunched, I found a commissionaire who
told me more about our friend."
"Ah! What was the name of the cafe?"
"The Cafe de Paris!"
She took up a screen and held it before her face. There seemed to be
little need of it, however, for her cheeks were as pale as the white
roses by her side.
"This man Johnny, as they call him," Deyes continued, "seems to have had
his ups and downs. One big stroke of luck he had, however, which seems
to have kept him going for several years. The commissionaire was able to
tell me something about it. Shall I go on?" he asked, dropping his voice
a little.
"I should like to know what the commissionaire told you," she answered.
"Somehow or other this fellow, Johnny or Johnson as some of them called
him, was recommended to a young lady, a very young lady, who was in
Paris with an invalid chaperon."
"Stop!" she cried.
He looked at her fixedly.
"You were that young lady," he said softly. "Of course, I know that!"
"I was," she admitted. "Don't speak to me for a few moments. It was
years ago--but----"
She bent the screen which she held in her hand until the handle snapped.
"You seem," she said, "to have rather exceeded your instructions. I
simply wanted to know whether the man was in Paris or not."
He bowed.
"The man is in England," he said. "Don't you think it might be helpful
if you gave me more of your confidence, and told me why you wanted to
hear about him?"
She shook her head.
"I would sooner tell you than any one, Gilbert," she said, "but I do not
want to talk about it."
"It must be as you will, of course," he answered, "but I hope you will
always remember that you could do me no greater kindness--at any
time--than to make use of my services. I do not know everything of what
happened in Paris--about that time. I do not wish to know. I am content
to serve you--blindly."
"I will not forget that," she said softly. "If ever the necessity comes
I will remind you. There! Let that be the end of it."
She changed the subject, giving him to understand that she did not wish
to discuss it further.
"You are for Marienbad, as usual?" she asked.
"Next week," he answered. "One goes from habit, I suppose. No waters
upon the earth or under it will ever cure me!"
"Liver?" she asked.
"Heart!" he declared.
"You shouldn't smoke so many cigarettes."
"Harmless," he assured her. "I don't inhale."
"I think," she said, "that I shall come over next month."
"Do!" he begged. "I'll answer for the bridge. May I come and lunch
to-morrow?"
She turned to a red morocco book by her side.
"A bishop and Lady Sarah," she said. "Several more parsons, and I think
the duchess."
"I'll face 'em," he declared.
"I think I shall send for Peggy," Wilhelmina said. "She is always so
sweet to the Church."
Deyes grinned.
"I shall go round and look her up," he declared. "Perhaps she'll come
and have lunch with me somewhere."
She held out her hand.
"You're a good sort to have gone over for me," she said. "The things you
tumbled up against you'd better forget."
"Until you remind me of them," he said. "Very well, I'll do that. Sorry
I didn't run Johnny to earth."
He went off, and Wilhelmina after a few minutes went to her desk and
wrote a letter to Stephen Hurd.
"As usual," she wrote, "when you were here this morning I forgot
to mention several matters upon which I meant to speak to you.
The first is with regard to the man whose brutal assault upon
your father caused his death. I understand that the police have
never traced him, have never even found the slightest clue to
his whereabouts. The more I think of this, the more strange it
seems to me, and I am inclined to believe that he never, after
all, escaped from the wood in which he first took shelter. I
know that the slate quarry was dragged at the time, but I have
been told that this was hastily done, and that there are several
very deep holes into which the man's body may have drifted. I
wish you, therefore, to send over to Nottingham to get some
experienced men to bring back the drags and make an exhaustive
search. Please have this done without delay.
"Further, I wish to communicate with the young man Macheson, who
was in Thorpe at the time. They may know his address at the
post-office, but if you are unable to procure it in any other
way, you must advertise in your own name. Please carry out my
instructions in these two matters immediately."
Wilhelmina laid down her pen and looked thoughtfully through the window
into the square. A policeman was coming slowly along the pavement. She
watched him approach and pass the house, his eyes still fixed in front
of him, his whole appearance stolid and matter-of-fact to the last
degree. She watched him disappear with fascinated eyes. After all, he
represented great things; behind him was a whole national code; the
machinery of which he was so small a part drove the wheels of life or
death. She turned away from the window with a shrug of the shoulders.
Humming a tune, she threw herself back in her chair, and began the
leisurely perusal of her letters.