One by one the young ladies of the chorus came out from the stage-door
of the Universal, in most cases to be assisted into a waiting hansom or
taxicab by an attendant cavalier. Laverick stood back in the shadows as
much as possible, smiling now and then to himself at this, to him,
somewhat novel way of spending the evening. Zoe was among the last to
appear. She came up to him with a delightful little gesture of
pleasure, and took his arm as a matter of course as he led her across
to the waiting cab.
“This sort of thing is making me feel absurdly young,” he declared.
“Luigi’s for supper, I suppose?”
“Supper!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Delightful! Two nights
following, too! I did love last night.”
“We had better engage a table at Luigi’s permanently,” he remarked.
“If only you meant it!” she sighed.
He laughed at her, but he was thoughtful for a few minutes. Afterwards,
when they sat at a small round table in the somewhat Bohemian
restaurant which was the fashionable rendezvous of the moment for
ladies of the theatrical profession, he asked her a question.
“Tell me what you meant in your note,” he begged. “You said that you
had some information for me.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t anything very much,” she admitted. “I found out
to-day that some one had been inquiring at the stage-door about me, and
whether I was connected in any way with a Mr. Arthur Morrison, the
stockbroker.”
“Do you know who it was?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“The man left no name at all. I tried to get the doorkeeper to tell me
about him, but he’s such a surly old fellow, and he’s so used to that
sort of thing, that he pretended he didn’t remember anything.”
“It seems odd,” he remarked thoughtfully, “that any one should have
found you out. You were so seldom with Morrison. I dare say,” he added,
“it was just some one to whom your brother owes some small sum of
money.”
“Very likely,” she answered. “But I was going to tell you. He came
again to-night while the performance was on, and sent a note round. I
have brought it for you to see.”
The note—it was really little more than a message—was written on the
back of a programme and enclosed in an envelope evidently borrowed from
the box-office. It read as follows:
DEAR MISS LENEVEU,
I believe that Mr. Arthur Morrison is a connection of yours, and I am
venturing to introduce myself to you as a friend of his. Could you
spare me half-an-hour of your company after the performance of this
evening? If you could honor me so much, you might perhaps allow me to
give you some supper.
Sincerely, PHILIP E. MILES.
Laverick felt an absurd pang of jealousy as he handed back the
programme.
“I should say,” he declared, “that this was simply some young man who
was trying to scrape an acquaintance with you because he was or had
been a friend of Morrison’s.”
“In that case,” answered Zoe, “he is very soon forgotten.”
She tore the programme into two pieces, and Laverick was conscious of a
ridiculous feeling of pleasure at her indifference.
“If you hear anything more about him,” he said, “you might let me know.
You are a brave young lady to dismiss your admirers so summarily.”
“Perhaps I am quite satisfied with one,” laughing softly.
Laverick told himself that at his age he was behaving like an idiot,
nevertheless his eyes across the table expressed his appreciation of
her speech.
“Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Laverick,” she begged.
“For instance?”
“First of all, then, how old are you?”
He made a grimace.
“Thirty-eight—thirty-nine my next birthday. Doesn’t that seem
grandfatherly to you?”
“You must not be absurd!” she exclaimed. “It is not even middle-aged.
Now tell me—how do you spend your time generally? Do you really mean
that you go and play cards at your club most evenings?”
“I have a good many friends, and I dine out quite a great deal.”
“You have no sisters?”
“I have no relatives at all in London,” he explained.
“It is to be a real cross-examination,” she warned him.
“I am quite content,” he answered. “Go ahead, but remember, though,
that I am a very dull person.”
“You look so young for your years,” she declared. “I wonder, have you
ever been in love?”
He laughed heartily.
“About a dozen times, I suppose. Why? Do I seem to you like a
misanthrope?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, hesitatingly. “You don’t seem to me as
though you cared to make friends very easily. I just felt I wanted to
ask you. Have you ever been engaged?”
“Never,” he assured her.
“And when was the last time,” she asked, “that you felt you cared a
little for any one?”
“It dates from the day before yesterday,” he declared, filling her
glass.
She laughed at him.
“Of course, it is nonsense to talk to you like this!” she said. “You
are quite right to make fun of me.”
“On the contrary,” he insisted. “I am very much in earnest.”
“Very well, then,” she answered, “if you are in earnest you shall be in
love with me. You shall take me about, give me supper every night, send
me some sweets and cigarettes to the theatre—oh, and there are heaps of
things you ought to do if you really mean it!” she wound up.
“If those things mean being fond of you,” he answered, “I’ll prove it
with pleasure. Sweets, cigarettes, suppers, taxicabs at the
stage-door.”
“It all sounds very terrible,” she sighed. “It’s a horrid little life.”
“Yet I suppose you enjoy it?” he remarked tentatively.
“I hate it, but I must do something. I could not live on charity. If I
knew any other way I could make money, I would rather, but there is no
other way. I tried once to give music lessons. I had a few pupils, but
they never paid—they never do pay.
“I wish I could think of something,” Laverick said thoughtfully. “Of
course, it is occupation you want. So far as regards the monetary part
of it, I still owe your brother a great deal—”
She shook her head, interrupting him with a quick little gesture.
“No, no!” she declared. “I have never complained about Arthur.
Sometimes he made me suffer, because I know that he was ashamed of
having a relative in the chorus, but I am quite sure that I do not wish
to take any of his money—or of anybody else’s,” she added. “I want
always to earn my own living.”
“For such a child,” he remarked, smiling, “you are wonderfully
independent.”
“Why not?” she answered softly. “It is years since I had any one to do
very much for me. Necessity teaches us a good many things. Oh, I was
helpless enough when it began!” she added, with a little sigh. “I got
over it. We all do. Tell me—who is that woman, and why does she stare
so at you?”
Laverick looked across the room. Louise and Bellamy were sitting at the
opposite table. The former was strikingly handsome and very wonderfully
dressed. Her closely-clinging gown, cut slightly open in front,
displayed her marvelous figure. She wore long pearl earrings, and a hat
with white feathers which drooped over her fair hair. Laverick
recognized her at once.
“It is Mademoiselle Idiale,” he said, “the most wonderful soprano in
the world.”
“Why does she look so at you?” Zoe asked.
Laverick shook his head.
“I do not know her,” he said. “I know who she is, of course,—every one
does. She is a Servian, and they say that she is devoted to her
country. She left Vienna at a moment’s notice, only a few days ago, and
they say that it was because she had sworn never to sing again before
the enemies of her country. She had been engaged a long time to appear
at Covent Garden, but no one believed that she would really come. She
breaks her engagements just when she chooses. In fact, she is a very
wonderful person altogether.”
“I never saw such pearls in my life,” Zoe whispered. “And how lovely
she is! I do not understand, though, why she is so interested in you.”
“She mistakes me for some one, perhaps.”
It certainly seemed probable. Even at that moment she touched her
escort upon the arm, and he distinctly looked across at Laverick. It
was obvious that he was the subject of her conversation.
“I know the man,” Laverick said. “He was at Harrow with me, and I have
played cricket with him since. But I have certainly never met
Mademoiselle Idiale. One does not forget that sort of person.”
“Her figure is magnificent,” Zoe murmured wistfully. “Do you like tall
women very much, Mr. Laverick?”
“I adore them,” he answered, smiling, “but I prefer small ones.”
“We are very foolish people, you and I,” she laughed. “We came together
so strangely and yet we talk such frivolous nonsense.”
“You are making me young again,” he declared.
“Oh, you are quite young enough!” she assured him. “To tell you the
truth, I am jealous. Mademoiselle Idiale looks at you all the time.
Look at her now. Is she not beautiful?”
There was no doubt about her beauty, but those who were criticising
her—and she was by far the most interesting person in the room—thought
her a little sad. Though Bellamy was doing his utmost to be
entertaining, her eyes seemed to travel every now and then over his
head and out of the room. Wherever her thoughts were, one could be very
sure that they were not fixed upon the subject under discussion.
[Illustration]
“She is like that when she sings,” Laverick remarked. “She has none of
the vivacity of the Frenchwomen. Yet there was never anything so
graceful in the world as the way she moves about the stage.”
“If I were a man,” Zoe sighed, “that is the sort of woman I would die
for.”
“If you were a man,” he replied, “you would probably find some one whom
you preferred to live for. Do you know, you are rather a morbid sort of
person, Miss Zoe?”
“Ah, I like that!” she declared. “I will not be called Miss Leneveu any
more by you. You must call me Miss Zoe, please,—Zoe, if you like.”
“Zoe, by all means. Under the circumstances, I think it is only
fitting.”
His eyes wandered across the room again.
“Ah!” she cried softly, “you, too, are coming under the spell, then. I
was reading about her only the other day. They say that so many men
fall in love with her—so many men to whom she gives no encouragement at
all.”
Laverick looked into his companion’s face.
“Come,” he said, “my heart is not so easily won. I can assure you that
I never aspire to so mighty a personage as a Covent Garden star. Don’t
you know that she gets a salary of five hundred pounds a week, and
wears ropes of pearls which would represent ten times my entire income?
Heaven alone knows what her gowns cost!”
“After all, though,” murmured Zoe, “she is a woman. See, your friend is
coming to speak to you.”
Bellamy was indeed crossing the room. He nodded to Laverick and bowed
to his companion.
“Forgive my intruding, Laverick,” he said. “You do remember me, I hope?
Bellamy, you know.”
“I remember you quite well. We used to play together at Lord’s, even
after we left school.”
Bellamy smiled.
“That is so,” he answered. “I see by the papers that you have kept up
your cricket. Mine, alas! has had to go. I have been too much of a
rolling stone lately. Do you know that I have come to ask you a favor?”
“Go ahead,” Laverick interposed.
“Mademoiselle Idiale has a fancy to meet you,” Bellamy explained. “You
know, or I dare say you have heard, what a creature of whims she is. If
you won’t come across and be introduced like a good fellow, she
probably won’t speak a word all through supper-time, go off in a huff,
and my evening will be spoiled.”
Laverick laughed heartily. A little smile played at the corner of Zoe’s
lips—nevertheless, she was looking slightly anxious.
“Under those circumstances,” remarked Laverick, “perhaps I had better
go. You will understand,” he added, with a glance at Zoe, “that I
cannot stay for more than a second.”
“Naturally,” Bellamy answered. “If Mademoiselle really has anything to
say to you, I will, if I am permitted, return for a moment.”
Laverick introduced him to Zoe.
“I am sure I have seen you at the Universal,” he declared. “You’re in
the front row, aren’t you? I have seen you in that clever little
step-dance and song in the second act.”
She nodded, evidently pleased.
“Does it seem clever to you?” she asked wistfully. “You see, we are all
so tired of it.”
“I think it is ripping,” Bellamy declared. “I shall have the pleasure
again directly,” he added, with a bow.
The two men crossed the room.
“What the dickens does Mademoiselle Idiale want with me?” Laverick
demanded. “Does she know that I am a poor stockbroker, struggling
against hard times?”
Bellamy shrugged his shoulders.
“She isn’t the sort to care who or what you are,” he answered. “And as
for the rest, I suppose she could buy any of us up if she wanted to.
Her interest in you is rather a curious one. No time to explain it now.
She’ll tell you.”
Louise smiled as he paused before her. She was certainly exquisitely
beautiful. Her dress, her carriage, her delicate hands, even her voice,
were all perfection. She gave him the tips of her fingers as Bellamy
pronounced his name.
“It is so kind of you,” she said, “to come and speak to me. And indeed
you will laugh when I tell you why I thought that I would like to say
one word with you.”
Laverick bowed.
“I am thankful, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “for anything which procures
me such a pleasure.”
She smiled.
“Ah! you, too, are gallant,” she said. “But indeed, then, I fear you
will not be flattered when I tell you why I was so interested. I read
all your newspapers. I read of that terrible murder in Crooked Friars’
Alley only a few days ago,—is not that how you call the place?”
Laverick was suddenly grave. What was this that was coming?
“One of the reports,” she continued, “says that the man was a
foreigner. The maker’s name upon his clothes was Austrian. I, too, come
from that part of Europe—if not from Austria, from a country very
near—and I am always interested in my country-people. A few moments ago
I asked my friend Mr. Bellamy, ‘Where is this Crooked Friars’ Alley?’
Just then he bowed to you, and he answered me, ‘It is in the city. It
is within a yard or two of the offices of the gentleman to whom I just
have said good-evening.’ So I looked across at you and I thought that
it was strange.”
Laverick scarcely knew what to say.
“It was a terrible affair,” he admitted, “and, as Mr. Bellamy has told
you, it occurred within a few steps of my office. So far, too, the
police seem completely at a loss.”
“Ah!” she went on, shaking her head, “your police, I am afraid they are
not very clever. It is too bad, but I am afraid that it is so. Tell me,
Mr. Laverick, is this, then, a very lonely spot where your offices
are?”
“Not at all,” Laverick replied. “On the contrary, in the daytime it
might be called the heart of the city—of the money-making part of the
city, at any rate. Only this thing, you see, seems to have taken place
very late at night.”
“When all the offices were closed,” she remarked.
“Most of them,” Laverick answered. “Mine, as it happened, was open late
that night. I passed the spot within half-an-hour or so of the time
when the murder must have been committed.”
“But that is terrible!” she declared, shaking her head. “Tell me, Mr.
Laverick, if I drive to your office some morning you will show me this
place,—yes?”
“If you are in earnest, Mademoiselle, I will certainly do so, but there
is nothing there. It is just a passage.”
“You give me your address,” she insisted, “and I think that I will
come. You are a stockbroker, Mr. Bellamy tells me. Well, sometimes I
have a good deal of money to invest. I come to you and you will give me
your advice. So! You have a card!”
Laverick found one and scribbled his city address upon it. She thanked
him and once more held out the tips of her fingers.
“So I shall see you again some day, Mr. Laverick.”
He bowed and recrossed the room. Bellamy was standing talking to Zoe.
“Well,” he asked, as Laverick returned, “are you, too, going to throw
yourself beneath the car?”
Laverick shook his head.
“I do not think so,” he answered. “Our acquaintance promises to be a
business one. Mademoiselle spoke of investing some money though me.”
Bellamy laughed.
“Then you have kept your heart,” he remarked. “Ah, well, you have every
reason!”
He bowed to Zoe, nodded to Laverick, and returned to his place.
Laverick looked after him a little compassionately.
“Poor fellow,” he said.
“Who is he?”
“He has some sort of a Government appointment,” Laverick answered.
“They say he is hopelessly in love with Mademoiselle Idiale.”
“Why not?” Zoe exclaimed. “He is nice. She must care for some one. Why
do you pity him?”
“They say, too, that she has no more heart than a stone,” Laverick
continued, “and that never a man has had even a kind word from her. She
is very patriotic, and all the thoughts and love she has to spare from
herself are given to her country.”
Zoe shuddered.
“Ah!” she murmured, “I do not like to think of heartless women. Perhaps
she is not so cruel, after all. To me she seems only very, very sad.
Tell me, Mr. Laverick, why did she send for you?”
“I imagine,” said he, “that it was a whim. It must have been a whim.”