HELLIER returned, slowly and sadly, to the High Street.
Assured in his own mind that Klein inhabited the house in St Ann’s Road,
hopeless of any help from Freyberger, whom he had put down as a
self-conceited man of not very luminous intelligence, he had undertaken
the desperate venture of going himself to the house, tackling the
occupant if he were at home, and if he were absent exploring the place.
He had provided himself with a powerful chisel to prise the verandah
door open. He had not to use it, however, for, as we have seen, the door
was only held by the catch.
It had been an expedition requiring a very great deal of pluck,
considering the appalling man with whom he would have had to contend had
his suspicions been correct. And it had ended in such a miserable
fiasco!
When he had lain on the floor of the passage with Freyberger on top of
him, he imagined that his last moment had come. He had not even cried
out for help, knowing that before help could arrive he would be dead.
He had not come badly out of the business, yet he felt depressed with a
miserable sense of failure.
It was striking nine when he passed the High Street, Kensington,
Station; just at the entry a flower-seller, with a basket of early roses
and Nice violets, caught his eye. He bought a great bunch, and, calling
a passing cab, ordered the driver to take him to the Langham.
Violets were Cécile Lefarge’s favourite flowers.
Love may be a liar, love may be blind, love may be anything you please,
but, whatever else he may be, love is a courtier. No frilled marquess of
the old regime, by long study, ever knew his monarch’s predilections as
a lover by instinct knows the predilections of his mistress.
Hellier bought violets instead of roses, instinctively and not from
choice.
At the Langham he found that Mademoiselle Lefarge was in, and a few
moments later he was in her presence.
She advanced to meet him, with hand outstretched.
“I have brought you these,” he said, sinking into a chair, whilst she
took a seat near him, “and some news—bad news, I am afraid.”
“I am used to that,” replied she, “but any news coming from you can not
be entirely bad. You, who have done so much and thought so much for me.”
“I wish I could have done more,” he replied. Then he told her the events
of the day, suppressing nothing, altering nothing.
She listened to him attentively. When he had finished she said:
“Is that all?”
“I think,” he said, “I have told you a good deal. I wish I could have
told you less, or more.”
“It is a good deal,” she replied. “And you went, alone and unarmed, to
face that fearful man?”
“Yes, and you see the result. I have spoiled everything.”
“You have not spoiled my regard for you,” she replied. “You are very
brave, and you know, or perhaps you do not know, how a woman can admire
bravery in a man. But you are better than brave, you are single-hearted.
And you let yourself be depressed by what that man, Freyberger, said to
you to-night?”
“It has depressed me, for he spoke the truth. He had no motive for
speaking otherwise.”
Cécile smiled.
“Not a motive, perhaps, but a half motive.”
“How?”
“What makes a woman depreciate the good looks of another woman?
Jealousy, my friend.”
“But Freyberger—”
“Is not a woman. No, but are men never jealous? I watched him last night
when you were speaking to him. I could read his mind. The information
you gave made his eyes sparkle with pleasure and excitement. Yet he was
displeased. He spoke to you almost as if you were an antagonist. He said
to himself, ‘This is a professional rival, a clever man who will,
perhaps, take from me some of the honour should I bring this case to a
successful termination.’
“I believe in this Mr Freyberger. He has great qualities, he has
perception and determination, but he is human. It is human to be
jealous. You have committed no fault that I can see; but, then, I am not
Freyberger. Had I met you in the passage of that house to-night, I would
have said to you, ‘Your coming here makes no difference if the bird has
flown; if the bird has not flown then remain with me, and help to
capture him on his return.’ But then, you see, I am just a woman, not a
jealous detective.
“Do not be depressed, and, above all, do not relax your vigilance, for
something tells me that, clever though our friend the detective may be,
you will materially help in the completion of this terrible case. The
only thing I regret is—”
“Yes?”
She sighed. “I regret that I have been instrumental in casting the
shadow of so much crime and wickedness upon so true a heart as my friend
Hellier.”
He left her, carrying with him the perfume of her hair and the warmth of
her lips.
She loved him entirely, and told him so without a word. He could have
made her his mistress that night. He would as soon have spat upon the
pyx.
The only love that is worth a name is the love that builds up barriers,
the love that can take yet withholds its hand.
The fatal, fatal mistake of the woman who gives herself up to a man
before marriage, the fatal mistake is not so much perhaps in yielding to
nature as in entertaining the idea that she is loved.
To Hellier the idea of love was inseparable from the idea of marriage.
He could not think of the woman he loved in any other position than
exactly on the same pedestal as himself. His wife before all the world,
on a par with his mother and his sisters, respected by them and received
as one of themselves.
And she was the daughter of an assassin. A cold-blooded murderer, whose
crime had shocked Europe.
It was not her fault. Leprosy is not the leper’s fault; is it any the
less a barrier, shutting happiness out for ever from the afflicted one?
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