taste of leather. But for that thirst, indeed, he could hardly have
found the energy to aid her efforts and lurch upon an elbow. A
white-hot lancet pierced his wound, and though he locked his teeth
against it a groan forced out between them. The woman cried out at the
rapid ebb of colour from his face.
"But you are suffering!"
He forced a grey smile. "It is nothing," he whispered hoarsely--"it
will pass. If you please--that drink----"
She put a knee behind his shoulders for support, and he rested his head
back upon it and drank deep from the glass which she held to his lips.
Nectar of Olympus was never more divine than that deep draught of
brandy and soda. He thought he quaffed Life itself in its distilled
quintessence, its pure elixir. His look of gratitude had almost the
spirit and the vigour of himself renewed.
"My thanks, mademoiselle..."
"Your thanks!"--she laughed with indulgent scorn--"your thanks to me!"
He offered to rise, but was restrained by kindly hands.
"No: rest there a little longer, give yourself a little time before you
try to get up."
"But I shall tire you..."
"No. And if you did, what of that? It seems to me, my friend, I owe to
you my life."
"To me it seems you do," he agreed. "But such a debt is always the
first to be forgotten, is it not?"
"You reproach me?"
"No, mademoiselle; not you, but the hearts of men... We are all very
much alike, I think."
"No," the woman insisted: "you do reproach me. In your heart you have
said: 'She has forgotten that, but for me, she would have been dead
long years ago. This service, too, she will presently forget.' But you
are wrong, my friend. It is true, the years between had made that other
time a little vague with old remoteness in my memory; but to-night has
brought it all back and--a renewed memory never fades."
"So one is told. But trust self-interest at need to black it out."
"You have no faith in me!" she said bitterly.
Lanyard gave her a weary smile. "Why should I not? And as for that: Why
should I have faith in you, Liane? Our ways run leagues apart."
"They can be one."
She met his perplexed stare with an emphatic nod, with eyes that he
could have sworn were abrim with tenderness. He shook his head as if to
shake off a ridiculous plaguing notion, and grinned broadly. "That was
a drink!" he declared. "I assure you, it was too much for my elderly
head. Let me up."
The cruel agony stabbed his side again and again as he--not
unaided--got upon his feet; and though he managed to gulp down his
groans, no grinding of his teeth could mitigate his recurrent pallor or
the pained contractions of his eyes. Furthermore, he wavered when he
tried to walk, and was glad to subside into a chair to which the woman
guided him. Then she fetched him another brandy and soda, put a lighted
cigarette between his lips, picked up a chair for herself, and sat
down, so close to him that their elbows almost touched.
"It is better, that pain, monsieur?"
He replied with an uncertain nod, pressing a careful hand to his side.
"... wound that animal gave me a month ago."
"Which animal?"
"Monsieur of the garotte, Liane; recently the assassin of de Lorgnes;
before that the ex-chauffeur of the Château de Montalais."
"Albert Dupont?"
"As you say, it is not a name."
"The same?" Her old terror revived. "My God! what have I ever done to
that one that he should seek my life?"
"What had de Lorgnes?"
Her eyes turned away, she sat for a moment in silent thought, started
suddenly to speak but checked the words before one passed her lips,
and--as Lanyard saw quite plainly--hastened to substitute others.
"No: I do not understand at all! What do you think?"
Lanyard indicated a shrug with sufficient clearness, meaning to say,
she probably knew as much as if not more than he.
"But how did he get in? I had not one suspicion I was not alone until
that handkerchief----"
"Naturally."
"And you, my friend?"
"I saw him enter, and followed."
This was strictly within the truth: Lanyard had now no doubt Dupont and
the man who had reconnoitered from the service-door were one. But it
was no part of his mind to tell the whole truth to Liane. She might be
as grateful as she ought to be, but she was still ... Liane Delorme ...
a woman to be tested rather than trusted.
"I must tell you. But perhaps you knew there were agents de police in
the restaurant to-night?"
Liane's head described a negative; her violet eyes were limpid pools of
candour.
"I am so much a stranger in Paris," Lanyard pursued, "I would not know
them. But I thought you, perhaps----"
"No, no, my friend, I have nothing to do with the police, I know little
about them. Not only that, but I was so interested in our talk, and
then inexpressibly shocked, I paid attention to nothing else."
"I understand. Otherwise you must have noticed who followed me."
"You were followed?"
And she had found the effrontery to chide him for lack of faith in her!
He was in pain: for all that, the moment seemed amusing.
"We are followed, I assure you," Lanyard replied gravely. "One man or
two--I don't know how many--in a town-car."
"But you are sure?"
"All we could get was a hansom drawn by a snail. The automobile,
running without lights, went no faster, kept a certain distance behind
us all the way from the Place Pigalle to the apartment of Mademoiselle
Reneaux. What have you to say to that? Furthermore, when Mademoiselle
Reneaux had persuaded me to take refuge in her apartment--who knew what
they designed?--one man left the automobile as it passed her door and
stood on watch across the way. Could one require proof that one was
followed?"
"Then you think somebody of the Préfecture recognized Duchemin in you?"
"Who knows? I know I was followed, watched. If you ask me, I think
Paris is not a healthy place for me."
"But all that," Liane objected, "does not bring you here!"
"Patience: I am well on my way."
Lanyard paused to sip his brandy and soda, and, under cover of that,
summon ingenuity to the fore; here a little hand-made fabrication was
indicated.
"We waited till about half an hour ago. So did the spy. Mademoiselle
Reneaux then let me out by a private way. I started to walk to my
hotel, the Chatham. There wasn't a taxi to be had, you understand.
Presently I looked back and saw I was being followed again. To make
sure, I ran--and the spy ran after me. I twisted and doubled all
through this quarter, and at last succeeded in shaking him off. Then I
turned down this street, hoping to pick up a cab in the Champ-Élysées.
Of a sudden I see Dupont. He is crossing the street toward this house.
He does not know me, but quickens his pace, and hastily lets himself in
at the service entrance.... Incidentally, if I were you, Liane, I would
give my staff of servants a bad quarter of an hour in the morning. The
door and gate were not locked; I am sure Dupont used no key. Some
person of this establishment was careless or--worse."
"Trust me to look into that."
"Enfin! in his haste, Dupont leaves the door as he found it. I take a
moment's thought; it is plain he is here for no good purpose. I follow
him in... The state of this room tells the rest."
"It is no matter." The woman reviewed the ruins of her boudoir with an
apathetic glance which was, however, anything but apathetic when she
turned it back to Lanyard's face. Bending forward, she closed a hand
upon his arm. Emotion troubled her accents. "My friend, my dear friend:
tell me what I can do to repay you?"
"Help me," said Lanyard simply, holding her eyes.
"How is that--help you?"
"To make my honour clear." Speaking rapidly and with unfeigned feeling,
he threw himself upon her generosity: "You know I am no more what I was
once, in this Paris--when you first knew me. You know I have given up
all that. For years I have fought an uphill fight to live down that
evil fame in which I once rejoiced. Now I stand accused of two crimes."
"Two!"
"Two in one, I hardly know which is the greater: that of stealing, or
that of violating the hospitality and confidence of those good ladies
of the Château de Montalais. I cannot rest while they think me
guilty... and not they alone, but all my friends, and I have made good
friends, in France and England. So, if you think you owe me anything,
Liane, help me to find and restore the Montalais jewels."
Liane Delorme sat back, her hand lifted from his arm and fell with a
helpless gesture. Her eyes mirrored no more guile than a child's. Yet
her accent was that of one who remonstrates, but with forbearance,
against unreasonable demands.
"How can I do that?"
And she had protested her gratitude to him! He knew that she was lying.
Anger welled in Lanyard's heart, but he was able to hold it in leash
and let no sign of it show in manner or expression.
"You have much influence," he suggested, "here in Paris, with people of
many classes. A word from you here, a question there, pressure exerted
in certain quarters, will help me more than all the powers of
Préfecture and Surété combined. You know that."
"Let me think." She was staring at the floor. "You must give me time.
I will do what I can, I promise you that. Perhaps"--she met his gaze
again, but he saw something crafty in her smile--"I have a scheme
already in mind. We will discuss that in the morning, when I have slept
on it."
"You give me new hope." Lanyard finished his drink and made as if to
rise, but relapsed, a spasm of pain knotting his face. "Afraid I must
have a cab," he said in a low voice. "And if you could lend me a coat
of some sort to cover these rags...."
And indeed his ready-made evening clothes had fared badly in their
first social adventure.
"But if you think I dream of letting you leave this house--in pain and
perhaps to run into the arms of the police--you little know me,
Monsieur Michael Lanyard!"
"Paul Martin, if you don't mind."
"The guest rooms are there." She waved a hand to indicate the front
part of the house on that floor. "You will find everything you need to
make you comfortable for to-night, and in the morning I will send to
the Chatham for your things.... Or perhaps it would be wiser to wait
till we are sure the police are not watching there for your return. But
if they are, it will be a simple matter to find suitable clothing for
you. Meanwhile we will have arrived at an understanding.... You
comprehend, monsieur, I am resolved, this affair is now arranged?"
"I am well content, Liane."
And that was true enough; whatever she had in mind for him, she was
only playing into his hands when she proposed to keep him near her. He
managed to get out of the chair, and accepted the offer of her arm, but
held back for a moment.
"But your servants..."
"Well, monsieur, what of them?"
"For one thing, they sleep sincerely."
"There are sound-proof walls between their part of the house and this.
More than that, they are forbidden to intrude, no matter what may
happen, unless I summon them."
"But in the morning, Liane, when they regard this wreckage... I am
afraid they will think me a tempestuous lover!"
"They will find me a tempestuous mistress," promised Liane Delorme,
"when I question them about that open door."
XVIII
BROTHER AND SISTER
The storm had passed off, an ardent noonday sun was collaborating with
a coquettish breeze to make gay the window awnings of the chamber where
Lanyard, in borrowed pyjamas and dressing-gown of silk, lay luxuriously
bedded, listening to the purr of wide-awake Paris and, with an
excellent cigar to chew on, ruminating upon the problematic issue of
his latest turn of fortune, and not in the least downhearted about it.
Before turning in he had soaked and steamed most of the ache out of
bone and muscle in the hottest water his flesh would suffer; and six
hours unbroken slumber had done wonders toward lessening the distress
his exertions last night had occasioned in the frail new tissues of his
wound. Now, fresh from a cold shower following a second hot bath, and
further comforted by a petit déjeuner served in bed, he felt measurably
sane again, and sound in wind and limb as well, barring a few deep
bruises whose soreness would need several days to heal.
A pleasant languour, like a light opiate, infused his consciousness;
yet he was by no means mentally inactive.
The morning papers were scattered over the counterpane. Lanyard had
diligently scanned all the stories that told of the identification of
the murdered man of the Lyons rapide as the Comte de Lorgnes; and
inasmuch as these were of one voice in praising the Préfecture for that
famous feat of detective work, and not one line suggested that it did
not deserve undivided credit, Lanyard had nothing to complain of there.
As for the Montalais robbery it was not even mentioned. The restricted
size imposed upon French newspapers by the paper shortage of those days
crowded out of their columns everything but news in true sense, and
there could be none of that in connection with the Montalais affair
until either André Duchemin had been arrested or the jewels recovered
from the real thief or thieves. And Lanyard was human enough to be
almost as willing to have the first happen as the last, if it were not
given to him to be the prime factor in their restoration.
For the time being--if he must confess the truth--he was actually
rather enjoying himself, rather exhilarated than otherwise by the
swiftly shifting scenes and characters of his unfolding investigations
and by the brisk sword-play of wits in which he was called upon
constantly to engage; both essential ingredients of the wine of life
according to the one recipe he knew.
And then a review of recent events seemed to warrant the belief that,
all things considered, he had thus far made fair progress toward his
goal.
While it was true he did not as yet know what had become of the
Montalais jewels, he had gathered together an accumulation of evidence
which, however circumstantial and hypothetical, established acceptably
to his intelligence a number of interesting inferences, to wit:
That Dupont had not left the neighbourhood of the Château de Montalais,
after haunting it for upwards of a month, without definite knowledge
that he would gain nothing by staying on, or without an equally
definite objective, some motive more inspiring than such simple
sensuousness as he might find in assassinating inoffensive folk
indiscriminately.
That his attempt upon the life of Liane Delorme within twenty-four
hours of the murder of de Lorgnes indicated conviction on his part that
the two were coupled in some enterprise inimical to his personal
interests.
That in spite of his mask of a stupid pig Dumont was proving himself
mentally as well as physically an adversary worthy of all respect, and
was--what was worse--still to be reckoned with.
That, as Lanyard had suspected all along, the Monk party had been
visited upon the Château de Montalais through no vagary of chance
whatever but as part of a deliberate design whose ulterior motive had
transpired only with the disappearance of the jewels--to Dupont's vast
but understandable vexation of spirit.
That the several members of the Monk party had been working in entire
accord, as a close corporation; in which case the person whom the Comte
de Lorgnes had expected to meet in Lyons must have been Monk Phinuit or
Jules.
Consequently that at least one of the three last named had been the
actual perpetrator of the robbery; and by the same token, that Liane
had lied in asserting that Monk and retinue had sailed for America
nearly a week prior to its commission.
That Liane herself had not so suddenly decided to leave France, where
she was after a fashion somebody, and journey to America, where she
would be nobody, except in stress of mortal fear lest the fate that
had befallen de Lorgnes befall her in turn--as would surely have been
the case last night but for Lanyard.
That she must therefore have had a tolerably accurate knowledge either
of Dupont's identity or of the opposition interests which that one so
ably represented; and thus was better informed than poor de Lorgnes, to
whom Dupont had been unknown; which argued that Liane's rôle in the
intrigue was that of a principal, whereas de Lorgnes had figured only
as a subordinate.
That even if the woman did mean well toward Lanyard she was bound by
stronger ties to others, whom she must consider first, and who were
hardly likely to prove so well disposed; that her protestations of
friendship and gratitude must be valued accordingly.
Summing up, Lanyard told himself he could hardly be said to have let
grass grow under his feet since leaving Château de Montalais.
Now he found himself with a solitary care to nurse, the question: What
had her pillow advised Liane Delorme?
He was going to be exceedingly interested to learn what she, in the
maturity of her judgement, had decided to do about this man who
ingenuously suggested that she requite him for saving her life by
helping him recover the Montalais jewels.
On the other hand, since Lanyard had quite decided what he meant to do
about Liane in any event, her decision really didn't matter much; and
he refused to fret himself trying to forecast it. Whatever it might
turn out to be, it would find him prepared, he couldn't be surprised.
There Lanyard was wrong. Liane was amply able to surprise him, and did.
Ultimately he felt constrained to concede a touch to genius in the
woman; her methods were her own and never poor in boldness and
imagination.
It was without ceremony that she walked in on him at length, having
kept him waiting so long that he had begun to wonder if she meant to
try on anything as crude as abandoning him, and posting off to
Cherbourg without a word to seek fancied immunity in New York, while he
remained in an empty house without money, papers of identification, or
even fit clothing for the street; for, on coming out of his bath,
Lanyard had found all of these things missing, the valet de chambre
presumably having made off with his evening clothes, to have them
pressed and repaired.
Liane was dressed for travelling, becomingly if with a sobriety that
went oddly with her cultivated beauté du diable, and wore besides a
habit of preoccupation which, one was left to assume, excused the
informality of her unannounced entrance.
"Well, my dear friend!" she said gravely, halting by the bedside.
"It's about time," Lanyard retorted.
"I was afraid you might be growing impatient," she confessed. "I have
had so much to do..."
"No doubt. But if you had neglected me much longer I should have come
to look for you regardless of consequences."
"How is that?" she enquired with knitted brows--"regardless of what
consequences?"
"Any damage one might do to the morale of your ménage by toddling about
in the voluptuous déshabillé in which you behold me--my sole present
apology for a wardrobe."
She found only the shadow of a smile for such frivolity. "I have sent
for clothing for you," she said absently. "It should be here any minute
now. We only wait for that."
"You mean you have sent to the Chatham for my things?"
"But certainly not, monsieur!" Liane Delorme lied without perceptible
effort. "That would have been too injudicious. It appears you were not
mistaken in thinking you were recognized as André Duchemin last night.
Agents of the Préfecture have been all day watching at the Chatham,
awaiting your return."
"How sad for them!" In as much as he had every reason to believe this
to be outright falsehood, Lanyard didn't feel called upon to seem
downcast. "But if my clothing there is unavailable, I hardly see..."
"But naturally I have commissioned a person of good judgement to outfit
you from the shops. Your dress clothes--which seemed to suit you very
well last night--gave us your measurements. The rest is simplicity; my
orders were to get you everything you could possibly require."
"It's awfully sporting of you," Lanyard insisted. "Although it makes
one feel--you know--not quite respectable. However, if you will be so
gracious as to suggest that your valet de chambre return my pocketbook
and passports..."
"I have them here." The woman turned over the missing articles. "But,"
she demanded with an interest which was undissembled if tardy in
finding expression, "how are you feeling to-day?"
"Oh, quite fit, thank you."
"In good spirits, I know. But that wound--?"
Lanyard chose to make more of that than it deserved; one couldn't tell
when an interesting disability might prove useful. "I have to be a bit
careful," he confessed, covering the seat of injury with a tender hand,
"but it's nothing like so troublesome as it was last night."
"I am glad. You feel able to travel?"
"Travel?" Lanyard made a face of dismay. "But one is so delightfully at
ease here, and since the Prefecture cannot possibly suspect... Are you
then in such haste to be rid of me, Liane?"
"Not at all. It is my wish and intention to accompany you."
"Well, let us trust the world will be broad-minded about it.
And--pardon my not rising--won't you sit down and tell me what it is
all about."
"I have so little time, so many things to attend to."
Nevertheless, Liane found herself a chair and accepted a cigarette.
"Does one infer that we start on our travels to-day?"
"Within the hour; in fact, as soon as you are decently clothed."
"And where do we go, mademoiselle?"
"To Cherbourg, there to take steamer for New York."
Fortunately it was Lanyard's cue to register shock; it would have cost
him something to have kept secret his stupefaction. He sank back upon
his pillows and waggled feeble hands, while his respect for Liane grew
by bounds. She had succeeded in startling and mystifying him beyond
expression.
What dodge was this that cloaked itself in such anomalous semblance of
good faith? She had not known he was acquainted with her plan to leave
France; he had discounted a hundred devices to keep it from his
knowledge. And now she not only confessed it openly, but invited him to
go with her! In the name of unreason--why? She knew, for he had owned,
his possessing purpose. He did not for an instant believe Liane Delorme
would fly France and leave behind the Montalais jewels. Did she think
he did not suspect her of knowing more about them than she had chosen
to admit? Did she imagine that he was one of those who can see only
that which is in the distance? Did she do him the injustice to believe
him incapable of actually smelling out the jewels if ever he got within
range of them?
But conjecture was too idle, Liane was too deep for him; her intent
would declare itself when she willed it, not before, unless he could
lull her into a false sense of faith in him, trick her into betraying
herself by inadvertence.
"But, my dear friend, why America?"
"You recall asking me to help you last night? Did I not promise to do
what I could? Well, I am not one to forget my promise. I know
something, monsieur."
"I believe you do!"
"You gave me credit for having some little influence in this world of
Paris. I have used it. What I have learned--I shall not tell you how,
specifically--enables me to assure you that the Montalais jewels are on
their way to America."
"And I am to believe you make this journey to help me regain them?"
"What do you think, then?"
"I do not know what to think, mademoiselle. I am overwhelmed--abashed
and humbled by contemplation of such generosity."
"You see, you do not know me, monsieur. But you shall know me better
before we are finished."
"One does not question that." Nor did one! "But if I am to sail for
America to-day--"
"To-morrow, from Cherbourg, at eight in the morning."
"Well, to-morrow, then: but how am I to get my passport vised?"
"I have seen to that. If you will look over your papers, monsieur, you
will see that you are no longer Paul Martin alias André Duchemin, but
Paul Delorme, my invalid brother, still suffering from honourable
wounds sustained in the Great War and ordered abroad for his health."
To this Lanyard, hastily verifying her statement by running an eye
through the passport, found nothing more appropriate than a wondering
"Mon dieu!"
"So you see, everything is arranged. What have you to say?"
"Only that mademoiselle sweeps one off one's feet."
"Do you complain about that? You no longer doubt my devotion, my
gratitude?"
"Do not believe me capable of such stupidity!"
"That is very well, then. Now I must run." Liane Delorme threw away her
cigarette and rose. "I have a thousand things to do.... And, you
understand, we leave as soon as you are dressed?"
"Perfectly. By what train?"
"By no train. Don't you know there is a strike to-day? What have you
been reading in those newspapers? It is necessary that we motor to
Cherbourg."