Let us go back a little in point of time, and follow the movements of Sir Charles Collingham.
It was barely 11 A.M. when he left the Lyons Station with his brother, the Reverend Silas, and the military attaché, Colonel Papillon. They paused for a moment outside the station while the baggage was being got together.
“See, Silas,” said the General, pointing to the clock, “you will have plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Calais for London, but you must hurry up and drive straight across Paris to the Nord. I suppose he can go, Jack?”
“Certainly, as he has promised to return if called upon.”
And Mr. Collingham promptly took advantage of the permission.
“But you, General, what are your plans?” went on the attaché.
“I shall go to the club first, get a room, dress, and all that. Then call at the Hôtel Madagascar. There is a lady there,—one of our party, in fact,—and I should like to ask after her. She may be glad of my services.”
“English? Is there anything we can do for her?”
“Yes, she is an Englishwoman, but the widow of an Italian—the Contessa di Castagneto.”
“Oh, but I know her!” said Papillon. “I remember her in Rome two or three years ago. A deuced pretty woman, very much admired, but she was in deep mourning then, and went out very little. I wished she had gone out more. There were lots of men ready to fall at her feet.”
“You were in Rome, then, some time back? Did you ever come across a man there, Quadling, the banker?”
“Of course I did. Constantly. He was a good deal about—a rather free-living, self-indulgent sort of chap. And now you mention his name, I recollect they said he was much smitten by this particular lady, the Contessa di Castagneto.”
“And did she encourage him?” “Lord! how can I tell? Who shall say how a woman’s fancy falls? It might have suited her too. They said she was not in very good circumstances, and he was thought to be a rich man. Of course we know better than that now.”
“Why now?”
“Haven’t you heard? It was in the Figaro yesterday, and in all the Paris papers. Quadling’s bank has gone to smash; he has bolted with all the ‘ready’ he could lay hands upon.”
“He didn’t get far, then!” cried Sir Charles. “You look surprised, Jack. Didn’t they tell you? This Quadling was the man murdered in the sleeping-car. It was no doubt for the money he carried with him.”
“Was it Quadling? My word! what a terrible Nemesis. Well, nil nisi bonum, but I never thought much of the chap, and your friend the Countess has had an escape. But now, sir, I must be moving. My engagement is for twelve noon. If you want me, mind you send—207 Rue Miromesnil, or to the Embassy; but let us arrange to meet this evening, eh? Dinner and a theatre—what do you say?”
Then Colonel Papillon rode off, and the General was driven to the Boulevard des Capucines, having much to occupy his thoughts by the way.
It did not greatly please him to have this story of the Countess’s relations with Quadling, as first hinted at by the police, endorsed now by his friend Papillon. Clearly she had kept up her acquaintance, her intimacy to the very last: why otherwise should she have received him, alone, been closeted with him for an hour or more on the very eve of his flight? It was a clandestine acquaintance too, or seemed so, for Sir Charles, although a frequent visitor at her house, had never met Quadling there.
What did it all mean? And yet, what, after all, did it matter to him?
A good deal really more than he chose to admit to himself, even now, when closely questioning his secret heart. The fact was, the Countess had made a very strong impression on him from the first. He had admired her greatly during the past winter at Rome, but then it was only a passing fancy, as he thought,—the pleasant platonic flirtation of a middle-aged man, who never expected to inspire or feel a great love. Only now, when he had shared a serious trouble with her, had passed through common difficulties and dangers, he was finding what accident may do—how it may fan a first liking into a stronger flame. It was absurd, of course. He was fifty-one, he had weathered many trifling affairs of the heart, and here he was, bowled over at last, and by a woman he was not certain was entitled to his respect.
What was he to do?
The answer came at once and unhesitatingly, as it would to any other honest, chivalrous gentleman.
“By George, I’ll stick to her through thick and thin! I’ll trust her whatever happens or has happened, come what may. Such a woman as that is above suspicion. She must be straight. I should be a beast and a blackguard double distilled to think anything else. I am sure she can put all right with a word, can explain everything when she chooses. I will wait till she does.”
Thus fortified and decided, Sir Charles took his way to the Hôtel Madagascar about noon. At the desk he inquired for the Countess, and begged that his card might be sent up to her. The man looked at it, then at the visitor, as he stood there waiting rather impatiently, then again at the card. At last he walked out and across the inner courtyard of the hotel to the office. Presently the manager came back, bowing low, and, holding the card in his hand, began a desultory conversation.
“Yes, yes,” cried the General, angrily cutting short all references to the weather and the number of English visitors in Paris. “But be so good as to let Madame la Comtesse know that I have called.”
“Ah, to be sure! I came to tell Monsieur le Général that madame will hardly be able to see him. She is indisposed, I believe. At any rate, she does not receive to-day.”
“As to that, we shall see. I will take no answer except direct from her. Take or send up my card without further delay. I insist! Do you hear?” said the General, so fiercely that the manager turned tail and fled up-stairs.
Perhaps he yielded his ground the more readily that he saw over the General’s shoulder the figure of Galipaud the detective looming in the archway. It had been arranged that, as it was not advisable to have the inspector hanging about the courtyard of the hotel, the clerk or the manager should keep watch over the Countess and detain any visitors who might call upon her. Galipaud had taken post at a wine-shop over the way, and was to be summoned whenever his presence was thought necessary.
There he was now, standing just behind the General, and for the present unseen by him.
But then a telegraph messenger came in and up to the desk. He held the usual blue envelope in his hand, and called out the name on the address:
“Castagneto. Contessa Castagneto.”
At sound of which the General turned sharply, to find Galipaud advancing and stretching out his hand to take the message.
“Pardon me,” cried Sir Charles, promptly interposing and understanding the situation at a glance. “I am just going up to see that lady. Give me the telegram.”
Galipaud would have disputed the point, when the General, who had already recognized him, said quietly:
“No, no, Inspector, you have no earthly right to it. I guess why you are here, but you are not entitled to interfere with private correspondence. Stand back;” and seeing the detective hesitate, he added peremptorily:
“Enough of this. I order you to get out of the way. And be quick about it!”
The manager now returned, and admitted that Madame la Comtesse would receive her visitor. A few seconds more, and the General was admitted into her presence.
“How truly kind of you to call!” she said at once, coming up to him with both hands outstretched and frank gladness in her eyes.
Yes, she was very attractive in her plain, dark travelling dress draping her tall, graceful figure; her beautiful, pale face was enhanced by the rich tones of her dark brown, wavy hair, while just a narrow band of white muslin at her wrists and neck set off the dazzling clearness of her skin.
“Of course I came. I thought you might want me, or might like to know the latest news,” he answered, as he held her hands in his for a few seconds longer than was perhaps absolutely necessary.
“Oh, do tell me! Is there anything fresh?” There was a flash of crimson colour in her cheek, which faded almost instantly.
“This much. They have found out who the man was.”
“Really? Positively? Whom do they say now?”
“Perhaps I had better not tell you. It may surprise you, shock you to hear. I think you knew him—”
“Nothing can well shock me now. I have had too many shocks already. Who do they think it is?”
“A Mr. Quadling, a banker, who is supposed to have absconded from Rome.”
She received the news so impassively, with such strange self-possession, that for a moment he was disappointed in her. But then, quick to excuse, he suggested:
“You may have already heard?”
“Yes; the police people at the railway station told me they thought it was Mr. Quadling.”
“But you knew him?”
“Certainly. They were my bankers, much to my sorrow. I shall lose heavily by their failure.”
“That also has reached you, then?” interrupted the General, hastily and somewhat uneasily.
“To be sure. The man told me of it himself. Indeed, he came to me the very day I was leaving Rome, and made me an offer—a most obliging offer.”
“To share his fallen fortunes?”
“Sir Charles Collingham! How can you? That creature!” The contempt in her tone was immeasurable.
“I had heard—well, some one said that—”
“Speak out, General; I shall not be offended. I know what you mean. It is perfectly true that the man once presumed to pester me with his attentions. But I would as soon have looked at a courier or a cook. And now—”
There was a pause. The General felt on delicate ground. He could ask no questions—anything more must come from the Countess herself.
“But let me tell you what his offer was. I don’t know why I listened to it. I ought to have at once informed the police. I wish I had.”
“It might have saved him from his fate.”
“Every villain gets his deserts in the long run,” she said, with bitter sententiousness. “And this Mr. Quadling is—But wait, you shall know him better. He came to me to propose—what do you think?—that he—his bank, I mean—should secretly repay me the amount of my deposit, all the money I had in it. To join me in his fraud, in fact—”
“The scoundrel! Upon my word, he has been well served. And that was the last you saw of him?”
“I saw him on the journey, at Turin, at Modane, at—Oh, Sir Charles, do not ask me any more about him!” she cried, with a sudden outburst, half-grief, half-dread. “I cannot tell you—I am obliged to—I—I—”
“Then do not say another word,” he said, promptly.
“There are other things. But my lips are sealed—at least for the present. You do not—will not think any worse of me?”
She laid her hand gently on his arm, and his closed over it with such evident good-will that a blush crimsoned her cheek. It still hung there, and deepened when he said, warmly:
“As if anything could make me do that! Don’t you know—you may not, but let me assure you, Countess—that nothing could happen to shake me in the high opinion I have of you. Come what may, I shall trust you, believe in you, think well of you—always.”
“How sweet of you to say that! and now, of all times,” she murmured quite softly, and looking up for the first time, shyly, to meet his eyes.
Her hand was still on his arm, covered by his, and she nestled so close to him that it was easy, natural, indeed, for him to slip his other arm around her waist and draw her to him.
“And now—of all times—may I say one word more?” he whispered in her ear. “Will you give me the right to shelter and protect you, to stand by you, share your troubles, or keep them from you—?”
“No, no, no, indeed, not now!” She looked up appealingly, the tears brimming up in her bright eyes. “I cannot, will not accept this sacrifice. You are only speaking out of your true-hearted chivalry. You must not join yourself to me, you must not involve yourself—”
He stopped her protests by the oldest and most effectual method known in such cases. That first sweet kiss sealed the compact so quickly entered into between them.
And after that she surrendered at discretion. There was no more hesitation or reluctance; she accepted his love as he had offered it, freely, with whole heart and soul, crept up under his sheltering wing like a storm-beaten dove reëntering the nest, and there, cooing softly, “My knight—my own true knight and lord,” yielded herself willingly and unquestioningly to his tender caresses.
Such moments snatched from the heart of pressing anxieties are made doubly sweet by their sharp contrast with a background of trouble.
