manners did not go to his hotel when he left lyda. he walked for miles. he was happy. he was proud. he was wretched. he was ashamed. he believed in lyda pavoya. he doubted her. there would not have been room for the volcano of his feelings between four walls.
that moment when he had held her in his arms had been the most wonderful if not the greatest in his life. but it had been only a moment. her surrender for a few seconds had seemed to him then the most exquisite thing in the world: the childlike longing for a man's chivalrous protection, in the heart of a woman who had known little chivalry! in an instant she had drawn herself gently away, and he had not held her. he had wished lyda to know that, if he did not understand everything, at least he understood why she had crept into his arms for that brief breathing space, and that he would take no advantage of her yielding.
he had armoured himself with an almost exaggerated friendliness afterward; and for a while they had talked not at all of themselves, but of juliet and pat. they tried to form some theory which might account for the disappearance of the pearls from the locked safe whose combination was known to only two persons; the replacing of the parcel there, sealed with fresh seals. they had striven to implicate markoff in the affair, but all their deductions stumbled against the same blank wall in the end. it seemed impossible that markoff could even have entered the house, much less have got into the study or opened the safe. lyda did not know how pat had obtained the money to help her out with the payment to markoff. it had not seemed strange to her that he should have it. looking back, it seemed strange now. yet it was incredible that he should have juggled with the packet, and risked losing his wife's respect by palming off false pearls on her, in order to get money for another woman.
incredible! and yet, lyda said, like one in a dream, that he was the only person who could have done the thing—except herself!
"i know i didn't do it, and—yes, i know he didn't do it!" she cried to jack. so, again and again they came through darkness to that blank wall! and at last, deadly tired in body and brain, lyda sent manners away.
he was all exaltation at first. the glamour and perfume of her ran through his veins. she was noble, magnificent. it was great of this glowing creature to trust him so generously, to tell him her life story, putting herself in his power in a way, for the sake of claremanagh's happiness. it was fine of her to say he might repeat all to juliet, who—lyda must know—detested and distrusted her with the obstinacy of a spoiled, jealous child: to say that, if necessary, a detective might be trusted with her secrets.
but as the chill of the night iced his veins, jack's mood changed. juliet's point of view suddenly showed itself sharply to his eyes. it was as if she had come from round the corner of the last street he had passed, to walk with him. had lyda told him the story for claremanagh's sake and juliet's? why not for her own—in the daring wish to make a "friend at court?" would that not be more like her—more like the woman she was supposed to be?
she knew that he had seen her go into the phayre house; that he must have guessed she was hidden in the study; that he was juliet's cousin and would naturally be inclined to work for juliet's interest. would it not be a bold and clever stroke to win him to her side?
if it were some other man, not himself, whose prejudices had been thus broken down in an hour by a woman's eyes and voice, wouldn't he pity the poor idiot who believed that he alone fathomed the depths of her smile?
lyda practically admitted that she had fooled many men. some of them had doubtless known far more about women than he knew. why, she must have been laughing at him all through! he had been a child in her hands!
lies that were half truths could be welded into a fabric hard to break down. no doubt there were true details in that life history of pavoya. but how many true ones? and was it "fine" of her to "consent" that he should tell juliet, and if necessary a detective? wasn't that just what she'd worked up to, and wanted? wasn't she purposely turning suspicion toward pat when she said, as if dazed, that only he or she could have changed the pearls?
jack heard himself again, warmly promising that they two should work together, that they'd drag up the mystery by the roots, and that juliet should beg her pardon.
a spider's dainty web of opal-gauze, glittering with dew, must look a fairy palace to a big, blundering bluebottle!
did such a man as markoff from petrograd even exist?
dawn flowed like a pale river through the canyons of the new york streets when manners' walk ended at his own hotel.
he felt as if he had been through a battle—a battle that he hadn't won. but a cold splash, and then dead sleep for an hour, braced him physically. he woke with a start, as if somebody had knocked; yet no one was at the door. the thought of food disgusted him; hot, strong black coffee, however, was refreshing.
it was early still, yet he was sure that juliet would be awake, and called her up, learning at once that she had no news. yes, he had things to tell, he answered her eager question. "not news exactly, but important." before going to her, however, he intended to see the detective they'd talked about: a man named henry sanders—used to be in the police—sharp chap; had the nickname of "hawkeye harry"; retired, but got bored with doing nothing, and started as a private detective; had made a big success in the last few years; absolutely to be trusted: silent as the grave and sharp as a razor.
jack added that he knew the man personally, and as he didn't wish to wait for office hours, would ring sanders up at his own house. he would call there and tell the man something of the case to save juliet useless questions and answers. then, he hoped, they could both come round to see her.
as it turned out, however, manners went alone to the phayre house. he had not seen sanders. the detective (to whom jack had vainly tried to 'phone the night before) had not yet returned from the country where he had spent the last few days. he had luckily left word that he would be at his office by ten o'clock; and having sent a request for an immediate appointment there, jack was ready for a talk with his cousin.
it was hard to put lyda pavoya's case impersonally and impartially to juliet. as he framed the story in his own words, he saw lyda again as he had seen her last night, heard her sweet, vibrating voice with its delicious accent. the glamour of the woman took possession of him once more. he tried to be judicial, but he could be so only in manner. telling the tale, he was impressed with the way detail after detail fitted itself into probability; and as juliet's face showed how the door of her mind shut against lyda, his own opened. he had left lyda, and had become her judge. juliet's silent antagonism made him again lyda pavoya's defender.
"i don't believe one word!" juliet flamed out, when he had finished.
manners found himself quite unreasonably angry: he, who had walked the streets raging against his own weakness for pavoya!
"you wanted me to get her story," he said. "well, i've got it, and all you have to say is that it's a pack of lies. i can do no more."
juliet felt stricken. "do you mean you take it all as gospel truth yourself?" she challenged.
"it seems to me to hang together perfectly."
"it would! she's clever as—a serpent."
jack frowned. "you don't seem pleased to have your own husband turned into a hero instead of a villain."
colour flew to juliet's pale cheeks. "i don't need lyda pavoya to do that for me!"
"then," said manners, coolly, "you make this distinction. you believe the good part about pat, and not the good part about her."
juliet broke into tears. "oh, jack," she reproached him. "i might have known! you've gone over absolutely to the enemy!"
jack was conscience-stricken, for in a way it was true. he tried to console the girl as he had consoled her yesterday, and in the old days when she was a child. there was no "enemy," he said, or at all events the enemy wasn't mademoiselle pavoya. it was essential that they should at least seem to work in harmony. juliet must trust him. she must pull herself together, and be ready soon to see the detective.
the duchess was quieter when he had argued for a while, and patted her shoulder, and called her "darling child." she dried her tears, and promised to "be good"—but when jack had gone to keep his appointment at sanders' office, her heart was lead. "he's pavoya's man now!" she said to herself.
having lyda's permission to speak, and knowing sanders to be trustworthy, manners kept nothing back. he began with a brief outline of the history of the pearls, and pat's business transaction with mayen. this brought him to the arrival of the messenger with the packet, and its delivery in his own presence. there, for the first time, sanders stopped him and asked questions: what had been defasquelle's manner, what the duke's? and jack believed that his answers impressed the detective favourably toward the frenchman. it proved the messenger's bona fides that he had insisted upon the opening of the box in his presence. besides, after the theft, it appeared certain that the new seals had been made with the duke's ring; and before that could have happened, manners had seen defasquelle leave the house.
sanders would, of course, wish to meet defasquelle, but would prefer to talk with the duchess first of all. whether mademoiselle pavoya's version of her visit to the phayre house and her acquaintance with the duke were true, remained to be seen. sanders had never heard of markoff, but would take immediate steps through the aid of his "best boys" to find out all about the man—if he existed! as for the duke, the detective didn't mind admitting to jack as a friend—not in an official capacity—that he didn't yet believe there had been foul play. he wasn't sure that, in claremanagh's place (assuming his injured innocence) he wouldn't have gone away to punish his wife.
"these spoiled heiresses are the limit when they get going!" he said. "and this duke chap's irish. i'm irish myself. we fellows can't sit still when even the prettiest woman forgets the marquis of queensberry's rules in a scrap! it gets our goat!"
jack was not sure whether juliet would prefer an outside opinion that pat had been kidnapped, or had left her of his own free will. but the girl's pale beauty bowled sanders over at first sight. his prejudice against the "spoiled heiress" melted like ice in morning sunlight, and his irish heart—as well as his trained discretion—kept back any word which he thought might wound her. the assumption (meant to be comforting) that with markoff lay the clue to the mystery, was, however, salt on an unhealed scar for juliet. she took it instantly for granted that sanders agreed with jack in believing lyda pavoya had told the truth.
"they're going the wrong way to work!" she thought, bitterly, when the two men had gone, promising a report the moment there should be news of any sort. "the wrong way! ... if they find out where pat is, it will be just blundering—by accident!"
in thwarted wretchedness, the girl realized that it would be worse than useless to make such protests to sanders. he was the detective, not she—though he had complimented her upon her "smartness" in the matter of the ring and the magnifying-glass. he would only pity and despise her for jealousy and prejudice if she gave him the advice she burned to give. and jack—jack was hopeless! he was lost to her.
she felt as miserably alone as if jack had not promised to be her "knight," and as if he had not brought to her one of the best private detectives in the land. she longed to strike out on her own account, to be first in the field, and be able to say to these men: "see, while you were wandering all round robin hood's barn, i've found the place where the secret was buried, and dug it up!"
it was mostly about pat that juliet thought, and his disappearance. upon the pearls she wasted little anxiety, though she hated to think that pavoya should have them. she had cried out to pat that she believed not one word of the dancer's story: and she had meant it at the time; but brooding alone over the history of pavoya's years, and the link between her and pat, juliet found herself almost arbitrarily accepting certain details here and there. yes, that must have been the way those two first met! pat had told her that he had heard the call of romance in russia—his great-great-grandfather's romance—and had left oxford to spend the long vacation among those scenes. how like pat at nineteen to create a romance of his own on the same spot!
her heart yearned to pat with the thought that he had helped pavoya because of charity, not love. in that case he had told the truth—or as much truth as his wife could expect of a man where women were concerned. but certainly, juliet assured herself, pavoya had loved pat and moved heaven and earth to compromise him. that was really why she'd asked him to lend her the pearls. no doubt she'd begged for the real ones, and he'd lent her the copy. she'd kept the wretched beads, not because of some melodramatic blackmail "stunt," but because she wished to wear them as if they were real, and get herself talked about with pat. then, he'd married, and having sent to france for the true pearls for his wife, he couldn't leave the false ones knocking about for pavoya to play with. he'd practically ordered the woman to return them; and in revenge, when an amazing chance came her way, pavoya had somehow stolen the genuine rope, changing the contents of the packet!
it all seemed clearer and clearer to juliet, and she wondered that a man with such good brains as jack's could be so easily deceived. in pride of her own superior talent as a detective, the girl would have had moments of triumphant joy had it not been for her wearing anxiety about pat.
days passed. pat did not return or write to juliet or the bank. and no news of importance was obtained for her by sanders or jack. markoff the detective was unable to trace by name, though he had got upon the track of a russian who had lately arrived in new york with some good introductions. his description answered that given of konrad markoff by mademoiselle pavoya. boris halbin (who had figured at various new york clubs, and was now supposed to have sailed for france) was a person of inconspicuous appearance. so, too, was markoff. many russians over forty are "darkish, stoutish, big faced, blunt featured, with beards turning grey!"
juliet bravely kept up the fiction with her friends that she and pat were on the best of terms. he was away on business for the bank. he would soon return. that story about the pearls being false was too silly for words! the reason she'd stopped wearing them was because she had broken the string, and didn't want the responsibility of choosing the person to mend it till pat came back. the girl would have given thousands of dollars for the privilege of "sporting her oak," and refusing to see the many people whose devotion she attributed to curiosity. but for the sake of the future, and her own pride's sake, she would not do that. she went out a good deal, kept all her engagements, and made new ones. her nerves, however, revenged themselves upon her mercilessly. once she had hardly realized that she possessed such things as nerves. now they made themselves felt each moment of the day, and through hours of the long, restless nights.
against his will, sanders had consented to an advertisement appearing in the "personal" column of several papers. juliet had pleaded that no one would know for whom it was meant, and—she should die if she couldn't put it in! consequently, curious eyes in many cities of the united states were reading every day this appeal:—"play boy: 'american beauty' believes in you and wants you. write or come back if you would not break her heart."
who could guess that the duchess of claremanagh's pet name for the duke was "play boy," and that he had sent her "american beauty" roses every day since they were engaged, because it was the name he had found sweetest, most appropriate for her?
yet, someone must have guessed: because in the inner circle (a week after the sensational pearl "whisper") the secret was given away. no names were mentioned: yet none who knew the claremanaghs could have avoided reading between the lines.
it was while juliet sat with the paper in her hands, shamed, bewildered, almost stunned, that a sealed envelope was brought on a tray to her boudoir. mechanically she opened it. within was a visiting card, with something written upon it in pencil.
for an instant the girl's bruised brain could not find the comtesse de saintville in the index of her memory. then, suddenly, she saw the woman, playing opposite her at some bridge table. yes, of course, lyda pavoya's friend.
"forgive my calling uninvited. i hope you can see me. i have something to say which may be important to you," the woman, whom juliet vaguely disliked, had scribbled in french under her name.
juliet thought for a minute, with the card in her hand. it seemed "pushing" of this person to come, and probably if she—juliet—consented to see her, she would regret the weakness. still, the one really important thing on earth was news of pat. madame de saintville might know something! she might have quarrelled with pavoya, and be ready to "give her away." "bring the lady up here," the duchess instructed huji.
presently the visitor was shown in; and juliet, rising to receive her, towered like a tall young goddess over a small, smart creature, painted to look as pretty as she thought she ought to be.
"she'll begin to speak of pavoya," juliet thought. but she was mistaken.
"i have come on a very queer errand," were the countess's first words, spoken with much throaty rolling of "rs". "perhaps you will be angry. i made up my mind only to-day that it was my duty to call."
her eyes darted to the inner circle which juliet had just thrown aside, and quickly returned to a flower with which she herself was playing. but juliet read that side-glance to mean—"after reading that paper to-day, i decided."
"when people tell one it's a duty to say or do something in particular, it's generally disagreeable," juliet said, drily.
"ah, this is an exception! it is not disagreeable at all—i hope. it is only—unusual," replied the comtesse de saintville. "but i will not keep you in suspense. have you ever heard of a palmist and fortune teller named madame veno?"
"possibly. i'm not sure," answered juliet, surprised.
"she is not—or rather she has not been—fashionable, i think," explained the other. "i have not lived long enough in new york to know these things. i happened to hear of her through a friend of mine (yours also, is it not?)—mrs. billee lowndes. it was there i met you once. mrs. lowndes knew i was interested in the psychic things: crystal gazing, palmistry. she spoke of madame veno, who is supposed to be only a manicurist. her real profession is a secret. it has to be! it seems that 'madame veno' is a name several women have used, like—one would say, a 'trade name,' because they have hired the same rooms, or offices, and 'madame veno, manicurist' is on a doorplate. that is odd, is it not? but the first madame veno died—or something. the present one is—ah, duchess, she is merveilleuse. she has told me things about myself—but things only le bon dieu ou le diable had in their knowledge! naturally, i have been to her more than once. last time she looked through her crystal. i do not know if that is forbidden by your law? en tout cas, she does it. the picture she saw must have been strange. it seemed to frighten her. when i asked some questions, she said the vision was not for me. it was for another. why it came, she could not tell unless that person was in my thoughts. then, duchess, she spoke your name. the picture was for you."
"really!" exclaimed juliet. she pretended to be amused; but the woman's tone was meant to impress, and did impress, the girl in spite of herself. "what did the picture represent?"
"madame veno did not mention, except that it concerned the duke. she felt it would be wrong to speak if not to you alone. she wished me to give you a message: to say, if you would come to her place, she would look again in the crystal, and tell you what she saw. i did not like to call on you. i am not long enough of your acquaintance. but to-day——"
"don't be afraid to speak out what's in your thoughts," juliet said with a painful smile. "you have read the inner circle. you think the disgusting 'whisperer' is right! that the advertisement which people have been talking about is mine. of course that's all nonsense! please tell everybody you meet, who's interested in my affairs! but probably you meant to be kind. anyhow, i think fortune tellers are great fun! i shall go to this one—some day soon: when i have time. you'll give me the address?"
"par coincidence, madame veno is in the same building with that journal des blagues," replied the countess. "it goes without saying that they have no connection, one with the other. it is a mere accident. mrs. lowndes has told me that the first woman of that trade name, 'madame veno,' was really a manicurist: so it was necessary to have an office, and not be in a private house in some quiet street."
"i see," said juliet. "i must thank you for coming. as madame knows my name, she must know a good deal about me, so her 'pictures' won't be as exciting as if i went to her a stranger. but they may be amusing."
her tone, though perfectly courteous, was meant to end the interview. madame de saintville rose. juliet did the same, and rang. the moment she was alone, she ran to her bedroom and commanded simone, who was there, to give her a hat and coat.
she had said she would go "some day" to madame veno. but she was going now—at once—at once!
