"i wish to heaven the scent of pat's tobacco weren't so d—d strong on that handkerchief in the packet. it's the blackest bit of evidence against him!" manners was saying to the detective, in claremanagh's study, when a tap came at the door.
the two locked themselves in for their occasional seances in this room, and jack himself answered the knock. he was about to scold togo for disturbing him (a thing strictly forbidden to all except the duchess) when the sight of lyda's handwriting pencilled on an envelope caused him to bite back the words.
"who brought this?" he asked.
"a boy, sir," replied the japanese. "he is from some theatre. he said he went first to the tarascon hotel, but they told him you'd left word to have you called up here for anything important, so he came round."
"is he waiting for an answer?"
"no, sir. he was in a hurry to get back. he said there was no answer."
jack retired into the study with the letter and carefully, gently opened the envelope. even though he was eager to know what lyda had to say, he couldn't deal roughly with anything she had touched. this was not the only letter he had had from her, but it made his heart beat as if it were the first.
"my dear friend," she wrote with pencil, evidently in haste, "i have something very important to tell you. i cannot put it well in a letter. but it has to do with the duchess, your cousin. she may be running into some danger. i should like to save her from that if i could! come to the theatre and see me for a few minutes. i shall be free at six precisely, after rehearsing my new dance of the 'swan and the cygnet' with mrs. van esten's little girl. then i shall have a few minutes for you. meanwhile, however, if you have time after getting this, try to make your cousin's maid tell if she knows where her mistress has gone. yours ever—lyda p."
this was all. but to jack manners it was sweet as the perfume of an eastern garden by moonlight—her perfume! it was all he could do to wrench his mind from entranced thoughts of lyda, to concentrate them upon juliet. poor juliet! he understood now why he hadn't suffered at seeing her after her marriage, or cared a single rap! it was because he'd never been in love with her really, except as a dear, rather trying cousin, and because what he'd called "love" had worn off even before that, like thinly spread gilt on gingerbread! he had not known what love was till the night when lyda pavoya's eyes said to him with their first blinding look, "you are the man; i am the woman."
he believed in her utterly now, and if he had not, he would have wished to kill himself. to know her, a good and glorious woman, made the splendour of life.
"why, juliet has gone to the dress rehearsal of the roof-garden show," he remembered. that was the word she had left with togo to give him and sanders on opening the door for them. but—lyda was at the rehearsal! and she hadn't seen juliet. before sending such a message to him she would have made certain that the duchess hadn't arrived! he would have simone down at once!
but simone—the report came—was not in the house. she had gone out with admiral beatty, the duchess's bull-dog. neither togo nor huji could say when she was likely to return. but togo made a suggestion. nickson, the duke's english valet, might know something of her movements.
"nickson!" echoed jack, surprised. "this is a new development, isn't it, nick knowing anything about simone? i had an idea there was no love lost there."
togo ventured, on this encouragement, to smile dryly. at heart he had as little affection for mademoiselle as old nick had. he would have liked to do her an ill turn in payment of many snubs, if it could be managed safely. "there is not much love, captain," he said. "perhaps that is why mr. nickson watches mademoiselle when she takes the dog for a walk."
"is he afraid she'll do beatty harm?" asked jack.
"i do not know, captain. mr. nickson has not much talk. but perhaps he would answer some questions."
"is he in the house?"
"yes, captain. i noticed he left soon after mademoiselle, soon enough to see where she went—as he often does these days now his grace is gone, and mr. nickson has not so much to keep him busy. but he is back."
"ask him to come here," said manners. he spoke gravely, and as the respectful togo retired, threw sanders a puzzled look. "is there anything in this?" he asked.
"that's what i've been wondering myself," vouchsafed the detective.
"you knew old nick was dogging simone's footsteps?"
"yes, but i didn't know why. i've been trying to find out."
"how?"
"by having the said footsteps dogged on my own account."
"you've had simone shadowed?"
"certainly. but that doesn't necessarily imply suspicion. i'd be a poor sort of chap at my job if i didn't have every servant in the house shadowed."
"great scott! and without a word to me or my cousin!"
"i can't bother you two with every detail. besides, she or you might have objected, and that would have made things awkward all around."
"h'm! i see. well, where does simone go?"
"she goes, quite naturally, to a french café where she can drink her native coffee and chat with compatriots in her native tongue."
"nothing much in that, then, it would seem."
"no. nothing much. or—so it 'would seem', as you say."
"all the same you're putting two and two together?"
"that would be a mistake, from my point of view. the great thing is, to see whether two and two put themselves together."
"shall i come in, sir?" asked the man known to the household as "old nick," when his tap on the door left ajar for him had not been answered.
"yes, come in," said jack.
"old nick" was in reality not old. he might have been anywhere between thirty and forty, and was the typical british soldier turned valet. there was, however, a glint in his eye at times when fixed on a person detested, which made his nickname not inappropriate.
"togo thinks you may know when simone is likely to return," manners explained.
"she generally does about this time, sir. i'm expecting her any minute."
"is it her movements or beatty's that interest you?"
nickson swallowed discreetly. "may i speak out, sir?"
"that's what we want you to do."
"well, sir, i was with 'is grice one wye or another all through the war, and there's nobody to me like 'im—never was nor never will be. so there it is! and when 'e just vanished as you might say without so much as tippin' the wink to me, i was dead sure 'e 'adn't gone of 'is own accord. so i sets my wits to work the best i could, and i listens to talk and i reads all that blinkin' newspaper rot. thinks i, looks as if them beastly pearls has somethin' to say in the business. so i asks meself: 'oo's walked off with 'em, if any one, and is 'is grice doin' a flit in the 'ope of trackin' the bloke down? if them pearls was ever in this 'ouse, they must 'ave gone out again. 'oo could' a' done the trick?' well, i never trusted mam'selle the wye 'er grice did. she 'ad the run o' the plice. it was just on the cards she might o' laid 'er 'ands on the combination for openin' the safe. 'well, i puts that in my pipe an' smokes it. strikes me she goes out a bit more reg'lar for 'er prominides with beatty since that french mounseer brought 'is packet o' pearls, than she used to do. so i 'as the curiosity to foller at a respectful distance one dye, an' sees m' lidy step into a french restorong. not long after, comes along mounseer of the pearls. i was sent to meet 'im at the dock, but missed 'im there, 'cause o' some mistike about 'is initials w'ere you wites for the customs men. but i seed 'im 'ere at th' 'ouse later when i comes 'ome to report to 'is grice. i recognized 'im alright. the question to my mind was w'ether 'e'd chose that restorong 'cause 'twas french or cause o' mam'selle."
jack's eyes flashed to sanders, who smiled.
"you and i have been rivals in this game, nickson," he remarked. "what conclusion did you come to about mademoiselle?"
nickson flushed. "didn't know i was on your pitch, sir. but if yer asks me, in my opinion 'e comes for 'er. or else she comes for 'im."
"a cat may look at a king!" said sanders. "they're compatriots. why shouldn't they meet?"
"on the other 'and, w'y should they?" ventured nickson. "i wouldn't if i was 'im. and see 'ere, sir, beggin' your pardon, i know you're a detective, in a privit wye. i've told you all i done. but t'ain't all i want to do. i want to find 'is grice. if you and the captain make any frontal attack, so to speak, will you tike me along? i'd give my life for th' dook. and i might come in 'andy, 'oo knows?"
"who knows, indeed?" echoed sanders. "but you shall have the chance of finding out when the time comes. and it may come soon—any day, any hour, even any minute. now, if you think mademoiselle's due back, i suggest that you leave us, as we've sent for her here. if there's anything in your suspicions, we don't want her to smell a rat."
"right you are, sir, and thank you, sir!" said nickson. "i'll be off and leave all clear."
"so, you actually suspect simone? and defasquelle!" jack turned on sanders when they were alone.
"i can't go as far as that—yet. there's no evidence against them—not even circumstantial. there's no crime in a flirtation between a man and woman, both of the midi, thrown together in a foreign land. i meant to spring this on you only when or if i had cause to be sure. up to date, my indoors man at rudin's—that's the french place in twelfth street where they meet—hasn't been able to overhear a word between the two, though he speaks french. he's acting as a waiter there now. he has instructions to ring me up if he gets onto anything queer. and i always leave word at home and the office where i'm going to be."
this conversation, following lyda's letter, had keyed up manners' nerves. he started as rather a sharp knock sounded on the door.
it was simone. she was very neat and chic, and led beatty, whose bored look suggested that he had been denied his proper share of exercise.
"monsieur le capitaine!" she purred; and bowed discreetly to the detective. "togo says monsieur has asked for me the moment i am home. i come. but the dog——"
"never mind the dog!" sanders caught the word from jack. "we've some questions to ask you, mademoiselle. please stay where you are."
his tone was rough, and he had put on a professional, hectoring air. there had been no time to arrange a plan of action, but manners guessed what was in sanders' mind. he meant to try scaring simone; and he wanted to do it off his own bat. jack trusted him, and was willing to keep out of the business. though the frenchwoman's black eyes appealed to him—as her mistress's relative—against the rude stranger, he sat still and lit a cigarette.
