The Primadonna by F. Marion Crawford (page 4)

had known that the facts were accurately told, whatever their meaning might be, she would have taken them for further evidence against the accused. As for Miss More, she was guided by her duty to her employer, or her affection for little Ida, and she seemed to be of the charitable sort, who think no evil; but after what Lord Creedmore had said, Margaret had no doubt but that it was Mr. Van Torp who provided for the child, and if she was his daughter, the reason for Senator Moon’s neglect of her was patent.

Then Margaret thought of Isidore Bamberger, the hard-working man of business who was Van Torp’s right hand and figure-head, as Griggs had said, and who had divorced the beautiful, half-crazy mother of the two Idas because Van Torp had stolen her from him–Van Torp, his partner, and once his trusted friend. She remembered the other things Griggs had told her: how old Bamberger must surely have discovered that his daughter had been murdered, and that he meant to keep it a secret till he caught the murderer. Even now the detectives might be on the right scent, and if he whose child had been killed, and whose wife had been stolen from him by the man he had once trusted, learnt the whole truth at last, he would not be easily appeased.

‘You have had some singular offers of marriage,’ said Logotheti in a tone of reflection. ‘You will probably marry a beggar some day–a nice beggar, who has ruined himself like a gentleman, but a beggar nevertheless!’

‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said carelessly. ‘Of one thing I am sure. I shall not marry Mr. Van Torp.’

Logotheti laughed softly.

‘Remember the French proverb,’ he said. ‘”Say not to the fountain, I will not drink of thy water.”‘

‘Proverbs,’ returned Margaret, ‘are what Schreiermeyer calls stupid stuff. Fancy marrying that monster!’

‘Yes,’ assented Logotheti, ‘fancy!’

CHAPTER IX

Three weeks later, when the days were lengthening quickly and London was beginning to show its better side to the cross-grained people who abuse its climate, the gas was lighted again in the dingy rooms in Hare Court. No one but the old woman who came to sweep had visited them since Mr. Van Torp had gone into the country in March, after Lady Maud had been to see him on the evening of his arrival.

As then, the fire was laid in the grate, but the man in black who sat in the shabby arm-chair had not put a match to the shavings, and the bright copper kettle on the movable hob shone coldly in the raw glare from the incandescent gaslight. The room was chilly, and the man had not taken off his black overcoat or his hat, which had a broad band on it. His black gloves lay on the table beside him. He wore patent leather boots with black cloth tops, and he turned in his toes as he sat. His aquiline features were naturally of the melancholic type, and as he stared at the fireplace his expression was profoundly sad. He did not move for a long time, but suddenly he trembled, as a man does who feels the warning chill in a malarious country when the sun goes down, and two large bright tears ran down his lean dark cheeks and were quickly lost in his grizzled beard. Either he did not feel them, or he would not take the trouble to dry them, for he sat quite still and kept his eyes on the grate.

Outside it was quite dark and the air was thick, so that the chimney-pots on the opposite roof were hardly visible against the gloomy sky. It was the time of year when spring seems very near in broad daylight, but as far away as in January when the sun goes down.

Mr. Isidore Bamberger was waiting for a visitor, as his partner Mr. Van Torp had waited in the same place a month earlier, but he made no preparations for a cheerful meeting, and the cheap japanned tea-caddy, with the brown teapot and the chipped cups and saucers, stood undisturbed in the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner, while the lonely man sat before the cold fireplace and let the tears trickle down his cheeks as they would.

At the double stroke of the spring door-bell, twice repeated, his expression changed as if he had been waked from a dream. He dried his cheeks roughly with the back of his hand, and his very heavy black eyebrows were drawn down and together, as if the tension of the man’s whole nature had been relaxed and was now suddenly restored. The look of sadness hardened to an expression that was melancholy still, but grim and unforgiving, and the grizzled beard, clipped rather close at the sides, betrayed the angles of the strong jaw as he set his teeth and rose to let in his visitor. He was round-shouldered and slightly bow-legged when he stood up; he was heavily and clumsily built, but he was evidently strong.

He went out into the dark entry and opened the door, and a moment later he came back with Mr. Feist, the man with the unhealthy complexion whom Margaret had seen at the Turkish Embassy. Isidore Bamberger sat down in the easy-chair again without ceremony, leaving his guest to bring up a straight-backed chair for himself.

Mr. Feist was evidently in a very nervous condition. His hand shook perceptibly as he mopped his forehead after sitting down, and he moved his chair uneasily twice because the incandescent light irritated his eyes. He did not wait for Bamberger to question him, however.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t care to take steps till after this season is over. He says the same thing will happen again to a dead certainty, and that the more evidence he has the surer he’ll be of the decree. I think he’s afraid Van Torp has some explanation up his sleeve that will swing things the other way.’

‘Didn’t he catch her here?’ asked the elder man, evidently annoyed. ‘Didn’t he find the money on this table in an envelope addressed to her? Didn’t he have two witnesses with him? Or is all that an invention?’

‘It happened just so. But he’s afraid there’s some explanation–‘

‘Feist,’ said Isidore Bamberger slowly, ‘find out what explanation the man’s afraid of, pretty quick, or I’ll get somebody who will. It’s my belief that he’s just a common coward, who takes money from his wife and doesn’t care how she gets it. I suppose she refused to pay one day, so he strengthened his position by catching her; but he doesn’t want to divorce the goose that lays the golden egg as long as he’s short of cash. That’s about the measure of it, you may depend.’

‘She may be a goose,’ answered Feist, ‘but she’s a wild one, and she’ll lead us a chase too. She’s up to all sorts of games, I’ve ascertained. She goes out of the house at all hours and comes home when she’s ready, and it isn’t to meet your friend either, for he’s not been in London again since he landed.’

‘Then who else is it?’ asked Bamberger.

Feist smiled in a sickly way.

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Can’t find out.’

‘I don’t like people who don’t know and can’t find out,’ answered the other. ‘I’m in a hurry, I tell you. I’m employing you, and paying you a good salary, and taking a great deal of trouble to have you pushed with letters of introduction where you can see her, and now you come here and tell me you don’t know and you can’t find out. It won’t do, Feist. You’re no better than you used to be when you were my secretary last year. You’re a pretty bright young fellow when you don’t drink, but when you do you’re about as useful as a painted clock–and even a painted clock is right twice in twenty-four hours. It’s more than you are. The only good thing about you is that you can hold your tongue, drunk or sober. I admit that.’

Having relieved himself of this plain opinion Isidore Bamberger waited to hear what Feist had to say, keeping his eyes fixed on the unhealthy face.

‘I’ve not been drinking lately, anyhow,’ he answered, ‘and I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Bamberger, and that is, that I’m just as anxious as you can be to see this thing through, every bit.’

‘Well, then, don’t waste time! I don’t care a cent about the divorce, except that it will bring the whole affair into publicity. At soon as all the papers are down on him, I’ll start in on the real thing. I shall be ready by that time. I want public opinion on both sides of the ocean to run strong against him, as it ought to, and it’s just that it should. If I don’t manage that, he may get off in the end in spite of your evidence.’

‘Look here, Mr. Bamberger,’ said Feist, waking up, ‘if you want my evidence, don’t talk of dropping me as you did just now, or you won’t get it, do you understand? You’ve paid me the compliment of telling me that I can hold my tongue. All right. But it won’t suit you if I hold my tongue in the witness-box, will it? That’s all, Mr. Bamberger. I’ve nothing more to say about that.’

There was a sudden vehemence in the young man’s tone which portrayed that in spite of his broken nerves he could still be violent. But Isidore Bamberger was not the man to be brow-beaten by any one he employed. He almost smiled when Feist stopped speaking.

‘That’s all right,’ he said half good-naturedly and half contemptuously. ‘We understand each other. That’s all right.’

‘I hope it is,’ Feist answered in a dogged way. ‘I only wanted you to know.’

‘Well, I do, since you’ve told me. But you needn’t get excited like that. It’s just as well you gave up studying medicine and took to business, Feist, for you haven’t got what they call a pleasant bedside manner.’

Mr. Feist had once been a medical student, but had given up the profession on inheriting a sum of money with which he at once began to speculate. After various vicissitudes he had become Mr. Bamberger’s private secretary, and had held that position some time in spite of his one failing, because he had certain qualities which made him invaluable to his employer until his nerves began to give away. One of those qualities was undoubtedly his power of holding his tongue even when under the influence of drink; another was his really extraordinary memory for details, and especially for letters he had written under dictation, and for conversations he had heard. He was skilful, too, in many ways when in full possession of his faculties; but though Isidore Bamberger used him, he despised him profoundly, as he despised every man who preferred present indulgence to future profit.

Feist lit a cigarette and blew a vast cloud of smoke round him, but made no answer to his employer’s last observation.

‘Now this is what I want you to do,’ said the latter. ‘Go to this Count Leven and tell him it’s a cash transaction or nothing, and that he runs no risk. Find out what he’ll really take, but don’t come talking to me about five thousand pounds or anything of that kind, for that’s ridiculous. Tell him that if proceedings are not begun by the first of May his wife won’t get any more money from Van Torp, and he won’t get any more from his wife. Use any other argument that strikes you. That’s your business, because that’s what I pay you for. What I want is the result, and that’s justice and no more, and I don’t care anything about the means. Find them and I’ll pay. If you can’t find them I’ll pay somebody who can, and if nobody can I’ll go to the end without. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, I understand right enough,’ answered Feist, with his bad smile.’ If I can hit on the right scheme I won’t ask you anything extra for it, Mr. Bamberger! By the bye, I wrote you I met Cordova, the Primadonna, at the Turkish Embassy, didn’t I? She hates him as much as the other woman likes him, yet she and the other have struck up a friendship. I daresay I shall get something out of that too.’

‘Why does Cordova hate him?’ asked Bamberger.

‘Don’t quite know. Thought perhaps you might.’

‘No.’

‘He was attentive to her last winter,’ Feist said. ‘That’s all I know for certain. He’s a brutal sort of man, and maybe he offended her somehow.’

‘Well,’ returned Isidore Bamberger, ‘maybe; but singers aren’t often offended by men who have money. At least, I’ve always understood so, though I don’t know much about that side of life myself.’

‘It would be just one thing more to break his character if Cordova would say something against him,’ suggested Feist. ‘Her popularity is something tremendous, and people always believe a woman who says that a man has insulted her. In those things the bare word of a pretty lady who’s no better than she should be is worth more than an honest man’s character for thirty years.’

‘That’s so,’ said Bamberger, looking at him attentively. ‘That’s quite true. Whatever you are, Feist, you’re no fool. We may as well have the pretty lady’s bare word, anyway.’

‘If you approve, I’m nearly sure I can get it,’ Feist answered. ‘At least, I can get a statement which she won’t deny if it’s published in the right way. I can furnish the materials for an article on her that’s sure to please her–born lady, never a word against her, highly connected, unassailable private life, such a contrast to several other celebrities on the stage, immensely charitable, half American, half English–every bit of that all helps, you see–and then an anecdote or two thrown in, and just the bare facts about her having had to escape in a hurry from a prominent millionaire in a New York hotel–fairly ran for her life and turned the key against him. Give his name if you like. If he brings action for libel, you can subpoena Cordova herself. She’ll swear to it if it’s true, and then you can unmask your big guns and let him have it hot.’

‘No doubt, no doubt. But how do you propose to find out if it is true?’

‘Well, I’ll see; but it will answer almost as well if it’s not true,’ said Feist cynically. ‘People always believe those things.’

‘It’s only a detail,’ said Bamberger, ‘but it’s worth something, and if we can make this man Leven begin a suit against his wife, everything that’s against Van Torp will be against her too. That’s not justice, Feist, but it’s fact. A woman gets considerably less pity for making mistakes with a blackguard than for liking an honest man too much, Feist.’

Mr. Bamberger, who had divorced his own wife, delivered these opinions thoughtfully, and, though she had made no defence, he might be supposed to know what he was talking about.

Presently he dismissed his visitor with final injunctions to lose no time, and to ‘find out’ if Lady Maud was interested in any one besides Van Torp, and if not, what was at the root of her eccentric hours.

Mr. Feist went away, apparently prepared to obey his employer with all the energy he possessed. He went down the dimly-lighted stairs quickly, but he glanced nervously upwards, as if he fancied that Isidore Bamberger might have silently opened the door again to look over the banister and watch him from above. In the dark entry below he paused a moment, and took a satisfactory pull at a stout flask before going out into the yellowish gloom that had settled on Hare Court.

When he was in the narrow alley he stopped again and laughed, without making any sound, so heartily that he had to stand still till the fit passed; and the expression of his unhealthy face just then would have disturbed even Mr. Bamberger, who knew him well.

But Mr. Bamberger was sitting in the easy-chair before the fireplace, and his eyes were fixed on the bright point at which the shiny copper kettle reflected the gaslight. His head had fallen slightly forward, so that his bearded chin was out of sight below the collar of his overcoat, leaving his eagle nose and piercing eyes above it. He was like a bird of prey looking down over the edge of its nest. He had not taken off his hat for Mr. Feist, and it was pushed back from his bony forehead now, giving his face a look that would have been half comic if it had not been almost terrifying: a tall hat set on a skull, a little back or on one side, produces just such an effect.

There was no moisture in the keen eyes now. In the bright spot on the copper kettle they saw the vision of the end towards which he was striving with all his strength, and all his heart, and all his wealth. It was a grim little picture, and the chief figure in it was a thick-set man who had a queer cap drawn down over his face and his hands tied; and the eyes that saw it were sure that under the cap there were the stony features of a man who had stolen his friend’s wife and killed his friend’s daughter, and was going to die for what he had done.

Then Isidore Bamberger’s right hand disappeared inside the breast of his coat and closed lovingly upon a full pocket-book; but there was only a little money in it, only a few banknotes folded flat against a thick package of sheets of notepaper all covered with clear, close writing, some in ink and some in pencil; and if what was written there was all true, it was enough to hang Mr. Rufus Van Torp.

There were other matters, too, not written there, but carefully entered in the memory of the injured man. There was the story of his marriage with a beautiful, penniless girl, not of his own faith, whom he had taken in the face of strong opposition from his family. She had been an exquisite creature, fair and ethereal, as degenerates sometimes are; she had cynically married him for his money, deceiving him easily enough, for he was willing to be blinded; but differences had soon arisen between them, and had turned to open quarrelling, and Mr. Van Torp had taken it upon himself to defend her and to reconcile them, using the unlimited power his position gave him over his partner to force the latter to submit to his wife’s temper and caprice, as the only alternative to ruin. Her friendship for Van Torp grew stronger, till they spent many hours of every day together, while her husband saw little of her, though he was never altogether estranged from her so long as they lived under one roof.

But the time came at last when Bamberger had power too, and Van Torp could no longer hold him in check with a threat that had become vain; for he was more than indispensable, he was a part of the Nickel Trust, he was the figure-head of the ship, and could not be discarded at will, to be replaced by another.

As soon as he was sure of this and felt free to act, Isidore Bamberger divorced his wife, in a State where slight grounds are sufficient. For the sake of the Nickel Trust Van Torp’s name was not mentioned. Mrs. Bamberger made no defence, the affair was settled almost privately, and Bamberger was convinced that she would soon marry Van Torp. Instead, six weeks had not passed before she married Senator Moon, a man whom her husband had supposed she scarcely knew, and to Bamberger’s amazement Van Torp’s temper was not at all disturbed by the marriage. He acted as if he had expected it, and though he hardly ever saw her after that time, he exchanged letters with her during nearly two years.

Bamberger’s little daughter Ida had never been happy with her beautiful mother, who had alternately spoilt her and vented her temper on her, according to the caprice of the moment. At the time of the divorce the child had been only ten years old; and as Bamberger was very kind to her and was of an even disposition, though never very cheerful, she had grown up to be extremely fond of him. She never guessed that he did not love her in return, for though he was cynical enough in matters of business, he was just according to his lights, and he would not let her know that everything about her recalled her mother, from her hair to her tone of voice, her growing caprices, and her silly fits of temper. He could not believe in the affection of a daughter who constantly reminded him of the hell in which he had lived for years. If what Van Torp told Lady Maud of his own pretended engagement to Ida was true, it was explicable only on that ground, so far as her father was concerned. Bamberger felt no affection for his daughter, and saw no reason why she should not be used as an instrument, with her own consent, for consolidating the position of the Nickel Trust.

As for the former Mrs. Bamberger, afterwards Mrs. Moon, she had gone to Europe in the autumn, not many months after her marriage, leaving the Senator in Washington, and had returned after nearly a year’s absence, bringing her husband a fine little girl, whom she had christened Ida, like her first child, without consulting him. It soon became apparent that the baby was totally deaf; and not very long after this discovery, Mrs. Moon began to show signs of not being quite sane. Three years later she was altogether out of her mind, and as soon as this was clear the child was sent to the East to be taught. The rest has already been told. Bamberger, of course, had never seen little Ida, and had perhaps never heard of her existence, and Senator Moon did not see her again before he died.

Bamberger had not loved his own daughter in her life, but since her tragic death she had grown dear to him in memory, and he reproached himself unjustly with having been cold and unkind to her. Below the surface of his money-loving nature there was still the deep and unsatisfied sentiment to which his wife had first appealed, and by playing on which she had deceived him into marrying her. Her treatment of him had not killed it, and the memory of his fair young daughter now stirred it again. He accused himself of having misunderstood her. What had been unreal and superficial in her mother had perhaps been true and deep in her. He knew that she had loved him; he knew it now, and it was the recollection of that one being who had been devoted to him for himself, since he had been a grown man, that sometimes brought the tears from his eyes when he was alone. It would have been a comfort, now, to have loved her in return while she lived, and to have trusted in her love then, instead of having been tormented by the belief that she was as false as her mother had been.

But he had been disappointed of his heart’s desire; for, strange as it may seem to those who have not known such men as Isidore Bamberger, his nature was profoundly domestic, and the ideal of his youth had been to grow old in his own home, with a loving wife at his side, surrounded by children and grandchildren who loved both himself and her. Next to that, he had desired wealth and the power money gives; but that had been first, until the hope of it was gone. Looking back now, he was sure that it had all been destroyed from root to branch, the hope and the possibility, and even the memory that might have still comforted him, by Rufus Van Torp, upon whom he prayed that he might live to be revenged. He sought no secret vengeance, either, no pitfall of ruin dug in the dark for the man’s untimely destruction; all was to be in broad daylight, by the evidence of facts, under the verdict of justice, and at the hands of the law itself.

It had not been very hard to get what he needed, for his former secretary, Mr. Feist, had worked with as much industry and intelligence as if the case had been his own, and in spite of the vice that was killing him had shown a wonderful power of holding his tongue. It is quite certain that up to the day when Feist called on his employer in Hare Court, Mr. Van Torp believed himself perfectly safe.

CHAPTER X

A fortnight later Count Leven informed his wife that he was going home on a short leave, but that she might stay in London if she pleased. An aunt of his had died in Warsaw, he said, leaving him a small property, and in spite of the disturbed state of his own country it was necessary that he should go and take possession of the land without delay.

Lady Maud did not believe a word of what he said, until it became apparent that he had the cash necessary for his journey without borrowing of her, as he frequently tried to do, with varying success. She smiled calmly as she bade him good-bye and wished him a pleasant journey; he made a magnificent show of kissing her hand at parting, and waved his hat to the window when he was outside the house, before getting into the four-wheeler, on the roof of which his voluminous luggage made a rather unsafe pyramid. She was not at the window, and he knew it; but other people might be watching him from theirs, and the servant stood at the open door. It was always worth while, in Count Leven’s opinion, to make an ‘effect’ if one got a chance.

Three days later Lady Maud received a document from the Russian Embassy informing her that her husband had brought an action to obtain a divorce from her in the Ecclesiastical Court of the Patriarch of Constantinople, on the ground of her undue intimacy with Rufus Van Torp of New York, as proved by the attested depositions of detectives. She was further informed that unless she appeared in person or by proxy before the Patriarch of Constantinople within one month of the date of the present notice, to defend herself against the charges made by her husband, judgment would go by default, and the divorce would be pronounced.

At first Lady Maud imagined this extraordinary document to be a stupid practical joke, invented by some half-fledged cousin to tease her. She had a good many cousins, among whom were several beardless undergraduates and callow subalterns in smart regiments, who would think it no end of fun to scare ‘Cousin Maud.’ There was no mistaking the official paper on which the document was written, and it bore the seal of the Chancery of the Russian Embassy; but in Lady Maud’s opinion the mention of the Patriarch of Constantinople stamped it as an egregious hoax.

On reflection, however, she decided that it must have been perpetrated by some one in the Embassy for the express purpose of annoying her, since no outsider could have got at the seal, even if he could have obtained possession of the paper and envelope. As soon as this view presented itself, she determined to ascertain the truth directly, and to bring down the ambassadorial wrath on the offender.

Accordingly she took the paper to the Russian clerk who was in charge of the Chancery, and inquired who had dared to concoct such a paper and to send it to her.

To her stupefaction, the man smiled politely and informed her that the document was genuine. What had the Patriarch to do with it? That was very simple. Had she not been married to a Russian subject by the Greek rite in Paris? Certainly. Very well. All marriages of Russian subjects out of their own country took place under the authority of the Patriarch of Constantinople, and all suits for divorcing persons thus married came under his jurisdiction. That was all. It was such a simple matter that every Russian knew all about it. The clerk asked if he could be of service to her. He had been stationed in Constantinople, and knew just what to do; and, moreover, he had a friend at the Chancery there, who would take charge of the case if the Countess desired it.

Lady Maud thanked him coldly, replaced the document in its envelope, and left the Embassy with the intention of never setting foot in it again.

She understood why Leven had suddenly lost an aunt of whom she had never heard, and had got out of the way on pretence of an imaginary inheritance. The dates showed plainly that the move had been prepared before he left, and that he had started when the notice of the suit was about to be sent to her. The only explanation that occurred to her was that her husband had found some very rich woman who was willing to marry him if he could free himself; and this seemed likely enough.

She hesitated as to how she should act. Her first impulse was to go to her father, who was a lawyer and would give her good advice, but a moment’s thought showed her that it would be a mistake to go to him. Being no longer immobilised by a sprained ankle, Lord Creedmore would probably leave England instantly in pursuit of Leven himself, and no one could tell what the consequences might be if he caught him; they would certainly be violent, and they might be disastrous.

Then Lady Maud thought of telegraphing to Mr. Van Torp to come to town to see her about an urgent matter; but she decided against that course too. Whatever her relations were with the American financier this was not the moment to call attention to them. She would write to him, and in order to see him conveniently she would suggest to her father to have a week-end house party in the country, and to ask his neighbour over from Oxley Paddox. Nobody but Mr. Van Torp and the post-office called the place Torp Towers.

She had taken a hansom to the Embassy, but she walked back to Charles Street because she was angry, and she considered nothing so good for a rage as a stiff walk. By the time she reached her own door she was as cool as ever, and her clear eyes looked upon the wicked world with their accustomed calm.

As she laid her hand on the door-bell, a smart brougham drove up quickly and stopped close to the pavement, and as she turned her head Margaret was letting herself out, before the footman could get round from the other side to open the door of the carriage.

‘May I come in?’ asked the singer anxiously, and Lady Maud saw that she seemed much disturbed, and had a newspaper in her hand. ‘I’m so glad I just caught you,’ Margaret added, as the door opened.

They went in together. The house was very small and narrow, and Lady Maud led the way into a little sitting-room on the right of the hall, and shut the door.

‘Is it true?’ Margaret asked as soon as they were alone.

‘What?’

‘About your divorce–‘

Lady Maud smiled rather contemptuously.

‘Is it already in the papers?’ she asked, glancing at the one Margaret had brought. ‘I only heard of it myself an hour ago!’

‘Then it’s really true! There’s a horrid article about it–‘

Margaret was evidently much more disturbed than her friend, who sat down in a careless attitude and smiled at her.

‘It had to come some day. And besides,’ added Lady Maud, ‘I don’t care!’

‘There’s something about me too,’ answered Margaret, ‘and I cannot help caring.’

‘About you?’

‘Me and Mr. Van Torp–the article is written by some one who hates him–that’s clear!–and you know I don’t like him; but that’s no reason why I should be dragged in.’

She was rather incoherent, and Lady Maud took the paper from her hand quietly, and found the article at once. It was as ‘horrid’ as the Primadonna said it was. No names were given in full, but there could not be the slightest mistake about the persons referred to, who were all clearly labelled by bits of characteristic description. It was all in the ponderously airy form of one of those more or less true stories of which some modern weeklies seem to have an inexhaustible supply, but it was a particularly vicious specimen of its class so far as Mr. Van Torp was concerned. His life was torn up by the roots and mercilessly pulled to pieces, and he was shown to the public as a Leicester Square Lovelace or a Bowery Don Juan. His baleful career was traced from his supposed affair with Mrs. Isidore Bamberger and her divorce to the scene at Margaret’s hotel in New York, and from that to the occasion of his being caught with Lady Maud in Hare Court by a justly angry husband; and there was, moreover, a pretty plain allusion to little Ida Moon.

Lady Maud read the article quickly, but without betraying any emotion. When she had finished she raised her eyebrows a very little, and gave the paper back to Margaret.

‘It is rather nasty,’ she observed quietly, as if she were speaking of the weather.

‘It’s utterly disgusting,’ Margaret answered with emphasis. ‘What shall you do?’

‘I really don’t know. Why should I do anything? Your position is different, for you can write to the papers and deny all that concerns you if you like–though I’m sure I don’t know why you should care. It’s not to your discredit.’

‘I could not very well deny it,’ said the Primadonna thoughtfully. Almost before the words had left her lips she was sorry she had spoken.

‘Does it happen to be true?’ asked Lady Maud, with an encouraging smile.

‘Well, since you ask me–yes.’ Margaret felt uncomfortable.

‘Oh, I thought it might be,’ answered Lady Maud. ‘With all his good qualities he has a very rough side. The story about me is perfectly true too.’

Margaret was amazed at her friend’s quiet cynicism.

‘Not that about the–the envelope on the table–‘

She stopped short.

‘Oh yes! There were four thousand one hundred pounds in it. My husband counted the notes.’

The singer leaned back in her chair and stared in unconcealed surprise, wondering how in the world she could have been so completely mistaken in her judgment of a friend who had seemed to her the best type of an honest and fearless Englishwoman. Margaret Donne had not been brought up in the gay world; she had, however, seen some aspects of it since she had been a successful singer, and she did not exaggerate its virtues; but somehow Lady Maud had seemed to be above it, while living in it, and Margaret would have put her hand into the fire for the daughter of her father’s old friend, who now acknowledged without a blush that she had taken four thousand pounds from Rufus Van Torp.

‘I suppose it would go against me even in an English court,’ said Lady Maud in a tone of reflection. ‘It looks so badly to take money, you know, doesn’t it? But if I must be divorced, it really strikes me as delightfully original to have it done by the Patriarch of Constantinople! Doesn’t it, my dear?’

‘It’s not usual, certainly,’ said Margaret gravely.

She was puzzled by the other’s attitude, and somewhat horrified.

‘I suppose you think I’m a very odd sort of person,’ said Lady Maud, ‘because I don’t mind so much as most women might. You see, I never really cared for Leven, though if I had not thought I had a fancy for him I wouldn’t have married him. My people were quite against it. The truth is, I couldn’t have the husband I wanted, and as I did not mean to break my heart about it, I married, as so many girls do. That’s my little story! It’s not long, is it?’

She laughed, but she very rarely did that, even when she was amused, and now Margaret’s quick ear detected here and there in the sweet ripple a note that did not ring quite like the rest. The intonation was not false or artificial, but only sad and regretful, as genuine laughter should not be. Margaret looked at her, still profoundly mystified, and still drawn to her by natural sympathy, though horrified almost to disgust at what seemed her brutal cynicism.

‘May I ask one question? We’ve grown to be such good friends that perhaps you won’t mind.’

Lady Maud nodded.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Ask me anything you please. I’ll answer if I can.’

‘You said that you could not marry the man you liked. Was he–Mr. Van Torp?’

Lady Maud was not prepared for the question.

‘Mr. Van Torp?’ she repeated slowly. ‘Oh dear no! Certainly not! What an extraordinary idea!’ She gazed into Margaret’s eyes with a look of inquiry, until the truth suddenly dawned upon her. ‘Oh, I see!’ she cried. ‘How awfully funny!’

There was no minor note of sadness or regret in her rippling laughter now. It was so exquisitely true and musical that the great soprano listened to it with keen delight, and wondered whether she herself could produce a sound half so delicious.

‘No, my dear,’ said Lady Maud, as her mirth subsided. ‘I never was in love with Mr. Van Torp. But it really is awfully funny that you should have thought so! No wonder you looked grave when I told you that I was really found in his rooms! We are the greatest friends, and no man was ever kinder to a woman than he has been to me for the last two years. But that’s all. Did you really think the money was meant for me? That wasn’t quite nice of you, was it?’

The bright smile was still on her face as she spoke the last words, for her nature was far too big to be really hurt; but the little rebuke went home sharply, and Margaret felt unreasonably ashamed of herself, considering that Lady Maud had not taken the slightest pains to explain the truth to her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry. It was abominably stupid of me!’

‘Oh no. It was quite natural. This is not a pretty world, and there’s no reason why you should think me better than lots of other women. And besides, I don’t care!’

‘But surely you won’t let your husband get a divorce for such a reason as that without making a defence?’

‘Before the Patriarch of Constantinople?’ Lady Maud evidently thought the idea very amusing. ‘It sounds like a comic opera,’ she added. ‘Why should I defend myself? I shall be glad to be free; and as for the story, the people who like me will not believe any harm of me, and the people who don’t like me may believe what they please. But I’m very glad you showed me that article, disgusting as it is.’

‘I was beginning to be sorry I had brought it.’

‘No. You did me a service, for I had no idea that any one was going to take advantage of my divorce to make a cowardly attack on my friend–I mean Mr. Van Torp. I shall certainly not make any defence before the Patriarch, but I shall make a statement which will go to the right people, saying that I met Mr. Van Torp in a lawyer’s chambers in the Temple, that is, in a place of business, and about a matter of business, and that there was no secret about it, because my husband’s servant called the cab that took me there, and gave the cabman the address. I often do go out without telling any one, and I let myself in with a latch-key when I come home, but on that particular occasion I did neither. Will you say that if you hear me talked about?’

‘Of course I will.’

Nevertheless, Margaret thought that Lady Maud might have given her a little information about the ‘matter of business’ which had involved such a large sum of money, and had produced such important consequences.

CHAPTER XI

Mr. Van Torp was walking slowly down the Elm Walk in the park at Oxley Paddox. The ancient trees were not in full leaf yet, but there were myriads of tiny green feather points all over the rough brown branches and the smoother twigs, and their soft colour tinted the luminous spring air. High overhead all sorts and conditions of little birds were chirping and trilling and chattering together and by turns, and on the ground the sparrows were excessively busy and talkative, while the squirrels made wild dashes across the open, and stopped suddenly to sit bolt upright and look about them, and then dashed on again.

Little Ida walked beside the millionaire in silence, trustfully holding one of his hands, and as she watched the sparrows she tried to make out what sort of sound they could be making when they hopped forward and opened their bills so wide that she could distinctly see their little tongues. Mr. Van Torp’s other hand held a newspaper, and he was reading the article about himself which Margaret had shown to Lady Maud. He did not take that particular paper, but a marked copy had been sent to him, and in due course had been ironed and laid on the breakfast-table with those that came regularly. The article was marked in red pencil.

He read it slowly with a perfectly blank expression, as if it concerned some one he did not know. Once only, when he came upon the allusion to the little girl, his eyes left the page and glanced quietly down at the large red felt hat with its knot of ribbands that moved along beside him, and hid all the child’s face except the delicate chin and the corner of the pathetic little mouth. She did not know that he looked down at her, for she was intent on the sparrows, and he went back to the article and read to the end.

Then, in order to fold the paper, he gently let go of Ida’s hand, and she looked up into his face. He did not speak, but his lips moved a little as he doubled the sheet to put it into his pocket; and instantly the child’s expression changed, and she looked hurt and frightened, and stretched up her hand quickly to cover his mouth, as if to hide the words his lips were silently forming.

‘Please, please!’ she said, in her slightly monotonous voice. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t any more!’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ answered Mr. Van Torp, smiling, ‘and I apologise. You must make me pay a forfeit every time I do it. What shall the forfeit be? Chocolates?’

She watched his lips, and understood as well as if she had heard.

‘No,’ she answered demurely. ‘You mustn’t laugh. When I’ve done anything wicked and am sorry, I say the little prayer Miss More taught me. Perhaps you’d better learn it too.’

‘If you said it for me,’ suggested Mr. Van Torp gravely, ‘it would be more likely to work.’

‘Oh no! That wouldn’t do at all! You must say it for yourself. I’ll teach it to you if you like. Shall I?’

‘What must I say?’ asked the financier.

‘Well, it’s made up for me, you see, and besides, I’ve shortened it a wee bit. What I say is: “Dear God, please forgive me this time, and make me never want to do it again. Amen.” Can you remember that, do you think?’

‘I think I could,’ said Mr. Van Torp. ‘Please forgive me and make me never do it again.’

‘Never want to do it again,’ corrected little Ida with emphasis. ‘You must try not even to want to say dreadful things. And then you must say “Amen.” That’s important.’

‘Amen,’ repeated the millionaire.

At this juncture the discordant toot of an approaching motor-car was heard above the singing of the birds. Mr. Van Torp turned his head quickly in the direction of the sound, and at the same time instinctively led the little girl towards one side of the road. She apparently understood, for she asked no questions. There was a turn in the drive a couple of hundred yards away, where the Elm Walk ended, and an instant later an enormous white motor-car whizzed into sight, rushed furiously towards the two, and was brought to a standstill in an uncommonly short time, close beside them. An active man, in the usual driver’s disguise of the modern motorist, jumped down, and at the same instant pushed his goggles up over the visor of his cap and loosened the collar of his wide coat, displaying the face of Constantino Logotheti.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ Mr. Van Torp asked the wholly superfluous question in a displeased tone. ‘How did you get in? I’ve given particular orders to let in no automobiles.’

‘I always get in everywhere,’ answered Logotheti coolly. ‘May I see you alone for a few minutes?’

‘If it’s business, you’d better see Mr. Bamberger,’ said Van Torp. ‘I came here for a rest. Mr. Bamberger has come over for a few days. You’ll find him at his chambers in Hare Court.’

‘No,’ returned Logotheti, ‘it’s a private matter. I shall not keep you long.’

‘Then run us up to the house in your new go-cart.’

Mr. Van Torp lifted little Ida into the motor as if she had been a rather fragile china doll instead of a girl nine years old and quite able to get up alone, and before she could sit down he was beside her. Logotheti jumped up beside the chauffeur and the machine ran up the drive at breakneck speed. Two minutes later they all got out more than a mile farther on, at the door of the big old house. Ida ran away to find Miss More; the two men entered together, and went into the study.

The room had been built in the time of Edward Sixth, had been decorated afresh under Charles the Second, the furniture was of the time of Queen Anne, and the carpet was a modern Turkish one, woven in colours as fresh as paint to fit the room, and as thick as a down quilt: it was the sort of carpet which has come into existence with the modern hotel.

‘Well?’ Mr. Van Torp uttered the monosyllable as he sat down in his own chair and pointed to a much less comfortable one, which Logotheti took.

‘There’s an article about you,’ said the latter, producing a paper.

‘I’ve read it,’ answered Mr. Van Torp in a tone of stony indifference.

‘I thought that was likely. Do you take the paper?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘No, it was sent to me,’ Logotheti answered. ‘Did you happen to glance at the address on the wrapper of the one that came to you?’

‘My valet opens all the papers and irons them.’

Mr. Van Torp looked very bored as he said this, and he stared stonily at the pink and green waistcoat which his visitor’s unfastened coat exposed to view. Hundreds of little gold beads were sewn upon it at the intersections of the pattern. It was a marvellous creation.

‘I had seen the handwriting on the one addressed to me before,’ Logotheti said.

‘Oh, you had, had you?’

Mr. Van Torp asked the question in a dull tone without the slightest apparent interest in the answer.

‘Yes,’ Logotheti replied, not paying any attention to his host’s indifference. ‘I received an anonymous letter last winter, and the writing of the address was the same.’

‘It was, was it?’

The millionaire’s tone did not change in the least, and he continued to admire the waistcoat. His manner might have disconcerted a person of less assurance than the Greek, but in the matter of nerves the two financiers were well matched.

‘Yes,’ Logotheti answered, ‘and the anonymous letter was about you, and contained some of the stories that are printed in this article.’

‘Oh, it did, did it?’

‘Yes. There was an account of your interview with the Primadonna at a hotel in New York. I remember that particularly well.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’

‘Yes. The identity of the handwriting and the similarity of the wording make it look as if the article and the letter had been written by the same person.’

‘Well, suppose they were–I don’t see anything funny about that.’

Thereupon Mr. Van Torp turned at last from the contemplation of the waistcoat and looked out of the bay-window at the distant trees, as if he were excessively weary of Logotheti’s talk.

‘It occurred to me,’ said the latter, ‘that you might like to stop any further allusions to Miss Donne, and that if you happened to recognize the handwriting you might be able to do so effectually.’

‘There’s nothing against Madame Cordova in the article,’ answered Mr. Van Torp, and his aggressive blue eyes turned sharply to his visitor’s almond-shaped brown ones. ‘You can’t say there’s a word against her.’

‘There may be in the next one,’ suggested Logotheti, meeting the look without emotion. ‘When people send anonymous letters about broadcast to injure men like you and me, they are not likely to stick at such a matter as a woman’s reputation.’

‘Well–maybe not.’ Mr. Van Torp turned his sharp eyes elsewhere. ‘You seem to take quite an interest in Madame Cordova, Mr. Logotheti,’ he observed, in an indifferent tone.

‘I knew her before she went on the stage, and I think I may call myself a friend of hers. At all events, I wish to spare her any annoyance from the papers if I can, and if you have any regard for her you will help me, I’m sure.’

‘I have the highest regard for Madame Cordova,’ said Mr. Van Torp, and there was a perceptible change in his tone; ‘but after this, I guess the best way I can show it is to keep out of her track. That’s about all there is to do. You don’t suppose I’m going to bring an action against that paper, do you?’

‘Hardly!’ Logotheti smiled.

‘Well, then, what do you expect me to do, Mr. Logotheti?’

Again the eyes of the two men met.

‘I’ll tell you,’ answered the Greek. ‘The story about your visit to Miss Donne in New York is perfectly true.’

‘You’re pretty frank,’ observed the American.

‘Yes, I am. Very good. The man who wrote the letter and the article knows you, and that probably means that you have known him, though you may never have taken any notice of him. He hates you, for some reason, and means to injure you if he can. Just take the trouble to find out who he is and suppress him, will you? If you don’t, he will throw more mud at honest women. He is probably some underling whose feelings you have hurt, or who has lost money by you, or both.’

‘There’s something in that,’ answered Mr. Van Torp, showing a little more interest. ‘Do you happen to have any of his writing about you? I’ll look at it.’

Logotheti took a letter and a torn piece of brown paper from his pocket and handed both to his companion.

‘Read the letter, if you like,’ he said. ‘The handwriting seems to be the same as that on the wrapper.’

Mr. Van Torp first compared the address, and then proceeded to read the anonymous letter. Logotheti watched his face quietly, but it did not change in the least. When he had finished, he folded the sheet, replaced it in the envelope, and returned it with the bit of paper.

‘Much obliged,’ he said, and he looked out of the window again and was silent.

Logotheti leaned back in his chair as he put the papers into his pocket again, and presently, as Mr. Van Torp did not seem inclined to say anything more, he rose to go. The American did not move, and still looked out of the window.

‘You originally belonged to the East, Mr. Logotheti, didn’t you?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Yes. I’m a Greek and a Turkish subject.’

‘Do you happen to know the Patriarch of Constantinople?’

Logotheti stared in surprise, taken off his guard for once.

‘Very well indeed,’ he answered after an instant. ‘He is my uncle.’

‘Why, now, that’s quite interesting!’ observed Mr. Van Torp, rising deliberately and thrusting his hands into his pockets.

Logotheti, who knew nothing about the details of Lady Maud’s pending divorce, could not imagine what the American was driving at, and waited for more. Mr. Van Torp began to walk up and down, with his rather clumsy gait, digging his heels into vivid depths of the new Smyrna carpet at every step.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ he said at last, ‘but I may just as well. Most of the accusations in that letter are lies. I didn’t blow up the subway. I know it was done on purpose, of course, but I had nothing to do with it, and any man who says I had, takes me for a fool, which you’ll probably allow I’m not. You’re a man of business, Mr. Logotheti. There had been a fall in Nickel, and for weeks before the explosion I’d been making a considerable personal sacrifice to steady things. Now you know as well as I do that all big accidents are bad for the market when it’s shaky. Do you suppose I’d have deliberately produced one just then? Besides, I’m not a criminal. I didn’t blow up the subway any more than I blew up the Maine to bring on the Cuban war! The man’s a fool.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Greek, listening with interest.

‘Then there’s another thing. That about poor Mrs. Moon, who’s gone out of her mind. It’s nonsense to say I was the reason of Bamberger’s divorcing his wife. In the first place, there are the records of the divorce, and my name was never mentioned. I was her friend, that’s all, and Bamberger resented it–he’s a resentful sort of man anyway. He thought she’d marry me as soon as he got the divorce. Well, she didn’t. She married old Alvah Moon, who was the only man she ever cared for. The Lord knows how it was, but that wicked old scarecrow made all the women love him, to his dying day. I had a high regard for Mrs. Bamberger, and I suppose she was right to marry him if she liked him. Well, she married him in too much of a hurry, and the child that was born abroad was Bamberger’s and not his, and when he found it out he sent the girl East and would never see her again, and didn’t leave her a cent when he died. That’s the truth about that, Mr. Logotheti. I tell you because you’ve got that letter in your pocket, and I’d rather have your good word than your bad word in business any day.’

‘Thank you,’ answered Logotheti. ‘I’m glad to know the facts in the case, though I never could see what a man’s private life can have to do with his reputation in the money market!’

‘Well, it has, in some countries. Different kinds of cats have different kinds of ways. There’s one thing more, but it’s not in the letter, it’s in the article. That’s about Countess Leven, and it’s the worst lie of the lot, for there’s not a better woman than she is from here to China. I’m not at liberty to tell you anything of the matter she’s interested in and on which she consults me. But her father is my next neighbour here, and I seem to be welcome at his house; he’s a pretty sensible man, and that makes for her, it seems to me. As for that husband of hers, we’ve a good name in America for men like him. We’d call him a skunk over there. I suppose the English word is polecat, but it doesn’t say as much. I don’t think there’s anything else I want to tell you.’

‘You spoke of my uncle, the Patriarch,’ observed Logotheti.

‘Did I? Yes. Well, what sort of a gentleman is he, anyway?’

The question seemed rather vague to the Greek.

‘How do you mean?’ he inquired, buttoning his coat over the wonderful waistcoat.

‘Is he a friendly kind of a person, I mean? Obliging, if you take him the right way? That’s what I mean. Or does he get on his ear right away?’

‘I should say,’ answered Logotheti, without a smile, ‘that he gets on his ear right away–if that means the opposite of being friendly and obliging. But I may be prejudiced, for he does not approve of me.’

‘Why not, Mr. Logotheti?’

‘My uncle says I’m a pagan, and worship idols.’

‘Maybe he means the Golden Calf,’ suggested Mr. Van Torp gravely.

Logotheti laughed.

‘The other deity in business is the Brazen Serpent, I believe,’ he retorted.

‘The two would look pretty well out there on my lawn,’ answered Mr. Van Torp, his hard face relaxing a little.

‘To return to the point. Can I be of any use to you with the Patriarch? We are not on bad terms, though he does think me a heathen. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Thank you, not at present. Much obliged. I only wanted to know.’

Logotheti’s curiosity was destined to remain unsatisfied. He refused Mr. Van Torp’s not very pressing invitation to stay to luncheon, given at the very moment when he was getting into his motor, and a few seconds later he was tearing down the avenue.

Mr. Van Torp stood on the steps till he was out of sight and then came down himself and strolled slowly away towards the trees again, his hands behind him and his eyes constantly bent upon the road, three paces ahead.

He was not always quite truthful. Scruples were not continually uppermost in his mind. For instance, what he had told Lady Maud about his engagement to poor Miss Bamberger did not quite agree with what he had said to Margaret on the steamer.

In certain markets in New York, three kinds of eggs are offered for sale, namely, Eggs, Fresh Eggs, and Strictly Fresh Eggs. I have seen the advertisement. Similarly in Mr. Van Torp’s opinion there were three sorts of stories, to wit, Stories, True Stories, and Strictly True Stories. Clearly, each account of his engagement must have belonged to one of these classes, as well as the general statement he had made to Logotheti about the charges brought against him in the anonymous letter. The reason why he had made that statement was plain enough; he meant it to be repeated to Margaret because he really wished her to think well of him. Moreover, he had recognised the handwriting at once as that of Mr. Feist, Isidore Bamberger’s former secretary, who knew a good many things and might turn out a dangerous enemy.

But Logotheti, who knew something of men, and had dealt with some very accomplished experts in fraud from New York and London to Constantinople, had his doubts about the truth of what he had heard, and understood at once why the usually reticent American had talked so much about himself. Van Torp, he was sure, was in love with the singer; that was his weak side, and in whatever affected her he might behave like a brute or a baby, but would certainly act with something like rudimentary simplicity in either case. In Logotheti’s opinion Northern and English-speaking men might be as profound as Persians in matters of money, and sometimes were, but where women were concerned they were generally little better than sentimental children, unless they were mere animals. Not one in a thousand cared for the society of women, or even of one particular woman, for its own sake, for the companionship, and the exchange of ideas about things of which women know how to think. To the better sort, that is, to the sentimental ones, a woman always seemed what she was not, a goddess, a saint, or a sort of glorified sister; to the rest, she was an instrument of amusement and pleasure, more or less necessary and more or less purchasable. Perhaps an Englishman or an American, judging Greeks from what he could learn about them in ordinary intercourse, would get about as near the truth as Logotheti did. In his main conclusion the latter was probably right; Mr. Van Torp’s affections might be of such exuberant nature as would admit of being divided between two or three objects at the same time, or they might not. But when he spoke of having the ‘highest regard’ for Madame Cordova, without denying the facts about the interview in which he had asked her to marry him and had lost his head because she refused, he was at least admitting that he was in love with her, or had been at that time.

Mr. Van Torp also confessed that he had entertained a ‘high regard’ for the beautiful Mrs. Bamberger, now unhappily insane. It was noticeable that he had not used the same expression in speaking of Lady Maud. Nevertheless, as in the Bamberger affair, he appeared as the chief cause of trouble between husband and wife. Logotheti was considered ‘dangerous’ even in Paris, and his experiences had not been dull; but, so far, he had found his way through life without inadvertently stepping upon any of those concealed traps through which the gay and unwary of both sexes are so often dropped into the divorce court, to the surprise of everybody. It seemed the more strange to him that Rufus Van Torp, only a few years his senior, should now find himself in that position for the second time. Yet Van Torp was not a ladies’ man; he was hard-featured, rough of speech, and clumsy of figure, and it was impossible to believe that any woman could think him good-looking or be carried away by his talk. The case of Mrs. Bamberger could be explained; she might have had beauty, but she could have had little else that would have appealed to such a man as Logotheti. But there was Lady Maud, an acknowledged beauty in London, thoroughbred, aristocratic, not easily shocked perhaps, but easily disgusted, like most women of her class; and there was no doubt but that her husband had found her under extremely strange circumstances, in the act of receiving from Van Torp a large sum of money for which she altogether declined to account. Van Torp had not denied that story either, so it was probably true. Yet Logotheti, whom so many women thought irresistible, had felt instinctively that she was one of those who would smile serenely upon the most skilful and persistent besieger from the security of an impregnable fortress of virtue. Logotheti did not naturally feel unqualified respect for many women, but since he had known Lady Maud it had never occurred to him that any one could take the smallest liberty with her. On the other hand, though he was genuinely in love with Margaret and desired nothing so much as to marry her, he had never been in the least afraid of her, and he had deliberately attempted to carry her off against her will; and if she had looked upon his conduct then as anything more serious than a mad prank, she had certainly forgiven it very soon.

The only reason for his flying visit to Derbyshire had been his desire to keep Margaret’s name out of an impending scandal in which he foresaw that Mr. Van Torp and Lady Maud were to be the central figures, and he believed that he had done something to bring about that result, if he had started the millionaire on the right scent. He judged Van Torp to be a good hater and a man of many resources, who would not now be satisfied till he had the anonymous writer of the letter and the article in his power. Logotheti had no means of guessing who the culprit was, and did not care to know.

He reached town late in the afternoon, having covered something like three hundred miles since early morning. About seven o’clock he stopped at Margaret’s door, in the hope of finding her at home and of being asked to dine alone with her, but as he got out of his hansom and sent it away he heard the door shut and he found himself face to face with Paul Griggs.

‘Miss Donne is out,’ said the author, as they shook hands. ‘She’s been spending the day with the Creedmores, and when I rang she had just telephoned that she would not be back for dinner!’

‘What a bore!’ exclaimed Logotheti.

The two men walked slowly along the pavement together, and for some time neither spoke. Logotheti had nothing to do, or believed so because he was disappointed in not finding Margaret in. The elder man looked preoccupied, and the Greek was the first to speak.

‘I suppose you’ve seen that shameful article about Van Torp,’ he said.

‘Yes. Somebody sent me a marked copy of the paper. Do you know whether Miss Donne has seen it?’

‘Yes. She got a marked copy too. So did I. What do you think of it?’

‘Just what you do, I fancy. Have you any idea who wrote it?’

‘Probably some underling in the Nickel Trust whom Van Torp has offended without knowing it, or who has lost money by him.’

Griggs glanced at his companion’s face, for the hypothesis struck him as being tenable.

‘Unless it is some enemy of Countess Leven’s,’ he suggested. ‘Her husband is really going to divorce her, as the article says.’

‘I suppose she will defend herself,’ said Logotheti.

‘If she has a chance.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you happen to know what sort of man the present Patriarch of Constantinople is?’

Logotheti’s jaw dropped, and he slackened his pace.

‘What in the world–‘ he began, but did not finish the sentence. ‘That’s the second time to-day I’ve been asked about him.’

‘That’s very natural,’ said Griggs calmly. ‘You’re one of the very few men in town who are likely to know him.’

‘Of course I know him,’ answered Logotheti, still mystified. ‘He’s my uncle.’

‘Really? That’s very lucky!’

‘Look here, Griggs, is this some silly joke?’

‘A joke? Certainly not. Lady Maud’s husband can only get a divorce through the Patriarch because he married her out of Russia. You know about that law, don’t you?’

Logotheti understood at last.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I never heard of it. But if that is the case I may be able to do something–not that I’m considered orthodox at the Patriarchate! The old gentleman has been told that I’m trying to revive the worship of the Greek gods and have built a temple to Aphrodite Xenia in the Place de la Concorde!’

‘You’re quite capable of it,’ observed Griggs.

‘Oh, quite! Only, I’ve not done it yet. I’ll see what I can do. Are you much interested in the matter?’

‘Only on general principles, because I believe Lady Maud is perfectly straight, and it is a shame that such a creature as Leven should be allowed to divorce an honest Englishwoman. By the bye–speaking of her reminds me of that dinner at the Turkish Embassy–do you remember a disagreeable-looking man who sat next to me, one Feist, a countryman of mine?’

‘Rather! I wondered how he came there.’

‘He had a letter of introduction from the Turkish Minister in Washington. He is full of good letters of introduction.’

‘I should think they would need to be good,’ observed Logotheti. ‘With that face of his he would need an introduction to a Port Said gambling-hell before they would let him in.’

‘I agree with you. But he is well provided, as I say, and he goes everywhere. Some one has put him down at the Mutton Chop. You never go there, do you?’

‘I’m not asked,’ laughed Logotheti. ‘And as for becoming a member, they say it’s impossible.’

‘It takes ten or fifteen years,’ Griggs answered, ‘and then you won’t be elected unless every one likes you. But you may be put down as a visitor there just as at any other club. This fellow Feist, for instance–we had trouble with him last night–or rather this morning, for it was two o’clock. He has been dropping in often of late, towards midnight. At first he was more or less amusing with his stories, for he has a wonderful memory. You know the sort of funny man who rattles on as if he were wound up for the evening, and afterwards you cannot remember a word he has said. It’s all very well for a while, but you soon get sick of it. Besides, this particular specimen drinks like a whale.’

‘He looks as if he did.’

‘Last night he had been talking a good deal, and most of the men who had been there had gone off. You know there’s only one room at the Mutton Chop, with a long table, and if a man takes the floor there’s no escape. I had come in about one o’clock to get something to eat, and Feist poured out a steady stream of stories as usual, though only one or two listened to him. Suddenly his eyes looked queer, and he stammered, and rolled off his chair, and lay in a heap, either dead drunk or in a fit, I don’t know which.’

‘And I suppose you carried him downstairs,’ said Logotheti, for Griggs was known to be stronger than other men, though no longer young.

‘I did,’ Griggs answered. ‘That’s usually my share of the proceedings. The last person I carried–let me see–I think it must have been that poor girl who died at the Opera in New York. We had found Feist’s address in the visitors’ book, and we sent him home in a hansom. I wonder whether he got there!’

‘I should think the member who put him down would be rather annoyed,’ observed Logotheti.

‘Yes. It’s the first time anything of that sort ever happened at the Mutton Chop, and I fancy it will be the last. I don’t think we shall see Mr. Feist again.’

‘I took a particular dislike to his face,’ Logotheti said. ‘I remember thinking of him when I went home that night, and wondering who he was and what he was about.’

‘At first I took him for a detective,’ said Griggs. ‘But detectives don’t drink.’

‘What made you think he might be one?’

‘He has a very clever way of leading the conversation to a point and then asking an unexpected question.’

‘Perhaps he is an amateur,’ suggested Logotheti. ‘He may be a spy. Is Feist an American name?’

‘You will find all sorts of names in America. They prove nothing in the way of nationality, unless they are English, Dutch, or French, and even then they don’t prove much. I’m an American myself, and I feel sure that Feist either is one or has spent many years in the country, in which case he is probably naturalised. As for his being a spy, I don’t think I ever came across one in England.’

‘They come here to rest in time of peace, or to escape hanging in other countries in time of war,’ said the Greek. ‘His being at the Turkish Embassy, of all places in the world, is rather in favour of the idea. Do you happen to remember the name of his hotel?’

‘Are you going to call on him?’ Griggs asked with a smile.

‘Perhaps. He begins to interest me. Is it indiscreet to ask what sort of questions he put to you?’

‘He’s stopping at the Carlton–if the cabby took him there! We gave the man half-a-crown for the job, and took his number, so I suppose it was all right. As for the questions he asked me, that’s another matter.’

Logotheti glanced quickly at his companion’s rather grim face, and was silent for a few moments. He judged that Mr. Feist’s inquiries must have concerned a woman, since Griggs was so reticent, and it required no great ingenuity to connect that probability with one or both of the ladies who had been at the dinner where Griggs and Feist had first met.

‘I think I shall go and ask for Mr. Feist,’ he said presently. ‘I shall say that I heard he was ill and wanted to know if I could do anything for him.’

‘I’ve no doubt he’ll be much touched by your kindness!’ said Griggs. ‘But please don’t mention the Mutton Chop Club, if you really see him.’

‘Oh no! Besides, I shall let him do the talking.’

‘Then take care that you don’t let him talk you to death!’

Logotheti smiled as he hailed a passing hansom; he nodded to his companion, told the man to go to the Carlton, and drove away, leaving Griggs to continue his walk alone.

The elderly man of letters had not talked about Mr. Feist with any special intention, and was very far from thinking that what he had said would lead to any important result. He liked the Greek, because he liked most Orientals, under certain important reservations and at a certain distance, and he had lived amongst them long enough not to be surprised at anything they did. Logotheti had been disappointed in not finding the Primadonna at home, and he was not inclined to put up with the usual round of an evening in London during the early part of the season as a substitute for what he had lost. He was the more put out, because, when he had last seen Margaret, three or four days earlier, she had told him that if he came on that evening at about seven o’clock he would probably find her alone. Having nothing that looked at all amusing to occupy him, he was just in the mood to do anything unusual that presented itself.

Griggs guessed at most of these things, and as he walked along he vaguely pictured to himself the interview that was likely to take place.

CHAPTER XII

Opinion was strongly against Mr. Van Torp. A millionaire is almost as good a mark at which to throw mud as a woman of the world whose reputation has never before been attacked, and when the two can be pilloried together it is hardly to be expected that ordinary people should abstain from pelting them and calling them bad names.

Lady Maud, indeed, was protected to some extent by her father and brothers, and by many loyal friends. It is happily still doubtful how far one may go in printing lies about an honest woman without getting into trouble with the law, and when the lady’s father is not only a peer, but has previously been a barrister of reputation and a popular and hard-working member of the House of Commons during a long time, it is generally safer to use guarded language; the advisability of moderation also increases directly as the number and size of the lady’s brothers, and inversely as their patience. Therefore, on the whole, Lady Maud was much better treated by the society columns than Margaret at first expected.

On the other hand, they vented their spleen and sharpened their English on the American financier, who had no relations and scarcely any friends to stand by him, and was, moreover, in a foreign country, which always seems to be regarded as an aggravating circumstance when a man gets into any sort of trouble. Isidore Bamberger and Mr. Feist had roused and let loose upon him a whole pack of hungry reporters and paragraph writers on both sides of the Atlantic.

The papers did not at first print his name except in connection with the divorce of Lady Maud. But this was a landmark, the smallest reference to which made all other allusions to him quite clear. It was easy to speak of Mr. Van Torp as the central figure in a _cause celebre_: newspapers love the French language the more as they understand it the less; just as the gentle amateur in literature tries to hide his cloven hoof under the thin elegance of italics.

Particular stress was laid upon the millionaire’s dreadful hypocrisy. He taught in the Sunday Schools at Nickelville, the big village which had sprung up at his will and which was the headquarters of his sanctimonious wickedness. He was compared to Solomon, not for his wisdom, but on account of his domestic arrangements. He was indeed a father to his flock. It was a touching sight to see the little ones gathered round the knees of this great and good man, and to note how an unconscious and affectionate imitation reflected his face in theirs. It was true that there was another side to this truly patriarchal picture. In a city of the Far West, wrote an eloquent paragraph writer, a pale face, once divinely beautiful, was often seen at the barred window of a madhouse, and eyes that had once looked too tenderly into those of the Nickelville Solomon stared wildly at the palm-trees in the asylum grounds. This paragraph was rich in sentiment.

There were a good many mentions of the explosion in New York, too, and hints, dark, but uncommonly straight, that the great Sunday School teacher had been the author and stage-manager of an awful comedy designed expressly to injure a firm of contractors against whom he had a standing grudge. In proof of the assertion, the story went on to say that he had written four hours before the ‘accident’ happened to give warning of it to the young lady whom he was about to marry. She was a neurasthenic young lady, and in spite of the warning she died very suddenly at the theatre from shock immediately after the explosion, and his note was found on her dressing-table when she was brought home dead. Clearly, if the explosion had not been his work, and if he had been informed of it beforehand, he would have warned the police and the Department of Public Works at the same time. The young lady’s untimely death had not prevented him from sailing for Europe three or four days later, and on the trip he had actually occupied alone the same ‘thousand dollar suite’ which he had previously engaged for himself and his bride. From this detail the public might form some idea of the Nickelville magnate’s heartless character. In fact, if one-half of what was written, telegraphed, and printed about Rufus Van Torp on both sides of the Atlantic during the next fortnight was to be believed, he had no character at all.

To all this he answered nothing, and he did not take the trouble to allude to the matter in the few letters he wrote to his acquaintances. Day after day numbers of marked papers were carefully ironed and laid on the breakfast-table, after having been read and commented on in the servants’ hall. The butler began to look askance at him, Mrs. Dubbs, the housekeeper, talked gloomily of giving warning, and the footmen gossiped with the stable hands; but the men all decided that it was not derogatory to their dignity to remain in the service of a master who was soon to be exhibited in the divorce court beside such a ‘real lady’ as Lord Creedmore’s daughter; the housemaids agreed in this view, and the housekeeper consulted Miss More. For Mrs. Dubbs was an imposing person, morally and physically, and had a character to lose; and though the place was a very good one for her old age, because the master only spent six weeks or two months at Oxley Paddox each year, and never found fault, yet Mrs. Dubbs was not going to have her name associated with that of a gentleman who blew up underground works and took Solomon’s view of the domestic affections. She came of very good people in the north; one of her brothers was a minister, and the other was an assistant steward on a large Scotch estate.

Miss More’s quiet serenity was not at all disturbed by what was happening, for it could hardly be supposed that she was ignorant of the general attack on Mr. Van Torp, though he did not leave the papers lying about, where little Ida’s quick eyes might fall on a marked passage. The housekeeper waited for an occasion when Mr. Van Torp had taken the child for a drive, as he often did, and Miss More was established in her favourite corner of the garden, just out of sight of the house. Mrs. Dubbs first exposed the situation, then expressed a strong opinion as to her own respectability, and finally asked Miss More’s advice.

Miss More listened attentively, and waited till her large and sleek interlocutor had absolutely nothing more to say. Then she spoke.

‘Mrs. Dubbs,’ she said, ‘do you consider me a respectable young woman?’

‘Oh, Miss More!’ cried the housekeeper. ‘You! Indeed, I’d put my hand into the fire for you any day!’

‘And I’m an American, and I’ve known Mr. Van Torp several years, though this is the first time you have seen me here. Do you think I would let the child stay an hour under his roof, or stay here myself, if I believed one word of all those wicked stories the papers are publishing? Look at me, please. Do you think I would?’

It was quite impossible to look at Miss More’s quiet healthy face and clear eyes and to believe she would. There are some women of whom one is sure at a glance that they are perfectly trustworthy in every imaginable way, and above even the suspicion of countenancing any wrong.

‘No,’ answered Mrs. Dubbs, with honest conviction, ‘I don’t, indeed.’

‘I think, then,’ said Miss More, ‘that if I feel I can stay here, you are safe in staying too. I do not believe any of these slanders, and I am quite sure that Mr. Van Torp is one of the kindest men in the world.’

‘I feel as if you must be right, Miss More,’ replied the housekeeper. ‘But they do say dreadful things about him, indeed, and he doesn’t deny a word of it, as he ought to, in my humble opinion, though it’s not my business to judge, of course, but I’ll say this, Miss More, and that is, that if the butler’s character was publicly attacked in the papers, in the way Mr. Van Torp’s is, and if I were Mr. Van Torp, which of course I’m not, I’d say “Crookes, you may be all right, but if you’re going to be butler here any longer, it’s your duty to defend yourself against these attacks upon you in the papers, Crookes, because as a Christian man you must not hide your light under a bushel, Crookes, but let it shine abroad.” That’s what I’d say, Miss More, and I should like to know if you don’t think I should be right.’

‘If the English and American press united to attack the butler’s character,’ answered Miss More without a smile, ‘I think you would be quite right, Mrs. Dubbs. But as regards Mr. Van Torp’s present position, I am sure he is the best judge of what he ought to do.’

These words of wisdom, and Miss More’s truthful eyes, greatly reassured the housekeeper, who afterwards upbraided the servants for paying any attention to such wicked falsehoods; and Mr. Crookes, the butler, wrote to his aged mother, who was anxious about his situation, to say that Mr. Van Torp must be either a real gentleman or a very hardened criminal indeed, because it was only forgers and real gentlemen who could act so precious cool; but that, on the whole, he, Crookes, and the housekeeper, who was a highly respectable person and the sister of a minister, as he wished his mother to remember, had made up their minds that Mr. V.T. was Al, copper-bottomed–Mrs. Crookes was the widow of a seafaring man, and lived at Liverpool, and had heard Lloyd’s rating quoted all her life–and that they, the writer and Mrs. Dubbs, meant to see him through his troubles, though he was a little trying at his meals, for he would have butter on the table at his dinner, and he wanted two and three courses served together, and drank milk at his luncheon, like no Christian gentleman did that Mr. Crookes had ever seen.

The financier might have been amused if he could have read this letter, which contained no allusion to the material attractions of Torp Towers as a situation; for like a good many American millionaires, Mr. Van Torp had a blind spot on his financial retina. He could deal daringly and surely with vast sums, or he could screw twice the normal quantity of work out of an underpaid clerk; but the household arithmetic that lies between the two was entirely beyond his comprehension. He ‘didn’t want to be bothered,’ he said; he maintained that he ‘could make more money in ten minutes than he could save in a year by checking the housekeeper’s accounts’; he ‘could live on coffee and pie,’ but if he chose to hire the chef of the Cafe Anglais to cook for him at five thousand dollars a year he ‘didn’t want to know the price of a truffled pheasant or a chaudfroid of ortolans.’ That was his way, and it was good enough for him. What was the use of having made money if you were to be bothered? And besides, he concluded, ‘it was none of anybody’s blank blank business what he did.’

Mr. Van Torp did not hesitate to borrow similes from another world when his rather limited command of refined language was unequal to the occasion.

But at the present juncture, though his face did not change, and though he slept as soundly and had as good an appetite as usual, no words with which he was acquainted could express his feelings at all. He had, indeed, consigned the writer of the first article to perdition with some satisfaction; but after his interview with Logotheti, when he had understood that a general attack upon him had begun, he gathered his strength in silence and studied the position with all the concentration of earnest thought which his exceptional nature could command.

He had recognised Feist’s handwriting, and he remembered the man as his partner’s former secretary. Feist might have written the letter to Logotheti and the first article, but Van Torp did not believe him capable of raising a general hue and cry on both sides of the Atlantic. It undoubtedly happened sometimes that when a fire had been smouldering long unseen a single spark sufficed to start the blaze, but Mr. Van Torp was too well informed as to public opinion about him to have been in ignorance of any general feeling against him, if it had existed; and the present attack was of too personal a nature to have been devised by financial rivals. Besides, the Nickel Trust had recently absorbed all its competitors to such an extent that it had no rivals at all, and the dangers that threatened it lay on the one hand in the growing strength of the Labour Party in its great movement against capital, and on the other in its position with regard to recent American legislation about Trusts. From the beginning Mr. Van Torp had been certain that the campaign of defamation had not been begun by the Unions, and by its nature it could have no connection with the legal aspect of his position. It was therefore clear that war had been declared upon him by one or more individuals on purely personal grounds, and that Mr. Feist was but the chief instrument in the hands of an unknown enemy.

But at first sight it did not look as if his assailant were Isidore Bamberger. The violent attack on him might not affect the credit of the Nickel Trust, but it was certainly not likely to improve it and Mr. Van Torp believed that if his partner had a grudge against him, any attempt at revenge would be made in a shape that would not affect the Trust’s finances. Bamberger was a resentful sort of man, but on the other hand he was a man of business, and his fortune depended on that of his great partner.

Mr. Van Torp walked every morning in the park, thinking over these things, and little Ida tripped along beside him watching the squirrels and the birds, and not saying much; but now and then, when she felt the gentle pressure of his hand on hers, which usually meant that he was going to speak to her, she looked up to watch his lips, and they did not move; only his eyes met hers, and the faint smile that came into his face then was not at all like the one which most people saw there. So she smiled back, happily, and looked at the squirrels again, sure that a rabbit would soon make a dash over the open and cross the road, and hoping for the rare delight of seeing a hare. And the tame red and fallow deer looked at her suspiciously from a distance, as if she might turn into a motor-car. In those morning walks she did not again see his lips forming words that frightened her, and she began to be quite sure that he had stopped swearing to himself because she had spoken to him so seriously.

Once he looked at her so long and with so much earnestness that she asked him what he was thinking of, and he gently pushed back the broad-brimmed hat she wore, so as to see her forehead and beautiful golden hair.

‘You are growing very like your mother,’ he said, after a little while.

They had stopped in the broad drive, and little Ida gazed gravely up at him for a moment. Then she put up her arms.

‘I think I want to give you a kiss, Mr. Van Torp,’ she said with the utmost gravity. ‘You’re so good to me.’

Mr. Van Torp stooped, and she put her arms round his short neck and kissed the hard, flat cheek once, and he kissed hers rather awkwardly.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, in an odd voice, as he straightened himself.

He took her hand again to walk on, and the great iron mouth was drawn a little to one side, and it looked as if the lips might have trembled if they had not been so tightly shut. Perhaps Mr. Van Torp had never kissed a child before.

She was very happy and contented, for she had spent most of her life in a New England village alone with Miss More, and the great English country-house was full of wonder and mystery for her, and the park was certainly the Earthly Paradise. She had hardly ever been with other children and was rather afraid of them, because they did not always understand what she said, as most grown people did; so she was not at all lonely now. On the contrary, she felt that her small existence was ever so much fuller than before, since she now loved two people instead of only one, and the two people seemed to agree so well together. In America she had only seen Mr. Van Torp at intervals, when he had appeared at the cottage near Boston, the bearer of toys and chocolates and other good things, and she had not been told till after she had landed in Liverpool that she was to be taken to stop with him in the country while he remained in England. Till then he had always called her ‘Miss Ida,’ in an absurdly formal way, but ever since she had arrived at Oxley Paddox he had dropped the ‘Miss,’ and had never failed to spend two or three hours alone with her every day. Though his manner had not changed much, and he treated her with a sort of queer formality, much as he would have behaved if she had been twenty years old instead of nine, she had been growing more and more sure that he loved her and would give her anything in the world she asked for, though there was really nothing she wanted; and in return she grew gratefully fond of him by quick degrees, till her affection expressed itself in her solemn proposal to ‘give him a kiss.’

Not long after that Mr. Van Torp found amongst his letters one from Lady Maud, of which the envelope was stamped with the address of her father’s country place, ‘Craythew.’ He read the contents carefully, and made a note in his pocket-book before tearing the sheet and the envelope into a number of small bits.

There was nothing very compromising in the note, but Mr. Van Torp certainly did not know that his butler regularly offered first and second prizes in the servants’ hall, every Saturday night, for the ‘best-put-together letters’ of the week–to those of his satellites, in other words, who had been most successful in piecing together scraps from the master’s wastepaper basket. In houses where the post-bag has a patent lock, of which the master keeps the key, this diversion has been found a good substitute for the more thrilling entertainment of steaming the letters and reading them before taking them upstairs. If Mrs. Dubbs was aware of Mr. Crookes’ weekly distribution of rewards she took no notice of it; but as she rarely condescended to visit the lower regions, and only occasionally asked Mr. Crookes to dine in her own sitting-room, she may be allowed the benefit of the doubt; and, besides, she was a very superior person.

On the day after he had received Lady Maud’s note, Mr. Van Torp rode out by himself. No one, judging from his looks, would have taken him for a good rider. He rode seldom, too, never talked of horses, and was never seen at a race. When he rode he did not even take the trouble to put on gaiters, and, after he had bought Oxley Paddox, the first time that his horse was brought to the door, by a groom who had never seen him, the latter could have sworn that the millionaire had never been on a horse before and was foolishly determined to break his neck. On that occasion Mr. Van Torp came down the steps, with a big cigar in his mouth, in his ordinary clothes, without so much as a pair of straps to keep his trousers down, or a bit of a stick in his hand. The animal was a rather ill-tempered black that had arrived from Yorkshire two days previously in charge of a boy who gave him a bad character. As Mr. Van Torp descended the steps with his clumsy gait, the horse laid his ears well back for a moment and looked as if he meant to kick anything within reach. Mr. Van Torp looked at him in a dull way, puffed his cigar, and made one remark in the form of a query.

‘He ain’t a lamb, is he?’

‘No, sir,’ answered the groom with sympathetic alacrity, ‘and if I was you, sir, I wouldn’t–‘

But the groom’s good advice was checked by an unexpected phenomenon. Mr. Van Torp was suddenly up, and the black was plunging wildly as was only to be expected; what was more extraordinary was that Mr. Van Torp’s expression showed no change whatever, the very big cigar was stuck in his mouth at precisely the same angle as before, and he appeared to be glued to the saddle. He sat perfectly erect, with his legs perpendicularly straight, and his hands low and quiet.

The next moment the black bolted down the drive, but Mr. Van Torp did not seem the least disturbed, and the astonished groom, his mouth wide open and his arms hanging down, saw that the rider gave the beast his head for a couple of hundred yards, and then actually stopped him short, bringing him almost to the ground on his haunches.

‘My Gawd, ‘e’s a cowboy!’ exclaimed the groom, who was a Cockney, and had seen a Wild West show and recognised the real thing. ‘And me thinkin’ ‘e was goin’ to break his precious neck and wastin’ my bloomin’ sympathy on ‘im!’

Since that first day Mr. Van Torp had not ridden more than a score of times in two years. He preferred driving, because it was less trouble, and partly because he could take little Ida with him. It was therefore always a noticeable event in the monotonous existence at Torp Towers when he ordered a horse to be saddled, as he did on the day after he had got Lady Maud’s note from Craythew.

He rode across the hilly country at a leisurely pace, first by lanes and afterwards over a broad moor, till he entered a small beech wood by a bridle-path not wide enough for two to ride together, and lined with rhododendrons, lilacs, and laburnum. A quarter of a mile from the entrance a pretty glade widened to an open lawn, in the middle of which stood a ruin, consisting of the choir and chancel arch of a chapel. Mr. Van Torp drew rein before it, threw his right leg over the pommel before him, and remained sitting sideways on the saddle, for the very good reason that he did not see anything to sit on if he got down, and that it was of no use to waste energy in standing. His horse might have resented such behaviour on the part of any one else, but accepted the western rider’s eccentricities quite calmly and proceeded to crop the damp young grass at his feet.

Mr. Van Torp had come to meet Lady Maud. The place was lonely and conveniently situated, being about half-way between Oxley Paddox and Craythew, on Mr. Van Torp’s land, which was so thoroughly protected against trespassers and reporters by wire fences and special watchmen that there was little danger of any one getting within the guarded boundary. On the side towards Craythew there was a gate with a patent lock, to which Lady Maud had a key.

Mr. Van Torp was at the meeting-place at least a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. His horse only moved a short step every now and then, eating his way slowly across the grass, and his rider sat sideways, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at nothing particular, with that perfectly wooden expression of his which indicated profound thought.

But his senses were acutely awake, and he caught the distant sound of hoofs on the soft woodland path just a second before his horse lifted his head and pricked his ears. Mr. Van Torp did not slip to the ground, however, and he hardly changed his position. Half a dozen young pheasants hurled themselves noisily out of the wood on the other side of the ruin, and scattered again as they saw him, to perch on the higher boughs of the trees not far off instead of settling on the sward. A moment later Lady Maud appeared, on a lanky and elderly thoroughbred that had been her own long before her marriage. Her old-fashioned habit was evidently of the same period too; it had been made before the modern age of skirted coats, and fitted her figure in a way that would have excited open disapproval and secret admiration in Rotten Row. But she never rode in town, so that it did not matter; and, besides, Lady Maud did not care.

Mr. Van Torp raised his hat in a very un-English way, and at the same time, apparently out of respect for his friend, he went so far as to change his seat a little by laying his right knee over the pommel and sticking his left foot into the stirrup, so that he sat like a woman. Lady Maud drew up on his off side and they shook hands.

‘You look rather comfortable,’ she said, and the happy ripple was in her voice.

‘Why, yes. There’s nothing else to sit on, and the grass is wet. Do you want to get off?’

‘I thought we might make some tea presently,’ answered Lady Maud. ‘I’ve brought my basket.’

‘Now I call that quite sweet!’ Mr. Van Torp seemed very much pleased, and he looked down at the shabby little brown basket hanging at her saddle.

He slipped to the ground, and she did the same before he could go round to help her. The old thoroughbred nosed her hand as if expecting something good, and she produced a lump of sugar from the tea-basket and gave it to him.

Mr. Van Torp pulled a big carrot from the pocket of his tweed jacket and let his horse bite it off by inches. Then he took the basket from Lady Maud and the two went towards the ruin.

‘We can sit on the Earl,’ said Lady Maud, advancing towards a low tomb on which was sculptured a recumbent figure in armour. ‘The horses won’t run away from such nice grass.’

So the two installed themselves on each side of the stone knight’s armed feet, which helped to support the tea-basket, and Lady Maud took out her spirit-lamp and a saucepan that just held two cups, and a tin bottle full of water, and all the other things, arranging them neatly in order.

‘How practical women are!’ exclaimed Mr. Van Torp, looking on. ‘Now I would never have thought of that.’

But he was really wondering whether she expected him to speak first of the grave matters that brought them together in that lonely place.

‘I’ve got some bread and butter,’ she said, opening a small sandwich-box, ‘and there is a lemon instead of cream.’

‘Your arrangements beat Hare Court hollow,’ observed the millionaire. ‘Do you remember the cracked cups and the weevilly biscuits?’

‘Yes, and how sorry you were when you had burnt the little beasts! Now light the spirit-lamp, please, and then we can talk.’

Everything being arranged to her satisfaction, Lady Maud looked up at her companion.

‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ she asked.

‘Will it do any good if I do? That’s the question.’

‘Good? What is good in that sense?’ She looked at him a moment, but as he did not answer she went on. ‘I cannot bear to see you abused in print like this, day after day, when I know the truth, or most of it.’

‘It doesn’t matter about me. I’m used to it. What does your father say?’

‘He says that when a man is attacked as you are, it’s his duty to defend himself.’

‘Oh, he does, does he?’

Lady Maud smiled, but shook her head in a reproachful way.

‘You promised me that you would never give me your business answer, you know!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr. Van Torp, in a tone of contrition. ‘Well, you see, I forgot you weren’t a man. I won’t do it again. So your father thinks I’d better come out flat-footed with a statement to the press. Now, I’ll tell you. I’d do so, if I didn’t feel sure that all this circus about me isn’t the real thing yet. It’s been got up with an object, and until I can make out what’s coming I think I’d best keep still. Whoever’s at the root of this is counting on my losing my temper and hitting out, and saying things, and then the real attack will come from an unexpected quarter. Do you see that? Under the circumstances, almost any man in my position would get interviewed and talk back, wouldn’t he?’

‘I fancy so,’ answered Lady Maud.

‘Exactly. If I did that, I might be raising against another man’s straight flush, don’t you see? A good way in a fight is never to do what everybody else would do. But I’ve got a scheme for getting behind the other man, whoever he is, and I’ve almost concluded to try it.’

‘Will you tell me what it is?’

‘Don’t I always tell you most things?’

Lady Maud smiled at the reservation implied in ‘most.’

‘After all you have done for me, I should have no right to complain if you never told me anything,’ she answered. ‘Do as you think best. You know that I trust you.’

‘That’s right, and I appreciate it,’ answered the millionaire. ‘In the first place, you’re not going to be divorced. I suppose that’s settled.’

Lady Maud opened her clear eyes in surprise.

‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ asked Mr. Van Torp, enjoying her astonishment.

‘Certainly not, and I can hardly believe it,’ she answered.

‘Look here, Maud,’ said her companion, bending his heavy brows in a way very unusual with him, ‘do you seriously think I’d let you be divorced on my account? That I’d allow any human being to play tricks with your good name by coupling it with mine in any sort of way? If I were the kind of man about whom you had a right to think that, I wouldn’t deserve your friendship.’

It was not often that Rufus Van Torp allowed his face to show feeling, but the look she saw in his rough-hewn features for a moment almost frightened her. There was something Titanic in it.

‘No, Rufus–no!’ she cried, earnestly. ‘You know how I have believed in you and trusted you! It’s only that I don’t see how–‘

‘That’s a detail,’ answered the American. ‘The “how” don’t matter when a man’s in earnest.’ The look was gone again, for her words had appeased him instantly. ‘Well,’ he went on, in his ordinary tone, ‘you can take it for granted that the divorce will come to nothing. There’ll be a clear statement in all the best papers next week, saying that your husband’s suit for a divorce has been dismissed with costs because there is not the slightest evidence of any kind against you. It will be stated that you came to my partner’s chambers in Hare Court on a matter of pure business, to receive certain money, which was due to you from me in the way of business, for which you gave me the usual business acknowledgment. So that’s that! I had a wire yesterday to say it’s as good as settled. The water’s boiling.’

The steam was lifting the lid of the small saucepan, which stood securely on the spirit-lamp between the marble knight’s greaved shins. But Lady Maud took no notice of it.

‘It’s like you,’ said she. ‘I cannot find anything else to say!’

‘It doesn’t matter about saying anything,’ returned Mr. Van Torp. ‘The water’s boiling.’

‘Will you blow out the lamp?’ As she spoke she dropped a battered silver tea-ball into the water, and moved it about by its little chain.