The Pigeon House E-Book

Valentine Williams

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The novel begins in Paris on the wedding night of Sally and Rex Garrett. A former member of the French Foreign Legion Rex mysteriously disappears on the night of his wedding. At The Pigeon House, a lonely inn, a band of conspirators await the arrival of a deserter from the Foreign Legion, who is their „key man” in their plan to start an uprising in French Morocco. The conspirators have also driven the bridegroom’s closest friend into exile and a shameful death, which means he must hunt them down and destroy them. Williams’ spy story, „The Pigeon Man” (1927), presents us with a character whose motivations are as obscure as any in modernist literature. Why is the hero doing what he is doing? Why, for that matter, are the other characters? George Valentine Williams never says explicitly, leaving readers to puzzle this out for themselves.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE WEDDING NIGHT

II. THE CONFESSION

III. THE DISCOVERY

IV. THE MESSENGER IN BLACK

V. EL KEF

VI. THE PICTURE ON THE WALL

VII. JOURNEY’S END

VIII. AN EARLY CALL ON MARCIA

IX. A MEETING AND WHAT CAME OF IT

X. TEA WITH DOÑA INOCENCIA

XI. DON LEANDRO MAKES HIS BOW

XII. THE PIGEON HOUSE

XIII. THE MYSTERY OF THE FRONTON

XIV. THE WOMAN WITH THE CROONING LAUGH

XV. DUSK AT USOTEGIA

XVI. IN WHICH SALLY HEARS A STORY AND STRIKES A BARGAIN

XVII. THE KISS

XVIII. AT THE MOUSE HOLE

XIX. THE HOT SHADOW DEEPENS

XX. REX PLAYS HIS TRUMP

XXI. THE MASTER OF THE HOUR

XXII. RUPERT FORSDYKE INTERVENES

XXIII. THE TRAP

XXIV. THE HAND AT THE DOOR

XXV. IN WHICH REX GARRETT ASKS A QUESTION

XXVI. THE INDICTMENT

XXVII. THE FALL OF USOTEGIA

XXVIII. “LOVE IS UNDERSTANDING”

I. THE WEDDING NIGHT

WHILE dinner lasted, and for as long as Baptiste was present, they were correct and formal. Their talk was of indifferent things, of the run from Paris in the new car, of the lawn tennis court they were going to lay down at the cottage, of Marcia Greer’s delightful house. The candles in their silver candelabra burned sleekly in the warm night air, and beyond the screen of high elms bordering the distant road an immense white moon, hung above the unseen river, seemed to smile benignly upon the girl and the man as they sat at table under the stars.

But when the butler, having served the coffee and liqueurs, had disappeared through the open French windows into the silent villa, Sally leaned across the table and laid her small, cool hand on Rex Garrett’s wrist. He put aside the cigar he had been about to light and dropped his free hand over hers. Thus, for a little while, they remained without speaking, hands clasped, while about them the May night sent forth its muted sounds.

They had dined very late. Content to be at last alone, they had lingered long over dinner, revelling in the cool, dew-soaked hush of the great garden after the noise and heat of Paris, the excitement of their wedding day. The squat belfry of the village church across the Seine had long since chimed out eleven o’clock; yet they sat on, looking into one another’s eyes, heedless of the coffee’s furious bubbling in its glass cylinder, while the winged companions of the summer night fluttered their dance of death about the trembling candle-flames and, in the marshy flats beside the river, the frogs rasped out their rhythmic chorus. From time to time the faint barking of dogs, the distant whistle of a train, came to their ears; or, from the Paris road beyond the Seine, the swelling note of a belated car cut across the stillness.

It was Sally who broke the silence between them with a soft sigh.

“Rex,” she said; “it’s funny, but I feel to-night as though you were almost a stranger...”

Affectionately his eyes smiled back into hers.

“We’ve known each other only two months,” he rejoined. “But I feel as though I’d known you all my life...”

In a little gasping ejaculation she breathed out her delight.

“O-oh, truly?”

“For every lonely, barren second of the thirty-one years I’ve been waiting for you...”

She gave his hand a little squeeze.

“That’s dear of you. I wanted to hear you say something like that. The first time I ever saw you, that night on the Esterel...”

He sighed happily.

“That wonderful night! When I came upon you weeping over your car...”

“I wasn’t weeping...”

“Your face was wet...”

“That was the rain...”

“You looked so absolutely forlorn I wanted to take you in my arms and comfort you. When we parted that night I felt as though we were old friends...”

She smiled at him across the table.

“So did I. But that’s not what I meant. When I told Marcia that you’d asked me to marry you, she warned me that marriage is a great experiment...”

He laughed.

“It seems to be nowadays. Your friend, Mrs. Pangbourne, is having her third try, isn’t she?”

“Now you’re being frivolous,” she reproved him. “But Marcia was quite serious. People who marry, she told me, have to realise that each is going to make the acquaintance of an entirely new person. I guess that’s about right, Rex, and ... well, it scares me a little. I wonder if I’m going to go on loving you ... and you me.”

Her avowal had deepened the rose-leaf pinkness of her cheeks, so that it was as though the clear-cut oval of her face was bathed in a faintly rosy light. Under the cold rays of the moon, with her short hair, yellow as mountain honey but shining like freshly minted gold, brushed in a deep wave across her smooth forehead, her frank eyes of Mediterranean blue, her exquisite tint, she was like a flower plucked from the midsummer glory of an English garden.

Everything about her was fine, fine as the strands of her gleaming hair, the texture of her skin, the slender grace of her hands, the slimness of her ankles and feet. So brilliant was her colouring that, but for the character her face revealed, she might have been one of those mannequins of wax whose imperishable radiance brightens the windows of the great department stores. But high mettle, with a touch of self-will, was disclosed in the curve of the nostrils, the chin’s firm moulding; and the azure eyes, long-fringed, were wide open and intelligent. And she was young, with a lissom body beautifully formed, radiating, as the sun sheds light, health and happiness and eagerness.

She was eager now, with the rather terrible eagerness of a woman in love, as she sat and faced her husband across the purring coffee-machine. He leaned forward, his head bent back a little, with his heart gazing at her out of his eyes.

“I loved you that first night I saw you,” he answered. “And I shall always love you. And if I ever stop loving you, I shall tell you, as I know you’d tell me. We must always be honest with one another, Sally. I always think that half the unhappiness in marriage comes from deceit. The very first thing I liked about you was your truthful eyes...”

Her colour heightened suddenly, and she looked away.

“I don’t worry really about us,” she said. “I believe I’m going to be tremendously happy with you, dear. But Marcia meant it for the best. She’s been so good to me, Rex...”

He nodded. “I know. She’s a wonderful friend.”

“She wanted us to start things right. She loathes Paris, yet she insisted on going up and staying there for the fortnight so that we could have the villa to ourselves, because, she said, Les Ormes would be more homey for our honeymoon than a hotel. She’s determined we shall be happy. Do you know”–she hesitated, glancing rather anxiously at his face–“do you know, she even sent me a last word of advice in a telegram?”

“What? Here?”

Sally nodded. “Baptiste brought it up when I was having my bath before dinner.”

“Aren’t you going to let me in on this?”

She laughed rather nervously.

“Later on, perhaps. You must have your coffee now.” She withdrew her hand. “And Marcia said particularly that you were to try the Napoleon brandy. We’re very proud of it at Les Ormes.” She passed over the coffee-cup, then filled one of the liqueur glasses from the bottle with its seal of green wax flaunting the proud “N” of the Emperor.

Rex took the cup, his eyes on her face.

“Even now,” he suggested, gently mocking, “you haven’t told me the whole reason for your being scared...”

She flashed him a look of interrogation.

“You’re asking yourself: ‘Have I done right in marrying this man of whom I know nothing?...’”

“Oh, it’s not true,” she broke in indignantly. “I won’t have you say such things. All I care to know about you I know. I know what you did in the war;–I made Rupert Forsdyke tell me about your serving all through it as a Tommy; and I know you’re a very good artist, for the Luxembourg doesn’t buy dud pictures...”

“You know nothing about my people...”

She made a grimace. “The in-laws! Oh, Rex, I’m so glad that you and I haven’t any...”

“And you’ve omitted from your summary of my life the fact, which all your friends will pick on, that I once served with the Foreign Legion...”

“That’s no disgrace...”

“Some people think it is. I don’t speak of it now. I’m tired of explaining that I joined up after the war of my own free will because I had no money, and wanted to go back East to paint...”

“You’ve got your desert pictures to silence them,” she said indignantly. Her voice softened. “But what I meant was that I know all I want to know about the man I’ve married. You played your part in the war, you’ve got genius...”

He threw up his eyes. “Genius, ye gods! A trick of paint ... and not always that...!”

„... And you love me.” She was suddenly wistful. “What else matters? I’ve no doubt you’ve been in love dozens of times before, if that’s what you mean.” She made a face at him. “But you needn’t think I want to hear about your old conquests.”

He laughed and shook his head. He was as dark as she was fair with a proud, rather lean face, and crisp black hair, close-cropped, which was brushed back in two waves from his forehead.

“There weren’t any, Sally darling. I never had what they call a feminine influence in my life before I met you...”

She gave him a mischievous look.

“They say that’s what all men tell their wives...”

“I don’t want you to believe I’m better than the rest of men,” he replied seriously. “But I can assure you quite honestly that I’ve had a roughish life, my dear, always among men. The greatest friend I ever had was a man...”

“It sounds very lonely,” she put in.

“No,” he corrected gravely, “I had my painting. It’s only since I met you that I’ve begun to realise how much I’ve missed...”

“You said that very nicely,” she said approvingly, “for a man who has never had the chance of finding out for himself that women adore adroit compliments.” She patted his hand. “Never mind, darling, I like you very much as you are...”

Thoughtfully he sliced the ash from the end of his cigar. “You trust me, I know,” he replied. “But I wasn’t thinking of you, Sally. I was thinking of your friends.”

He drained his coffee-cup and put it down. She laughed. “Except Marcia, all my friends are in America. I haven’t got any friends–real friends, I mean–over here...”

“Acquaintances, then. They’re going to be rather hipped at your going off to church and having a wedding all on your own. People like your Mrs. Pangbourne and–what’s that ghastly woman called?–Mrs. Litzbold regard the weddings of their friends, with orange blossom, bridesmaids, and ‘The voice that breathed,’ as part of their legitimate social perks...”

Sally’s silvery laugh rang out. “It’s perfectly true! Rex, they’ll be mad...”

“You bet they’ll be mad. Can’t you hear them, Sally? ‘Of course, Sara’s a charming girl, but this Barrett person! My dear, a man she doesn’t know from Adam! They say he was in the Foreign Legion! Of course, he’s an adventurer after her money!...’”

“What nonsense you talk!” Sally put in rather hastily. “What does it matter what they say?”

Rex sipped his brandy.

“Still,” he remarked, “the fact remains that actually you know very little about me, and that Mrs. Pangbourne and all the rest of ‘em will be right. I want to tell you something about my life...”

With a quick gesture she laid her hand on his. Her eyes had a hunted look.

“Listen, dear,” she said, “it’s nothing I have to hear, is it?”

“How do you mean?” His voice was puzzled.

“It’s nothing that’s going to upset our marriage? You aren’t going to tell me you’ve got a wife already or anything like that?”

“Good Lord, no!” He began to laugh. But then he saw how pale she had gone. He pushed back his chair and, coming round the table, put his arms about her. “Sally, darling,” he said, “you’re trembling. I never realised you cared so much...”

“Oh, Rex,” she answered brokenly, “I do care most desperately. Why did you scare me so? It’s nothing disgraceful you have to tell me, is it?”

Of a sudden his face was sombre. “Nothing that I could help,” he answered.

“Then keep it until after,” she said. “To-night ... now, I have a confession to make.”

A line of perplexity barred his forehead as he watched her thrust a hand into the bosom of her glistening white evening frock. She produced the blue oblong of a French telegram.

“Marcia’s wire,” she said, and gave it to him.

II. THE CONFESSION

HE looked at her, twisting the telegram between his fingers.

“Do I really have to read this?” he asked, with a comic air of resignation.

“Please!” she said, so earnestly that he grew serious.

He unfolded the message. It ran:

“Much better let him find out truth for himself. Love.

Marcia.”

The French telegraphist had made a sad hash of the unfamiliar Anglo-Saxon handwriting. “Truth” was printed “turth.” The mutilation gave the whole message a sinister and monstrous appearance.

But Rex Garrett’s face was unchanged as he handed the blue form back to the girl.

“See here, Sally,” he said gently, “I don’t want to hear anything you don’t care about telling me...”

“Let’s go down into the garden,” she proposed.

He spread her scarf of silver lace about her shoulders, and in silence they descended the shallow steps. With a little comforting gesture he slipped his arm about her waist. Very close together they threaded a small firm path that wound its way among fragrant flower-beds to a sunken fish-pond in the centre of the garden.

“Rex,” said the girl suddenly as they went along, “how much money do you suppose I’ve got?”

“Lord,” he laughed, “I haven’t the remotest dea! I never thought about it...”

“No, but how much do you think?”

He stopped. “My dear Sara,” he remarked with mock gravity, “I do hope you’re not going to tell me that you’re a female millionaire. Millionaires are so vulgar, and they can’t digest their food...”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she entreated wistfully. “Answer my question!”

“My dear,” he said soothingly, “it’s a silly question. Any money you’ve got of your own will be in the way of pocket money. It does not concern me. You know I earn enough for both of us...”

“I have my reasons for asking,” she insisted. “When we met at Cannes that time, did you think I was well off?”

His shoulders moved in a little shrug.

“I did, I suppose. I don’t know much about women’s clothes, but I can see that yours are expensive. And one can’t live for nothing a day at the Carlton at Cannes, either. And you had your car too...”

“How much do you think I’ve got a year?”

He jerked his shoulders up again.

“Two or three thousand pounds, at least, if you ask me...”

Very slowly she bowed her head.

“Rex,” she said, “I haven’t played straight with you. I’m a common fraud. I let you think I was rich. I’m not. Marcia paid for my clothes. That car was Marcia’s. I haven’t a penny piece except the salary she gave me. And now, of course, that’s stopped...”

They had come to the fish-pond where, in the placid water striated by the light of the moon, the fat, red carp hung motionless in the depths.

“Salary?” he repeated. “But you told me Marcia was your chaperone!”

“It was a lie,” she said with a little catch in her throat. “I was her paid companion!”

“I see!” he answered slowly.

She broke into hasty, disjointed explanation.

“I was a saleswoman at a dress-shop in New York, at Madame Clémentine’s, on Fifty-Fifth Street. Marcia used to get frocks there. She took a fancy to me, and offered to take me to Europe. She said she’d give me a salary and buy my clothes, and ... and treat me like a friend and not a paid servant. That was nearly two years ago. When I look back I think I was a coward to accept her offer. But she was kind, and I was so deathly tired of the struggle to earn my own living...” She paused. “And it is a struggle, with thousands of beautiful and talented girls swarming every year into New York; and when one is penniless, one loses one’s nerve...”

“I know!” he said gently, his eyes on her face.

“And I was penniless, and almost friendless. I told you all my people were dead. I never knew my mother; and my father died after his business failed. After that I had to leave Richmond, in the South, where we Candlins have always lived. We were of good Southern stock, and the life Marcia offered me, travel, nice frocks, meeting interesting people, is the sort of life I might have had if Daddy hadn’t lost his money...”

Rex’s voice interrupted her.

“Listen, Sally,” he said. “Why are you telling me all this now? Why didn’t you follow Marcia’s advice?”

She evaded his question.

“Marcia wanted me to make a rich marriage. She was for ever dinning it into me. I think she had a title in mind too. She was always introducing men. But I never met a man I wanted to marry until I met you...”

He laughed rather grimly.

“You must have disappointed your friend,” he said.

She threw him a piteous look.

“Oh, Rex!” she pleaded wearily, “don’t be unkind to me! I never intended to deceive you. It didn’t occur to me that seeing the way we were living you might believe I was rich. It was something Marcia said that first made me realise you thought I had money of my own...” Nervously she twisted her hands together. “Marcia was very angry with me for falling in love with you. But when she saw that my mind was made up, she wouldn’t let me tell you the truth. I think her idea was...” She broke off; and her blue eyes anxiously searched his face.

“What?” he demanded bluntly.

“I think,” Sally answered slowly, “she wanted to test you to see if you would question her about my means. That was why she let you believe she was my chaperone. She made me bear her out...”

He was standing away from her now, his tall form in evening clothes merging into the background of dark foliage. His face was severe, haggard almost, and he kept stubbing his foot irresolutely against the marble base of the fountain.

“I can make allowances for Marcia,” he said at last. “You were in her care; it was her right. But you! Why couldn’t you have told me the truth?”

Her face was flaming now. Once more she let his question go by unanswered.

“You must have seen how stand-offish Marcia was at first. It was only when you told her about the life insurance you were settling on me, after you had asked me to marry you, that she became friendly. I wanted to own up then, but she wouldn’t let me. She was scared; she saw she had gone too far, I think. She told me that, when you discovered how you’d been deceived, you were the sort of man who’d break off our engagement and go away...”

Her head was bent and she was staring at her silver shoe, turning the point this way and that to catch the moonbeams. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her look up at him.

“Did you believe that, too?” he asked.

She faltered and dropped her eyes.

“I was afraid...” she whispered.

“You wanted to be on the safe side, is that it?”

“It’s your right to say such things”–the little gasp she gave sounded like a sob–“but you make it hard for me to explain...” She loosed his hands from her shoulders and stood away from him. From the far distance the very faint drumming of a motor-car welled up to them out of the darkness.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to wound you, dear. But I hate deceit, and from you”–a look of pain crept into his eyes–“it hurts.” He raised her hand and began to stroke the slim, white fingers. “And I don’t understand you, either. Why have you told me this to-night? After all, we’re married; any other time would have done as well...”

Her voice was low as, with eyes downcast, she answered:

“I was weak before. I gave way to Marcia. But I warned her I would speak to-night. That’s why she wired me...”

She lifted her starry eyes to his.

“When I give myself to you to-night,” she whispered, “I want to give myself wholly. You must know me and love me for what I am...”

“I loved you from the beginning because I knew you,” he answered simply. “Do you think what you’ve told me about the money will make any difference, Sally?” He put his arm about her and drew her to him. Her hands were on the lapels of his coat, and she rested her face against them.

“Can’t you guess,” she whispered, “why I let Marcia persuade me? All these two months that I’ve loved you, I’ve tried to have the courage to tell you the truth. When I was alone I used to promise myself I would, but as soon as I looked into your face my resolution always failed me. Oh, Rex, I was terrified lest you’d go away and leave me...”

“Then you doubted me, too?” His voice had grown suddenly hard.

Appealingly she looked up at him.

“Only because I didn’t know you,” she said. “I never thought you cared anything about the money, but I couldn’t be sure how much you wanted me. You were different from all the other men I have known, so proud, so lonely, so–so hard to understand.”

He had dropped his arms to his sides and was staring away from her into the darkness.

“Oh, Rex,” she pleaded, “I never really doubted. But I couldn’t bear to think that I might lose you; I felt my heart would break if you should go away. Take me in your arms again, beloved, and tell me you’ve forgiven me. Don’t spoil our wedding night!”

Across the river, beyond the double bridge, the village clock began to strike. They listened in silence, there in the moonlit garden, until the last of the twelve strokes had ceased to sing and quiver in the still air. As the last stroke died away, the rapid hammering of a motor-car swelling to a crescendo as it topped a ridge mounted out of the dark distance.

Rex turned and looked at his bride. She stood there like a wraith in the moonlight, the lines of bright pearls on her ivory satin frock flashing in the soft rays. So silvery pale was she that she might have been a pixie that had stolen out of the glassy waters of the basin to bask in the splendour of the night.

She was gazing into the fountain, her long lashes glistening, her lips trembling, her young bosom rising and falling swiftly.

“This night is ours,” she said. “Take my love, Rex. It’s all I have to bring you.”

She lifted her shining eyes to his, and on that he cried out her name and gathered her up in his arms. Her breath was warm on his cheek, the subtle fragrance of her enveloped him, her soft, yielding lips were pressed to his, all the lissom body of her was limp in his grasp. A cloud passed over the moon and, like an inky cloak, the scented gloom of the big garden fell about them while out of the velvety night the frogs croaked their melancholy compline to the glittering congregation of the stars. Above their hoarse complaint the harsh stutter of the distant car, louder and more regular now, rose and fell upon the breeze.

His tenderness restored her confidence.

“I’ve had a frightened feeling all the evening,” she murmured, as she hung with her arms about his neck, “as if some disaster were impending. But it goes away when you hold me like this. Oh, Rex, be good to me. I love you so...”

The melancholy hoot of a Klaxon horn, muted by distance, echoed from afar.

He bent to her lips again. Mercifully Fate, which is kind as often as it is cruel, hid the dark future from their eyes. But, even so, she clung to him desperately as though divining how many weary, anguishing days must pass before he would hold her in his arms again.

At last she detached herself from his embrace.

“I’m going in,” she said. “I’ll give you five minutes to finish your cigar. You’ll not be longer, will you? I shan’t be happy while you’re away from me to-night!”

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and crying out “Five minutes!” ran up the path towards the villa. The moon, peering gleefully out from behind a snowy cloud-mass, showered her with silver as she sped to the bridal chamber.

The rhythmic beat of the motor-car was now a constant sound above the chorus of the frogs.

III. THE DISCOVERY

SALLY took the leather-bound book out of the dressing bag that had been her husband’s wedding gift to her, and carried it across to the table before the mirror. On coming in from the garden she had slipped out of her clothes and pulled on a white and gold kimono over her nightdress of seagreen crêpe de chine. Seated at the mirror, whose shaded electric candles were the only illuminant of the big grey bedroom, she had creamed her face and brushed out her shining mop of hair. Now she returned to the dressing-table, the volume under her arm.

This book was her diary. Sally’s Log, Marcia called it, and the name was stamped upon the cover. On their departure for Europe, a year and a half before, Marcia had insisted that Sally should keep a diary. But, conscious of the fate of the majority of such good resolutions, Marcia had limited Sally to a period of only two years. She had ordered this journal specially at Brentano’s, two years bound up together in one volume, so that the wane of the year, at least, might furnish the diarist with no excuse for slackness.

Sally’s Log was the queerest jumble of facts and dates and quotations and reminders, interspersed with rare flashes of self-revealing candour. Much of its stern practicality would have horrified Victorian misses. Those indefatigable self-analysts would have turned its pages in vain to discover such intimate outpourings of the soul as they were wont to confide to “dear Diary.” But each day had its entry; for Sally’s principle–and, as her story will make clear, she was a determined young woman–was to write something, if only a line, every night before she went to bed.

Thus, the names of guests at a party would be followed by a page on which an epigram from a new book sparkled in solitary splendour. Such a note as: “15 miles per gall. to-day. See garage about carburettor,„ would neighbour an entry: “L. called. Why do the men I most dislike always try and make love to me?„ Rarely did the diarist let herself go; and the page which the Log allotted to each day was almost invariably too long for the chronicle of her doings, and her comments, often drily humorous, on people and things.

With a little key she took from her bag she unlocked the book–no human eye except hers, not even Marcia’s, had ever looked inside–and opened it at the day of the month, May 27, her wedding day. Then, as if moved by a sudden impulse, she fluttered the pages backward until she found a date earlier in the year. The date was March 17. Fondly she smiled to herself as she scanned the entry there:

An adventure. Went over to St. Raphael to tea with the M’s. Kept me for dinner. Coming back at night over the hills car stuck. Raining cats and dogs and pitch black. I was scared. Young Englishman in Citroen happened along. He was perfectly charming. Said he lived close by. I had got sopping wet trying to make the car start so he insisted I should come to his cottage to get dry. I let him take me. Marcia will have a fit when I tell her. But he had nice eyes. He lit the fire in his sitting-room and gave me hot whisky. I think he must be an artist, for his room was hung with paintings, mostly of African scenes, and some Riviera studies. He seems to know all about cars; anyway, he got the Delage started. Said clutch was slipping. Home 1 a.m.

She read on, skipping an entry here and there.

March 18.–My young man called at the hotel. I’d told him my name and he’d looked me up in the Cannes visitors’ list. His name is Rex Garrett, an artist, as I thought. He speaks French beautifully. Says he was at the Beaux Arts for two years. P.S.–So glad he hasn’t suggested painting me. That would be so obvious.

March 24.–Marcia and I motored out to lunch with my young man at his cottage. Divine situation overlooking the sea. But it must be terribly lonely up there in the mountains. He hasn’t even got a “femme de ménage.” Does his own shopping in his Citroen. He cooked the lunch. Marvellous omelette. He has steps down from his garden to the water, and he showed me where he goes in swimming every morning, winter and summer. He looks awfully fit.

March 27.–My young man to tea. I find him very “simpatico.” So restful. He seems to know nobody at Cannes. Says the Casino crowd bore him.

March 30.–Baron de Foix called after dinner. I was on the terrace with Rex. The Baron all worked up when I introduced them. Knows every thing about R.’s paintings. Two of his pictures are in the Luxembourg, and he is to have his own exhibition in Paris in May. The Baron wanted to give a luncheon and ask a lot of his duchesses and people to meet Rex. R. very rude. Said he couldn’t waste his time on a lot of fool women. He apologised so nicely after old F. had gone and said he didn’t mean me. I like him.

Below this entry was a line added in ink that had dried a different colour from the rest: “If I wanted to marry, this is the sort of man I should choose.”

She turned over the page and stopped again.

April 4.–Marcia tiresome. Says I am seeing too much of R. G. She thinks he’s an adventurer. That’s nonsense. He cares nothing about money. Marcia asked me if I proposed to throw myself away on an artist. I said I should not mind throwing myself away on this one.

April 6.–I am furious with Marcia. He thinks she is my chaperone and she didn’t deny it. Living at the Carlton as we do, he probably imagines I’m an heiress. Marcia says so much the better, we shall now see if he’s disinterested.

April 7.–He’s a strange young man. It’s very hard to make him talk about himself. He mentioned quite casually to-night that he had served five years in the Foreign Legion. When I told this to Marcia she said it proves he’s an adventurer. He’s got the poise and charming manners of a well-bred Englishman, but there’s some curious, passionate strain under the vineer (can’t spell it!).

April 9.–He’s terribly proud, and oh! such a lonely young man. I tried to tell him to-night that I’m only Marcia’s companion, but I didn’t get the chance. I wish I knew if he cares.

April II.–I’m sure he cares. He might have kissed me to-night.

April 12.–Bet. Fifty dollars to the Little Sisters of the Poor next time they call begging against that cyclamen frock at Patou’s that he kisses me before the week is up. Marcia very cross to-day.

April 13.–I nearly lost my bet to-night. Why are the nicest men so slow?

April 14.–I mean to marry Rex. Terrible row with Marcia about him to-day. I don’t care if he is an adventurer. I love him.

April 20.–Bought cyclamen frock. Damn! I hate it.

April 21.–Marcia admits that Rex has asked her nothing about my income. She won’t let me tell him the truth. She says if he’s really in love with me he’ll ask to marry me.

April 22.–He doesn’t care whether I have any money or not. He took me to dine at the Réserve to-night, and told me all about his earnings and prospects. He’s so modest about what he’s done. The day after to-morrow he’s coming to dine at the hotel. I love him, I love him...

April 23.–Marcia very sweet to-day. I’ve promised her that, if he doesn’t want me, I won’t see him so often any more. But I’ve made up my mind that he’s going to ask me to marry him to-morrow evening.

April 24.–He loved me all the time, from that first night on the Esterel. We are going to be married in Paris next month when he goes up for his exhibition.

She paused and, with a rapid gesture that was like a benediction, laid her hands for an instant on the entry. Then she ran through the record of her brief engagement until she reached again the day of the month. She hunted out a fountain pen from her bag and, in her big, upright hand, made an entry in the Log.

“Rex and I married„ was what she wrote.

She dashed it off with the air of a general signing a victorious despatch, her radiant face confiding to her mirror the triumph of a charming woman who has had her way. Absently she blotted the line, and was about to close the book when, moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her shining head and kissed the page.

So absorbed had she been with the revival of old and fond memories that she had not remarked the flight of time. As she rose to restore the diary to its place in her dressing-case, her eye fell upon the gilded dial of her travelling clock. With some surprise she saw that the hands marked twenty minutes to one.

She halted in the centre of the floor and listened. The house was profoundly still. The dim bedroom, all blues and greys–powder-blue curtains drawn across the windows, soft pile carpet of the same hue, grey painted furniture–with the twisted pillars of the old Italian four-poster gleaming dully in the background, wore a secretive air which she found to be subtly oppressive.

She put her book away and opened a door that stood on one side of the bed. The light she switched up glittered coldly on burnished fittings and shining tiles. “Rex,” she called softly; and, when there was no reply, rather hastily traversed the bathroom to the dressing-room beyond.

It was empty. Her husband’s tweeds for the morning were folded across a chair, and on the shrouded bed pyjamas and a dressing-gown were laid out. Her eyes were perplexed, and a scarlet corner of her under-lip was caught up by one of her milk-white teeth as she slowly returned to the bedroom and sat down again before the dressing-table. With automatic movements she began to brush her hair again, her eyes absently studying her reflection in the mirror.

Suddenly she laid down the brush. Her face was rather pink. Briskly she stood up, and then, slowly and thoughtfully, resumed her seat. With her chin propped on her hand she remained sunk in meditation. She changed her position only to smooth out an eyebrow, to flick away a smear of powder from her cheek.

At last, with a determined air, she rose to her feet once more. She drew her loose wrapper about her and crossed the room to the door opening on to the landing.

A light burned in the hall below. The house was plunged in silence. In their little green slippers her feet were noiseless on the soft carpet as she hurried, rather desperately, downstairs. Rapidly she crossed the hall and pushed open the dining-room door.

Here the central lights were still on, as she had left them on going up to bed, mirroring their yellow blur in the sheen of the Sheraton, striking out points of effulgence from the silver plate arrayed on the sideboard. The French windows, folded back, framed beyond the little terrace where they had dined a tall panel of rustling trees and shivering shadows cast by the moon. From the darkness mounted the melancholy rhythm of the frogs.

She hastened out upon the terrace and paused there, her hands poised on the balustrade while her eyes sought to pierce the mystery of the silent garden. “Rex,” she called suddenly; “Rex, where are you?” But only the frogs gave answer; and their hoarse plaint rang like mocking laughter in her ears.

She turned back into the house, flitted, searching from room to room. The shuttered drawing-room, the petit salon, wainscotted in green, the snug library: into one and all she looked, and thought bitterly, as fruitless she turned from each, of their joyous tour of exploration a few hours before, hand-in-hand like children, when she had proudly done the honours of Marcia’s exquisite taste.

Sooner than it takes to write, she was on the terrace again, panic now paling her cheeks, her heart hammering in her ears, bewildered and unhappy, torn between those two hardest taskmasters of the human passions–anger and fear.

“Rex,” she called in a frightened voice; “Rex, why don’t you answer me?” and calling, fled down into the garden. Hard and bare, in the moon’s silver radiance, the paths wound their emptiness into the recesses of the deserted grounds...

At the end of the long garden, set in the wall of mellow brick between two pillars, was an iron gate. The villa’s main entrance was in the rear, and this gate gave upon a road along the river bank which, the villa past, degenerated into a mere track leading over the fields to a group of cottages beside the lock. In the other direction the road ran up to the bridge across the Seine, and the village and the Paris road beyond.

The iron gate stood open. The sight of it stayed Sara’s hurrying feet like an arm thrust out to bar her passage. With scared eyes she stopped dead, peering into the road. The branches of the elms which screened the garden overhung the wall, casting an inky shadow.

Suddenly her courage forsook her. The tears burned in her eyes, and the young breasts, softly outlined under their sheathing of thin silk, began to heave. “It isn’t possible!” she murmured brokenly to herself. “He’d never have gone away and left me like this!”

She went out into the road and stood, a forlorn figure, in the thick white dust. The road stretched its unbroken length to where it sloped up to the bridge. Far and wide nothing stirred. No light was visible save at the road’s end the sullen ruby gleam of the lantern suspended below the central arch of the bridge.

He was gone!

Blankly, and with uncomprehending eyes, she stared about her, stared at the open gate, the empty road, stunned by their irrefutable evidence of his treachery. She had the sensation that her very heart had ceased to beat, that the whole of her being was icebound in the chilling grip of her discovery. She tried to think and could not; tried to establish some comforting explanation but in vain. Like an ice mass realisation crushed her and congealed her. She was like a traveller caught by an avalanche, beaten to earth, stifled, frozen, swept away, under the impact of a glacial and irresistible force.