CHAPTER XVI

A LETTER AND SOME REFLECTIONS

"BLOOMSBURY, LONDON.

"DEAR MR. MORTIMER,--Long before this reaches you my sister

will have received a telegram introducing you properly. I am so

sorry that I forgot to wire before, but I have been so harassed

and busy that I never thought about it. A true woman, you will

say--I can almost see your superior smile as I sit writing

here, yet I dare to hope that the smile will not be too

superior, that a touch of pity will creep in when you remember

that my worry is for a husband's freedom. If only I can save

Lukos--but it is foolish to waste time on 'if's.' I _mean_ to

succeed, and you have promised to help me. You have my

heartfelt gratitude already.

"Thank you for your letter telling me of your arrival at The

Quiet House. Do not be discouraged that you have not seen Mizzi

yet, and that you have been unable to approach the ambassador

again. I have been working very hard and am not dissatisfied

with the results, though they would look paltry if I committed

them to paper. My information leads me to think that we are on

the right track--that Mizzi _is_ the guilty party--that sooner

or later an attempt _will_ be made to sell the document--and

lastly that we must suspect every one. Yes, _every one_! Even

my sister, perhaps, and that brings me to the more important

part of my letter.

"I have not seen Winifred for some years, but from the hints

you gave me in your letter I gather that she is of distinctly

prepossessing appearance. (Isn't that how the police reports

usually describe it?) My pen hesitates whether to write 'Be on

your guard' or not. Shall I?... may I?... But it is written and

must stand. Oh! do not imagine that I am distrustful--I _know_

you can be relied on--I _know_ you can be true and firm and

faithful: but my heart fails when I remember that you are a

man; encompassed, too, by perils you hardly perceive, snares

almost impalpable. Forgive me! I have no right to speak like

this.... I know you are honorable ... but the greatness of the

stake forces me to utter my warning--to foresee danger which

may be remote--to leave no stone unturned to insure a

triumph--to guard against any weakness, however venial or

trivial, which may make my path--and the path of Lukos!--more

difficult.

"This is a rambling letter. It is midnight, and I have had a

tiring day. Forgive me and understand; or, if you can not

understand, forgive! I urge you again to watch my sister

carefully.... Heavens! it seems a perfidy; but the life of

Lukos!... Watch her, I say again. I have grave cause for

suspicion, though she does not guess I suspect. Why she, above

all others, should betray me I can not tell. I had hoped

that--but this is weak and futile. _Watch her carefully._

"You say that up to the present nothing has happened. It may

well be that nothing will happen for a time. In any case, you

are of the greatest service by remaining at The Quiet House--on

guard! Stay there at all costs, till you hear from me again. Do

what _she_ tells you--play the hypocrite if need be--strive to

conciliate her, but _watch_. I have London under my eyes.

"So much for the chief business. As for news, the play ceases

very shortly and I may be able to arrange a meeting, when we

can talk things over. On the whole, I am happy, being busy,--at

least as happy as I can expect to be until.... Oh! by the way,

since we parted I have had another offer of marriage. Such a

nice man, too. But if only men could be satisfied with being

true _friends_.... Some men can, I know, but the rest ... I am

tired. Good night, my friend.--Your friend,

"BEATRICE BLAIR."

Such was the letter that Lionel was reading for the fiftieth time since,

a fortnight past, it had come to The Quiet House. It gave him little

information and less comfort. From the formal "Dear Mr. Mortimer" ("Hang

it! I couldn't _expect_ 'Lionel'!" he told himself savagely) to the

distant intimacy of "Your friend Beatrice Blair," it was unsatisfying to

a devoted adherent of romance. Yet what else could he ask for? He was

not in love--no! he was not in love, for there was a husband! Besides,

Beatrice would be the last person to lead him on when.... Stay! there

had been temptation on her part in the cab and in the dressing-room.

Yes, there _had_; there was no sense in pretending to himself that there

had been no encouragement: there _had_. Charity (a word, by the way,

which the Revised Version has altered to "Love") on the instant said:

"Coxcomb! She led you on to engage your services for Lukos. A pardonable

deception." "Very well," grumbled Lionel, admitting the justice of the

argument, "let it be so. But it seems a little rough on...?"

Leaving this, he turned to other items, trying to read some new shades

of meaning into the too-well-remembered words. She was working

hard--good: she was fairly happy--good: he must stay where he was--good:

watching--good: Lukos--Lukos--again Lukos ... h'm ... yes,

good--certainly good. The beggar was her husband, after all.

Good. The sister was pretty--a smile: he must be on his

guard ... h'm ... perfidy ... a traitor ... of prepossessing

appearance ... could she be ... jealous?

"Coxcomb!" said reason again: "look at the end--'Your _friend_.' Then,

too, there is 'another proposal ... such a nice man.' Jealousy? Ha! ha!"

Lionel swallowed the pill with a bad grace and put the letter away.

He had been at The Quiet House for a little more than a fortnight, and

up to the present he had achieved nothing. Mizzi had made no sign, the

ambassador was invisible, no further instructions had come from

Beatrice. Yet he had been interested and amused, studying the character

of his hostess and waiting, Micawber-like, for something to turn up.

His position was the oddest conceivable. Since Beatrice's telegram ("She

introduces you," said Miss Arkwright, "at the price of five and

threepence. You must be an exceptional man!") he had been more than a

guest, almost an old acquaintance. He had been accepted without

question, treated as an equal, hall-marked with the stamp of an

Arkwright's approval, because the Arkwrights, it appeared, prided

themselves on their hospitality. It was not for the sake of Beatrice

alone that he received so warm a welcome: she was a lady to be mentioned

with reserve, being "on the stage." But she was an Arkwright, and a

guest vouched for (especially at five and threepence) by an Arkwright

was a person to be considered.

This at a price, and a curious price at that. "In some things I am a

faddist," Miss Arkwright had said the morning after his arrival. "I

admit it freely. I am glad to welcome you here, Mr. Mortimer, but if you

stay you must give me your word not to go outside my grounds during your

visit. The garden is large--the village uninteresting, so your curtailed

liberty will not be much of a deprivation. You think me insane, perhaps?

Well, I have reasons for my wish,--personal reasons into which I can not

enter. That is the only stipulation I make: can you accept it?"

He said yes, for refusal meant a lodging at the inn, where he could not

watch her. In his letter to Beatrice he told her of this extraordinary

whim, and asked whether she thought it better to agree or to pack up and

go. Her "stay at all costs" was sufficient answer, and though he hoped

this did not mean "If need arise, break bounds and your word," still he

meant to do it if necessary. The life of Lukos and her happiness were

worth more than a detective's honor.

But up to the present there had been no question of breaking bounds. He

could see nothing of Mr. "Beckett" nor Mizzi, but he was obeying

Beatrice. And it was not unpleasant even for a detective to enjoy

luxurious idleness, a perfect garden and the society of a charming

woman. For she was charming, despite her fads and bigotry. She was well

read, exceedingly pretty, and could talk. The mornings she spent in

writing and arranging her household affairs. After lunch she gave

herself up to him entirely. Tea they usually had together in the

summer-house. About five she always excused herself, and Lionel dined

alone. He was given to understand that she was busy on a history of the

Arkwright family and could work best at night. Consequently he never saw

anything of her again till breakfast.

This naturally struck him as one of the most suspicious features of the

case. Suspicious--not in the sense that Miss Arkwright was an Ottoman

conspirator, for that he had been instructed to expect; but suspicious

for a deeper reason. More than once during the first week of his stay he

had caught himself wondering, "Can she be, by any chance, Beatrice

herself, masquerading as her own sister?" It was a solution that

suggested itself to a mind seeking explanation of extraordinary things,

extraordinary people. It was the most natural suspicion in the world,

considering what he had gone through. He rejected it at first as being

preposterous and disloyal, but common sense and a dislike of being

victimized made him return to the idea and weigh it from day to day.

In the end he discarded the theory. It was, he thought, too enormous a

deception to be carried through with success: even Beatrice, actress

though she was, could not have the histrionic powers necessary to the

feat; such a _tour de force_, continued from day to day, was impossible.

Besides, Miss Arkwright and her sister were different in many points.

They were, it is true, identical in voice, feature and carriage, but

their outlook and ideas were far asunder. Winifred Arkwright obviously

hated the stage, while Beatrice Blair was an actress; Winifred seemed

timid in some respects, Beatrice radiated courage; the latter had never

mentioned religion; the former was a Christian Scientist; Beatrice

adored asparagus; Winifred's weakness was kidney beans. These, and a

hundred other variations, trivial in themselves but overwhelming in the

mass, gave him heart of grace and a fresh faith in his lady of the

stage.

But despite all this he claimed that Winifred _might_ be Beatrice. It

was almost unthinkable, but still it _might_ be so. What gave the coup

de grace, at least for a time, to his vain imaginings was a copy of _The

Times_. It has been said that Miss Arkwright always left him after five:

this would have given her time to motor to London and play at the

theater if she had been Beatrice Blair. But Beatrice herself had written

that the play was soon to be taken off: when he saw an announcement in

the newspaper that the Macready Theater was closed, he wondered if his

hostess would join him at dinner that night. If she _did_, why, it would

be a damning fact. But she did not, either on that or any subsequent

day. He breathed more freely, and went on waiting as patiently as he

might.

The task of learning the house, grounds and personnel did not take long.

The servants were an aged cook, whom he never saw; a gardener; Forbes

the footman; and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wetherby, a silent faded woman

of over sixty, whose recreation outside her duties was the game of

patience. A sad and oppressive creature, she, whose life had been a

tragedy. The details were not given, though Lionel gathered that it had

been a very ordinary tragedy, but enough to wither her life and make her

shun her kind. Both the men servants were dumb--an odd circumstance, but

Lionel was getting used to oddity. He expressed surprise one day, hoping

to draw out his hostess. She was frank about the matter: "They are dumb,

poor creatures, but their affliction is my gain. Most servants gossip or

argue. Mine do neither, and that is why I was at some pains to engage

them. It works very well, though a stranger is naturally surprised at

first."

The more he saw of her, the more he admired. The primness of her

attitude, when he began to know her better, struck him as being anything

but ineradicable; she was in some things exceedingly human. They were

talking one afternoon of Christian Science, and Lionel asked her if she

really believed there was no such thing as pain.

"Of course," she said promptly. "Pain is merely ignorance."

"Then you must admit," he said, "that there can be no pleasure."

She was puzzled. "How so?"

"Everything must have its foil. Good requires evil as its negative, or

there is--nothing. So to feel pleasure one must postulate pain.

Otherwise you are incapable of pleasure."

"Oh, but I'm _not_!" she said impulsively, and laughed.

"Then where are your science and your logic?"

"You mean I am a woman and illogical." She parried, evading the dilemma.

"When you understand our true position you will realize how fallacious

are your arguments. Now, what do you think of _Pendennis_?"

He laughed again, but talked Thackeray willingly enough. When, a few

moments later, she idly plucked a rose and pricked her finger on a

thorn, giving a little cry, he said humorously, "Ignorance, not pain!"

She disdained to notice him, but smelt the rose luxuriously. "The

illusion of pleasure?" he suggested, pressing the thrust home. Her eyes

sparkled with indignation, but he smiled into them unafraid. They were

getting on capitally, he felt, and it was pleasant to find Miss

Arkwright so much of a woman. She would pay for flirtatious treatment,

he thought villainously, reflecting what a shame it was that lips so

alluring should be unkissed. Lionel, you may have observed, was an

adaptable creature. Fickle? Surely not. He had mapped his course and

was steering strictly according to compass. While Beatrice was still a

grass-widow the more innocent paths of dalliance showed no warning

board, "Trespassers will be Prosecuted." They were not applauded, it is

true--and here he readily confessed his weakness,--but they were not

forbidden. So why, in the strict execution of the charge laid upon him,

may he not try to persuade Miss Arkwright to take a less frigid view of

life? The reader, virtuous soul, may censure: I can only record. Yet,

too, it was something in the nature of a drug to his conscience. When he

had time to think (and he had plenty of time for that) he loathed the

idea of being there under false pretenses, playing the spy. It was all

very well arguing that it was for the sake of Beatrice, but it would

have been an easier task if Winifred had not been so charming. She was

too charming, but it had to be done.... Of course, he ought to have

refused a hint of dalliance, but one step leads to another, and man is

frail. Besides, it had not gone very far ... not far enough to hurt

either him or her.

One mundane detail must be given in this chapter. The morning after his

arrival he had written to London for a supply of clothes. For the

credit of the Blair side of the family he felt that some of Beatrice's

notes ought to be spent on an adequate wardrobe. They came the day

after, giving color to the excuse that his valet had got drunk and

pawned the contents of his flat two hours after his leaving London. Miss

Arkwright did not seem to think it strange; anything might happen in

that wicked city. But she considered the Homburg hat a little "too

continental." This was before her education had begun in earnest.