CHAPTER V

THE PLOT THICKENS

A knock on his door roused Lionel at half past eight, and he sprang up

clear-eyed and joyous to meet the sun. The events of the previous day

sped pleasantly through his brain; and now that the morning was upon him

and the London sparrows twittering optimism, he could not dwell

seriously on the indignation of his hostess. "Oh, it is bound to be all

right!" he said to himself, stropping a razor that he found on the

dressing-table and whistling a merry tune. The cold tub strung him to a

higher mood, and as he plied the towel he broke into song. "_Horchen Sie

doch!_" said Mizzi approvingly to the cat, as she prepared breakfast and

heard the melodious strain: "_Er ist ein braver Kerl, der sich nicht

erzuernt. Er ist ein lustiger Geist, wirklich. Die anderen habe ich zum

Besten._" No doubt she was right.

Lionel breakfasted alone. Mizzi said that her mistress begged to be

excused for an hour; after that she would be ready. The maid lingered a

moment more than was necessary after bringing in the coffee, and seemed

markedly assiduous for his comfort. But Lionel did not detain her in

conversation; he had no intention of elaborating the _affaire_ of the

previous night. What amusement fell to his share he was ready to accept

with a youthful zest, but he was old enough not to pursue happiness too

zealously nor to magnify trifles. A kiss was well enough, provided it

embarrassed neither the recipient nor himself. He was never a man to

raise false hopes or win success by lies or a pretended love. His

philosophy embraced the theory that girls, or some of them at least,

liked being petted, and he was not averse from the kindly office. Only,

there must be a clear, if unspoken, understanding that he was not to be

taken _au serieux_. This philosophy, of course, did not apply to

Beatrice Blair: she was altogether outside routine. He was a butterfly,

if you like, but at any rate honest.

So when Mizzi hoped that monsieur had slept well, he said gravely,

"Perfectly, _ma p'tite_," and asked for the morning's newspaper. She

brought it, with a pout of resentment, and as she handed it to him

discovered a fly on his collar. This she was allowed to remove with the

most absolute decorum; but when the operation was finished and she

smiled persuasively, he stroked her hair paternally and said, "You must

not be foolish, my child." Mizzi retired with a heightened color, and he

sat down with satisfaction to the cricket reports and deviled kidneys.

To tell the truth, in spite of his arguments he felt slightly ashamed of

the momentary swerve from loyalty.

His hostess appeared in due course, looking exceedingly pretty and

self-possessed. She was dressed smartly in blue, a color that contrasted

favorably with her hair and eyes. Lionel thrilled with gladness at the

sight of her, for in brief moments of doubt he had thought that perhaps

his imagination had played tricks: the night and artificial lights might

possibly have lent her a fascination that would pass with the dawn.

Could there indeed be so delightful a creature in London? These doubts,

it must be insisted, had been exceedingly brief; still, they had had

existence, and the joy of seeing them dissolve like frost in sunlight

made life more desirable than ever.

There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized,

educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or

ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The

lady made no reference to the _impasse_ of the night before, and Lionel

was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead,

they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair

announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not

ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how

bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the

present, au revoir."

Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or

hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to

acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his

lodgings--indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could

earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any;

but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he

had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of

circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest

novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus

he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.

Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together.

In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames

Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about

seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the

theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and

then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed.

Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony,

but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and

went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.

This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had

plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he

knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as

occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great

conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when

opportunity offered--such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company

he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this

Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him,

but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he

usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true,

and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.

Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more

"gratitude" kisses--no hint of danger. She had referred only once again

to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to

show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity

had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she

had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even

unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a

prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read

Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles

on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too

many years to have any illusions.

So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony.

Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more

than a friendship to him. Only the remembrance of Lukos kept him from

showing something more of his real feelings--the remembrance of Lukos

and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in

the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.

Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air

of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and

piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less

_sympathique_ with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress

there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man.

Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame,

but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful

condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy

misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly--but not too

friendly--footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful

and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers,

and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an

unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself

complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang

of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be

sensible.... It is very trying."

Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a

week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly

after lunch to get ready for the matinee. Lionel, provided with one of

her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not

watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play

was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the

flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening

performance.

Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she

said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval

still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of

compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a

well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited

in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a

good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and

gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_.

Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table,

placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had

forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?"

Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.

"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to

tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is

very depressing to a sunny nature."

Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am

sorry," she replied.

"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw,

however slight. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.

Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a

friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no

uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a

sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be

repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his

day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and

the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet

that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by

a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.

He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation,

but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked

in a moment.

"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because

you are the slave of my mistress."

"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her.

You may go."

At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she

cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a

pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect----"

"I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so

to a servant----"

The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it.

"A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is

true--but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her

mistress----"

"That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the

arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."

As soon as he touched her the virago subsided. She made not the least

resistance as he led her to the door. But as he was opening it she

looked up with appealing eyes. "Ah, monsieur!" she whispered piteously;

but he was in no mood to be melted. He shut the door upon her, and did

not see the rainbow of smiles that played over her face the moment she

was in safety.

"She is jealous," mused Lionel, pouring out a cup of tea; "I did not

think she would have been so silly."

He wagged his head sadly over the frailty of human nature, and then an

unpleasant thought struck him--the accusation of her mistress. "Lies"

had been the charge--an ugly word--and on the face of things somewhat

plausible. Again he reviewed the arguments for the defense--the lack of

all apparent motive for deceit, his uselessness from a blackmailer's

standpoint, and the rest,--and the strength of them gave him fresh

courage. The strongest argument of all, the remembrance of Beatrice

herself, almost clenched the matter. _Almost_, for he was cautious, and

had some knowledge of the world. Still, he was young and hopeful, and

the obvious jealousy of Mizzi was an additional reason for discounting

her assertions. "Lies or not," he concluded, "it is too amusing to let

slip. Besides, she is such a dear...."

The object of his devoted suspicion returned soon after eleven that

night, a little tired, but full of kindliness and mirth. "Oh!" she

cried, as she entered the room, "I hope you haven't waited supper for

me. If so, you must be ravenous----"

"Of course I waited," said Lionel. "Shall I ring?"

"But why hasn't Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of

taking off her hat.

"I don't know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight

difference, but surely----"

She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"

Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped

from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.

"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try

to kiss her?"

At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep

waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie

would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to

Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her--the feat had been

successfully accomplished.

"Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was

turned I could transfer my worship to another?"

"I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not

see.

"Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell

you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain

coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in

being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to

be relied on. I at once led her from the room."

"Without a kiss?"

"I held her at arm's length," said Lionel proudly.

Beatrice said "H'm" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly,

"Please ring the bell."

Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse

herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would

he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial

a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice

pressed the electric button, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A

crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded,

and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his

anguish to hear the lady speak.

"She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make

sure ... perhaps ... will you come?"

He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the

meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was

there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no

answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the

electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a

portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the

inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town.

"She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "_She has gone!_"

"And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness.

"But she might at least have laid supper first."

"You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary

desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies."

Lionel's good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He

sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed.

"No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is--forgive me--too

crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a

petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the

Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama."

Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful.

"You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress."

The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him

of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your

pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more."

"She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one

great mistake--natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one

day, when I was in need of a woman's sympathy and help, I told her

all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late

for regrets or fears. Now we must act."