CHAPTER XL

“For once,” Lady Carey said, with a faint smile, “your ‘admirable

Crichton’ has failed you.”

Lucille opened her eyes. She had been leaning back amongst the railway

cushions.

“I think not,” she said. “Only I blame myself that I ever trusted the

Prince even so far as to give him that message. For I know very well

that if Victor had received it he would have been here.”

Lady Carey took up a great pile of papers and looked them carelessly

through.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that I do not agree with you. I do not think

that Saxe Leinitzer had any desire except to see you safely away. I

believe that he will be quite as disappointed as you are that your

husband is not here to aid you. Some one must see you safely on the

steamer at Havre. Perhaps he will come himself.”

“I shall wait in Paris,” Lucille said quietly, “for my husband.”

“You may wait,” Lady Carey said, “for a very long time.”

Lucille looked at her steadily. “What do you mean?”

“What a fool you are, Lucille. If to other people it seems almost

certain on the face of it that you were responsible for that drop of

poison in your husband’s liqueur glass, why should it not seem so to

himself?”

Lucille laughed, but there was a look of horror in her dark eyes.

“How absurd. I know Victor better than to believe him capable of such a

suspicion. Just as he knows me better than to believe me capable of such

an act.”

“Really. But you were in his rooms secretly just before.”

“I went to leave some roses for him,” Lucille answered. “And if you

would like to know it, I will tell you this. I left my card tied to them

with a message for him.”

Lady Carey yawned.

“A remarkably foolish thing to do,” she said. “That may cause you

trouble later on. Great heavens, what is this?”

She held the evening paper open in her hand. Lucille leaned over with

blanched face.

“What has happened?” she cried. “Tell me, can’t you!”

“Reginald Brott has been shot in Piccadilly,” Lady Carey said.

“Is he hurt?” Lucille asked.

“He is dead!”

They read the brief announcement together. The deed had been committed

by a man whose reputation for sanity had long been questioned, one of

Brott’s own constituents. He was in custody, and freely admitted his

guilt. The two women looked at one another in horror. Even Lady Carey

was affected.

“What a hateful thing,” she said. “I am glad that we had no hand in it.”

“Are you so sure that we hadn’t?” Lucille asked bitterly. “You see what

it says. The man killed him because of his political apostasy. We had

something to do with that at least.”

Lady Carey was recovering her sang froid.

“Oh, well,” she said, “indirect influences scarcely count, or one might

trace the causes of everything which happens back to an absurd extent.

If this man was mad he might just as well have shot Brott for anything.”

Lucille made no answer. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She did not

speak again till they reached Dover.

They embarked in the drizzling rain. Lady Carey drew a little breath of

relief as they reached their cabin, and felt the boat move beneath them.

“Thank goodness that we are really off. I have been horribly nervous all

the time. If they let you leave England they can have no suspicion as

yet.”

Lucille was putting on an ulster and cap to go out on deck.

“I am not at all sure,” she said, “that I shall not return to England.

At any rate, if Victor does not come to me in Paris I shall go to him.”

“What beautiful trust!” Lady Carey answered. “My dear Lucille, you are

more like a school-girl than a woman of the world.”

A steward entered with a telegram for Lucille. It was banded in at the

Haymarket, an hour before their departure. Lucille read it, and her face

blanched. “I thank you for your invitation, but I fear that it would not

be good for my health.--S.”

Lady Carey looked over her shoulder. She laughed hardly.

“How brutal!” she murmured. “But, then, Victor can be brutal sometimes,

can’t he?”

Lucille tore it into small pieces without a word. Lady Carey waited for

a remark from her in vain.

“I, too,” she said at last, “have had some telegrams. I have been

hesitating whether to show them to you or not. Perhaps you had better

see them.”

She produced them and spread them out. The first was dated about the

same time as the one Lucille had received.

“Have seen S. with message from Lucille. Fear quite useless, as he

believes worst.”

The second was a little longer.

“Have just heard S. has left for Liverpool, and has engaged berth in

Campania, sailing to-morrow. Break news to Lucille if you think well.

Have wired him begging return, and promising full explanation.”

“If these,” Lucille said calmly, “belonged to me I should treat them as

I have my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should tear them up.”

Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders with the air of one who finds further

argument hopeless.

“I shall have no more to say to you, Lucille, on this subject,” she

said. “You are impossible. In a few days you will be forced to come

round to my point of view. I will wait till then. And in the meantime,

if you think I am going to tramp up and down those sloppy decks and gaze

at the sea you are very much mistaken. I am going to lie down like a

civilized being, and try and get a nap. You had better do the same.”

Lucille laughed.

“For my part,” she said, “I find any part of the steamer except the deck

intolerable. I am going now in search of some fresh air. Shall I send

your woman along?”

Lady Carey nodded, for just then the steamer gave a violent lurch, and

she was not feeling talkative. Lucille went outside and walked up and

down until the lights of Calais were in sight. All the time she felt

conscious of the observation of a small man clad in a huge mackintosh,

whose peaked cap completely obscured his features. As they were entering

the harbour she purposely stood by his side. He held on to the rail with

one hand and turned towards her.

“It has been quite a rough passage, has it not?” he remarked.

She nodded.

“I have crossed,” she said, “when it has been much worse. I do not mind

so long as one may come on deck.”

“Your friend,” he remarked, “is perhaps not so good a sailor?”

“I believe,” Lucille said, “that she suffers a great deal. I just looked

in at her, and she was certainly uncomfortable.”

The little man gripped the rail and held on to his cap with the other

hand.

“You are going to Paris?” he asked.

Lucille nodded.

“Yes.”

They were in smoother water now. He was able to relax his grip of the

rail. He turned towards Lucille, and she saw him for the first time

distinctly--a thin, wizened-up little man, with shrewd kindly eyes, and

a long deeply cut mouth.

“I trust,” he said, “that you will not think me impertinent, but it

occurred to me that you have noticed some apparent interest of mine in

your movements since you arrived on the boat.”

Lucille nodded.

“It is true,” she answered. “That is why I came and stood by your side.

What do you want with me?”

“Nothing, madam,” he answered. “I am here altogether in your interests.

If you should want help I shall be somewhere near you for the next few

hours. Do not hesitate to appeal to me. My mission here is to be your

protector should you need one.”

Lucille’s eyes grew bright, and her heart beat quickly.

“Tell me,” she said, “who sent you?”

He smiled.

“I think that you know,” he answered. “One who I can assure you will

never allow you to suffer any harm. I have exceeded my instructions in

speaking to you, but I fancied that you were looking worried. You need

not. I can assure you that you need have no cause.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I knew,” she said, “that those telegrams were forgeries.”

He looked carefully around.

“I know nothing about any telegrams,” he said, “but I am here to see

that no harm comes to you, and I promise you that it shall not. Your

friend is looking out of the cabin door. I think we may congratulate

ourselves, madam, on an excellent passage.”

Lady Carey disembarked, a complete wreck, leaning on the arm of her

maid, and with a bottle of smelling salts clutched in her hand. She

slept all the way in the train, and only woke up when they were nearing

Paris. She looked at Lucille in astonishment.

“Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she exclaimed.

“You look disgustingly fit and well.”

Lucille laughed softly.

“Why not? I have had a nap, and we are almost at Paris. I only want a

bath and a change of clothes to feel perfectly fresh.”

But Lady Carey was suspicious.

“Have you seen any one you know upon the train?” she asked.

Lucille shook her head.

“Not a soul. A little man whom I spoke to on the steamer brought me some

coffee. That is all.”

Lady Carey yawned and shook out her skirts. “I suppose I’m getting old,”

she said. “I couldn’t look as you do with as much on my mind as you must

have, and after traveling all night too.”

Lucille laughed.

“After all,” she said, “you know that I am a professional optimist, and

I have faith in my luck. I have been thinking matters over calmly, and,

to tell you the truth, I am not in the least alarmed.”

Lady Carey looked at her curiously.

“Has the optimism been imbibed,” she asked, “or is it spontaneous?”

Lucille smiled.

“Unless the little man in the plaid mackintosh poured it into the coffee

with the milk,” she said, “I could not possibly have imbibed it, for I

haven’t spoken to another soul since we left.”

“Paris! Here we are, thank goodness. Celeste can see the things through

the customs. She is quite used to it. We are going to the Ritz, I

suppose!”