Charles Norris Williamson - British Murder Mysteries – 10 Novels in One Volume

"Don't throw his corn plasters in his face. He might be a good fellow in spite of them."

"Well, he isn't—or with them, either. He may be acting with my cousin's husband, who values him immensely, and wants him in the family."

"Is he very rich?"

"Disgustingly," said I, as I had said to Lady Kilmarny.

"Yet you bolted from a good home, where you had every comfort, rather than be pestered to marry him?"

"Oh, what do you call a 'good home,' and 'every comfort'? I had enough to eat and drink, a sunny room, decent clothes, and wasn't allowed to work except for Cousin Catherine. But that isn't my idea of goodness and comfort."

"Nor mine either."

"Yet you seem surprised at me."

"I was thinking that, little and fragile as you look—like a delicate piece of Dresden china—you're a brave girl."

"Oh, thank you!" I cried. "I do love to be called 'brave' better than anything, because I'm really such a coward. You don't think I've done wrong?"

"No-o. So far as you've told me."

"What, don't you believe I've told you the truth?" I flashed out.

"Of course. But do women ever tell the whole truth to men—even to their brothers? What about that kind friend of yours in England?"

"What kind friend?" I asked, confused for an instant. Then I remembered, and—almost—chuckled. The conversation I had had with him came back to me, and I recalled a queer look on his face which had puzzled me till I forgot it. Now I was on the point of blurting out: "Oh, the kind friend is a Miss Paget, who said she'd like to help me if I needed help," when a spirit of mischief seized me. I determined to keep up the little mystery I'd inadvertently made. "I know," I said gravely. " Quite a different kind of friend."

"Some one you like better than Monsieur Charretier?"

" Much better."

"Rich, too?"

"Very rich, I believe, and of a noble family."

"Indeed! No doubt, then, you are wise, even from a worldly point of view, in refusing the man your people want you to marry, and taking—such extreme measures not to let yourself be over persuaded," said Mr. Dane, stiffly, in a changed tone, not at all friendly or nice, as before. "I meant to advise you not to go on to England with Lady Turnour, as the whole situation is so unsuitable; but now, of course, I shall say no more."

"It was about something else I wanted advice," I reminded him. "But I suppose I must have bored you. You suddenly seem so cross."

"I am not in the least cross," he returned, ferociously. "Why should I be?—even if I had a right, which I haven't."

"Not the right of a brother?"

"Hang the rights of a brother!" exclaimed Mr. Dane.

"Then don't you want to be my brother any more?"

He walked away from me a few steps, down the corridor, then turned abruptly and came back. "It isn't a question of what I want," said he, "but of what I can have. Sometimes I think that after all you're nothing but an outrageous little flirt."

"Sometimes? Why, you've only known me two days. As if you could judge!"

"Far be it from me to judge. But it seems as though the two days were two years."

"Thank you. Well, I may be a flirt—the French side of me, when the other side isn't looking. But I'm not flirting with you ."

"Why should you waste your time flirting with a wretched chauffeur?"

"Yes, why? Especially as I've other things to think of. But I don't want your advice about those things now. I wouldn't have it even if you begged me to. You've been too unkind."

"I beg your pardon, with all my heart," he said, his voice like itself again. "I'm a brute, I know! It's that beastly temper of mine, that is always getting me into trouble—with myself and others. Do forgive me, and let me help you. I want to very much."

"I just said I wouldn't if you begged."

"I don't beg. I insist. I'll inflict my advice on you, whether you like it or not. It's this: get the man out of Avignon the first thing to-morrow morning."

"That's easy to say!"

"And easy to do—I hope. What would be his first act, do you think, if he got a wire from you, dated Genoa, and worded something like this: 'Hear you are following me. I send this to Avignon on chance, to tell you persecution must cease or I will find means to protect myself. Lys d'Angely.'"

"I think he'd hurry off to Genoa as fast as he could go—by train, leaving his car, or sending it on by rail. But how could I date a telegram from Genoa?"

"I know a man there who—"

"Elise, I'm astonished at you!" exclaimed the shocked voice of Lady Turnour. "Talking in corridors with strange young men! and you've been out, too, without my permission, and with my jewel-bag! How dare you?"

"I haven't been out," I ventured to contradict.

"Then you were going out—"

"And I had no intention of going out—"

"Don't answer me back like that! I won't stand it. What are you doing in your hat, done up in a thick veil, too, at this time of night, as if you were afraid of being recognized?"

I had to admit to myself that appearances were dreadfully against me. I didn't see how I could give any satisfactory explanation, and while I was fishing wildly in my brain without any bait, hoping to catch an inspiration, the chauffeur spoke for me.

"If your ladyship will permit me to explain," he began, more respectfully than I'd heard him speak to anyone yet, "it is my fault ma'mselle is dressed as she is."

"What on earth is he going to say?" I wondered wildly, as he paused an instant for Lady Turnour's consent, which perhaps an amazed silence gave. I believed that he didn't know himself what to say.

"I wanted your ladyship's maid, when she had nothing else to do, to put on her out-of-door things and let me make a sketch of her for an illustrated newspaper I sometimes draw for. Naturally she didn't care for her face to go into the paper, so she insisted upon a veil. My sketch is to be called, 'The Motor Maid,' and I shall get half a guinea for it, I hope, of which it's my intention to hand ma'mselle five shillings for obliging me. I hope your ladyship doesn't object to my earning something extra now and then, so long as it doesn't interfere with work?"

"Well," remarked Lady Turnour, taken aback by this extraordinary plea, as well she might have been, "I don't like to tell a person out and out that I don't believe a word he says, but I do go as far as this: I'll believe you when I see you making the sketch. And as for earning extra money, I should have thought Sir Samuel paid good enough wages for you to be willing to smoke a pipe and rest when your day's work was done, instead of gadding about corridors gossiping with lady's-maids who've no business to be outside their own room. But if you're so greedy after money—and if you want me to take Elise's word—"

"I'll just begin the sketch in your ladyship's presence, if I may be excused," said Mr. Dane, briskly. And to my real surprise, as well as relief, he whipped a small canvas-covered sketch-book out of his pocket. It was almost like sleight of hand, and if he'd continued the exhibition with a few live rabbits and an anaconda or two I couldn't have been much more amazed.

"I'd like to have a look at that thing," observed Lady Turnour, suspiciously, as in a business-like manner he proceeded to release a neatly sharpened pencil from an elastic strap.

Without a word or a guilty twitch of an eyelid he handed her the book, and we both stood watching while the fat, heavily ringed and rosily manicured fingers turned over the pages.

He could sketch, I soon saw, better than I can, though I've (more or less) made my living at it. There were types of French peasants done in a few strokes, here and there a suggestion of a striking bit of mountain scenery, a quaint cottage, or a ruined castle. Last of all there was a very good representation of the Aigle, loaded up with the Turnours' smart luggage, and ready to start. My lips twitched a little, despite the strain of the situation, as I noted the exaggerated size of the crest on the door panel. It turned the whole thing into a caricature; but luckily her ladyship missed the point. She even allowed her face to relax into a faint smile of pleasure.