The Man with the Double Heart Part 30

"Then--that's all serene. I don't suppose you hanker for fatherly attention and the family circle?"

"Well, not much!" McTaggart shuddered. "He's utterly impossible. The mother's not so bad--too stiff, you know, and conscious of her 'dignity,' but quite presentable--pa.s.s in a crowd."

"Then go in and win, my son."

Silence fell between them and at last McTaggart rose to his feet.

"I'm going to have some nourishment--I missed supper, you know."

Bethune grinned. "That's a nasty jar! He might have stood you a parting drink."

"I'll come back presently----" but still he lingered. His whiskey and soda had quenched his thirst and he found he had but little taste for food.

Mechanically he gathered up his letters; then sat down again in his chair.

"I'll read these first--it isn't late."

"Lost your appet.i.te?" Bethune rubbed it in.

His friend, ignoring this ign.o.ble sally, began to tear open the envelopes.

At the bottom of the pile was a large square letter which he recognized as bearing his lawyer's writing.

He frowned a little at the sight, in no mood for business, then settled down grudgingly to study the contents. Inside was an envelope with a deep black edge sealed with an elaborate coat-of-arms.

Bethune was staring into the fire, his mind still full of his friend's adventure. He felt that deep, rather wistful, admiration which a man of his type extends to those more brilliant.

A quick exclamation made him turn his head. McTaggart was plainly startled by his news.

"I say--Bethune--Good Lord--it's impossible!"

He re-read the doc.u.ment in his hand.

"My Uncle's dead!--and both my cousins! A motor-smash outside Rome.

What an awful thing!--the car overturned..." He skimmed on, breathless--"the old man was killed ... on the spot--the eldest son, too ... the other lingered ... died on Tuesday..."

He turned the letter over. "Why, it's nearly a week old. Oh, I see!--it went to Scotland and then to my lawyers, who sent it here.

They want me to go to Siena at once."

Bethune began to voice condolences.

"Oh! I never knew them. But, of course, I'm sorry. He was my mother's brother. (Just touch that bell.) They quarrelled when she married ... I shall have to go."

He turned to the waiter answering the summons.

"Bring me a Continental Bradshaw."

"Do you come in for anything?" asked the practical Bethune.

"Anything?"--the young man laughed with a touch of excitement. "I'm the only one left. There's a palace in Siena ... and a flat in Rome ... and a villa somewhere. And a lot of land, vines and olive groves and a nice fat income ... and--Bethune--don't roar!--I'm the present Marquis. They actually address me..." he choked with mirth--"as the Ill.u.s.trious Marquis Maramonte!"

"Good for you." Bethune leaned across and the two shook hands. "I'm jolly glad. It'll make old Cadell sit up a bit--you've a dead cert there." He chuckled with glee.

"Splendid--I forgot that." His face sobered suddenly. "Although I've half a mind ... yes!--Look here, Bethune--keep this between ourselves--it's not likely to leak out--and I'd rather win Cydonia as plain Peter McTaggart."

His voice softened on the girl's name. What a setting for her--this palace in Siena!

"All right, old man. I quite understand. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut."

The waiter returned and they fell to ways and means, wrestling with the Bradshaw, discussing the route.

"I'll come back and give you a hand with your packing. You'll be wanting a car now, Monsieur le Marquis?"

McTaggart chuckled.

"Good old Bethune! always an eye to business, what? You can take the order--and spare no cost. Line it with white. It'll do for the wedding."

Then a sudden memory clouded his mirth as his thoughts reverted to the tragedy at Rome.

"I'm glad all the same I'm too late for the funeral..."

Early next morning he started for Siena.

CHAPTER XIV

At Dover he remembered Mr. Cadell.

With a sense of guilt he sent the following wire:

"Cannot call to-day. Obliged to go abroad on important business. Will write.

"McTAGGART."

Once on board the boat he began a letter to Cydonia; but the pa.s.sage was rough and he abandoned the attempt, returning to the deck to enjoy the sight of the great rollers slapping up against the sides of the steamer and breaking into high columns of spray, glittering like mica in the wintry sunshine.

He consoled himself with the thought that Mr. Cadell would undoubtedly keep a stern eye on the post, and that his missive was unlikely to reach the lady of his heart.

His luggage was registered through to Siena, and, when he arrived at the Gare du Nord, he took an "auto," directing the man to drive him down the Boulevards. After the damp of London, the air, light and exciting, went to his head. He drew it in, in deep breaths, with its sharp familiar scent of roasting coffee-berries, of waxed floors and of wine, that the crowded cafes wafted toward him as he pa.s.sed: that typical smell of Paris, pungent, unforgettable, which welcomes the votaries of the City of Light.

He dined at Noel Peter's and felt absurdly pleased when the gerant recognized him as one of a quartette who more than a year since had frequented the restaurant on an Easter holiday visit.

Then, turning up the Pa.s.sage des Princes, he strolled along happily, glad to stretch his legs before his long night journey.