The Powers and Maxine Part 25

Here was a man! A man loyal and brave and chivalrous as all men ought to be, but few are! He had sacrificed himself to the death, no doubt, to keep my name out of the mud into which my business had thrown him, and to save me from appearing in Raoul's eyes the liar that I was. Had Ivor told that he was with me, after I had prevaricated (if I had not actually lied) to Raoul about the midnight visitor to my house, what would Raoul think of me?

Ivor was trying to save me, if he could; and he had been trying to save me when he went to the room of that dead man, though how and when he had decided to go I knew not. If it were not for me, he would be free and happy to-day.

My conscience cried out that the one thing to do was to go at once to the Chief of Police and say: "Monsieur, this English gentleman they have arrested cannot have committed a murder in the Rue de la Fille Sauvage, between twelve and one last night, for he came to my house, far away in the Rue d'Hollande, at a quarter past twelve, and didn't leave it till after one o'clock."

I even sprang up from my chair in the very room where I had hidden Ivor, to ring for Marianne and tell her to bring me a hat and coat, to bid her order my electric brougham immediately. But--I sat down again, sick and despairing, deliberately crushing the generous impulse. I couldn't obey it. I dared not. By and by, perhaps. If Ivor should be in real pressing danger, then certainly. But not now.

At four o'clock Raoul came, and was with me for an hour. Each of us tried to cheer the other. I did all I could to make him hope that even yet he would have news of the brocade bag and its contents. He, thinking me ill and tired out, did all he could to persuade me that he was not miserable with anxiety. At least, he was no longer jealous of G.o.densky or of any man, and was humbly repentant for his suspicions of me the night before. When Raoul is repentant, and wishes to atone for something that he has done, he is enchanting. There was never a man like him.

At five I sent him away, with the excuse that I must rest, as I hadn't slept much the night before; but really it was because I feared lest I should disgrace myself before him by breaking down, and giving him a fright--or perhaps even by being mad enough to confess the thing I had done. I felt that I was no longer mistress of myself--that I might be capable of any folly.

I could not eat, but I drank a little beef-tea before starting for the theatre, where I went earlier than usual. It would be something to be busy; and in my part I might even forget for a moment, now and then.

Marianne and I were in my dressing-room before seven. I insisted on dressing at once, and took as long as I could in the process of making up; still, when I was ready there was more than half an hour to spare before the first act. There were letters for me--the kind that always come to the theatre--but I couldn't read them, after I had occupied myself with tearing open the envelopes. I knew what they would be: vows of adoration from strangers; poems by budding poets; pet.i.tions for advice from girls and young men who wanted to go on the stage; requests from artists who wanted to paint my picture. There were always such things every night, especially after the opening of a new play.

I was still aimlessly breaking fantastic seals, and staring unseeingly at crests and coronets, when there came a knock at the door. Marianne opened it, to speak for a moment with the stage door keeper.

"Mademoiselle," she whispered, coming to me, "Monsieur le Comte G.o.densky wishes to see you. Shall I say you are not receiving?"

I thought for a moment. Better see him, perhaps. I might learn something. If not--if he had only come to torture me uselessly to please himself, I would soon find out, and could send him away.

I went into my little reception-room adjoining, and received him there.

He advanced, smiling, as one advances to a friend of whose welcome one is sure.

"Well?" I asked, abruptly, when the door was shut and we were alone. He held out his hand, but I put mine behind me, and drew back a step when he had come too close.

"Well--I have news for you, that no one else could bring, so I thought you would be glad to see--even me," he answered, smiling still.

"What news? But bad, of course--or you wouldn't bring it."

"You are very cruel. Of course, you've seen the evening papers? You know that your English friend is in prison?"

"The same English friend whom _you_ would have liked to see arrested early last evening on a ridiculous, baseless charge," I flung at him.

"You look surprised. But you are _not_ surprised, Count G.o.densky--except, perhaps, that I should guess who had me spied upon at the elysee Palace Hotel. A disappointment, that affair, wasn't it? But you haven't told me your news."

"It is this: That Mr. Ivor Dundas, of England, has been on the rack to-day."

"What do you mean?"

"He has been in the hands of the Juge d'Instruction. It is much the same, isn't it, if one has secrets to keep? Would you like to know, if some magical bird could tell you, what questions were put to Mr. Dundas, and what answers he made?"

Strange, that this very thought had been torturing me before G.o.densky came! I had been thinking of the Juge d'Instruction, and his terrible cross-examination which only a man of steel or iron can answer without trembling. I had thought that questions had been asked and answers given which might mean everything to me, if I could only have heard them.

Could it be that I was to hear, now? But I reminded myself that this was impossible. No one could know except the Juge d'Instruction and Ivor Dundas himself. "Only two men were present at that scene, and they will never tell what went on," I said aloud.

"Three men were present," G.o.densky answered. "Besides the two of whom you think, there was another: a lawyer who speaks English. It is permitted nowadays that a foreigner, if he demands it, can be accompanied by his legal adviser when he goes before the Juge d'Instruction. Otherwise, his lack of knowledge of the language might handicap him, and cause misunderstandings which would prejudice his case."

He paused a moment, but I did not reply. I knew that Ivor Dundas spoke French as well as I; but I was not going to tell this Russian that fact.

"The adviser your friend has chosen," G.o.densky went on, "happens to be a protege of mine. I made him--gave him his first case, his first success; and have employed him more than once since. Odd, what a penchant Mr.

Dundas seems to have for men in whom I, too, have confidence! Last night, it was Girard. To-day, it is Lenormand."

This was a blow, and a heavy one; but I wouldn't let G.o.densky see that I winced under it.

"You keep yourself singularly well-informed of the movements of your various proteges," I said--"as well as those of your enemies. But if the information in the one case is no more trustworthy than in the other--why, you're not faithfully served. I've good reason to know that you've made several mistakes lately, and you're likely to make more."

"Thanks for the warning. But I hope you don't call yourself my 'enemy'?"

"I don't know of a more appropriate name--after the baseness that you haven't even tried to hide, in your dealings with me."

"I thought all was fair in love and war."

"Do you make war on women?"

"No--I make love to them."

"To many, I dare say. But here is one who won't listen."

"At least you will listen while I go on with the news I came to tell?"

"Oh, yes, I confess to being curious. No doubt what you say will be interesting--even if not accurate."

"I can promise that it shall be both. I called on Lenormand as soon as I learned what had happened--that he'd been mixed up in this case--and expressed myself as extremely concerned for the fate of his client, friends of whom were intimate friends of mine. So you see, there was no question of treachery on Lenormand's part. He trusts me--as you do not.

Indeed, I even offered my help for Dundas, if I could give it consistently with my position. Naturally, he told me nothing which could be used against Dundas, so far as he knew, even if I wished to go against him--which my coming here ought to prove to you that I do not."

"I read the proof rather differently," I said. "But go on. I'm sure you are anxious to tell me certain things. Please come to the point."

"In a few words, then, the point is this: One of the most important questions put by the Juge d'Instruction, after hearing from Mr. Dundas the explanation of a doc.u.ment found on him by the police--ah, that wakes you up, Mademoiselle! You are surprised that a doc.u.ment was found on the prisoner?"

I was half fainting with fear lest Ivor had regained the treaty, only to lose it again in this dreadful way; but I controlled myself.

"I rather hope it was not a letter from me," I said. "You know so much, that you probably know I admitted to the police at the elysee Palace a strong friendship for Mr. Dundas. We knew each other well in London. But London ways are different from the ways of Paris. It isn't agreeable to be gossipped about, however unjustly, even if one is--only an actress."

"You turn things cleverly, as always. Yes, you are afraid there might have been--a letter. Yet the public adores you. It would pardon you any indiscretion, especially a romantic one--any indiscretion _except treachery_. There might, however, be a few persons less indulgent. Du Laurier, for instance."

I shivered. "We were speaking of the scene with the Juge d'Instruction,"

I reminded him. "You have wandered from the point again."

"There are so many points--all sharp as swords for those they may pierce. Well, the important question was in relation to a letter--yes.

But the letter was not from you, Mademoiselle. It was written in English, and it made an appointment at the very address where the crime was committed. It was, as nearly as I could make out, a request from a person calling himself a jeweller's a.s.sistant, for the receiver of the letter to call and return a case containing jewels. This case had been committed to Mr. Dundas' care, it appeared, while travelling from London to Paris, and without his knowledge, another packet being taken away to make room for this. Mr. Dundas replied to the Juge d'Instruction that his own packet, stolen from him on the journey, contained nothing but papers _entirely personal,_ concerning himself alone.

"'What was in the case which the man afterwards murdered slipped into your pocket?' asked the Juge d'Instruction--Lenormand tells me.

"'A necklace,' answered Mr. Dundas.

"'A necklace of diamonds?'

"'Possibly diamonds, possibly paste, I wasn't much interested in it.'

"'Ah, was this not the necklace which you--staying at the elysee Palace under another name--gave to Mademoiselle Maxine de Renzie last evening?'