War-time Silhouettes Part 11

"Oh, that's most interesting," he said. "You will lunch with her to-morrow! I say, Froelich, you might introduce me. I could turn up after lunch, you know."

Bobby's face got serious.

"Well, I tell you, Clancey, old chap, as a rule I am quite ready to introduce my friends to any lady I know, but in this particular case it is not quite the same. You see, the fact is--the last time I introduced a friend of mine the result was--well, it was not exactly what I bargained for."

"What do you mean?" asked Clancey.

"What I mean is that I introduced Alistair Ramsey to her in Paris, with the result that I have never seen her since until yesterday."

Clancey did not immediately reply, but a curious expression overspread his face. "Alistair Ramsey," he murmured, and then again, "Alistair Ramsey, dear me!"

Bobby looked at him wonderingly. Clancey laughed lightly.

"That reminds me," he said. "I inquired about your commission at the War Office. You know, I suppose, that Alistair Ramsey is private secretary to Sir Archibald Fellowes. Old Fellowes decides upon all commissions, and your charming friend, Mr. Ramsey, informed him you were not a fit person to wear his Majesty's uniform."

Bobby stared.

"The dirty dog!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm d.a.m.ned! That at the last, after everything!"

"Yes, just that," remarked Clancey. "So you introduced him to Madame de Corantin?"

"Not because I wanted to," replied Bobby.

"And she has been with him ever since?"

"Oh, I don't know that."

"But she was with him last night at the Savoy?"

"Yes. d.a.m.n him! I must be off now. Clancey, really, I'm awfully obliged to you."

"Well, may I come to Claridge's tomorrow? I promise I won't cut you out--I only want to make her acquaintance. She must be such a charming woman."

"All right. Look in after lunch," Bobby answered, and, seizing the huge parcel which contained his flowers, he led the way out of the room and thence out of the flat to the cab which was waiting for him.

Had Bobby looked out of the window of that cab he would have been surprised. Clancey was running down the street towards Piccadilly as fast as his legs could carry him.

Another shock was in store for poor Bobby. Jumping out of his taxi, he presented himself to the hall-porter, armed with his huge paper parcel from the florist.

"For Madame de Corantin," he said.

The porter looked at him; he knew him well and accepted the offering hesitatingly.

"For Madame de Corantin, you said, sir?"

"Yes," said Bobby.

"Madame de Corantin left early this afternoon, Mr. Froelich."

For a moment Bobby was speechless.

"Left?" he gasped. "Are you sure?"

"I'm perfectly certain, sir."

"But surely she is coming back again, isn't she? Why, I'm lunching with her to-morrow."

The porter looked at him in surprise.

"Take a seat for a moment, sir, and I'll go and inquire, though to the best of my belief she took all her luggage with her."

In a moment the man came back.

"Yes, sir, she and her maid and all her luggage left about two o'clock.

There were two cars; one was brought by a gentleman."

Bobby pulled himself together.

"Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?" He tried to put indifference into his voice.

"Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey."

Bobby walked out of the hotel. "Oh, d.a.m.n him, d.a.m.n him, d.a.m.n him!" he muttered as he threw himself into a cab.

"Go to Down Street."

Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and, flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered, but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey's triumph. There must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened, something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a hundred times, Bobby returned on the past and tried to piece together consecutively all the incidents since his first meeting with Madame de Corantin. Gradually an impression formed itself in his mind that what at first had seemed an attractive mystery was something deeper than he had imagined. Gradually there spread over him a vague sensation of discomfort, of apprehension even. Still, when he thought about her it seemed impossible to connect anything sinister with a personality so charming, with a disposition so amiable. No, it was beyond him; it was useless his attempting to puzzle out the problem. Only time could explain it. As they had met at the Savoy, so sooner or later they would meet again. He knew it was useless to try and forget her; that was impossible, but, in the meantime, what?

Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. Some one was ringing the bell at the entrance. Bobby went to the door. Two men were standing outside--strangers to him.

"Are you Mr. Froelich?" one of them asked.

"Yes," answered Bobby. "Why? What do you want?"

"I should like to speak to you a moment."

"What about?" Bobby eyed them suspiciously.

"I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Froelich. We'd better go inside to talk."

Bobby, quite bewildered, led them into his sitting-room, and shut the door.

"My name is Inspector Groombridge," said the spokesman of the two. "I have been instructed to place you under arrest."

"Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some mistake."