Читать книгу The Lost Ambassador; Or, The Search For The Missing Delora - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 17

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I followed Léon upstairs to the region of smaller apartments. At the door of one of these he knocked, and a feminine voice at once bade us enter.

Mademoiselle was sitting upon a lounge, smoking a cigarette. On the table before her stood an empty coffee-cup and an empty liqueur-glass. She looked at me with a little grimace.

"At last!" she exclaimed.

"It is the gentleman whom mademoiselle was expecting?" Léon asked discreetly.

"Certainly," she answered. "You may go, Léon."

We were alone. She gave me her fingers, which I raised to my lips.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I can assure you, however, that I have come at the earliest possible moment."

She motioned me to sit down upon the lounge by her side.

"Monsieur had a more interesting engagement, perhaps?" she murmured.

"Impossible!" I answered.

Now I had come here with no idea whatever of making love to this young lady. My chief interest in her was because she, too, was an habitué of this mysterious café; and because, from the first, I felt that she had some other than the obvious reason for sending me that little note. Nevertheless, it was for me to conceal these things, and I did not hesitate to take her hand in mine as we sat side by side. She did not draw it away, and she did not encourage me.

"Monsieur," she said, "do not, I beg of you, be rash. It was foolish of me, perhaps, to meet you here. We can talk for a few minutes, and afterwards, perhaps, we may meet again, but I am frightened all the time."

"Monsieur Bartot?" I asked.

She nodded.

"He is very, very jealous," she answered.

"You go with him every night to the restaurant in the Place d'Anjou?" I asked.

"I go there very often," she answered. "Monsieur, unless I am mistaken, is a stranger there."

I nodded.

"Last night," I told her, "I was there for the first time."

"You came," she said, toying with her empty liqueur-glass, "with Louis."

"That is so," I admitted.

"Louis brings no one there without a purpose," she remarked.

"You know Louis, then?" I asked.

She raised her eyebrows.

"All the world knows Louis," she continued. "A smoother-tongued rascal never breathed."

"Louis," I murmured, "would be flattered."

"Louis knows himself," she continued, "and he knows that others know him. When I saw monsieur with him I was sorry."

"You are very kind," I said, "to take so much interest."

She looked at me, for the first time, with some spice of coquetry in her eyes.

"I think that I show my interest," she murmured, "in meeting monsieur here. Tell me," she continued, "why were you there with Louis?"

"A chance affair," I answered. "I met him coming out of the Opera. I was bored, and we went together to the Montmartre. There I think that I was more bored still. It was Louis who proposed a visit to the Café des Deux Épingles."

"Did you know," she asked, "that you would meet that man—the man with whom you quarrelled?"

I shook my head.

"I had no idea of it," I answered.

She leaned just a little towards me.

"Monsieur," she said, "if you seek adventures over here, do not seek them with Louis. He knows no friends, he thinks of nothing but of himself. He is a very dangerous companion. There are others whom it would be better for monsieur to make companions of."

"Mademoiselle," I answered, looking into her eyes, "these things are not so interesting. You sent me last night a little note. When may I see you once more in that wonderful blue gown, and take you myself to the theatre, to supper—where you will?"

She shot a glance at me from under her eyelids. The blind was not drawn, and the weak sunlight played upon her features. She was over-powdered and over-rouged, made up like all the smart women of her world, but her features were still good and her eyes delightful.

"Ah, monsieur," she said, "but that would be doubly imprudent. It is not, surely, well for monsieur to be seen too much in Paris to-day? He was badly hurt, that poor Monsieur Tapilow."

"Mademoiselle," I assured her, "there are times when the risk counts for nothing."

"Are all Englishmen so gallant?" she murmured.

"Mademoiselle," I answered, "with the same inducement, yes!"

"Monsieur has learned how to flatter," she remarked.

"It is an accomplishment which I never mastered," I declared.

She sighed. All the time I knew quite well that she carried on this little war of words impatiently. There were other things of which she desired to speak.

"Tell me, monsieur," she said, "what had he done to you, this man Tapilow?"

I shook my head.

"You must forgive me," I said. "That is between him and me."

"And Monsieur Louis," she murmured.

"Louis knew nothing about it," I declared.

She seemed perplexed. She had evidently made up her mind that Louis had taken me there with the object of meeting Tapilow, and for some reason the truth was interesting to her.

"It was a quarrel about a woman, of course," she murmured—"the friend of monsieur, or perhaps a relation. I am jealous! Tell me, then, that it was a relation."

"Mademoiselle," I answered gravely, "I cannot discuss with you the cause of the quarrel between that man and myself. Forgive me if I remind you that it is a very painful subject. Forgive me if I remind you, too," I added, taking her other hand in mine for a moment, "that when I saw you scribble those few lines and send them across to me, and when I read what you said and came here, it was not to answer questions about any other person."

She raised her eyes to mine. They were curiously and wonderfully blue. Then she shook her head and withdrew her hands, sighing.

"But, monsieur," she said, "since then many things have happened. You must not show yourself about in Paris. It is better for you to go back to England."

"I am quite safe here," I declared.

"Then it has been arranged!" she exclaimed quickly. "Louis is, after all, monsieur's friend. He has perhaps seen—"

"We will not talk of these things," I begged. "I would rather—"

She started, and drew a little away, glancing nervously toward the door.

"I am terrified," she said. "Monsieur must come to my apartments one afternoon, where we can talk without fear. There is one more question, though," she continued rapidly. "Louis looked often at us. Tell me, did he say anything to you about Monsieur Bartot and myself?"

"Nothing," I answered, "except that Monsieur Bartot held a somewhat unique position in a certain corner of Paris, and that he was a person whom it was not well to offend."

"No more?" she asked.

"No more," I answered.

"I saw him point us out to you," she remarked.

"I asked him to show me the most beautiful woman in the room," I answered.

She shook her head.

"You are too much of a courtier for an Englishman," she said. "You do not mean what you say."

"Even an Englishman," I answered, "can find words when he is sufficiently moved."

I made a feint again to hold her hands, but she drew away.

"When are you going back to England?" she asked abruptly.

"To-morrow, I think," I answered, "if I am still free."

"Free!" she repeated scornfully. "If you are protected, who is there who will dare to touch you? Monsieur Decresson has all the police dancing to his bidding, and if that were not sufficient, Monsieur Bartot could rescue you even from prison. No, you are safe enough, monsieur, even if you remain here! It is Louis, eh, who is anxious for you to return to England?"

"My time was nearly up anyhow," I told her. "It is not until this moment that I have felt inclined to stay."

"Nevertheless," she murmured, "Monsieur goes to London to-morrow. Is it permitted to ask—"

"Anything," I murmured.

"If monsieur goes alone?"

"I fear so," I answered, "unless mademoiselle—"

She laid her fingers upon my lips.

"Monsieur does not know the elderly gentleman and the very beautiful girl who sat opposite him last night?" she asked—"Monsieur Delora and his niece?"

Somehow I felt convinced, the moment that the question had left her lips, that her whole interest in me was centred upon my reply. She concealed her impatience very well, but I realized that, for some reason or other, I was sitting there by her side solely that I might answer that question.

"I heard their names last night for the first time," I declared. "It was Louis who told me about them."

She looked at me for several moments as though anxious to be sure that I had spoken the truth.

"Mademoiselle!" I said reproachfully. "Let us leave these topics. I am not interested in the Deloras, or Louis, or Monsieur Bartot. Last night is finished, and to-morrow I leave. Let us talk for a few moments of ourselves."

She held up her finger suddenly.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror.

Footsteps had halted outside the door. She ran to the window and looked down. In the street below was standing an automobile with yellow wheels. I was looking over her shoulder, and she clutched my arm.

"It is he—Bartot!" she cried. "He is here at the private entrance. Some one has told him that I am here. Mon Dieu! It is he outside now!"

It was bad acting, and I laughed.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "if Monsieur Bartot is your lover, be thankful that you have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

I rang the bell. She looked at me for a moment with eyes filled with a genuine fear. Obviously she did not understand my attitude. From my trousers pocket I drew a little revolver, whose settings and mechanism I carefully examined. There was a loud knock at the door and the sound of voices outside. Monsieur Bartot entered, in a frock-coat too small for him and a tie too large. When he saw us he fell back with a theatrical start.

"Susette!" he exclaimed. "Susette! And you, sir!" he added, turning to me.

He slammed the door and stood with his back to it.

"What the devil is the meaning of this?" he asked, looking from one to the other of us.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You had better ask mademoiselle," I answered.

"She is, I believe, an acquaintance of yours. As for me—"

"My name is Bartot, sir," he cried fiercely.

"An excellent name," I answered, "but unknown to me. I do not yet understand by what right you intrude into a private room here."

He laughed hardly.

"'Intrude'!" he cried. "One does not call it that. 'Intrude,' when I find you two together, eh?"

I turned to the girl, who, with her handkerchief dabbed to her eyes, was still affecting a perfect frenzy of fear.

"Has this person any claims upon you?" I asked. "He seems to me to be an exceedingly disagreeable fellow."

Bartot's face grew purple. His cheeks seemed to distend and his eyes grow smaller. It was no longer necessary for him to play a part. He was becoming angry indeed.

"Monsieur," he said, "I remember you now. It was you who tried to flirt with this lady last night in the Café des Deux Épingles. You have not even the excuse of ignorance. All the world knows that I have claims upon this lady."

I bowed.

"Claims," I answered, "which I can assure you I am not in a position to dispute."

"How is it, then," he asked fiercely, "that I find you two, strangers last night, together to-day here?"

I altered one of the cartridges in my revolver and let it go with a snap. Bartot took a quick step backwards.

"It is a long story," I said softly, "and I doubt whether it would interest you, Monsieur Bartot. Still, if you are really curious, mademoiselle will satisfy you later."

I saw a look pass between the two, and I no longer had any doubt whatever. I knew that they were in collusion, that I had been brought here to be pumped by mademoiselle.

"Monsieur," Bartot said, "you are apparently armed, and you can leave this room if you will, but I warn you that you will not leave Paris so easily."

The situation was quite plain to me. However little flattering it might be to my vanity, I should not have been in the least surprised if Monsieur Bartot had held out his hands, begged my pardon, and ordered a bottle of wine.

"Be reasonable, monsieur," I begged. "It is open to every one, surely, to admire mademoiselle? For the rest, I have been here only a few moments. So far as I am concerned," I added, glancing at the table, "mademoiselle has lunched alone."

"If I could believe that!" Bartot muttered, with a look of coming friendship in his eyes.

"Mademoiselle will assure you," I continued.

"Then what are you doing here?" he asked.

I raised my eyebrows.

"I was not aware," I said, "that this was a private restaurant."

"But these are private rooms," he answered. "Still, if it was a mistake—I trust mademoiselle always."

She held out her hands to him with a theatrical gesture.

"Henri," she cried, "you could not doubt me! It is impossible!"

"You are right," he answered quickly. "I was too hasty."

I smiled upon them both.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am sorry that our pleasant little conversation has been interrupted. Believe me, though, to be always your devoted slave."

I opened the door. Monsieur Bartot turned towards me. I am convinced that he was about to offer me his hand and to call for that bottle of wine. I felt, however, that flight was safest. I went out and closed the door.

"The bill, monsieur?" a waiter called after me as I descended the stairs.

I gave him five francs for a pour boire.

"Monsieur there will pay," I told him, pointing towards the room.