“So that’s that, is it? The rats will leave the sinking ship.”
“Ah, Dereek!”
“Out with it,” he said violently. “You will fling me over; is that it?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I am fond of you, mon ami—indeed I am fond of you. You are very charming—un beau garçon, but ce n’est pas pratique.”
“You are a rich man’s luxury, eh? Is that it?”
“If you like to put it that way.”
She leaned back on the cushions, her head flung back.
“All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek.”
He went over to the window and stood there some time looking out, with his back to her. Presently the dancer raised herself on her elbow and stared at him curiously.
“What are you thinking of, mon ami?”
He grinned at her over his shoulder, a curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.
“As it happened, I was thinking of a woman, my dear.”
“A woman, eh?”
Mirelle pounced on something that she could understand.
“You are thinking of some other woman, is that it?”
“Oh, you needn’t worry; it is purely a fancy portrait. ‘Portrait of a lady with grey eyes.’ ”
Mirelle said sharply, “When did you meet her?”
Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter had a mocking, ironical sound.
“I ran into the lady in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel.”
“Well! What did she say?”
“As far as I can remember, I said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and she said, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ or words to that effect.”
“And then?” persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
“And then—nothing. That was the end of the incident.”
“I don’t understand a word of what you are talking about,” declared the dancer.
“Portrait of a lady with grey eyes,” murmured Derek reflectively. “Just as well I am never likely to meet her again.”
“Why?”
“She might bring me bad luck. Women do.”
Mirelle slipped quietly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snakelike arm round his neck.
“You are foolish, Dereek,” she murmured. “You are very foolish. You are beau garçon, and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor—no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very simple. You must make it up with your wife.”
“I am afraid that’s not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics,” said Derek drily.
“How do you say? I do not understand.”
“Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any. He is the kind of man who makes up his mind and sticks to it.”
“I have heard of him,” nodded the dancer. “He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the world—‘Heart of Fire’ it is called.”
Kettering did not answer. The dancer went on musingly:
“It is a wonderful stone—a stone that should belong to a woman like me. I love jewels, Dereek; they say something to me. Ah! to wear a ruby like ‘Heart of Fire.’ ”
She gave a little sigh, and then became practical once more.
“You don’t understand these things, Dereek; you are only a man. Van Aldin will give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose. Is she his only child?”
“Yes.”
“Then when he dies, she will inherit all his money. She will be a rich woman.”
“She is a rich woman already,” said Kettering drily. “He settled a couple of millions on her at her marriage.”
“A couple of million! But that is immense. And if she died suddenly, eh? That would all come to you?”
“As things stand at present,” said Kettering slowly, “it would. As far as I know she has not made a will.”
“Mon Dieu!” said the dancer. “If she were to die, what a solution that would be.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek Kettering laughed outright.
“I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle, but I am afraid what you desire won’t come to pass. My wife is an extremely healthy person.”
“Eh bien!” said Mirelle; “there are accidents.”
He looked at her sharply but did not answer.
She went on.
“But you are right, mon ami, we must not dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek, there must be no more talk of this divorce. Your wife must give up the idea.”
“And if she won’t?”
The dancer’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“I think she will, my friend. She is one of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she would not like her friends to read in the newspapers.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kettering sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
“Parbleu! I mean the gentleman who calls himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all about him. I am Parisienne, you remember. He was her lover before she married you, was he not?”
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.
“That is a damned lie,” he said, “and please remember that, after all, you are speaking of my wife.”
Mirelle was a little sobered.
“You are extraordinary, you English,” she complained. “All the same, I dare say that you may be right. The Americans are so cold, are they not? But you will permit me to say, mon ami, that she was in love with him before she married you, and her father stepped in and sent the Comte about his business. And the little Mademoiselle, she wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it is a very different story now. She sees him nearly every day, and on the fourteenth she goes to Paris to meet him.”
“How do you know all this?” demanded Kettering.
“Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek, who know the Comte intimately. It is all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so she says, but in reality the Comte meets her in Paris and—who knows! Yes, yes, you can take my word for it, it is all arranged.”
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
“You see,” purred the dancer, “if you are clever, you have her in the hollow of your hand.
