Mrs. Kettering shrugged her shoulders.
“I have got lots of friends,” she said uncertainly. “I don’t know what he meant, I am sure.”
“You do,” said Van Aldin.
He was speaking now as he might have spoken to a business adversary.
“I will put it plainer. Who is the man?”
“What man?”
“The man. That’s what Derek was driving at. Some special man who is a friend of yours. You needn’t worry, honey, I know there is nothing in it, but we have got to look at everything as it might appear to the Court. They can twist these things about a good deal, you know. I want to know who the man is, and just how friendly you have been with him.”
Ruth didn’t answer. Her hands were kneading themselves together in intense nervous absorption.
“Come, honey,” said Van Aldin in a softer voice. “Don’t be afraid of your old Dad. I was not too harsh, was I, even that time in Paris?—By gosh!”
He stopped, thunderstruck.
“That’s who it was,” he murmured to himself. “I thought I knew his face.”
“What are you talking about, Dad? I don’t understand.”
The millionaire strode across to her and took her firmly by the wrist.
“See here, Ruth, have you been seeing that fellow again?”
“What fellow?”
“The one we had all that fuss about years ago. You know who I mean well enough.”
“You mean”—she hesitated—“you mean the Comte de la Roche?”
“Comte de la Roche!” snorted Van Aldin. “I told you at the time that the man was no better than a swindler. You had entangled yourself with him then very deeply, but I got you out of his clutches.”
“Yes, you did,” said Ruth bitterly. “And I married Derek Kettering.”
“You wanted to,” said the millionaire sharply.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“And now,” said Van Aldin slowly, “you have been seeing him again—after all I told you. He has been in the house today. I met him outside, and couldn’t place him for the moment.”
Ruth Kettering had recovered her composure.
“I want to tell you one thing, Dad; you are wrong about Armand—the Comte de la Roche, I mean. Oh, I know there were several regrettable incidents in his youth—he has told me about them; but—well, he has cared for me always. It broke his heart when you parted us in Paris, and now—”
She was interrupted by the snort of indignation her father gave.
“So you fell for that stuff, did you? You, a daughter of mine! My God!”
He threw up his hands.
“That women can be such darned fools!”
VI
Mirelle
Derek Kettering emerged from Van Aldin’s suite so precipitantly that he collided with a lady passing across the corridor. He apologised, and she accepted his apologies with a smiling reassurance and passed on, leaving with him a pleasant impression of a soothing personality and rather fine grey eyes.
For all his nonchalance, his interview with his father-in-law had shaken him more than he cared to show. He had a solitary lunch, and after it, frowning to himself a little, he went round to the sumptuous flat that housed the lady known as Mirelle. A trim Frenchwoman received him with smiles.
“But enter then, Monsieur. Madame reposes herself.”
He was ushered into the long room with its Eastern setting which he knew so well. Mirelle was lying on the divan, supported by an incredible number of cushions, all in varying shades of amber, to harmonise with the yellow ochre of her complexion. The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.
He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.
“What have you been doing with yourself? Just got up, I suppose?”
The orange mouth widened into a long smile.
“No,” said the dancer. “I have been at work.”
She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.
“Ambrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera.”
Kettering nodded without paying much attention. He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter’s operatic setting of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. So was Mirelle, for that matter, regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra.
“It is a marvellous dance,” she murmured. “I shall put all the passion of the desert into it. I shall dance hung over with jewels—ah! and, by the way, mon ami, there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street—a black pearl.”
She paused, looking at him invitingly.
“My dear girl,” said Kettering, “it’s no use talking of black pearls to me. At the present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire.”
She was quick to respond to his tone. She sat up, her big black eyes widening.
“What is that you say, Dereek? What has happened?”
“My esteemed father-in-law,” said Kettering, “is preparing to go off the deep end.”
“Eh?”
“In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce me.”
“How stupid!” said Mirelle. “Why should she want to divorce you?”
Derek Kettering grinned.
“Mainly because of you, chérie!” he said.
Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
“That is foolish,” she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Very foolish,” agreed Derek.
“What are you going to do about it?” demanded Mirelle.
“My dear girl, what can I do? On the one side, the man with unlimited money; on the other side, the man with unlimited debts. There is no question as to who will come out on top.”
“They are extraordinary, these Americans,” commented Mirelle. “It is not as though your wife were fond of you.”
“Well,” said Derek, “what are we going to do about it?”
She looked at him inquiringly. He came over and took both her hands in his.
“Are you going to stick to me?”
“What do you mean? After—”
“Yes,” said Kettering. “After, when the creditors come down like wolves on the fold. I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you going to let me down?”
She pulled her hands away from him.
“You know I adore you, Dereek.”
He caught the note of evasion in her
