Bill Chester tilted back the chair on which he was sitting. Once more he asked himself what on earth the fellow was driving at? Were these remarks a preliminary to the Count’s saying that he was not going to Switzerland after all—that he was going back to Lacville in order to take care of Sylvia.
Quite suddenly the young Englishman felt shaken by a very primitive and, till these last few days, a very unfamiliar feeling—that of jealousy.
Damn it—he wouldn’t have that. Of course he was no longer in love with Sylvia Bailey, but he was her trustee and lifelong friend. It was his duty to prevent her making a fool of herself, either by gambling away her money—the good money the late George Bailey had toiled so hard to acquire—or, what would be ever so much worse, by making some wretched marriage to a foreign adventurer.
He stared suspiciously at his companion. Was it likely that a real count—the French equivalent to an English earl—would lead the sort of life this man, Paul de Virieu, was leading, and in a place like Lacville?
“If you really feel like that, I think I’d better give up my trip to Switzerland, and go back to Lacville tomorrow morning.”
He stared hard at the Count, and noted with sarcastic amusement the other’s appearance—so foppish, so effeminate to English eyes; particularly did he gaze with scorn at the Count’s yellow silk socks, which matched his lemon-coloured tie and silk pocket handkerchief. Fancy starting for a long night journey in such a “getup.” Well! Perhaps women liked that sort of thing, but he would never have thought Sylvia Bailey to be that sort of woman.
A change came over Paul de Virieu’s face. There was unmistakable relief—nay, more—even joy in the voice with which the Frenchman answered,
“That is excellent! That is quite right! That is first-rate! Yes, yes, Mr. Chester, you go back to Lacville and bring her away. It is not right that Mrs. Bailey should be by herself there. It may seem absurd to you, but, believe me, Lacville is not a safe spot in which to leave an unprotected woman. She has not one single friend, not a person to whom she could turn to for advice—excepting, of course, the excellent Polperro himself, and he naturally desires to keep his profitable client.”
“There’s that funny old couple—I mean the man called Fritz Something-or-other and his wife. Surely they’re all right?” observed Chester.
Paul de Virieu shook his head decidedly.
“The Wachners are not nice people,” he said slowly. “They appear to be very fond of Mrs. Bailey, I know, but they are only fond of themselves. They are adventurers; ‘out for the stuff,’ as Americans say. Old Fritz is the worst type of gambler—the type that believes he is going to get rich, rich beyond dreams of avarice, by a ‘system.’ Such a man will do anything for money. I believe they knew far more of the disappearance of Madame Wolsky than anyone else did.”
The Count lowered his voice, and leant over the table.
“I have suspected,” he went on—“nay, I have felt sure from the very first, Mr. Chester, that the Wachners are blackmailers. I am convinced that they discovered something to that poor lady’s discredit, and—after making her pay—drove her away! Just before she left Lacville they were trying to raise money at the Casino money-changer’s on some worthless shares. But after Madame Wolsky’s disappearance they had plenty of gold and notes.”
Chester looked across at his companion. At last he was really impressed. Blackmailing is a word which has a very ugly sound in an English lawyer’s ears.
“If that is really true,” he said suddenly, “I almost feel as if I ought to go back to Lacville tonight. I suppose there are heaps of trains?”
“You might, at all events, wait till tomorrow morning,” said Paul de Virieu, drily.
He also had suddenly experienced a thrill of that primitive passion, jealousy, which had surprised Chester but a few moments before. But the Count was a Frenchman. He was familiar with the sensation—nay, he welcomed it. It showed that he was still young—still worthy to be one of the great company of lovers.
Sylvia, his “petite amie Anglaise,” seemed to have come very near to him in the last few moments. He saw her blue eyes brim with tears at his harsh words—he thrilled as he had thrilled with the overmastering impulse which had made him take her into his arms—her hand lay once more in his hand, as it had lain, for a moment this morning.
Had he grasped and retained that kind, firm little hand in his, an entirely new life had been within his reach.
A vision rose before Paul de Virieu—a vision of Sylvia and himself living heart to heart in one of those small, stately manor-houses which are scattered throughout Brittany. And it was no vague house of dreams. He knew the little château very well. Had not his sister driven him there only the other day? And had she not conveyed to him in delicate, generous words how gladly she would see his sweet English friend established there as châtelaine?
A sense of immeasurable loss came over Paul de Virieu—But, no, he had been right! Quite right! He loved Sylvia far too well to risk making her as unhappy as he would almost certainly be tempted to make her, if she became his wife.
He took off his hat and remained silent for what seemed to his companion quite a long time.
“By the way, what is Mrs. Bailey doing tonight?” he asked at last.
“Tonight?” replied Chester. “Let me see? Why, tonight she is spending the evening with those very people—the Wachners, of whom you were speaking just now. I heard her arranging it with them this afternoon.” He added, stiffly, “But I doubt if your impression as to these people is a right one. They seem to me a very respectable couple.”
Paul de
