There was no risk that Sylvia Bailey would fall a victim to blackmailers—she had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to conceal. But still he hated to think that she was, even now, alone with a man and woman of whom he had formed such a bad impression.
He took his watch out of his pocket. “There’s a train for Lacville at a quarter to ten,” he said slowly. “That would be an excellent train for—for us—to take—”
“Then are you thinking of going back to Lacville too?” There was that sarcastic inflection in the Englishman’s voice which the Count had learned to look for and to resent.
“Yes.”
Count Paul looked at Bill Chester significantly, and his look said, “Take care, my friend! We do not allow a man to sneer at another man in this country unless he is willing to stand certain unpleasant consequences. Our duels are not always pour rire!”
During the short train journey back to Lacville they hardly spoke. Each thought that the other was doing a strange and unreasonable thing—a thing which the thinker could have done much better if left to himself.
At Lacville station they jumped into a victoria.
“I suppose we had better drive straight to the Villa du Lac,” said Chester, hesitatingly.
“Yes, we had better go first to the Villa du Lac, for Mrs. Bailey should be home by now. By the way, Mr. Chester, you had better ask to have my room tonight; we know that it is disengaged. As for me, I will go on somewhere else as soon as I know you have seen our friend. Please do not tell Mrs. Bailey that I came with you. Where would be the use? I may go back to Paris tonight.” Paul de Virieu spoke in a constrained, preoccupied voice.
“But aren’t you coming in? Won’t you stay at Lacville at least till tomorrow?”
Chester’s voice unwittingly became far more cordial; if the Frenchman did not wish to see Sylvia, why had he insisted on coming back, too, to Lacville.
The hall of the Villa du Lac was brightly lit up, and as the victoria swept up the short drive to the stone horseshoe stairway, the Comte de Virieu suddenly grasped the other’s hand.
“Good luck!” he exclaimed, “Good luck, fortunate man! As the Abbot at my English school used to say to me when he met me, as a little boy, running about the cloisters, ‘God bless you!’ ”
Chester was rather touched, as well as surprised. But what queer, emotional fellows Frenchmen are to be sure! Although Count Paul, as Sylvia used to call him, had evidently been a little bit in love with her himself, he was quite willing to think of her as married to another man!
But—but there was the rub! Chester was no longer so sure that he wanted to marry Sylvia. She had become a different woman—she seemed to be another Sylvia to the one he had always known.
“I’ll just come out and tell you that it’s all right,” he said a little awkwardly. “But I wish you’d come in—if only for a minute. Mrs. Bailey would be so pleased to see you.”
“No, no,” muttered the other. “Believe me, she would not!”
Chester jumped out of the carriage and ran quickly up the stone steps, and rang the bell.
The door was opened by M. Polperro himself. Even busier than usual was the merry, capable little chef, for as it happened Madame Polperro had had to go away for two or three days.
“I want to know,” said Chester abruptly, “if you can let me have a room for tonight? The room the Comte de Virieu occupied is, I suppose, disengaged?”
“I will see, M’sieur—I will inquire!”
M. Polperro did not know what to make of this big Englishman who had come in out of the night, bringing no luggage with him but one little bag.
Then he suddenly remembered! Why, of course, this was the friend of the pretty, charming, wealthy Madame Bailey; the English gentleman who had been staying during the past few days at the Pension Malfait! A gentleman who was called after a well-known cheese—yes, Chester was his name.
Then this Mr. Chester’s departure from Lacville had been a fausse sortie—a ruse to get rid of the Comte de Virieu, who was also in love with the lovely young English widow?
Ah! Ah! M. Polperro felt very much amused. Never had he heard of anything so droll! But the Englishman’s tale of love was not to run smooth after all, for now another complication had arisen, and the very last one any sensible man would have expected!
“Yes, M’sieur,” said M. Polperro demurely, “it is all right! I had forgotten! As you say, the Comte de Virieu’s room is now empty, but”—he hesitated, and with a sly look added, “indeed we have another room empty tonight—a far finer room, with a view over the lake—the room Madame Bailey occupied.”
“The room Mrs. Bailey occupied?” echoed Chester. “Has Mrs. Bailey changed her room today?”
“Oh, no, M’sieur! She left Lacville this very evening. I have but just now received a letter from her.”
The little man could hardly keep serious. Oh! those Englishmen, who are said to be so cold! When in love they behave just like other people.
For Chester was staring at him with puzzled, wrathful eyes.
“Ah! what a charming lady, M’sieur; Madame Polperro and I shall miss her greatly. We hoped to keep Madame Bailey all the summer. But perhaps she will come back—now that M’sieur has returned.” He really could not resist that last thrust.
“Left Lacville!” repeated Chester incredulously. “But that’s impossible! It isn’t more than three hours since we said goodbye to her at the station. She had no intention of leaving Lacville then. Do you say you’ve received a letter from her?”
“Yes, M’sieur.”
“Will you please show it me?”
“Certainly, M’sieur.”
M. Polperro, followed closely by the Englishman, trotted off into his office, a funny little hole of a place which had been contrived
