“I shall be on the stairs, Monsieur, below Mademoiselle’s door, if you should want me,” said Moreau.
Jim Frobisher roused himself from his reflections.
“Thank you,” he answered, and he went up the stairs to his room. A lot of use to Betty that telegram had been, he reflected bitterly! “Where was she tonight?” he asked, and shut up his mind against the question.
He was to know that it was precisely that panic-stricken telegram and nothing else which had brought Betty Harlowe’s plans crashing about her ears.
XXIV
Ann Upcott’s Story
Early the next morning Hanaud rang up the Maison Grenelle and made his appointment for the afternoon. Jim accordingly spent the morning with Monsieur Bex, who was quite overwhelmed with the story which was told to him.
“Prisoners have their rights nowadays,” he said. “They can claim the presence of their legal adviser when they are being examined by the Judge. I will go round at once to the Prefecture”; with his head erect and his little chest puffed out like a bantam cock, he hurried to do battle for his client. There was no battle to be waged, however. Certainly Monsieur Bex’s unhappy client was for the moment au secret. She would not come before the Judge for a couple of days. It was the turn of Francine Rollard. Every opportunity was to be given to the defence, and Monsieur Bex would certainly be granted an interview with Betty Harlowe, if she so wished, before she was brought up in the Judge’s office.
Monsieur Bex returned to the Place Etienne Dolet to find Jim Frobisher restlessly pacing his office. Jim looked up eagerly, but Monsieur Bex had no words of comfort.
“I don’t like it!” he cried. “It displeases me. I am not happy. They are all very polite—yes. But they examine the maid first. That’s bad, I tell you,” and he tapped upon the table. “That is Hanaud. He knows his affair. The servants. They can be made to talk, and this Francine Rollard—” He shook his head. “I shall get the best advocate in France.”
Jim left him to his work and returned to the Maison Grenelle. It was obvious that nothing of these new and terrible developments of the “Affaire Waberski” had yet leaked out. There was not a whisper of it in the streets, not a loiterer about the gates of the Maison Grenelle. The “Affaire Waberski” had, in the general view, become a stale joke. Jim sent up word to Ann Upcott in her room that he was removing his luggage to the hotel in the Place Darcy, and leaving the house to her where he prayed her to remain. Even at that moment Ann’s lips twitched a little with humour as she read the embarrassed note.
“He is very correct, as Monsieur Bex would say,” she reflected, “and proper enough to make every nerve of Monsieur Hanaud thrill with delight.”
Jim returned in the afternoon and once more in the shade of the sycamores whilst the sunlight dappled the lawn and the bees hummed amongst the roses, Ann Upcott told a story of terror and darkness, though to a smaller audience. Certain additions were made to the story by Hanaud.
“I should never have dreamed of going to Madame Le Vay’s Ball,” she began, “except for the anonymous letter,” and Hanaud leaned forward alertly.
The anonymous letter had arrived whilst she, Betty and Jim Frobisher were sitting at dinner. It had been posted therefore in the middle of the day and very soon after Ann had told her first story in the garden. Ann opened the envelope expecting a bill, and was amazed and a little terrified to read the signature, “The Scourge.” She was more annoyed than ever when she read the contents, but her terror had decreased. “The Scourge” bade her attend the Ball. He gave her explicit instructions that she should leave the ballroom at half-past ten, follow a particular corridor leading to a wing away from the reception-rooms, and hide behind the curtains in a small library. If she kept very still she would overhear in a little while the truth about the death of Mrs. Harlowe. She was warned to tell no one of her plan.
“I told no one then,” Ann declared. “I thought the letter just a malicious joke quite in accord with ‘The Scourge’s’ character. I put it back into its envelope. But I couldn’t forget it. Suppose that by any chance there was something in it—and I didn’t go! Why should ‘The Scourge’ play a trick on me, who had no money and was of no importance? And all the while the sort of hope which no amount of reasoning can crush, kept growing and growing!”
After dinner Ann took the letter up to her sitting-room and believed it and scorned herself for believing it, and believed it again. That afternoon she had almost felt the handcuffs on her wrists. There was no chance which she ought to refuse of clearing herself from suspicion, however wild it seemed!
Ann made up her mind to consult Betty, and ran down to the treasure-room, which was lit up but empty. It was half-past nine o’clock. Ann determined to wait for Betty’s return, and was once more perplexed by the low position of the clock upon the marquetry cabinet. She stood in front of it, staring at it. She took her own watch in her hand, with a sort of vague idea that it
