“A guesthouse for the younger bachelors,” said he. “Thomson, my pumps and the shoehorn, if you please.”
He walked down the long corridor—he was astonished to notice what a large tract of ground the house covered, and how many empty rooms stood with their doors open—turned to the left at the end of it, and came to the drawing-room, which was in the very centre of the main building. As he stood at the door, the hall and the front door was just behind him. He stood there for a few moments, listening to a chatter of voices and invaded by an odd excitement. Was he to solve by one flash of insight the mystery of Joyce Whipple’s letters? Was he to look round the room and identify by an inspiration the sinister figure of the person who had detained Diana Tasborough in the seclusion of Biarritz throughout the summer?
“Now,” he said to himself firmly. “Now!” and with a gesture of melodrama he flung open the door and stepped swiftly within. He was a little disappointed. Certainly there was a moment of silence, but the abruptness of his entrance accounted for that. No one flinched, and the interrupted conversations broke out again.
Diana Tasborough, looking as pretty as ever in a pale green frock, hurried to him.
“I am so glad that you could come, Mr. Ricardo,” she said pleasantly. “You know my aunt, don’t you, very well?”
Mr. Ricardo shook hands with Mrs. Tasborough.
“But—I am not sure—I think Mrs. Devenish is a stranger to you.”
Mrs. Devenish was a young woman of about twenty-five years, tall, dark of hair, with a bright complexion, and black liquid eyes. She was brilliant rather than beautiful, big, and she suggested to Mr. Ricardo storms and wild passions. It passed through his mind that if he ever had to take a meal with her alone, it should be tea and not supper. She gave him her right hand negligently, and by chance Mr. Ricardo’s gaze fell upon the other. Mrs. Devenish wore no wedding-ring, no jewels indeed of any description.
“No, I don’t think we have ever met,” she said with a smile, and suddenly—it was certainly not due to her voice, for he had never heard her utter a word before, it may have been due to some gesture of her hand, or to some movement of her body as she turned to resume her conversation, it was probably due to the slowness of Mr. Ricardo’s perceptions—anyway, suddenly he was conscious of a thrill of triumph. So quickly had he solved Joyce Whipple’s problem. Mrs. Devenish was the dominating force which menaced Diana Tasborough. She was the malignant one. It was true that he had not met her before, but he had seen her, and in just those morbid circumstances which settled the question finally.
“Yet, I saw you, I think, exactly nine days ago in Bordeaux,” he said, and he could have sworn that terror, sheer, stark naked terror stared at him out of the depths of her eyes. But it was there only for a moment. She looked Mr. Ricardo over from his pumps to his neat grey hair and laughed.
“Where?” she asked; and Mr. Ricardo was silent. It was an awkward, bold question. He was more than a little shy of answering it. For he would be accusing himself of a taste for morbidities if he did. He might look a little puerile too.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” he said, and Mrs. Devenish laughed again and not too pleasantly.
Mr. Ricardo was rescued from his uncomfortable position by his young hostess, who laid her hand upon his arm.
“You must now make the acquaintance of your host that was to have been,” she said. “Monsieur le Vicomte Cassandre de Mirandol.”
Mr. Ricardo had been startled by the previous introduction. He was shocked by this one. No doubt, he reflected, there were all sorts of crusaders, but he could not imagine this one storming the walls of Acre. He was a tall, heavy, gross man with a rubicund childish face, round and dimpled; he had a mouth much too small for him and fat red lips, and he was quite bald.
“I shall look upon your visit to me as merely postponed, Mr. Ricardo,” he said in a thin, piping voice, and he gave Mr. Ricardo a hand which was boneless and wet. Mr. Ricardo made up his mind upon the instant that he would rather abandon altogether his annual pilgrimage than be the guest of this link with the Crusaders. He had never in his life come across so displeasing a personage. He should have been ridiculous, but he was not. He made Mr. Ricardo uncomfortable, and the feel of his wet boneless hand lingered with the visitor as something disgusting. He could hardly conceal his relief when Diana Tasborough turned him towards the man whom he had seen crossing from the chalet.
“This is Mr. Robin Webster, my manager, and my creditor,” said Diana
