The Mystery of the Blue Train

“You are not very amiable, Dereek.”

“Do you expect me to be?”

Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for a few minutes before saying:

“You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent so soon?”

Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his shoulders, and remarked formally:

“You are lunching here?”

“Mais oui. I am lunching with you.”

“I am extremely sorry,” said Derek. “I have a very important engagement.”

“Mon Dieu! But you men are like children,” exclaimed the dancer. “But yes, it's the spoilt child that you act to me, ever since that day in London when you flung yourself out of my flat, you sulk. Ah! mais c'est inoui!”

“My dear girl,” said Derek, “I really don't know what you are talking about. We agreed in London that rats desert a sinking ship, that is all that there is to be said.”

In spite of his careless words, his face looked haggard and strained. Mirelle leaned forward suddenly.

“You cannot deceive me,” she murmured.

“I know – I know what you have done for me.”

He looked up at her sharply. Some undercurrent in her voice arrested his attention.

She nodded her head at him.

“Ah! have no fear; I am discreet. You are magnificent! You have a superb courage, but, all the same, it was I who gave you the idea that day, when I said to you in London that accidents sometimes happened. And you are not in danger? The police do not suspect you?”

“What the devil-”

“Hush!”

She held up a slim olive hand with one big emerald on the little finger.

“You are right; I should not have spoken so in a public place. We will not speak of the matter again, but our troubles are ended; our life together will be wonderful – wonderful!”

Derek laughed suddenly – a harsh, disagreeable laugh.

“So the rats come back, do they? Two million makes a difference – of course it does. I ought to have known that.” He laughed again. “You will help me to spend that two million, won't you, Mirelle? You know how, no woman better.” He laughed again.

“Hush!” cried the dancer. “What is the matter with you, Dereek? See – people are turning to stare at you.”

“Me? I will tell you what is the matter. I have finished with you, Mirelle. Do you hear? Finished!”

Mirelle did not take it as he expected her to do. She looked at him for a minute or two, and then she smiled softly.

“But what a child! You are angry – you are sore, and all because I am practical. Did I not always tell you that I adored you?”

She leaned forward.

“But I know you, Dereek. Look at me? – see, it is Mirelle who speaks to you. You cannot live without her, you know it. I loved you before, I will love you a hundred times more now. I will make life wonderful for you – but wonderful. There is no one like Mirelle.”

Her eyes burned into his. She saw him grow pale and draw in his breath, and she smiled to herself contentedly. She knew her own magic and power over men.

“That is settled,” she said softly, and gave a little laugh. “And now, Dereek, will you give me lunch?”

“No.”

He drew in his breath sharply and rose to his feet.

“I am sorry, but I told you – I have got an engagement.”

“You are lunching with some one else? Bah! I don't believe it.”

“I am lunching with that lady over there.”

He crossed abruptly to where a lady in white had just come up the steps. He addressed her a little breathlessly.

“Miss Grey, will you – will you have lunch with me? You met me at Lady Tamplin's, if you remember.”

Katherine looked at him for a minute or two with those thoughtful grey eyes that said so much.

“Thank you,” she said, after a moment's pause; “I should like to very much.”

Chapter 19. An Unexpected Visitor

The Comte de La Roche had just finished dejeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes, an entrecote Bearnaise, and a savarin au rhum. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately with his table napkin, the Comte rose from the table. He passed through the salon of the villa, noting with appreciation the few objets d'art which were carelessly scattered about. The Louis XV snuff-box, the satin shoe worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other historic trifles were part of the Comte's mise en scene. They were, he would explain to his fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing through on to the terrace, the Comte looked out on the Mediterranean with an unseeing eye. He was in no mood for appreciating the beauties of scenery. A fully matured scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his plans had to be cast afresh. Stretching himself out in a basket chair, a cigarette held between his white fingers, the Comte pondered deeply.

Presently Hippolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs. The Comte selected some very fine old brandy.

As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight gesture. Hippolyte stood respectfully to attention. His countenance was hardly a prepossessing one, but the correctitude of his demeanour went far to obliterate the fact. He was now the picture of respectful attention.

“It is possible,” said the Comte, “that in the course of the next few days various strangers may come to the house. They will endeavour to scrape acquaintance with you and with Marie. They will probably ask you various questions concerning me.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Perhaps this has already happened?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte.”

“There have been no strangers about the place? You are certain?”

“There has been no one, Monsieur le Comte.”

“That is well,” said the Comte drily; “Nevertheless they will come – I am sure of it. They will ask questions.”

Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.

The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hippolyte.

“As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday morning. If the police or any other inquirer should question you, do not forget that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th – not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?”

“Perfectly, Monsieur le Comte.”

“In an affair where a lady is concerned, it is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hippolyte, that you can be discreet.”

“I can be discreet. Monsieur.”

“And Marie?”

“Marie also. I will answer for her.”

“That is well then,” murmured the Comte.

When Hippolyte had withdrawn, the Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it – into the midst of these cogitations came Hippolyte once more.

“A lady, Monsieur.”