Chapter Thirteen. In the Web.

I held my breath.

I should have recognised him at once from the panel portrait, though he looked some years older than when that photograph had been taken.

Of medium height, and rather broadly built, he had all the appearance of a gentleman. His hair was very short, with dark grey, rather deep-set eyes, and thick dark eyebrows. The hair was parted in the middle, and plastered down, but he was not in evening clothes, as were the men to whose conversation I had been listening.

He shook hands cordially with his friend, nodded to the good-looking young man, and called to the waiter to bring him a chair, those near by being all occupied. While waiting for the chair to be brought, he suddenly caught sight of me, evidently in recognition, for he turned quickly and spoke in a low tone to his friend, who at once glanced in my direction.

All this! “felt” rather than saw, for I was not looking directly at the two men.

Where had Paulton seen me before? That was the first thought that occurred to me, and of course I could not answer it. I had no recollection of having ever seen him previously. Suddenly, he crossed over to me.

“Mr Richard Ashton, I think?” he said in a genial tone, and with a smile.

“Yes,” I answered rather stiffly, none too pleased at his addressing me. I certainly had no wish to know him.

“My name’s Paulton,” he said, ignoring my coldness. “I’ve seen you before. You were pointed out to me one night at the Savoy. I want to introduce my friend. Henderson, let me present you to Mr Richard Ashton. Mr Ashton—Mr Henderson.”

It was done before I could say anything—before I could avoid it. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to pretend to appear pleased.

He asked me what I would drink, and I had to say something—though I hated drinking with the fellow. Put yourself in my place—drinking with a man who had tried in cold blood to kill me, and who had shot an innocent man dead! I felt it had been weak of me not to ignore his greeting and meet his look of recognition with a stony stare. But regret for a mistake was useless now. I had made a false step when I spoke to him, and I couldn’t suddenly, apparently for no reason, turn my back upon him.

A sudden terrific gust of wind shook the heavy windows, and a sheet of rain splashed against the panes like a great wave, distracting, for the moment, every one’s attention. A storm on the Riviera is always heavy and blustering.

“I have just come in,” Paulton said. “In all my life I don’t recollect such an awful storm as this, except once in the Jura, when I was out boar-shooting. How fortunate it didn’t start while the pigeon-shooting was on to-day.”

He turned to me suddenly.

“By the way, Ashton,” he said familiarly, “we have a mutual friend, I think.”

“Indeed?” I answered drily. “Who is that?”

“Sir Charles Thorold’s daughter, Miss Vera.”

I was astonished at this effrontery—so astounded that my surprise outweighed my feeling of indignation at the tone of familiarity in which he spoke of Vera. He might have been referring to some barmaid we both knew.

I think he detected my annoyance, but he said nothing. After a pause I replied, keeping myself in check—

“Is Miss Thorold a friend of yours?”

“A friend of mine? Rather. I should say so!”

He glanced across at Henderson, and they both smiled significantly. This was intolerable.

“I do know Miss Thorold,” I remarked, emphasising the “Miss Thorold,” “but I don’t remember that she has ever mentioned your name to me.”

“No, probably she wouldn’t mention it. Vera is discreet, if she is nothing else.”

The impertinence of this reply was so obvious, so pointed, that I knew it must have been intentional.

“Really, I don’t follow you,” I said icily. “What, pray, has Miss Thorold to say to you, and what have you to say to her?”

“Oh, a very great deal, I can assure you.”

“Indeed? How intensely interesting!”

“It is, very. Her flight from Houghton that night must have astonished you.”

I could bear the fellow’s company no longer. Emptying my tumbler, I rose with deliberation, and, excusing myself with frigid politeness, strode out of the fumoir.

In the vestibule I met the good-looking young Englishman. He had left the room soon after Paulton had entered. Now he came up and spoke to me.

“I hope you’ll forgive my addressing you,” he said in well-bred accents, raising his hat, “but I heard your name mentioned when Paulton introduced Henderson to you. May I ask if you are the Mr Richard Ashton?”

“It depends what you mean by ‘the’ Richard Ashton,” I answered. This young man attracted me; he had done so from the first.

“Do you happen to live in King Street, St. James’s?” he inquired abruptly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you’re the man I have for weeks past been wanting to meet. I believe you know Miss Thorold—Miss Vera Thorold.”

“I do.”

“She wants particularly to see you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me, or rather a friend of hers—to whom I am engaged to be married—did. They are together at the Alexandra Hotel, in Mentone. My friend is staying there with an aunt of mine.”

“Surely if Miss Thorold wished to meet me she could have written to me, or telegraphed,” I said rather frigidly.

“No. I think I ought to tell you that the man who introduced himself to you some minutes ago—the man Dago Paulton—has entire control over her—she goes in fear of him! She did not dare write to you, or even send you a wire. She knew that if she did he would find out. The lady to whom I am engaged told me this some days ago, and told me a great deal about you that had been told to her by Miss Thorold.”

“Do you mind telling me your name?” I said, looking at him squarely.

“Faulkner—Frank Faulkner. Paulton is a man of whom you ought to be very careful. He is really a scoundrel, that I don’t mind telling you. I have just been told by a man who really knows, that he has forced Miss Thorold to take an active interest in a rascally scheme of some kind that he and Henderson have devised. I am told by my lady friend—her name is Gladys Deroxe—that Miss Thorold tried her utmost to have nothing to do with it, but Paulton threatened to reveal something he knows concerning her father, so in the end she consented. Paulton has no longer a card for the Rooms; he was shut out last year for some reason, and he has lately been compelling Miss Thorold to go and play there in his place. Her luck at trente-et-quarante has been phenomenal, but all the money she has won he has of course at once taken from her, she is his factotum. I am very glad for her sake that you have come out. I suppose it was by accident you came? You didn’t expect to find her here—eh?”

“On the contrary,” I said, “I chanced to hear only last Sunday that Miss Thorold was staying on the Riviera—so I decided to come over at once,” I said.

“She knows that you are here, you know.”

“She knows? Why, who on earth can have told her?”

“I have just been telephoning to Miss Deroxe over at the Bristol at Beaulieu. Miss Thorold is there with her. I told them that a man named Ashton was here, and I described your appearance. Miss Thorold said at once it must be you. Unfortunately she leaves to-night for Paris, and Miss Deroxe goes with her.”

“But why is she going to Paris?” I exclaimed eagerly.

“Who? Miss Thorold? She’s acting on Paulton’s orders. Her visit has some mysterious bearing upon the scheme I have just spoken about.”

The door of the fumoir opened at that moment, and Paulton and Henderson came out into the vestibule. At once they must have seen Faulkner and myself conversing, and for an instant a look of anger flashed into Paulton’s eyes. The expression subsided quickly, and he and Henderson approached smiling calmly.

“I’m prepared to bet that I know what you two were talking about,” Paulton said lightly, addressing Faulkner. “You were talking of Vera. Ah! Am I wrong? No, I see I’m not. You have told our friend Ashton that she goes to Paris to-night. Well, you are mistaken. Information has reached me that there has been a landslip on the line beyond Beaulieu, and it is blocked in consequence.”

Then he turned to me.

“Would you like to come over to Beaulieu, Ashton?” he said, as though making some quite ordinary request. “My car will be here presently. I can take you too, Faulkner, if you wish to see Miss Deroxe. I am going straight to the Bristol.”

I was about to refuse, when Faulkner spoke.

“I should like to go, and Mr Ashton will of course come.”

“Good. My car should be here in a quarter of an hour.”

He strolled over to the bureau, and I heard him inquire for letters. There were several. He took them from the gold-laced porter, sank on to a settee, and began to tear them open.

“Why did you accept his offer?” I inquired of Faulkner, in an undertone, as I lit a cigarette.

“Never mind,” he answered quickly. “I know what I’m doing. Leave everything to me now.” At that moment the large glazed double doors leading into the Place in front of the Casino revolved slowly and a tall, imposing-looking woman of thirty-five or so, in rich black furs, which had all the appearance of being valuable, sailed in, followed by her maid carrying a small bag. Paulton, glancing up from his letters, noticed her, and at once sprang to his feet.

“Ah, Baronne, how pleasant to meet you again!” he exclaimed, as he approached her. “I expected you here sooner.”

“I should have been here an hour ago,” she exclaimed, “but the train was delayed. This storm is awful!”

She had a rich, deep contralto voice, one of those speaking voices that at once arouse interest and curiosity. It aroused interest now, for the guests seated in the hall simultaneously interrupted their conversation in order to look at the new arrival, so striking was her appearance.

“I went to the station quite a while ago,” Paulton said. “They told me the train could not arrive.”

“It has not arrived yet, I believe,” she answered. “I got off at a wayside station, drove the two miles into Beaulieu, and then hired the car which has just brought me on here.”

She was indeed a handsome woman, obviously a woman of singular personality. Exceedingly dark, with great coils of blue-black hair that her travelling-veil only partly concealed, she was very handsome still. When I had watched her for nearly a minute, wondering whom she might be, my gaze unconsciously drifted to the quietly-dressed maid who stood respectfully and demurely a few feet behind her mistress, bearing a large leather dressing-case in her hand. Her appearance somehow seemed familiar. Suddenly she turned her face rather more towards me, and I recognised her at once.

It was Judith, the French girl who had been Lady Thorold’s maid. Her beady little black eyes rested on me for an instant, then were quietly lowered. But instinctively I knew that in that single, swift glance she had recognised me—and I certainly held her in suspicion.

“The rooms have been retained for you Baronne,” I heard Paulton say, “the rooms you had last year. Shall I order supper?”

“Certainly. Please do,” the deep voice answered. “Tell Gustave to send it to my rooms in a quarter of an hour. Ma foi! I am famished.”

For the first time I noticed that she spoke with a foreign accent. But it was not very marked.

“Then I shall see you later,” Paulton said, as the new arrival moved towards the lift. “À tantôt, Baronne.”

“À bientôt.”

Paulton bent over her hand, and when the doors of the lift had shut he came across to us.

“You’d better get into your coats,” he said. “My car is just coming round!”

“Who is the lady?” Faulkner asked carelessly.

“Who?” Paulton exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you don’t know Baronne de Coudron? I thought everybody in Monte knew the Baronne—by sight. She’s one of my best friends.”

As the big grey Rolls-Royce sped through the darkness, the storm still raged. None of us spoke. Three glowing cigars alone indicated our whereabouts.

Whether or not it was the stiff brandy-and-soda I had had in the smoking-room, I know not, but I suddenly realised that I was becoming curiously drowsy. I tried to keep awake. My eyelids felt like lead. They were smarting, too. Presently I was aware that something glowing red had fallen to the ground. Afterwards I came to know it had been Faulkner’s cigar.

I do not know what happened immediately afterwards. My mind suddenly became a complete blank.

At last, hours afterwards, I suppose, I slowly struggled back to consciousness.

Where was I?

The room, and all in it, was strange to me. All was utterly unfamiliar. My head ached very badly. My back and limbs were stiff. I got off the sofa where I had lain asleep, scrambled to my feet, and looked about me. At once I saw Faulkner. He was asleep still, in a most uncomfortable attitude, in a big leather armchair. His mouth was wide open.

A glance out of the window showed me that the house we were in was in the open country. Already it was broad daylight, and a perfect calm had succeeded the storm of the previous night. But had it been the previous night? I supposed so. Signs of the storm were still visible everywhere—trees blown down and lying on their sides, branches and great limbs lying about. The country all around was densely wooded. Look in what direction I would, only trees, grass fields and mountains were visible. There was not a house in sight; not a cottage; not a hut.

I went over to Faulkner, and shook him roughly. He was still sleeping soundly, and it took me some minutes to arouse him into consciousness.

His first observation when at last fully awake, was characteristic of the young man—

“Where, in Heaven’s name, am I?”