XXXIV

The ten minutes passed very much too quickly. She was gone, and John, thrilled though he was through all his senses by the almost passionate fervor of her leave-taking, found himself once more confronted by that little black demon. He sat up in the car, which bore him quickly back toward his rooms; and although the sense of her presence, the delicate perfume, the empty place by his side, even a fallen flower from her gown, were still there, the unrest seemed sharper.

There was something about all of them, all these people whom he knew to be his friends, which seemed to him to savor of a conspiracy. One by one they flitted through his brain—Graillot's covert warning; Sophy's plaintive, almost fearful doubts; the prince's subtle yet cynical silence; and behind it all, Stephen's brutal and outspoken words. There was nothing that could be put into definite shape—just the ghost of torturing, impossible thoughts. John told himself that it must be ended. Even though the words should blister his tongue with shame, they must be spoken.

A moment later he hated himself for the thought. He set his teeth, filled his thought with the glory of her presence, and crushed those demoniacal suggestions to the back of his brain. He was in no humor to go home, however. Changing the order he had first given to the chauffeur, he was driven instead to a small Bohemian club which he had joined at Graillot's instigation. He had a vague hope that he might find the great dramatist there. There were no signs of him, however, in the smoking room, or any one else whom John knew.

He threw himself into an easy chair and ordered a whisky-and-soda. Two men close at hand were writing at desks; others were lounging about, discussing the evening's reception. One man, sitting upon the table, a recognized authority, was treating the company to a fluent dissertation upon modern actresses, winding up by contrasting Louise Maurel's style with that of her chief French rival. John found himself listening with pleased interest. The man's opinion was certainly not unfavorable to Louise.

"It is only in the finer shades of emotionalism," the critic declared, "that these French actresses get at us a little more completely even than Louise Maurel. Do you know the reason? I'll tell you. It is because they live the life. They have a dozen new emotions in a season. They make a cult of feeling. They use their brains to dissect their passions. They cut their own life into small pieces and give us the result without concealment. That is where they score, if anywhere. This Mme. Latrobe, who opens over here to-morrow night, is living at the present moment with Jean Tourbet. She had an affair with that Italian poet in the summer, so they tell me. She was certainly in Madrid in October with Bretoldi, the sculptor. These men are all great artists. Think what she must have learned from associating with them! Now Louise Maurel, so far as we know, has never had but one lover, the Prince of Seyre, and has been faithful to him all the time."

It was out at last! John had heard it spoken in plain words. The black demon upon which his hand had lain so heavily, was alive now, without a doubt, jeering at him, mocking at him—alive and self-assertive in the sober words of the elderly, well-bred man who lounged upon the table.

For a moment or two John was stunned. A wild impulse assailed him to leap up and confront them all, to choke the lie back down the throat of the man who had uttered it. Every nerve in his body was tingling with the desire for action. The stupor of his senses alone kept him motionless, and a strange, incomprehensible clarity of thought. He realized exactly how things were. This man had not spoken idly, or as a scandalmonger. He had spoken what he had accepted as a fact, what other people believed.

John rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. His face showed little sign of disturbance. He even nodded to some men whom he knew slightly. As he passed down the stairs, he met Graillot. Then once more the self-control became in danger. He seized the Frenchman savagely by the arm.

"Come this way," he said, leading him toward the card-room. "Come in here! I want to speak to you."

He locked the door—a most unheard-of and irregular proceeding. Graillot felt the coming of the storm.

"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "Trouble already, eh? I see it in your face, young man. Out with it!"

John—who had won a hard match at rackets a few days before against a more experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition—was breathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty. Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.

"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began, jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking—decent fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."

Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.

"Well?"

"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."

"Well?"

John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken choked him. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they were standing.

"Look here, Graillot," he cried, almost piteously, "you know it is not true, not likely to be true! Can't you say so?"

"Stop, my young friend!" the Frenchman interrupted. "I know nothing. It is a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of that sort. I make no inquiries. I accept life and people as I find them."

"But you don't believe that such a thing could be possible?"

"Why not?" Graillot asked steadily.

John could do no more than mumble a repetition of his words. The world was falling away from him. He was dimly conscious that one of the engravings upon the wall opposite was badly hung. For the rest, Graillot's face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom like the features of a giant, eclipsing everything else.

"I will not discuss this matter with you, my friend. I will only ask you to remember the views of the world in which we live. Louise Maurel is an artist, a great artist. If there has been such an affair as you suggest, between her and any man, if it were something which appealed to her affections, it is my opinion that she would not hesitate. You seem to think it an outrageous thing that the prince should have been her lover. To be perfectly frank, I do not. I should be very much more surprised at her marriage."

John made his escape somehow. He remembered opening the door, but he had no recollection of reaching the street. A few minutes later, however, he found himself striding down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner.

The night was warm, and there were still plenty of people about. A woman touched his arm; her hackneyed greeting filled him with inexpressible horror. He stared at her, barely conscious of what he was doing, filled with an indescribable sickness of heart.

"You look about done up," she said in friendly fashion. "Come round to my flat and have a drink. You needn't stay if you don't want to."

He muttered something and passed on. A moment or two later, however, he retraced his steps. Out of the horror of his thought had come an irresistible impulse. He slipped some gold into her hand.

"Please take this and go home," he enjoined. "Go home at once! Get out of the streets and hide yourself."

She stared at him and at the money.

"Why, I've only just come out," she protested. "All the same, I'm dead tired. I'll go. Walk with me, won't you? You look as if you wanted looking after."

"I'm all right," he answered. "You go home."

She slipped the money carefully into her purse, and hailed a taxi.

"You shall have your own way," she declared. "Can't I drop you anywhere?"

He raised his hat, and, once more swinging around, passed on his way. Presently he found himself in the street where Louise lived. He looked at his watch—it was twenty minutes to three o'clock.

The house was in solemn darkness. He stood and looked up at it. There was no sign of a light, not even from the top windows. Its silence seemed to him more than the silence of sleep. He found himself wondering whether it was really inhabited, whether there were really human souls in this quiet corner, waiting peacefully for the dawn, heedless of the torment which was tearing his soul to pieces. Perhaps, behind that drawn blind, Louise herself was awake. Perhaps she was thinking, looking back into the past, wondering about the future. He took a step toward the gate.

"Are you going in there, sir?"

He turned quickly around. A policeman had flashed a lantern upon him. John suddenly became intensely matter-of-fact.

"No," he replied. "It is too late, I am afraid. I see that they have all gone to bed. Any chance of a taxi about here?"

"Most likely you'll find one at the corner," the policeman pointed out. "There's a rank there, and one or two of them generally stay late. Very much obliged, sir."

John had slipped a coin into the man's hand. Then he walked deliberately away. He found a taxicab and was driven toward the Milan. He let down both the windows and leaned out. He was conscious of a wild desire to keep away from his rooms—to spend the night anywhere, anyhow, sooner than go back to the little apartment where Louise had sat with him only a few hours ago, and had given herself into his arms. Every pulse in his body was tingling. He was fiercely awake, eager for motion, action, excitement of any sort.

Suddenly he remembered the night-club to which he had been introduced by Sophy on the first night of his arrival in London. The address, too, was there quite clearly in his disordered brain. He leaned out of the cab and repeated it to the driver.