Avenger — Chapters 25 & 26

THE MAN IN THE YELLOW BOOTS

The two men did not meet again until luncheon-time, Anglicized into a one-o'clock meal for their benefit.

Already seated at the table they found a short fair man, in the costume of a pedestrian tourist.

He wore a tweed knickerbocker suit, and a knapsack lay upon the grass by his side.

As Wrayson and his fellow-guest arrived almost at the same time, the newcomer rose and bowed.

"Good morning, gentlemen!"

he said.

"I trust you will permit me a seat at your table.

It appears to be the only one."

Duncan contented himself with a nod.

Wrayson felt compelled to be a little more civil.

The man certainly seemed harmless enough.

"A very delightful spot, gentlemen," he continued, "and a fine, a very fine church that in the valley.

I am spending my holiday taking photographs of churches of a certain period in this vicinity.

I am looking forward to explore this one."

"I am afraid," Wrayson remarked, "that I do not know much of ecclesiastical architecture, but the aesthetic effect of this one, at least, is very fine."

The newcomer nodded.

"You are an artist perhaps, sir?"

he asked innocently.

"I hope so--in some degree," Wrayson answered.

"Every one is fundamentally an artist, I suppose, who is capable of appreciating a work of beauty."

Duncan smiled slightly to himself.

So far he had not spoken.

"It is all new country to me," the newcomer continued, "but from what I have seen of it, I should think it a grand place for painters.

Not much for the ordinary tourist, eh?"

"That depends," Wrayson answered, "upon the ordinary tourist."

"Exactly!

Quite so!"

the little man agreed.

"Of course, if one wanted a quiet time, what could be better than this?

There must be others who think so besides yourselves."

"Who?"

Wrayson asked.

"Your fellow-guests here."

"We have no fellow-guests," Wrayson answered, a little incautiously.

The newcomer leaned back in his chair with a disconcerted look.

"Then I wonder why," he exclaimed, "the landlord told me that he had not a single room."

Wrayson bit his lip.

"I fancy," he said, "that he is not in the habit of having people stay here."

"I am afraid," the little fair man said, "that it is not an hospitable village.

I tried to get a room elsewhere, but, alas!

with no success.

They do not seem to want tourists at St. Étarpe."

Wrayson looked at the knapsack, at the camera, and at the little man himself.

He spoke English easily, and without any trace of an accent.

His clothes, too, had the look of having come from an English ready-made shop.

Yet there was something about the man himself not altogether British.

"I fancy the people are busy getting ready for the harvest," Wrayson remarked at last.

"You will find lots of places as pretty as this along the coast."

"Perhaps so," the visitor admitted, "and yet when one has taken a fancy to a place, it seems a pity to have to leave it so soon.

You couldn't speak a word to the landlord for me, sir, I suppose--you or your friend.

I don't fancy he understood my French very well."

Wrayson shook his head.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use," he said.

"As a matter of fact, I know that he does not intend to take any more visitors.

He has not the staff to deal with them."

"It is a pity," the little man said dejectedly.

"I think that I must try again in the village.

By the by, sir, perhaps you can tell me to whom the château there belongs?"

"Madame la Baronne de Sturm," Wrayson answered.

"At least, so our host told me yesterday."

"It is a very beautiful place--very beautiful," the tourist said reverently.

"I dare say there is a chapel there, too!

Can one gain admission there, do you know, sir?"

Wrayson laid down his knife and fork.

"Look here," he said good-humouredly, "I'm not a guide-book, you know, and I only arrived here yesterday myself.

You've reached the limit of my information.

You had better try the landlord.

He will tell you all that you want to know."

Duncan pushed his chair back.

He had eaten very little luncheon, but he was filling his pipe preparatory to leaving the table.

As soon as it began to draw, he rose and turned to Wrayson.

The little tourist he absolutely ignored, as he had done all the time during the meal.

"I should like a word with you before you go out," he said.

Wrayson nodded, and followed him in a few minutes to the summer-house at the end of the lawn.

Duncan did not beat about the bush.

"That little brute over there," he said, inclining his head towards the table, "is neither an Englishman nor a tourist.

I have seen him before, and I never forget a face."

"What is he then?"

Wrayson asked.

"Heaven knows what he is now," Duncan answered.

"I saw him last at Colenso, where he narrowly escaped being shot for a spy.

He is either a Dutchman or a German, and whatever he may be up to here, I'll swear ecclesiastical architecture is not his game."

There was a moment's silence.

Wrayson had turned involuntarily towards the château, and Duncan had followed suit.

They both looked up the broad green avenue to where the windows of the great building flashed back the sunlight.

At the same moment their mutual action was realized by both of them.

Wrayson first turned away and glanced round at the table which they had just quitted.

The little man, who was still seated there, had lit a cigar and was talking to the waiter.

He looked back again and moved his head thoughtfully in the direction of the château.

"He asked questions about the château," Wrayson remarked.

"Do you suppose that there can be anything going on there to interest him?"

"You should know better than I," Duncan answered.

"You received a visit this morning from one of the two ladies who are staying there."

Wrayson turned a little pale.

He looked at Duncan steadily for a moment.

A giant in height, his features, too, were of a large and resolute type.

His eyes were clear and truthful; his expression, notwithstanding a certain gloom which scarcely accorded with his years and apparent health, was unmistakably honest.

Wrayson felt instinctively that he was to be trusted.

"Look here," he said, "I should like to tell you the truth--as much of it as is necessary.

I happen to know that the young lady with whom you saw me talking this morning, and who is a friend of the Baroness de Sturm's, is suspected in certain quarters of being implicated in a--criminal affair which took place recently in London.

I myself, in a lesser degree, am also under suspicion.

I came over here to warn her."

Duncan was looking very grave indeed.

"In a criminal affair," he repeated.

"That is a little vague."

"I am sorry," Wrayson answered, "but I cannot very well be more explicit.

The matter is one in which a good many other people are concerned, and I might add that it is a hopeless mystery to me.

All I know is that a crime was committed; that this young lady was present under suspicious circumstances; that I, in certain evidence I had to give, concealed the fact of her presence; and that now a third person turns up, who also knew of the young lady's presence, but who was not called upon to give evidence, who is working on his own account to clear up the whole affair.

He happens to be a friend of mine, and he warned me frankly to clear out."

"I am beginning to follow you," Duncan said thoughtfully.

"Now what about Madame de Melbain?"

"I know absolutely nothing of her," Wrayson answered.

"I found out where the young lady was from the Baroness de Sturm, with whom she was living in London, and I came over to warn her."

"The young lady was living with the Baroness de Sturm?"

Duncan repeated.

"Is she, then, an orphan?"

"No!"

Wrayson answered.

"She is, for some reason--I do not know why--estranged from her family.

Now the question arises, has this fellow here come over to track her down?

Is he an English detective?"

Duncan turned deliberately round and stared at the person whom they were discussing.

"I should doubt it very much," he answered.

"For my part, I don't believe for a moment that he is an Englishman at all."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," Wrayson declared.

"But the question is, if he is not on this business, what the devil is he doing here?"

"Have you the _entrée_ to the chateâu?"

Duncan asked abruptly.

"I am invited to dine there this evening," Wrayson answered.

"Then, if I were you," Duncan said, "I should make a point of ascertaining, if you can, the personality of this Madame de Melbain."

Wrayson nodded.

"I shall see her, of course," he said, "and I will do so."

"My own idea," Duncan said deliberately, "is that it is in connection with her presence here that the landlord of the inn and the villagers have received these injunctions about strangers.

Try and find out what you can about her, and in the meantime I will look after the gentleman over there.

He wants to be friendly--I will make a companion of him.

When you come back to-night we will have another talk."

"It's awfully good of you," Wrayson said.

"And now--I've one thing more to say."

Duncan nodded.

"Go on," he said.

"I have taken you into my confidence so far as was possible," Wrayson said slowly.

"I am going to ask you a question now."

"I cannot promise to answer it," Duncan declared, taking up his pipe and carefully refilling it.

"Naturally!

But I am going to ask it," Wrayson said.

"An hour or so ago I was talking to the young lady in front of the inn, and you were watching us.

I saw your face at the window as she was driving off."

"Well?"

The monosyllable was hard and dry.

"You are neither an inquisitive nor an emotional person," Wrayson said.

"I am sure of that.

I want an explanation."

"Of what?"

"Of your suddenly becoming both!"

Duncan had lit his pipe now, and smoked for a few moments furiously.

"I will not bandy words with you," he said at last.

"You want an explanation which I cannot give."

Wrayson looked as he felt, dissatisfied.

"Look here," he said, "I'm not asking for your confidence.

I'm simply asking you to explain why the sight of that young lady should be a matter of emotion to you.

You know who she is, I am convinced.

What else?"

Duncan shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You may trust me or not, as you like.

All I can say about myself is this.

I've been up against it hard--very hard.

So far as regards the ordinary affairs of life I simply don't count.

I'm a negation--a purely subjective personage.

I may be able to help you a little here--I shall certainly never be in your way.

My interest in the place--there, I will tell you that--is purely of a sentimental nature.

My interest in life itself is something of the same sort.

Take my advice.

Let it go at that."

"I will," Wrayson declared, with sudden heartiness.

Duncan nodded.

"I'll go and look after our little friend in the yellow boots," he said.

CHAPTER XXVI MADAME DE MELBAIN

Punctually at half-past seven the carriage arrived to take Wrayson to the château.

A few minutes' drive along a road fragrant with the perfume of hay, and with the pleasant sound of the reaping machines in his ears, and the carriage turned into the park through the great iron gates, which opened this time without demur.

By the side of the road was a clear trout stream, a little further away a herd of deer stood watching the carriage pass.

The park was uncultivated but picturesque, becoming more wooded as they climbed the hill leading to the chateâu. Wrayson smiled to himself as he remembered that this magnificent home and estate belonged to the woman who was his neighbour at Battersea, and whom he himself had been more than half inclined to put down as an adventuress.

A major-domo in quiet black clothes, who seemed to reflect in his tone and manner the subdued splendour of the place, received him at the door, passing him on at once to a footman in powdered hair and resplendent livery.

Across a great hall, whose white stone floor, height, and stained-glass windows gave Wrayson the impression that he had found his way by mistake into the nave of a cathedral, he was ushered into a drawing-room, whose modernity and comparatively low ceiling were almost a relief.

Here there were books and flowers and music, some exquisite water-colours upon the white walls, newspapers and magazines lying about, which gave the place a habitable air.

A great semicircular window commanded a wonderful view of the park, but Wrayson had little time to admire it.

A door was opened at the further end of the room, and he heard the soft rustling of a woman's gown upon the carpet.

It was Louise who came towards him.

She was dressed in white muslin, unrelieved by ornament or any suggestion of colour.

Her cheeks were unusually pale, and the shadows under her eyes seemed to speak of trouble.

Yet Wrayson thought that he had never seen her look more beautiful.

She gave him her hand with a faint smile of welcome, and permitted him to raise it to his lips.

"This is very, very foolish," she said softly, "and I know that I ought to be ashamed of myself."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I think that it is very natural.

But, seriously, I feel a little overpowered.

You won't want to live always in a castle, will you, Louise?"

She sighed, and smiled, and sighed again.

"I am afraid that our castle, Herbert," she murmured, "will exist only in the air!

But listen.

I must speak to you before the others come in."

"I am all attention," he assured her.

"It is about Madame de Melbain," she began, a little hesitatingly.

He waited for her to continue.

She seemed to be in some difficulty.

"I want you to watch and do just what we others do," she said, "and not to be surprised if some of our arrangements seem a little curious.

For instance, although she is the elder, do not give her your arm for dinner.

She will go in first alone, and you must take me."

"I can assure you," Wrayson said, smiling, "that I shall make no difficulty about that."

"And she doesn't like to be talked to very much," Louise continued.

"I will humour her in that also," Wrayson promised.

"She is a good sort to let me come here at all."

"She is very kind and very considerate," Louise said, "and her life has been a very unhappy one."

Wrayson moved his chair a little nearer.

"Need we talk about her any more?"

he asked.

"There is so much I want to say to you about ourselves."

She looked at him for a moment, a little sadly, a little wistfully.

"Ah!

don't," she murmured.

"Don't talk about definite things at all.

For to-night--to-night only, let us drift!"

He smiled at her reassuringly.

"Don't be afraid," he said.

"I am not going to ask you any questions.

I

am not going to ask for any explanations.

I think that we have passed all that.

It is of the future I wanted to speak."

"Don't," she begged softly.

"Of the past I dare not think, nor of the future.

It is only the present which belongs to us."

"The present and the future," he answered firmly.

She rose suddenly to her feet, and Wrayson instinctively followed her example.

They were no longer alone.

Two women, who had entered by a door at the further end of the apartment, were slowly approaching them.

The foremost was tall and dark, a little slim, perhaps, but with an elegant figure, and a carriage of singular dignity.

Her face was youthful, and her brown eyes were soft and clear as the eyes of a girl, but her dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey, and there was about her whole appearance an air of repressed sadness.

"This is Mr. Wrayson, is it not?"

she asked, in a very sweet voice, but with a strong foreign accent.

"We have so few visitors that one can scarcely make a mistake.

You are very welcome."

She did not offer to shake hands, and Wrayson contented himself with a low bow.

"You are very kind," he murmured.

"Monsieur le Baron," she remarked, turning to an elderly gentleman who had just entered, "will doubtless find your coming pleasant.

The entertainment of three ladies must have seemed at times a little trying.

Let me make you gentlemen known to one another, Monsieur Wrayson, Monsieur le Baron de Courcelles.

And Ida," she added, turning to her companion, who had moved a few steps apart, "permit that I present to you, also, Mr. Wrayson--Mademoiselle de Courcelles."

The conversation for a moment or two followed the obvious lines.

Madame de Melbain and Louise had drawn a little apart; a few remarks as to the beauty of the chateâu and its situation passed between Wrayson and the Baron.

The name of its owner was mentioned, and Wrayson indicated his acquaintance with her.

At the sound of her name, Madame de Melbain turned somewhat abruptly round, and seemed to be listening; but at that moment the door was thrown open, and the major-domo of the household, who had received Wrayson, announced dinner.

He directly addressed Madame de Melbain.

"Madame is served," he murmured respectfully.

The little procession arranged itself as Louise had intimated.

Madame de Melbain led the way, ushered by the major-domo and followed immediately by the Baron and Mademoiselle de Courcelles.

Wrayson, with Louise, brought up the rear.

They crossed the white flagged hall and entered an apartment which Wrayson, although his capacity for wonder was diminishing, felt himself compelled to pause and admire.

It was of great height, and again the curiously shaped windows were filled with stained glass.

The oak-panelled walls, black with age, were hung with portraits, sombre and yet vivid, and upon a marble pedestal at the end of the room, lifelike, and untouched by the centuries, stood a wonderful presentation of Ralph de St. Étarpe, the founder of the house, clad in the armour of his days.

The dinner table, with its brilliant and modern appurtenances of flowers and plate, standing in the middle of the floor, seemed like a minute and yet startling anachronism.

The brilliant patches of scarlet geranium, the deep blue livery of the two footmen, the glitter of the Venetian glass upon the table, were like notes of alien colour amongst surroundings whose chief characteristic was a magnificent restraint, and yet such dignity as it was possible to impart into the everyday business of eating and drinking was certainly manifest in the meal, which presently took its leisurely course.

Wrayson, although no one could accuse him of a lack of _savoir faire_, found himself scarcely at his ease.

Madame de Melbain; erect; dignified, and beautiful, sat at the head of the table, and although she addressed a remark to each of them occasionally, she remained always unapproachable.

The Baron made only formal attempts at conversation, and Mademoiselle de Courcelles was absolutely silent.

Wrayson was unable to divest himself of the feeling of representing an alien presence amongst a little community drawn closely together by some mysterious tie.

Louise was his only link with them, and to Louise he decided to devote himself entirely, regardless of the apparent demands of custom.

His position at the table enabled him to do this, and very soon he discovered that it was precisely what was expected of him.

The conversation between the others, such as it was, lapsed into German, or some kindred tongue.

Wrayson found himself able presently to talk confidentially with Louise.

"Remember," he said, after a slight pause, "that I have finished altogether with the role of investigator.

I no longer have any curiosity about anything.

Still, I think that there is something which I ought to tell you."

She smiled.

"You may tell me as much as you like," she said, "as long as you don't ask questions."

"Exactly!

Well, there is another Englishman staying at the _Lion d'Or.

_ He appears to be a decent fellow, and a gentleman.

I am not going to talk about him.

I imagine that he is harmless."

"We have heard of him," Louise murmured.

"It certainly appears as though he were only an ordinary tourist.

Has any one else arrived?"

"Yes!"

Wrayson answered, "some one else has arrived, and I want to tell you about him."

Louise was obviously disturbed.

She refused a course a little impatiently, and turned towards Wrayson anxiously.

"But the landlord," she said in a low tone, "has orders to receive no more guests."

"This man arrived to luncheon to-day," Wrayson answered.

"The landlord could not refuse him that.

He wished for a room and was told that he could not be taken in."

"Well, who is he, what is he like?"

she demanded.

"He is a miserable sort of bounder--an imitation cockney tourist, with ready-made English clothes, a knapsack, and a camera.

I should have felt suspicious about him myself, but the other fellow whom I told you about, who is staying at the inn, recognized him.

He had seen him abroad, and what he told me seems decisive.

I am afraid that he is a spy."

Wrayson cursed himself for a moment that he had been so outspoken, for the girl by his side seemed almost on the point of collapse.

Her eyes were full of fear, and she clutched at the tablecloth as though overcome with a spasm of terror.

"Don't be alarmed," Wrayson whispered in her ear.