CHAPTER XII
"THE 'WHISPERER' STUFF"

"My goodness gracious!" gasped Natalie Lowndes. "Billy—wake up! Have you seen 'the Whisperer stuff'?"

Billy woke up.

It was just after dinner, early yet to begin the real evening at the Grumblers (known to some outsiders as the "Plunderers") Club; and Lowndes had been killing time with a nap.

"Whisperer stuff?" he repeated, in a dazed, almost startled way; and when Billy looked startled he was not at his best. Some years ago he had been considered handsome: a big, athletic fellow with wavy auburn hair brushed back from a low forehead, reddish bronze skin, and big black eyes like those of his sister, Lady West. But the auburn hair had faded and thinned, growing far back on the forehead, which had now become unnaturally high. He was less athletic that he had been, because his principal exercise was taken indoors these days, and consisted of bridge and poker, poker and bridge, varied by roulette. His splendid muscular development was slowly degenerating into fat; and his large face was all red without the bronze. His eyes, too, had changed, and though still big had a goggling prominence that was not attractive. This was why he did not, when startled, look his best. The eyes goggled—his wife said to herself—like a pollywog's. And aloud she said to him: "Don't pretend not to know what I mean by 'Whisperer' stuff."

"I was asleep," Lowndes excused himself, mildly.

"You don't need to tell me that by word of mouth," Natalie shrugged. "You've been advertising the fact through another organ. Besides, you never can keep awake fifteen minutes after dinner if we're alone together. Not that it matters! ... What I asked was, have you seen 'the Whisperer stuff' in this week's Inner Circle?"

"No," returned Lowndes. "Don't you know I never read the rag? I've told you so pretty often."

"Everybody tells everybody else that they never read it. Yet I suppose it sells hundreds of thousand a week. My copy's just come in. Jane brought it—and you didn't hear her because you were snoring. I thought you might have seen it at the club before you left, and not said anything so as to make me speak first."

"Why, has the viper got in a dig against us?"

"Vipers don't dig. No, thanks to Heaven or the other thing, there's nothing on us. But it's all about someone you're just as much interested in—more interested than you are in me, anyhow. Juliet Claremanagh."

"Oh!" Billy sat up straight in his chair, though he did not seem to be as intensely excited as his wife had thought he would be. "Does the pig mention her by name?"

"The pig does not. He might as well, though, for everybody will know who's meant. By Jove, I wouldn't be Juliet to-night!"

"I believe you!" grunted Lowndes. But he did not believe her. He seldom did; and in this instance not at all, because he was sure she would give her eyes to be Juliet, just as sure as that he would give his to be Juliet's husband. "What's the racket this time?"

"I'll read the stuff aloud to you," said his wife; and began: "Let's Whisper!"

"That a certain foreign gentleman of title, with one of the prettiest and richest young wives in New York, is much to be sympathized with, because he has got a bad cold.

"But—he is to be congratulated on the marvellous medicine with which he is able to combat this ailment.

"Let's Whisper again!

"This medicine is worth its weight in gold. Only millionaires can afford to take it at home, and alone, as Louis of Bavaria used to take Wagner's operas.

"We know he was alone, because the pretty, rich young wife was out, full up with engagements for the whole afternoon. And we know he is a millionaire—oh, we know it in such a simple way! It's because his wife is a millionairess. See? The 'Whisperer' thought you would!

"And now for the Medicine. That needs another whisper. Sh!

"We spell it with a capital M, because it has been a royal Medicine since Salome, the daughter of Herodias, administered it to King Herod. Dancing is a fine art, and its greatest exponent at present in our city is fair enough to cure any King (to say nothing of the lesser nobility) even if she did not dance for him. But of course, the 'Whisperer' is sure she did dance, because with what other motive should she pay a call of consolation upon a nobleman with a cold, when his wife was not at home to nurse him? Can you think of any?

"Let's Whisper, that blade is very becoming to tall slender ladies with white skin and copper hair, even when they wear thick veils. Nothing suits them better, unless it's pale blue, and blue pearls. But ladies with golden hair have now taken to appearing in blue pearls—ropes of them. The 'Whisperer' supposes they are real. Why, certainly! Could they be otherwise? Yet, on the other hand, are there two such ropes in the world? We shall see. We may see any day now! And the 'Whisperer' hopes and prays that if we do see there won't be trouble. Both the ladies are so charming. Pearls are so compromising. And the gentleman is so popular.

"Let's Whisper: What a game of Consequences!"

"There!" Mrs. Lowndes finished with a gasp. "What do you think of that?"

"Can you beat it?" her husband answered with a question.

"I can't," said Natalie. "But I guess the Duke will beat something or someone. He'll have to."

"You mean the 'Whisperer!' H'm! Before you cook your hare, you've got to catch him. A whole lot of men have tried to catch that one. But the Inner Circle still circulates."

Natalie brooded for a moment. When she was a girl, in a set that was conspicuous though not first rate, the "Whisperer" had whispered several nasty things about her. He, She, or It had said that she had come from "Peoria or somewhere" to New York to buy a husband, and had kindly warned her that persons not rich enough to pick and choose their goods had better snap up what they could get the first day of the sale, at the cheap bargain-counter. Since she had taken that advice and snapped up Billy Lowndes, the "Whisperer" had for some reason been silent; but Natalie had never forgiven or forgotten the attack on her attractions, and she had always burned to have some other victim arraigned for justifiable homicide.

"I bet Claremanagh will break the vicious Circle!" she said.

"And I bet he won't. Why should he bring off a stunt none of us ever brought? They say there's nothing to break. Some husband or father goes murder-mad, bursts into the Circle office, and finds no one on the premises but a little old lady. Can he bash that? Besides, why make a cap fit you by wearing it? Lord knows what that d—d 'Whisperer's' working up to when he hints at the Claremanagh pearls being false. But if they are, the Duke must have sold them himself, and had a copy made—two copies, perhaps. By George, I shouldn't wonder if that's just what he did do!—sell—I mean, Juliet told my sister Emmy that Claremanagh refused the million or so she wanted to settle on him, and intended to join the working classes over here. He doesn't get a salary to be proud of, at the Phayre bank, I know for a fact. But I've seen him playing poker at the Grumblers and—er—another game elsewhere. Last night he waltzed into the Grumblers after the opera, and I happened to see him pass a roll of yellow-backs as big as my fist into a man's hand. The other chap dropped the lot, by accident, and the noble Duke stood still with his nose in the air while they were collected. I saw a one thousand-dollar bill with my own eyes, and I have a hunch there were a heap more of the same sort."

"Who was the man?" Natalie asked, curiously.

"I've forgotten his name," Billy evaded her. "There are a lot of new men in the club lately I know only by sight."

"Tell that to the marines!" she scoffed. "You've got some reason for keeping his name dark. Did any one else see Claremanagh pay him the money? Because, if they did, I'll be sure to find out."

"I think everyone was pretty busy just then. I wouldn't have seen, if I hadn't been cutting out of a game at the moment. It's nothing to me who the man was. You're always so damned suspicious of anything I say."

Natalie shrugged her shoulders, a favourite gesture. "But not of what you do, I don't care enough," she retaliated, and picked up the Inner Circle again to re-read "the Whisperer stuff", while she richly pictured Juliet's feelings.

She didn't know the Duchess very well, but she thought that there would be "ructions."

"Pavoya must have been at the house while Juliet was lunching with me," she told herself. "I shouldn't wonder if the Duke had sold his pearls. Won't Juliet be wild if she finds out the wonderful rope everyone was talking about last night was false?"

Natalie grew so absorbed in settling just what she would write to Emmy West that she did not even speak to Billy when he went out. She was sure he was going to the "Plunderers," and she was right. Nevertheless, she had made one mistake about him. He had told the truth in saying that he did not know the name of the man to whom Claremanagh had handed a roll of notes. He did, however, wish to know, and as soon as possible. But he arrived to find everyone talking of "the 'Whisperer' stuff" in the Inner Circle. Most of the men were defending the Duke, who had an extraordinary way of making himself liked without trying; and this vexed Lowndes. He had a grudge against Claremanagh for marrying Juliet Phayre, the only girl who bad ever given him a heartache. Losing her and getting Natalie had made him the man he was.

"What I want to find out is, who is the chap Claremanagh paid about a hundred thousand dollars to last night, here in this club?" he said.

"A hundred thousand dollars?" somebody echoed. "How do you know?"

"I do know," Lowndes persisted, provocatively, and made up his mind to stick to the statement. "I do know. And what I'd like to know also, in the circumstances, is how did he get the money?"

"Ask the winds!" laughed the other.

"Easier to ask his wife."

"You believe she knows?"

"No, not how he got the stuff. But I guess she thinks she knows, which is just as interesting."

Juliet was utterly indifferent that night as to whether or not her thoughts were interesting to outsiders. Pat and herself filled the world for her. There was no one else—not even Jack Manners—who existed for her after she had read the "Whisperer": except Lyda Pavoya. But the Polish dancer was not for Juliet a fellow-being. She was a Lure-light, a Mermaid, a Siren.

Simone was in the habit of buying the Inner Circle for the Duchess on the day of publication. She had never been ordered to do this, but her mistress in the last place she had filled in New York had expected the "rag" to appear in her boudoir as soon as it was on sale, and Simone (with a certain cynical enjoyment) had unobtrusively supplied the paper to Juliet without being asked.

It was a disgrace to New York, and utterly disgusting and unreliable, of course, and Juliet scorned it as a horrid beast. All the same, she read it every week before flinging it on the floor or pitching it into a wastepaper basket. Sometimes she was angry at its nasty digs at people she knew; sometimes she chuckled (one had to!). As her car took her home from Jack Manners' hotel she suddenly remembered that it was Inner Circle day.

Could that fiend of a "Whisperer" have got hold of anything new about Pat and Pavoya? Juliet could not see that this was possible. But there was almost sure to be some mention of the blue pearls she had worn at the opera, unless the news had been too late for press. She was so miserable already that she wondered at herself for feeling so small a prick in the midst of a deep and all-pervading pain. Yet she was conscious of uneasiness, and it remained in the back of her mind throughout the day.

She had not expected to see Pat at luncheon, and if she had seen him, she would have suffered disappointment. Whether he were merely resentful against her for the things she had said to him, or whether he were ashamed to face her because he had lied, and she knew it, Juliet could not tell. In his absence, he was as vitally present as if she saw him before her eyes. Indeed, she did see him—with Lyda Pavoya. It seemed certain that he must have gone to Lyda, if only to demand some explanation of what had happened to the pearls. And it was conceivable that, if he were convinced she had robbed him, he might have a reaction of feeling against the woman. In such a case, he would perhaps return and implore his wife to forgive him.

As she thought this, Juliet hardened her heart against his charm, his magnetism which she knew to be almost irresistible. She would resist it! It would be ridiculous to let herself be cajoled by Pat's Irish ways. He would laugh in his sleeve if he could persuade her that he had never loved Pavoya.

But the day wore on, and he did not come home.

All she knew about him was that he must have spent some late part of the night in the house, because Simone had casually mentioned an early meeting in the hall as he went out, about nine in the morning. He had handed the maid a few letters, which he said were for the Duchess to read and attend to, rather than for him. That was all. And though Juliet did not mean to pardon him, she would have given the price of the lost pearls to be begged for her forgiveness.

Now and then, like a faint undertone in wild music, returned the thought of the Inner Circle, and at the time when it should be lying on a certain table in her boudoir, Juliet looked for it. The paper was not there!

She had come in from her bedroom, a wrapper thrown over her nightgown, for she was pretending to have a headache, and had gone to bed on returning from the Tarascon, as an excuse for throwing over all engagements.

"There's something horrid about Pat or me in the rag," she guessed instantly. "Simone's read, or heard about it, and means to 'forget' the paper."

It would not be pleasant to ask, but after all Simone was only a servant! Juliet rang the bell communicating with her maid's room, and soon the neat figure in black presented itself.

"Madame la Duchesse has rung?"

"Where is that horrid Inner Circle?" the Duchess inquired.

Simone looked self-conscious. She said that, Madame being souffrante, she had forgotten to buy the paper. It was of so little importance! But Juliet would not be put off. The Frenchwoman was sent out to get the Inner Circle, and when she had got it, was told that she would be needed no more for the moment. Therefore Claremanagh's wife was alone when she read the "Whisperer's" insinuations.

Strangely enough—or was it strange?—her anger turned in a torrent-flood against the man who ran the rag. None was left for Pat. Juliet burned for him to come home so that they could—even if "on official terms only"—join together in scotching this scandal. She felt that she must see her husband at once. But she could not send for him without being misunderstood. If she were able to reach him by 'phoning to one of his clubs, he would think that he was being called back to a scene of reconciliation because his wife was too much in love to live without him for more than a day. No! even though her rage was too concentrated in another direction to blaze upon Pat, she didn't wish him to think that he was forgiven.

Again Jack Manners seemed her best hope, and she 'phoned him at the Tarascon. He was out, the answer came, and Juliet asked that the Duchess of Claremanagh should be called up as soon as he came in.

An hour later the bell of her telephone jingled. Jack had returned to his suite at the Tarascon.

"I thought you'd never come!" she complained.

"But," he excused himself, "you gave me a mission. I've been doing my best to pave the way."

"You mean you've met Pavoya?'

"Not yet. But I shall meet her to-night. She's dancing, you know. Or—why should you know? An old friend of mine—and hers, too—has arranged an introduction. That's the only news I have for you, so far."

"I didn't ring you up to ask for news," said his cousin, though her quick brain caught at a welcome deduction: if Jack were to meet Pavoya at a party or something, it did not look as if Pat had pardoned her for the pearls. Otherwise they would be together. "I want you to see Pat for me," Juliet went on. "Not to make it up! When you find him, tell him that to begin with, please. But he and I must meet, and talk over this horrible 'Whisperer' business. I don't want a scandal—anyhow that kind!—any more than he does. Tell him it's cowardly to run away and stay away like this. It makes things worse. Tell him he must come home—or bring him."

"I can't put things to Pat in that way, but I'll see him if you wish," answered Jack. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." (Juliet's voice sounded disconsolate and very young, even through the 'phone.) "At some club, I suppose. Do call me when you've found him."

It was seven o'clock.... After three more hours of suspense Juliet rushed to the telephone at first sound of the bell. If it were not Jack—or Pat—she should scream. But it was Jack.

"I can't find Claremanagh anywhere, or hear of his movements since two o'clock," Manners said. "He was then at a club you probably never heard of. It's called 'The Joint'. All sorts of men belong—actors, writers, lawyers, sportsmen, and at least one private detective! Pat isn't a member. I shouldn't have thought of the place if a man I know (the one who will introduce me to Mademoiselle Pavoya) hadn't mentioned seeing Pat there this morning with two men. That's why I went round, after I'd tried everywhere else. Well, he was there at five, with the detective I spoke of just now, and a Frenchman named Defasquelle. That name will strike you! He had an appointment to come back and dine with Defasquelle who, it seems, came with an introduction and has been made a foreign member. In fact, he's staying at the club, and I have been talking with him. In the hope of seeing Pat at eight, I waited, because Defasquelle was so sure he would come. But at half-past nine he hadn't turned up. I've 'phoned everywhere I can think of since, and left word that I'm to be called whenever there's news, no matter what time. When I go out—as I must do if I'm to meet the lady—I shall leave my address with the Tarascon people."

"What can have happened to Pat!" Manners heard Juliet cry.

"Don't worry. He's certain to be all right," Jack assured her. But he wasn't quite comfortable upon that point himself and had quietly 'phoned all the hospitals. It looked queer that Claremanagh hadn't kept that engagement with Defasquelle. He had apparently been anxious to keep it. If there had been an accident to a man so well known, surely the news would have got into the evening papers. Yet there was no news anywhere of any kind, since the Duke had walked out of "The Joint" at five. Were such a thing not too absurdly far-fetched, Jack would have asked himself if any one existed who might wish Claremanagh to disappear?

CHAPTER XIII
A WOMAN'S EYES

"Mademoiselle Pavoya, this is Captain John Manners, just back from France: a cousin of the Duchess of Claremanagh's," said the manager who was introducing Jack.

Lyda Pavoya lifted her drooping head a little—only a little, and fixed upon Manners a pair of dark eyes. "A pair of dark eyes!" Simple words, and a simple act. There are many women in the world with dark eyes, and many had looked at John Manners. But these eyes of the Polish woman——!

As they gave that upward look from under heavy lashes Manners felt himself a traitor. He had heard all sorts of stories about Lyda Pavoya. He had got an impression that she was a "tigress woman." And then, the dancing that he had seen her do was wild and barbaric. But to-night she was a swan.

Her eyes were dark, but not black or even brown. They were perhaps a very deep, greenish grey, and extraordinarily luminous. Yes, that was the word: luminous! "Brilliant" would be too hard. There was a mysterious, moonlight sort of luminance between the black fringes of the white lids, and the whole face—pale, delicate, with pointed chin—was mysterious as only Polish or Russian faces are.

"Why does she look at me so?" Jack thought. It was almost as if she guessed, because he was Juliet's cousin, why he had asked for this introduction. He could not believe that she, who met so many people, could recognize the man in evening dress as the officer in khaki she had seen on the Phayre doorstep.

They were in a room at the theatre where Mademoiselle Pavoya received privileged persons: a plainly furnished room, mostly grey except for masses of flowers, and it suited her better than a background of fantastic colour. Perhaps it was this greyness which made her stand out so vividly, and seem of such vital, thrilling importance. She was extremely quiet in manner, and her voice was low. Yet her quietness was disturbing, like that of a summer night when lightning may leap from a clear sky.

Manners was struck dumb by her. Something had flashed from her eyes to his with that first look. It did not say merely, "I am a woman. You are a man." It said—or seemed to say—"You are the man. I am the woman. We had to meet. And now—what?"

He tried to think that this was a trick of hers which she used on every male worthy of her steel. But he could not believe it to be so. Her perfume—that perfume of an Eastern garden by moonlight—had gone to his head. No woman had ever produced such an effect upon him, though they had exchanged but a few words, and those not memorable. Yet he was not humiliated by his own surrender. In spite of all reason he was convinced that she had been stirred by him as he by her.

The meeting was between Pavoya's dances, and she had not many minutes to spare. Her manager had impressed upon Manners that the few she gave were an immense concession. There was no hope of prolonging them. Her call came. She had to go. Again eyes met with that shock to the nerves. Suddenly Lyda held out her hand to Jack. Clasping it, electricity flashed up his arm and stabbed at his heart. He felt her start slightly, and his breath quickened.

For Juliet's sake, and the promise he had made, it was Manners' duty to take instant advantage of his "luck" with Pavoya. But he was not thinking about Juliet—or the promise. He was neither remorseful nor triumphant. All he thought of or wanted as they talked in snatches was to hold this woman, not to let her go till he had arranged to meet her again. He must meet her again! He must know what she really was—what they were to be in each other's lives. But he could not ask permission to call. He was stupidly tongue-tied, and could not put words together as he would have wished.

"Would you care to have supper with me at my house to-night?" she asked, not taking her hand from his.

The invitation was so unexpected that Jack could hardly believe it had been given. Yet he heard himself answering, "Yes, I should be delighted."

"I am glad," she said, in her perfect English, with the pretty accent that was part of her charm. "Perhaps you don't know where I live? I have taken a house, furnished: Mrs. Lloyd-Jackson's house on Park Avenue. You have been there? Supper will be at twelve. Till then——"

She was gone.

"By Jingo, you've made a hit, my boy!" chuckled Pavoya's manager.

It was all Jack could do to detach himself from thoughts of Lyda, and go about Juliet's business between ten-forty and midnight. For the first time in his life the prospect of seeing Juliet was distasteful to him. He didn't want to see her, because she would ask him about Lyda Pavoya, and in his present mood there was nothing he would hate worse than discussing the Polish girl with his cousin. But he was as sorry for Juliet as ever, and just as anxious to help her.

Desperately against the grain, he took a taxi and drove to the Phayre house, which he found brilliantly lighted. The huge front looked so gay that for a moment he hoped Pat had come back. But he asked for the Duke, and was told gravely by Togo that His Grace was not at home. The Duchess, however, was expecting Captain Manners.

Juliet was waiting, not in her boudoir, but in the Chinese room which her father had loved. She no longer wore the dressing gown she had put on when nursing her headache in the afternoon, but was dazzling in some flame-coloured film over shot gold and purple tissue.

"You've had good news!" Jack exclaimed at sight of her.

"No, I've had none whatever," she said. "If possible, things are worse. I know why you thought something good had happened. All the lights, and this dress! But if you were a woman you'd understand. I've realized that there's a fight in front of me. I want it to be a silent battle. I don't wish people to know I'm fighting at all—till I see what the end's likely to be."

"I do understand," Jack said. "You're a brave girl, and I believe the end will be all right."

He hurried on to talk about Pat, and thus put off the bad moment when she would question him about Pavoya. As nothing had been heard of the missing one and Juliet seemed now even more anxious than angry, Jack decided to confess having telephoned to all the hospitals. It was good news, he insisted, that these enquiries had drawn blank, and he did his best as a comforter by saying that Pat had probably gone off in a huff. People who loved each other flew into rages more easily than those who didn't care. Men of Pat's temperament didn't lie down quietly to be trampled on by their wives. He'd write soon, or send word somehow when his first fury had exploded. Or, at worst, he would communicate with the bank, even if he didn't turn up for work there.

Meanwhile, however, Jack admitted that they mustn't let things slide and merely "hope for the best." Would Juliet like to have a detective engaged—a private one, of course—quietly to make enquiries, in the very unlikely case that something queer had happened?

"Yes, I was going to suggest that," Juliet said in a hard, bright voice which kept back tears. "What about that detective you spoke of—the one who was with Pat and Defasquelle at the club?"

Jack hesitated. "Well, I think we'd better get a chap of our own. You see, possibly he was Pat's man, engaged for the—the pearl business. He mightn't be able to work for us with a whole heart——"

"I know what you mean," Juliet caught Manners up. "Pat's man may know where Pat really is, and lead us off the track, instead of on to it."

"It's just possible," Jack had to agree.

"Would you believe it," the girl veered abruptly to a new subject, "two reporters have called to interview me about the Inner Circle stuff?"

"Impudent beasts!" Manners lashed out. "Of course you didn't receive them?"

"Jack, I did!" said Juliet. "I'll tell you why. Here in the house I've got more and more proof against Pat—or against that woman." Jack winced, but she was not looking at him: her eyes were full of tears. "Still, I'm doing what you told me to do: I'm giving him 'the benefit of the doubt.' Besides—I've my pride, just as Pat has his. There's my father's name. In its way that's as good as the name of Claremanagh, or all the dukes in Britain. I came to this room to-night because Dad loved it so, and I felt as if he were here in spirit, helping me to be strong. He was such a busy man, yet always he had time for me! I can almost hear his voice saying, 'Steady, Jule!' as he used to say when I was in one of my wild moods. I had those newspapermen brought to me here. And I said to one what I said to the other. I admitted that I'd seen the Inner Circle, and I supposed the horrid rag meant us. But I simply laughed at the whole thing! I told them Pavoya came to see me—something about her dance for the Armenians: you know, the roof-garden show Nancy Van Esten's getting up. I said the insinuation about the pearls was nonsense: that I'm an expert, and that they're the realest things I ever saw. I talked about Pat as if we two were the best of friends, and mentioned just casually that he was away for a few days. I was as nice as I could be to the men, though I longed to—to kick them! I'm sure they both went off to their horrid old newspapers to write beautiful things about the family. Don't you think I did right?"

"Perhaps," said Jack. "If you don't mind being a bit infra dig."

"I don't mind anything," Juliet choked, "if only Pat comes back safely and—and—if we can patch up some sort of a life together. If—I don't have to break with him."

"Then you've given up those ideas you had this morning?"

"About divorce? No. I haven't exactly given them up. But they seem far off now—when I'm so afraid for Pat. I've thought of a thousand things that might have happened to him. Suppose he does love me really, and Pavoya is jealous? She'd be capable of anything. She may have had him stabbed! That reminds me: you've met her?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"To tell me what she was like, of course! How you got on—what have you got out of her?"

Jack felt suddenly antagonistic to Juliet. "I was with Mademoiselle Pavoya about twenty minutes at most, and her manager was there, too," he said. "I got nothing out of her. What did you expect? All the same you may take it from me, Juliet, you'll make a big mistake if you imagine she has anything to do with Pat's not showing up. I'm sure she hasn't."

"Oh! She's hypnotized you, too, has she?" snapped Juliet. "Pat wanted to make me believe she was a good woman! Come with me into his study, and I'll show you something. Then perhaps you won't be so quick to defend her!"

This was worse than Jack's fears. He couldn't refuse to follow his cousin. From everyone's point of view, that would be poor policy. But he hated to go to Pat's study. He did not wish to see anything Juliet had to show him there.

"If it's a letter, I won't——" he had begun when she cut him short.

"It isn't a letter! After the scolding you gave me at the Lorne, I wouldn't glance at the wildest love-letter of Pavoya's even if she'd printed it so large I could read every word across the room."

"I didn't give you a scolding," Jack defended himself. "I only said a man wouldn't do what you did—or some such thing as that."

"Yes. That's just what you did say." Juliet was unlocking the door of Pat's study, of which she had the key.

"I never knew you not to do what you wanted to do because I or any one else scolded you!"

"How hard you are to me, Jack!" she reproached him. "This is different. And I am different. I don't want to do anything a man would think mean. I want to be fair to Pat, whatever happens. But about the pearls I can't be fair to him and Pavoya both. I'm going to show you why not."

As she spoke she went to Pat's desk, where things were wildly scattered, as in his notorious carelessness he had left them. Jack Manners' heart beat rather thickly as he remembered his last visit to this room: how Defasquelle had come in; how he, Jack, had sat on the club fender, very conscious during the scene which followed that Lyda Pavoya must be hidden behind the curtains or the screen; how he had advised Pat to do what Defasquelle asked; how Pat refused, and showed the safe in the wall which was already open.

"Here's his seal ring," Juliet was saying. "I found it lying on the desk. This is what I brought you in to see. Now take the ring in your hand, please. Look at it closely, and tell me if you notice anything odd."

As Jack took the ring, he recalled that Pat had pulled it off his finger and given it to Defasquelle, telling the Frenchman to compare it with the seals on the packet. Relieved that, for a moment, Juliet was letting Lyda's name rest in peace, he examined the ring.

"I see nothing peculiar, unless a tiny bit of red stuff stuck in the corner of the eye," he said.

"Ah!" cried Juliet, "I thought you'd see that! What do you think the red stuff is?"

"Might be sealing-wax."

"That's just what it is. I used a magnifying-glass to make sure. Which showed me something else, too. But I haven't quite come to that yet! Pat never seals his letters with red wax. He dislikes red things: you know yourself he always uses grey-blue wax. He said it reminded him of my eyes! You saw the packet Defasquelle brought from France?"

"Yes."

"Then you know it was sealed with five red seals. I have the box and wrappings upstairs, if you don't remember."

"I do remember."

"Very well. You can guess what I'm driving at?"

"I suppose I can."

"Good! Now for the other thing the magnifying-glass told me. But no—take it yourself. There's a scratch across the eye on the ring. You see it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who was supposed to have sealed up the packet?"

"Mayen, of course: with a duplicate ring Pat had made for him on purpose."

"Yes, a duplicate. But would the scratch have been copied? It shows on all five seals of the packet. I looked through the magnifier."

"Juliet! You accuse Pat——"

"Or Pavoya. I said it must lie between him and her."

Jack did not answer at once. He saw the sinister importance of this discovery which Juliet had made. His mind rushed back to yesterday. Lyda Pavoya had been left alone in the study, for how long he did not know. But Pat had given her a chance to get away. He had made an excuse to show both men something in the Chinese room next door. Then, when Defasquelle pleaded an engagement, Pat had rung for Togo to guide the Frenchman out. A little later Jack also had gone. What Pat had done after that, who could tell? His own man Nickson, perhaps, or one of the other servants. Jack pushed the name of Lyda Pavoya violently out of his mind. He would not ask himself what she knew about Pat's next movements and about the red seals.

When these thoughts had shot through his head, bringing actual bodily pain, he drew a long breath, and forced himself to speak. Juliet was waiting! "It's very necessary to have a detective to tackle this business," he said. "I realize that fact more than ever now. It's essential for Pat's own sake, if—for no one else's. A sharp chap may be able somehow or other to pulverize this beastly theory you're forming, Juliet. He'll make tests for fingerprints on the safe in the wall. If there are others besides Pat's, of course——"

"And Lyda Pavoya's!"

"It's not worthy of you to spring to such conclusions!" Manners broke out before he could control himself. He expected Juliet to retort furiously, but she did not. She merely looked piteous—and young.

"Jack," she said, sadly, "what am I going to do if that woman takes you away from me as well as Pat?"

"Nonsense," he bluffed. "I hope I shall show that she hasn't taken Pat—or anything of yours. You don't want her proved guilty, I suppose?"

"Not unless she is. But I'd rather it would be Pavoya than Pat. And it seems as if it must be one or the other."

"It seems so to you—now. But wait."

Juliet looked at him anxiously. "Can you think of any one else to suspect?"

"I haven't had much time to think yet," said Jack. "To-morrow morning early, I'll get the best private detective in town: one who won't talk. Meanwhile, we must be patient. I suppose, of course, you've questioned Nickson about his master?"

"That was one of the first things I did. Poor old Nick was almost bowled over when I said I feared that something had happened to his adored one. I didn't mention the pearls—naturally!—or that I thought Pat might have disappeared of his own accord. I watched Nick's face to see what he knew. I don't think he has an idea where Pat has gone. But—Jack, he knows something—something wild horses wouldn't drag out of him. I feel—I have a flair—it's about Pavoya. I've an idea Nick has taken messages. Togo has been bribed by her, too, I'm sure. And he won't speak. The woman is like Circe, with men of all sorts and classes. She has but to look at them to turn them into beasts!"

"The woman" had looked at Jack. But she had not turned him into a beast. He had never felt less like a beast in his life than he felt at this moment! Yet—saint or Circe—by some magic she had won his loyalty. "Wild horses" would not have dragged her secrets from Nickson, Juliet said, and Jack believed she might be right. As for him, he would have had his tongue cut out sooner than tell his cousin that he was engaged to sup at Lyda's house. And it was almost time to go!

What excuse could he make for leaving Juliet abruptly, without hurting her? He would not hurt her for a great deal. But he would hurt her if he must, rather than be late!

CHAPTER XIV
SUPPER AT TWELVE

The house taken furnished by Lyda Pavoya belonged to a woman well known in society, who had gone abroad. Jack Manners had visited there before the war; but the drawing room was changed. There had been banal things in it. Now they were gone. Banality could not exist near Lyda. It seemed that in every form it must shrivel up, burnt away by the still fire of her strange, secret soul.

Jack had pictured himself entering a room full of people, fellow guests, and finding no one, he feared that he had come too soon. If stage stars invited one for midnight, they probably meant one to turn up at half-past twelve, so that, if they sailed in at one o'clock, one would not be annoyed. When the door opened five minutes after his arrival, therefore, he expected to see some theatrical or social "swell." But it was Lyda who appeared—alone.

He had never met her off the stage until yesterday, at the door of the Phayre house. Then she had been dressed in black, and thickly veiled. He had guessed her identity from the extreme grace and slimness of her tall figure, and the flame of her red hair glimpsed through embroidered net. In Paris, where she had danced, he had sat too far away to criticise her features, and at the theatre to-night he'd been dazzled by the wonder of her as a swan-woman.

Now, as she drifted in with the air of a tired, overworked girl needing rest, and mutely asking for help in securing it, Jack had the thrill of a new revelation. How many sides had this Polish dancer's nature? Was he to have a different sort of thrill each time he met her, always more poignant, more soul-piercing than before?

"I am glad to see you," she said. "I thought I should be here first. I hope I've not kept you waiting?"

"Not five minutes," Jack assured her.

"Good! Will you take off my wrap for me? When I heard you had come I wouldn't wait for my maid."

She had unfastened the emerald clasps of a long, oddly shaped cloak of purple velvet lined with clouds of green chiffon over gold.

As Jack lifted it from her white shoulders, to his surprise he heard himself exclaim, "I'd imagined you in sables." (What right had he to make a "personal" comment like that?)

"So other people have told me," she said. "But I have one peculiarity: I never wear furs. To me it is horrible that women can cover themselves with the skins of lovely creatures murdered for their pleasure: pathetic little faces and feet and tails dangling all over them! No. When I was a child I suffered too much from the cruelty of the strong to the weak to find joy in profiting from it."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack. "I've thought sometimes of that sort of thing. But I didn't suppose it ever occurred to women, even the tenderest ones I've known."

"The women you have known haven't had childhoods like mine," said Lyda. "Yet I hoped you'd not be one to make fun of my feeling. Another thing: I do not eat meat for the same reason. You will see, at supper. But you shall have some, so don't be discouraged!"

As she spoke, she smiled, and Jack realized that it was the first time he had seen her smile. That was strange! Or, it would have been strange in another woman. Now he saw that it would be more strange, altogether out of keeping with this character voluntarily opening itself to him, if she laughed or smiled often.

Jack had obeyed a gesture of hers, and laid the faintly perfumed cloak on a sofa. Lyda wore a dress simple enough for the first dinner-gown of a schoolgirl: grey and short—almost "skimpy," yet somehow perfect, without a single touch of trimming or a jewel. "Shall we go into the dining room?" she asked. "Supper will be ready. It always is. I never have it announced unless I've a party. To-night it's only you and me. You'll not mind?"

"Mind!" The word spoke itself with a boyish sincerity that Jack could not have pretended. "I didn't dare dream——"

She led the way through open sliding doors to an adjoining room, not turning her head to listen as she let Jack push the half-drawn portières aside. What a divine back she had, and what dimples in the delicate, flat shoulder-blades! An almost overpowering desire gripped Jack to kiss the white neck just where a knot of shining red hair was kept in place by a jade pin. He would no more have ventured upon a liberty with this creature of unfathomed reserves than he would have thrown himself into the cage of a tigress. All the same, he had definitely "lost his head." He knew that he would have sacrificed Juliet and Pat for this girl, not deliberately, not through conviction, but because he couldn't help himself if it came to a choice!

In the octagon-shaped room where its late mistress had given famous dinners for eight—never less, never more—a small table was laid and lit with shaded candles, but no servants were there. Violets were scattered on the lace table-cover, the only flower decorations. For the guest there were several elaborate cold dishes and champagne in ice; for the hostess, brown bread and a jug of milk! When she saw Jack look at this, Lyda laughed out aloud.

"I never take anything else at night," she explained. "I suppose I'm a queer person. Probably you're thinking me odd in many ways: for one, to have you alone with me at supper. I've a companion who lives with me, Madame Lemercier, a nice woman. But I do what I wish without thinking of conventions, if I hurt no one. People say so many things about me, they can say no worse, whatever I do! That's partly why I act as I please. Yet I think I'd do the same without an excuse. I invited you because I want to talk with you alone; no Madame Lemercier; no servants. I'll wait on you myself."

"Not that!" said Manners. "You must let me wait on you!"

"We'll wait on each other," she smiled.

A sense of exquisite intimacy with this girl, or woman (he knew not what to call her) took possession of Jack. For a few minutes they ate, and he talked of anything that flashed into his mind. When Lyda had finished her milk he jumped up, and filled the glass again. Then she said abruptly: "I recognized you, at the theatre—from yesterday. Did you think I would?"

"No!" Jack reddened to his sun-bleached hair.

"But—you must have known I was in Claremanagh's study when—you were there."

"I—wasn't sure."

"Yet you thought so! You're not a man who can lie well. And you are the cousin of Claremanagh's wife. You thought badly of me."

"I'd no right to think badly," Jack staved her off. "It wasn't my affair!"

"I asked you here to-night to make it your affair."

Jack had a shock of disappointment. That wonderful, heart-piercing first look of hers which he had read, "You are the man: I am the woman!" hadn't meant much after all.

"You see," Lyda went on, "I think that perhaps you and I have known each other a long time: in another life: perhaps in more lives than one. Souls that have been friends—or more than friends—group together on earth many times, no doubt. Did you feel this when we met to-night?"

"Yes!" Jack said, his breath choked. "I know it must have been that. I knew even then it was the most wonderful thing ever!"

"I felt it even yesterday, when I passed you at Claremanagh's door," she told him. "I thought: 'There's a man I may never see again, but we could be friends, and we have been friends, though maybe he has forgotten.' When I was in the study behind the curtains—Claremanagh put me there: he didn't want me seen—I was sorry you should believe things not true."

"I did not!" Jack protested.

"No? Then—I am glad."

The man felt ashamed, remembering suddenly what he had believed yesterday—even to-day. Her words, "I am glad," cut him to the quick, and he hurried on along the way of atonement. "You say you asked me here to 'make it my affair'—about Claremanagh. Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it."

"I don't know yet what is best. We will talk it over," she answered. "But first you will have to hear a story. It's a long story: how I met Claremanagh, and a great many things that came of the meeting. You won't be bored?"

"Do you need an answer to that question?"

Lyda gave him one of her rare smiles. "No. It was conventional of me to ask. But—it will not be conventional to tell you the story. It would be—even dangerous to tell it to some men. I'm not afraid with you."

"Thank you for saying that!"

She held out her hand to him across the small round table. Jack seized it, and pressed it closely instead of kissing the pink palm as he was tempted to do.

For a moment Lyda sat still, her eyes cast down, as if she sought for words which eluded her. Then she began in a low voice that was slightly monotonous, as though she spoke out of an old dream. She paused sometimes; but Manners remained silent, asking no questions. He felt that she would prefer this.

She took him back with her to Petrograd (St. Petersburg then) when she was sixteen, ten years before. She was dancing in a second-rate café, and attracted attention, so that the place became popular. A man named Konrad Markoff was the real owner, though he posed as an amateur patron. By his advice, the manager got Lyda to sign a hard and fast contract to dance at the same salary for the next five years. Markoff pretended a fatherly kindness for her; and she was invited occasionally to visit his wife, a Frenchwoman who had lived for years in England.

One night Markoff brought a good-looking English boy of nineteen or so to the café. This boy applauded Lyda's dancing, and was introduced to her at his own request: The Duke of Claremanagh. From the first he was enthusiastic about her talent: not in love ("oh, not at all in love!" Lyda insisted), but anxious to "help a budding genius." At the end of a week he had thought out a practical plan. He would pay for the dancing lessons of which she had dreamed, as of an impossible Paradise: lessons from the great Sophia Verasova. It would cost a lot, yes, but he'd just had a few unexpected thousands left to him by an aunt. If Lyda wouldn't accept, they were sure to be spent on some foolery. She did accept. Perhaps she might have accepted even if Claremanagh hadn't made it quite clear how impersonal, how disinterested were his motives!

Never—the dancer confessed—had she met a "good man" in those days. She would have made an idol of this handsome boy; but he didn't want her idolatry. He was fancying himself in love with the wife of a Don at Oxford just then!

To free her from slavery at the café, Claremanagh paid a big indemnity; and at the time Lyda was grateful to Markoff for arranging the business, not then aware that he was the power behind the throne. It was nearly two years later when the truth was sprung upon the girl, just as she expected to go with Verasova to make her début in Paris. Markoff had wished her to be educated and become a great dancer without expense to himself. There were several ways in which she could be valuable, and unless she promised her services to him, he would prevent her from leaving Petrograd.

Claremanagh had been too carelessly trustful to have the release from her contract framed in a legal document, and Lyda could still be compelled to carry it out. Unless she agreed to use the charm she had, the fame she might win, in the secret service of Russia, she would be thus compelled!

Lyda was not old enough to understand the hideousness of this bargain. She wasn't yet eighteen; and not to go with Verasova would have seemed worse than death. It was only later, when she had soared to brilliant success, that she realized fully what she was expected to do. Engagements were offered to her in the capitals of different countries: after Paris, Rome, and then London. She met many men of distinction, sailors, soldiers, diplomats, financiers. She was to flirt with these men—just how seriously, was her own affair!—and get them inadvertently to tell her things useful to the Tsar's government.

Well, she had flirted! But she had sickened at the business behind the flirtations. Very little information reached Russia through Lyda Pavoya! Reproaches and threats came to her from Markoff; and as a warning of what he could do to bring about her ruin if he chose, Russians in England, France, Italy, America, set the ball of scandal rolling against her. According to them she was a professional siren, a mercenary blood-sucker, a "tigress woman," a devourer of men's happiness and honour! Against such a campaign a woman, placed as she was, found herself helpless. She could only shrug her shoulders, go her own way, and try not to care!

But the war, like an ill wind that blows good to some, changed the world for Lyda. She worked heart and soul in Paris for the Red Cross. The Russian Revolution broke like a red sunrise and with the end of Tsardom she hoped that Markoff's power over her would end also. For some months she had no word from him. Then he appeared in Paris—at a bad moment for her.

Claremanagh had been there on leave. He had come to her house, complaining that he felt ill. At luncheon he had fallen from his chair in a dead faint. The doctor had pronounced the attack a virulent case of influenza. Claremanagh couldn't be moved. Lyda, helped by Madame Lemercier, had nursed him. He thought she had saved his life—vowed that he owed her more than she had ever owed him. There was endless gossip, of course, but Lyda had been so glad to repay her debt of gratitude that she hadn't much cared.