The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 28, 1903, Page 2

o —well, T am not much for turn t t many a heart the rebound r he study was tightly closed & tautious experiment with the handle that locked. Indeed, My uncle had or years; he had no in his own house- t patience T got the door und. I dared attempt ehie reen which stands from the n he likes fresh air he i neretore, to obtain other in the study, ¢ e h of his time when ar } sit t sk near the door he has rding to his I call it the bookshelves as with the sug- between eight proceec that t T was doing at v make of But 1 hopel that he her such hard names,” h, laughing again that of wnow she ch t gullty fkety J father was a Pol who escaped from Siberia and took the name of De Nevers in France, because of her was an Englishwoman.” know a great deal more of m: the outside world knows, e Foreign Sec- retary. “She i believed to be Russian % u are no doubt aware pression is very much to our n past, p positively ough doesn’t go through I'm afraid that be the end of things generally for Mille. de Nevers and for her fiance. an extraordinary ~omplic mantic and sensational in the But that only concerns us When you meet her, if she chooses tak into her confidence concerning ivate affairs which are mixed up with the gravest po- perfect liberty ¥ now, however, Mlle. Nevers a service ateful all her life--you will do you to put into her band; night &t the Elvsee Palace liotel a s packet which I now entrust to Should 1t by any misadventure be de Nevers you. lost, M would kill her- he Foreign Becretary sald this in Im tone thing in as if it were the most ordi- the world.) “Altogether I ed to impress it upon you, Mr. Bre that vou will need to guard the packet as if it were your own life.” “Something m n my own life,” vel answered, “Yet it sounds To cross over to France, to Paris, and deliver a parcel nary don’t n simple enough travel to 2 friend at the Elysee Palace Hotel. it sounds simpler than it {s, K Reckworth. “In fact, nothing ©ould well be more difficult. The contents of this night, when it Was at once shown to the envelope only reached me lust Prime Minister. This morning I recelved & cipher telegram from Mlle., de Nevers warning me that a certain Count Ipanoff of the Russian embassy in Peris, whom she lately refused to marry, suspects that something i{s on foot. She does not know how much he guesses, or what action he may have taken, but one thing is sure— every boat and every train between Lon- dc d Paris will be watched even more closely than ui Government would certainly mnot get through. Now, I don’t need to charge you hat this business must be mentioned to —no one at all—and you- will begin vderstand why I was anxious to get 4 of some one who would be the right , vet would not necessarily be re- ded with suspicion. As for me, I too: every means to escape observation when 1 left home half an hour ago. I think I but ome can’t be sure, Sir oor may very likely be under ionage now.” We can satisfy ourselves as to that,” said my uncle. “‘One can look out through these curtains without being seen. I have one or two peepholes which have proved rather convenient at times. 1 didn’t stir, though I heard the pushing back of a chair; for I knew that to go to the window facing the square they need not come near the book screen. “There i a fellew out there,” Uncle Gordon announced a moment later. “He's talking to a cabman, and may be an ordi- nary ‘tout.” But there's something curi- ously alert about him for that sonée of person, and twice sinee I've been at the window he's glanced this way. What do you make him, Reckworth?” I make this. of him,” exclaimed the Foreign Secretary. ‘“That I'm pretty sure (though he’s disguised now) that he's. a French spy who used to hang about our embassy when I was an attache in Paris, 1 never forget a face.” ““That settles it, Brent,” said Uncle Gor- don. “We'll have to smuggle you out, succeede 1. A known agent of our, somehow, or the fat's in the fire. Lucki- ly you came before Lord Reckworth, and if he was followed here you haven't yet been seen. So far so good. Do you mind sacrifieing your mustache?” “Not in such a good cause,’ retufned Noel, laughing. “Then I think I've hit upon the trick by which we shall dodge the French hor- nets and get off witheut a sting. You must leave this house {n the livery of a footman, and so by devious ways you can get back to your own place and change. It's oply a quarter-past 9 now. You have plenty of time to catch the 11 o'clock train at Charing Cross.” 1 dared walt for no more. Swiftly and quietly I darted to the door, softly opened it, shut it again, .and had passed the landing on the stairs before I heard their voices in the hall. Already 1 had made up my mind what to say to Margot. It was as if they had played into my hands. CHAPTER 11 HOW I ACCOMPLISHED A PURPOSE. Margot was up, had her bath,.and was siting, dressed in a pink silk and muslin dressing-gown, before the mirror, while Potter brushed her long hair. “Why, Marion!"” she exclaimed, when I knocked and entered. “You dressed al- ready! Have you had a bad night?” THE SUNDAY CALL. “Yes, I have rather,” I answered. “Margot, I should like to talk with you about something. It's quite important. But if you'd prefer to hear it after break- fast' I suppose I must wait.” *‘No. let me hear it now,” sald Margot, eheerfully, little guessing what was in store for her. “Potter has finished brush- ing my hair.” This meant that Potter was to go, and so she understood it. “WIll you have your breakfast in your room just the same, miss,” she asked me, “‘or will you be going dbwnstairs?” “I think I'll go down,” I replied. If Margot were.able to breakfast with her father after the copversation we were about to have, 1 thought that it would be wise for me to go with her, lest by any chance Noel Brent should still be in the house. Potter went out, and Margot and I were alone together. I sat behind her, and could watch her reflection in the long mirror. “‘Well,'" she said, “what are you going to tell me?" 3 “Two things,” I replied. “One has to do with last night, and one with this morning. They are both very interest- ing. But first you must promise sacredly that you will never breathe a word to Uncle Gordon or any one else.” “Why, of course I won't breathe a word,” she echoed. “You know I never tell things when I'm asked net to.” “You promise and swear, whatever happens to make you want to change your mind?” “I hope I never broke a promise yet,” Madtgot insisted, quite indignantly. “And I do promise you now. Has somebody been proposing to you?" “Ne,” 1 replied, hurriedly. “A man told me, though, that he meant to pro- pose to sdmebody else. That's the part of my story which belongs to last night. A brilliant color sprang to Margot's face. But all she said was “Oh!" “You know we have been very good friends, that man and 1,” I went on. “‘So it wasn’'t strange that he should confide in me.” “You have often sald very unkind things about your friend,” retorted Margot, with a touch of irritation, “if you mean Mr. Brent.” “I've only sald what is perfectly true; that he is an awful flirt,” I replied, quietly. “Every one knows that. He came back from the Himalayas eighteen ‘months ago. First, there was Lady Lin- chester, a married woman. Then the beautiful Juliette de Nevers came over ~and took the Garrick Theater—but you've Heard as much about it as T have. He's a dear, sweet fellow, and awfully good- lobking and fascinating, and all that: but the question is, Whether he would be safe to fall in love with?” remarked Margot in a low véice. By this time she was hooking up her pale blue muslin morning dress; and could see her hands tremble—those pretty, childish-looking little dimpled hands that men said such foolish things about. I was glad that they trembled. “I—perhaps I might be able to answer it to vour satisfactiom, though' I'm not quite sure,” I purposely stammered. “What do you mean?” “I'm afraid it wouldn't be quite fair to —to any one, for me to explain uniess you're willing to tell me first whether you accepted Mr. Brent or mot. Will you tell me that?” . Margot had fastened her frock, and had nervously taken a pink, half-blown rose from a vase on her dressing:table. Now she stood looking down at it, making an excuse of picking off the thorns. “I hadn’t meant to say anything about it, Marion,” she began, with lashes cast down. “But since you know-—since he told you beforehand, and—and since it was you who always impressed it upon me so strongly that—it would be danger- ous to trust him where women were con- cerned, you may well know the rest. Mr. Brent did—tell me last night that he cared, and I—almost sald what he wanted me to say, but not quite. Something seemed to hold me back, and—influence me to speak in quite a different way from what I intended or—wished. talked about—the others he was supposed to have liked, and flirted with, especially Mile. de Nevers. Of course he vowed that there had never been anything between them except friendship, and that he'd never been in love with any one but me, or ever could be again.” “Men usually do vow such things in such circumstances,” I said bitterly. “Yes, I know. But, Marien, I-I do really think it was true. That's why I'm g0 happy this morning. I don’t belleva look as he looked at me a man could then and tell a deliberate lle."” “Oh!"I sighed, putting sadness and doubt into the one syllable. “You didn’t see and hear him,” said Margot, with a rising flush and a certaln sharpness. “Anyway, even you will ad- mit that he must love me now, or why should he want to marry me? There are plenty of zirls dying for him.” I wondered whether she could possibly mean anything personal, but I absolved her of the subtlety. Margot wasn't bit- ter of tongue. “I wouldn't for the world deny that he loves you—now, I cried. “But—well, Uncle Gordon isn't" exactly - poor; and what a valuable father-in-law he would be for an ambitious young man, anxious to get into Parliament.” “I think you are rather cruel,” said Margot. ‘“Perhaps you will be pleased to hear, that—I didn't- accept No—Mr. Brent.” I was pleased. But I took pains not to let her see it. ‘“You refused him I ex- claimed. “No, I didn't refuse him couldn't help showing, I'm afra cared a little, for I do, Marion—1 care a great deal. But 1 said that I wouldn't be engaged to him—yet. He must prove to me first that he could be faithful in love. 1 gave him three months” probation; and 1 told him that if, at the end of that time, he thought as much of me as he does now, he might ask me again. Meanwhile, however, if there should be any founda- tion for more gossip about flirtations with other women, he needn’t hope for a faver- able answer.” *“if, for instance, he should go abroad for the express purpose of seeing his ‘friend,’ Mademoiselle de Nevers,” T sug- gested, “I suppose you wouli consider that he had broken his bargain.” “T certainly should,” exclaimed Margot, flushing up. “I should consider that he had deliberately deceived me, as he said last night, in—in answer to a question of mine, that so far from being fascinated by Juliette de Nevers, he would hardly take the trouble of crossing the street to her. So, if that were true, it isn’t ery likely that d cross the Channel.” No-o; not if that were true,” I ad- mitted, thoughtfully. Margot's eyes flashed, and she opened her lips as if to speak then closed them tightly, and in a ond or two was smil- ing and dimpled again. “I'm a goose to let you make me cross,” she laughed, in the tolerant, patient way which she often has with me, and which annoys me more than anything else. “I know you are only trying to tease; but you can't tease me into losing faith in Noel. He can only do that himself. And I don’t believe he will, so I am happy— very, very happy.” “] really didn't mean to tease,” I an- swered. “Of course we don't agree in everything, and I'm often 'fll and aggra- vating. Still you and Uncle Gordon have been very good to me, and I'm not un- grateful.” “What are you leading up to, Marion?" Margot asked, my solemnity of manner turning her a little pale. “I'm leading up to what I came in for. And it isn’t any easier for me to say than for you to hear, believe me.” (I heped that my expression bore out my words). I was quite frank with Mr. Brent last night when he talked to me about you. I told him that after ail the storijes which had gone the rounds it would be a brave gird who would trust him to stay in love with her for a year and a day; I didn’t belleve I should be brave enough, but you might, for all that I know.” (I really, had said t to Noel, for I had been pricked with the sharp fear that he had seen my feeling for him, and was telling me the story of his love for another woman by way of a delicate hint.) ‘“He protested a lot, just as he seems to have donme to you; and one could only hepe for the best. But it wasn't given to me to hope for long: and though 1 hated the task I felt it was my duty to come straight to you, for fear you might have accepted him. Then, knowing what I know, you could choose for yourself whether to let mat- ters go any further between you or not. As it is, however, and you’'ve not e tly accepted him, perhaps I'm not justified in telling you more. Perhaps that part of what I had to tell which concerned this morning may be left untold. I could see that the girl was almost torn in iwo between an anguish of curl- osity and a sort of leyal pride in herself and her lover. “Perhaps it may be left untold,” she echoed rather haughtily. But her face looked strained. Something of its morn- ing freshness was already gone. 1 rose at once. “Very well. I dare say you're right,” I said. *“It was for you to judge.” Then I took a step or two to- ward the door—but slowly. I had nearly reached it when Margot gave a little gasp, drawing In her breath quickly. *“I don't know what you mean when you talk of your story which con- cerns this morning. What could you have found out about Noel this morning? —unless you've had an anonymous letter, or something horrid of that kind, which couldn’t influence me against a person in the least.” 1 could hardly keep from laughing, to see how the s#it 1 had sprinkled had caught the bird by the tail—as I had been sure it would. *‘Nor would that influence me,” I said sweetly. “Only things I see, or hear from a friend I trust, can in- fluence me against a person for whom I care. But let us drop the subject. Since you're not engaged to Noel Brent, his se- crets may remain his secrets.”” My fin- gers touched the handle of the door. “They seem somehow to be yours as well,” exclaimed Margot. “He was here this morning,” quietly. “Without asking for me—an ? Wiy et g d so early? #Am 1 to tell you or am T not?” I de- manded. “I'm tired of shilly-shallying. “Yes, you are to tell me!” she cried. “Then he came here to find something which he had dropped last night at the dance. I'saw him looking for it, though he didn’t see_me. He met Uncle Gordon and Lord Reckworth, who had called, 1 suppose, on some impertant business or other, and explained his presence. He sald he had drobved a ring which was very valuable to him, as it had been given bim by a dear friend whom he expected I said to see in Paris t d dared n: face without it, and so he thought him- self lucky to have found it again. Uncle if he were Gordon broke in and asked, going to Paris, whether a little errand for him. answered that he'd be aelighted. He w heping to cateh the 11 o'clock train fr Charing Cross. Now did he mention to you last mght ted to go to Paris?” “No, he didn’t,” Margot admitted dully Then, brightening with there’s no reason why I'm not bis keeper And why shou emoiselle de other people “He’s going to see her persisted, doggedly. “I heard him Lord Reckworth said: “I envy You will ses divine Juliette new play.’ ‘Yes, and I hope to co: late her on her success,’ retu Brent, almost as if he were boasting of his friendship with that 1 effort he should : T don’t want to b e be going to see M e are plenty that's why 1 As 1 spoke Margot me straight the e mine drop before control a faint, nervous flu lids. The girl ca at ft. leve you, Maric I could have shrugged my sclence s angry—and so unj Brent and 1 suppose you will tell Mr. cle and everybody that I let out wha overheard by accide: Maybe it was dishogorable, bt ought to be the last to punish did ft for your sake.” “You know I wouldn't do that!” she ejaculated. “But—I must have it proved If—after last night—if, after all he sald then, he could go to Parls and see ette de Nevers, that would be an end at once to everything between us.” *Ask him,” I sald. “I give you leave to do that. . Ask hm when he comes to you nest time to tell you trul whether he didn’t go to Paris, and es- pecially to see Mademoisells de Nevers. I don't think so badly of Noel Brent as to belleve him a Har. I think he'd speak the truth.” “If you much I will ask him before he goes, claimed Margot. “I will drive down Charing €ross and see him at the train if he is there. I have a right to ask him a question now, after what passed be- tween us last night, and I will.” “Well, if you don't think it would look too marked, and show your an to say jealousy—too flatteringly,” I sald “But remember your promise to me in fairness. You are not to speak to Uncle Gordon, and you are on to ask Mr. Brent that one question: ‘Is he going to Paris with the special object of meeting Mademoiselle de Nevers? If jou men- tioned the lost ring and anything of the conversation I overheard, he would know some one in the house must have told you, and sooner or later he would of. me. If you only ask the q 1o t will be all right, as others outside mi have heard him speak of his inte: me leave to ask him so * ex- to And Margot, don’t go_down to g Cross station alone. If you were seen with him there it might make talk. Take me with you She thought for a minute, and then she agreed to this proposition Just at this the soft-voiced Japanese gong that sounded before meals sweetly moaned out its call to breakfast Ia t if she were going down and with that she was “So will marked, and went first, with the view, in case Noel were still in the house an 4 shouid catch sight of him, with or with- out proposed disguise, of some pretext which should send Margdt back But mom the mal I saw no sign of him. I had been with Margot for arly half an hour, and in all probability he had got away in the fashion proposed by Uncle Gordon I was a little afraid that, after all, Mar- got's father might drop some hint to her. though it would have been most u him to do so. And I was afrald something might come out If Lord worth had stayed to breakfast. Bu hadn’t stayed, and Uncle Gordon mention Noel. It was a quarter to ten precisely when we sat down at the table, and my uncle, who appeared rather absent-minded, had at eck- t he t left the house in the brcugham w usually took him to Downing street a quarter p 10. A few minutes la Margot and I had our hats on and were in a hansom. She scarcely spoke at all ag we drove to the station. Once we got caught in a block of traffic, and then she showe nervousness by the coming and go! her color, but in no other way. | to drive from Berkeley square to ( Cross, and we were just ten minu 1 getting there. By this time it wanted five and twenty minutes to 11, the hour for the train to go out. Bt very crowded with and porters rush with trunks piled high with that perhaps five minutes more before we got to the right platfo! Meanwhile I had been cast about for Noel, but could see so ggage. passed where. My heart was beating I hardly know whether I wished have Margot meet him or not. If she did, there was danger for me—more or less If she didn’t, she might belleve that I had lied to her out of spite and the fact of his departure might quite satisfagctorily proved. On the whole now that we are here I thought I d prefer to have them come face to and as I was making up my mind I was conscious that Margot—stan close beside me—gave a slight start. I had been looking in one direction, she in another: and it was she who saw h first. But it was not that which her start, I fancy. Although I had th clew to this curious change instantly dis- cerned in his personality, I had forgotten it, and was almost as much surprised as Margot to see that he had shaved his ache. course in a few seconds I remem- d how he was to have been smug- gled eut of the house, but quick as a flash a darted into my brain which ma glad that Margot should see this alteration in her present mood It certainly looked as if Noel had remo ed his mustache because he was on the way to do something of h he was ashamed—something which made wish not to b >gnized. He was walking fast toward the tra and whether by some magnetic influe or not, out of all that crowd Ma t gaze caught his. He looked radiant delight at first, then one could see idea that was not wholly pleasant g ing in his mind, carrying a flush wi over his brown face and white for No one knew better than I that he was innocent of any desire to deceive Marg: but innocence often appéars the tw guilt, and it was so with Noel now. the first flush of joy he looked uncomfortable, and though he came to us boldly, his hat in hand, I'm sure he wished himself. at least as far away as Vietoria. I had wondered how Margot meant account for our presence at for Ler coming was. to say i 3 ventional. I received a bow anc n= strained smile, of course, but I think Noel's real self saw me at was only the mechanical part that bowe:l. “"Are you and Miss Sitgreaves going to France this morning?” he asked of Mar- got when they had shaken hands. , “No,”" ‘she answered, looking with her clear hazel eyes, like wells with truih at the bottom, up Into his face. “Are you? “Yes,” he said, with a slight nervous- ness of manner, unusual with him—for he was fond of hiding the warmth of h nature in almost all circumstances und an appearance of sangfroid. “I de to go very suddenly—after parting with you.” “I heard you were going,” Margot re- turned. “That is why I came here.” (She, too, had forgotten me now.) “Noel, you changed your mind suddenly, as you say, about this thing. Have you changed it abcut anything else?” They looked each other In the eyes. “Nothing else,” said his—and his lips, toon