The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Pearl Secret, by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Great Pearl Secret Author: C. N. Williamson A. M. Williamson Release Date: January 31, 2018 [EBook #56470] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT PEARL SECRET *** Produced by Al Haines
"He glared at the clasp as if the diamond and
sapphire eye were a miniature head of Medusa"
BY
C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
FRONTISPIECE
BY
JULIAN DE MISKEY
GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
C. N. & A. M.  In Juliet's Sitting Room
II. The Explanation
III. "To Meet the Duchess"
IV. The Letter with the Tsarina's Seal
V. The Third Ringer of the Bell
VI. Behind the Bookshelf
VII. What Juliet Told Jack
VIII. Juliet Breaks the Seals
IX. The Eye That Looked to the Right
X. The House in a Crosstown Street
XI. In Jack's Private Sitting Room
XII. "The 'Whisperer' Stuff"
XIII. A Woman's Eyes
XIV. Supper at Twelve
XV. The Fortune Teller
XVI. The Grey Room
XVII. The Crystal
XVIII. The Bargain
XIX. Old Nick
XX. The Third Degree
XXI. The Middle Door
XXII. The Whole of the Secret
A maid opened the door leading from a bedroom to a salon of the "royal suite" at Harridge's Hotel. Dusk had fallen, and entering, she switched on the electricity. The room, with its almost Louis Seize decorations, was suddenly flooded with light; and to her surprise the Frenchwoman saw a slim black figure nestled deep among cushions on a sofa before the fire.
"Miladi West!" exclaimed the maid. (She pronounced it "Vest") "Pardon, Madame, I did not know that any one was here."
She spoke in French, with an accent which told that her first language had been Italian, learned in the south of France; though in looks she was the chic Parisienne. Her English was quite good, but when she used that tongue, her accent was of New York. She preferred French, however, was proud of being French, and had Frenchified her Nicois-Italian name of Simonetta Amaranti to Simone Amaranthe. All Juliet Phayre's friends had to be polite to Simone.
"Mr. Phayre's man let me in," said the red-haired lady in widow's weeds. "After I'd had a look at the wedding presents, I was so dazzled that I switched off the lights." She laughed, and then cried, "Leave the lights now! I suppose Mademoiselle won't be forever?"
Simone shrugged her thin shoulders just perceptibly. "Mademoiselle sent me out on an errand, Miladi. I have not long returned, with the perfume she wanted. It was for the coiffeur who is here to wash the hair of Mademoiselle. She would not have the stuff he brought, so the man was obliged to wait. I am afraid the drying, even with the hot-air machine, will take some time. Miladi knows what a quantity of the hairs there are on the pretty head of Mademoiselle, and how she is exacting of the way everything is done!"
The red-haired lady guessed from the Frenchwoman's tone that Simone considered the introduction of a coiffeur a slight to her own skill. "Why, yes," she agreed. "Mademoiselle is exacting. But what would you?  The least crumple in a rose-leaf—by the way, Simone" (she stopped for a little throaty chuckle), "is it true about the carpet in this suite?"
"The carpet, Miladi?" Simone flushed faintly through her dark skin, and "Miladi" made a second guess. Of course Juliet trusted Simone, and depended upon her blindly; but she—Emmy West—had often wondered how certain spicy little items concerning the Phayre family reached the gossip columns of "society papers."
"I read such an amusing paragraph in Modern Ways this morning," she explained. "It was apropos of the wedding, of course. Modern Ways loves a chance for a 'dig' at us Americans who marry well-known Englishmen! It said that when Miss Juliet Phayre and her Uncle Henry came over from Paris the other day, and took this royal suite which Mr. Phayre had engaged, Miss Phayre sent for the manager before she'd been in the hotel half an hour. 'There's a spot of ink on the carpet,' she complained (according to the paper). 'I must have another carpet at once.' Now do tell me, Simone (I'm very discreet!) did that really happen?"
"It did, Madame," the maid admitted. "Though how it got to these sacred journalists——"
"And did the manager say to Mademoiselle, 'We have had half the kings of Europe in this suite since that spot appeared, Miss Phayre, and not one of them mentioned it!'"
"His words were to that effect, Miladi, so far as I remember. But——"
"Oh, then you were in the room? What fun! You can tell me if Juliet—if Mademoiselle replied that a spotted carpet might be good enough for a king; it wasn't good enough for a Phayre."
Simone flung out her hands, palm upward. They were beautifully manicured hands, as carefully tended as her mistress's. And as she smiled her teeth showed very white. When her face was grave, she looked somewhat sullen, and might be thirty-five; but the smile was rejuvenating. It put her back to twenty-eight, and made her almost handsome as well as chic. "Miladi has known Mademoiselle since her schooldays, is it not?" she hedged. "Miladi will be able to judge as well as if I told her whether Mademoiselle would have made that answer."
"I thought it rang true when I read it!" laughed Lady West. "But Simone, when you say I have 'known Mademoiselle since her schooldays', you make me sound awfully antique. We were at Madame de Sain's together. I came over to England the year I left, and married poor Sir Algy only three months after I was presented." She thought it best to hammer these details into Simone's head, in case the woman really was in touch with those back-door, kitchen-stairs reporters. Then, to give an air of carelessness to her words, she turned the subject. "Perhaps you might let Mademoiselle know I've come. Parker told me that she was lying down—that she'd promised her uncle to rest till tea time. So I wouldn't have her disturbed. But if her hair is being washed, she might let me in."
"I will ask Miladi," said Simone. "I came to the salon to see if the curtains were drawn. If Madame permits!" She tripped with her short, high-heeled step first to one window, then the other, and closed the draperies of old-rose brocade. Having done this, she pattered out of the room.
Emmy West's eyes followed the thin but graceful figure in black silk. "Simone is a character!" she thought. And she wondered what the maid's secret opinion was of this marriage which would take place next day; the richest American heiress with the poorest British duke!
Left alone again, Emmy wriggled up from her nest of cushions, and beguiled the time in examining the wedding gifts once more. This did not take long, as the marriage had been suddenly hurried on by special license, and friends of Juliet Phayre and the Duke of Claremanagh had had only a few days to send in their offerings. Emmy had made this uninvited visit with the object of admiring a certain one of Juliet's presents, but she had already informed herself that it was not on show with the rest. Unless the bride-elect refused to see her, she did not intend to leave Harridge's without a glimpse—or anyhow, news—of it.
When she had wandered languidly round the three or four tables on which jewel cases, gold, silver, china, and tortoise-shell things were spread, she propped her own black-edged card conspicuously in front of a Sevres-framed mirror, and bent down for a hasty peep at her face in its oval. She wondered if her hair were a tiny touch too red.  In the weeds of a war-widow it seemed to her that she was almost irresistible, but she could not help realizing that there were people who did resist her. The Duke was one. And an attractive cousin of Juliet's, John Manners, was another. She was vaguely aware that her own taste was decidedly vivid. Perhaps the hair was rather red! She had had it "bobbed" since Juliet came to London, because it worried her that Juliet should look years younger than she. No one would take Lady West for twenty-seven, but she had been an "old girl" and Juliet a "new girl," the year they met at school. Juliet was twenty-three now, and she, Emmy, had gone back to twenty-five. One had to be that, if one had married before the war!
Quickly she dusted on a little powder from her vanity box, and accentuated the cupid's bow of her lips with a stick of red salve, for it was possible that Claremanagh might "breeze in." It would be like him!  She turned nervously, tucking the lip-salve into her gold mesh bag, for just now the Duke was having a craze for baby complexions without make-up. But it was not the Duke. It was a girl, standing in the doorway between bedroom and salon.
"Hello, Emmy!" she said.
"Hello, Juliet!" said Emmy. And suddenly she felt years older than she had felt a moment ago. Juliet Phayre was such a big baby!
The girl wore a pale pink chiffon thing which she probably considered a dressing gown. It was embroidered with wild roses and banded with swansdown, and no practical person would have dreamed of keeping it on for a shampoo. Juliet, however, thought herself sufficiently protected with a towel over her shoulders—a silvery damask towel under which her bare, girlish arms hung down. Over the towel streamed masses of hair in long, wet strands, which must be bright golden-brown when dry. These fell—weighted with water—nearly to her knees, and from their curly ends drops poured like unstrung pearls. She was so tall and slender, and brilliant rose-and-white, that she would have looked to a poet like Undine just out of her fountain.
"You extravagant thing," Lady West scolded, "to spoil a lovely boudoir gown like that!"
"Simone gets it to-morrow as a perquisite, with all my old things," Juliet dismissed the subject. "She said you'd been here an age, so I thought I'd better come in. I'll dry my hair before the fire, presently we'll have tea."

"Evidently you're not expecting the Duke," laughed Lady West.
"No-o," said the girl. "But I'm expecting a letter from him—or something."
"You haven't got the pearls on show with your other presents, I see," remarked her friend. "I don't blame you!  Still, the pearls are frightfully valuable. And you can never tell! But do, do let me see them. I'm dying to!"
"I haven't got them yet," Juliet confessed.
"Not got them?" gasped the elder woman. "You're joking. Why"—and she laughed with great gaiety—"one marries Claremanagh for his pearls!"
"Does one?" Juliet took her up. "I know whole populations of females who'd give their pearls to marry him, for—himself!"
This told Emmy West that the bride-to-be knew she had been scratched, and was ready to scratch back. For an instant Emmy hesitated whether to be sweet or sharp, and decided to compromise. "By Jove, you are in love, aren't you?" she said.
"I am," Juliet admitted.  That sort of thing seems—somehow old-fashioned since the war. And I don't think I ever was a snob, thank goodness."
Emmy wondered if this were another "dig." She had been a Chicago girl, and only a "tuppenny half-penny" heiress, compared to Juliet Phayre; but she had wanted a title, and had paid all she could afford for a mere baronet, such as her few hundred thousand dollars would buy. On the sofa once more facing her low-seated hostess, she looked Juliet full in the eyes; but Juliet's were innocent, even dreamy. "I'd have snapped at my Boy if he'd been just a Tommy when I met him Over There, instead of a perfectly gorgeous Guardsman," the girl went on. "But, of course, I do want the pearls! I wouldn't be human if I didn't; everyone talks about them so much, even my Cousin Jack Manners, and says they're so marvellous. I expect they are what Pat is sending around this evening."
"Sending around!" repeated the other. "You talk as if—as if they were a box of chocolates! Claremanagh is the careless-est creature on earth, I know. And he has been—er—very careless with the pearls. But I don't think even he would be as bad as that."
"Why not?" asked the girl to whom most jewels meant little. "If he sent them by Old Nick, that dear, quaint man of his, they'd be safer than if he brought them himself. I never knew before that he was superstitious. But he is. It's bad luck for a Claremanagh to see his bride the day before the wedding. Creepy things have happened, it seems, according to an old story! So he said he wasn't running risks. For some reason, he couldn't give me his present before to-day. So that's why the thing is to come by messenger, you see."
"I see," echoed Emmy. "And you're sure the present will be the pearls?"
This was rather an impudent question to ask, especially for one who knew the Duke's circumstances; but, for a wonder, Juliet did not seem to mind. She answered quite easily, "Oh, I suppose so. Don't the Claremanagh men always give them to their brides?"
"I believe they have dutifully handed them over so far—for several generations, since the pearls came into their family in that exciting way," said Lady West. "But you know, Peter—I mean Claremanagh—is very independent, and quite—er—a law unto himself."
 the girl branched off from the subject. "He has about a dozen names, I know, but I hadn't heard that 'Peter' was one. My selection from the lot is Pat!"
"Oh, 'Peter' was only a silly nickname I made up for him. 'Peter Pan', because he just isn't the sort who ever grows up!" Emmy explained elaborately. "Of course he was a lot with Algy and me the first year I married—before the war spoilt everything for everyone. And then, when I took up Red Cross work in France, after poor Algy—-"
"I know," Juliet ruthlessly interrupted. "That was where and when I came on the scene."
"It was," agreed Emmy, in a flat voice.  But we were talking of the Tsarina pearls. I do hope the Duke is 'delivering the goods', as we say in our country. I don't mind confessing to you, my angel child, I dropped in hoping for a private view."
"Oh, I guessed that the minute Simone told me you were here, and determined to wait!"  Emmy's ears tingled. The girl's tone, though intimate and friendly, told her how unimportant she was in the future Duchess's scheme of things. She had always envied Juliet, and had an old grudge against the heiress for refusing her brother, Bill Lowndes. Now she suddenly hated her. Instead of inflicting a kittenish scratch or two, she wanted to strike at Juliet Phayre's heart.
"Well," she excused herself, "I never saw the pearls, except—er—at a distance."
"You have seen them, then?" Juliet exclaimed. "How was that? Pat's mother died years before you knew him, and only the Duchess is supposed to wear the pearls, isn't she?"
"Only the Duchess is supposed to wear them."
Juliet sat up straight on the velvet cushion. Her hair was drying beautifully now. The red background of fireglow lit it to flame, so that Lady West saw the slight figure surrounded by a nimbus. "Ever since Pat and I were engaged, you've been hinting at something queer, or secret, about that rope of pearls, Emmy," the girl blazed. "Now, out with it, please! Tell me what you mean."
The elder woman was taken aback. "Don't you know what I mean?" she temporized.
"No, I don't," snapped Juliet. "But I'm sure it's something unpleasant."
"At least, I had no intention of telling you," Lady West snapped back. "I wouldn't distress you for worlds, dear, especially on your wedding eve."
"Wedding eve be—'jizzled!'" inelegantly remarked the bride-elect. "You sound quite early Edwardian! If you don't tell me, I shall think the thing worse than it is."
"You had better ask Claremanagh, or Jack Manners, who is a pal of his," said Emmy.
"I can't, till I have an idea what to ask them about."
"Ask whether Lyda Pavoya ever—no, I won't say it!"
"Whether she ever wore the pearls? That's what you were going to say!"
"So you did know?"
"I didn't. And I don't now. I only know what you have in your mind. I don't believe she was allowed to wear the pearls."
 And even if she did, it was before you knew Peter—the Duke. Or anyhow, it was before you were engaged. It was when she was dancing for the Polish Relief Fund in Paris, that I saw——"
"You saw what?"
"Saw—her."
"Emmy! You didn't see her wearing the Tsarina pearls? It's not possible."
"Why, of course you must be right, dear. Even though they are blue, they'd be like any other pearls, wouldn't they, to see at a distance."
"That's just what you said about Pat's pearls five minutes ago: that you'd seen them only 'at a distance.'"
Lady West did not reply. She put on a stricken, trapped expression, which went well with her widow's weeds. The two gazed into each other's eyes, each waiting for the other to speak. Neither heard a sound at the door until a respectable voice—such a voice as is never possessed save by a British butler or valet—announced "His Grace the Duke of Claremanagh."
A perfectly charming young man came in—a young man so delightful to look at that it seemed almost too much that he should be a duke. With that merry brown face (the war had left a scar across cheek and temple), those Celtic grey eyes, that jet-black hair, that "figure for a fencer," and above all that engaging grin of his, the merest Nobody might hope to make his mark as Somebody.
 The smile was for Juliet, whose velvet throne was opposite the door, and for her he waved aloft a small, sealed white parcel. Then he saw Lady West, and his expression changed. As the saying is, his "face fell," but in half a second he had controlled his features.
"How do you do?" he enquired. His voice was as pleasant as his grin, but there was a slight stiffness in his tone for the red-haired war-widow.
"I'm going strong, thanks! Going in every sense of the word," Emmy assured him. "I should have taken myself off before now, only Juliet pretended not to be expecting you. Of course, the day before the wedding is supposed by old-fashioned folk to be close time for brides, where their loving bridegrooms are concerned, and so——"
"I'm not old-fashioned," said Claremanagh.
"Rather not! I've every reason for knowing that. We all have. But Juliet had some story about a 'bad luck' superstition. I thought you were the last man to be superstitious, Irish as you are, but it didn't sound like a joke——"
"It wasn't a joke. I'm as superstitious as the deuce about one or two things," the man confessed. "Juliet wasn't 'pretending' but"—and he turned to the girl—"I had to come. There was something I didn't want to explain in a letter, and—hang 'bad luck!'
As Emmy West saw the look he gave Juliet, she felt as though her heart had been sharply pinched between a thumb and a finger.  Yet here he was, bouncing in like a bomb, with that eager light in his eyes, and in his hand a packet which might be the pearls!
When Juliet explained that there "was a reason" why Claremanagh "couldn't give his present till to-day," an exciting thought had tumbled into Emmy's head: What if Lyda Pavoya had refused to return the pearls he'd been teased into lending her, and had taken them to New York, where she was now dancing? Emmy visioned the poor Duke frantically cabling, the moment he had secured the American heiress; or perhaps engaging a lawyer to frighten the Polish siren. Lyda wouldn't be easy to frighten, Emmy imagined, admiringly. (She, in fact, admired the dancer so sincerely, that her own attempts at sirenhood were copied from Pavoya.) Even if Lyda had disgorged the booty, would there have been time for it to arrive from across the Atlantic? Only the opening of that little parcel would show, and Emmy's jealous pain was complicated by curiosity.
Still, she decided, it would be useless to wear out her welcome by lingering. The chances were that Claremanagh wouldn't break those thrilling seals till she had gone. Besides, Juliet was in a state of suppressed fury, and was capable in that mood of banishing her with rudeness. In some moods, the girl was capable of anything! So Lady West "kissed air" in the neighbourhood of Miss Phayre's burning cheeks, and accepted defeat with one sole satisfaction: If the pearls had come—or if they ever came!—she had pretty well spoiled them for the future Duchess.
"Au revoir, dearest child," she said. "I shall be in church to-morrow, of course. Au revoir, Peter, and good luck in spite of the Claremanagh curse. I do hope it won't put on seven-league boots and follow you to New York."
"Leather's too dear since the war for superannuated old curses to buy seven-league boots," replied the Duke, unflatteringly prompt in opening the door.
The pretty lady went to it with wormlike meekness, but turned on the threshold. "If I meet the Curse, I'll tell it to mind its business," she laughed. "The Claremanaghs have had enough bad luck. You'll create a new record, working out your democratic notions in a new country, with one or two old friends there to applaud them."
With this exit speech she put herself in charge of Parker, who would ring up the lift for her.  He didn't even say "Thank goodness, the woman's gone!" He seemed to have forgotten her existence.
"Heavens, what hair you have!" he exclaimed. "I knew it must be gorgeous, but I didn't dream of this. To-night I shall dream of it! By rights, I oughtn't to have seen this show till to-morrow night, ought I? But I'm glad I have. All your beauties bursting upon me at once would be too much for my brain."
"Don't make fun of me," Juliet laughed, with a wistfulness rather pathetic in so pretty and so rich a girl.
"Make fun of you!" Claremanagh snatched her up from the low seat, and crushed the yielding, thinly clad young body in his arms. On the sweet-scented, damp hair he rained kisses. "Am I a wooden man? Take that—and that, to punish you! Mavourneen—if it were to-morrow!"
Between warm joy and chilling doubt Juliet Phayre shivered. If only she could believe him—believe that he cared for her, and not for the money! She almost had believed—before Emmy West came.
The girl burned to tell "Pat" what Emmy had said and hinted. If he could reassure her, it would be balm on a wound never quite healed. But—if he couldn't. If questioning should make bad things worse? Then she would wish in vain that she'd "let sleeping dogs lie," because she loved the man too much to give him up. She had wanted him as a child wants the moon, ever since the day she, a gilt-edged Red Cross nurse, had met him, a soldier on leave, in Paris. Now she had got him—or almost—and the future might be so wonderful!
He had promised her uncle, Henry Phayre, to live for at least half of each year in America, there to work as other men worked (Phayre would supply the employment), and Juliet had looked forward to being proud of her adorable husband, happy with him; a living proof—the pair of them—that an American girl can marry a duke for himself, not for his title; that a duke can make an American heiress his wife for love. But now, Emmy had raked up those old rags of gossip, nearly forgotten. And Juliet had read in the paper only a few days ago about Pavoya's first night in New York; the furore her "wild eastern dancing and strange, Slavic fascination" had created. The girl felt sick at heart as she asked herself if Pat's pleasure in the thought of "seeing New York" had any connection with Pavoya's presence there.
It was all she could do not to purr out her complaints of "that cat, Emmy West," but native prudence prevailed over hot impulse. She enjoyed as much as Emmy permitted Pat's praise of her glorious hair (surely Pavoya's wasn't as long or thick, and probably its "rusty red" was due to dye), and then she reminded him of the parcel.
"Is it my present from you?" she asked, almost shyly, nodding toward the table where Pat had thrown the neat white square.

"Yes, sweet, it is my present for you," he said. "But not the present I wanted to give you. That's why I risked the 'curse' and came to explain."
"Oh!" was the girl's noncommittal answer. Her heart sank. The pearls were not in the packet, she knew now, but her disappointment was not so much in missing them as in the thought that Emmy could say "I told you so!"
"Before you open these silly seals, and see what I've brought," the Duke went on, "I want to make my explanation, and be sure you understand the whole business. Come and sit by me on the sofa, will you?"
He drew her down beside him, and gathered her close.
"Of course, you know all about our pearls, the one ewe lamb of ancient glory left to us poor Claremanaghs," he said.
"I don't know all about them," amended Juliet, her heart missing a beat.
"Tell me just what you do know, and then I shan't bore you with repetitions."
"Oh, people have told me things," she hedged. "Didn't a Tsarina of Russia sell the pearls to some old ancestor of yours?"
"Good lord, no!" he chuckled. "Never was a Claremanagh so stony broke as yours truly; yet never was there one since the days of pterodactyls who could run to the price of a Tsarina's pearls; that is, in lucre. My great-great-grandfather bought them with kisses. But joking apart, it's rather a romantic tale. He was a soldier and offered his services to Russia because he'd seen a portrait of the Tsarina, which the Prince of Wales had, and fell in love with it. Well, she fell in love with him, too, at sight. He wasn't bad to look at, judging from his portrait——"
"Was he like you?" cut in Juliet.
Pat laughed. "They say so. When we can get those Pill people out of Castle Claremanagh (their lease has a year to run) you shall tell me if you find a likeness. There was an 'affair' between the two; and great-great-grandfather Pat (he was Patrick, too, like all the eldest sons) had it politely intimated to him, through his friend Wales, that he'd better come home—a marriage had been arranged for him. He'd not have stirred a foot if it hadn't been for his Love. She begged him to go. There was a plot to murder him, it seems, and as for her, she'd ceased to be very popular with the Tsar, her husband. She made her sweetheart promise to marry the English girl, and she gave him the rope of pearls which since then have been called after her—the 'Tsarina's pearls.' They were for his wife, as a gift from her, so the girl shouldn't hate the thought of their love."
"I should have hated it all the more!" cried Juliet. "I wouldn't have worn the things if I'd been his bride."
"Well, as my bride I hope you will wear them often. They'll be dashed becoming to your blondness, for the things are unique in one way: they're blue; a hundred and eighty immense and perfectly matched blue pearls. Never has anything been seen like them, the expert johnnies say."
"Was the Tsarina a blonde?" the girl wanted to know.
"A copper-headed blonde. You shall see her miniature."
Juliet said nothing. But she thought of Lyda Pavoya's head. She had never seen the Polish dancer, but she had heard her described: the traditional "siren-green" eyes, white face, and red hair. And she knew that Emmy West modelled herself, so far as Nature permitted, on Pavoya.
"In the ordinary sense of the word, the Tsarina pearls aren't an heirloom in our family," Claremanagh continued. "But the first bride who received them passed on the gift to her eldest son's bride. So it has gone on ever since. The thing falls to the heir, or his wife; and it's tacitly understood that neither the rope as a whole, nor even one of the pearls, shall be sold. Well, I came into the inheritance (if you can call it that) seven years ago, when I was twenty-one. I'm afraid I'd have sold the bally thing more than once if I could have done it in common decency. But I couldn't. So there you are!"
"What did you do with it?" Juliet ventured, half dreading the answer. Her head was pressed close to Pat's shoulder. She could not look up at his face, but she thought a muscle jumped in the arm that held her, and that there was a sudden change in his tone.
"Do with it?" he echoed. "Why, what should I do but keep it in the bank waiting for the Lady of my Dreams? I couldn't wear it round my neck, you know! But, well, I did get it out of the bank now and then, to show to beautiful beings who begged to see it. Once it was in a Loan Exhibition for the benefit of something or other, I forget what. The confession I have to make, though, is this: only two months before I met the dearest girl on earth I was so hard up I'd have had to grind a monkey-organ in the streets if I hadn't been engaged in fighting for King and Country. I'd had some beastly bad luck with a speculation an alleged pal had let me in for, and honest Injun, I didn't know which way to turn, until a chap I know offered me two hundred thousand francs on the security of the pearls."
"Francs?" echoed Juliet.
"Yes. The man's a Frenchman. And the business was done in France. He's a dashed good fellow in his way. But it's a queer way. He's a kind of gilded, super money-lender. His transactions are only with his friends, and the interest he takes is fair and square: twenty per cent. instead of sixty or so, as the sharks do—to my bitter knowledge. With what I got from Louis Mayen I paid my debts, and hung onto a bit, a few thousands.
"How, in the fire?"
 "Did you—really? So did I you!"
"Bold hussy!" He kissed her with passion. "But it was worse for me than you. I'd just lost my chance of giving you your legitimate wedding present—if you'd have me. The day you said 'Yes', instead of walking on air I could have thrown myself in the sea, I felt such a fool."
"Silly boy!" cried the girl. "Any real money-lender, or even your super, gilded one, would have let you have all you wanted if you'd said you were marrying Silas Phayre's heiress. I mayn't know much about business, but I know that!"
"And I mayn't be a saint, but I'm not a cad," Claremanagh capped her. "I wouldn't go to a money-lender on the strength of being engaged to you. I don't say that if Louis Mayen had been in France then I'd not have wheedled the pearls back from him, on the mere strength of friendship, and an I.O.U., or some such arrangement. He'd have trusted me," Pat laughed; "anyhow, in the circumstances! But you and I were engaged a fortnight after the Armistice, you remember. Just a week before our own Great Day (yours and mine) Mayen went to Russia with a lot of important Frenchmen of Hebrew blood, on a diplomatic mission. He had a bad time in Petrograd. He and his lot were stuck into the prison of St. Peter and St. Paul, by the Bolchies. I didn't know where the pearls were and couldn't find out. That was two months ago. But after six weeks in a cell, Mayen was released by order of Lenine; and it was expected in Paris that he and the rest would be back in France by now.
"We were there ourselves—you and your uncle in Paris, and I at G.H.Q. you know, till just ten days ago—though it seems longer. And I was hoping against hope that Mayen might turn up. I wouldn't say a word to you, for I didn't want you to be disappointed. And even as late as last night I wouldn't quite give up. Your Cousin Jack Manners, who is the best fellow on earth, has been watching things for me in Paris. He'd heard that Mayen had quietly sneaked back, and hadn't let any one know, in order to get a good rest cure. But this turns out to be a canard.  I couldn't afford anything worth while unless I borrowed; so I thought things over, and decided that you'd prefer a little remembrance of our wedding, bought with my own 'pocket-money,' and supplemented by a souvenir of my mother. Am I right?"
"Absolutely! Whatever you give me, I shall love it," said Juliet. "I wouldn't care if it cost sixpence. It's from you; that makes the value for me. But, Pat, I can't bear to think of your being poor! You won't be after to-morrow. I haven't liked to talk of such things, but I told Uncle Henry I wanted a million dollars settled on you, to use as you pleased. Surely he did what I——"
"He did, my child. But I 'wasn't taking any'. I meant to tell you this myself when we were old married people—a week after the wedding, let's say! But since you've brought up the subject, we might as well have it out. Your money is going to restore Claremanagh, and the jolly old London house in Queen Anne's gate that my great-grandfather bought. I don't so much mind that. You'll enjoy the places. And it won't be till the tenants there turn out. I'm to have a screw from your uncle for pretending to work in the S. P. Phayre Bank: a hundred dollars a week to begin with (he offered more, but I wouldn't have it), about a fiftieth part of which I'll really earn. But even that will bring me nearly a hundred pounds a month, so I shan't disgrace my wife by wearing paper collars or elastic-sided boots, or not getting my hair cut. Then, as my earning power increases, so will my pay. Besides, your noble guardian wants to buy my place at Maidenhead, when it's free, next spring. He'll give sixty thousand pounds, which will leave me fifty when the mortgage is paid off; and Mr. Phayre will advise me about investments. So you see, you're not marrying a pauper after all, my good girl! As for the pearls, it's only a delay—an annoying delay. When Mayen really does get back to Paris, he'll find a letter from me containing a post-dated cheque for the two hundred thousand francs, and interest. That will come out of the fifty thousand pounds, and still leave me a decent pile. Mayen will at once take steps to get the pearls to me."
"But we'll be in New York," objected Juliet. "How can Monsieur Mayen send them without danger of their being stolen?"
"Trust him to arrange that," Claremanagh soothed her. "There must be lots of ways. Besides, they'll be insured for their full value, which is supposed to be—intrinsic, not sentimental—one hundred thousand pounds. What I hope is, they'll be in time for you to make a show in your box at the opera—Metropolitan Opera House, you call it, don't you? You see, I've been reading up a guide book to New York! And now I've made all my explanations and excuses, my darling, you'd better open the poor little box."
His arm still round her, the girl broke the jeweller's seals. Inside the white paper was a white velvet case, and inside the white velvet case was a string of white pearls. They were small, but good, and from them depended an old-fashioned, open-faced locket containing an ivory miniature of a beautiful boy.
"The pearls are from me," Pat said. "The locket and miniature are from my mother. She used always to wear the locket. And when she died, eight years ago, one of the last things she did was to give it to me, 'for my bride'."
Juliet Phayre would not have been human if she had not forgotten, in that moment, both Emmy West and Lyda Pavoya.
Mrs. Lowndes, Emmy West's sister-in-law, was giving a luncheon for the Duchess of Claremanagh; and the Duchess was late. Nine lovely ladies (including the hostess) were waiting for her in the Futurist drawing room of an apartment overlooking the Park. It was not to all tastes a beautiful drawing room, but it was expensive for all purses. So was the apartment; too expensive, Billy Lowndes' friends said, for his. As for the ladies, each one was beautiful, or her clothes were; for Nat Lowndes had chosen her guests with the special view of impressing the Duchess, whom Billy had tried to marry when she was Miss Phayre.
The invitations were for one-fifteen, and before one-thirty everyone had arrived—except the Duchess. By twenty to two the nine voices were chattering with almost abnormal gaiety, but ears and eyes were secretly on the alert. Natalie Lowndes was not precisely in the Duchess' "set", or if she was, moved on the chilled outer edge of it. These women who chatted in her startling salon would have preferred other engagements, if they had not been asked "to meet the Duchess of Claremanagh." Most of them knew that Billy had desperately wanted Juliet Phayre, and that Juliet had been at school with his sister, Lady West, now in London. Their private opinion was that the Duchess had accepted for Lady West's sake rather than Mrs. Lowndes'; and as the minutes lagged, they wondered if the chief guest were purposely proving her slight esteem of the circle.
This idea ruffled their vanity, and as they talked, glancing at wrist watches, their irritation grew. Natalie who, like her husband, was from the Middle West, felt the atmosphere of her overheated room fall to zero. She began to feel sick at heart, and tears pricked her eyelids. But she kept a brave front.
No one had spoken yet of the delay, nor of the lady who caused it; but at a quarter to two it seemed better to be frank.
"I can't think what can have happened to Juliet!" Natalie said. (Nat was one of those women who always called her smartest acquaintances by their Christian names—behind their backs.) "We'll wait five minutes more—not a moment longer. I'm sure she wouldn't wish it."
"Royalties are always so prompt," said Mrs. Sam Selby-Saunders, who knew the habits of kings and queens from the Sunday Supplements. "Evidently dukes—or anyhow duchesses—don't follow their example."
"Something must be the matter," Nat defended the absent. "At first Juliet was afraid she couldn't accept to-day. You know, there's a meeting this morning at Mrs. Van Esten's, to arrange details of the wonderful roof garden show in aid of the Armenians. Juliet had to be present, as she's on the committee. But at last she decided she could get away in time. She must have been kept."
Nobody spoke for a minute. If there had been only Ten First Families in New York, Mrs. Van Esten would still have been high on the list. She was the organizer of the proposed entertainment, the plans for which were thrilling the town; and if this business were keeping the Duchess, she was almost excusable. Anyhow, nobody's feelings need be hurt.
Suddenly, in the midst of the pause, Miss Solomon laughed. Her father was as rich as Silas Phayre had been, and there was no reason why she shouldn't be a duchess, too, some day, when travel abroad became easier. "I did hear the loveliest thing!" she chuckled. "I wonder if any of you have heard it? ... That Mrs. Van Esten meant to propose at the committee meeting to-day the name of Lyda Pavoya."
"Good gracious, for what?" gasped Nat Lowndes.
"To dance at the entertainment, of course. Mrs. Van E.'s maid and my maid are cousins. So I should say it was true. You know Mrs. Van E. is notorious for never listening to gossip. She prides herself on 'being above it'. Very silly, I think. Because one can make such awful 'gaffs' if one doesn't know the seamy side of things."
"No wonder the Duchess is late!" cried Mrs. Sam. "She has probably had to go home between the meeting and here to faint or have a fit."
Nobody could help laughing, and nobody tried to help it. There was a weekly paper in New York—a paper called the Inner Circle. This publication one got one's maid to buy and hide under a pile of books until it could be read. The moment all its paragraphs had been absorbed the paper was destroyed, thus making it possible to say, "the Inner Circle! I wouldn't give the wretched rag houseroom!" The inside middle pages of the "rag" were headed "Let's Whisper!" And at the time of the Phayre-Claremanagh marriage, two months ago, the choicest whispering had concerned the Duke's flirtation with Lyda Pavoya.
"It is easier to break off a flirtation than an engagement, because you can't be sued for breach of promise," was one mot of "The Whisperer," and it was intimated that the Duke had profited by this immunity when he proposed to Miss Phayre. "But what about the pearls?" was a question which no one had forgotten, and for which everyone wanted an answer. Oh, yes, it would be a rich joke if Mrs. Van Esten proposed Pavoya for a "star turn" at the Armenian charity entertainment!
"If it's true," said Nat, "Juliet couldn't very well refuse her consent to have Pavoya. That would make things worse. As it is, none of us could help noticing how she has kept the Duke away from every single opera where Pavoya has danced. Not once has he or she been in their box on a Pavoya night. But——"
The company hung on the word, as Nat drew in her breath, and paused for effect. Never were they to know, however, what revelation was to follow that "but," for at this instant Mrs. Lowndes' butler announced "The Duchess of Claremanagh," and left out the preface of "Her Grace."
His omission upset the hostess so much that she stammered over her greeting, and forgot what she had read in a book called "English Etiquette" about introducing a duchess. Juliet Claremanagh was so contrite for her own guilt, however, that she had no thought for others' shortcomings.
"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry to be late! Do forgive me, everyone!" she cried, like a penitent schoolgirl. "I was kept so long at that meeting, and then I had to dash home for a minute. My husband had made me promise. You see, this is supposed to be a great day for me. The pearls—perhaps you've heard of them?—are due at last!"
"Perhaps" they had heard of the pearls! The Duchess was forgiven at once. Introductions were hastily made. As the party sat down, the guest of honour pulling off her gloves, she went on with her excuses. Evidently she was willing to talk of the pearls, so Nat ventured an entering wedge.
"Emmy wrote me they had to be re-strung," she said. "And that the most skilled pearl-stringer in England wasn't demobilized, or something; so you had to wait." What Emmy had really written was, "This is the story they're putting round." But it would be exciting to get Juliet's answer, and watch Juliet's face.
The Duchess was somewhat paler than Juliet Phayre had been, for she and the Duke had made a huge success in New York, and were in such request that they kept appalling hours. But she was rosier than she had ever been as she replied that, yes, she had had to wait. But at last the pearls had been sent. They were on the Britannia, in care of a trusted person; and that person had "wirelessed" that he would be at the house by half-past twelve. Unluckily, however, the Britannia had been delayed outside for a sister ship to leave the dock. She—Juliet—had gone home from Mrs. Van Esten's to receive the messenger, with her husband. But the former and Pat's trusted man, sent to meet him, had not arrived. She had waited a few minutes, and had then come on in the car to Mrs. Lowndes'. Of course, the auto had been detained for ages, at two or three crossings! It was always like that if one were late! And now she could not be at home when the pearls appeared, for there were engagements, which couldn't be broken, for the whole of the afternoon.
After all, the luncheon was a great success. The Duchess atoned for her sins by being "sweet" to everyone, much sweeter than she had troubled herself to be, as a spoiled young girl, with strangers. She was as pleased as a child with the delicious dishes ordered, almost with prayer, by Nat; and when she was obliged to go, after coffee and cigarettes, she left behind her a charming impression. Mrs.
"She's much prettier than she used to be," generously said Nat (who had never seen Juliet as Miss Phayre), "and the Duke must be a fool if he likes Lyda Pavoya better. If he neglects his wife, she won't have any trouble finding someone else who won't."
"What about that cousin of hers, Jack Manners, who used to be in love with her when she was almost a child?—a nephew of her mother's," asked Mrs. Selby-Saunders. "An awfully nice fellow! She ought to have married him. They say he volunteered before America joined the Allies, because she refused him——"
"He's in France still," Nat supplied the information eagerly. "My sister-in-law, Lady West, met him there——"
"I saw in some newspaper that he was to sail for home on the Britannia" said Miss Solomon. "Perhaps he is the messenger bringing the pearls!"
John Manners was not the messenger bringing the pearls. Even if he had been asked to bring them, he would not have accepted the responsibility of escorting Claremanagh's "ewe lamb" across the Atlantic. He knew more about those pearls than he wanted to know, for he had been in love with Juliet Phayre before he began to like Claremanagh—to like him in spite of himself, in spite of natural jealousy, and in spite of prejudice. It was a mere coincidence that he should be on the same ship with Monsieur Mayen's messenger, for with the return of Mayen from Russia, Manners' friendly services for the Duke came to an end.
His services for France were ended also; and he was keenly interested in his own emotions as he touched the bell on the front door of the Phayre house. How would it feel to meet Juliet married—and married to a man with whom fate had queerly forced him into friendship?
The front door was a very elaborate door. It was mostly composed of old wrought iron so delicately carved as to be like iron lacework. Silas Phayre had imported it from an ancient palazzo in Florence and, characteristically, had it backed with modern plate glass. The inner side of this crystal screen was curtained with creamy silk tissue, thus forming a sort of mirror for any one waiting to enter. Manners gazed vaguely at his reflection behind the pattern of wrought iron, and his sense of humour noted that thwarted love had not made of him a haggard wreck. Fighting in France had browned and hardened him. He was lean, but far from frail. The dark tan on his face caused his yellowish hair to seem straw-coloured in contrast, and his eyes boyishly blue. This, and the khaki uniform he still wore, gave him an air of being younger than he was—twenty-eight: and the man and his image were exchanging an amused grin when a new reflection appeared in the glass. Mechanically Manners turned, and found himself face to face with a woman. She had paused at the foot of the marble steps, and hesitated, as if the sight of someone on the threshold had upset her calculations. But at this instant the door was thrown open—not by one of the imported English footmen whom Manners knew of old, but by an elderly Japanese. The yellow face gave Jack a shock, but he realized that British and American youths had been better employed than as footmen since he himself had gone to France.
The Japanese looked past the officer in khaki to the lady, whom he appeared to recognize and even to be expecting. This look settled matters for her. She decided to keep to her original plan. With a slight inclination of the head to Manners, she stepped briskly into the vestibule. Behind her, she left a faint trail of alluring fragrance. Even Jack Manners, who disliked artificial perfumes, breathed it in with pleasure. He had never smelled anything quite like it before; but he thought of an eastern garden in moonlight, and the thrill of that picture mingled with another thrill. He had recognized the woman. He had seen her before, but only on the stage, and now she was veiled with one of those patterned veils almost as concealing for an ordinary woman as a mask. But this was not an ordinary woman. It was Pavoya, the Polish dancer; the "divine Pavoya," the "diabolic Pavoya," according to the point of view. Even lacking the green glint of slanted eyes, the fiery glow of close-banded hair through the veil, that figure in the plain black dress would have been unmistakable. Portrait painters, photographers, post-impressionists, and caricaturists had rendered it familiar, in all lands, to those who had not seen the dancer herself. Manners could hardly believe in the truth of his swift impression. It was almost incredible that she should come as a guest to this house. Could she have made friends with Juliet? Juliet's cousin wondered.
The thing that happened next was still more strange. The slim siren in black did not wait to be ushered in by the servant. She flitted from vestibule to hall beyond, then vanished as if she knew where to go and was in haste to get there. The Japanese did not turn his head to look after her, but gave his attention to the man on the doorstep.
"I'm Captain Manners," said Jack. "I've come to see my cousin, the Duchess. I suppose she is at home?" He supposed this, not only because Juliet knew that he was due on the Britannia, and had cabled her desire to see him at once, but also because Mademoiselle Pavoya must have gone in by appointment. Even before the servant answered, however, he read in the troubled dark face that something had gone wrong.
"Please to walk in, sir," said the Japanese, in stiff, correct English. "I have a note for you from Her Grace the Duchess. She was unfortunately obliged to go out; but I think she hopes to be back early. If you will kindly walk into the Persian room, sir, I will give you the letter."
Well did Jack remember the Persian room! It had been Silas Phayre's great fad and favourite, and during his life had been used as a smoking room. Jack half expected to find Lyda Pavoya there, perhaps reading another note from Juliet; but the wonderful room, with its rare tiles and priceless rugs and exquisite old tapestries, was unoccupied. The servant placed an envelope on an antique tray of Persian enamel, and presented it with a bow. Then he went out unobtrusively, leaving Manners to study with some interest the seal Juliet had used.
It seemed superfluous that she should use any at all, as the scrawled address showed that the writer had been in haste; but the interesting thing was the seal itself. It was Claremanagh's own seal, which he kept for his private correspondence, and the ring with which he made it had been given by the Tsarina of the Pearls to his great-great-grandfather. Jack happened to know this, because the Duke had ordered a copy made for Louis Mayen, with which to seal the box containing the pledged pearls. Claremanagh had told Jack this story before leaving France, and had pointed out the ring, which he invariably wore. The design was an eye; and the motto underneath was, "Je te regard."
"Must have given the ring to Juliet," Manners thought, as he opened the envelope. He read:
DEAR OLD BOY:
Don't think me a beast to be out. I really couldn't help it. I was dragged into accepting for a tiresome lunch party, given by a tiresome female, in my honour: Emmy West's sister-in-law. Some story has been started that I was jealous of Emmy (among other women!) with Pat. Nonsense! But I knew, if I refused, what the creatures would say. Besides, I couldn't be sure just when you'd turn up. And above all, I wanted a chance to see you quite, quite alone. I've got lots of things to tell you, that I couldn't tell any one else. If you call while I'm away, as I expect, stop and see Pat, who is to lunch at home, as he's got a bad cold. Then say you must go, as you have an engagement. That will be true, because I now invite you to make an engagement with me. But if he insists on your visiting us, before you go home to Long Island, as he's sure to, do accept.  That's only an excuse, Jack, because you didn't quite see yourself staying in the house with Pat and me. But you are much too strong a man to mind a little thing like that. I don't believe you were ever in love with me, really. You just thought you were, that's all, from knowing me when I was a wee kid, and always being my bestest pal whom I could count on without fail.
Oh, Jack, I do count on you now, as I never did before.  I suppose this is selfish of me, and "exactly like a woman" (as Uncle Henry used to say, whenever I wanted to do anything he didn't want me to do), but I can't help it. You'll see, when I tell you, why nobody else can be of any use to me in this trouble.
I have to write all this, though I hope to meet you so soon; because if I didn't, you might refuse Pat's most pressing invitation. And where should I be then? Don't think for an instant that I'm tired of Pat, and want a divorce or anything. It isn't that at all. I adore him as much as ever. That's where the trouble comes in! But we've had a row, and every day it will get worse. Why, even the seal ring, which I'm using for this letter, has become a bone of contention—among other things. This does need a seal, if ever a letter did, for it's dreadfully indiscreet and unwifely, I suppose.
 And now for that engagement with me, which I trust you to keep. I am supposed to go to an "At Home," which I'm not sure isn't given for me. All I am sure about is that I shan't be there. Instead, I'll be in the Palm Room of the Hotel Lorne (where no one we know ever goes for tea) at five o'clock. And I shall wait for you, so you'll have to come. Afterward, if you haven't done it before, you can see to sending all your things to our house for a visit of at least a week. But we'll talk of that!
Ever your affectionate cousin,
JEWEL.
P. S. You see, I haven't forgotten your old name for me. No one except you ever called me his "Jewel."
When Manners had read this letter through, he sat with it for some moments in his hand. Then, suddenly, he roused himself to realize that it was not a document to flaunt in the open. He replaced it in the envelope, which he slipped into an inner pocket of his khaki coat. Had the Japanese told Claremanagh of his arrival, he wondered? Or had there been some secret understanding between the Duchess and her servant that Captain Manners should be left long enough in the Persian room to read and put out of sight her sealed letter? Claremanagh had his own confidential man, Nickson (known as "Old Nick"); why should not Juliet have hers? There was no reason. Yet Jack hated to think that the girl should be driven to a rather sordid expedient, and somehow this thought dragged into his head another.
"By George!" he exploded aloud. Then he bit his lip. But the thought could not be pushed away. Since Juliet was out, to whom was the visit of Lyda Pavoya being made?
The Japanese seemed to be in the confidence of more than one person in this house!
Simone had been in the act of coming downstairs, dressed for a walk with her mistress's English bulldog, Admiral Beatty, when a vision flashed through the hall: a reedlike figure in black with a glint of red hair through a patterned veil.
Simone stopped short, petrified, pulling so suddenly at the dog's leash that the reticent bull gave a grunt.
It took a great deal to petrify Simone. She had been through an earthquake in Italy. She had escaped from a burning hotel in her first year of service in New York. There had been further sensations also, and her nerves were accustomed to shocks. But to see Lyda Pavoya, the dancer, dart unannounced through the hall, when the Duke was alone in the house, went beyond everything.
She was certain, despite the veil, that the woman was Pavoya. No other creature on earth had a figure like that, or held her head so like a light flower on a stem. The Duchess was tall and slim and graceful, with a slender, long throat; but she had the slightness of a normal, charmingly formed young girl. The Polish dancer was almost a thing supernatural, a streak of living flame made woman.
Simone's dark skin was thick, but her head was not. Her brain worked fast. Like a general at manoeuvres, it reviewed the situation at a glance. The Duke was at home because of a "cold!" He had known for days that the Duchess would be out for luncheon, and that she was safe not to return home en surprise. He must have invited Pavoya to come in his wife's absence. And more than this, it struck Simone that the visit of to-day could not be the first. Togo, the Japanese (of whom she was jealous because of her mistress's fancy for his services), seemed to be acquainted with the dancer. He let her pass without a word. No doubt she had been to the house before, when the Duchess and Simone were out of the way.  The Frenchwoman resolved that she would not, after all, take Beatty for a walk. Bending down, she unfastened the leash from his expensive collar, on which was engraved: "Miss America from her British Ally. P.C. to J.P."
Feeling himself free the dog instantly turned and spraddled back to the Adored One's boudoir, where he was privileged to wallow among all the prettiest cushions. Such wallowing he much preferred to a promenade with Simone or any one else save his worshipped Duchess.
As Simone rose from her stooping posture, she saw that Togo had ushered a man into the house. A second glance enabled her to recognize this man, and she was more amused than surprised to see that it was Captain Manners. Juliet had not asked her maid to deliver the secret letter, because it would be simpler for the man who opened the door to do so, and as the confidential mission was given to another, the Duchess had prudently refrained for mentioning it to Simone. The latter imagined her mistress must mentally have mislaid the fact that she herself had seen in the papers: Captain Manners' return on the Britannia, from France.
In any case, here he was, and all that was cynical in Simone laughed at the contretemps. He was certain to have asked for the Duke, as the Duchess was out. Would Togo, who had just let in Pavoya, venture to interrupt a tête-à-tête, by announcing that Her Grace's cousin had arrived? It occurred to Simone that the Japanese had not dared to turn away so important a person, but that, having let him in, he would find some way of excusing the Duke.
The situation was too dramatic to waste. The Frenchwoman pictured His Grace's expression, faced by his wife's cousin and loyal friend. She had wanted her mistress to marry Claremanagh, because it was distinguished to be the maid of a Duchess, but she had liked Manners and received many a tip from him in days gone by. For that reason, and for others even more important, she must help Manners catch his cousin Juliet's husband and Lyda Pavoya together.
Thinking quickly, she tripped down the broad marble staircase which led to the great hall—a staircase that she was the one servant permitted to use. She had not passed the midway landing, however, when a second Japanese—a youth under the command of Togo—went hurrying toward the front door.
The electric bell was not audible to any one in the hall, but Simone guessed that a third caller had rung. In Togo's absence with Captain Manners, it was the duty of Huji to answer the door. The maid flew down the remaining steps, and was in time to hear the Japanese in embarrassed conversation with the latest arrival. This person was speaking broken English, and Huji, not as fluent in that tongue as Togo, could not understand.
"A Frenchman!" decided Simone. "Mon Dieu, it will be the messenger with the pearls!"
She stepped forward with a smile. "Monsieur," she said, "Je suis Française, la femme de chambre de la Duchesse. Si je puis être utile——"
The newcomer turned at the words, and beamed at sight of a compatriot. He was youngish, between thirty and forty, Simone thought. He was good-looking, too; richly dark, as if he might be a child of the south, like herself. His eyes were handsome, and his small features well cut; so were his clothes. He had a neat, close-clipped moustache, and red lips which made his teeth look white as he gave smile for smile, though in reality they were slightly yellowed by constant cigarette smoking. Simone approved of him. He had the air of being a gentleman, and she was glad that fate had made them meet.
Naturally she knew of the Tsarina pearls, and that they were expected, after tiresome delays; for Juliet was both trustful and careless where Simone was concerned. But, save for this little comedy, she would not have met the messenger. Vaguely the maid understood that he was private secretary to some French financier in whose "care" the pearls had been left; and a secretary was far above a femme de chambre in the social scale. It was a pleasant accident which enabled her to earn his gratitude, and Simone had a sudden vision of being invited out to dine, or go to the theatre, as a reward. Who knew how it might end if she played just the right cards?
For a moment the two tossed "politenesses" to each other in their own beautiful language, the Nicoise striving to speak like a Parisienne. But there was no time to waste before the return of Togo, and after a few flowery sentences Simone came to business. "Monsieur has arrived on the Britannia, is it not?" she fluted.
This told, as she intended, that the "mission" was no secret from her; and the way was cleared for the messenger. He showed her a visiting-card, with which he had vainly tried to impress Huji. "Leon Defasquelle" was the name Simone read, and its owner volubly explained that he was awaited with impatience by the Duke of Claremanagh. "This Oriental," he went on, with a glance at the attentive yellow face, "informs me, if I understand aright, that I cannot see the Duke."
"Monsieur may have understood Huji. But it is Huji who does not understand the situation," smiled Simone. "His Grace the Duke is confined to the house with a cold. Otherwise he would doubtless have met Monsieur at the ship. As it was, he sent his own man. Was not Monsieur received by an Irishman named Nickson?"
Monsieur Defasquelle shook his head sadly. There must have been a mistake. He had hoped to find someone who would see him through the formalities of landing, but no one had appeared. Possibly this was due to the fact that his luggage had been placed under the Letter F instead of D, and so the Duke's man had missed him. Fortunately, through the influence of Mr. Henry Phayre (still engaged in the noble work of reconstructing devastated France), and that of the well-known New York banking house of Phayre, there had been no difficulty with the Customs. His—Defasquelle's—mission had for obvious reasons been kept secret on shipboard, but the object he brought had been declared, and instead of being delayed at the dock, he had been aided by the authorities. It seemed strange now to meet obstacles at the journey's end!
"Be seated, Monsieur, for a moment," his countrywoman cooed. "I will go myself and tell His Grace that you have arrived. I am a privileged person in this house!"
Huji had understood not a word of the conversation in French, but seeing Simone start in the direction of the Duke's "study," he put himself in the woman's way. "Togo say Duke no see any peoples," he warned her in his best English.
"I will take the responsibility on myself," she said. "I knew the Duke long before Togo saw either of Their Graces."
With a slight push she passed the boy, and in her haste almost skated along the polished floor to the door next that of the Persian room. There she tapped sharply, without a second's hesitation, and waiting for an answer she could hear her heart knock in her breast.
For a long moment that felt longer there was no other sound. The silence behind the door seemed abnormal to her high-keyed nerves. But suddenly, as she was about to rap again, the door was flung open. The Duke stood on the threshold, his charming brown face less charming than usual, because of a slight frown. At sight of Simone he showed surprise, his scowl having been prepared for Togo.
"What is it? Has your mistress come home?" he asked. The frown had faded; the voice was kind. But this change did not deceive Simone. She was sure that the Duke was in what he himself would call a "blue funk," and the fear she imagined brought back the last picture her mind had made of him. Quickly she saw the way to kill two birds with one stone.
"Monsieur le Duc," she said in French. "The messenger has arrived from the Britannia, and is being detained in the hall by the Japanese. He is very vexed and surprised. I took it on myself to tell Your Grace, as I think this is a man who would go away in anger; and that would be a pity."
Claremanagh flushed. Simone read his confusion. Pavoya was not to be seen, but she was in the room, hidden somewhere; there was no doubt of that; either behind the big Spanish screen, or in the window recess covered by velvet curtains. If Simone had not learned to control her features she would have laughed. She knew that the wretched young man must be thinking, "What shall I do? If I go outside this room to meet Defasquelle, someone may walk in and find Pavoya. Perhaps it may be a plot of my wife's, who has come back and seen Pavoya! Yet if I receive Defasquelle here, Pavoya will have to remain hidden, since there will be no chance for her to escape."
It was a case of the frying pan and the fire, and to know which was which seemed a "toss up". However, the Duke made the best of things as they were, and decided quickly. "Of course I'll see this gentleman," he said in rather a loud tone. "Have him sent here at once."
"Bien, Monsieur le Duc!" agreed Simone; then added instantly, "And the Capitaine Manners? Is he to be kept waiting?"
"Good Lord!" exploded Claremanagh. "Is he here, too?"
"He has been here some time," the maid had begun to explain when Togo appeared, his eye bright with rage. This woman had upset his careful arrangements! He knew that she had done it to make mischief. But now there was no circumventing her. He had heard the whole story from Huji, and an elaborate plan to keep Captain Manners contented in the Persian room was a burst bubble. Meekly Togo took orders from the Duke to bring both visitors to him, Captain Manners first, because he was a relative, and not more than five minutes later, Monsieur Defasquelle.
"Does His Grace wish me to make his excuses to the messenger?" asked Simone, as Togo trotted off to the Persian room.
"Yes, go," said the Duke, no doubt anxious for an instant with the hidden one; and the maid hurried back to Defasquelle. In order to ingratiate herself, rather than exonerate her mistress's husband, she threw all her charm into the explanation. In five minutes—no more!—His Grace would receive Monsieur. Meanwhile, was there any information, any aid, she could give—she who had known New York for years? By the time Togo appeared to conduct the messenger, Defasquelle and Simone had discovered that they were both of the south; he, no farther from Nice than Marseilles. It was when the very invitation she had wished for hovered on the Frenchman's lips that the Japanese intervened, and Simone hated Togo more violently than before.
"Captain Manners, this is Monsieur Defasquelle, private secretary to Monsieur Mayen, of whom you have heard me speak," Claremanagh introduced the two men, as the messenger came in. He shook Defasquelle's hand and gave him one of the delightful smiles which helped to make him popular with all types and classes.
Jack tried not to hear what Juliet's husband and the Frenchman said to each other. Not that there was any special reason why he shouldn't hear, for he'd heard Pat groan over the pawned pearls till he was sick of the subject; and he had been drawn into the business of trying to get them for Juliet after Claremanagh left France. But his part in the affair was ended, and he felt that Pat would rather be alone with Defasquelle; that he had been asked to make a third on the scene entirely through politeness. Besides, he was grimly conscious that the three men were not the only persons present. He was as sure as Simone had been that Lyda Pavoya listened from behind the Spanish screen, or the half-drawn green velvet curtains. He was angry for Juliet's sake that the woman should be in the house, and disgusted that she should be hidden. Never had he come so near disliking Pat, even on the day when Juliet broke the news of her engagement. But to his own annoyance, he could not dislike him whole-heartedly. He even found himself sneakingly half-sorry for the fellow. Wondering why this should be, he was roused from his thoughts by the raised voice of Defasquelle.
"But I must beg, Monsieur le Duc, that you open the box in my presence and verify the contents!" he exclaimed.
"I see how you feel, but I can't do that, and it's not necessary," returned Pat.
Jack Manners had seated himself on the club-fender that guarded the fine fireplace. He had taken an illustrated paper to occupy eyes and hands, but glanced up and saw on the table between Claremanagh and Defasquelle a box neatly packed in some waterproof-looking material, sealed with five fat crimson seals.
"It would spoil all the fun if I broke those seals," Pat went on, in a more human tone. "My wife must be the first to open the thing, and see the pearls. I'm extremely sorry she's out. But it can't be helped. If you care to wait——"
"When will Madame the Duchess return?" Defasquelle enquired.
"That's more than I know. Not till late, I'm afraid."
"I have made an engagement in a half hour from now," regretted the Frenchman, taking out his watch. "It is an appointment that cannot be put off, as the person is not free to change from one time to another. Monsieur, I urge you to open the box. It is only fair to the Purser of the Britannia, who kept it in his safe. It is only fair to me——"
Claremanagh laughed. "Oh, don't bother about that side of it! Those seals alone are a proof that the packet hasn't been tampered with since it left Mayen's hands. You're his secretary, Monsieur Defasquelle, and he trusts you completely, or he wouldn't have chosen you, above any one else, as his messenger. But I don't suppose he would take that seal ring I gave him off his finger to lend it even to you. He volunteered the promise to me that it should never leave his hand. In fact, when I pledged the pearls to him for two hundred thousand francs, it was he who suggested fastening them up in a box sealed with my own particular, private seal."
"You are right so far, Monsieur le Duc," admitted Defasquelle. "My employer has been true to his agreement. For one thing, the ring you had made for him with the facsimile of your seal happens to be rather small. I do not think he could remove it from his finger if he wished without having it sawed off by a jeweller."
"Very well, then!" said Pat. "There you are!"
"But I am not there," argued the Frenchman, unfamiliar with English idioms. "Seals can be taken off and fastened on again, I have heard, without the change leaving a trace. I am certain these are intact. But, putting aside myself and the Pursuer, Monsieur would not——"
"Rot, my dear fellow!" cut in the Duke. "I trust Mayen as I trust myself. Of course, I know—we all three know—the pearls are inside that box. You say you can't wait for my wife to come home. I say the seals shan't be broken by any hand but hers. Let's be sensible! Manners, come here, won't you, and reassure Monsier Defasquelle by examining these seals!" He snatched the box up from the table, and held it out to Jack. "You've got sharp eyes. I leave it to you. Can't you swear that those five red blobs have never been tampered with, even by the smartest expert alive?"
Reluctantly Jack came forward, and accepting the box, closely examined the seals. "I think I'd be prepared to swear that," he said. "All the same, Monsieur Defasquelle is right, in my opinion. You owe it to him—to everyone concerned, including the company who've insured the pearls—to open the box before you let it go out of your sight."
"You're no true friend of Juliet's, to give me such advice," Pat taunted him. "And I won't take it. That's flat. While as for the seals, look there!" As he retrieved the package, he nodded at a ring on the least finger of his right hand.
Both men's eyes went to it; Defasquelle's to note, perhaps, how precisely the raised design of the wax resembled the sunken design on the gold. But there was a different thought in Jack Manners' mind. He remembered what Juliet had written him about this ring. What had happened between her and Pat? was the question that flashed through his head. A few hours ago she had sealed her "secret letter" with her husband's ring, after some dispute concerning it. And now, here it was on Pat's finger again!
Claremanagh, unconscious of Jack's disparaging reflections, began to regain something like his old gaiety of manner. "Are you satisfied, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Have a good look at it," he said, almost forcing it into the Frenchman's hand. "There's a safe in the wall of this room, made by my dead father-in-law, to keep such things as he didn't care to send to the bank. My wife and I are the only people alive who have keys to it, or know the combination. Besides, my own man is the one servant allowed in this room. So you see, Jack, I don't need to keep the box 'in sight' after Monsieur Defasquelle goes."
As he spoke, he walked toward an alcove at the left of the fireplace. It was fitted with bookshelves; and as Manners' eyes followed Claremanagh he remembered the secret of Silas Phayre's safe. Part of the top shelf had to be pulled out from the wall (after touching a spring) and then pushed up. Thus a small steel door was revealed, and could be unlocked only after a certain combination of letters had been made. Jack had not thought of the safe in years, or glanced in its direction on entering the room; but now, to his surprise, he saw that the bookshelf had already been pushed up, and the safe-door not only revealed, but opened.
Claremanagh's back was turned to him, and he could not see by a change of face whether Pat was vexed at his own forgetfulness, or indifferent. But Jack remembered the hidden fourth person in the room, and instinct told him that the safe had not been opened in readiness for the pearls. There had been some other motive. Claremanagh and the Polish woman had been interrupted in their tête-à-tête, and it would be characteristic of Pat if an unexpected rap on the door had caught him unawares. Could he have been in the act of giving Pavoya a jewel from the safe when he had been forced to answer a knock?
Luckily, no such suspicion could be in the Frenchman's head, for he had not seen Pavoya slip into the house. Jack glanced at him, and saw that he had laid the Duke's seal ring on the table beside the sealed packet. He was looking at the safe, but showed no surprise at finding it open. For him, it had been prepared to receive the pearls.
"There's a good little hidie-hole!" said Pat. "Now I'll sign the receipt, Monsieur, and you may go to your engagement with a light heart." He went back to the table, took the box, and tossed it into the aperture in the wall. Then he closed the steel door, did something to it which the eyes of neither man could follow, and pulled down the concealing bookshelf.
A moment later he was scrawling "Claremanagh" on the paper which Defasquelle rather sulkily put into his hand.
At five minutes before five o'clock Jack Manners entered the Palm Room of the Hotel Lorne. This room adjoined the restaurant, and was crowded with small tables lit by pink-shaded electric candles. The Lorne was a good hotel, but too stodgily respectable to be amusing. As there was no band at meal times or tea time, its clients were mostly unmodern creatures with a strange preference for peace and quiet.
It was well that Jack had arrived before the hour fixed, for at five precisely Juliet appeared. He had already engaged a table in a secluded corner half screened by drooping, feather-like branches; but his eyes were on the door, and he sprang up as the tall, girlish figure drifted in between two palms.
At sight of his boyhood's love, his heart gave a bound. How lovely she was in her sheathlike grey dress, with dangling silvery things, like clouds of dawn filming a pale sunrise sky! Her hat was simple yet quaint, pushing forward her bright hair, and making her face look young as a child's—pathetically young. Yes, "pathetic" was the word, Jack thought as he went to meet her, and she came hastening to him as to a haven. And "pathetic" was a new word in connection with Juliet Phayre!  Manners wondered if it could be the dip of her odd hat-brim which gave her that look of transparent pallor, and the blue shadows under her big eyes.
There were not many people in the room, as tea at the Lorne was far from a fashionable function. Those who were there seemed absorbed, in a tired, provincial-shoppers' way, in the muffin and tea business. Still, Juliet was too tall and beautiful not to be conspicuous even if unrecognized, and a few weeks ago no Sunday Supplement had been complete without her photograph. The two could do no more than gaze deep, eyes in eyes, for an instant, as they met near the door, and squeeze instead of shaking hands; but all prudence was Jack's. He saw by Juliet's face that the tea-drinkers were of no more importance to her than the chairs they sat in, and he could have kissed the face turned up affectionately to his—if he would. But he would not, and he did not even speak until he had her seated at their palm-screened table.
"Oh, Jack, it's great to see you!" Juliet said, when a too-attentive waiter had finished taking their order. Tears suddenly welled to her eyes. She dived into a gorgeous gold mesh bag for a handkerchief, which was not there. "Must be lost!" she sniffed. Hastily Jack passed his across the table, and had a heart-piercing impression that he had lived through this scene before, in happier days. But yes, of course! Often, when he was a big boy and she was a little girl, she had come to him for consolation. And she had always lost her "hanky!" It was then, when he was about sixteen, and she eleven, that he had first begun to love her, with a protecting love that had changed but never waned as the years passed. Now she belonged to another man. Yet she still called to him, across the gulf marriage had made, for help and comfort! Jack Manners wondered what had happened to his red blood, that the pain he suffered was not more acute.
"I'm too sorry for the child to think of myself just now," he diagnosed his feelings, with the picture of Pavoya in his mind. "The reaction will come by and by."
Juliet began at once to pour out her woes, forgetting to ask what had happened during Jack's visit to the house—what her husband had said, or whether the pearls had come.
"Pat doesn't love me," she broke out. "That's why I'm miserable. I don't know how to live. And I wouldn't have believed it if any one had told me—except himself."
"You don't mean that Claremanagh says——" Jack began to blunder; but Juliet cut him short. "Not in words, of course. But I found a letter from that devil, Pavoya. It began, 'My Best and Dearest Friend'. Isn't that the same thing as telling me? The woman wouldn't write to him like that if he didn't encourage her."
Jack longed to comfort the girl; but after what he had seen, he was at a loss for consoling words. "How did you happen to find the letter?" he temporized.
"Why, it had to do with the fuss about Pat's seal ring," the girl confessed. "But first, I'd better explain that when I was being married, I made firm resolutions never to mention the name of Pavoya to Pat. Emmy West almost dared me to! And that alone was enough to show me it would be a silly mistake. But one night after we'd come to New York and were settling down happily, we had an exciting, intimate sort of talk about our pasts. It was a beautiful talk! And I felt so sure of Pat, I just couldn't resist asking if he'd ever loved Pavoya. He swore he hadn't; he'd only admired her a lot, and flirted a little. It was nothing at all beside what he felt for me. He was so dear that I burst out about how nasty Emmy West and other people had been—how unhappy they'd made me, more than once. Pat said 'Damn Emmy West and all the cats!' I loved that! And while the mood was on, I asked if he were willing to promise he'd not see Pavoya in New York.
"The minute those words were spoken, I saw a change in Pat. He said he couldn't make such a promise. There might be circumstances which would force him to see her. He wouldn't call on her, though. I had to be satisfied with that, and I was—almost, till one day when I'd teased him to lend me his seal ring. It's supposed to bring luck, you know. So I thought I'd try it, for bridge. I had to wear it on my thumb; it's too big for my fingers. I was playing that afternoon at Nancy Van Esten's. I had a Frenchwoman for a partner. I'd never met her before. Perhaps you knew her in Paris? A Comtesse de Saintville: her husband is on some mission here. She's a very impulsive woman—neurotic, I should think. I didn't feel drawn to her, because I'd heard she was a great pal of Lyda Pavoya's: that they went about together a lot. Suddenly she noticed the ring. She squeaked, 'Why, I know that eye! I saw it on a letter the other day.'  I could see her colour through inches of powder! Of course, I guessed where she'd seen the letter. And there was only one person who could have sent it. Maybe I turned red, too. But I pretended to take no interest, and Nancy Van Esten said 'Do let's play bridge!'
"I went home perfectly wretched. Pat thought I was ill. I didn't contradict him. I hadn't made up my mind what to do. But one thing I did—I kept the ring. Day before yesterday he asked me for it. I knew what that meant! He wanted to write to her again—perhaps had a letter to answer. I showed quite plainly that I hated giving up the ring. But he didn't care. He would have it. The only sort of 'concession' he made was to say he'd give it back next day—after he'd finished a batch of correspondence. Well, the next day came, and he didn't give the ring back, though I saw he wasn't wearing it. You know how forgetful and careless he often is! I was sure he'd left the ring where he sealed his letters. He'd promised I should have it again. I suppose I had a right to take it, hadn't I?"
 But he did not speak, and she hurried on to defend herself. "I felt I had the right," she persisted, without conviction. "So yesterday I went into the room that used to be Dad's den. It's Pat's den now. He wasn't in——"
"Did you think he would be?"
"No-o. As a matter of fact, he'd gone to the bank. You know he works there. He's quite keen. He'd been late about getting off, so he'd started in a hurry. His desk wasn't locked. I don't know whether he ever locks it, because I never tried the drawers before. Anyhow, in the top drawer a lot of letters were tumbled in—letters he'd received, and letters he'd written—not in envelopes yet. All sorts of things were there in disorder—fountain pens, sealing wax, and—the ring! It was on an open letter that lay face up, a letter with a purple monogram of L.P.  I saw the beginning I told you about: 'My Best and Dearest Friend'—in French. Oh, Jack, I thought I should have died. I almost wish I had!"
"Nonsense!" Jack scouted her grief. "If the letter had had anything in it Pat was ashamed to have you see, you may be sure even he wouldn't have been so careless."
"It wasn't exactly carelessness made him leave it," Juliet said, sadly. "It was trust in me. He didn't dream that I—would do such a thing as read a letter of his. And I didn't read it. I didn't read another word, Jack. One side of me wanted to, horribly. The other side was disgusted at the idea—the stronger side, it turned out."
"Good girl!" cried Jack.
"Yes, I do think I was a saint. But virtue never has any reward except its own. I left the ring and the letter. But I felt half dead. I decided things couldn't go on as they were. I meant to speak to Pat when he came home."
"And did you?"
"No, because he was ill—had a bad headache—the beginning of a cold. Or else he was pretending. I can't trust him now! But he looked pale and odd, so I nobly left him alone till this morning. Then I went to the study, and asked him to keep his promise about the ring. He pulled open the drawer. There it was on the letter, as I saw it yesterday. That gave me my chance. I said, 'Pavoya has been writing to you. I see her monogram.' And I pretended to read, 'My Best and Dearest Friend', for the first time."
"By George!" exclaimed Jack, as Juliet stopped for breath.
"By George, indeed!" she echoed. "Pat accused me of being suspicious. I accused him of being untrue. We had a scene! I never thought I could say such things to Pat as I said. The way he took them made me worse.  I suppose he hates me now. If he hadn't deserved every word I said, I should deserve to be hated for saying them. If he'd loved me, he would have boxed my ears! I half expected he would. But seeing him stand like a graven image, I turned to leave the room. He opened the door for me to go out, and handed me the ring."
"You took it!"
"I had to, or fling it in his face.  Then I sent it back to him by Old Nick.  And I don't know how we are going to behave to each other when we meet next."
"You will behave as if nothing had happened, of course," Jack said with decision.
"That's your advice?"
"Certainly. And nothing has really happened, so far as you know. You have no proof that Claremanagh has broken his word about calling on Pavoya. And you've seen no letter from him to her——"
"Someone else saw his seal!"
"The most innocent words may have been under it. And you can't blame a man if a woman chooses to address him as her 'dearest friend'. At least you've no right to do so."
"Don't you think I have?  And you don't understand women."
"Good heavens, I don't claim to! And I do not defend Claremanagh. I merely say, give him the benefit of the doubt. Only men and women in melodrama refuse to hear any defense from the suspected one. You asked for my advice. There it is, my child, whether it pleases you or not."
"Well, if you want me to be as cool and reasonable as you are, you've got to stand by me, and see me through."
"I'm neither cool nor reasonable where you're concerned, Juliet. But you know I'll stand by you."
"You mean, you'll not go to Long Island? You'll stay in New York, and be our guest?"
"I'll not go to Long Island—at present. I'll stay in New York. But I won't be your guest."
"You're cruel, Jack! You're selfish!" Juliet cried, as she had often unjustly cried before.
"You know better," he said. "It is the outsider who sees the game. I ought to see it—if I'm to help. And I wouldn't be an outsider if I were your guest. I've taken rooms at the Hotel Tarascon, only one street away from your house and Pat's."
Juliet was silent for a moment. She had a hideous fear that, in her anger, she had flung Her house, Her money, Her everything, at Claremanagh's stone pale face.
 She had sent away her own car, before going to the Lorne, and though there was no wrong in her secret, she was weighed down by a sense of guilt as she went to her room. This annoyed her, because the one guilty person in the house was Pat!
She had heard, toward the end of her conversation with Jack, that the pearls had come while he was with the Duke; but the girl was too wretched to care. How did she know that the story about Monsieur Mayen was not a "fake"? It was quite possible that Pavoya had had the pearls for months, and had only now given them up, under cover of Mayen's name, and his messenger on the Britannia. Juliet felt as Emmy West had expected her to feel: She hated the pearls! Whatever the truth was, she could take no pleasure in wearing them. All the same, she would wear them, to show curiosity-mongers that they were not in Lyda Pavoya's hands. She would wear them this very night.
She and Claremanagh were engaged to dine at the Van Estens', and he had insisted in the morning that he would be well enough to go. Now, for all she could tell, he might have changed his mind, and 'phoned that his cold would keep him at home. That excuse should not affect her, however. If he did not bring or send the pearls to her room, Simone should take him a note. In this, Juliet would say, not that Jack had told her, but that she "supposed the messenger had arrived," and she would ask for the pearls to wear at Nancy's dinner party—ask for them not as a favour, but because of the right she had, as Duchess of Claremanagh.
"Madame is very late!" were Simone's first words as Juliet flung open her bedroom door. "I began to be anxious."
Juliet glanced at her wrist-watch and a French clock on the mantel. It was true, she was late! She had a new gown which there had been no time to try, and dinner was at eight.  She was "jumpy" and cross as Simone unfastened the many little hidden hooks and tiny lace buttonholes of the "dawn-cloud" dress. Simone's hands were cold as ice, she complained. She hoped Simone wasn't "sickening for something!" Then, it seemed that the quaint grey hat had spoiled her hair, which usually remained in perfect order throughout the day. It had to be let down; and being immensely long and thick, would take twenty minutes to rearrange. Never, never had Simone been so awkward! Her fingers were all thumbs!
For a few moments, in her need of haste and her nervous agitation, Juliet forgot the crying question of the pearls. But a knock at the door which separated Pat's room from hers set every pulse a-throb. He had come, of his own accord!
The blood rushed to her cheeks, and as she turned to the opening door, she looked gloriously beautiful. Her eyes met Claremanagh's with the desperate appeal of a loving, tortured soul, and he was disarmed.
"Could you let Simone go for a few minutes?" he asked. "I should like to speak to you alone."
A few seconds ago Juliet had been fuming because every instant counted. But suddenly time ceased to be of importance. She didn't care how late she might be for Nancy's dinner. She didn't care if she were too late to go at all!
Simone, who knew that things were not as they should be, expected her mistress coldly to refuse the Duke. She was intensely surprised to be sent away and told not to return for fifteen minutes. Sensitively jealous, the maid resented being sent out of the room for ce traitre, as she mentally called Claremanagh. What a different scene there would be between husband and wife if she had betrayed to the Duchess the secret of the afternoon! To do so would satisfy her love of drama, and her pique against the Duke; but Simone knew too well "which side her bread was buttered." For one thing, the Duchess would not hear such a tale from a servant, even her trusted maid. The Duke might be sent "packing" by the heiress, but so would Simone! And for another thing, there must be no possible suspicion when the "Whisperer" of the Inner Circle whispered next, as to where the whisper had started. It would not do for Simone to know that Lyda Pavoya had called on the Duke of Claremanagh in his American wife's absence.
The instant the Frenchwoman was out of the room, Pat came close to Juliet. He was dressed for dinner, all but coat and waistcoat, and Juliet adored him thus, in his glittering white expanse of evening shirt. She had often told him so.
"You were not very kind to me this morning," he said, looking down at her, his face graver than she had ever seen it before this day. "I may as well tell you I was a good deal hurt, and angry, too—though I haven't deserved too well of you, perhaps. But to see you as you are now makes me forget everything, except that we've been dear lovers, and that you're the most beautiful girl on earth—my girl! You look just as you looked that evening at Harridge's, a million miles away, in old London—the night before our wedding when I came in suddenly, and you'd been washing your hair.
"I never hated you—not for a minute!" cried Juliet. "I thought you hated me!"
"Then you were jolly well mistaken," said Pat.
They gazed at each other like two fencers, for a moment; then Juliet sprang up, and held out her arms.  Something he held in his hand, out of her sight behind his back, fell to the floor. She started at the sound, and he let her go, laughing like his old self.
"'History repeats'!" he exclaimed. "Do you remember the little box I brought you, with its blobby seals? Well, I have another sealed box for you to-night. You're to open it as you opened that one, and you will find the same thing inside. Only, it will be the same thing with a difference."
He picked up the packet from the floor, and handed it to Juliet with a flourish. "Voilà, Madame! Les plus belles chases, pour la plus belle dame."
"The pearls!" Juliet breathed.
"The pearls!" echoed Pat.
The girl was thrilled. How could she have hated the things so angrily an hour ago? Her whole mood concerning them and concerning life had changed under Pat's kisses. She was going to love his pearls for his sake, and the sake of their own romance!
"Why, the seals haven't been broken!" she exclaimed, as she took the box.
"No, I was determined you and you alone should do the breaking."
"But—didn't the messenger insist?"
"He did. Two can play at that game, though!"
"What about the receipt? I should have thought he'd object——"
"'Object' is a mild word. I convinced him in the end, however—if not that I was right, anyhow that I meant to have my own way. Darling, this is a happy moment for me—though I didn't expect to be happy to-night. Break the seals. Open the box. And I shall know by your eyes what you think of its contents."
With trembling fingers Juliet obeyed. Each seal was so perfect, it seemed a shame to shatter the delicate eye in crimson wax. Laughing, she remarked that it was clear no thief had touched the box. Pat agreed, and took from her the waterproof wrapping as she peeled it off. Within was a wooden box, with a sliding lid, such as French jewellers use. Claremanagh had bought it himself, at Mayen's request, he explained to Juliet; and the seal (made also by his ring) which held the cover in place had been pressed by his hand in the presence of his friend, the "super money-lender."
"By Jove, I'm proud of it!" he exclaimed. "It's a work of art. I'd forgotten how good it was. The best seal I've ever done, and I've called myself an expert—a Genie of the ring!"
It needed a pair of scissors to loosen the wax from the wood. Then Juliet slipped off the lid, and took from the box something wrapped in a handkerchief of fine Irish linen. "You'll find my monogram on that rag," said Pat, apparently enjoying himself. "Mayen would make me wrap the case with the pearls in something that belonged to me—something that couldn't be copied easily by a thief. My hair wasn't quite long enough to do up a parcel in, and this was the only other thing we could think of!"
While he gaily explained, Juliet slowly—tantalizing herself—unwound the linen folds. So doing, she smelt a faint fragrance of tobacco—Pat's special tobacco which left its odour on all his clothes. It had seemed exquisitely exciting to the girl when she was engaged to Claremanagh, and it was more so than ever to-night, when they were having this heavenly reconciliation—a reconciliation partly due to Jack's advice and his defence of the Duke. But it was odd that the scent should have lasted all these months!
Juliet exclaimed over this to Pat, but he accounted for it by reminding her how closely the handkerchief had been shut up in the box.
At last she was looking at the jewel-case which had once belonged to the love-sick Tsarina! It was of white velvet, creamy now with age, and stamped with crowns in gold, pathetically and appropriately dimmed. The catch was curious and beautiful: a big cabochon ruby shaped like a heart. Juliet pushed it, and lifted the satin lid. There, on the cushion, lay the long rope of pearls curled up like a snake, with the curious diamond clasp for its head.
The girl had expected to cry out in amazed admiration at sight of the wonderful thing—"Claremanagh's ewe lamb." She had expected to be literally dazzled. But instead, she suffered a shock of disappointment.
With all the will in the world to be pleased and grateful, she was dumb. She could think of nothing to say; and she tingled with embarrassment under her husband's eyes.
"Well, darling," he said, after a few seconds of waiting. "Don't the poor pearls come up to your hopes?"
"Oh, yes!" she forced herself to answer. "Aren't they big? Aren't they blue? I never saw any so-called 'blue pearls' so really blue as these."
 "Don't you think by this time I know your tones and your expressions? Out with it, Jule! Bless you, I shan't be hurt. I didn't make the pearls, you know.  You could have had pearls as big as plums, in a rope to your feet, if you'd wanted 'em. Only your taste was too good. What's the matter with these baubles?"
"Why," the girl hesitated, "if I must say what I think you know I am supposed to be a bit of an expert, in my little amateur way, it seems to me these pearls aren't as lustrous as they ought to be. Perhaps they're 'sick'. They may need sea-water, or something. Yet they haven't the symptoms of 'dying' pearls. They haven't lost their colour. They've got almost too much—to look real."
"They're real enough!"
"Of course they must be. And the clasp is charming, isn't it? An eye made of a blue sapphire, set in white diamonds, rimmed with tiny black ones; an eye like the design of your seal, except that this one looks to the right, and——"
"To the right!" Pat caught the words from her mouth. "Impossible!"
Juliet stared. "But it does. You may see for yourself."
"Good God!" There was horror in his voice.
Juliet could not understand.  "What is the matter?" she asked.
"Give me the thing!"
She handed him the rope.
He glared at the clasp as if the diamond and sapphire eye were a miniature head of Medusa. Then he turned to her with a dazed expression, still in silence.
"You frighten me," she faltered.
"You—you say you're an expert in pearls," he said. "How can you tell real ones from false?"
"One very simple way is to touch them to the tip of the tongue," Juliet explained, bewildered. "Real pearls are always cold. False ones can be warmish. Besides, the surface feels different. And even if the weight is right——"
"Test these," Pat said.
The girl took back the gleaming blue rope, and lifted the largest pearls to her lips.
"They are—false," she gasped, after an instant's pause.
"You are sure?"
"Yes. I am sure."
The two stared at each other in silence, and both were pale.
Juliet's mind was confused. "The pearls false!" She tried to hammer the words into her brain, and understand fully what the thing would mean for her and Pat. She thought of Louis Mayen, the "super money-lender," who had kept the pearls for months, and supposed that Claremanagh also must be thinking of him.
"What a treacherous, horrible man!" she broke out, at last.
"Who is treacherous—horrible?" he stammered.
"Why, your friend Mayen, of course!" she explained. "My poor Pat!"
Comprehension dawned in Claremanagh's eyes. "Oh, Mayen had nothing to do with this!" he assured her.
"Who else, then?" Juliet persisted. "The purser on the ship, who had the box in his safe, coming over? But he didn't have the seal. Mayen had it. He—or his messenger could——"
"Put that idea out of your head, my darling," urged Claremanagh. "Mayen had the seal, and of course it's on the cards that Defasquelle, his messenger, might have stolen it or had an imitation one made. But neither of them had the——"
Abruptly the Duke stopped. He had been talking fast and eagerly, and he pulled himself up so short that it was as if he stumbled. Juliet had been examining the quaint clasp of the false pearls, which she still had in her hand, but that shocked pause brought her eyes to her husband's face. It had been pale and strained, but now there was a look upon it of physical suffering.
"You've thought of the one who did it!" she cried. "Someone you care for!"
By an intense effort Claremanagh seemed to withdraw all expression from his face. It became dull, like a handsome mask. "I wish I had thought of any one," he said. "No such luck."
Juliet had pitied him unselfishly at first, for after all the pearls were his, not hers, and the loss—sentimental and material—would be very great if the Tsarina's pearls were gone. But his look, his changed tone, and the cloud that seemed to rise between them like a mist roused her vague resentment. She felt as if she had tried to comfort him and he had pushed her away.
"Pat!" she exclaimed, sharply. "It's no use your trying to put me off. You have thought who changed the pearls—or anyhow, of a person who might have done it. You've simply got to tell me. I have a right to know."
"My dear child," he protested. "You do spring to the wildest conclusions!"
Juliet's anger rose. "The whole thing is wild. Only wild conclusions are of any use. If you don't want me to try and help you, I won't. But I can't prevent myself from seeing one thing that perhaps you don't see yet.
Claremanagh flushed scarlet. "I do see," he said. "At least, I see what you're hinting at. If I purloin my own pearls, and secretly sell them, while getting credit at the same time for giving them to my wife, I bring off a very neat coup. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
The thing sounded so crudely villainous when put into words that Juliet was ashamed. But there was a fierce light in the eyes which until to-day had never looked at her except in love—or seeming love. Juliet would not let her husband fancy for an instant that he had made her flinch. "Yes, that's what I mean," she answered. "One's dear friends are capable of any insinuation."
"And even those dearer and nearer than friends!" Pat flung at her. "Oh, I realize that I'm the classic target. A poor Irish peer—the poorest of the lot!—who dares to marry America's richest girl. No beastly trick too vile to believe of him! Of course a blighter like that couldn't have married the girl for love."
To hear the words spoken, even in bitterest sarcasm, was like the prick of a knife. Juliet had pushed them out of her own mind so often that it was sharpest anguish to have them thrust into it by Pat's adored lips. If he loved her, she could not see how it was possible for him to speak like that! In thinking this, she pitied herself desperately, and forgot her own words which had lashed him to retaliation. She forgot, too, how that very morning her lips had flung this very taunt. She had shown him sharply how much her own she considered her fortune, her house, and everything he shared as her husband.
It seemed to her that now he was inadvertently confessing, rather than sneering at possible accusers. Juliet defended her own attractions pitifully, yet there was nothing pitiful in her look. She loomed tall and aggressive, and cruelly beautiful, with blazing eyes and cheeks.
"A great many men have told me they loved me, and that no one could help loving me for myself, but I never believed any of them till I met you; and then I was a conceited fool to think you could care for me after Lyda Pavoya."
Pat started as if she had boxed his ears: and Juliet, too, was surprised. She had not meant to say that. The thing had said itself. For an instant his eyes flamed. Then their fire died out, and left them cold. He looked disgusted. "I told you once that I had never loved Mademoiselle Pavoya," he said. "One isn't used to having one's word doubted. It's rather humiliating to have it happen with one's own wife. But putting that aside, why not keep to the point? Why bring up the lady's name when we are discussing quite a different affair—the affair of these pearls?"
Out of Claremanagh's coldness a demon was born, and flew straight to Juliet's heart. For an instant she lost all sense of her own love for her husband.  She tingled all over with indignant humiliation. It was as if Pat had said, "I happen to be your husband, but you are only a commoner with no traditions of fine breeding behind you, while I am a man whose ancestors might have had yours for servants. No wonder you have no intuitive idea of decent decorum."
"Is it a different affair?" she cried. "Or is it one single affair—the affair of Lyda Pavoya and your pearls?"
Again the words had spoken themselves, but a flare of enlightenment came with them. Surely something had made her speak. Something which knew what she hadn't thought of till this moment: that Lyda Pavoya had taken the pearls.
How she could possibly have got them, if they had ever been in Louis Mayen's keeping, Juliet could not see. But she had them—she had them!  He had begun to defend Mayen and Defasquelle. "But neither one of them had the——" he had said, and stopped short, with an awful look on his face—the look of seeing something which no one else must be allowed to see. What thing was there that Mayen and his messenger had not, which another person might have had? A thing which would make theft possible? A person who must be protected at any price?
Juliet could not guess yet what the thing might be, but the second guess was all too easy.
This time the Duke showed no sign of surprise, therefore he was not surprised. He merely looked more disgusted than before, which made his lack of love for his wife and his wish to defend the Polish dancer more evident to Juliet's racked mind.
"When I gave you my word about not loving Mademoiselle Pavoya I gave it also about the pearls," Claremanagh said. "I told you then that she had never had them. I can only repeat the statement, since you seem to have forgotten."
"I have forgotten nothing!" cried Juliet. "It's a man's code of honour, I suppose, to defend a woman, no matter how. But if that's not so—if you don't care enough for Lyda Pavoya to lie for her to your wife, I'd like to know how you'll answer this question: Do you swear that you don't suspect her of somehow stealing the real pearls, and putting imitation ones in their place?"
Claremanagh's face changed. He had been frankly though coldly furious. Now he looked stricken. "I would lie for no one on earth, except for you, and then only to save your life," he said. "It's an insult from you to me to ask that I should swear such a thing.
"Very well, then, your simple word is enough," said Juliet. "Give it that you don't think Pavoya has the pearls."
Claremanagh was silent, his eyes upon her. And in that silence, short as it was, Juliet heard a tiny voice speak. It whispered: "The thing Pavoya had, which the other didn't have, was a copy. She had a copy of the pearls."
"I could not believe such a thing," the Duke answered. "I have known Mademoiselle Pavoya for years. She is a good woman."
Juliet laughed, and laughing flung the false pearls on the floor. "'A good woman!' You have original ideas! I've heard a lot of things about her from a lot of people, but never that before."
"Because only malicious speeches are amusing, they are the ones 'a lot of people'—the lot we know—mostly make."
"Pooh!" sneered Juliet. "I see the whole thing now—except how she got the real pearls. But this imitation rope she had. You can't face me, and say she hadn't."
"I'll say nothing more on the subject while you're in this mood," returned Claremanagh.
"All right, if you think prevarication more honourable than lying straight out," panted Juliet, holding down sobs. "But you won't do her any good with me—or yourself either. You were scared blue when I said the eye of the clasp looked to the right instead of to the left, like the eye on your seal ring. You'd hardly believe it till you had to. Then the whole thing grew clear to you, as it's growing for me now. This copy existed. The clasp was made the wrong way, by mistake or on purpose. As soon as I spoke, you knew what had happened. Your first thought—as soon as you could think—was to save that woman.  I——"
"Do you intend to make a scandal of this beastly business?" the Duke cut her short with violence.
Juliet quivered. "I don't care about my life now," she said. "You've spoilt it. You couldn't punish me any more than you've punished me already—for loving and trusting you. So it doesn't matter what I——"
"It matters immensely," he broke in again. "You are cruel to yourself—to me—to a woman who has never injured you. When I say that you'll repent making a scandal, I don't mean because I'd try to 'punish' you. My God, no! You'll repent because you will be doing a great injustice which can't possibly be repaired. And at heart, when you're true to yourself, you are just."
"It's no use your trying to appeal to my sense of justice," Juliet warned him. "That's the last thing for you to bring up!"
He looked at her very sadly, very strangely, it seemed to his wife, as if anger were dying out, and a great sorrow had taken its place. But that was only his cleverness—his deadly, Irish cleverness, of course!
"What, then, do you intend to do?" he asked.
Once more confusion fogged the girl's brain, a desolate confusion like chaos after ordered beauty; the end of all joy, all loveliness.
"I don't know yet," she said, dully. "I shall have to think."
As Juliet spoke, fingers tapped lightly on the door: Simone's fingers, no doubt. Her fifteen minutes of banishment had passed.
"Come in!" Juliet spoke mechanically; and if she wished to withdraw the words, it was too late. The Frenchwoman opened the door.
"Madame la Duchesse is ready for me to finish dressing her?" she asked.
Vaguely it struck Juliet that Simone's voice was not quite natural. She had probably been listening at the keyhole, and had heard everything. But, on second thoughts, what did it matter? Juliet told herself miserably that nothing could be the same as it had been. She could not go on after this, living with Pat as his wife. All the world would soon know that there was trouble between them, and Simone's knowing first was of little importance. She was only a servant, and luckily a loyal and discreet servant.
As Juliet paused a second before speaking, Claremanagh answered for her: "The Duchess is feeling very tired, and as you know, I'm not well. We've about decided to telephone that we can't go out," he said.
"But not quite decided," his wife amended. "I think that if you prefer to stay at home, I shall go and make your excuses in person."
Pat showed surprise. He had taken it completely for granted that she would not dream of dining at the Van Estens'. "No," he decided, after an instant's thought. "If you are equal to it, so am I."
"He's afraid to trust me alone," Juliet told herself, "for fear I shall say something." "Very well," she said aloud. "You better hurry up and get ready, then. We're late as it is."
Pat did not answer.  Evidently Nickson had not been with his master to-night. Juliet wondered where the man was, and with a bitter sense of amusement pictured "Old Nick's" emotions if she began a suit for divorce against the Duke. She had always liked the queer fellow, who had been as fine a soldier, Pat said, as he was an indifferent valet: had liked him partly because of his thrilled admiration of her. Deeply as he adored her at present, however, that love was nothing beside what he felt for the Duke. It made Juliet a shade more miserable than before to know that the worshipping Nick would soon cease to worship. So far, she had kept back her tears, but they were becoming irrepressible when Simone exclaimed: "Oh, the wonderful pearls! Madame la Duchesse has let them fall on the floor."
The current of Juliet's thoughts changed instantly, and the brimming tears dried at their source.
"The wonderful pearls!" she repeated, with infinite bitterness, sure as she was that Simone had been at the keyhole. But the look of pained astonishment on the woman's face made her wonder if, after all, Simone had heard "everything." Perhaps she had caught parts only of the conversation, and had been trying to find out "for sure" whether she had heard aright.
Juliet had perfect trust in Simone, so far as discretion was concerned, but it was within her estimate of the maid's character that she should eavesdrop. People of her class did that sort of thing and thought it no harm. It made the drama of their lives! Simone would keep her knowledge or her suspicion to herself, of course, until whatever was fated to happen had happened. Then, no doubt, she would tell her friends that she'd "known all along." Still, Juliet suddenly disliked the thought of being pitied even by her maid. Simone was aware that her mistress had looked forward to getting the pearls. It was humiliating that she should have instead a mere string of wax or fish-scale beads! If Simone had heard, it couldn't be helped. If she hadn't, however, she should remain in ignorance.
"They're not quite as glorious as I expected them to be," Juliet remarked. "I suppose it's like that with everything in life."
"But they are very beautiful," ventured Simone with the privileged air of the old and trusted servant which she put on like a sort of chain armour at times. "Will Madame la Duchesse wear them to-night?"
Juliet was taken aback. She had, of course, intended to wear the Tsarina pearls. She had told herself that she would do so, if only that everyone should see that she, not Pavoya, had them. But since discovering the truth about them—why, it had not occurred to her that she could wear the things! Rather would she have thrown them into the fire. Suddenly, however, she saw the matter from another point of view. Suppose she did appear wearing the rope? To do so would give her time to think. And it would be interesting to see Pat's face when he caught sight of them.
"Oh, yes, I'll wear the pearls," she said. "You know perfectly well I had this shot blue and silver tissue made on purpose to go with them. Why shouldn't I wear them, Simone?"
Simone did not answer, because she understood that no answer was expected. She had overheard something, and it was not her fault that she had not overheard all. Unfortunately for her the room was large, and the Duke and Duchess had stood talking at a good distance from the door. The manner of her mistress, however, filled up several aching gaps in Simone's curiosity; and putting together what she knew and what she surmised, the maid changed her mind as to her own wisest course of conduct.
She had intended to sacrifice inclination to prudence, and say nothing to the Duchess about the Polish dancer's visit that afternoon. Now, she decided that it would be best to mention it. How to work up to the subject was the only doubt on that score left in her mind.
"Madame la Duchesse is merveilleuse—etíncilante!" she cried, as she held the rope of big blue beads over Juliet's head, and let it fall gently upon the swans-down whiteness of the bare neck. "Madame was perfect as a girl. Now she goes beyond perfection. Other women are charming—the beautiful Pole, Mademoiselle Pavoya for instance, but——"
Juliet darted upon her a piercing, angry glance. "What makes you think or speak of Pavoya just now?" she sharply questioned.
"Oh—I hardly know. Except that she is of a great beauty, and—in her way—of a strange attraction. And then, also, as no doubt Togo told Madame la Duchesse, la Pavoya called to-day."
"Called to-day!" echoed Juliet. "You don't mean here?"
"But yes, Madame. Did not Madame know? I was about to go out with the bulldog. Being permitted to pass down by the front stairs, I saw the lady arrive. To be sure, she had on a thick embroidered veil through which, perhaps, many people would not recognize the most famous features. But my eyes are sharp. And then, her figure! There are not two such. Though, to my taste, that of Madame la Duchesse is more alluring, more human. The dancer is a mere sprite! I said to myself, 'It must be about the charity performance for the Armenians that she is here to consult with my mistress'!"
As she thus interpreted her own impressions, Simone busied herself in getting Juliet's ermine cloak, which previously she had laid ready on the bed. Sometimes, when the Claremanaghs were going out together in the evening, the Duke came in and took his wife's coat from Simone, slipping it in a leisurely and loving way over the white arms, as if he never tired of touching the adorable creature who belonged to him. But Simone did not think he would come to perform that office to-night; and besides, she wanted an excuse to escape from her mistress's great, wide-open blue eyes. The maid had taken a tactful way of explaining the dancer's (possible) motive for calling; because if she dared to accuse the Duke by a hint, the Duchess would be bound to stop her.
 She would not have thought, after what had passed between her and Pat, that she could be surprised by anything concerning him and Pavoya, but now she knew that she could be astounded.
Pavoya had called! Togo had let her in, the traitor! bribed by Claremanagh, who had sunk low enough even for that! Still, had Togo let the woman in? It was easy to make sure.
"A pity I was out," Juliet said. "I suppose she went away when she heard that?"
"No, Madame, she came in," replied Simone with the innocence of a child. "I do not know how long she stayed. Monsieur le Duc will tell Madame that. It was to his study that Togo took her."
"Oh, very well. I can ask him what message she left," Juliet promptly cut short this confidence. She had no wish to learn more, and her suppression of Simone was no triumph of honour over curiosity. She felt a sick, languid repulsion against the whole subject, for she knew the worst now, and any further information would be a kind of horrid anti-climax.
"Oh, Pat, Pat!" her heart mourned. "How has my idol fallen! And he talked so nobly about never lying!"
That night, when the Duke and Duchess of Claremanagh came into their box in time for the second act of "Rigoletto," everyone "in the know" said "Look! She's got the Tsarina pearls at last!"
And Claremanagh wondered at her. He wondered terribly, abysmally, why, after their scene together, and her threats, she had worn the abominable things. He had wondered about that ever since, the ermine cloak removed, he had seen the blue beads on her neck at the Van Estens'.
He ought, perhaps, to have rejoiced at the sight, for she could not wear a rope of imitation pearls, and accuse Lyda Pavoya of stealing the real ones. That would be to punish him less severely than herself. Yet Pat was uneasy as well as unhappy. The only thing he understood clearly in all the hideous affair was that—he understood Juliet not at all. He asked himself over and over again a question he could not, would not ask her—what, in God's name, she intended to do next?
All the way home, when at length they were again alone together in their brilliantly lit limousine, she did not utter one word, nor once look at him. She sat quite still, pretending to be asleep, but Claremanagh knew that he was no wider awake than she. A dozen times he longed to speak; but there are some things a man cannot do. She seemed to have barricaded herself behind a transparent wall, through which he could see, yet not touch, her—as if she had been a lovely statuette under a glass case.
At the house she sprang past him quickly, without accepting his help to alight, and ran up the two or three marble steps. Claremanagh had his key, but before he could use it Juliet pressed the electric bell, and Togo appeared. The girl did not look back at her husband, to see whether he meant to follow. And suddenly he did not mean to do so. He hadn't been sure, at first, what he would do: but he could not bear to have her shut the door of her room upon him, as she surely would.
With a gesture he signed to Togo that he was not coming in. The car waited, but he said to the chauffeur in the pleasant, courteous tone which won the affection of servants, "I shan't want you—thanks."
In that mood, he could not make use of Juliet's car. He preferred the poor independence of his own feet, even while he laughed at himself, bitterly, for so petty a revolt. He walked to the "Grumblers," that one of his several clubs at which he was likely to meet a man with whom he had business—business important enough to remember even now.
"I won't keep the beastly money on me any longer," he thought. "The fellow shall have it to-night."
If Simone had not already telephoned to the private office of the Inner Circle's editor, she might have changed her mind about going there that night. She was less superstitious and of harder mental fibre than most Frenchwomen of the south and of her class; but after the quarrel between the Duke and Duchess something within her shrank from keeping the secret appointment she had made.
It was not that she was suddenly conscience-stricken, or that she thought her mistress had suffered enough without having the skeleton in the cupboard dangled in front of the public. The woman was incapable of any real love save self love, but she liked Juliet, and would have inflicted upon her no great gratuitous pain. The pain to be inflicted in this instance, however (as well as other instances in the past), was not gratuitous. Simone would be magnificently paid for inflicting it, and so far as Juliet was concerned, she could earn the reward without a qualm. It was for herself that she hesitated; and she did not quite know why.
That was the trouble! If she had known, she could have argued out the two sides of the matter, for and against. But it was only a vague sort of presentiment she felt, that she would somehow be sorry if she gave this story to the paper she served. And it might not be a proper presentiment at all, but only a form of indigestion. She had (she too vividly recalled) taken at luncheon three helpings of lobster salad, a dish which never agreed with her. Besides, she was naturally excited over her part in the events of the day. And then she had telephoned the office. She had camouflaged her message, lest it should be overheard, but what she had said would inform the editor that she had up her sleeve the best tit-bit he had ever got from her.
To-morrow afternoon the Inner Circle (a weekly publication) would be on sale, and the "Whisperer's" columns were always kept back till the latest possible moment, on account of just such morsels dropping in.
But to-night the last paragraphs were to be held up expressly for Simone almost beyond the time-limit. She was bound to "make good" or she would never be trusted again, and if the editor were satisfied she was to receive exactly five times the sum she got for more or less valuable items supplied each week.
With a vague, uneasy presentiment in one scale, and five hundred dollars in the other (notes, not a cheque; the Inner Circle never paid cheques for "Whisperer" stuff) the presentiment was outweighed. Simone had in any case a dinner engagement which nothing short of death would have induced her to miss; and the Duchess had not been gone quite ten minutes when she flew out to keep it.
She said nothing to her dinner companion, however, about the later appointment, and excused herself early on the plea that it would be "like Madame to flash in at home, clamouring for her maid, between Mrs. Van Esten's party and the opera, if only for a minute."
Certainly it was little more than a minute that Simone remained at the Phayre house after being brought back after dinner in a taxi. At the end of that time she was out again, and on her way to the office of the Inner Circle.
About this place there was always something mysterious even to Simone's practical and unimaginative mind, and the private office of the editor was the heart of the mystery—the inner circle of the Inner Circle. For years she had been a highly paid contributor to the scandalous little paper, ever since she had entered her first "smart" situation in New York, and had been approved by a man whose outward business was straightforward reporting for the "Society" columns of a reputable daily. When in town, Simone had been in the habit of calling in person instead of trusting to the post, and since her value had become recognized, she was invariably received by the editor himself in that very private sanctuary of his. Yet to this day she had never seen his face, and did not know his real name.
"Mr. Jones will speak to you," was the message telephoned down from regions above to the amateurish little reception room, where an elderly, mild-faced lady in old-fashioned dress received visitors and tapped a typewriter.
But the Frenchwoman was sure that outside the office HE was other than "Mr. Jones," as sure as that Simone Amaranthe was at home Simonetta Amaranti.
The editor's private office was divided practically into two by means of a fixed screen or partition of match-boarding so high that even if an enterprising caller jumped on to a chair he (or she) could not see what lay on the other side. There was no door in this screen, therefore no danger existed that the editor could be "rushed." Against the partition was placed a table and a chair of the ordinary "office furniture" type; and other decoration there was none. On the table were writing materials, and a small house-telephone. By means of this instrument one spoke to the Presence on the other side, and he spoke in return. That it was always the same Presence, Simone knew by the voice. It was peculiar, mincing, and rather effeminate, and though she shrewdly attributed this quality to disguise, it could not well have been imitated by an understudy.
This happened to be the first time Simone had ever been to the office at night. It was in a cross-town street, within possible walking distance of the Phayre house; and this was luck for her, as she would have taken a taxi with great reluctance. This errand of hers was the most ticklish she had ever carried out, and she could not afford to leave the least detail to chance, in case a hue and cry should be raised by the Claremanaghs. Twenty minutes' brisk walk brought her to the door of what had once been a private house, and was now given up to offices. The Inner Circle occupied the two lower floors, and above was quite a well-known, though not very fashionable, manicurist, Madame Veno. Still higher, the fourth (and top) floor was tenanted by a wig maker who widely advertised a hair-dye "Goldenglints"; and once, when a wave of rage against the "Whisperer" swept New York, it was rumoured that both these businesses were secretly owned by the Inner Circle. No proof was obtainable, however, and since then several new managers had come and gone, both for Madame Veno and "Goldenglints."
To-night the whole house front looked so darkly brooding to Simone's worried eyes that she could have believed anything of it, especially anything that was hideous and evil.
There were no lights in the windows, and the front door, always open by day, was closed. But the voice which answered Simone's call on the 'phone that afternoon had warned her that this would be so, and had told her what to do. Following instructions, she descended the steps to a basement door, and touched an electric bell above which, on a small brass plate, was the word "Janitor."
Two or three minutes passed, and brought no answer. But suddenly, as Simone was about to ring again, the door opened on a chain.
"What do you want?" a woman's voice demanded through the aperture.
"To see the editor of the Inner Circle," replied Simone. "I have an appointment with him."
"Oh! What is your name?" questioned the voice.
"Mademoiselle Simone Amaranthe."
The chain fell, and the door opened as if the Frenchwoman, challenged, had given the countersign. Simone squeezed through the small space allowed her, and the door instantly shut.
It was dark in the basement passage except for the light that came from a room at the back. The woman—the janitor's wife, perhaps—had a little knitted shawl over her head, as though she were suffering from neuralgia. Simone could not see what she was like, whether old or young, except that her silhouette loomed tall and slender against the dim light.
"Can you find your way up?" asked the voice.
"Yes," said Simone, "I was told it would be dark,—and that I must bring an electric torch. I have brought it."
"Very well. Go up, and knock when you come to the door. Mr. Jones is expecting you."
Simone switched on the flame of her torch, and went up.
Next morning Jack Manners was hideously jerked from sleep before eight by the jangle of a telephone bell close to his bed. In self-defence he reached out and grabbed the receiver, in haste to stop the din.