Chapter VII: Isolda

Experience has taught me that people discuss the most confidential matters in public places; chiefly, probably, in establishments in which persons eat and drink in public. I have often been disconcerted in a restaurant by the discovery of the amazingly intimate themes of the conversations which are being carried on around me. It is on such occasions that the gift I have of learning what people are saying by merely looking at their faces becomes a very questionable possession. I have had to keep my eyes fastened on my plate to avoid having observations forced upon me which were certainly intended for no one but the individual to whom they were addressed. Once, when I was lunching with Mr. Carryer at the King’s Restaurant, I actually saw a girl proposing to a man--she was quite a pretty girl too; I had been admiring her hat. I saw her say to the man with whom she was sharing a table:

“Arthur, won’t you marry me? Say you will. I don’t believe you have any idea how fond I am of you; I’d love to be your wife.”

I did not see what his reply was; I looked away, feeling that this was certainly a case in which a third person was not company. I had scarcely got over the embarrassment which my unintentional eavesdropping had occasioned me when Harry Carryer said:

“You see that fellow over there? That’s Isolda.”

I did not dare to lift my eyes; I might be forced to glance in the direction of that table, and goodness only knew what the couple might be saying. I just murmured a question:

“And who may Isolda be?”

“I thought every one knew who Isolda was. He’s the fortune-telling Johnnie, chiromancer, palmist, or whatever he calls himself, whom every one is rushing to consult. Women tell me that they think he is so beautiful, and are quite rude when I tell them that I don’t think so.”

I knew to whom Harry was referring without looking, though to please him I looked again. There was a person seated alone at a table on our right, the moment I saw him I had set him down to be something of the kind. As I observed him, Mr. Carryer went on talking.

“All sorts of queer tales are told about Isolda. I know a girl who never does a single thing without consulting him; she made me swear that I wouldn’t tell her mother how often she goes to him, but I have often felt that I should like to--silly idiot! Then I know a married woman who declares that he told her the exact sum an uncle of hers would leave her, and the precise date on which he would die, three years before the event came off--she is quite mad with me when I say I don’t believe it.”

Isolda was a tall, narrow-chested, thin-faced, large-lipped, big-eyed, long-haired, dandified individual, who, I felt sure, reeked with perfume. Presently a man crossed the restaurant and took a seat at Isolda’s table. In appearance he was a contrast to Isolda--short, thick-set, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, even at that distance I was convinced that he smelt of the country and the open air. Harry Carryer proceeded to regale me with a variety of anecdotes in which Isolda was the chief character; some of them were such odd ones that I glanced at him again. The red-faced man was speaking with such emphasis that I had to see what he was saying.

“You understand, I am going to post you up in everything about her, and you must let it off on her as if you had got it from the stars. You are to tell her that the consumption of which her sister Elsie died was brought on by a broken heart, because she was in love with a dark man with a slight cast in one eye--that’s Tom Harvey; I know she was spoons on him--she couldn’t marry him because he had got no money. Then you are to tell her that her fate is mixed up--well, describe a man like me; lay it on thick. Tell her I have proposed to her five times--which I have; and that if she don’t take me when I make it the sixth there’ll be no end of a rumpus. And, look here--this is what I particularly want you to tell her.”

The speaker, leaning over the table, I have no doubt dropped his voice to a whisper--he had grace enough to do that.

“Tell her that she once cheated at baccarat, that the secret is known to two persons, and that the only way she can save herself from a scandal is by marrying me. Tell her also that she owes money for bets--so she does, a good bit--and that exposure is bound to come unless she protects herself by becoming my wife. Make it as hot as you please--you can invent two or three things for yourself if you like; she’s expecting such a lot from coming to see you that she’ll swallow anything. My idea is that you give her a regular fit of the blues; if you manage things properly, when I propose to her again, to-night or to-morrow, she’ll accept me right away--and if she does accept me I’ll give you fifty pounds.”

Isolda made merely one remark.

“Fifty pounds is not a large sum--for a wife.”

I was conscious that Harry Carryer was saying: “You seem to be taking a great interest in the Isolda chap; do you think he’s so beautiful?”

“I don’t; you know I’m a student of character--I was studying his.”

As a matter of fact I was amused by the expression which had come on the red-cheeked person’s face; he was staring at the palmist as if he would have liked to hit him.

“Fifty pounds isn’t bad pay for a few minutes’ talking; you will have to say something to her, anyhow; I’m giving you a distinct leg-up by dropping you a hint or two.” Isolda said nothing; he was apparently engrossed with the contents of his plate. The other plainly resented his silence. “Well, aren’t you going to tell her what I want you to? I would never have sent her to you at all if I’d thought you were going to turn up rusty. You’ve done this sort of thing for me before.”

“At your request I told a friend of yours that a certain horse would win a race which you knew it would not win, and it didn’t. It is possible that she lost a considerable sum of money by backing it.”

The other smiled; I did not at all like the look on his face when he smiled.

“She did--a pot full; she came a regular cropper; served her right--I owed her one: that made us even. Are you going to do this for me now?”

“I tell you again that fifty pounds is not a large sum--for a wife.”

“How much do you want?”

“At least a hundred.” The palmist ate his luncheon as if the conversation had no interest for him. The other did not look pleased.

“A hundred?--for ten minutes’ talk?--You’ve a conscience!”

“Can as much be said for you?--Some people have none.”

“If I give you a hundred, will you make it a dead certainty for me?”

“I will follow out your instructions; you are aware that I am an artist in such matters.” Something which might have been a smile flitted across the speaker’s curious features; the other seemed to be screwing himself to the sticking-point.

“Very well, you shall have a hundred; only mind--I trust you.”

“Fifty now and the rest to-morrow.”

“What do you mean by fifty now? You shall have your money when the job’s done.”

“I’ve told you my terms. You must excuse me, I have an appointment; I have stayed too long.” The speaker made as if to rise; the other laid his hand upon his arm.

“Sit still--I’ve a cheque in my pocket; you shall have your fifty. What difference does it make, to-day or to-morrow?”

The speaker produced a blank cheque and a fountain-pen. As he was filling up the cheque the palmist asked:

“What is the lady’s name--this time?”

“The lady’s name--this time--is Lucille Godwin. She is coming from Hyde Park Gate. I impressed on her the necessity of being punctual--she will be with you at three-thirty sharp. I told her to wear a sprig of white heather; as I believe it’s not your custom to ask your clients for their names; it impresses them so much more to find that you know them without asking; that sprig of white heather will tell you who she is. Here’s your cheque; you shall have the same to-morrow if the job is well done.” The slip of paper changed hands.

“And if she doesn’t wear the sprig of white heather?”

“She’ll have cornflowers in her hat; cornflower blue is her favourite colour; it does become her. She thinks cornflowers bring her luck--she’s always got one stowed away somewhere about her.”

“That’s the most significant item of information you’ve given me yet; it’s possible that I may be able to make more of that than of anything else. I wish you good morning.”

He slipped the cheque into his waistcoat-pocket as he rose from his chair. I was struck by his, of course, fanciful resemblance to a bean-stick--he was so tall, so straight, so slender. I do not think I ever saw a thinner man, nor one more beautifully tailored. His frock-coat, shaped to his figure, coming to below his knees, emphasized both his slimness and his height. There was a weird something about the garment which suggested a cassock; as he moved between the tables, the observed of all observers, he might have been a priest rather than a layman.

“Queer looking fish,” commented Mr. Carryer, with a certain acidity. “You are like all the rest of the women, you’re more interested in him than in your lunch; what you all see in him I can’t imagine.”

“Nor can I.” I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was just after two; I wondered if I could communicate with Miss Lucille Godwin before she started for Isolda. I asked the waiter for the telephone call book. Harry surveyed me, as I searched its columns, with disapproving glances.

“If you’ll hand that over to me I shall probably be able to find the name you’re hunting quicker than you; your coffee is getting cold.”

“I’m looking for a person named Godwin. Ah, here we are--Godwin; there seems to be lots of them, they are all over London--Hyde Park Gate, that looks like the one I’m after. If you don’t mind, I rather want to send a telephone message.”

I went out and sent it. This is the sort of dialogue which took place.

“Yes!--Who’s there?”

“Is that Mrs. Godwin’s?--I want Miss Lucille Godwin.”

“I’ll go and fetch her; what name, please?”

“Ask her to be quick--I’ve something very important to say to her.” I ignored the question; the person at the other end departed. Apparently I had hit upon the right Godwin the first time of asking. I waited for several seconds; suddenly the sound of a girlish voice reached my ears.

“Yes?--Who are you?--What do you want?--I’m in a hurry--I’ve got an appointment--I’m just rushing off to keep it.”

“You are going to Isolda.”

There was a note of surprise in the clear young voice.

“How do you know that? Who are you? I don’t recognize your voice. To whom am I speaking?”

“You are wearing a sprig of white heather for luck.”

“Who told you that?--What do you mean?--Whoever are you?”

“I want you to pay particular attention to what Isolda says to you. He has been told to tell you that your sister Elsie really died of a broken heart, because she was in love with a Mr. Harvey.”

“Good gracious!--Who told you that? Will you tell me who you are!”

“He has also been told to tell you that your fate is mixed up with a short, square man, with red cheeks and blue eyes, whom you will recognize from his description.”

“Why, that’s George Ratton; this is awful! Before you say another word will you please tell me who you are?”

“He’s also been told to tell you that you once cheated at baccarat.”

“Oh!” A shriek came over the wire. “Please--please tell me who you are.”

“Also that you owe money for bets; that cornflowers are your favourite flowers, and that you carry a cornflower about with you for luck. Isolda has been told these things about you in order that he may convey to you the idea that he has occult powers which he doesn’t possess. The blue-eyed person has proposed to you five times; he hopes, with Isolda’s help, that you will accept him at the sixth time of asking. Be on your guard. Good-bye.”

I hung up the receiver and walked away. Something had constrained me to give Miss Lucille Godwin a friendly warning; a man who could conspire with such a creature as Isolda against the girl he professed to love was the kind of person one ought to be warned against. Having conveyed that warning I felt that I had done all that was required of an utter stranger. I did not wait for Miss Godwin’s acknowledgments; I left her to act on the hint I had given, or to ignore it, as she chose.

Some days afterwards I was glancing down the advertisement columns of a daily paper when these words caught my eye:

“Will the stranger who sent the telephone message to L.G., about two-fifteen on Friday last, communicate at once with L.G. at her address, and so render a very great service.”

“L.G.”? I considered a moment. Clearly those were the initials of Lucille Godwin. About two-fifteen on the previous Friday I had sent a telephone message to Lucille Godwin. Could the advertisement refer to me? I was reading the paper in my own sitting-room, after breakfast; there was a telephone at my elbow--I should not be likely to do much harm by ascertaining. I again looked up Miss Godwin’s number; found it; and was presently informed that the connection was made. There came, unless I was mistaken, the same voice over the wire.

“Yes, who are you?”

“Can I speak to Miss Lucille Godwin?”

“I don’t know about Miss Lucille, but I dare say you can speak to Miss May. What name, please?”

“If Miss Lucille can’t come, send Miss May.” I wondered why Miss Lucille could not come. All at once there came a voice which was very like the one I had heard on Friday, but not quite the same.

“Yes? Who are you? I am May Godwin.”

“Do you happen to know anything about an advertisement which appears in to-day’s _Morning Post_?”

“Oh dear, are you the person who telephoned on Friday? Please tell me who you are. Come and see me, or let me come and see you; I’m in such frightful trouble.” Something in her voice suggested distress.

“Are you Miss Lucille Godwin’s sister?”

“Of course I am; you know I am. Please tell me to whom I am speaking.” Then, with a sudden burst, which somehow made me wonder if it were a child who was speaking: “Oh, please will you come and help me? Lucille told me all about what you said to her--it was she who put the advertisement in, and now she’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What do you mean by disappeared?”

“She went out two days ago, and nothing has been seen or heard of her since--suspense is driving me half out of my mind. Papa and mamma are both abroad, but they’re coming back to-morrow, and what will happen if Lucille isn’t here I daren’t even imagine.”

The speaker’s voice was broken by what sounded very like a sob.

“Have you no idea of what’s become of your sister?”

“Yes, I have; that’s the worst of it. Oh, please come and see me--do, do, do!” Each note of exclamation was emphasized by a sob.

“Have you no friends to whom you can apply? I am an utter stranger.”

“That’s one reason why I want you to come. If I go to any of our friends they’re sure to give Lucille away, and then I don’t know what will happen. Oh, please come and see me; please!--please! You must know something about us, or you wouldn’t have sent that message--I like the sound of your voice, I can hear that you’re a woman, and I’m sure that you can help me. Oh, please--please do come.”

As the tearful, eager, young voice kept flashing her entreaties along the wire, I was turning things over in my mind; interference with matters which were no concern of mine was leading me, as so often was the case, much farther than I wanted to go. I had nothing very particular to do that morning; the speaker’s anxiety and distress seemed genuine enough; after all, there was no real reason why I should not run round and see what all the pother was about; why and where Miss Lucille Godwin had disappeared, and what help this frantic young lady supposed I could render. I said:

“I’ll be with you in about twenty minutes; will that suit you?”

There came to me what almost amounted to a scream of joy.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!--Please do come as fast as ever you can.”

About twenty minutes afterwards I was knocking at the door of a big house at Hyde Park Gate. It was opened by a footman.

“Can I see Miss May Godwin?”

A slender figure came rushing across the hall; an eager face looked at me in the open doorway. “Are you----”

“I’ve just been talking to you over the telephone.”

“Of course--yes--please come in; do you mind coming up to our room, Lucille’s and mine?”

I did not mind where I went, having once embarked upon the enterprise. She led me to a pretty sitting-room on the second floor, evidently the sanctum of something both feminine and young. Everywhere were those odds and ends, trifles, knick-knacks, which are dear to the souls of very young girls.

“Please will you sit down? May I ask you for your name?”

The speaker assumed a dignity which became her rather well; the telephone had not misled me; she was extremely young. I set her down as just turned sixteen; her skirts barely reached her ankles. She was quite small, I dare say not much over five feet, very slight and dainty, with small features, bright eyes, and the sweetest mouth. I fell in love with her at sight.

“My name is Judith Lee.”

“I am May Godwin.”

“So I imagined; I recognized your voice.”

“What do you know of us, Miss Lee?”

“Absolutely nothing; if possible, less than that.”

“But----” The girl looked mystified, as if she were confronted by a problem which was rather beyond her. She screwed her mouth up into the most delicious pout. “Didn’t you send a telephone message to Lucille last Friday?”

“I did.”

“Then you must know something about us, because you told her the most private things, some of them known only to herself, and some, at most, to two or three others.”

“Before I answer your questions, will you tell me if I understood you rightly that your sister has disappeared?”

“She went out two days ago, and I’ve seen and heard nothing of her since.”

“You knew where she was going?”

“Well, in a way I did, but---- Oh, I wish I knew who you are; won’t you tell me, please?”

It was rather a wail than an appeal. The dainty face was distorted as by a spasm of pain.

“Is your sister older than you?”

“Of course she is--she is nearly four years older--she has just turned twenty-one.”

Then it seemed that the speaker was seventeen--she scarcely looked it.

“I don’t wish to encroach upon your confidence; what I said to your sister over the telephone I learnt by the merest accident. Did she go to see Isolda?”

“Of course she did--he told her exactly what you said he would; he made her so wild that she told him that she knew he was going to say it--and there was quite a scene; she said that she felt that he would like to kill her.”

“What has happened since?--Understand, tell me nothing if you’d rather not.”

She knit her brows in dire perplexity.

“I’ve simply got to tell some one. Things can’t go on as they are; to tell any of our friends would be to give Lucille away.” She eyed me very hard, as if she were trying to discover what kind of person I was. “Can I trust you?”

“You can.”

“Then I will. I liked your voice, and now I like your looks, Miss Lee. You are sure your name is Lee?” Under the circumstances the question was a pretty naive one; I assured her that it was. She favoured me with a further scrutiny, then seemed to come to a final resolution. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Then she drew a long breath, as if she sighed with relief. Her tongue began to move almost faster than I could follow it.

“George Ratton--you know George Ratton?”

“Short, square, red cheeks, blue eyes.”

“That’s George; then you do know him?”

“I saw him once.”

“When Lucille came back from Isolda she wrote him such a letter! When he came over the next morning, she wouldn’t see him. He wrote a note in the hall--when he sent it up by Tomkins, she sent it back unopened. Then he sent her a telegram; she had to open that, because, of course, until she opened it she didn’t know who it was from--such a telegram! He begged and prayed of her to see him, let him explain, not to condemn him unheard--in that telegram there were over a hundred words--and there was a reply paid. She made me fill it up with just seven words: ‘Wire received. Lucille has nothing to say.’ Soon after there came another telegram. She made me open that, and when I told her who it was from she wouldn’t let me read it; then he called to see me, and she wouldn’t let me see him; he was quite rude to Tomkins.”

“May I ask if you two girls are in the house alone?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this.” To do her justice she did seem rather confused; then her face was irradiated by a smile which, to my thinking, made her perfectly lovely. “The fact is, we’ve been a pair of perfect idiots. I may as well admit it, as that is where all the trouble began. Mother and father are abroad; we didn’t want to go, so they put Mrs. Cotterill in charge. Of course, Mrs. Cotterill is quite nice, but we found her rather trying, so we got up a scheme to get rid of her, so that we might have a fortnight’s perfect time before the mater and pater came home. It was rather a neat scheme”--I was sure it was from the way that young woman’s eyes danced in her head. “I won’t tell you about it now; it was a perfect success in one way, but in another it was a dreadful failure--almost from the moment that Mrs. Cotterill left the house everything began to go wrong. Lucille quarrelled with Jack----”

I ventured to intrude a query. “May I ask who Jack is?”

“Jack? Oh--well, Jack’s Jack; he’s the one that Lucille is really in love with, and every one approves of. They are engaged, and were to be married this year; but now, of course, it’s impossible to say. Sometimes Lucille is rather trying; it can’t be expected that Jack is to put up with everything; so when he told her, as far as I can make out, quite politely, that he really couldn’t, Lucille declared that she would never speak to him again--and that’s how the trouble began. She started encouraging George Ratton, who may be fond of her, but I’m nearly sure is fonder still of her money--she’s got some now and will have a great deal more. Everybody says how frightfully hard up George is, and anyhow he’s not a very nice person, or he would not induce her to gamble and bet as he does--but when I told her so, she quarrelled with me, so that I had half a mind to wire to Mrs. Cotterill to come back again. She has always been mad to go to one of these palmist people, but both mamma and papa have forbidden her. Of course, every one is full of Isolda; we know lots of people who have been to him, and George Ratton so cracked him up, that nothing would satisfy her but that she should go. Just as she was starting there came your telephone message. How did you find out those things you told her?”

I explained. The excitable child broke into rhapsodies, as if I were some extraordinary person.

“Oh, how wonderful! Oh, how I should like to be you! How lovely it must be to be able to tell what people are saying.”

I cut her short. “There are one or two matters which require my attention; would you mind telling me what has happened to Lucille?”

“I was getting to it. When she came back from Isolda she was as mad as a hatter; she can fire up when she likes, and there must have been quite a scene. This is Thursday. On Tuesday morning she had a wire from Jack Upcott, telling her he had been frightfully unhappy, begging her to forgive him, entreating her to meet him, of all places of the world, in Richmond Park. ‘Why Richmond Park?’ I said when she showed me the telegram. ‘How can I tell?’ she answered. ‘Perhaps because it’s the loneliest place round London. I think it’s quite a good idea of his. We can spend the day in the park, have dinner somewhere, and then drive back to London in the moonlight.’ ‘There doesn’t happen to be a moon just now,’ I said. ‘Oh, of course you are frightfully literal,’ she snapped, and off she bounced.”

“There may be a very simple explanation; she may be staying with Mr. Upcott’s friends; there must be lots of persons who would be willing to have her as a guest.”

“Of course there are--that’s just what I thought she was doing, though I thought it jolly mean of her to leave me all alone in the house after the plans we had made; but last night there came a letter for her in Jack Upcott’s handwriting, postmarked Nice. It seemed queer that he should be writing to her from Nice on the same day on which he had been telegraphing in town asking her to meet him in Richmond Park. I hesitated, and hesitated, and hesitated; then at last I opened the envelope; then I saw at once that somewhere there must be something wrong. It was just a short note to say that since she didn’t want him in London, he thought he had better try Nice for a change, and that when she did want him she had only to send a wire and he would return at once; I expect that if Lucille had opened the envelope herself she’d have first of all been madder than ever, and then afterwards sent him a wire. One thing was clear--he couldn’t be in two places at once; I didn’t sleep a wink all night, wondering where Lucille was, and what it all meant. This morning, while I was having breakfast in bed, some one came with one of Lucille’s visiting-cards, and said that she had sent him for the desk which stood on her writing-table, her jewel-case, and her dressing-bag. I said I would be down as soon as I could to see the messenger, but when I did get down, he was gone. Tomkins says that he was quite a respectable-looking person, in a light overcoat and a grey felt hat; but evidently he had not courage enough to wait and see me. Here is the visiting-card he brought.”

As I looked at the card she handed me I saw that there were three lines pencilled on the back in very minute writing. “Desk on writing-table. Jewel-case in drawer. Dressing-bag in wardrobe.”

“Is this your sister’s handwriting?”

“Not the least bit like it--she writes a great, big, sprawly hand. I’ve never seen that writing before; I’m sure I should remember if I had, it is so very tiny. Who can that man have been who brought the card? Where can he have got it? What did he want those things of hers for? Why didn’t he wait for them?”

“I fancy that the answer to your two last questions is pretty obvious. What was she wearing when she went out on Tuesday?” The girl gave me a long and minute description. “How did she propose to get to Richmond, and whereabout in the park was the meeting to take place?”

“They were to meet at the gate on Richmond Hill, and she dashed off without giving me the faintest notion of how she was going to get there.”

“When do you say your parents are returning?”

“To-morrow; if Lucille isn’t back before they arrive there will not only be a frightful rumpus, but they will probably find out all sorts of things that will put us into their black books for ages to come; I tell you we’ve behaved like a pair of perfect idiots.”

That at least was clear enough; I only hoped that nothing worse would come of their folly than what she called a “frightful rumpus.” I went up to a large photograph of a very pretty girl which stood on the mantelshelf.

“That’s Lucille,” the girl informed me. “How odd that you should know so much about her and yet have never seen her. She’s tremendously pretty--very, very fair; her hair is almost white--and shines. When it’s parted in the middle she looks a perfect saint, as if butter would never melt in her mouth--but it does. She says that she’s as full of life as a kitten; and I tell her, and also of mischief; then she tries to scratch me. But, truly, she’s a real good sort, and if you only stroke her the right way there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for anyone.”

The girl was perhaps a trifle incoherent; but she gave me a pretty clear idea of the person in the photograph.

“Obviously, the first thing we have to do is to find out where your sister is,” I told her as I went. “I promise nothing, but I think it’s possible that I may be able to do that before very long--in time to permit of her reappearance before Mr. and Mrs. Godwin return to-morrow; though, mind you, I don’t hesitate in saying that I think it’s quite possible that you both deserve that ‘frightful rumpus’ of which you spoke.”

She put her head on one side, like some dainty bird, and gleamed at me--as a bird might have done.

“Are you quite sure that you never did anything that you oughtn’t to have done, and that you never felt how lovely it was to do it? I believe that the very best and wisest people sometimes feel that they’ve got to do what they ought not; I know that Lucille and I do. Don’t you?”

I left her question unanswered--and I went to lunch at the King’s Restaurant. I gathered, from certain trifles, which I had noticed on the preceding Friday, that this was the place at which Mr. George Ratton, the short, square, red-cheeked, blue-eyed young man, made it his custom to lunch; not only had he seemed familiar with the staff, but he had not paid his bill--as though he kept a running account. I thought it just possible that he might lunch there again on that Thursday morning. I had not been seated five minutes before he came in--going straight to a table which was evidently reserved for him, and which was not quite so well in my line of sight as I might have wished. Other tables were in the way, so that I could only see him clearly when he was in certain positions. It struck me that he looked worried, and that it was with an effort he smiled as he nodded to various acquaintances who were possibly, like himself, habitués. Nothing happened, except that food and drink were brought to him, which he seemed to enjoy. As both his meal and my own drew towards a conclusion, I was considering what steps I ought to take to obtain from him certain information which I required. Should I accost him there? or should I allow him to leave and address him in the street? I had still not made up my mind upon the point, when a person whom I had already noticed moved towards the table at which he was seated.

This person looked as if he might be an actor--a comedian for choice. He was of barrel-like proportions; a small, almost bald head, shaped like a Gouda cheese, and nearly of the same colour, was set on a short, thick neck, as a climax to his enormous body. His attire was striking. The ends of a bright blue necktie, tied in one of those flamboyant bows which are dear to a certain type of French student, flowed loosely over an extensive shirt front, which was of another shade of blue. He carried a wide-brimmed straw hat in his hand, and as he approached Mr. Ratton he waved it at him as a sort of salute. He stood where I could see him clearly--there was no mistaking what he said.

“Excuse me, sir, but might I have a word with you? I believe you are Mr. Ratton--George Ratton.”

There was something flamboyant in the words he chose, in the way he pronounced them; if he was not an actor, he ought to have been. Mr. Ratton seemed to eye him rather askance.

“My name is Ratton, sir; but I have not the pleasure, I think, of knowing you.”

“No, sir--yet I know you; more persons know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows; no personal allusion intended.” Mr. Ratton coloured up as if he thought the allusion very personal indeed. The stranger, resting both hands on the end of the table, addressed him in what I presume he meant to be a confidential whisper. “I came here, Mr. Ratton, in the express hope of seeing you; I have something to say to you which, I venture to assert, you will not only find interesting and important, but also to your advantage--possibly, very much to your advantage.”

“What may that something be? May I ask your name?”

“My name does not matter, sir--no, it does not matter.” The speaker made a movement with his hat as if to signify how little it did matter. “With your permission, sir, I will take a seat.”

When he did sit down, without, so far as I could judge, having permission accorded him, I had to move my seat in order to get anything like a satisfactory sight both of Mr. Ratton and of him. This took some seconds, and I had to pick up the conversation at a point which necessitated my guessing at what had been already said. The stranger was leaning right over the table, and Mr. Ratton was still very red, as if he resented his words and manner and his appearance altogether. The barrel-like man was saying, with what, no doubt, were bland, unctuous, softened tones:

“He was naturally hurt by the feeling that you had sold him.”

I fancy Mr. Ratton’s tones were considerably louder, and were certainly less bland.

“I told him, and I tell you, that I won’t have it said that I sold him; I’ll allow no one to say it.”

“You tell him what to say to the young lady, then you tell the young lady what you said to him--what is the inference one draws? In consequence he is placed in an extremely unprofessional position--by you.”

Mr. Ratton seemed to be growing momentarily redder in the face.

“What he meant, and what you mean by saying that I said a single word to the young lady is beyond me altogether; I told him it was a lie--I don’t know who you are, but I tell you the same.”

The stranger gave a little movement of his hand, as if deprecating the other’s warmth; he seemed calm enough.

“However that may be, he was placed in an unprofessional position--by some one--the fact remains. The young lady as good as told him he was a humbug. No man in his position cares to be spoken to like that, especially by a client on whom he had every reason to believe he was about to make a profound impression. No one, I am sure, can exaggerate the pain the whole affair has caused him--it touched him on his tenderest spot. He vowed he would be even with you both--for his reputation’s sake. The consequence is that the young lady has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What the devil do you mean?”

Mr. Ratton not only raised his voice, he half rose from his chair; the lunchers looked round at him. The stranger was the soul of suavity.

“Gently, Mr. Ratton, gently. If your feelings are likely to be too much for you, had we not better continue our conversation outside?”

Mr. Ratton sat down, apparently conscious that he had allowed his feelings too much play.

“What do you mean by telling me that the young lady has disappeared?”

The big man, touching the tips of his fingers together, moved them softly to and fro.

“The young lady has disappeared. That, Mr. Ratton, is what I mean.”

“If he has been playing any of his hanky-panky tricks with her I’ll wring his long-drawn-out neck; that to begin with.”

“I cannot, of course, say if her disappearance has any connection with the injury which was done to his feelings, but--it is at least a coincidence.”

“If you don’t tell me what you mean in plain English----”

“Now you’re getting warm again. Had we not better continue our talk outside, where there is no risk of your making a scene?”

Not only the people who were lunching, but the staff of the restaurant, were taking rather marked interest in the proceedings of that little table. Mr. Ratton’s agitation was obvious; one felt that it was as much as he could do to keep himself from throwing a bottle at the big man’s head. He had realized that that was not the place in which to indulge in amusements of that kind. He got up from his chair.

“You’re quite right; we had better have this talk outside; so perhaps you’ll be so good as to come outside at once.”

The other seemed less eager.

“If you’ll be so good as to sit down again.”

“I prefer that we should go outside. We don’t want to have a row in here.”

“Why should there be what you describe as a ‘row’? My dear sir, I come with an olive branch, not a sword. I believe that the dearest wish of your life is to marry this young lady. Very well, I’m as good as authorized to say that opportunity can be afforded you to marry her at once.”

Mr. Ratton eyed the speaker in a very curious way, as if he heard what he said with emotions which were too strong for expression. He declined the other’s invitation to resume his seat, but stood with his hands on the back of a chair, as if he might be moved at any moment to use it as a weapon of defence.

“I can’t talk about that sort of thing in here. I don’t know who you are; but whoever you are, you will be so good as to come to my rooms and I’ll talk to you there.”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure, Mr. Ratton, than to come to your rooms. There we shall be able to arrive at an understanding of the most cordial kind, in a very brief space of time.--After you, Mr. Ratton, after you.”

Mr. Ratton led the way across the restaurant, looking like a very excited country gentleman; the barrel-shaped man followed, apparently enjoying to the full a delicious piece of comedy. I watched them go in a rather uncertain frame of mind; their precipitance was unexpected. I hardly knew whether to remain where I was or to follow them. A moment’s consideration--and I remained. Instead of hurrying away, I took my time over what remained of my luncheon. I was putting two and two together after a fashion of my own; the more I reflected, the less hazy the situation became. If my inferences were right, I ought to be able to treat these gentlemen to another act in the comedy which the barrel-shaped man seemed to be enjoying.

To begin with, I sent a telegram to Miss May Godwin as follows: “I am coming to dine with your sister and you to-night. Trust that eight o’clock will be convenient.--Judith Lee.” Then I summoned the head waiter.

“Do you know a palmist who calls himself Isolda?”

The man smiled benignantly; I fancy he thought he saw something in my words which was not there.

“Very well indeed, madam; he’s one of our regular customers.”

“Do you know where he lives? I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“As to where he lives, that I do not know; but the address at which he receives clients, that I do know; I will write it down for madam.”

He wrote it down. Isolda’s studio, as he called it--there are studios of so many different kinds--was in Bond Street; that popular resort of curious characters. At a quarter to four I paid him a call. His “studio” was, it seemed, on the first floor; at the top of a rather steep flight of stairs was a door painted black; near the top, on the right-hand corner, in small red letters, was the word “Isolda.” I knocked. The door was almost instantly opened by a youngish man. I entered without waiting for the invitation which something in his manner suggested that I might not have received. He eyed me askance.

“What is your business, madam?”

I did not answer; I was looking about me. I was in a sort of ante-room, apparently the young man’s own quarters. On some pegs in a corner were a grey felt hat and a light grey overcoat; their presence gave me the clue I wanted. He repeated his question, it struck me, rather surlily.

“I asked, madam, what your business was.”

“I wish to see Mr. Isolda.”

“Has madam an appointment?”

“I have not.”

“Then it is impossible that madam can see him. Mr. Isolda only sees clients by appointment made several days ahead.”

“Is that so? I rather fancy that he will make an exception in my case. I am going to see Mr. Isolda now.”

The man seemed doubtful, as if he did not know what to make of me.

“I assure madam that it is impossible. Mr. Isolda only sees clients who have no appointment under very special circumstances for a very special fee.”

“Mr. Isolda will see me without any fee at all.”

The young man sought in another direction for an explanation for what clearly struck him as my peculiar manner.

“Perhaps madam is a friend of Mr. Isolda?”

“I am not--thank goodness! I am very much the other way. Young man!”

He started at the tone in which I said “Young man.” He was probably older than I was. “Madam!” he exclaimed, as if about to remonstrate with my inclination towards over-familiarity. I allowed him to go no further.

“This morning,” I told him, “you called at a house in Hyde Park Gate, and you endeavoured to obtain, by false pretences, a writing-desk, a jewel-case, and a dressing-bag. Is there any reason why I should not at once give you into the custody of the police?”

The change which took place in that young man’s manner; all at once he seemed to go at the knees, as if a couple of inches had gone from his stature.

“I--I--I think you are making a mistake,” he stammered. Apparently he was under the impression that he had to say something, and as he did not know what to say he said that.

“Oh no, I’m not, as you’re perfectly well aware. Let me give you a piece of information; it is not impossible that the police will be here in a few minutes, on business with which you are not immediately concerned. If you are on the premises when they arrive you will certainly be arrested with your principal, and unpleasantness will probably follow. If you prefer not to be found on the premises you can take yourself off. You are the best judge of which course you prefer.” He looked about him like a rat which seeks a way out of a trap; glanced towards the door at the other side of the room. “No, you can’t give Mr. Isolda warning. If you don’t want to be found, you’ll make yourself scarce inside of thirty seconds, by my watch.”

When he saw how I regarded it, he went straight to those pegs, took down the grey felt hat and the grey overcoat; put the hat on his head, the coat over his arm, and, without even so much as a word, went hurriedly out of the door through which he had admitted me; still another illustration of how conscience can make a coward of a man. Within ten seconds of his going through one door I crossed the room and passed through another. It opened into a sort of passage way, on either side of which were what I can only describe as cubicles, screened by heavy curtains. I presume that in them expectant clients waited until it pleased the great man to admit them to his presence. At the farther end of this passage way a corridor branched off to the right and left; there were doors in both directions. I stood still and listened; voices were coming from a door on the left. I walked up to it; turned the handle; ushered myself in.

I found myself in what Isolda probably intended to be a really remarkable room; it struck me as rather worse than tawdry. What appeared to be black velvet screened both the walls and ceiling; a green carpet covered the floor; in the centre was a table covered with a scarlet tablecloth; on this table was what seemed to be a large solid glass sphere--I believe that in Isolda’s trade an article of that kind is known as a “crystal.” There were odds and ends about the room which were perhaps meant to be awe-inspiring, but which were merely silly. There seemed to be no window to the room, which reeked of what, perhaps, was some variety of incense; although it was broad day outside, and the sun was shining, a single electric light flamed in the ceiling.

Three men were the occupants of what seemed to me to be this stuffy and extremely undesirable apartment--and as I stood there in the doorway facing them, an excessively surprised three men they seemed to be. One was the great Isolda himself, another was Mr. George Ratton, and the third was the man with the barrel body and the cheese-shaped head. They had, apparently, up to the moment of my entrance, been engaged in an animated discussion, which my unlooked-for appearance, in the middle of it, brought to a very awkward close. The great Isolda was the first to speak.

“Who are you? and what do you want in here?”

He struck a bell which was on the scarlet-covered table.

“It’s no use your ringing that bell,” I informed him; “the tool whom you sent to Hyde Park Gate this morning on a felonious errand has deemed it discreet to fly from the wrath which is coming.”

My words seemed not only to add to their surprise but to confuse them. The long man and the round man eyed each other as if in doubt what this thing might be. Mr. Ratton said:

“Isolda, who is this young lady?”

I answered for the great Isolda.

“I, Mr. Ratton, am Nemesis. Mr. Isolda, if I may add what seems to be an unaccustomed prefix, is a worker of wonders; I represent that power which brings those wonders to naught, proving them to be the poor antics of a clumsy charlatan.”

Isolda cried, with what he probably meant to be crushing dignity:

“Brayshaw! Put this woman outside at once.”

The command seemed to be addressed to the barrel-shaped person. There was dignity neither in the manner of his approach nor in the words he used.

“Now, young woman, out you go; we’ve seen your sort before; we want none of your nonsense here. Not another word--outside! I don’t want to touch you, but I shan’t hesitate to do so if you make me.”

I smiled at the barrel-shaped man; the idea of such a creature putting me out of the room really was too funny.

“I will recommend you, Mr. Brayshaw, not to touch me, unless you wish to discover what an extremely ugly customer a woman can be.”

He tried to touch me, stretching out his hand with, I fancy, the intention of taking me by the shoulder; I am quite sure, before he knew what had struck him, he was on his back on the floor. The others stared as if they had witnessed some remarkable feat; as a matter of fact, the man was as incapable of offering resistance to a normally robust person, who had had even a smattering of physical training, as if he had been a barrel of lard.

“If you will be advised by me, you will allow me to make the remarks I intend to make without any interruption, because, in any case, I intend to make them.”

Mr. Ratton made a movement as if to induce the great Isolda to act on my advice.

“Let her speak--the lady seems to be a bit of a character. Are any of these remarks of yours meant for me, or would you rather I went?”

“I would rather you stayed. You, Mr. George Ratton, have conspired with this--creature against a young girl, whose honour and happiness it should have been your first duty to guard at the risk of your own.”

Mr. Ratton again went very red in the face--it was queer how red he did go. “What the dickens do you mean?” he muttered.

“Last Friday afternoon you bribed him to make certain statements to her, which you hoped would induce and, indeed, practically compel her to become your wife. A monstrous marriage it would have been!”

I told them what some of these statements were. He was divided between astonishment and rage.

“How in thunder do you know that I said anything of the kind?” He turned to Isolda. “Did you tell her? Is that the secret of your pretending that I gave the show away? If you did----”

He clenched his fists--for the instant it looked as if matters might be breezy. I interposed.

“Mr. Ratton, God sometimes uses the foolish to confound the wise, and gives to the weak power to bring the strong to confusion. Your accomplice charges you with having, to use your own phrase, given the show away. You attribute to him the same offence; whereas it was I who gave you both away. I saw what you said; I warned your intended victim over the telephone. She came to this man armed with a knowledge which enabled her to convict him of imposture out of his own mouth. The shame of his detection, and of her plain speaking, rankled. He sent her a telegram signed by the name of the man whom she intends to marry, asking her to meet him in Richmond Park. In Richmond Park she was met by one of this man’s emissaries, who drugged and kidnapped her. He holds her at present in confinement, and sent this thing just now to the King’s Restaurant with a proposal to hand her over to you for a consideration, so that you might practise such vile arts as you thought proper to force her to become your wife, and use her money to pay your debts--which are some of them, as you are aware, of a very peculiar kind, and give you something approaching a respectable position in society. How the law punishes such offences as yours you know; I would put it instantly into action were it not that I am reluctant to allow that ignorant, innocent, unsuspecting child--in everything that counts she is but a child--to run the risk of becoming the leading figure in a hideous public scandal. If she is back again in her own home, sound in mind and body, this evening by seven o’clock sharp, I may keep silent. If she is not, by a quarter-past, warrants shall be issued against all three of you; I promise you they shall be put into execution.”

I turned to the door, and, with the handle in my hand, while they eyed me as if amazement had deprived them of the power of speech, I delivered my parting words:

“You understand--for her--home, at seven; or for you--jail, at a quarter-past.”

On that I went, leaving them to make such comments on their visitor as they might think most appropriate. More than once, during the intervening two or three hours, I wondered if I had been wise; if, for the girl’s sake, I ought not to have taken more active steps to bring them to a proper sense of what the situation required. It was with feelings which were distinctly mixed that I alighted from the taxi-cab which drew up at the door of the house in Hyde Park Gate a few minutes before eight. The moment, however, that the door was opened, I knew that my knowledge of masculine human nature had not been at fault, and that my fears, at least in one direction, had been baseless. As I entered the hall I saw May’s dainty face peeping over the staircase. When she saw who it was she came rushing down the stairs, two or three at a time, and tore towards me. When she was, to all intents and purposes, in my arms, she said, in what was intended as a whisper for my ear alone:

“Oh, Miss Lee, Miss Lee, Lucille has come home. Do come upstairs and see her.”

I went upstairs, and on the threshold of the drawing-room there stood a tall, slim maiden, dressed in some wonderful concoction of cornflower blue, with flaxen hair, in which there was a natural waving ripple, which was parted in the middle and brushed close to her well-shaped head. I thought of what her sister had told me; in a sense she certainly did look as if butter would not melt in her mouth--all the same, as May had admitted, I felt sure that it would; there was that light and laughter in her eyes which, when one is very young, goes hand in hand with mischief.

“I am Lucille Godwin; it was you who sent me that telephone message; I put an advertisement in the paper asking whoever it was to communicate with me. It is just as well you did, because I meant to put it again and again, until you did; I might have been almost ruined if I had had to keep on putting it in for years.”

“Have you anything to do,” asked May, “with her being here now?”

“There have been certain incidents since I saw you this morning. I don’t know if there will be time to speak of them before dinner is ready.”

“Dinner won’t be ready till at least half-past eight, so just you tell us everything. Please--please! I’m simply boiling over with wanting to know.”

I told them what had happened since the morning. Their excitement was amusing. They interrupted me with interjections, ejaculations, exclamations of horror and surprise. When I had finished, Lucille clasped her hands in front of her with what might almost have been the rapt enthusiasm of a medieval saint; she looked the character too.

“Oh, it’s just simply wonderful. Listening to you sends little thrills all up and down my back. Do you know you’re a miracle worker, Miss Lee?”

“Should I be intruding myself upon your confidence if I asked where you have been since last Tuesday?” I replied.

“That’s just it--I don’t know. Isn’t it awful? But I tell you what I do know. I took a cab up to Richmond Park Gate. Instead of Jack, who I was dying to see, a dapper little man, in a grey overcoat and a grey felt hat----”

“The same man,” interposed May, “it must have been--who brought her card this morning, and wanted her jewel-case and things.”

“I saw that grey overcoat and grey felt hat this afternoon,” I observed.

“He said that Jack was waiting with a motor down by the Penn Ponds. Something had happened to the engine, and he was waiting to see it put right. Would I mind walking down to him? I thought it rather odd, but I didn’t see what else I could do, so I walked down. As we went--I remember we were right off the road, close to a plantation--the man took a box out of his pocket, and said Mr. Upcott had told him to give it to me. When I opened it, there were chocolates inside. Of course, Jack knows how fond I am of chocs, and I supposed he sent them to beguile the way. I put one in my mouth and I bit it in half. It seemed to be full of some queer tasting liqueur, which I had swallowed before I knew it, and--that’s all I remember.”

“What do you mean by ‘that’s all you remember’?”

“I mean what I say. The next thing I do remember is that I had rather a headache, and was feeling stupid, and couldn’t make out where I was. Then, all at once, I realized that I was in a railway carriage which was standing at a platform, and that an official of some sort was standing at the open door of the compartment, looking at me as if he wondered what was wrong. ‘Your ticket, please, miss. Isn’t that it in your hand?’ There was something in my hand; I held it out to him; he took it, and off he went, so I suppose it was my ticket, but how it got there, or where it was from I have not the vaguest notion. Presently the train stopped again. I asked a porter who came to the door what station it was. ‘Waterloo, miss--any luggage?’ I told him that I had no luggage, but I wanted him to get me a taxi-cab. He got me one. I told the driver to drive me home; he did; and here I am. That’s every bit I know about it. Who’s that at the front door? It can’t be----”

Who it could not be she did not say. These were lively young ladies. May rushed to the door and listened. Footsteps were heard ascending the staircase. May threw the door wide open and a tall young man came in, his countenance wreathed in smiles.

“Oh, Jack!” cried Miss Lucille Godwin. “Oh, you darling, darling Jack!”

Almost before I knew it, and quite regardless of my presence, she was in the new-comer’s arms. He seemed a hearty young man.

“You are a nice sort,” he told her. “Directly after I wrote you that note from Nice I won a handful at the tables; with it I bought a necklace, which I felt bound to bring you straight away. So here I am, and here’s the necklace.”

He held out to her a string of gleaming stones which he had taken from a flat leather case.

“Oh, Jack, what a beautiful necklace! What a treasure you are! Please will you put it on.”

As we watched he fastened it round her lovely neck; for all they seemed to care, May and I might not have been present. The girl said to him, with a look of the demurest malice:

“Now, Jack, I forgive you. If you only knew what a wretch I’ve felt, and how I’ve wanted you!”

“Well, you won’t have to want any longer.”

As the young man was saying this in what I take was his heartiest manner, a footman appeared at the door to inform us that dinner was served. Jack took me down, the two girls following arm in arm behind. I have seldom spent a livelier evening.

The next morning, when I went to Bond Street, I found that Isolda was missing, as I had anticipated might be the case. It seems possible that he had kept that helpless girl unconscious for two whole days by means of repeated injections of one of the numerous preparations of morphine, as doctors nowadays keep patients in the later stages of cancer oblivious of their sufferings sometimes for weeks; nor might it have been the first time he had tried the same villainous trick. He probably still practises on feminine credulity elsewhere, but, so far as I know, he has not reappeared in London. Nothing has been seen either of him or of his barrel-shaped friend. Lucille Upcott--she has not long been back from her honeymoon--told me the other day, with that demure air which, where she is concerned, may mean anything, that she had recently heard that Mr. George Ratton had established himself on a ranch in Argentina. Whether Mr. Upcott has been made acquainted with the various passages which marked a certain week I cannot say; whenever I see him he seems to radiate happiness.