Chapter EIGHTEEN

His nerves still vibrating in response to the look he had just received, Geoffrey turned back for a moment to speak to his father. He found the old man running through some papers with an abstracted air, suggesting that his attention was already given to other matters.

“These Amalgamated Iron shares,” he remarked, “I think I’ve found the reason for their depreciation. It’s due to----”

“Never mind that now, father. I want to know your real opinion of this Bender affair.”

“Oh, that!”--Macadam removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. “When you’ve lived as long as I have and listened to as many stories of this kind, you won’t attach too great importance to them.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Geoffrey hotly.

“Oh, only that this girl has worked herself into a state where she is ready to believe anything. It’s a mistake her being there at all. She ought to go home.”

His son reddened with fury.

“I suppose you grasped why she was staying,” he retorted with sarcasm. “She is unselfishly trying to protect her cousin from----”

“From what?” inquired the other calmly. “You don’t know. Neither does she. Well, it’s my opinion she’s assuming far too much. Possibly the servants are stealing; how many would remain honest in the circumstances? If it’s true, we’ll put a stop to it. But I don’t see any reason to believe anything more against them, beyond the fact that they’ve antagonized her. They are not mistreating or neglecting their mistress in any way. On Miss West’s own statement, Mme. Bender is perfectly content with things as they are.”

He returned to his desk, impervious to the indignant gaze fixed upon him. The strained silence was still continuing when Henri, the old Frenchman employed to receive clients, tapped on the door and entered.

“A woman to see you, monsieur. She gives her name as Laborie.”

“Laborie!” repeated Macadam in surprise. “That, I believe, is the person who is causing all this fuss,”--and he exchanged glances with his son.

“Shall I stay?” inquired the latter, irritation giving way to curiosity.

“No, leave me to deal with her.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Show her in.”

Denied the satisfaction of hearing what the maid had come about, Geoffrey departed through the inner door. Left alone, the senior partner leaned back in his seat and was polishing his glasses with a grey silk handkerchief when Henri ushered Jeanne into the room.

“_Bonjour, monsieur!_ I crave a thousand pardons for disturbing you. It is extremely kind of you to see me.”

Macadam nodded curtly and made a gesture towards a chair.

“Sit down. What is it this time?” he demanded briefly.

“Oh, thank you, monsieur!”

With a manner respectful but not cringing, Jeanne Laborie brought forward one of the straight mahogany chairs and placed it a couple of yards away from the solicitor, then sitting down stiffly on the edge of it she fingered her bag with nervous hesitation. She was decently dressed in black, well-brushed and neatly put on. She might have been the wife of some superior tradesman. From beneath the brim of her hard felt hat her brown eyes looked out of her sallow face, direct, unflinching, yet with something of appeal in them.

“Monsieur, I have come on a rather delicate matter. The truth is, I desire to ask your help, though I am well aware you will think it extraordinary. I should not have troubled you if there had been anyone else who could possibly be of assistance.”

She moistened her lips. Her entire manner, reasonable, restrained, conveyed the impression that she was embarking upon a painful undertaking solely because of a sense of duty.

“Go on. I am listening.”

“Monsieur, I think you know something of the state of Mme. Bender’s health. You are aware, perhaps, that she is subject to fits of depression, during which she has made attempts on her life.”

“Suicide!” exclaimed Macadam, raising his brows. “I didn’t know it was as bad as that.”

“Unfortunately it is, monsieur. I may venture to say that if she had been in the care of any person less understanding than myself she would not be alive to-day. You may remember that I have looked after madame for fifteen years?”

The old man nodded. What was the woman getting at? He could not even faintly guess, but her manner of addressing him, making no obvious bid for favour, commanded his grudging respect.

She continued in a low voice:

“Monsieur, a little more than a month ago, just after the second of these suicidal attacks, and at a time when the household was in great confusion, a young lady, an American, suddenly arrived upon the scene. I believe she is some distant connection of Monsieur Bender’s. I really do not know who she is. I had seen her before in Boston. She called repeatedly at the hospital and, if you will not misunderstand me, sought to ingratiate herself with madame when the poor lady was in a state even weaker than at present. Madame is soft-hearted. When this almost unknown young relative begged to be permitted to visit her in Paris she had not the power to refuse--or at least that is how I interpret it. Possibly I am wrong; but surely to invite a guest at such a time was not the act of a responsible person.”

The old lawyer knit his brows non-committally, and the speaker proceeded with still greater hesitation.

“I was afraid it was a mistake for this young lady to remain in the apartment with madame in so precarious a condition. I did my best to dissuade her from staying, but without success. She overrode all my objections, and there she has been ever since.… Monsieur, I wish to tell you that her presence has had a most distressing effect upon madame. Really at times I have not known what to do. She upsets the strict discipline it is necessary to maintain, excites the patient, and has even set herself to weaken madame’s confidence in me. In that respect she has happily failed; but all the same she has caused several severe crises. Last week, following a distressing scene, I was obliged to sit up the entire night with madame, and only this morning another terrible time occurred. I found my lady in violent hysterics, so uncontrolled that I had great difficulty in calming her. I have left her now in charge of the cook, for if she were unguarded I could not answer for the consequences. There was the look in her eye which warned me she was planning some fresh attempt to kill herself, only waiting for the opportunity. I must not be absent long, but I was so frightened I felt I must come at once and speak to you on the matter.”

She cast a glance at the clock fixed in the panel opposite, then continued more rapidly:

“Monsieur, I appeal to you. This young lady, Mademoiselle West, is known to your son. Cannot you or he induce her to go away and leave madame in peace before anything irrevocable happens? I assure you it is of the gravest importance.”

Macadam levelled a stern regard at her and swung his glasses to and fro by their slender chain.

“Why,” he demanded, “do you think Mademoiselle West has this disturbing effect upon your mistress?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I would rather monsieur did not ask me that question. You see, I may be prejudiced, and do not want to make unjust accusations. However, it has been clear to me from the outset that mademoiselle has designs of her own. She is hoping that madame will make a will in her favour, in which respect she is not alone. She is close friends with another lady who cherishes similar expectations. There has been correspondence between these two before Mademoiselle West left America, and I am convinced in my own mind that they have arranged things together, to become joint heirs to madame’s estate.”

Her declaration met with a stern frown.

“Are you aware of what you are saying?” the solicitor shot at her brusquely.

Jeanne bowed her head.

“I realize I do wrong to hint at such a thing. But,” she went on, speaking in measured, distinct tones, “right or wrong, madame herself suspects their intentions. She has told me so. It is for that reason that she is so distressed in their company. She does not wish to offend either of them by asking them to keep away, but she has at last implored me to forbid them to see her!”

The old man’s eyes were like steel.

“Is that true?”

Here Jeanne betrayed her first hint of emotion. She clasped her hands rigidly together, raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, shook with a vibrant tremor.

“As God is my witness, monsieur, that is the absolute truth!” she said.

The words had a ring of sincerity. Macadam deliberated, looking away from her.

“Who is this other friend you mention?” he asked presently.

“There is no reason why I should not tell you, monsieur. It is Mademoiselle Cushing, the singer.”

Macadam rose.

“I will look into the matter,” he said laconically. “I’ll see what can be done. Mind, I do not promise anything.”

With this she had to be content, but that she was not disappointed was shown by a sudden gleam in her intent eyes.

“Thank you, monsieur! I am glad you have not mistaken my meaning. Naturally, since I have laboured so long, organizing madame’s whole establishment with the sole idea of nursing her back to health, I do not like to see my efforts go for nothing. If this Mademoiselle West persists in going against the doctor’s orders and causing trouble, I cannot hold myself responsible for what may happen.”

He watched her go out with her dependable and unobtrusive air, then stood fingering his chin reflectively.

“By George,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve always known if one waited a bit one would hear the other side.”

He considered himself an excellent judge of character, not easily fooled. This woman had struck him as decent and straightforward, strongly biased, perhaps, but that was only natural. Of course he had purposely avoided sounding her on the missing articles, the mention of which matter could only serve to rouse her antipathy still further against Miss West, or, if she were indeed guilty, put her on her guard. No, he was too old a hand to commit that indiscretion.… Last night’s affair looked queer, but there were various possible explanations. On her own admission Miss West had understood little of what had been said. Her accusations were decidedly vague.

“Jealousy on both sides, I’d be willing to take my oath,” he concluded with a contemptuous snort. “There’s usually jealousy where women are concerned.”

After careful cogitation he drew a sheet of paper towards him and composed a letter in his own stiff angular hand. This he sealed and addressed, then turned it face downward on the blotter, just as his son appeared in the doorway.

“Well?” inquired Geoffrey shortly, “what did she want?”

Briefly the old man gave an account of the interview. The listener swore irritably.

“What unmitigated brass! You saw she was lying, of course?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. There may be truth on both sides.”

“On both----! You can’t mean to tell me that after one look at Miss West you could believe this abominable story?”

The old man raised a restraining hand.

“You mean about her having designs on Mme. Bender’s money? I didn’t say I believed it. But have you ever known a business of this kind cropping up where the person involved was penniless? I thought not. There would be no point in it.”

His son regarded him in cold fury.

“What exactly are you getting at?” he demanded.

“Nothing whatever, except that I’m fairly well convinced we are wasting valuable time. Take my advice: put your energies into persuading this girl to leave and find another place to live. I presume she’s not without means?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her,” returned the younger man with contempt.

“Anyhow, she’s only complicating matters by staying where she isn’t wanted. That will do, now. Send Parkin to me. I shall get him to look through Harry Bender’s papers in case there is any record of a picture-transaction. No use starting an inquiry till that point is cleared up.”

Curbing his wrath, Geoffrey did his father’s bidding, then called the French clerk, Ballou, to his own office.

“Guy,” he said, “yesterday you mentioned a young girl who had a connection with that _notaire_ you were inquiring about. Do you know where she worked, and if one can get hold of her?”

“The young person in the _usine_?” replied Guy promptly, “Oh, yes, sir. The concierge told me she was employed in a manufactory for artificial flowers, near the Place Clichy. I daresay I could find the place and the girl, too, if you want me to try.”

“Thank you, Guy, it will be wiser to put someone else on the job. I’m glad you remembered about it, though.”

As soon as he was alone he searched in the telephone directory for a number, rang it up himself, and a few minutes later took a taxi to an address in the rue Blanche. Here he entered the dingy bureau of a private agent already known to him in connection with one or two affairs, a man he had found both trustworthy and acute.

A solemn, thin Frenchman rose at his approach. He had round, pensive black eyes, a lantern-jawed countenance, and a scrawny neck enclosed in a wide standing collar, the gold stud of which protruded above a rusty black cravat.

“Monsieur Macadam? I am happy to see you, monsieur. Be seated, please. What can I do for you?”

As concisely as possible Geoffrey made his business known, and while he spoke the Frenchman’s melancholy gaze ran this way and that, exploring the corners of the little room where dusty files were heaped upon the floor. Once or twice he coughed behind his bony hand, but beyond an occasional question in a lugubrious tone he remained silent.

“You see, although this man I refer to may be perfectly honest, I am not satisfied that he’s all he appears to be. If he’s mixed up in any nefarious proceedings, no matter what their nature, I must find it out.”

“You desire me to look into his record, monsieur?”

“Yes, and follow him if necessary. Here is the information I have obtained, addresses and so on. Do what you can.”

“You say this young woman is a discarded mistress?” remarked the agent sadly. “That would seem to provide our best mode of attack. Artificial flowers… I know the place--Achille Benet is the name. I will arrange to get in touch with the person and see what can be learned from her. No doubt I can persuade her to accompany me to a cinema or a Palais de Danse.”

He uttered the suggestion in much the same tone he would have employed in proposing a tour of the Montmartre Cemetery. However, knowing his man, Geoffrey did not despair, and departed with an easier feeling than he had had for some hours. He still felt indignant towards his father for his insensitive attitude, yet was forced to admit that if he himself had had less knowledge of Catherine he might have adopted the same view.

All at once he recalled that his father was ignorant of Blom’s visit to the office under an assumed name.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, in annoyance. “What a fool I was not to have told him that! If only poor Howard hadn’t chosen this precise moment to be laid up! I wonder how he is, by the way?”

Reproaching himself for not having inquired since yesterday, he hurried to the nearest public telephone and rang up the old clerk’s home, only to learn that Mr. Howard was still very ill. His lungs were badly congested, though he was putting up a brave fight.

“Nothing to be hoped for in that quarter for days,” reflected Geoffrey with exasperation.

Mixed with his genuine concern over the news was the thought that if the old man should die the knowledge he sought would pass beyond his reach.