Chapter SEVEN

Geoffrey Macadam had been going through a struggle. Why this consuming eagerness to acquire news of an American girl whom he had not known existed till yesterday afternoon? Was it genuine anxiety for her welfare, or simply the hankering to hear again a voice which for some inscrutable reason lingered disturbingly in his memory? Suspecting his motives he had fought for an entire hour, during which the telephone drew him like a magnet.

Sheer nonsense, this! She was there haunting him the whole time. Twice last night he had dreamed about her, and even now her dark, shining eyes came between him and the work upon his desk, scattering his ideas to the winds of heaven. There was a kind of spell about it.… Not that it would last, of course. This sort of thing never did. In all likelihood after he had looked at the original eyes a time or two…

This decided him. He would ring her up, ask her to lunch--not immediately, that was too impetuous--but later, say the end of the week. Then he would see that she was just an ordinary mortal, and as such put her into her proper place.

On firm ground now, his scruples placated, he did what he had been longing to do and put through the call.

Two minutes more, and his prudent resolutions were broken to bits, all because the familiar voice had a catch in it and an undercurrent of excitement vibrating through its guarded replies. Clearly Miss West was upset about something. Lunch at the end of the week became dinner to-night--if she could manage it. Could she? There was a little gasp of astonishment, a pause, then a wavering consent, in which it thrilled him to detect a note of thankfulness. That meant that she really wanted to talk to him about her cousin. Well, he also wanted to talk about her cousin. Only there was no use pretending that Mme. Bender’s affairs could cause his pulse to beat in this ridiculous fashion, or rouse in him a thirsty craving like the desire for water after a hectic night. What had come over his well-ordered self? He must take his emotions in hand, or there was no knowing to what stupidity they might lead.

Freeing himself from his reverie, he crossed the reception room to his father’s office. He wanted to inform his parent of his meeting with the late Harry Bender’s cousin, a fact he had not previously mentioned because the elder Macadam had been dining out last night. Secretly he suspected himself of a fatuous need to speak to someone about the subject of his thoughts.

Blair Macadam was leaning back in his swivelled chair dictating to his secretary, an attractive-looking English girl with well-waved hair and a smart blue serge frock. He glanced at his son from beneath heavy grizzled brows, but went dryly on, now and then running his fingers through the coarse grey hair which stood up stiffly above his furrowed forehead. He was a big, powerfully built Scot, who in his forty years’ exile from his native Edinburgh had never lost his accent, noticeable even in his careful French.

Geoffrey walked to the window and looked down upon the busy traffic of the rue Auber. Across the way loomed the square, dingy bulk of the Opera, round whose island circled a ceaseless stream of hooting taxis and motor-busses, constant menace to the harassed pedestrian. The sun streamed down, spring was in the air.

“_Croyez-vous, cher monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments_--and so forth. Get those typed as soon as you can. That will be all now, Miss Curwen.”

The secretary gathered up her pads and departed, not without an unobtrusive flicker of the eye towards the junior partner’s unconscious back. It was characteristic of the old man that he took note of the glance, but paid absolutely no attention to it.

“Well, Geoffrey?” he said, turning over the letters on his desk.

“It’s nothing much,” replied his son. “Only coming up from Havre on the boat-train I met an American--West her name is--who it seems is some relation of Harry Bender’s. I thought you might be interested.”

“Going to stay with the widow, is she?” remarked the old lawyer with no evidence of special concern. “What age is she? Responsible woman?”

“No--quite young. Twenty-three, perhaps.”

Suddenly self-conscious Geoffrey lit a cigarette, offering his case to his father.

“Thanks, not till after lunch. Well, I daresay it will be dull enough for her.” He continued to sort papers. “Odd your mentioning the Benders, though. While you were away that woman came in again to me. Second or third time in six months.”

“What woman?”

“Mme. Bender’s maid. Seems to have a good deal of authority.”

The younger man made a movement of interest.

“Oh! What did she come about?”

“A message from her mistress, who apparently sees to nothing for herself these days. Lost the key of her safety-deposit box at the bank, and wanted to get a duplicate.”

“What did you do about it?”

“Oh, communicated with the bank. Told her, of course, that it would be necessary to have a written order, signed by Mme. Bender. However she knew all about that, and produced the paper properly signed. Thoroughly business-like.”

Geoffrey frowned suddenly. Had not Miss Cushing, at his one memorable interview with her, made some obscure reference to the contents of the safety-deposit? He was sure, he recalled something of the sort.

“What do you suppose Mme. Bender keeps at the bank?” he inquired.

“Jewels, I should say. You know she seldom wore any, though Bender must have given her some valuable ones.”

“Did this maid happen to speak of her mistress’s health? Her mental condition, I mean. You know I mentioned it to you some time ago.”

“Did you? I forget. In any case nothing was said about it the other day. I gather that she’s merely confined to the apartment. She can sign her name, at all events. Why do you ask? Nothing wrong, is there?”--and he glanced up keenly.

His son paused on the threshold.

“I don’t know that there is. I happened to hear that she is regarded as rather--well, erratic.”

“Always was,” murmured his father. “Nothing new about that.”

“By the way,” remarked the young man, pausing in his exit, “you might tell Elspeth I’m dining out.”

Elspeth was his married sister, who lived at Fontainebleau, but who at the moment was staying with his father and himself at their flat in the rue d’Assas. Father and son maintained a bachelor existence they liked to feel was all sufficient, yet both were quick to fall into consulting and relying upon Elspeth during her brief visits to their _ménage_.

At a little before eight that evening Geoffrey drove his Citroën over the Pont de la Concorde, along the Cour la Reine and so past the Place d’Iéna and the Place du Trocadéro to the Avenue Henri Martin. He was conscious of a vivid elation, yet in proportion as this sensation soared within him he felt himself growing each moment stiffer and more awkward. Why, he asked angrily, should anticipation exert so petrifying an effect upon his powers of speech and movement? With his whole soul he envied the easy, expansive youths of his generation, their readiness to pay compliments and to take small liberties without giving offense. Never could he hope to be one of these lucky beings. He was far removed from a prig, nor did he cherish any footling illusions about womenfolk. Except for his school and university days he had spent his life in Paris, a city which does not foster illusions of any kind. No, it was not from ignorance nor prudery if he froze at a glance the exceedingly desirable girl he was hastening to meet. It was some despised quality handed down to him through a long line of Scottish forebears, as inseparable from their fibre as the heather from their hills. He could as easily cut off his right arm as to rid himself of its restraint.

It might have soothed his ire to know that this adamantine exterior carried its own compensations, that a fair number of women, French as well as English, regarded him with covetous interest, feeling as women do that a nut hard to crack must contain a rewarding kernel; but little suspicion of this penetrated his mind, even though for the past year he had been dodging the advances of at least two damsels, well-bred and amply dowered. What vanity was his left him uninformed as to his powers of personal seduction.

He crossed the well of the court and entered the _ascenseur_. Alighting at the _entresol_ he became at once aware of angry voices, a man’s and a woman’s, engaged in turbulent altercation. The sounds came from the direction of the Bender apartment, and as he turned the corner he saw the maid, Jeanne, making vigorous efforts to shut the door upon an intruder, a man in chauffeur’s uniform, who, having wedged his foot within the entrance, stubbornly refused to budge.

“I tell you, I am not going to take my dismissal from such as you!” shouted the aggressor furiously. “After five years, to be sent about my business, and by another domestic! No, a thousand times no! It is not done--a serious man, with a family, too, chucked for no reason! I won’t have it! I insist on seeing madame, devil take you and yours!”

The woman’s features glowered with black rage.

“Must I repeat, dirty pig, that madame is ill, can see no one, by the doctor’s orders? I have given you her message. Let that be enough for you. Now take yourself off!”

“Not till I’ve been told why I’m given the sack. Do you imagine I am going to say to my next patron that Mme. Bender, of the Avenue Henri Martin, has sent me packing after five years, without a character? Name of a pipe, no, you infernal schemer! I intend to see madame in person and get to the bottom of this!”

Here the brawlers caught sight of Geoffrey and lapsed into sullen silence. With slow reluctance the chauffeur withdrew his foot and turned away, breathing hard. Geoffrey had a glimpse of a white, enraged face, chin mutinous, eyes blazing. He was a youngish man of decent appearance, and, contrary to Geoffrey’s first impression, seemed to be perfectly sober. He shot a glance at the new-comer as though of half a mind to appeal to him for support, thought better of it, and made off towards the stairs. The woman gave a snort of triumph.

“Another time,” she muttered in vitriolic accents, “he will not get past the concierge. I’ll see to that! Making a scene like this in a respectable house!”

Then pulling herself together she addressed Geoffrey with courteous composure.

“Monsieur----?”

“Good evening. Will you kindly tell Mademoiselle West that Monsieur Macadam is here?”

On hearing the name a subtle alteration came over the pronounced features. The lips drew back in a mechanical smile, the brown eyes scrutinized the visitor with searching keenness.

“Ah-h-h!” breathed the maid with a prolonged inflection. “It is for mademoiselle! Come in, monsieur. I will inform mademoiselle.”

It was needless to do so, however, for at that moment Catherine, ready in her coat and hat, issued from the salon. At once the expression of her face arrested Geoffrey’s attention to such an extent of self-consciousness and deserted him and he forgot everything except curiosity and concern. He could not say that she looked frightened; that was too strong a word; but her shining eyes were wide with bewilderment, and in each cheek burned a spot of crimson evidently not rouge. She approached him eagerly, hand outstretched with the informality of an old friend.

“Oh!” she cried, with what he fancied was relief in her tone, “how nice to see you! I’ve got such a lot to talk to you about!”

She faltered in the midst of the last sentence, as though disconcerted by the fixed gaze of the maid’s eyes, somehow at variance with her smiling mouth. Neither she nor Geoffrey had any idea as to how much English the woman understood, but both detected a quick narrowing of the lids not altogether friendly.

“Mademoiselle has the key I gave her?” inquired the woman with smooth solicitude.

“Certainly, Jeanne, it is in my bag.”

“And if you should come in late, mademoiselle, you will be careful not to make a noise?” pursued the other with perfect suavity. “It is so easy for madame to be disturbed.”

“I’ll be very quiet,” returned the girl. “And I shan’t be at all late.”

Rather quickly she preceded Geoffrey through the door, and as he reached her side he thought that the colour staining her cheeks burned a still brighter hue, but she said nothing till the cage of the lift was sinking to the ground floor. Then suddenly she let herself go with a burst of confidence, though her voice remained lowered.

“Oh! how thankful I am to get away!” she cried, with a half-ashamed laugh. “That flat is getting horribly on my nerves. Silly, isn’t it?” she added, with an appeal for tolerance.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded anxiously. “Anything gone wrong?”

She hesitated, biting her lip.

“Yes and no. I don’t know what to say. Mostly it’s just a--a feeling.… What happened a few minutes ago, for instance. Did you see a man talking to Jeanne as you came up?”

“Yes, Mme. Bender’s chauffeur, I fancy. They were having some sort of shindy.”

“So that’s who it was! I wondered. You see, I heard nearly the whole of the dispute, I couldn’t help it. It was quite right, of course, for Jeanne to refuse to let him see Mme. Bender, but--well, she was abusively rude to him from the beginning, and I somehow felt he had a real grievance. Odd for him to be dismissed without any reason, don’t you think? Not a bit like my cousin to do that. I can’t understand it.”

It flashed into Geoffrey’s mind that in all probability the dismissal had come from the maid herself, in which case Mme. Bender knew nothing about it, but he shook his head in silence. After all, it was only supposition, founded on a knowledge of the autocratic ways of old and trusted servants.

“Oh, well”--and Catherine sighed as though trying to throw off an irksome load. “Why bother? I came out to enjoy myself.”

“Right! Then first of all, where shall we go? A lively restaurant with music, or a quiet one?”

“Oh, a quiet one! You see I want to tell you about something rather dreadful which happened just before I arrived. That and other things. The fact is, it’s all decidedly worse here than I thought.”

“In what way?” he demanded quickly.

While they were abreast of the concierge’s domain she made no reply, but as soon as she was seated in the car she described the incident which two nights ago had thrown the household into confusion.

“Good God!” he cried, seriously shocked. “So it’s as bad as that! I’d no idea.”

“I’m afraid it is. But let’s talk of cheerful topics for a bit. Later on I’ll tell you everything.”

They whirled along by the way of the Champs Élysée to a typically French restaurant in one of the Grand Boulevards, where the food was noted for its excellence. Here, against the wall in an alcove with shaded lights, they pored together over a menu-sheet, while an elderly functionary with a bottle nose bent an attentive ear to catch their gastronomic wishes.

Catherine was to find that her new friend knew how to order a meal. The first sip of the amber, icy cocktail set the stamp of success upon the evening and by the time the _œufs Bourgognaises_ arrived, embedded in their incomparable sauce, she was prepared to pay him the tribute of a willing admiration. With the first real hunger she had felt since she reached Paris, she fell to in appreciative silence.

Meanwhile Geoffrey studied her as closely as he dared, almost chagrined to find her much lovelier than the picture he had carried about with him. American women were as smart as the French, he decided, with better figures, too, and a look of finer breeding. Also they knew not only what to put on but what to leave off, scorning to distract the eye with irrelevant detail.

How effective her plain parchment-coloured velvet was against the red plush of the seat! It defined her slender body delicately, while her tiny, black hat was so close-fitting as to appear almost indistinguishable from her hair. Round her throat lay a necklace of flat, plaited gold, toning subtly with her warm pallor, and she wore but one other ornament, a ruby ring with a big decorative setting, its single stone repeating the crimson which formed her present background.

For the moment the luminous eyes were veiled by the pensive sweep of her lashes. He longed, man-like, to rekindle the dancing flames in them, but found himself tongue-tied. Poor girl, he was afraid she had been going through a nasty time. Better leave her in peace till she was ready to speak.

At last she looked up, absently twisting her wine-glass between nervous fingers.

“Do you know why I wasn’t met at the _gare_ last night?” she asked.

“No. Wasn’t the telegram delivered?”

“It wasn’t that. There was another reason.”

She glanced for a moment at the adjacent tables. The sole diners within earshot were a pair of pompous, middle-aged Frenchmen greedily intent on their meal.

“The truth is, those servants don’t want me there, and thought they’d begin by making things uncomfortable for me. They’re rude, they’re overbearing, they act as if they hated me. In fact,” she finished with a rueful laugh, “both Jeanne and Eduardo are doing their utmost to drive me away!”