Chapter XIII

Christopher had taken his seat--had already, indeed, made his maiden speech--when Gerald left the nursing home into which he had been moved from the hospital. The doctors, however, were far from satisfied with his condition. He was still thin, listless in manner, with long periods of absent-mindedness. He seemed, in a way, to have lost self-control. Mary, as they drove home together to Hinterleys House, made up her mind to break the long silence which had existed between them on the subject of Pauline.

“Gerald,” she asked, “have you seen or heard anything of the De Ponières?”

Gerald turned and looked at her out of his hollow eyes.

“Nothing,” he confessed. “I wrote from the nursing home six times. I have had no reply. They must have left the hotel in South Kensington.”

“Would you like me to try and find out?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I have made up my mind to go there myself this afternoon.”

“May I come with you?” she begged.

“If you like,” he answered half-heartedly. “They won’t be there, though. I am just hoping that I may hear of them.”

The hope, however, was not realised. Madame and Mademoiselle had left the hotel many months ago, and had left no address behind. The hall porter, encouraged to tell what he knew by Gerald’s liberal tip, showed a great sheaf of letters which he had been unable to forward.

“Can’t understand their leaving no address, sir,” he confided. “They paid their accounts well and regular, gave notice in the usual way, and just drove off. I asked if they wouldn’t leave an address in case there should be any letters, but the young lady replied that she would call round for them when she was in town again.”

“And she hasn’t been here since?” Lady Mary enquired.

“Never a sign of her,” the hall porter replied.

Gerald handed the man his card.

“It will be worth a five-pound note to you at any time if you should discover their address,” he said.

“I’ll let you know within ten minutes, if I can get hold of it, sir,” the man promised. “I’ve a sort of an idea, though, that we shan’t set eyes on those two ladies again. The manageress,” he went on, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, “wasn’t too sorry to see them go.”

“Why?” Gerald asked.

“Well, she don’t like foreigners, to start with,” he explained, “besides which we were always getting queer sorts of people here asking about them. Might have been detectives or anything. I’m not saying a word against them--they always paid their way right and generously--but there was a queer lot of people watching them all the time.”

Gerald and his sister drove away from the hotel in silence.

“You are disappointed?” Mary asked him anxiously.

“I thought they might have left a message for me,” he admitted.

“You’ll come down to Hinterleys to-morrow?”

He shook his head.

“I must find her,” he announced, in a tone curiously devoid of enthusiasm or hope.

Mary said nothing then, but she took him to task that evening. They had dined tête-à-tête, Lord Hinterleys having already gone down to the country. For the first time Gerald showed some interest in Myrtile’s absence.

“What did you say had become of Myrtile?” he enquired.

“She has gone back to France,” his sister told him. “She had a little money left to her, and she wanted to go. I had a letter from her this morning. She has bought the old farm where you first saw her and is growing violets.”

“Why did she want to go back?” Gerald persisted. “You were all kind to her, I hope?”

“We all tried to be,” Mary answered. “Dad misses her terribly.--Why, here’s Christopher!” she broke off suddenly. “Whatever are you doing, neglecting your duties in this manner?” she asked, as Christopher, still in morning clothes, was shown in by the butler.

“I’ve come to beg for some dinner,” was the smiling reply, “and incidentally to welcome Gerald back.”

Mary coloured a little with pleasure. The butler was already arranging another place.

“It’s awfully nice of you, Christopher,” she said.

“Very good of you to take me in like this,” he replied. “There’s nothing doing at the House, and I felt sure you two would be alone. I should think you must have been about fed up with that nursing home, Gerald.”

“I’m fed up with everything,” Gerald replied, a little wearily. “The doctors say I’m all right again, but I don’t know. I can’t sleep, and there seems to be an empty place in my head, somehow. If I begin to think, I get the jim-jams. Give me some champagne, Richards.”

“The country for you, my boy,” Christopher declared. “If I were Mary, I’d take you down to-morrow.”

Gerald shook his head.

“I’ve something to do first,” he said. “By the bye, you know about Myrtile, I suppose? She’s gone back to the little farm.”

Christopher nodded. Mary, who was watching him closely, fancied that his indifference was almost natural.

“Queer thing,” he observed, “to think that she should end up there, after all. I wonder whether she blesses or curses us, Gerald, for taking her to the end of the road.”

Gerald sighed a little wearily.

“Curses us, I should think,” he replied. “All knowledge is pain; so is memory. Last night I woke up suddenly and I remembered fighting with that great brute on the Polish frontier.--Did Elsa tell you about the man I killed there?” he asked, frowning.

Mary rose abruptly to her feet.

“Remember the doctor’s orders,” she insisted. “The last twelve months are taboo. There are worse things in the world than killing Bolshevists, anyhow.”

“The chap had some one who was fond of him, I suppose,” Gerald said gloomily. “You ought to have seen that woman who brought me home, Christopher. I can’t get the thought of her out of my brain. The first time I saw her, I went to persuade her to bribe her lover, Krossneys. I thought her the coarsest, most brutal, most ungainly creature who ever abused the name of Woman. Then I saw her month after month, playing a man’s part. She lied, she swore, she fought,--fought with her fists if there was nothing else handy; she drank; once she almost carried me over a mile of marshland, with some outpost sentries sniping at us all the time. She was a hideous, glorious, epic figure. There was a man whom we both knew to be a spy and on my tracks. I saw her wheedle him into her room. Two minutes afterwards, his blood was streaming out from under the door.”

“Gerald!” his sister entreated.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that it doesn’t do me good to talk of these things. They’ve been a silent horror with me for so long.”

Later, the doctor called to see Gerald, and Christopher led Mary across the hall into the billiard room.

“Mary,” he confided, as soon as he had closed the door, “I had a reason for coming round to-night. I have seen the girl.”

“Where?” Mary asked breathlessly.

“Here in London. They were opening the gates of Marlborough House as I came along Pall Mall, and I was stopped for a moment on the pavement. A small brougham came out. The windows were closed, but I was within a few feet of it. The girl was inside with a young man.”

“If only you could have found out where they went to!” Mary exclaimed. “Gerald will never be better until he has seen her.”

“He can do that when he likes, then,” Christopher replied. “I jumped into a taxi and followed the carriage. It drew up before quite a small, detached house at the back of Roehampton Lane. I jumped out of my taxi quickly, and I was just in time to stop her as she was entering the gate.”

“Go on,” Mary begged. “This is exciting.”

“She recognised me at once,” Christopher went on, “and she made no attempt to get away. I told her that I was Gerald’s friend and that he was looking for her. ‘You can tell him,’ she replied, ‘that he can find me here.’”

“What did the young man say?”

“Nothing at all. He was very good-looking in his way, a great strong fellow, but he looked as though he had been ill.--What are you going to do about this? Are you going to tell Gerald?”

She nodded.

“I think so. I don’t believe this girl means to marry him. It is much better, however, that he knows the exact position.”

“I wrote down the address and here it is,” Christopher said, handing her a card. “If I can be of any use----”

“You dear man!” she exclaimed. “We must leave it to Gerald. I hope that he will let me go with him. I think he ought to find out just where he stands at once.”

“I am not going back to the House,” Christopher remarked. “Could we have one game of billiards?”

“I should love it,” she answered. “Gerald will come and look for us as soon as he has finished with the doctor. You used to give me fifteen, wasn’t it?”

Gerald came in presently and sat watching them a little listlessly. When the game, which Mary won with some ease, came to an end, she went over and seated herself by her brother’s side.

“Gerald,” she said, “Christopher has discovered Pauline’s address. It is quite close by here. You must go and see her to-morrow. Would you like either of us to come with you?”

Gerald began to tremble.

“She is here--in London--all right?” he demanded.

“Absolutely,” Christopher declared. “She was looking quite well. Her brother was with her.”

“I will go alone,” Gerald decided. “I will go to-morrow. Now you have told me something worth hearing. Perhaps to-night I shall sleep.”