A Maker of History by E. Phillips Oppenheim (the lemonade war series TXT) 📕

"I can only apologize, Madame," he said with a bow, "for intruding. I will await your husband's return in the hall."

He bowed low, and turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the door before she stopped him.

"Wait!"

He turned round. Her voice was different.

"Come and sit down here," she said, pointing to a sofa by her side.

He obeyed her, thoroughly amazed. She leaned back amongst the cushions and looked at him thoughtfully.

"How is it that you—an Englishman—speak French so well?" she asked.

"I lived in Paris for some years," he answered.

"Indeed! And yet you returned to—Norfolk, is it?"

He bowed.

"It is true, Madame!" he admitted.

"How droll!" she murmured. "Miss Poynton—she is an old friend of yours?"

"I am very anxious to see her, Madame!"

"Why?"

He hesitated. After all, his was no secret mission.

"I have reason to believe," he said, "that a mistake has been made in the identity of the body found in the Seine and supposed to be her brother's."

She gave a little start. It seemed to him that from that moment she regarded him with more interest.

"But that, Monsieur," she said, "is not possible."

"Why not?"

She did not answer him for a moment. Instead she rang a bell.

A servant appeared almost immediately.

"Request Monsieur le Marquis to step this way immediately he returns," she ordered.

The man bowed and withdrew. The Marquise turned again to Duncombe.

"It is quite impossible!" she repeated. "Do you know who it was that identified—the young man?"

Duncombe shook his head.

"I know nothing," he said. "I saw the notice in the paper, and I have been to the Morgue with a friend."

"Were you allowed to see it?"

"No! For some reason or other we were not. But we managed to bribe one of the attendants, and we got the police description."

"This," Madame said, "is interesting. Well?"

"There was one point in particular in the description," Duncombe said, "and a very important one, which proved to us both that the dead man was not Guy Poynton."

"It is no secret, I presume?" she said. "Tell me what it was."

Duncombe hesitated. He saw no reason for concealing the facts.

"The height of the body," he said, "was given as five feet nine. Guy Poynton was over six feet."

The Marquise nodded her head slowly.

"And now," she said, "shall I tell you who it is who identified the body at the Morgue—apart from the papers which were found in his pocket, and which certainly belonged to Mr. Poynton?"

"I should be interested to know," he admitted.

"It was Miss Poynton herself. It is that which has upset her so. She recognized him at once."

"Are you sure of this, Madame?" Duncombe asked.

"I myself," the Marquise answered, "accompanied her there. It was terrible."

Duncombe looked very grave.

"I am indeed sorry to hear this," he said. "There can be no possibility of any mistake, then?"

"None whatever!" the Marquise declared.

"You will permit me to see her?" Duncombe begged. "If I am not a very old friend—I am at least an intimate one."

The Marquise shook her head.

"She is not in a fit state to see any one," she declared. "The visit to the Morgue has upset her almost as much as the affair itself. You must have patience, Monsieur. In a fortnight or three weeks at the earliest she may be disposed to see friends. Certainly not at present."

"I may send her a message?" Duncombe asked.

The Marquise nodded.

"Yes. You may write it, if you like."

"And I may wait for an answer?"

"Yes."

Duncombe scribbled a few lines on the back of a visiting-card. The Marquise took it from him and rose.

"I will return," she said. "You shall be entirely satisfied."

She left him alone for nearly ten minutes. She had scarcely left the room when another visitor entered. The Vicomte de Bergillac, in a dark brown suit and an apple-green tie, bowed to Duncombe, and carefully selected the most comfortable chair in his vicinity.

"So you took my advice, Monsieur," he remarked, helping himself to a cushion from another chair, and placing it behind his head.

"I admit it," Duncombe answered. "On the whole I believe that it was very good advice."

"Would you," the Vicomte murmured, "like another dose?"

"I trust," Duncombe said, "that there is no necessity."

The Vicomte reflected.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"To see Miss Poynton."

"And again why?"

Duncombe smiled. The boy's manner was so devoid of impertinence that he found it impossible to resent his questions.

"Well," he said, "I came hoping to bring Miss Poynton some good news. I had information which led me seriously to doubt whether the body which has been found in the Seine is really her brother's."

The Vicomte sat up as though he had been shot.

"My friend," he said slowly, "I take some interest in you, but, upon my word, I begin to believe that you will end your days in the Morgue yourself. As you value your life, don't tell any one else what you have told me. I trust that I am the first."

"I have told the Marquise," Duncombe answered, "and she has gone to find out whether Miss Poynton will see me."

The Vicomte's patent boot tapped the floor slowly.

"You have told the Marquise," he repeated thoughtfully. "Stop! I must think!"

There was a short silence. Then the Vicomte looked up.

"Very well," he said. "Now listen! Have you any confidence in me?"

"Undoubtedly," Duncombe answered. "The advice you gave me before was, I know, good. It was confirmed a few hours following, and, as you know, I followed it."

"Then listen," the Vicomte said. "L'affaire Poynton is in excellent hands. The young lady will come to no harm. You are here, I know, because you are her friend. You can help her if you will."

"How?" Duncombe asked.

"By leaving Paris to-day."

"Your advice," Duncombe said grimly, "seems to lack variety."

The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.

"The other affair," he said; "is still open. If I stepped to the telephone here you would be arrested within the hour."

"Can't you leave the riddles out and talk so that an ordinary man can understand you for a few minutes?" Duncombe begged.

"It is exactly what remains impossible," the Vicomte answered smoothly. "But you know the old saying, you have doubtless something similar in your own country, 'It is from our friends we suffer most.' Your presence here, your—forgive me—somewhat clumsy attempts to solve this affaire Poynton, are likely to be a cause of embarrassment to the young lady herself and to others. Apart from that, it will certainly cost you your life."

"Without some shadow of an explanation," Duncombe said calmly, "I remain where I am in case I can be of assistance to Miss Poynton."

The young man shrugged his shoulders, and sauntering to a mirror rearranged his tie. Madame la Marquise entered.

"You, Henri!" she exclaimed.

He bowed low with exaggerated grace, and kissed the tips of her fingers.

"I!" he answered. "And—for this time with a perfectly legitimate reason for my coming. A commission from my uncle."

"L'affaire Poynton?"

"Exactly, dear cousin."

"But why," she asked, "did they not show you into my room?"

"I learnt that my friend Sir George Duncombe was here, and I desired to see him," he rejoined.

She shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"You will wait!" she directed. Then she turned to Duncombe, and handed him a sealed envelope.

"If you please," she said, "will you read that—now."

He tore it open, and read the few hasty lines. Then he looked up, and met the Marquise's expectant gaze.

"Madame," he said slowly, "does this come from Miss Poynton of her own free will?"

She laughed insolently.

"Monsieur," she said, "my guests are subject to no coercion in this house."

He bowed, and turned towards the door.

"Your answer, Monsieur?" she called out.

"There is no answer," he replied.

THE Marquise made a wry face at his departing figure, which changed swiftly into a smile as she turned to the young Vicomte.

"Ah, these Englishmen!" she exclaimed. "These dull, good, obstinate, stupid pigs of Englishmen! If they would lose their tempers once—get angry, anything. Do they make love as coldly, I wonder?"

"Dear cousin," he answered, "I do not know. But if you will permit me I will show you——"

"Henri!"

He sighed.

"You are so adorable, Angèle," he murmured.

"And you," she answered, "are so indiscreet. It is not your day, and I am expecting Gustav at any moment, I have left word that he is to be shown up here. There, my hand for one moment, not so roughly, sir. And now tell me why you came."

"On a diplomatic errand, my dear cousin. I must see Miss Poynton."

She touched a bell.

"I will send for her," she said. "I shall not let you see her alone. She is much too good-looking, and you are far too impressionable!"

He looked at her reproachfully.

"Angèle," he said, "you speak so of a young English miss—to me, Henri de Bergillac—to me who have known—who knows——"

She interrupted him laughing. The exaggerated devotion of his manner seemed to amuse her.

"My dear Henri!" she said. "I do not believe that even a young English miss is safe from you. But attend! She comes."

Phyllis entered the room and came towards them. She was dressed in black, and she was still pale, but her eyes and mouth were wholly without affinity to the class of young person whom Henri had expected to see. He rose and bowed, and Phyllis regarded him with frank interest.

"Phyllis," the Marquise said, "this is the Vicomte de Bergillac, and he brings you messages from some one or other. Your affairs are quite too complicated for my little head. Sit down and let him talk to you."

"If Monsieur le Vicomte has brought me messages from the right person," Phyllis said with a smile, "he will be very welcome. Seriously, Monsieur, I seem to have fallen amongst friends here whose only unkindness is an apparent desire to turn my life into a maze. I hope that you are going to lead me out."

"I can conceive, Mademoiselle," the Vicomte answered with his hand upon his heart, "no more delightful undertaking."

"Then I am quite sure," she answered, laughing softly, "that we are both going to be very happy. Please go on!"

"Mademoiselle speaks delightful French," he murmured, a little surprised.

"And, Monsieur, I can see," she answered, "is an apt flatterer. Afterwards as much as you please. But now—well, I want to hear about Guy."

"Mademoiselle has commanded," he said with a little gesture. "To proceed then. Monsieur Guy is well, and is my constant companion. He is with friends who wish him well, and this morning, Mademoiselle, the President himself has given written orders to the police to proceed no further in the unfortunate little affair of which Mademoiselle has knowledge."

Phyllis had lost all her pallor. She smiled delightfully upon him. Madame la Marquise rose with a little impatient movement, and walked to the further end of the room.

"How nice of you to come and tell me this," she exclaimed, "and what a relief! I am sure I think he is very fortunate to have made such good friends."

"Mademoiselle," he declared with emphasis, "one at least of those friends is more than repaid."

She laughed back into his eyes, frankly amused by his gallantry.

"And now," she said, "we come to the beginning of the riddles. Why is it necessary for him to be supposed drowned, if he is no longer in danger from the police?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I must speak to you now of strange things. But, first, I must implore you to promise me this, and remember it always. Every word that I am going to say to you now must remain for the present a profound secret. That is agreed?"

"Certainly!" she answered.

"Your brother," he continued, "in his travels on the Continent stumbled by chance upon a State secret of international importance. He had himself no idea of it, but a chance word which he let fall, on the first evening I met him, gave the clue to myself and some friends. In his enforced retirement we—that is, my uncle and others—learned