The End of Her Honeymoon, Marie Belloc Lowndes [desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

suggested yet another theory. “I have been asking myself,” she said, smiling a little wryly, “another question. Is it not possible that this young lady and her husband had a quarrel? Such incidents do occur, even during honeymoons. If the two had a little quarrel he may have left her at our door—just to punish her, Monsieur le Sénateur. He would know she was safe in our respectable hotel. Your sex, if I may say so, Monsieur le Sénateur, is sometimes very unkind, very unfeeling, in their dealings with mine.”

Monsieur Poulain, who had said nothing, here intervened. “How you do run on,” he said crossly. “You talk too much, my wife. We haven’t to account for what has happened!”

But Senator Burton had been struck by Madame Poulain’s notion. Men, and if all the Senator had heard was true, especially Englishmen, do behave very strangely sometimes to their women-folk. It was an Englishman who conceived the character of Petruchio. He remembered Mrs. Dampier’s flushed face, the shy, embarrassed manner with which she had come forward to meet him that morning. She had seemed rather unnecessarily distressed at not being able to make the hotel people understand her: she had evidently been much disappointed that her husband had not left a message for her.

“My son thinks it possible that Mr. Dampier may have met with an accident on his way to the studio.”

A long questioning look flashed from Madame Poulain to her husband, but Poulain was a cautious soul, and he gave his wife no lead.

“Well,” she said at last, “of course that could be ascertained,” and the Senator with satisfaction told himself that she was at last taking a proper part in what had become his trouble, “but I cannot help thinking, Monsieur le Sénateur, that we might give this naughty husband a little longer—at any rate till to-morrow—to come back to the fold.”

And the Senator, perplexed and disturbed, told himself that after all this might be good advice.

But when he again went upstairs and joined the young people, he found that this was not at all a plan to which any one of the three was likely to consent. In fact as he came into the sitting-room where Nancy Dampier was now restlessly walking up and down, he noticed that his son’s hat and his son’s stick were already in his son’s hands.

“I think I ought to go off, father, to the local Commissaire of Police. There’s one in every Paris district,” said Gerald Burton abruptly. “Mrs. Dampier is convinced that her husband did go out this morning, even if the Poulains did not see him doing so; and she and I think it possible, in fact, we are afraid, that he may have met with an accident on his way to the studio.”

As he saw by his father’s face that this theory did not commend itself to the Senator, the young man went on quickly:—“At any rate my doing this can do no harm. I might just inform the Commissaire that a gentleman has been missing since this morning from the Hôtel Saint Ange, and that the only theory we can form which can account for his absence is that he may have met with an accident. Mrs. Dampier has kindly provided me with a description of her husband, and she has told me what she thinks he might have been wearing.”

Nancy stopped her restless pacing. “If only the Poulains would allow me to see where Jack slept last night!” she cried, bursting into tears. “But oh, everything is made so much more difficult by their extraordinary assertion that he never came here at all! You see he had quite a large portmanteau with him, and I can’t possibly tell which of his suits he put on this morning.”

And the Senator looking down into her flushed, tearful face, wondered whether she were indeed telling the truth—and most painfully he doubted, doubted very much.

But when Gerald Burton came back at the end of two hours, after a long and weary struggle with French officialdom, all he could report was that to the best of the Commissaire’s belief no Englishman had met with an accident that day. There had been three street accidents yesterday in which foreigners had been concerned, but none, most positively none, to-day. He admitted, however, that all his reports were not yet in.

Paris, from the human point of view, swells to monstrous proportions when it becomes the background of a great International World’s Fair. And the police, unlike the great majority of those in the vast hive where they keep order, have nothing to gain in exchange for the manifold discomforts an Exhibition brings in its train.

At last, worn out by the mingled agitations and emotions of the day, Nancy went to bed.

The Senator, Gerald and Daisy Burton waited up some time longer. It was a comfort to the father to be able to feel that at last he was alone for a while with his children. To them at least he could unburden his perplexed and now burdened mind.

“I suppose it didn’t occur to you, Gerald, to go to this Mr. Dampier’s studio?”

He looked enquiringly at his son.

Gerald Burton was sitting at the table from which Mrs. Dampier had just risen. He looked, if a trifle weary, yet full of eager energy and life—a fine specimen of strong, confident young manhood—a son of whom any father might well be fond and proud.

The Senator had great confidence in Gerald’s sense and judgment.

“Yes indeed, father, I went there first. Not only did I go to the studio, but from the Commissaire’s office I visited many of the infirmaries and hospitals of the Quarter. You see, I didn’t trust the Commissaire; I don’t think he really knew whether there had been any street accidents or not. In fact at the end of our talk he admitted as much himself.”

“And at Mr. Dampier’s studio?” queried the Senator. “What did you find there? Didn’t the old housekeeper seem surprised at her master’s prolonged absence?”

“Yes, father, she did indeed. I could see that she was beginning to feel very much annoyed and put out about it.”

“Did she tell you,” asked the Senator hesitatingly, “what sort of man this Mr. Dampier is?”

“She spoke very well of him,” said young Burton, with a touch of reluctance in his voice, “but she admitted that he was a casual sort of fellow.”

Gerald’s sister looked up. She broke in, rather eagerly, “What sort of a man do you suppose Mr. Dampier to be, Gerald?”

He shrugged his shoulders, rather ill-temperedly. He, too, was tired, after the long day of waiting and suspense. “How can I possibly tell, Daisy? I must say it’s rather like a woman to ask such a question! From something Mrs. Dampier said, I gather he is a plain-looking chap.”

And then Daisy laughed heartily, for the first time that day. “Why, she adores him!” she cried, “she can’t have told you that.”

“Indeed she did! But you weren’t there when I made her describe him carefully to me. I had to ask her, for it was important that I should have some sort of notion what the fellow is like.”

He took out his note-book. “I’ll tell you what I wrote down, practically from her dictation. ‘A tall man—taller than the average Englishman. A loosely-hung fellow; (he doesn’t care for any kind of sport, I gather). Thirty five years of age; (seems a bit old to have married a girl—she won’t be twenty till next month). He has big, strongly-marked features, and a good deal of fair hair. Always wears an old fashioned repeater watch and bunch of seals. Was probably wearing this morning a light grey tweed suit and a straw hat.’” Gerald looked up and turned to his sister, “If you call that the description of a good-looking man, well, all I can say is that I don’t agree with you, Daisy!”

“He’s a very good artist,” said the Senator mildly. “Did you go into his studio, Gerald?”

“Yes, I did. And I can’t say that I agree with you, father: I didn’t care for any of the pictures I saw there.”

Gerald Burton spoke rather crossly. Both his father and sister felt surprised at his tone. He was generally very equable and good-tempered. But where any sort of art was concerned he naturally claimed to speak with authority.

“Have you any theory, Gerald”—the Senator hesitated, “to account for the extraordinary discrepancy between the Poulains’ story and what Mrs. Dampier asserts to be the case?”

“Yes, father, I have a quite definite theory. I believe the Poulains are lying.”

The young man leant forward across the round table. He spoke very earnestly, but even as he spoke he lowered his voice, as if fearing to be overheard.

Senator Burton glanced at the door. “You can speak quite openly,” he said rather sharply. “You forget that there is the door of our appartement as well as a passage between this room and the staircase.”

“No, father, I don’t forget that. But it would be quite easy for anyone to creep in. The Poulains have pass keys everywhere.”

“My dear boy, they don’t understand English!”

“Jules does, father. He knows far more English than he admits. At any rate he understands everything one says to him.”

Daisy broke in with a touch of impatience. “But with what object could the Poulains tell such a stupid and cruel untruth, one, too, which is sure to be found out very soon? If this Mr. Dampier did arrive here last night, well then, he did—if he didn’t, he didn’t!”

“Yes, that’s true,” Gerald turned to his sister. “And though I’ve given a good deal of thought to it during the last few hours—I can’t form any theory yet as to why the Poulains are lying. I only feel quite sure that they are.”

“It’s a curious thing,” observed the Senator musingly, “that neither of you saw this Mr. Dampier last night—curious, I mean, that he should have just stepped up into a cupboard, as Mrs. Dampier says he did, at the exact moment when you were outside the door.”

Neither of his children made any reply. That coincidence still troubled Daisy Burton.

At last,—“I don’t see that it’s at all curious,” exclaimed her brother hastily. “It’s very unfortunate, of course, for if we had happened to see him the Poulains couldn’t have told the tale they told you this morning.”

The Senator sighed. He was tired—tired of the long afternoon spent in doing nothing, and, to tell the truth, tired of the curious, inexplicable problem with which he had been battling since the morning.

“Well, I say it with sincere regret, but I am inclined to believe the Poulains.”

“Father!” His son was looking at him with surprise and yes, indignation.

“Yes, Gerald. I am, for the present, inclined not only to believe the Poulains’ clear and consistent story, but to share Madame Poulain’s view of the case—”

“And what is her view?” asked Daisy eagerly.

“Well, my dear, her view—the view, let me remind you, of a sensible woman who, I fancy, has seen a good deal of life—is that Mr. Dampier did accompany his wife here, as far as the hotel, that is. That then, as the result of what our good landlady calls a ‘querelle d’amoureux,’ he left her—knowing she would be quite safe of course in so respectable a place as the Hôtel Saint Ange.”

Daisy Burton only said one word—but that word was “Brute!” and her father saw that there was the light of battle in her eyes.

“My dear,” he said gently, “you forget that it was an Englishman who wrote ‘The Taming of the Shrew.’”

“And yet American girls—of a sort—are quite eager to marry Englishmen!”

The Senator quickly pursued his advantage. “Now is