XIV

Wearied and dispirited, Lord Culvers leaned his head upon his hand.

“It’s altogether too much, Clive,” he said. “I’m not a young man. I feel all to pieces. Life is a little too hard for me just now.”

They had returned from their interview with the Prefect of Police, and now sat in Clive’s sitting-room at his hotel, trying to “face the worst and act for the best.”

That interview had been a long and painful one, and the two men had come away from it fully convinced that they had acted the part of imbeciles in allowing a fortnight of precious time to slip away without making an effort to track the missing girl.

As a matter of course, in order to give full emphasis to the mystery of the recovered brooch, it had been necessary to relate to the Prefect the story of Ida’s marriage and subsequent disappearance; also, the full history of her engagement, together with the footing on which she had appeared to stand towards Captain Culvers, as stated by Juliet.

An interpreter, fortunately, had not been required, for although the Prefect had preferred to speak in his own tongue, he had a perfect knowledge of colloquial English.

Lord Culvers’s narrative, in all its minute detail, had been taken down in writing by an official, who, as a matter of course, was present.

On the disappearance of the young lady the Prefect had declined to express an opinion, stating that he could not possibly form one until he had given most careful thought to the case in all its bearings.

He had, however, said that in so serious a matter they could not afford to neglect any detail, however alight, and, therefore, he proposed at once instituting a search for the little organ-boy, of whom mention had been made. He had also proposed sending one of his officers to wait at the Italian restaurant that evening, in the hope that the promise of a supper would be inducement enough to take the little fellow there.

Here Clive had supplied a full and minute description of the boy.

Then they had come to the finding of the brooch in the offertory bag, and the damaged piece of jewellery was handed to the Prefect for his inspection.

Upon this, his questions had set in one direction and centered entirely upon Sefton Culvers, his past and his present career.

Lord Culvers, a little astonished, had done his best to answer these questions. Of, his nephew’s career during the past six or seven years he could give but little information. Captain Culvers had had a good deal of foreign service, had returned home with his health impaired about eighteen months back, and had thought it best to send in his papers to the Horse Guards. This was about the sum total of all Lord Culvers had to tell.

The Prefect had laid stress upon Captain Culvers’s resignation of his commission, and had asked if no other reason than enfeebled health could be assigned for it.

Lord Culvers had replied that if any other reason existed he did not know of it. He had surmised, and knew now for certain, that his nephew was heavily in debt; but, so far as he was aware, there had never been a whisper against his private character.

Then had succeeded a number of questions as to Captain Culvers’s doings in Paris at the present moment, and the attitude he had assumed since the disappearance of his wife. Upon this there had followed the description of Sefton’s present surroundings and most likely associates, together with the account of Lord Culvers’s interview with him that morning, the young man’s extraordinary manner, the excitement he had shown over a chance advertisement, and, finally, his peremptory wish that the attention of the police should not be drawn to the recovery of the brooch.

Here the Prefect had asked for and had taken down in writing the advertisement referred to.

Then Clive had leaned forward and had asked one or two eager questions. Did the damaged condition of the brooch of necessity point to robbery, and its broken pin to violence? Was it presumable that such robbery and violence had taken place in Paris?

The Prefect had answered in cautious fashion, that, although in so serious a matter they could not afford to disregard any circumstance, however slight, they must yet be on their guard to prevent the main facts of the case from becoming entangled with side issues, which should be classified and treated as things apart. To his way of thinking, the disappearance of the lady was one thing, the finding of the brooch another. He was not prepared to say that Captain Culvers’s wife had not fallen into bad hands, and been⁠—well⁠—robbed, if nothing worse, and that such robbery with violence had not taken place in Paris. All he said was, that neither the condition of the brooch nor its recovery in Paris went to prove the one thing or the other. If that brooch had been in the possession of professional thieves, they would have known perfectly well how to dispose of every one of the stones, which would have been removed with the finest of jeweller’s tools, and the skeleton of the brooch would have been then dropped into a smelting-pot, not into an offertory bag. Here, however, was a brooch that had been tampered with by an amateur, who had evidently, before he was halfway through his task, become scared, and had got rid of it in the readiest way that offered. The broken pin to his mind did not of necessity point to a struggle or violence of any sort; it quite as much pointed to an accident. A broken brooch-pin and a lost brooch were matters of everyday occurrence.

In conclusion, the Prefect had asked for permission to put himself at once in communication with the English police, in order that the highest professional skill in both countries might be brought to bear on the affair, which, to his way of thinking, was beginning to assume a most serious aspect.

It was no wonder that Lord Culvers and Clive should have come away from such an interview with their hopes at their lowest, their fears at their highest; nor that the former should lean his head upon his hand declaring that life was a little too much for him just then, and that Clive should have never a word to say by way of comfort.

But if there were little to say by way of consolation, there was plenty to discuss in the arrangements of the details of the course of action which the Prefect had recommended for their adoption.

With these details Clive strove to arouse Lord Culvers from his lethargy and depression, wishing heartily, however, meanwhile, that a younger and more energetic coadjutor could have been assigned to him.

“It will be best,” he said, “for you to return to England⁠—to London, of course; while I will remain in Paris. There should be someone in either place who can give authority or bear responsibility at a moment’s notice.”

Lord Culvers gave a heavy sigh.

“That should be Sefton’s duty; he ought to be in the front now, doing his part and helping us to do ours,” he said, querulously.

Clive could hardly trust his tongue to speak Sefton’s name.

“That man must simply be ignored; he drops out of the affair. We can do without him,” he said, curtly.

“Supposing,” said Lord Culvers presently, with a little attempt at a smile, “that Ida should write in a day or two, and tell us where she is staying, we shall all feel such fools for the fuss we have made.”

“I wish to Heaven we could be made to feel fools in that fashion,” answered Clive, vehemently, and trying his hardest to repress the feeling of irritation that was beginning to grow up in his mind against the man who could entertain such a thought at such a time.

Yet it must be confessed that Fate was dealing a little harshly with Lord Culvers at the moment.

Fancy setting an egg on end, and bidding it run about and crow like a chicken. When the poor egg rolled over and fell helplessly to the ground, one would feel bound to admit that a little too much had been required of it.

All Lord Culvers had ever asked of Providence was a quiet life in which to enjoy the good things bestowed upon him. And a quiet life was just the one thing that Providence persisted in denying to him.

But, whether able to comply with them or not, demands upon Lord Culvers’s energies were from this point to follow thick and fast.

He did his best to acquiesce heartily in Clive’s practical suggestions, and expressed his willingness to return to England on the following day. To return sooner he feared would be an impossibility; he felt that a night’s rest on a featherbed before undertaking a second journey was an absolute necessity to him.

Then, with another feeble little attempt at a smile, he wondered if a cutlet and a glass of claret would put a little strength into him.

Clive, with a twinge of remorse, recollecting that the old gentleman had had nothing in the way of food since his arrival in the morning, at once ordered the much-needed refreshment.

He himself, however, at the moment, felt eating to be an impossibility. The heat was intense; a thunderstorm seemed threatening; he felt stifled within four walls. There was yet an hour to be got through before he kept his appointment at the Italian café with the little organ-boy. He thought he would take a turn in the Champs Élysées and see if the fresh air would clear his brain and put some fresh ideas into it.

Ideas, however, are among the many things for which the demand does not create the supply. Clive wandered along the sultry, dusty road in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, his brain meantime, instead of grinding out fresh ideas, working incessantly at the old treadmill of anxieties, perplexities, and distresses which for him from the very first had gathered round Ida’s disappearance.

Half past five sounded from a clock-tower, and he turned his steps towards the street of many restaurants, hoping to find his little black-eyed friend awaiting him there.

He found the usual number of people assembled in the café round the marble tables, eating their ices or drinking their chocolate; but never a sign of the little organ-grinder.

He questioned the waiter who had attended to him on the previous day as to whether he had seen anything of the child, and received a negative in reply.

Then he was himself addressed by a thin, wiry little man, whom he had noted as he had entered the café, seated in a corner, to all appearance absorbed in the perusal of his Figaro.

Clive guessed in a moment that this individual was the detective whom the Prefect of Police had promised should be in attendance at the café.

They had a little talk together.

The detective expressed his conviction that they were both on a lost errand. He was convinced that the boy would not make his appearance; although when pressed by Clive to do so, he declined to give the reasons for, his conviction. He stated further that his orders were to remain in or outside the place until it closed at midnight. There was therefore no necessity for “M’sieu” to remain unless he felt so disposed.

Clive, however, did feel so disposed, and he lingered about the restaurant until daylight waned and gas-lamps were lighted.

Then he thought it best to return to his hotel, in case the evening mail might have brought news of any kind, or information that called for immediate action.

On the steps of his hotel he was met by a chance acquaintance, who detained him a few minutes in conversation. This chance acquaintance was a member of the Alpine Club, en route for the Swiss mountains, and was eager to detail to Clive a new line of road that he had mapped out for himself. Clive had but a scanty attention to give him, and shook him off as soon as possible. During the few minutes that they stood talking together, Clive had his attention arrested by a sister of the Salvation Army, who came out of the hotel and passed down the stops close to his elbow.

He caught a glimpse of her face under its black poke-bonnet as she went by. She was a woman of about twenty-five years of age, English not a doubt, with a pale, careworn face, that was nevertheless rendered attractive by its remarkable sweetness of expression.

He gave a passing wonder to the thought what could have brought her, without her colleagues, into so uncongenial a neighbourhood, and then went on to the room where he had left Lord Culvers.

He found it in utter darkness, save for a single candle which burned upon a side-table that they had given up to their writing materials, and a patch of gaslight, which an outside lamp made upon the wall.

It seemed strange. The unlighted lamps could be easily accounted for by the fact that Lord Culvers, fast asleep, reclined in a comfortable easy-chair, with his feet resting on another chair.

But the one candle on the writing-table! It seemed to suggest that someone had entered while Lord Culvers had slept, and had made use of the pen and ink.

Clive crossed the room to the small table, and there found his suspicions confirmed. A pen was in the inkstand, a sheet of notepaper was laid obtrusively athwart the blotting pad. And on this sheet of notepaper was written in ink, not yet dry:

“A poor penitent, lying at the point of death at No. 11, Rue Corot, has a story to tell that may interest Lord Culvers.”