The advantage was distinctly with Grant. His air of hurt reticence was admirably assumed. It chanced that, at the moment of leaving the yacht, Gertrude had confided to him that she had a headache and was going to bed immediately on her return to the hotel.
“My congratulations upon your speedy recovery,” he murmured.
She was mistress of herself at once. She raised her eyebrows very slightly.
“Oh, my headache,” she remarked. “A hot bath and an aspirin disposed of that. Mr. Lymane was a perfect dear and called just as I was wondering whether I should get up and try my luck at the Club, or go to bed. He suggested some supper and a dance here. I am so glad I came. I love this place, and I haven’t been here this season. And you? Where are your friends?”
“I came here with the very interesting young man whom I met on the tennis courts,” Grant replied. “They tell me that he plays tennis like a pro. Harris, our new secretary, says that he could give me fifteen and owe fifteen. In the other walks of life he is to be taken a little differently. His name is Itash and he is, I understand, devoted to the little danseuse who sits at this table.”
The smile had faded from Gertrude’s lips. She was looking into Grant’s face as though her eyes would bore their way into the back of his brain.
“I should not have thought that a party of three would be very amusing for you,” she remarked.
“The little danseuse is only a temporary addition,” Grant explained. “I am certainly not making my host jealous, for he takes his protegee away whenever he chooses, and he insisted upon my coming. Still the position is not without its embarrassments. I am seriously thinking of cultivating one of these ladies for myself. There is a divine being opposite, with vermilion-coloured hair and eyes of the most enchanting shade of blue, I think I had better throw myself upon her mercy.”
“Come and sit with us,” Gertrude invited shortly.
“Not on any account,” was the firm refusal. “I am already a troisième here. When I leave it will not be to accept a similar place elsewhere. Go and choose your table, you two. I am hurt, but not offended. I will even come and pay my respects later on. But at present, when my friends here have returned, I have an unconquerable desire to introduce myself to the young person with vermilion hair.”
“What shall you say to her?” Gertrude asked.
“I shall say,” he confided, “‘Mademoiselle, I have these few recommendations to your favour. I am an American, as you see me, a millionaire, with a yacht in the harbour and a cheque book which I too seldom use. May I have the pleasure of this dance?’”
“It sounds interesting,” Gertrude admitted. “She will probably refuse you. She will think you have drunk too much wine. Such good fortune would be incredible.”
He rose to his feet.
“That remains to be seen,” he said, taking leave of them with a little bow.
They watched him approach the girl whom he had pointed out, watched her rise with alacrity to her feet, and the commencement of the dance. Gertrude bit her lip as she followed Lymane to a table.
“Monte Carlo,” she observed coldly, “is too small a place for these enterprises.”
“Life is too short an affair to take notice of them,” Lymane rejoined.
They chose their table, ordered wine and danced. Lymane murmured all the time in his companion’s ear. Gertrude sometimes listened, sometimes watched the danseuse with the red hair. She seemed to be interested in Itash, but her eyes seldom left Grant and his partner.
“I wonder whether it is my fancy,” she confided to her escort, as they sat down presently, “but it seems to me—I suppose it is because of this Nice Conference going on so near—that there is an electrical atmosphere everywhere. I feel as though there were rumblings underneath the earth, as though we were on the brink, all the time, of portentous events.”
He smiled indulgently, yet in a slightly superior fashion.
“I don’t think that you need be afraid,” he said. “I think I can assure you that there are no cataclysms imminent at the moment.”
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“Well,” he pointed out, “for one thing, England, France, Germany, Japan, Italy, Spain, and a few of the smaller powers are linked hand in hand to preserve the peace of the world. There is no sign of war, no threat of war anywhere. We are all a little jealous of Germany, but industrially she deserves her success. Now, tell me, what form of cataclysm could descend upon the earth to justify your depression?”
“I think,” she sighed, sipping her champagne, “that I am afraid of the end of the world.”
“The end of the world,” he observed, “is but a picturesque fable. The scientists have the matter well in hand. We are likely to have at least a thousand years of warning. My own apprehensions do not extend thus far.”
She looked through the menu, which a hovering waiter had handed to her.
“Notwithstanding our wonderful dinner,” she decided, “I should like a sandwich. And as it is not the end of the world which is coming and I honestly don’t believe I have indigestion, will you tell me why I am so depressed?”
“I can only suggest,” he ventured politely, “that it is because of your husband’s arrival to-morrow.”
“That,” she declared, “is a crude remark, the sort of speech which betrays your youth. A man of the world, like Grant Slattery for instance, would never have made it.”
“He would probably have hinted at it,” was the somewhat sullen rejoinder, “and it would probably have been the truth.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she murmured. “At any rate I am not going to discuss my husband’s coming with you. I prefer a little consolation for these vague fears of mine. Do you honestly mean to tell me,” she went on, “that the peace of the world is so wonderfully assured? Take these meetings of the Pact, for instance. Is there nothing there which gives cause for a moment’s anxiety?”
“Princess!” he expostulated, “You will remember!”
“Heavens! Am I forgetting again!” she exclaimed. “You see, you’re such a child, I always forget that you have an official connection with the great world. Of course you can say nothing. But then, as it happens, I know as much as you do. Prince Lutrecht is my husband’s cousin. He came to my rooms for a few minutes this evening. I know all that transpires that can be told without an absolute breach of confidence. And I know that as yet there has been nothing serious.”
“But you know there are rumours abroad?”
“Prince Lutrecht gave me a hint to-night. There is just one apple of discord that your Chief might throw upon the board.”
“Shall we dance?” he begged.
She rose at once, quite willingly,
“You are a thoroughly irritating young man,” she declared. “I shall send for Mr. Grant Slattery to come and talk to me. He seems to pick up a wonderful amount of information, and so does Prince Lutrecht. Even my husband hears things sometimes. No one has refused me information—only you. It is either because you don’t like me or you don’t trust me.”
“I am not my own master,” he reminded her, as they started off to dance. “As it is, I have spoken more freely with you than with any one else before in my life.”
They danced until the music ceased. Gertrude clapped for the encore, and they went on until the finish. Then, as they walked towards their table, she continued their conversation.
“There is something you could tell me,” she said, “because, if it is true, the whole world will know it in a day or so. Does Lord Yeovil mean to once more invite America to join the Pact?”
“You have heard that spoken of?”
“I have heard it stated for a fact.”
“I believe it is true,” he told her.
Grant’s farewell shake of the hand possessed a particular significance for Mademoiselle with the red hair, whose rent was a little in arrears. She felt the crisp paper in her palm and flashed her thanks across at him.
“This is too good of Monsieur,” she murmured. “Because he dances so beautifully. He has no need of a lesson. I am always at his disposition.”
They separated, Mademoiselle to glance at her note and find her most sanguine hopes more than realised, Grant to rejoin Itash and his imperturbable companion.
“I am in danger here,” he declared. “I am of so susceptible a temperament and Mademoiselle aux cheveux roux has spoken to me of the loneliness of her life. I think I shall go back to my hotel. The sea air to-day was very invigorating but it also makes one inclined to sleepiness. Besides, I am like an uneasy spirit to-night. Wherever I descend I find myself that terrible third. What happens to him in French fiction and on the stage, one knows. I think I’ll depart quickly.”
Itash smiled, showing his wonderful white teeth. He was more at ease now, and he was not without a sense of humour.
“Fetch Mademoiselle here,” he suggested. “She is a very charming young woman and we will make a partie carree. We will see the night through and end it in my rooms with breakfast.”
Grant shook his head.
“I am no longer of the age when such things attract,” he sighed. “Besides which, I detest an aftermath. The nights which end with bacon and eggs and coffee offend me. I prefer they terminate with the playing of the violin to the door, the bow of the Commissionaire, the little voiture.”
“Monsieur has sentiment,” Cleo murmured.
“I cling to what remains of it,” Grant assured her earnestly. “When sentiment goes, then life is like the dust which the Persian poet tells us about. And so, all you young people, farewell.”
He made his bow, collected his hat and coat, and departed. He left the place with the air of a conqueror. He looked back at it, metaphorically shaking his fist.
“This is a sorry triumph,” he muttered, as he lit a cigarette. “There is that ass Lymane gassing away to Gertrude—thank heavens he doesn’t know much—and Mademoiselle Cleo, back again under the thrall, close-lipped, close-tongued, with enough locked up at the back of her brain to make the way easy for all of us.”
“Monsieur desires something?” the Commissionaire asked him wonderingly.
“Nothing in the world,” Grant replied, slipping a five-franc note into his hand. “I am perfectly happy. I am going home to bed.”
The man took off his hat and bowed.
“A pleasant repose to Monsieur,” he said.