Part 13 (1/2)

”The night brings counsel: you'll have time to think things over. By to-morrow you'll be coming to offer me those jewels in exchange for what influence I have in certain quarters.”

”With your famous friend, the Chief of the Surete, eh?”

”Possibly. I am known also at La Tour Pointue.”

”I confess I don't follow you, unless you mean to turn informer.”

”Never that.”

”It's a riddle, then?”

”For the moment only.... But I will say this: it will be futile, your attempting to escape Paris; Popinot has already picketted every outlet.

Your one hope resides in me; and I shall be at home to you until midnight to-morrow--to-day, rather.”

Impressed in spite of himself, Lanyard stared. But the Count maintained an imperturbable manner, looking straight ahead. Such calm a.s.surance would hardly be sheer bluff.

”I must think this over,” Lanyard mused aloud.

”Pray don't let me hinder you,” the Count begged with mild sarcasm. ”I have my own futile thoughts....”

Lanyard laughed quietly and subsided into a reverie which, undisturbed by De Morbihan, endured throughout the brief remainder of their drive; for, thanks to the smallness of the hour, the streets were practically deserted and offered no obstacle to speed; while the chauffeur was doubtless eager for his bed.

As they drew near Troyon's, however, Lanyard sat up and jealously reconnoitered both sides of the way.

”Surely you don't expect to be kept out?” the Count asked dryly. ”But that just shows how little you appreciate our good Popinot. He'll never object to your locking yourself up where he knows he can find you--but only to your leaving without permission!”

”Something in that, perhaps. Still, I make it a rule to give myself the benefit of every doubt.”

There was, indeed, no sign of ambush that he could detect in any quarter, nor any indication that Popinot's Apaches were posted thereabouts. Nevertheless, Lanyard produced his automatic and freed the safety-catch before opening the door.

”A thousand thanks, my dear Count!”

”For what? Doing myself a service? But you make me feel ashamed!”

”I know,” agreed Lanyard, depreciatory; ”but that's the way I am--a little devil--you really can't trust me! Adieu, Monsieur le Comte.”

”Au revoir, monsieur!”

Lanyard saw the car round the corner before turning to the entrance of Troyon's, keeping his weather-eye alert the while. But when the car was gone, the street seemed quite deserted and as soundless as though it had been the thoroughfare of some remote village rather than an artery of the pulsing old heart of Paris.

Yet he wasn't satisfied. He was as little susceptible to psychic admonition as any sane and normal human organism, but he was just then strongly oppressed by intuitive perception that there was something radically amiss in his neighbourhood. Whether or not the result of the Count's open intimations and veiled hints working upon a nature sensitized by excitement and fatigue, he felt as though he had stepped from the cab into an atmosphere impregnated to saturation with nameless menace. And he even s.h.i.+vered a bit, perhaps because of the chill in that air of early morning, perhaps because a shadow of premonition had fallen athwart his soul....

Whatever its cause, he could find no reason for this; and shaking himself impatiently, pressed a b.u.t.ton that rang a bell by the ear of the concierge, heard the latch click, thrust the door wide, and re-entered Troyon's.

Here reigned a silence even more marked than that of the street, a silence as heavy and profound as the grave's, so that sheer instinct prompted Lanyard to tread lightly as he made his way down the pa.s.sage and across the courtyard toward the stairway; and in that hush the creak of a greaseless hinge, when the concierge opened the door of his quarters to identify this belated guest, seemed little less than a profanity.

Lanyard paused and delved into his pockets, nodding genially to the blowsy, sleepy old face beneath the guardian's nightcap.

”Sorry to disturb monsieur,” he said politely, further impoveris.h.i.+ng himself in the sum of five francs in witness to the sincerity of his regret.