Part 42 (1/2)

”It ought to be still raining,” said Lady Auriol.

We drove back to Royat in silence. I racked my brains for something to say, but everything that occurred to me seemed the flattest of uncomforting commonplaces.

Well, it was her affair entirely. If she had given me some opening I might have responded sympathetically. But there she sat by my side in the car, rigid and dank. For all that I could gather from her att.i.tude, some iron had entered into her soul. She was a dead woman.

The car stopped at the hotel door. We entered. A few yards down the hall the lift waited. We went up together. I shall never forget the look on her face. I shall always a.s.sociate it with the picture of Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse. The lift stopped at my floor. Her room was higher.

I bade her good night.

She wrung my hand. ”Good night, Tony, and my very grateful thanks.”

I slipped out and watched her whisked, an inscrutable mystery, upwards.

Chapter XXI

The first sign of commotion in the morning was a note from Bakkus, whose turn it was to act as luncheon host. Our friends at Clermont-Ferrand, said he, had cried off. They had also asked him to go over and see them. Would I be so kind as to regard this as a _dies non_ in the rota of our pleasant gatherings?

I dressed and bought some flowers, which I sent up to Lady Auriol with a polite message. The cha.s.seur returned saying that Miladi had gone out about half an hour before.

”You don't mean that she has left the hotel with her luggage?”

The boy smiled rea.s.surance. She had only gone for a walk. I breathed freely. It would have been just like her to go off by the first train.

I suffered my treatment, drank my gla.s.ses of horrible water and again enquired at the hotel for Lady Auriol. She had not yet returned. Having nothing to do, I took my _Moniteur du Puy de Dome_, which I had not read, to the cafe which commands a view of the park gates and the general going and coming of Royat. Presently, from the tram terminus I saw advancing the familiar gaunt figure of Lackaday. I was glad, I scarcely knew why, to note that he wore a grey soft felt instead of the awful straw hat. I rose to greet him, and invited him to my table.

”I would join you with pleasure,” said he, ”but I am thinking of paying my respects to Lady Auriol.”

When I told him that he would not find her, he sat down. We could keep an eye on the hotel entrance, I remarked.

”Our lunch with Bakkus is off,” said I.

”Yes. I'm sorry. I rang him up early this morning. Elodie isn't quite herself to-day.”

”The thunder last night, perhaps.”

He nodded. ”Women have nerves.”

That something had happened was obvious. I remembered last night's half-hearted performance.

”By the way,” said I, ”Bakkus mentioned in his note that he was going over to Clermont-Ferrand to see you.”

”Yes,” said Lackaday, ”I left him there. He has marvellous tact and influence when he chooses to exert them. A man thrown away on the trivialities of life. He was born to be a Cardinal. I'm so glad you have taken to him.”

I murmured mild eulogy of Bakkus. We spoke idly of his beautiful voice.

Conversation languished, Lackaday's eyes being turned to the entrance of the hotel some fifty yards away up the sloping street.

”I'm anxious not to miss Lady Auriol,” he said at last. ”It will be my only chance of seeing her. We're off to-morrow.”