Part 23 (2/2)

”Yes,” I said firmly. ”They would approve. You see, it is necessary.”

”Then, if it's necessary--and I believe you when you say that it is,” he answered, ”I'll do what I can.”

What he could do and did do, was to write a personal letter to the Chief of Police in Paris, asking as a favour that his friend, Miss Forrest, a young lady related through marriage to the British Foreign Secretary, should be allowed five minutes' conversation with the Englishman accused of murder, Mr. Ivor Dundas.

I took the letter to the Chief of Police myself, to save time, and because I was so restless and excited that I must be doing something every instant--something which I felt might bring me nearer to Ivor.

From the Chief of Police, who proved to be a most courteous person, I received an order to give to the governor of the gaol or prison where they had put Ivor. This, he explained, would procure me the interview I wanted, but unfortunately, I must not hope to see my friend alone. A warder who understood English would have to be present.

So far I had gone into the wild venture without once thinking what it would be to find myself suddenly face to face with Ivor in such terrible circ.u.mstances, or what he would think of me for coming in such a way now that we were no longer anything to each other--not even friends. But a kind of ague-terror crept over me while I sat waiting in an ugly little bare, stuffy reception room. My head was going round and round, my heart was pounding so that I could not make up my mind what to say to Ivor when he came.

Then, suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door; and when it opened, there stood Ivor, between two Frenchmen in blue uniforms. One of them walked into the room with him--I suppose he must have been a warder--but he stopped near the door, and in a second I had forgotten all about him. He simply ceased to exist for me, when my eyes and Ivor's had met.

I sprang up from my chair and began to talk as quickly as I could, stammering and confused, hardly knowing what I said, but anxious to make him understand in the beginning that I had not come to take back my words of yesterday.

”We're all so dreadfully sorry, Mr. Dundas,” I said. ”I don't know if Uncle Eric has been here yet--but he is doing all he can, and Aunt Lilian is dreadfully upset. We're staying on in Paris on account of--on account of this. So you see you've got friends near you. And I--we're such old friends, I couldn't help trying as hard as I could for a sight of you to--to cheer you up, and--and to help you, if that's possible.”

I spoke very fast, not daring to look at him after the first, but pretending to smooth out some wrinkles in one of my long gloves. My eyes were full of tears, and I was afraid they'd go splas.h.i.+ng down my cheeks, if I even winked my lashes. I loved him more than ever now, and felt capable of forgiving him anything, if only I had the chance to forgive, and if only, _only_ he really loved me and not that other.

”Thank you, a hundred times--more than I can express,” he said, with a faint quiver in his voice--his beautiful voice, which was the first thing that charmed me after knowing him. ”It _does_ cheer me to see you.

It gives me strength and courage. You wouldn't have come if you didn't--trust me, and believe me innocent.”

”Why, of course, I--we--believe you innocent of any crime,” I faltered.

”And of any lack of faith?”

”Oh, as for that, how can--but don't let's speak of that. What can it matter now?”

”It matters more than anything else in the world. If only you could say that you will have faith!”

”I'll try to say it then, if it can give you any comfort.”

”Not unless you mean it.”

”Then--I'll try to mean it. Will that satisfy you?”

”It's better than nothing. And I thank you again. As for the rest, you're not to be anxious. Everything will come right for me sooner or later, though I may have to suffer some annoyances first.”

”Annoyances?” I echoed. ”If there were nothing worse!”

”There won't be. I shall be well defended. It will all be shown up as a huge mistake--another warning against trusting to circ.u.mstantial evidence.”

”Is there nothing we can do then? Or--that we would urge _others_ to do?” I asked, hoping he would understand that I meant _one_ other--Maxine de Renzie.

I guessed by his look that he did understand. It was a look of gloom; but suddenly a light flashed in his eyes.

”There is one thing _you_ could do for me--you and no one else,” he said. ”But I have no right to ask it.”

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