At the Villa Rose

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  AT THE VILLA ROSE

  A.E.W. Mason

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. SUMMER LIGHTNING II. A CRY FOR HELP III. PERRICHET'S STORY IV. AT THE VILLA V. IN THE SALON VI. HELENE VAUQUIER'S EVIDENCE VII. A STARTLING DISCOVERY VIII. THE CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP IX. MME. DAUVRAY'S MOTOR-CAR X. NEWS FROM GENEVA XI. THE UNOPENED LETTER XII. THE ALUMINIUM FLASK XIII. IN THE HOUSE AT GENEVA XIV. MR. RICARDO IS BEWILDERED XV. CELIA'S STORY XVI. THE FIRST MOVE XVII. THE AFTERNOON OF TUESDAY XVIII. THE SEANCE XIX. HELENE EXPLAINS XX. THE GENEVA ROAD XXI. HANAUD EXPLAINS

  AT THE VILLA ROSE

  CHAPTER I

  SUMMER LIGHTNING

  It was Mr. Ricardo's habit as soon as the second week of August cameround to travel to Aix-les-Bains, in Savoy, where for five or six weekshe lived pleasantly. He pretended to take the waters in the morning, hewent for a ride in his motor-car in the afternoon, he dined at theCercle in the evening, and spent an hour or two afterwards in thebaccarat-rooms at the Villa des Fleurs. An enviable, smooth lifewithout a doubt, and it is certain that his acquaintances envied him.At the same time, however, they laughed at him and, alas with somejustice; for he was an exaggerated person. He was to be construed inthe comparative. Everything in his life was a trifle overdone, from thefastidious arrangement of his neckties to the feminine nicety of hislittle dinner-parties. In age Mr. Ricardo was approaching the fifties;in condition he was a widower--a state greatly to his liking, for heavoided at once the irksomeness of marriage and the reproaches justlylevelled at the bachelor; finally, he was rich, having amassed afortune in Mincing Lane, which he had invested in profitable securities.

  Ten years of ease, however, had not altogether obliterated in him thebusiness look. Though he lounged from January to December, he loungedwith the air of a financier taking a holiday; and when he visited, ashe frequently did, the studio of a painter, a stranger would havehesitated to decide whether he had been drawn thither by a love of artor by the possibility of an investment. His "acquaintances" have beenmentioned, and the word is suitable. For while he mingled in manycircles, he stood aloof from all. He affected the company of artists,by whom he was regarded as one ambitious to become a connoisseur; andamongst the younger business men, who had never dealt with him, heearned the disrespect reserved for the dilettante. If he had a grief,it was that he had discovered no great man who in return for practicalfavours would engrave his memory in brass. He was a Maecenas without aHorace, an Earl of Southampton without a Shakespeare. In a word,Aix-les-Bains in the season was the very place for him; and never for amoment did it occur to him that he was here to be dipped in agitations,and hurried from excitement to excitement. The beauty of the littletown, the crowd of well-dressed and agreeable people, the rose-colouredlife of the place, all made their appeal to him. But it was the Villades Fleurs which brought him to Aix. Not that he played for anythingmore than an occasional louis; nor, on the other hand, was he merely acold looker-on. He had a bank-note or two in his pocket on mostevenings at the service of the victims of the tables. But the pleasureto his curious and dilettante mind lay in the spectacle of the battlewhich was waged night after night between raw nature and good manners.It was extraordinary to him how constantly manners prevailed. Therewere, however, exceptions.

  For instance. On the first evening of this particular visit he foundthe rooms hot, and sauntered out into the little semicircular garden atthe back. He sat there for half an hour under a flawless sky of starswatching the people come and go in the light of the electric lamps, andappreciating the gowns and jewels of the women with the eye of aconnoisseur; and then into this starlit quiet there came suddenly aflash of vivid life. A girl in a soft, clinging frock of white satindarted swiftly from the rooms and flung herself nervously upon a bench.She could not, to Ricardo's thinking, be more than twenty years of age.She was certainly quite young. The supple slenderness of her figureproved it, and he had moreover caught a glimpse, as she rushed out, ofa fresh and very pretty face; but he had lost sight of it now. For thegirl wore a big black satin hat with a broad brim, from which a coupleof white ostrich feathers curved over at the back, and in the shadow ofthat hat her face was masked. All that he could see was a pair of longdiamond eardrops, which sparkled and trembled as she moved herhead--and that she did constantly. Now she stared moodily at theground; now she flung herself back; then she twisted nervously to theright, and then a moment afterwards to the left; and then again shestared in front of her, swinging a satin slipper backwards and forwardsagainst the pavement with the petulance of a child. All her movementswere spasmodic; she was on the verge of hysteria. Ricardo was expectingher to burst into tears, when she sprang up and as swiftly as she hadcome she hurried back into the rooms. "Summer lightning," thought Mr.Ricardo.

  Near to him a woman sneered, and a man said, pityingly: "She waspretty, that little one. It is regrettable that she has lost."

  A few minutes afterwards Ricardo finished his cigar and strolled backinto the rooms, making his way to the big table just on the right handof the entrance, where the play as a rule runs high. It was clearlyrunning high to-night. For so deep a crowd thronged about the table thatRicardo could only by standing on tiptoe see the faces of the players.Of the banker he could not catch a glimpse. But though the crowdremained, its units were constantly changing, and it was not longbefore Ricardo found himself standing in the front rank of thespectators, just behind the players seated in the chairs. The ovalgreen table was spread out beneath him littered with bank-notes.Ricardo turned his eyes to the left, and saw seated at the middle ofthe table the man who was holding the bank. Ricardo recognised him witha start of surprise. He was a young Englishman, Harry Wethermill, who,after a brilliant career at Oxford and at Munich, had so turned hisscientific genius to account that he had made a fortune for himself atthe age of twenty-eight.

  He sat at the table with the indifferent look of the habitual playerupon his cleanly chiselled face. But it was plain that his good fortunestayed at his elbow to-night, for opposite to him the croupier wasarranging with extraordinary deftness piles of bank-notes in the orderof their value. The bank was winning heavily. Even as Ricardo lookedWethermill turned up "a natural," and the croupier swept in the stakesfrom either side.

  "Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Le jeu est fait?" the croupier cried, allin a breath, and repeated the words. Wethermill waited with his handupon the wooden frame in which the cards were stacked. He glanced roundthe table while the stakes were being laid upon the cloth, and suddenlyhis face flashed from languor into interest. Almost opposite to him asmall, white-gloved hand holding a five-louis note was thrust forwardbetween the shoulders of two men seated at the table. Wethermill leanedforward and shook his head with a smile. With a gesture he refused thestake. But he was too late. The fingers of the hand had opened, thenote fluttered down on to the cloth, the money was staked.

  At once he leaned back in his chair.

  "Il y a une suite," he said quietly. He relinquished the bank ratherthan play against that five-louis note. The stakes were taken up bytheir owners.

  The croupier began to count Wethermill's winnings, and Ricardo, curiousto know whose small, delicately gloved hand it was which had broughtthe game to so abrupt a termination, leaned forward. He recognised theyoung girl in the white satin dress and the big black hat whose nerveshad got the better of her a few minutes since in the garden. He saw hernow clearly, and thought her of an entrancing loveliness. She wasmoderately tall, fair of skin, with a fresh colouring upon her cheekswhich she owed to nothing but her youth. Her hair was of a light brownwith a sheen upon it, her forehead broad, her eyes dark and w
onderfullyclear. But there was something more than her beauty to attract him. Hehad a strong belief that somewhere, some while ago, he had already seenher. And this belief grew and haunted him. He was still vaguelypuzzling his brains to fix the place when the croupier finished hisreckoning.

  "There are two thousand louis in the bank," he cried. "Who will take onthe bank for two thousand louis?"

  No one, however, was willing. A fresh bank was put up for sale, andWethermill, still sitting in the dealer's chair, bought it. He spoke atonce to an attendant, and the man slipped round the table, and, forcinghis way through the crowd, carried a message to the girl in the blackhat. She looked towards Wethermill and smiled; and the smile made herface a miracle of tenderness. Then she disappeared, and in a fewmoments Ricardo saw a way open in the throng behind the banker, and sheappeared again only a yard or two away, just behind Wethermill. Heturned, and taking her hand into his, shook it chidingly.

  "I couldn't let you play against me, Celia," he said, in English; "myluck's too good to-night. So you shall be my partner instead. I'll putin the capital and we'll share the winnings."

  The girl's face flushed rosily. Her hand still lay clasped in his. Shemade no effort to withdraw it.

  "I couldn't do that," she exclaimed.

  "Why not?" said he. "See!" and loosening her fingers he took from themthe five-louis note and tossed it over to the croupier to be added tohis bank. "Now you can't help yourself. We're partners."

  The girl laughed, and the company at the table smiled, half insympathy, half with amusement. A chair was brought for her, and she satdown behind Wethermill, her lips parted, her face joyous withexcitement. But all at once Wethermill's luck deserted him. He renewedhis bank three times, and had lost the greater part of his winningswhen he had dealt the cards through. He took a fourth bank, and rosefrom that, too, a loser.

  "That's enough, Celia," he said. "Let us go out into the garden; itwill be cooler there."

  "I have taken your good luck away," said the girl remorsefully.Wethermill put his arm through hers.

  "You'll have to take yourself away before you can do that," heanswered, and the couple walked together out of Ricardo's hearing.

  Ricardo was left to wonder about Celia. She was just one of thoseproblems which made Aix-les-Bains so unfailingly attractive to him. Shedwelt in some street of Bohemia; so much was clear. The frankness ofher pleasure, of her excitement, and even of her distress proved it.She passed from one to the other while you could deal a pack of cards.She was at no pains to wear a mask. Moreover, she was a young girl ofnineteen or twenty, running about those rooms alone, as unembarrassedas if she had been at home. There was the free use, too, of Christiannames. Certainly she dwelt in Bohemia. But it seemed to Ricardo thatshe could pass in any company and yet not be overpassed. She would looka little more picturesque than most girls of her age, and she wascertainly a good deal more soignee than many, and she had theFrenchwoman's knack of putting on her clothes. But those would be allthe differences, leaving out the frankness. Ricardo wondered in whatstreet of Bohemia she dwelt. He wondered still more when he saw heragain half an hour afterwards at the entrance to the Villa des Fleurs.She came down the long hall with Harry Wethermill at her side. Thecouple were walking slowly, and talking as they walked with so completean absorption in each other that they were unaware of theirsurroundings. At the bottom of the steps a stout woman of fifty-fiveover-jewelled, and over-dressed and raddled with paint, watched theirapproach with a smile of good-humoured amusement. When they came nearenough to hear she said in French:

  "Well, Celie, are you ready to go home?"

  The girl looked up with a start.

  "Of course, madame," she said, with a certain submissiveness whichsurprised Ricardo. "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

  She ran to the cloak-room, and came back again with her cloak.

  "Good-bye, Harry," she said, dwelling upon his name and looking outupon him with soft and smiling eyes.

  "I shall see you to-morrow evening," he said, holding her hand. Againshe let it stay within his keeping, but she frowned, and a suddengravity settled like a cloud upon her face. She turned to the elderwoman with a sort of appeal.

  "No, I do not think we shall be here, to-morrow, shall we, madame?" shesaid reluctantly.

  "Of course not," said madame briskly. "You have not forgotten what wehave planned? No, we shall not be here to-morrow; but the nightafter--yes."

  Celia turned back again to Wethermill.

  "Yes, we have plans for to-morrow," she said, with a very wistful noteof regret in her voice; and seeing that madame was already at the door,she bent forward and said timidly, "But the night after I shall wantyou."

  "I shall thank you for wanting me," Wethermill rejoined; and the girltore her hand away and ran up the steps.

  Harry Wethermill returned to the rooms. Mr. Ricardo did not follow him.He was too busy with the little problem which had been presented to himthat night. What could that girl, he asked himself, have in common withthe raddled woman she addressed so respectfully? Indeed, there had beena note of more than respect in her voice. There had been something ofaffection. Again Mr. Ricardo found himself wondering in what street inBohemia Celia dwelt--and as he walked up to the hotel there came yetother questions to amuse him.

  "Why," he asked, "could neither Celia nor madame come to the Villa desFleurs to-morrow night? What are the plans they have made? And what wasit in those plans which had brought the sudden gravity and reluctanceinto Celia's face?"

  Ricardo had reason to remember those questions during the next fewdays, though he only idled with them now.