The de Bercy Affair. Tracy Louis

fixtures and the rest."

      "Ah; then you would know if she had an enemy?"

      "I – think so. I have never heard of one. She had hosts of friends – all sympathetic."

      "What was the precise object of your visit on Tuesday?"

      "I took her a book on Sicily. We – we had practically decided on Taormina for our honeymoon. As I would be occupied until a late hour, she arranged to dine with Lady Knox-Florestan and go to the opera to hear Pagliacci. It was played after Philémon et Baucis, so the dinner was fixed for half-past eight."

      "Would anyone except yourself and Lady Knox-Florestan be aware of that arrangement?"

      "I think not."

      "Why did she telephone to Lady Knox-Florestan at 7.30 and plead illness as an excuse for not coming to the dinner?"

      Rupert looked thoroughly astounded. "That is the first I have heard of it," he cried.

      "Could she have had any powerful reason for changing her plans?"

      "I cannot say. Not to my knowledge, most certainly."

      "Did she expect any visitor after your departure?"

      "No. Two of her servants were out for the evening, and the housemaid would help her to dress."

      Winter looked at the American with a gleam of curiosity when the housemaid was mentioned.

      "Did this girl, the housemaid, open the door when you left?" he asked.

      "No. I just rushed away. She admitted me, but I did not see her afterwards."

      "Then she may have fancied that you took your departure much later?"

      "Possibly, though hardly likely, since her room adjoins the entrance, and, as it happened, I banged the door accidentally in closing it."

      Winter was glad that a man whom he firmly believed to be innocent of any share in the crime had made an admission that might have told against him under hostile examination.

      "Suppose – just suppose – " he said, "that the housemaid, being hysterical with fright, gave evidence that you were in Feldisham Mansions at half-past seven – how would you explain it?"

      "Your own words 'hysterical with fright' might serve as her excuse. At half-past seven I was arguing against the ever-increasing height of polo ponies, with the rest of the committee against me. Does the girl say any such thing?"

      "Girls are queer sometimes," commented Winter airily. "But let that pass. I understand, Mr. Osborne, that you have given instructions to the undertaker?"

      Rupert flinched a little.

      "What choice had I in the matter?" he demanded. "I thought that Mademoiselle de Bercy was an orphan – that all her relatives were dead."

      "Ah, yes. Even now, I fancy, you mean to attend the funeral to-morrow?"

      "Of course. Do you imagine I would desert my promised wife at such an hour – no matter what was revealed – "

      "No, Mr. Osborne, I did not think it for one instant. And that brings me to the main object of my visit. Please be advised by me – don't go to the funeral. Better still, leave London for a few days. Lose yourself till the day before the adjourned inquest."

      "But why – in Heaven's name?"

      "Because appearances are against you. The public mind – I had better be quite candid. The man in the street is a marvelous detective, in his own opinion. Being an idler, he will turn up in his thousands at Feldisham Mansions and Kensal Green Cemetery to-morrow afternoon, and, if you are present, there may be a regrettable scene. Moreover, you will meet a warped old peasant named Jean Armaud and a narrow-souled village girl in his daughter Marguerite. Take my advice – pack a kit-bag, jump into a cab, and bury yourself in some seaside town. Let me know where you are – as I may want to communicate with you – and – er – when you send your address, don't forget to sign your letter in the same way as you sign the hotel register."

      Rupert rose and looked out of the window. He could not endure that another man should see the agony in his face.

      "Are you in earnest?" he said, when he felt that his voice might be trusted.

      "Dead in earnest, Mr. Osborne," came the quiet answer.

      "You even advise me to adopt an alias?"

      "Call it a nom de voyage," said Winter.

      "I shall be horribly lonely. May I not take my valet?"

      "Take no one. I suppose you can leave some person in charge of your affairs?"

      "I have a secretary. But she and my servants will think my conduct very strange."

      "I shall call here to-morrow and tell your secretary you have left London for a few days at my request. What is her name?"

      "Prout – Miss Hylda Prout. She comes here at 11 a.m. and again at 3 p.m."

      "I see. Then I may regard that matter as settled?"

      Again there was silence for a time. Oddly enough, Rupert was conscious of a distinct feeling of relief.

      "Very well," he said at last. "I shall obey you to the letter."

      "Thank you. I am sure you are acting for the best."

      Winter, whose eyes had noted every detail of the room while Rupert's back was turned, rose as if his mission were accomplished.

      "Won't you have another cigar?" said Rupert.

      "Well, yes. It is a sin to smoke these cigars so early in the day – "

      "Let me send you a hundred."

      "Oh, no. I am very much obliged, but – "

      "Please allow me to do this. Don't you see? – if I tell Jenkins, in your presence, to pack and forward them, it will stifle a good deal of the gossip which must be going on even in my own household."

      "Well – from that point of view, Mr. Osborne – "

      "Ah, I cannot express my gratitude, but, when all this wretched business is ended, we must meet under happier conditions."

      He touched a bell, and Jenkins appeared.

      "Send a box of cigars to Chief Inspector Winter, at Scotland Yard, by special messenger," said Rupert, with as careless an air as he could assume.

      Jenkins gurgled something that sounded like "Yes, sir," and went out hastily. Rupert spread his hands with a gesture of utmost weariness.

      "You are right about the man in the street," he sighed. "Even my own valet feared that you had come to arrest me."

      "Ha, ha!" laughed Winter.

      But when Jenkins, discreetly cheerful, murmured "Good-day, sir," and the outer door was closed behind him, Winter's strong face wore its prizefighter aspect.

      "Clarke would have arrested him," he said to himself. "But that man did not kill Mirabel Armaud. Then who did kill her? I don't know, yet I believe that Furneaux guesses. Who did it? Damme, it beats me, and the greatest puzzle of all is to read the riddle of Furneaux."

      CHAPTER IV

      THE NEW LIFE

      No sooner did Rupert begin to consider ways and means of adopting Winter's suggestion than he encountered difficulties. "Pack a kit-bag, jump into a cab, and bury yourself in some seaside town" might be the best of counsel; but it was administered in tabloid form; when analyzed, the ingredients became formidable. For instance, the Chief Inspector had apparently not allowed for the fact that a man in Osborne's station would certainly carry his name or initials on his clothing, linen, and portmanteaux, and on every article in his dressing-case.

      Despite his other troubles – which were real enough to a man who loathed publicity – Rupert found himself smiling in perplexity when he endeavored to plan some means of hoodwinking Jenkins. Moreover, he could not help feeling that his identity would be proclaimed instantly when a sharp-eyed hotel valet or inquisitive chambermaid examined his belongings. He was sure that some of the newspapers