Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

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Draconmeyer turned his head. He, too, raised his wine to his lips and
drank deliberately.

"My friend," he said, "there is no philosophy save one. A child cries
for the star he may not have; the weak man comforts himself in privation
by repeating to himself the dry-as-dust axioms conceived in an alien
brain, and weaving from them the miserable comfort of empty words. The
man who knows life and has found wisdom, pays the price for the thing he
desires, and obtains it!"

CHAPTER XVII

DUTY INTERFERES AGAIN

Hunterleys sat that night alone in a seat at the Opera for a time and
lost himself in a maze of recollections. He seemed to find himself
growing younger as he listened to the music. The days of a more vivid
and ardent sentimentality seemed to reassert themselves. He thought of
the hours when he had sat side by side with his wife, the only woman to
whom he had ever given a thought; of the thrill which even the touch of
her fingers had given him, of the drive home together, the little
confidences and endearments, the glamour which seemed to have been
thrown over life before those unhappy misunderstandings. He remembered
so well the beginning of them all--the terrible pressure of work which
was thrown upon his shoulders, his engrossed days, his disturbed nights;
her patience at first, her subsequent petulance, her final anger. He was
engaged often in departmental work which he could not even explain. She
had taken up with unhappy facility the role of a neglected wife. She
declared that he had ceased to care for the lighter ways. There had
certainly been a time when her complaints had been apparently justified,
when the Opera had been banned, theatres were impossible, when she could
not even rely upon his escort to a dinner or to a reception. He had
argued with her very patiently at first but very unsuccessfully. It was
then that her friendship with Linda Draconmeyer had been so vigorously
renewed, a friendship which seemed from the first to have threatened his
happiness. Had it been his fault? he wondered. Had he really been too
much engrossed in his work? His country had made large demands upon him
in those days. Had he ever explained the matter fully and carefully
enough to her? Perhaps not. At any rate, he was the sufferer. He
realised more than ever, as the throbbing of the music stole into his
blood, the loneliness of his life. And yet it seemed so hopeless.
Supposing he threw up his work and let things take their course? The
bare thought chilled him. He recognised it as unworthy. The great song
of mortification from the broken hero rang in his ears. Must every woman
bring to every man the curse of Delilah!...

He passed out of the building into the cool, starlit night. People were
strolling about in evening clothes, hatless, the women in white opera
cloaks and filmy gowns, their silk-stockinged feet very much in
evidence, resembling almost some strange kind of tropical birds with
their little shrill laughter and graceful movements, as they made their
way towards the Club or round to the Rooms, or to one of the restaurants
for supper. Whilst Hunterleys hesitated, there was a touch upon his arm.
He glanced around.

"Hullo, David!" he exclaimed. "Were you waiting for me?"

The young man fell into step by his side.

"I have been to the hotel," he said, in a low tone. "They thought you
might be here. Can you come up later--say at one o'clock?"

"Certainly," Hunterleys answered. "Where's Sidney?"

"He's working now. He'll be home by half-past twelve unless anything
goes wrong. He thinks he'll have something to tell you."

"I'll come," Hunterleys agreed. "How's Felicia?"

"All right, but working herself to death," the young man replied. "She
is getting anxious, too. Give her a word of encouragement if you see her
to-night. She was hoping you might have been up to see her."

"I won't forget," Hunterleys promised.

The young man drifted silently away, and Hunterleys, after a moment's
hesitation and a glance at his watch, turned towards the Club. He
climbed the broad staircase, surrendered his hat and turned in at the
roulette room. The magic of the music was still in his veins, and he
looked around him almost eagerly. There was no sign of Violet. He
strolled into the baccarat room but she was not there. Perhaps she, too,
had been at the Opera. In the bar he found Richard Lane, sitting moodily
alone. The young man greeted him warmly.

"Come and have a drink, Sir Henry," he begged. "I've got the hump."

Hunterleys sat down by his side.

"Whiskey and apollinaris," he ordered. "What's the matter with you,
Richard?"

"She isn't here," the young man declared. "I've been to the Rooms and
she isn't there either."

"What about the Opera?" Hunterleys asked.

"I started at the Opera," Lane confessed, "took a box so as to be able
to see the whole house. I sat through the first act but there wasn't a
sign of her. Then I took a spin out and had another look at the villa.
It was all lit up as though there were a party. I very nearly marched
in."

"Just as well you didn't, I think," Hunterleys remarked, smiling. "I see
you're feeling just the same about it."

The young man did not even vouchsafe an answer.

"Then you're not going to take advantage of your little warning and
clear out?" Hunterleys continued.

"Don't you think I'm big enough to take care of myself?" Lane asked,
with a little laugh. "Besides, there's an American Consul here, and
plenty of English witnesses who saw the whole thing. Can't think why
they're trying on such a silly game."

"Mr. Grex may have influence," Hunterleys suggested.

"Who the mischief is my prospective father-in-law?" Richard demanded,
almost testily. "There's an atmosphere about that house and the servants
I can't understand a bit."

"You wouldn't," Hunterleys observed drily. "Well, in a day or two I'll
tell you who Mr. Grex is. I'd rather not to-night."

"By the way," Lane continued, "your wife was asking if you were here, a
few minutes ago."

Hunterleys rose quickly to his feet.

"Where is she?"

"She was at her usual place at the top roulette table, but she gave it
up just as I passed, said she was going to walk about," the young man
replied. "I don't think she has left yet."

Hunterleys excused himself hastily. In the little space between the
restaurant and the roulette rooms he came suddenly upon Violet. She was
leaning back in an obscure corner, with her hands clasped helplessly in
her lap before her. She was sitting quite still and his heart sank when
he saw her. The lines under her eyes were unmistakable now; her cheeks,
too, seemed to have grown hollow. Her first look at him almost made him
forget all their differences. There was something piteous in the tremble
of her lips. He drew a chair to her side.

"Richard told me that you wished to speak to me," he began, as lightly
as he could.

"I asked if he had seen you, a few minutes ago," she admitted. "I am
afraid that my interest was rather mercenary."

"You want to borrow some money?" he enquired, taking out his
pocket-book.

She looked at it, and though her eyes at first were listless, they still
seemed fascinated.

"I don't think I can play any more to-night," she sighed.

"You have been losing?"

"Yes!"

"Come and have something," he invited. "You look tired."

She rose willingly enough. They passed out, side by side, into the
little bar.

"Some champagne?" he suggested.

She shook her head quickly. The memory of the champagne at dinner-time
came back to her with a sudden sickening insistence. She thought of the
loan, she thought of Draconmeyer with a new uneasiness. It was as though
she had admitted some new complication into her life.

"Could I have some tea?" she begged.

He ordered some and sat with her while she drank it.

"You know," he declared, "if I might be permitted to say so, I think you
are taking the gaming here a little too seriously. If you have been
unlucky, it is very easy to arrange an advance for you. Would you like
some money? If so, I will see to it when I go to the bank to-morrow. I
can let you have a hundred pounds at once, if you like."

A hundred pounds! If only she dared tell him that she had lost a
thousand within the last two hours! Once more he was fingering his
pocket-book.

"Come," he went on pleasantly, "you had better have a hundred from me,
for luck."

He counted out the notes. Her fingers began to shake.

"I didn't mean to play any more to-night," she faltered, irresolutely.

"Nor should I," he agreed. "Take my advice, Violet, and go home now.
This will do for you to-morrow."

She took the money and dropped it into her jewelled bag.

"Very well," she said, "I won't play any more, but I don't want to go
home yet. It is early, and I can never sleep here if I go to bed. Sit
with me for half-an-hour, and then perhaps you could give me some
supper?"

He shook his head.

"I am so sorry," he answered, "but at one o'clock I have an
appointment."

"An appointment?"

"Such bad luck," he continued. "It would have given me very great
pleasure to have had supper with you, Violet."

"An appointment at one o'clock," she repeated slowly. "Isn't that just a
little--unusual?"

"Perhaps so," he assented. "I can assure you that I am very sorry."

She leaned suddenly towards him. The aloofness had gone from her manner.
The barrier seemed for a moment to have fallen down. Once more she was
the Violet he remembered. She smiled into his face, and smiled with her
eyes as well as her lips, just the smile he had been thinking of an hour
ago in the Opera House.

"Don't go, please," she begged. "I am feeling lonely to-night and I am
so tired of everybody and everything. Take me to supper at the Cafe de
Paris. Then, if you like, we might come back here for half-an-hour.
Or--"

She hesitated.

"I am horribly sorry," he declared, in a tone which was full of real
regret. "Indeed, Violet, I am. But I have an appointment which I must
keep, and I can't tell exactly how long it may take me."

The very fact that the nature of that appointment concerned things which
from the first he had made up his mind must be kept entirely secret,
stiffened his tone. Her manner changed instantly. She had drawn herself
a little away. She considered for a moment.

"Are you inclined to tell me with whom your appointment is, and for what
purpose?" she asked coldly. "I don't want to be exacting, but after the
request I have made, and your refusal--"

"I cannot tell you," he interrupted. "I can only ask you to take my word
for it that it is one which I must keep."

She rose suddenly to her feet.

"I forgot!" she exclaimed. "I haven't the slightest right to your
confidence. Besides, when I come to think of it, I don't believe that I
am hungry at all. I shall try my luck with your money?"

"Violet!--"

She swept away with a little farewell nod, half insolent, half angry.
Hunterleys watched her take her place at the table. For several moments
he stood by her side. She neither looked up nor addressed him. Then he
turned and left the place.

CHAPTER XVIII

A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE

Hunterleys remained in the hotel only long enough to change his straw
hat for a cap, put on a long, light overcoat and take an ash stick from
his wardrobe. He left the place by an unfrequented entrance and
commenced at once to climb to the back part of the town. Once or twice
he paused and looked around, to be sure that he was not followed. When
he had arrived as far as the Hotel de Prince de Galles, he crossed the
road. From here he walked very quickly and took three turns in rapid
succession. Finally he pushed open a little gate and passed up a tiled
walk which led between a little border of rose trees to a small white
villa, covered with creepers. A slim, girlish figure came suddenly out
from the porch and danced towards him with outstretched hands.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "At last! Tell me, my co-guardian, how you are
going to excuse yourself?"

He took her outstretched hands and looked down into her face. She was
very small and dark, with lustrous brown eyes and a very sensitive
mouth, which just now was quivering with excitement.

"All the excuses have gone out of my head, Felicia," he declared. "You
look such a little elf in the moonlight that I can't do more than say
that I am sorry. But I have been busy."

She was suddenly serious. She clasped his arm with both her hands and
turned towards the house.

"Of course you have," she sighed. "It seems too bad, though, in Monte
Carlo. Sidney and David are like ghouls. I don't ask what it is all
about--I know better--but I wish it were all over, whatever it is."

"Is Sidney back?" Hunterleys asked eagerly.

She nodded.

"He came in half-an-hour ago, looking like a tramp. David is writing as
though he hadn't a moment to spare in life. They are both waiting for
you, I think."

"And you?" he enquired. "How do the rehearsals go?"

"The rehearsals are all right," she admitted, looking up at him almost
pathetically. "It's the night itself that seems so awful. I know every
word, I know every note, and yet I can't feel sure. I can't sleep for
thinking about it. Only last night I had a nightmare. I saw all those
rows and rows of faces, and the lights, and my voice went, my tongue was
dry and hard, not a word would come. And you were there--and the
others!"

He laughed at her.

"Little girl," he said solemnly, "I shall have to speak to Sidney. One
of those two young men must take you out for a day in the country
to-morrow."

"They seem so busy," she complained. "They don't seem to have time to
think of me. I suppose I had better let you go in. They'd be furious if
they thought I was keeping you."

They passed into the villa, and with a farewell pat of the hand
Hunterleys left her and opened a door on the left-hand side of the hall.
The young man who had met him coming out of the Opera was standing with
his hands in his pockets, upon the hearth-rug of an exceedingly
untidy-looking apartment. There was a table covered with papers, another
piled with newspapers. There were books upon the floor, pipes and
tobacco laid about haphazard. A space had been swept clear upon the
larger table for a typewriter, a telephone instrument stood against the
wall. A man whose likeness to Felicia was at once apparent, swung round
in his chair as Hunterleys entered. He had taken off his coat and
waistcoat and his trousers seemed smothered with dust.

"Regular newspaper correspondent's den," Hunterleys remarked, as he
looked around him. "I never saw such a mess in my life. I wonder Felicia
allows it."

"We don't let her come in," her brother chuckled. "Is the door closed?"

"Fast," Hunterleys replied, moving away from it.

"Things are moving," the other went on. "I took the small car out to-day
on the road to Cannes and I expect I was the first to see Douaille."

"I saw him myself," Hunterleys announced. "I was out on that road,
walking."

"Douaille," Roche continued, "went direct to the Villa Mimosa. Grex was
there, waiting for him. Draconmeyer and Selingman both kept out of the
way."

Hunterleys nodded.

"Reasonable enough, that. Grex was the man to pave the way. Well?"

"At ten o'clock, Draconmeyer and Selingman arrived. The Villa Mimosa
gets more difficult every day. I have only one friend in the house,
although it is filled with servants. Three-quarters of them only speak
Russian. My man's reliable but he is in a terrible minority. The
conference took place in the library. It lasted about an hour and a
half. Selingman and Draconmeyer came out looking fairly well satisfied.
Half-an-hour later Douaille went on to Mentone, to the Hotel Splendide,
where his wife and daughters are staying. No writing at all was done in
the room."

"The conference has really begun, then," Hunterleys observed moodily.

"Without a doubt," Roche declared. "I imagine, though, that the meeting
this evening was devoted to preliminaries. I am hoping next time," he
went on, "to be able to pass on a little of what is said."

"If we could only get the barest idea as to the nature of the
proposals," Hunterleys said earnestly. "Of course, one can surmise. Our
people are already warned as to the long conferences which have taken
place between Grex and Selingman. They mean something--there's no doubt
about that. And then this invitation to Douaille, and his coming here so
furtively. Everything points the same way, but a few spoken words are
better than all the surmises in the world. It isn't that they are
unreasonable at home, but they must be convinced."

"It's the devil's own risk," Roche sighed, "but I am hard at it. I was
about the place yesterday as much as I dared. My plans are all ready now
but things looked pretty awkward at the villa to-night. If they are
going to have the grounds patrolled by servants every time they meet,
I'm done. I've cut a pane of glass out of the dome over the library, and
I've got a window-cleaning apparatus round at the back, and a ladder.
The passage along the roof is quite easy and there's a good deal of
cover amongst the chimneys, but if they get a hint, it will be touch and
go."

Hunterleys nodded. He was busy now, going through the long sheets of
writing which the other young man had silently passed across to him. For
half-an-hour he read, making pencil notes now and then in the margin.
When at last he had finished, he returned them and, sitting down at the
table, drew a packet of press cable sheets towards him and wrote for
some time steadily. When he had finished, he read through the result of
his labours and leaned back thoughtfully in his chair.

"You will send this off from Cannes with your own, Briston?" he asked.

The young man assented.

"The car will be here at three," he announced. "They'll be on their way
by eight."

"Press message, mind, to the _Daily Post_. If the operator wants to know
what 'Number 1' means after '_Daily Post_,' you can tell him that it
simply indicates to which editorial room the message is to be
delivered."

"That's a clever idea," Roche mused. "Code dispatches to Downing Street
might cause a little comment."

"They wouldn't do from here," Hunterleys declared. "They might be safe
enough from Cannes but it's better to run no risks. These will be passed
on to Downing Street, unopened. Be careful to-morrow, Sidney."

"I can't see that they can do anything but throw me out, Sir Henry,"
Roche remarked. "I have my _Daily Post_ authority in my pocket, and my
passport. Besides, I got the man here to announce in the _Monte Carlo
News_ that I was the accredited correspondent for the district, and that
David Briston had been appointed by a syndicate of illustrated papers to
represent them out here. That's in case we get a chance of taking
photographs. I had some idea of going out to interview Monsieur
Douaille."

Hunterleys shook his head.

"I shouldn't. The man's as nervous as he can be now, I am pretty sure of
that. Don't do anything that might put him on his guard. Mind, for all
we know he may be an honest man. To listen to what these fellows have to
say doesn't mean that he's prepared to fall in with their schemes. By
the by, you've nothing about the place, I suppose, if you should be
raided?"

"Not a thing," was the confident reply. "We are two English newspaper
correspondents, and there isn't a thing to be found anywhere that's not
in keeping, except my rather large make-up outfit and my somewhat mixed
wardrobe. I am not the only newspaper correspondent who goes in for
that, though. Then there's Felicia. They all know who she is and they
all know that she's my sister. Anyhow, even if I do get into trouble up
at the Villa Mimosa, I can't see that I shall be looked upon as anything
more than a prying newspaper correspondent. They can't hang me for
that."

Hunterleys accepted a cigarette and lit it.

"I needn't tell you fellows," he said gravely, "that this place is a
little unlike any other in Europe. You may think you're safe enough, but
all the same I wouldn't trust a living soul. By-the-by, I saw Felicia as
I came in. You don't want her to break down, do you?"

"Good heavens, no!" her brother exclaimed.

"Break down?" David repeated. "Don't suggest such a thing!"

"It struck me that she was rather nervy," Hunterleys told them. "One of
you ought to look after her for an hour or two to-morrow."

"I can't spare a moment," her brother sighed.

"I'll take her out," Briston declared eagerly. "There's nothing for me
to do to-morrow till Sidney gets back."

"Well, between you, keep an eye on her," Hunterleys advised. "And,
Sidney, I don't want to make a coward of you, and you and I both know
that if there's danger ahead it's our job to face it, but have a care up
at the Villa Mimosa. I don't fancy the law of this Principality would
see you out of any trouble if they got an idea that you were an English
Secret Service man."

Roche laughed shortly.

"Exactly my own idea," he admitted. "However, we've got to see it
through. I sha'n't consider I've done my work unless I hear something of
what Grex and the others have to say to Douaille the next time they
meet."

Hunterleys found Felicia waiting for him outside. He shook his head
reproachfully.

"A future prima donna," he said, "should go to bed at ten o'clock."

She opened the door for him and walked down the path, her hands clasped
in his arm.

"A future prima donna," she retorted, "can't do always what she likes.
If I go to bed too early I cannot sleep. To-night I am excited and
nervous. There isn't anything likely to bring trouble upon--them, is
there?"

"Certainly not," he replied promptly. "Your brother is full of
enterprise, as you know. He runs a certain amount of risk in his
eagerness to acquire news, but I never knew a man so well able to take
care of himself."

"And--and Mr. Briston?"

"Oh, he's all right, anyway," Hunterleys assured her. "His is the
smaller part."

She breathed a little sigh of relief. They had reached the gate. She
still had something to say. Below them flared the lights of Monte Carlo.
She looked down at them almost wistfully.

"Very soon," she murmured, "I shall know my fate. Sir Henry," she added
suddenly, "did I see Lady Hunterleys to-day on the Terrace?"

"Lady Hunterleys is here," he replied.

"Am I--ought I to go and see her?" she enquired. "You see, you have done
so much for me, I should like to do what you thought best."

"Just as you like, child," he replied, a little carelessly.

She clung to his arm. She seemed unwilling to let him go.

"Dear co-guardian," she murmured, "to-night I felt for a little time so
happy, as though all the good things in life were close at hand. Then I
watched you come up, and your step seemed so heavy, and you stooped as
though you had a load on your shoulders."

He patted her hand.

"Little girl," he advised, "run away in and take care of your throat.
Remember that everything depends upon the next few hours. As for me,
perhaps I am getting a little old."

"Oh, la, la!" she laughed. "That's what Sidney says when I tease him. I
know I am only the mouse, but I could gnaw through very strong cords.
Look!"

Her teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. He swung open the gate.

"Sing your way into the hearts of all these strange people," he bade
her, smiling. "Sing the envy and malice away from them. Sing so that
they believe that England, after all, is the one desirable country."

"But I am going to sing in French," she pouted.

"Your name," he reminded her, "that is English. 'The little English
prima donna,' that is what they will be calling you."

She kissed his hands suddenly as he parted from her and swung off down
the hill. Then she stood at the gate, looking down at the glittering
lights. Would they shine as brightly for her, she wondered, in
twenty-four hours' time? It was so much to strive for, so much to lose,
so wonderfully much to gain. Slowly her eyes travelled upwards. The
symbolism of those higher lights calmed her fear. She drew a great sigh
of happiness.

"Felicia!"

She turned around with a soft little laugh.

"David!"

CHAPTER XIX

"TAKE ME AWAY!"

Richard presented himself the next morning at the Hotel de Paris.

"Cheero!" he exclaimed, on being shown into Hunterleys' sitting-room.
"All right up to date, I see."

Hunterleys nodded. He had just come in from the bank and held his
letters in his hand. Richard seated himself on the edge of the table.

"I slept out on the yacht last night," he said. "Got up at six o'clock
and had a swim. What about a round of golf at La Turbie? We can get down
again by luncheon-time, before the people are about."

"Afraid I can't," Hunterleys replied. "I have rather an important letter
to go through carefully, and a reply to think out."

"You're a queer chap, you know," Richard went on. "You always seem to
have something on but I'm hanged if I can see how you pass your time
here in Monte Carlo. This political business, even if you do have to put
in a bit of time at it now and then, can't be going on all the while.
Monte Carlo, too! So far as the women are concerned, they might as well
be off the face of the earth, and I don't think I've ever seen you make
a bet at the tables. How did your wife do last night? I thought she
seemed to be dropping it rather."

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