Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

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"There is something going on in Monte Carlo," Lady Hunterleys went on,
"which I cannot understand. Mr. Draconmeyer knows about it, I believe,
although he is not personally concerned in it. But he will tell me
nothing. I only know that for some reason or other your presence here
seems to be an annoyance to certain people. Why it should be I don't
know, but I want to ask you about it. Will you tell me the truth? Are
you sure that you did not come here to spy upon me?"

"I certainly did not," Hunterleys answered firmly. "I had no idea that
you were near the place. If I had--"

She turned her head. The smile was there once more and a queer, soft
light in her eyes.

"If you had?" she murmured.

"My visit here, under the present circumstances, would have been more
distasteful than it is," Hunterleys replied stiffly.

She bit her lip and turned away. When she resumed the conversation, her
tone was completely changed.

"I speak to you now," she said, "in your own interests. Mr. Draconmeyer
is, of course, not personally connected with this affair, whatever it
may be, but he is a wonderful man and he hears many things. To-night,
before dinner, he gave me a few words of warning. He did not tell me to
pass them on to you but I feel sure that he hoped I would. You would not
listen to them from him because you do not like him. I am afraid that
you will take very little more heed of what I say, but at least you will
believe that I speak in your own interests. Mr. Draconmeyer believes
that your presence here is misunderstood. A person whom he describes as
being utterly without principle and of great power is incensed by it. To
speak plainly, you are in danger."

"I am flattered," Hunterleys remarked, "by this interest on my behalf."

She turned her head and looked at him. His face, in this cold light
before the moon came up, was almost like the face of some marble statue,
lifeless, set, of almost stonelike severity. She knew the look so well
and she sighed.

"You need not be," she replied bitterly. "Mine is merely the ordinary
feeling of one human creature for another. In a sense it seems absurd, I
suppose, to speak to you as I am doing. Yet I do know that this place
which looks so beautiful has strange undercurrents. People pass away
here in the most orthodox fashion in the world, outwardly, but their
real ending is often never known at all. Everything is possible here,
and Mr. Draconmeyer honestly believes that you are in danger."

They had reached the end of the Terrace and they turned back.

"I thank you very much, Violet," Hunterleys said earnestly. "In return,
may I say something to you? If there is any danger threatening me or
those interests which I guard, the man whom you have chosen to make your
intimate friend is more deeply concerned in it than you think. I told
you once before that Draconmeyer was something more than the great
banker, the king of commerce, as he calls himself. He is ambitious
beyond your imaginings, a schemer in ways you know nothing of, and his
residence in London during the last fifteen years has been the worst
thing that ever happened for England. To me it is a bitter thing that
you should have ignored my warning and accepted his friendship--"

"It is not Mr. Draconmeyer who is my friend, Henry," she interrupted.
"You continually ignore that fact. It is Mrs. Draconmeyer whom I cannot
desert. I knew her long before I did her husband. We were at school
together, and there was a time before her last illness when we were
inseparable."

"That may have been so at first," Hunterleys agreed, "but how about
since then? You cannot deny, Violet, that this man Draconmeyer has in
some way impressed or fascinated you. You admire him. You find great
pleasure in his society. Isn't that the truth, now, honestly?"

Her face was a little troubled.

"I do certainly find pleasure in his society," she admitted. "I cannot
conceive any one who would not. He is a brilliant, a wonderful musician,
a delightful talker, a generous host and companion. He has treated me
always with the most scrupulous regard, and I feel that I am entirely
reasonable in resenting your mistrust of him."

"You do resent it still, then?"

"I do," she asserted emphatically.

"And if I told you," Hunterleys went on, "that the man was in love with
you. What then?"

"I should say that you were a fool!"

Hunterleys shrugged his shoulders.

"There is no more to be said," he declared, "only, for a clever woman,
Violet, you are sometimes woefully or wilfully blind. I tell you that I
know the type. Sooner or later--before very long, I should think--you
will have the usual scene. I warn you of it now. If you are wise, you
will go back to England."

"Absurd!" she scoffed. "Why, we have only just come! I want to win some
money--not that your allowance isn't liberal enough," she added hastily,
"but there is a fascination in winning, you know. And besides, I could
not possibly desert Mrs. Draconmeyer. She would not have come at all if
I had not joined them."

"You are the mistress of your own ways," Hunterleys said. "According to
my promise, I shall attempt to exercise no authority over you in any
way, but I tell you that Draconmeyer is my enemy, and the enemy of all
the things I represent, and I tell you, too, that he is in love with
you. When you realise that these things are firmly established in my
brain, you can perhaps understand how thoroughly distasteful I find your
association with him here. It is all very well to talk about Mrs.
Draconmeyer, but she goes nowhere. The consequence is that he is your
escort on every occasion. I am quite aware that a great many people in
society accept him. I personally am not disposed to. I look upon him as
an unfit companion for my wife and I resent your appearance with him in
public."

"We will discuss this subject no further," she decided. "From the moment
of our first disagreement, it has been your object to break off my
friendship with the Draconmeyers. Until I have something more than words
to go by, I shall continue to give him my confidence."

They crossed the stone flags in front of the Opera together, and turned
up towards the Rooms.

"I think, perhaps, then," he said, "that we may consider the subject
closed. Only," he added, "you will forgive me if I still--"

He hesitated. She turned her head quickly. Her eyes sought his but
unfortunately he was looking straight ahead and seeing gloomy things. If
he had happened to turn at that moment, he might have concluded his
speech differently.

"If I still exhibit some interest in your doings."

"I shall always think it most kind of you," she replied, her face
suddenly hardening. "Have I not done my best to reciprocate? I have even
passed on to you a word of warning, which I think you are very unwise to
ignore."

They were outside the hotel. Hunterleys paused.

"I have nothing to fear from the mysterious source you have spoken of,"
he assured her. "The only enemy I have in Monte Carlo is Draconmeyer
himself."

"Enemy!" she repeated scornfully. "Mr. Draconmeyer is much too wrapped
up in his finance, and too big a man, in his way, to have enemies. Oh,
Henry, if only you could get rid of a few of your prejudices, how much
more civilised a human being you would be!"

He raised his hat. His expression was a little grim.

"The man without prejudices, my dear Violet," he retorted, "is a man
without instincts.... I wish you luck."

She ran lightly up the steps and waved her hand. He watched her pass
through the doors into the hotel.

CHAPTER IV

ENTER THE AMERICAN

Lady Weybourne was lunching on the terrace of Ciro's restaurant with her
brother. She was small, dark, vivacious. Her friends, of whom she had
thousands, all called her Flossie, and she was probably the most popular
American woman who had ever married into the English peerage. Her
brother, Richard Lane, on the other hand, was tall, very
broad-shouldered, with a strong, clean-shaven face, inclined by
disposition to be taciturn. On this particular morning he had less even
than usual to say, and although Lady Weybourne, who was a great
chatterbox, was content as a rule to do most of the talking for herself,
his inattention became at last a little too obvious. He glanced up
eagerly as every newcomer appeared, and his answers to his sister's
criticisms were sometimes almost at random.

"Dicky, I'm not at all sure that I'm liking you this morning," she
observed finally, looking across at him with a critically questioning
smile. "A certain amount of non-responsiveness to my advances I can put
up with--from a brother--but this morning you are positively
inattentive. Tell me your troubles at once. Has Harris been bothering
you, or did you lose a lot of money last night?"

Considering that the young man's income was derived from an exceedingly
well-invested capital of nine million dollars, and that Harris was the
all too perfect captain of his yacht lying then in the harbour, whose
worst complaint was that he had never enough work to do, Lady
Weybourne's enquiries might have been considered as merely tentative.
Richard shook his head a little gloomily.

"Those things aren't likely to trouble me," he remarked. "Harris is all
right, and I've promised him we'll make up a little party and go over to
Cannes in a day or two."

"What a ripping idea!" Lady Weybourne declared, breaking up her thin
toast between her fingers. "I'd love it, and so would Harry. We could
easily get together a delightful party. The Pelhams are here and simply
dying for a change, and there's Captain Gardner and Frank Clowes, and
lots of nice girls. Couldn't we fix a date, Dick?"

"Not just yet," her brother replied.

"And why not?"

"I am waiting," he told her, "until I can ask the girl I want to go."

"And why can't you now?" she demanded, with upraised eyebrows. "I'll be
hostess and chaperone all in one."

"I can't ask her because I don't know her yet," the young man explained
doggedly.

Lady Weybourne leaned back in her chair and laughed.

"So that's it!" she exclaimed. "Now I know why you're sitting there like
an owl this morning! In love with a fair unknown, are you, Dick? Be
careful. Monte Carlo is full of young ladies whom it would be just as
well to know a little about before you thought of taking them yachting."

"This one isn't that sort," the young man said.

"How do you know that?" she asked, leaning across the table, her head
resting on her clasped hands.

He looked at her almost contemptuously.

"How do I know!" he repeated. "There are just one or two things that
happen in this world which a man can be utterly and entirely sure of.
She is one of them. Say, Flossie," he added, the enthusiasm creeping at
last into his tone, "you never saw any one quite like her in all your
life!"

"Do I know her, I wonder?" Lady Weybourne enquired.

"That's just what I've asked you here to find out," her brother replied
ingenuously. "I heard her tell the man she was with this morning--her
father, I believe--about an hour ago, that she would be at Ciro's at
half-past one. It's twenty minutes to two now."

Lady Weybourne laughed heartily.

"So that's why you dragged me out of bed and made me come to lunch with
you! Dick, what a fraud you are! I was thinking what a dear,
affectionate brother you were, and all the time you were just making use
of me."

"Sorry," the young man said briskly, "but, after all, we needn't stand
on ceremony, need we? I've always been your pal; gave you a leg up with
the old man, you know, when he wasn't keen on the British alliance."

She nodded.

"Oh, I'll do what I can for you," she promised. "If she is any one in
particular I expect I shall know her. What's happening, Dick?"

The young man's face was almost transformed. His eyes were bright and
very fixed. His lips had come together in a firm, straight line, as
though he were renewing some promise to himself. Lady Weybourne followed
the direction of his gaze. A man and a girl had reached the entrance to
the restaurant and were looking around them as though to select a table.
The chief maitre d'hotel had hastened out to receive them. They were,
without doubt, people of importance. The man was of medium height, with
iron-grey hair and moustache, and a small imperial. He wore light
clothes of perfect cut; patent shoes with white linen gaiters; a black
tie fastened with a pin of opals. He carried himself with an air which
was unmistakable and convincing. The girl by his side was beautiful. She
was simply dressed in a tailor-made gown of white serge. Her black hat
was a miracle of smartness. Her hair was of a very light shade of
golden-brown, her complexion wonderfully fair. Lady Weybourne glanced at
her shoes and gloves, at the bag which she was carrying, and the handle
of her parasol. Then she nodded approvingly.

"You don't know her?" Richard asked, in a disappointed whisper.

She shook her head.

"Sorry," she admitted, "but I don't. They've probably only just
arrived."

With great ceremony the newcomers were conducted to the best table upon
the terrace. The man was evidently an habitue. He had scarcely taken his
seat before, with a very low bow, the sommelier brought him a small
wine-glass filled with what seemed to be vermouth. While he sipped it he
smoked a Russian cigarette and with a gold pencil wrote out the menu of
his luncheon. In a few minutes the manager himself came hurrying out
from the restaurant. His salute was almost reverential. When, after a
few moments' conversation, he departed, he did so with the air of one
taking leave of royalty. Lady Weybourne, who was an inquisitive little
person, was puzzled.

"I don't know who they are, Dick," she confessed, "but I know the ways
of this place well, and I can tell you one thing--they are people of
importance. You can tell that by the way they are received. These
restaurant people don't make mistakes."

"Of course they are people of importance," the young man declared. "Any
one can see that by a glance at the girl. I am sorry you don't know
them," he went on, "but you've got to find out who they are, and pretty
quickly, too. Look here, Flossie. I am a bit useful to you now and then,
aren't I?"

"Without you, my dear Dick," she murmured, "I should never be able to
manage those awful trustees. You are invaluable, a perfect jewel of a
brother."

"Well, I'll give you that little electric coupe you were so keen on last
time we were in London, if you'll get me an introduction to that girl
within twenty-four hours."

Lady Weybourne gasped.

"What a whirlwind!" she exclaimed. "Dicky, are you, by any chance, in
earnest?"

"In earnest for the first time in my life," he assured her. "Something
has got hold of me which I'm not going to part with."

She considered him reflectively. He was twenty-seven years of age, and
notwithstanding the boundless opportunities of his youth and great
wealth he had so far shown an almost singular indifference to the whole
of the opposite sex, from the fascinating chorus girls of London and New
York to the no less enterprising young women of his own order. As she
sat there studying his features, she felt a sensation almost of awe.
There was something entirely different, something stronger in his face.
She thought for a moment of their father as she had known him in her
childhood, the founder of their fortunes, a man who had risen from a
moderate position to immense wealth through sheer force of will, of
pertinacity. For the first time she saw the same look upon her brother's
face.

"Well," she sighed, "I shall do my best to earn it. I only hope, Dick,
that she is--"

"She is what?" he demanded, looking at her steadfastly.

"Oh! not engaged or anything, I mean," Lady Weybourne explained hastily.
"I must admit, Dick, although I don't suppose any sister is particularly
keen upon her brother's young women, that I think you've shown excellent
taste. She is absolutely the best style of any one I've seen in Monte
Carlo."

"How are you going to manage that introduction?" he asked bluntly. "Have
you made any plans?"

"I don't suppose it will be difficult," she assured him, lighting a
cigarette and shaking her head at the tray of liqueurs which the
sommelier was offering. "Get me some cream for my coffee, Dick. Now I'll
tell you," she continued, as the waiter disappeared. "You will have to
call that under-maitre d'hotel. You had better give him a substantial
tip and ask him quietly for their names. Then I'll see about the rest."

"That seems sensible enough," he admitted.

"And look here, Dick," she went on, "I know how impetuous you are. Don't
do anything foolish. Remember this isn't an ordinary adventure. If you
go rushing in upon it you'll come to grief."

"I know," he answered shortly. "I was fool enough to hang about the
flower shops and that milliner's this morning. I couldn't help it. I
don't know whether she noticed. I believe she did. Once our eyes did
meet, and although I'll swear she never changed her expression, I felt
that the whole world didn't hold so small a creature as I. Here comes
Charles. I'll ask him."

He beckoned to the maitre d'hotel and talked for a moment about the
luncheon. Then he ordered a table for the next day, and slipping a louis
into the man's hand, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"I want you to tell me the name of the gentleman and young lady who are
sitting over there at the corner table?"

The maitre d'hotel glanced covertly in the direction indicated. He did
not at once reply. His face was perplexed, almost troubled.

"I am very sorry, sir," he said hesitatingly, "but our orders are very
strict. Monsieur Ciro does not like anything in the way of gossip about
our clients, and the gentleman is a very honoured patron. The young lady
is his daughter."

"Quite right," the young man agreed bluntly. "This isn't an ordinary
case, Charles. You go over to the desk there, write me down the name and
bring it, and there's a hundred franc note waiting here for you. No need
for the name to pass your lips."

The man bowed and retreated. In a few minutes he came back again and
laid a small card upon the table.

"Monsieur will pardon my reminding him," he begged earnestly, "but if he
will be so good as to never mention this little matter--"

Richard nodded and waved him away.

"Sure!" he promised.

He drew the card towards him and looked at it in a puzzled manner. Then
he passed it to his sister. Her expression, too, was blank.

"Who in the name of mischief," he exclaimed softly, "is Mr. Grex!"

CHAPTER V

"WHO IS MR. GREX?"

Lady Weybourne insisted, after a reasonable amount of time spent over
their coffee, that her brother should pay the bill and leave the
restaurant. They walked slowly across the square.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"There is only one thing to be done," she replied. "I shall speak to
every one I meet this afternoon--I shall be, in fact, most sociable--and
sooner or later in our conversation I shall ask every one if they know
Mr. Grex and his daughter. When I arrive at some one who does, that will
be the first step, won't it?"

"I wonder whether we shall see some one soon!" he grumbled, looking
around. "Where are all the people to-day!"

She laughed softly.

"Just a little impetuous, aren't you?"

"I should say so," he admitted. "I'd like to be introduced to her before
four o'clock, propose to her this evening, and--and--"

"And what?"

"Never mind," he concluded, marching on with his head turned towards the
clouds. "Let's go and sit down upon the Terrace and talk about her."

"But, my dear Dicky," his sister protested, "I don't want to sit upon
the Terrace. I am going to my dressmaker's across the way there, and
afterwards to Lucie's to try on some hats. Then I am going back to the
hotel for an hour's rest and to prink, and afterwards into the Sporting
Club at four o'clock. That's my programme. I shall be doing what I can
the whole of the time. I shall make discreet enquiries of my dressmaker,
who knows everybody, and I sha'n't let a single acquaintance go by. You
will have to amuse yourself till four o'clock, at any rate. There's Sir
Henry Hunterleys over there, having coffee. Go and talk to him. He may
put you out of your misery. Thanks ever so much for my luncheon, and au
revoir!"

She turned away with a little nod. Her brother, after a moment's
hesitation, approached the table where Hunterleys was sitting alone.

"How do you do, Sir Henry?"

Hunterleys returned his greeting, a little blankly at first. Then he
remembered the young man and held out his hand.

"Of course! You are Richard Lane, aren't you? Sit down and have some
coffee. What are you doing here?"

"I've got a little boat in the harbour," Richard replied, as he drew up
a chair. "I've been at Algiers for a time with some friends, and I've
brought them on here. Just been lunching with my sister. Are you alone?"

Hunterleys hesitated.

"Yes, I am alone."

"Wonderful place," the young man went on. "Wonderful crowd of people
here, too. I suppose you know everybody?" he added, warming up as he
approached his subject.

"On the contrary," Hunterleys answered, "I am almost a stranger here. I
have been staying further down the coast."

"Happen to know any one of the name of Grex?" Lane asked, with elaborate
carelessness.

Hunterleys made no immediate reply. He seemed to be considering the
name.

"Grex," he repeated, knocking the ash from his cigarette. "Rather an
uncommon name, isn't it? Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I've seen an elderly man and a young lady about once or twice,"
Lane explained. "Very interesting-looking people. Some one told me that
their name was Grex."

"There is a person living under that name, I think," Hunterleys said,
"who has taken the Villa Mimosa for the season."

"Do you know him personally?" the young man asked eagerly.

"Personally? No, I can scarcely say that I do."

Richard Lane sighed. It was disappointment number one. For some reason
or other, too, Hunterleys seemed disposed to change the conversation.

"The young lady who is always with him," Richard persisted, "would that
be his daughter?"

Hunterleys turned a little in his seat and surveyed his questioner. He
had met Lane once or twice and rather liked him.

"Look here, young fellow," he said, good humouredly, "let me ask you a
question for a change. What is the nature of these enquiries of yours?"

Lane hesitated. Something in Hunterleys' face and manner induced him to
tell the truth.

"I have fallen head over heels in love with the young lady," he
confessed. "Don't think I am a confounded jackass. I am not in the habit
of doing such things. I'm twenty-seven and I have never gone out of my
way to meet a girl yet. This is something--different. I want to find out
about them and get an introduction."

Hunterleys shook his head regretfully.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I can be of no use to you--no practical
use, that is. I can only give you one little piece of advice."

"Well, what is it?" Richard asked eagerly.

"If you are in earnest," Hunterleys continued, "and I will do you the
credit to believe that you are, you had better pack up your things,
return to your yacht and take a cruise somewhere."

"Take a cruise somewhere!"

Hunterleys nodded.

"Get out of Monte Carlo as quickly as you can, and, above all, don't
think anything more of that young lady. Get the idea out of your head as
quickly as you can."

The young man was sitting upright in his chair. His manner was half
minatory.

"Say, what do you mean by this?" he demanded.

"Exactly what I said just now," Hunterleys rejoined. "If you are in
earnest, and I have no doubt that you are, I should clear out."

"What is it you are trying to make me understand?" Richard asked
bluntly.

"That you have about as much chance with that young lady," Hunterleys
assured him, "as with that very graceful statue in the square yonder."

Richard sat for a moment with knitted brows.

"Then you know who she is, any way?"

"Whether I do or whether I do not," the older man said gravely, "so far
as I am concerned, the subject is exhausted. I have given you the best
advice you ever had in your life. It's up to you to follow it."

Richard looked at him blankly.

"Well, you've got me puzzled," he confessed.

Hunterleys rose to his feet, and, summoning a waiter, paid his bill.

"You'll excuse me, won't you?" he begged. "I have an appointment in a
few minutes. If you are wise, young man," he added, patting him on the
shoulder as he turned to go, "you will take my advice."

Left to himself, Richard Lane strolled around the place towards the
Terrace. He had no fancy for the Rooms and he found a seat as far
removed as possible from the Tir du Pigeons. He sat there with folded
arms, looking out across the sun-dappled sea. His matter-of-fact brain
offered him but one explanation as to the meaning of Hunterleys' words,
and against that explanation his whole being was in passionate revolt.
He represented a type of young man who possesses morals by reason of a
certain unsuspected idealism, mingled with perfect physical sanity. It
seemed to him, as he sat there, that he had been waiting for this day
for years. The old nights in New York and Paris and London floated
before his memory. He pushed them on one side with a shiver, and yet
with a curious feeling of exultation. He recalled a certain sensation
which had been drawn through his life like a thin golden thread, a
sensation which had a habit of especially asserting itself in the midst
of these youthful orgies, a curious sense of waiting for something to
happen, a sensation which had been responsible very often for what his
friends had looked upon as eccentricity. He knew now that this thing had
arrived, and everything else in life seemed to pale by the side of it.
Hunterleys' words had thrown him temporarily into a strange turmoil.
Solitude for a few moments he had felt to be entirely necessary. Yet
directly he was alone, directly he was free to listen to his
convictions, he could have laughed at that first mad surging of his
blood, the fierce, instinctive rebellion against the conclusion to which
Hunterleys' words seemed to point. Now that he was alone, he was not
even angry. No one else could possibly understand!

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