Chapter TWO

During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal profession. She thought she knew the breed.

“Hermione Cushing?” he repeated again with a sort of negative inflection. “Oh, yes! You mean the singer.”

“Do I?” she demanded bluntly. “I didn’t know she was a singer.”

The gleam in his eye was altogether human.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer,” he amended. “In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.”

“You do know her, then?”

“Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known figure in Paris.”

That was all. He had shut up like a clam.

“Oh dear!” fumed Catherine inwardly, “he’s going to be tiresome like John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that when I mentioned her name?”

There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her cards on the table.

“Mr. Macadam,” she began, glancing hastily at their comatose companions, “just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme. Bender’s, and as such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?”

He considered briefly.

“Oh, yes. I believe--indeed, I know that she is.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?”

She fancied his smile was reminiscent.

“Nothing,” he replied discreetly. “Beyond a certain excitability, which one may put down to the artist temperament.” Yet even as he spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her. Why couldn’t he be more open?

“Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully bothered to know what to make of this.” She fingered the pages with hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. “If you won’t think me stupid, I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my feeling nervous about it.”

She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness; then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention, she held her breath, studying him anxiously.

Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue to his thoughts.

“You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out of her mind,” she put in presently. “And about it’s being an undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?”

“Of course,” he assented, “it puts the idea into one’s head.”

“That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s naturally very upsetting.”

He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.

“If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?”

Catherine blushed.

“No,” she confessed guiltily. “I had made my plans, and frankly I didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender herself----.”

“Oh, she wrote to you, did she?”

“Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact, on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that Eduardo--that’s the manservant--could meet me with the car and see me through the customs.”

“You are sure she wrote the letter herself?”

Catherine stared at him astonished.

“Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have written it?”

Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he would let her share it!

“Besides,” she argued, to justify herself, “it is not as though Miss Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed, she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get that idea?”

“Very much so,” he agreed. “She appears to think she will have a better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.”

Catherine gave a quick nod.

“Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne. Here--what is it she says?--‘She detests me, _cette femme là_, and will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder what is at the back of that?”

Macadam stirred uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.

“Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what these old servants are like. Will you smoke?”

“Oh, thanks!” She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette, then puffing thoughtfully remarked: “That probably explains it. But it occurred to me--what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?”

“Oh, perfectly! I see your point.”

Indeed, he saw it only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were not wanted. Various information, all emanating from the singer herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had done the best he could.…

“Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane,” he remarked with apparent irrelevance. “Often there are completely lucid intervals, so that two observers might easily have different opinions.”

“That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion, must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.”

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to do so by her companion’s evasiveness.

Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her, showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body. When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?

“At any rate,” he said, “I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who probably understands her case.”

“An American?”

“No--French, I believe.”

“She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope so.”

So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had known at least one case of so-called “circular insanity,” where the patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.

When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confused surging exodus of passengers on to the grimy platform.

Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years ago! The staccato babble filling her ears had an exotic sound, heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset herself over imagined difficulties! Everything was going to be perfect.…

What was Mr. Macadam saying?

“Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet you?”

“Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel Portuguese, looks as though he ought to have rings in his ears and a knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be somewhere among the crowd.”

While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with an eager eye.

“I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him,” suggested her companion tentatively.

“Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be here.”

She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices shouted “_Attention!_” and more than once she was glad of the protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.

Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face she could descry no one faintly resembling him.

“Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you through all this business so as not to waste time.”

She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with uncertainty.

“It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?”

“I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner,” he assured her. “Here we are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.”

It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.

“Like the Last Judgment--the graves giving up their secrets!” she laughed. “I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to declare.”

It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.

Eduardo was not there.