Chapter IX: An Indiscreet Friendship

“Dieu! Why are you here, M’sieur Dick? You are an imbecile! If you are seen here, in Bournemouth, you may spoil everything.”

“It was imperative, Alza, that I should come here,” Jervoise answered in French. “I have come to give you warning.”

“Warning!” cried the good-looking young Frenchwoman. “Of what, pray?”

They were seated together in a corner of the winter-garden of the Royal Bath Hotel at Bournemouth.

Arriving from London half an hour before, he had found her lolling lazily in one of the wicker armchairs, displaying a neat ankle and just a suspicion of finest _lingerie_ for the admiration of a clean-shaven young fellow in blue serge, who had the unmistakable bearing of a naval officer. Dressed with quiet elegance in black, with a big black hat and some fine sables around her neck, she presented a very ladylike and refined appearance, her _chic_ being that of the true Parisienne.

The meeting was quite unexpected on her part, yet Dick for the last week, ever since that evening at Owen’s house, had been endeavouring to trace her whereabouts. He had hastened next day down into Rutland, only to discover that she had left for Edinburgh. North he went, and on making inquiries at the Caledonian Hotel, learnt that, after a week, she had gone to London, leaving an address at Baron’s Court, Kensington, for letters to be forwarded. At this address, a house at which she had lodged on one or two occasions, he had ascertained her whereabouts at Bournemouth, and had that morning arrived in order to consult her.

There were several idlers in the winter-garden, including an old Anglo-Indian and his wife; therefore Dick suggested that they might walk out and talk where there were no eavesdroppers. None who chanced to see that well-dressed and essentially refined young lady, who always kept herself aloof from everybody, and who passed her lonely hours in reading fiction or doing fancy needlework, would have for one moment guessed that she was actually what Owen Odd had declared her to be.

None, indeed, would believe that she was at that watering-place with a fixed purpose, and that that purpose was an evil one.

For the past ten days or so she had been at the hotel, living there in the name of Duveen, and half the men were longing to make her acquaintance. But she disregarded them all, and remained entirely apart from everybody. The other guests noticed that she seldom went out, but attributed it to the fact that the weather had turned bitterly cold, and if she were weak-chested the East winds were the reverse of beneficial.

The advent of Dick Jervoise, therefore, surprised those tea-table gossips, who spent the greater part of the day in the winter-garden, a kind of great conservatory with palms, fishponds, and tropical birds. Therefore, Alza, quick to note any impression upon her neighbours, rose, fastened her furs, took up her muff, and they both passed out and down the hill leading towards the pier.

“Fortunately, he has gone motoring with two men to Salisbury to-day,” she said as they went along. “Otherwise I dare not be seen out—especially in your company.”

“Then Bourtzeff is here—eh?” he asked quickly.

“Of course—at the Grand. If he were not here I should not be. I prefer my own Paris, cher M’sieur Dick, I assure you! This place—ugh!” and she made a wry face and shuddered.

Her companion laughed.

“It must be very dull for you to be so much alone, of course.”

“I need not be alone, but unfortunately I cannot afford to make chance acquaintances. They always have a habit of turning up just at the moment when one does not desire them. You know,” was her answer, “I nearly met with complete disaster once, owing to an indiscreet friendship.”

“Ah! Alza,” he said as they passed the pier entrance and continued along the cliffs. “You are an exceedingly clever woman.”

“You have more than once made that remark before,” she replied, smiling, at the same time drawing her furs closer about her throat; for, though the day was bright, yet the winter wind was strong and exceedingly cold. There were few people about, for on such a day visitors prefer the shelter of the Invalid’s Walk to the rough wind of the cliffs.

“I have not come to seek you to pay you compliments, my dear mademoiselle,” he said seriously when they had strolled some distance. “As I have already said, I am here to warn you—to warn you seriously.”

She turned her dark, luminous eyes towards him, and with an air of careless merriment exclaimed:

“Good! Tell me—what’s the danger now?”

“My friend Odd has discovered who and what you are. He knows practically everything!”

She stared at him, a trifle paler, holding her breath.

“Then I hope he is interested,” she said briefly.

“But you do not seem to realise your danger!” he pointed out. “You were seen in his company, and recognized by a detective. The officer told him who you were.”

She pursed her shapely lips, and twisted her skirt more tightly about her shapely hips.

“You think I ought not to remain in England—eh?” she asked in a hard voice.

“I certainly think there is a grave peril if you do,” he said. “Why are you still watching Bourtzeff?”

“For reasons of my own—personal reasons.”

“He is your enemy, that I know. But if he discovers you will he not again turn upon you—as he did once before?”

“He will not have a chance,” responded the girl in a determined tone, still speaking in French. “He gave information to the Prefecture of Police which sent the man I love to Cayenne, remember! Because he turned police informant he fancies himself safe. But he is unaware of the fate that I—I, Alza Dresler—have marked out for him!” she cried, her dark eyes flashing with a fire which plainly showed her hatred.

“You are safe neither in England nor in France, Alza,” the man said quietly. “You once did me a great service—one that I have never forgotten, and have ever thanked you for. You——”

“Oh! enough, mon cher Dick!” she declared, interrupting him and putting up her black-gloved hand to stay his words. “You forget how deeply I regard you for that great kindness, that generosity you showed to me. You could have handed me over to the police, but you let me go free because I was a woman. I know I’m bad—I can’t help it! My father was a thief, and, as you know, I have lived among thieves all my life. My whole existence has been one of fraud, subterfuge, and deception. My friends are the worst and most unscrupulous in all Europe. I admit it all—all. Yet how can I change it?”

“I know, mademoiselle,” said Dick in a low, sympathetic voice. “I entirely understand your position and appreciate your difficulty. You are an associate of certain undesirable persons through no fault of your own. You were born in criminal surroundings, and taught dishonesty from childhood. Your intelligence has been sharpened by long association with keen, clever men and women who live upon their wits, until now you are as expert as they. You can assume refinement and innocence so marvellously that your victims become as wax in your hands. I know it all, mademoiselle, and no one more regrets your position than I do myself.”

A serious expression was upon her dark, handsome face. She had always liked the tall Englishman, always respected him, and had ever been ready to listen to his advice.

At that moment there arose before her eyes the recollection of one day, a few years before, when they had met at the Hotel du Parc, at Vichy, and a month later at the Sudbahn Hotel, at Semmering in Austria; of their long walks together in the mountains, and of the friendship that sprang up between them. Then, of that fateful night when, at the instigation of a certain man living in the hotel, she had managed to step into the little _salon_ occupied by the pretty French actress, and, on searching, had discovered the string of fine pearls she was known to possess.

Could she ever forget that moment? She had taken them from their velvet case, and was holding them in her hand beneath the green-shaded lamp when she heard a movement behind her, and, turning in alarm, saw the tall Englishman, who happened to be a friend of the actress, standing there! He knew the truth. He barred her passage, and charged her with the theft. He had caught her red-handed! “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I followed you here, and I have seen you take the pearls. Your friend is that stout man in spectacles who speaks German, and who has been here for the past fortnight, yet whom you have pretended not to know. He is your accomplice. I have seen you meet in secret. I shall ring, and hand you over to the police.” His finger was already upon the electric button near the door, when she had dashed across, and, flinging herself wildly upon her knees before him, begged forgiveness—begged his silence, begged his protection—even though she were a thief.

In those brief, exciting moments, as they now walked together, she recollected his hesitation, his deep, earnest, reproachful words, and how, taking her hand, he had assisted her to rise. He had taken the pearls from her, returned them to their case, and, with a generosity she had seldom found in men, had given her his word of honour to remain silent.

The next moment she slipped along the corridor to her room, and half an hour later faced the actress in the big _salon_, smiling as though nothing had happened.

Her German-speaking friend was already at the station, on his hurried departure for Vienna, while she, later that same night, had written a brief note of heartfelt thanks to the Englishman, and, giving her address in Paris, promised that if ever he wanted a friend he had but to write to her. “All my friends are in future your friends,” she wrote in that note. “We all owe you a deep debt of gratitude for your generosity towards me.”

As she walked along that broad, sandy pathway, with the grey sea stretched deep below, she was wondering if he, too, were thinking of the same strange, almost romantic circumstances—that startling incident which had sealed their curious friendship.

Had he denounced her that night, her fat friend, who was wanted on half a dozen different charges of placing certain forged bonds into circulation, would have also fallen into the drag-net of the police. Ugly revelations would, no doubt, have ended, and the identity of the various members of that circle of unscrupulous undesirables would have been exposed.

As it was, he had urged her to reform. Ah! she recollected too well those deep, earnest words of his! How they had rung in her ears ever since. They recurred to her now. And after that brief but bitter reproach, he had allowed her to pass out. She owed her liberty to the silence of Richard Jervoise.

And now her present visit to England had been at his request. He had written to her asking her to redeem her promise, and perform him a service. The same day she had received his letter she had crossed the Channel, and next morning called at his flat at Barnes.

In his own snug den he had told her the story of the strange death of Paul Grinevitch—a story to which she had listened with the deepest interest. She had written down the address in Keppel Street, and, having discovered that Nicholas Bourtzeff visited the house in question, her vigilance had never for one instant been relaxed.

Dick knew that this Russian was her bitterest enemy, yet it was by no means plain why she should exercise that constant surveillance upon his movements. That he had been travelling from place to place was clear from her own erratic journeys, yet why she should be ever at his heels, and why she should risk detection and betrayal, as she no doubt was daily risking, remained to him a complete enigma.

“My duty was to come here and warn you, mademoiselle,” he went on as he strode at her side. “For aught you know, the police are making inquiries concerning your whereabouts, now that you have been recognized with Owen.”

“And your friend the doctor, of course, believes what he has been told concerning me,” she remarked very quietly.

“Without a doubt. I have tried to cast disbelief upon the statements of the police officer, but denial in the circumstances, is, as you see, rather difficult.”

“You need not deny it, M’sieur Jervoise,” she answered in a low, bitter voice. “One day, ere long, I know I must find myself under arrest. I have had many narrow escapes in my career; therefore I can’t always hope for success.” And she smiled sadly, looking into his grave eyes.

“But why run this risk?” he cried. “Surely it is unnecessary? Why not slip away to Germany, Holland, Denmark—anywhere save here and in France?”

She was silent for a few moments. Then, halting and turning her eyes to his, she said in a calm, thoughtful tone:

“M’sieur Dick! Did you not ask me to perform for you a service? You love the Norwegian lady, Thyra. Is not that so? Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” he stammered after a brief pause, the colour rising to his face. “I do not hide the truth from you—my friend. Why should I? I love her.”

“Then if you do,” she answered quickly, “if you do—then please allow me to remain here—and act in your interests. I am your friend, as you have declared—your sincere friend, M’sieur Dick, and one who owes her liberty to you!”