Chapter IV: Part 4

It flowed through him again and again--that increasing certitude. She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn't got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvelous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.

Her _tête-à-tête_ with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one's tongue.

He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.

Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical _sang-froid_ of the old habitué. She staked _en plein_ once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again; finally she backed _manque_ six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.

She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.

Mr. Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.

"The Czarnova," said one. "She wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her."

The other, a small man, stared curiously after her. "So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?" he asked. "_En vérité._ That is odd."

He chuckled softly to himself.

Mr. Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.

"My dear Mr. Quin." He shook him warmly by the hand. "The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you."

Mr. Quin smiled, his dark, attractive face lighting up.

"It should not surprise you," he said. "It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time."

"Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm."

"It will be pleasanter outside," agreed the other. "We will walk in the gardens."

The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.

"That is better," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Much better," agreed Mr. Quin. "And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me."

"There is indeed."

Speaking eagerly, Mr. Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth--he sketched them all in with a deft touch.

"You have changed since I first knew you," said Mr. Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.

"In what way?"

"You were content then to look on at the dramas that life offered. Now--you want to take part--to act."

"It is true," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. "But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps--" He hesitated. "Perhaps you will help me?"

"With pleasure," said Mr. Quin. "We will see what we can do."

Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.

The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr. Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.

"Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening," he confided excitedly to Mr. Quin.

"The Parisian stage favorite?"

"Yes. I daresay you know--it's common property--she is the King of Bosnia's latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris."

"It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight."

"Exactly what I thought."

Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.

She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.

"Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this," murmured Mr. Quin in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.

The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.

She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the center roulette tables.

She was dressed in white--a mere straight slip of marocain, such as a debutante might have worn, and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.

"It is clever, that," said Mr. Satterthwaite with instant approval. "She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary."

He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.

There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.

With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.

The Countess in her turn leaned forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.

"_Faites vos jeux_," called the croupier hoarsely. "_Rien ne va plus. Plus rien._"

The ball spun, humming merrily. Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: _This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death._

Click!

The croupier bent forward to see.

"_Numéro cinq, rouge, impair et manque._"

Mr. Satterthwaite had won!

The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr. Satterthwaite's winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.

"_A Madame_," he said brusquely.

The Countess picked up the money. Mr. Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry.

"_Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames._"

Mr. Satterthwaite rejoined Mr. Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanor he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr. Quin listened sympathetically.

"Too bad," he said, "but these things happen. We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party."

* * * * *

The three met at midnight, and Mr. Quin explained his plan.

"It is what is called a 'Hedges and Highways' party," he explained. "We choose our meeting-place, then each one goes out and is bound in honor to invite the first person he meets."

Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea. "Say, what happens if they won't accept?"

"You must use your utmost powers of persuasion."

"Good. And where's the meeting-place?"

"A somewhat Bohemian café--where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau."

He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr. Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar, where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.

"We are the first," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Ah! here comes Franklin--"

He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honors.

Last of all came Mr. Quin. With him was a small dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr. Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.

"Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher," said Mr. Quin.

The little man seemed confused. Mr. Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought--an excellent supper. Wine came--very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories--not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr. Quin passed round the wine.

"I'll tell you--and this is a true story--about a man who made good," said Franklin Rudge impressively. He had shown no lack of appreciation of the champagne.

He told his story--perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

"I, too, will tell you a story," he said thickly. "But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story."

"Pray tell it to us, monsieur," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously.

Pierre Vaucher leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. "It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a working jeweler. He was young and lighthearted and industrious in his profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry most satisfactory. And then, what would you think? One morning he sees a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, Messieurs. Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, if she were not half-starved. But anyway, for this young man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to find work, she is virtuous--or at least that is what she tells him. I do not know if it was true."

The Countess's voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness. "Why should it not be true? There are many like that."

"Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her--an act of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged their feelings. He married--I will call her Jeanne--it was a good action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to him. He had sacrificed much for her sake."

"A charming beginning for the poor girl," observed the Countess sarcastically.

"He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had moods--tantrums--she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. They quarreled. She reproached him--Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach him with?

"You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little shop with no news of her. He had one friend--absinthe. The business did not prosper so well.

"And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there. She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood considering her. His heart was beating--but beating! He was at a loss what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of these things. He took up his pincers and went on with his work. 'Madame desires?' he asked formally.

"That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. 'Pierre,' she said, 'I have come back.' He laid aside his pincers and looked at her. 'You wish to be forgiven?' he said. 'You want me to take you back? You are sincerely repentant?' 'Do you want me back?' she murmured. Oh! very softly she said it.

"He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed to seize her in his arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.

"'I am a Christian man,' he said. 'I try to do what the Church directs.' 'Ah!' he thought, 'I will humble her, humble her to her knees.'

"But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and laughed. Evil laughter it was. 'I mock myself at you, little Pierre,' she said. 'Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your arms and when you did so, then--_then_ I would spit in your face and tell you how I hated you!'

"And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, Messieurs, that a woman could be as evil as all that--to come back only to torment him?"

"No," said the Countess. "I would not believe it, and any man who was not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools."

Pierre Vaucher took no notice of her. He went on: "And so that young man of whom I tell you sank lower and lower. He drank more absinthe. The little shop was sold over his head. He became of the dregs, of the gutter. Then came the war. Ah! it was good, the war. It took that man out of the gutter and taught him to be a brute beast no longer. It drilled him--and sobered him. He endured cold and pain and the fear of death--but he did not die, and when the war ended, he was a man again.

"It was then, Messieurs, that he came South. His lungs had been affected; they said he must find work in the South. I will not weary you with all the things he did. Suffice it to say that he ended up as a croupier, and there--there in the Casino one evening, he saw again--the woman who had ruined his life. She did not recognize him, but he recognized her. She appeared to be rich and to lack for nothing--but, Messieurs, the eyes of a croupier are sharp. There came an evening when she placed her last stake in the world on the table. Ask me not how I know--I do know--one feels these things. Others might not believe. She still had rich clothes--why not pawn them, one would say? But to do that--pah! your credit is gone at once. Her jewels? Ah, no! Was I not a jeweler in my time? Long ago the real jewels have gone. The pearls of a King sold one by one, and replaced with false. And meantime one must eat and pay one's hotel bill. Yes, and the rich men--well, they have seen one about for many years. Bah! they say--she is over fifty! A younger chicken for my money."

A long shuddering sigh came out of the windows where the Countess leaned back.

"Yes. It was a great moment, that. Two nights I have watched her. Lose, lose, and lose again. And now the end. She puts all on one number. Beside her, an English milord stakes the maximum also--on the next number. The ball rolls; the moment has come; she has lost.

"Her eyes meet mine. What do I do? I jeopardize my place in the Casino. I rob the English milord. '_A Madame_,' I say, and pay over the money."

"Ah!" There was a crash as the Countess sprang to her feet and leaned across the table, sweeping her glass onto the floor. "Why?" she cried. "That's what I want to know, _why_ did you do it?"

There was a long pause, a pause that seemed interminable, and still those two facing each other across the table looked and looked. It was like a duel.

A mean little smile crept across Pierre Vaucher's face. He raised his hands. "Madame," he said. "There is such a thing as pity."

"Ah!"

She sank down again. "I see."

She was calm, smiling, herself again.

"An interesting story, Monsieur Vaucher, is it not? Permit me to give you a light for your cigarette."

She deftly rolled up a spill, lighted it at the candle, and held it toward him. He leaned forward till the flame caught the tip of the cigarette he held between his lips.

Then she rose unexpectedly to her feet. "And now I must leave you all. Please--I need no one to escort me."

Before one could realize it, she was gone. Mr. Satterthwaite would have hurried out after her, but he was arrested by a startled oath from the Frenchman.

"_A thousand thunders!_"

He was staring at the half-burned spill which the Countess had dropped on the table. He unrolled it.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he muttered. "A fifty-thousand-franc banknote. You understand? Her winnings tonight. All that she has in the world. And she lighted my cigarette with it! Because she was too proud to accept--pity. Ah! proud, she was always proud as the Devil. She is unique--wonderful."

He sprang up from his seat and darted out. Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin had also risen. The waiter approached Franklin Rudge.

"_La note, Monsieur_," he observed unemotionally.

Mr. Quin rescued it from him quickly.

"I feel kind of lonesome, Elizabeth," remarked Franklin Rudge. "These foreigners--they beat the band! I don't understand them. What's it all mean, anyhow?"

He looked across at her. "Gee, it's good to look at anything so hundred percent American as you." His voice took on the plaintive note of a small child. "These foreigners are so _odd_."

They thanked Mr. Quin and went out into the night together. Mr. Quin picked up his change and smiled across at Mr. Satterthwaite, who was preening himself like a contented bird.

"Well," said the latter. "That's all gone off splendidly. Our pair of lovebirds will be all right now."

"Which ones?" asked Mr. Quin.

"Oh," said Mr. Satterthwaite, taken aback, "Oh! yes, well, I suppose you are right, allowing for the Latin point of view and all that--"

He looked dubious.

Mr. Quin smiled, and a stained-glass panel behind him invested him for just a moment in a motley garment of colored light.

THE WORLD'S END

Mr. Satterthwaite had come to Corsica because of the Duchess. It was out of his beat. On the Riviera he was sure of his comforts, and to be comfortable meant a lot to Mr. Satterthwaite. But though he liked his comfort, he also liked a Duchess. In his way, a harmless, gentlemanly, old-fashioned way, Mr. Satterthwaite was a snob. He liked the best people. And the Duchess of Leith was a very authentic Duchess. She was the daughter of a duke as well as the wife of one.

For the rest, she was rather a shabby-looking old lady, a good deal given to black bead trimmings on her clothes. She had quantities of diamonds in old-fashioned settings, and she wore them as her mother before her had worn them: pinned all over her indiscriminately. Someone had suggested once that the Duchess stood in the middle of the room while her maid flung brooches at her haphazard. She subscribed generously to charities, and looked well after her tenants and dependents, but was extremely mean over small sums. She cadged lifts from her friends, and did her shopping in bargain basements.

The Duchess was seized with a whim for Corsica. Cannes bored her, and she had had a bitter argument with the hotel proprietor over the price of her rooms.

"And you shall go with me, Satterthwaite," she said firmly. "We needn't be afraid of scandal at our time of life."

Mr. Satterthwaite was delicately flattered. No one had ever mentioned scandal in connection with him before. He was far too insignificant. Scandal--and a Duchess--delicious.

"Picturesque, you know," said the Duchess. "Brigands--all that sort of thing. And extremely cheap, so I've heard. Manuelli was positively impudent this morning. These hotel proprietors need putting in their place. They can't expect to get the best people if they go on like this. I told him so plainly."

"I believe," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that one can fly over quite comfortably. From Antibes."

"They probably charge you a pretty penny for it," said the Duchess sharply. "Find out, will you?"

"Certainly, Duchess."

Mr. Satterthwaite was still in a flutter of gratification, despite the fact that his role was clearly to be that of a glorified courier.

When she learned the price of a passage by _avion_, the Duchess turned it down promptly. "They needn't think I'm going to pay a ridiculous sum like that to go in one of their nasty dangerous things."

So they went by boat, and Mr. Satterthwaite endured ten hours of acute discomfort. To begin with, as the boat sailed at seven, he took it for granted that there would be dinner on board. But there was no dinner. The boat was small and the sea was rough. Mr. Satterthwaite was decanted at Ajaccio in the early hours of the morning more dead than alive.

The Duchess, on the contrary, was perfectly fresh. She never minded discomfort, if she could feel she was saving money. She waxed enthusiastic over the scene on the quay, with the palm trees and the rising sun. The whole population seemed to have turned out to watch the arrival of the boat, and the launching of the gangway was attended with excited cries and directions.

"That maid of mine has been sick all night," said the Duchess. "The girl's a perfect fool."

Mr. Satterthwaite smiled in a pallid fashion.

"A waste of good food, I call it," continued the Duchess robustly.

"Did she get any food?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite enviously.

"I happened to bring some biscuits and a stick of chocolate on board with me," said the Duchess. "When I found there was no dinner to be got, I gave the lot to her. The lower classes always make such a fuss about going without their meals."

With a cry of triumph the launching of the gangway was accomplished. A musical comedy chorus of brigands rushed aboard and wrested hand luggage from the passengers by main force.

"Come on, Satterthwaite," said the Duchess. "I want a hot bath and some coffee."

So did Mr. Satterthwaite. He was not wholly successful, however. They were received at the hotel by a bowing manager and were shown to their rooms. The Duchess's had a bathroom attached. Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was directed to a bath that appeared to be situated in somebody else's bedroom. To expect the water to be hot at that hour in the morning was, perhaps, unreasonable. Later he drank intensely black coffee, served in a pot without a lid. The shutters and the window of his room had been flung open, and the crisp morning air came in fragrantly. A day of dazzling blue and green.

The waiter waved his hand with a flourish to call attention to the view. "_Ajaccio_," he said solemnly. "_Le plus beau port du monde!_"

And he departed abruptly.

Looking out over the deep blue of the bay, with the snow mountains beyond, Mr. Satterthwaite was almost inclined to agree with him. He finished his coffee, and lying down on the bed, fell fast asleep.

At _déjeuner_ the Duchess was in great spirits.

"This is just what will be good for you, Satterthwaite," she said. "Get you out of all those fussy little old-maidish ways of yours." She swept a lorgnette around the room. "Upon my word, there's Naomi Carlton-Smith."

She indicated a girl sitting by herself at a table in the window, a round-shouldered girl who slouched as she sat. Her dress appeared to be made of some kind of brown sacking. She had black hair, untidily bobbed.

"An artist?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

He was always good at placing people.

"Quite right," said the Duchess. "Calls herself one, anyway. I knew she was mooching around in some queer quarter of the globe. Poor as a church mouse, proud as Lucifer, and a bee in her bonnet like all the Carlton-Smiths. Her mother was my first cousin."

"She's one of the Knowlton lot then?"

The Duchess nodded.

"Been her own worst enemy," she volunteered. "Clever girl too. Mixed herself up with a most undesirable young man. One of that Chelsea crowd. Wrote plays or poems or something unhealthy. Nobody took 'em, of course. Then he stole somebody's jewels and got caught out. I forget what they gave him. Five years, I think. But you must remember? It was last winter."

"Last winter I was in Egypt," explained Mr. Satterthwaite. "I had flu very badly the end of January, and the doctors insisted on Egypt afterward. I missed a lot."

His voice rang with a note of real regret.

"That girl seems to me to be moping," said the Duchess, raising her lorgnette once more. "I can't allow that."

On her way out, she stopped by Miss Carlton-Smith's table and tapped the girl on the shoulder. "Well, Naomi, you don't seem to remember me?"

Naomi rose rather unwillingly to her feet. "Yes, I do, Duchess. I saw you come in. I thought it quite likely you mightn't recognize me."

She drawled the words lazily, with a complete indifference of manner.

"When you've finished your lunch, come and talk to me on the terrace," ordered the Duchess.

"Very well."

Naomi yawned.

"Shocking manners," said the Duchess to Mr. Satterthwaite, as she resumed her progress. "All the Carlton-Smiths have."

They had their coffee outside in the sunshine. They had been there about six minutes when Naomi Carlton-Smith lounged out from the hotel and joined them. She let herself fall slackly onto a chair with her legs stretched out ungracefully in front of her.

An odd face, with its jutting chin and deep-set gray eyes. A clever, unhappy face--a face that only just missed being beautiful.

"Well, Naomi," said the Duchess briskly. "And what are you doing with yourself?"

"Oh! I dunno. Just marking time."

"Been painting?"

"A bit."

"Show me your things."

Naomi grinned. She was not cowed by the autocrat. She was amused. She went into the hotel and came out again with a portfolio.

"You won't like 'em, Duchess," she said warningly. "Say what you like. You won't hurt my feelings."

Mr. Satterthwaite moved his chair a little nearer. He was interested. In another minute he was more interested still. The Duchess was frankly unsympathetic.

"I can't even see which way up the things ought to be," she complained. "Good gracious, child, there was never a sky that color--or a sea either."

"That's the way I see 'em," said Naomi placidly.

"Ugh!" said the Duchess, inspecting another. "This gives me the creeps."

"It's meant to," said Naomi. "You're paying me a compliment without knowing it."

It was a queer vorticist study of prickly pear--just recognizable as such. Gray-green with splodges of violent color where the fruit glittered like jewels. A swirling mass of evil, fleshy--festering. Mr. Satterthwaite shuddered and turned his head aside.

He found Naomi looking at him and nodding her head in comprehension.

"I know," she said. "But it _is_ beastly."

The Duchess cleared her throat. "It seems quite easy to be an artist nowadays," she observed witheringly. "There's no attempt to copy things. You just shovel on some paint--I don't know what with, not a brush, I'm sure--"

"Palette knife," interposed Naomi, smiling broadly once more.

"A good deal at a time," continued the Duchess. "In lumps. And there you are! Everyone says, 'How clever.' Well, I've no patience with that sort of thing. Give me--"

"A nice picture of a dog and a horse, by Edward Landseer."

"And why not?" demanded the Duchess. "What's wrong with Landseer?"

"Nothing," said Naomi. "He's all right. And you're all right. The tops of things are always nice and shiny and smooth. I respect you, Duchess; you've got force; you've met life fair and square and you've come out on top. But the people who are underneath see the under side of things. And that's interesting in a way."

The Duchess stared at her. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she declared.

Mr. Satterthwaite was still examining the sketches. He realized, as the Duchess could not, the perfection of technique behind them. He was startled and delighted. He looked up at the girl.

"Will you sell me one of these, Miss Carlton-Smith?" he asked.

"You can have any one you like for five guineas," said the girl indifferently.

Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated a minute or two and then he selected a study of prickly pear and aloe. In the foreground was a vivid blur of yellow mimosa; the scarlet of the aloe flower danced in and out of the picture, and inexorable, mathematically underlying the whole, was the oblong pattern of the prickly pear and the sword motif of the aloe.

He made a little bow to the girl.

"I am very happy to have secured this, and I think I have made a bargain. Some day, Miss Carlton-Smith, I shall be able to sell this sketch at a very good profit--if I want to!"

The girl leaned forward to see which one he had taken. He saw a new look come into her eyes. For the first time she was really aware of his existence, and there was respect in the quick glance she gave him.

"You have chosen the best," she said. "I--I am glad."

"Well, I suppose you know what you're doing," said the Duchess. "And I daresay you're right. I've heard that you're quite a connoisseur. But you can't tell me that all this new stuff is art, because it isn't. Still, we needn't go into that. Now I'm only going to be here a few days and I want to see something of the island. You've got a car, I suppose, Naomi?"

The girl nodded.

"Excellent," said the Duchess. "We'll make a trip somewhere tomorrow."

"It's only a two-seater."

"Nonsense, there's a dickey, I suppose, that will do for Mr. Satterthwaite?"

A shuddering sigh went through Mr. Satterthwaite. He had observed the Corsican roads that morning. Naomi was regarding him thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid my car will be no good to you," she said. "It's a terribly battered old bus. I bought it second-hand for a mere song. It will just get me up the hills--with coaxing. But I can't take passengers. There's quite a good garage, though, in the town. You can hire a car there."

"Hire a car," said the Duchess, scandalized. "What an idea. Who's that nice-looking man, rather yellow, who drove up in a four-seater just before lunch?"

"I expect you mean Mr. Tomlinson. He's a retired Indian judge."

"That accounts for the yellowness," said the Duchess. "I was afraid it might be jaundice. He seems quite a decent sort of man. I shall talk to him."

That evening, on coming down to dinner, Mr. Satterthwaite found the Duchess, resplendent in black beads and diamonds, talking earnestly to the owner of the four-seater car. She beckoned authoritatively.

"Come here, Mr. Satterthwaite. Mr. Tomlinson is telling me the most interesting things, and what do you think? He is actually going to take us on an expedition tomorrow in his car."

Mr. Satterthwaite regarded her with admiration.

"We must go in to dinner," said the Duchess. "Do come and sit at our table, Mr. Tomlinson, and then you can go on with what you were telling me."

"Quite a decent sort of man," the Duchess pronounced later.

"With quite a decent sort of car," retorted Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Naughty," said the Duchess, and gave him a resounding blow on the knuckles with the dingy black fan she always carried. Mr. Satterthwaite winced with pain.

"Naomi is coming too," said the Duchess. "In her car. That girl wants taking out of herself. She's very selfish. Not exactly self-centered, but totally indifferent to everyone and everything. Don't you agree?"

"I don't think that's possible," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "I mean, everyone's interest must go _somewhere_. There are, of course, the people who revolve round themselves--but I agree with you, she's not one of that kind. She's totally uninterested in herself. And yet she's got a strong character--there must be _something_. I thought at first it was her art--but it isn't. I've never met anyone so detached from life. That's--dangerous."

"Dangerous? What do you mean?"

"Well, you see--it must be an obsession of some kind, and obsessions are always dangerous."

"Satterthwaite," said the Duchess, "don't be a fool. And listen to me. About tomorrow--"

Mr. Satterthwaite listened. It was very much his role in life.

They started early the following morning, taking their lunch with them. Naomi, who had been six months in the island, was to be the pioneer. Mr. Satterthwaite went over to her as she sat waiting to start.

"You are sure that--I can't come with you," he said wistfully.

She shook her head. "You'll be much more comfortable in the back of the other car. Nicely padded seats and all that. This is a regular old rattletrap. You'd leap in the air going over the bumps."

"And then of course the hills."

Naomi laughed. "Oh! I only said that to rescue you from the dickey. The Duchess could perfectly well afford to have hired a car. She's the meanest woman in England. All the same, the old thing is rather a sport, and I can't help liking her."

"Then I could come with you after all," said Mr. Satterthwaite, eagerly.

She looked at him curiously. "Why are you so anxious to come with me?"

"Can you ask?" Mr. Satterthwaite made his funny old-fashioned bow.

She smiled, but shook her head. "That isn't the reason," she said thoughtfully. "It's odd. But you can't come with me--not today."

"Another day, perhaps," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite politely.

"Oh! Another day!" She laughed suddenly, a very queer laugh, Mr. Satterthwaite thought. "Another day! Well, we'll see."

They started. They drove through the town, and then round the long curve of the bay, winding inland to cross a river and then back to the coast with its hundreds of little sandy coves. And then they began to climb. In and out, round nerve-shattering curves, upward, ever upward on the tortuous winding road. The blue bay was far below them and, on the other side of it, Ajaccio sparkled in the sun, white like a fairy city.

In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then the other. Mr. Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.

It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr. Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under his chin.

It was very cold. Across the water Ajaccio was still bathed in sunlight, but up here thick gray clouds came drifting across the face of the sun. Mr. Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.

Ahead of them Naomi's little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up, still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp, like a knife.

Suddenly Naomi's car stopped, and she looked back.

"We've arrived," she said. "At the world's end. And I don't think it's an awfully good day for it."

They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, half a dozen stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high: _Coti Chiaveeri_.

Naomi shrugged her shoulders. "That's its official name, but I prefer to call it the world's end."

She walked on a few steps, and Mr. Satterthwaite joined her. They were beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the white ribbon of the road, in front of them--nothing. Only far, far below, the sea.

Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet--anyone--"

He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder, his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have sprung from the surrounding landscape.

"I wonder--" began Mr. Satterthwaite.

But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr. Satterthwaite saw his face.

"Why, Mr. Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton-Smith, I want to introduce my friend Mr. Quin to you. He's the most amazing fellow. You are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time--"

He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.

Naomi had shaken hands with Mr. Quin in her usual abrupt style. "We're here for a picnic," she said. "And it seems to me we shall be pretty well frozen to the bone."

Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly. "We shall find a sheltered spot?"

"Which this isn't," agreed Naomi. "Still, it's worth seeing, isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed." Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. "Miss Carlton-Smith calls this place the world's end. Rather a good name, eh?"

Mr. Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes--a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like that--a place where one can't go on any longer."

"What do you mean?" asked Naomi sharply.

He turned to her. "Well, usually there's a choice, isn't there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here--there's the road behind you, and in front of you--nothing."

Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps toward the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr. Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.

"Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton-Smith?"

"Yes."

"You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and--over the edge--down--down--down. It would be--very easily done."

They had joined the others. Mr. Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.

"Who is he?" she demanded fiercely.

Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment. "Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now--we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually--"

He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.

"He knows things," she said. "He knows things. How does he know?"

Mr. Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.

"I'm afraid," she muttered.

"Afraid of Mr. Quin?"

"I'm afraid of his eyes. He sees things."

Something cold and wet fell on Mr. Satterthwaite's cheek. He looked up.

"Why, it's snowing," he exclaimed in great surprise.

"A nice day to have chosen for a picnic," said Naomi.

She had regained control of herself with an effort.

What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down fast and thick. Mr. Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede toward it.

"You have your provisions," said Mr. Quin, "and they will probably be able to make you some coffee."

It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little toward lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.

Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the scene to Mr. Satterthwaite's eye; there was something even more unreal about the people.

The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess--that is, she looked like the popular conception of a duchess. She was the ideal stage _grande dame_. Her aristocratic head was held high, her exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in gray--soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with _pâté de foie gras_. On her right was a man with a very white face, very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvelously and beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his left arm was thrown out, as though he were about to declaim something.

On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.

There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the authentic Duchess) took charge.

"Isn't this storm too dreadful," she said pleasantly, coming forward, and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very useful when serving on welfare and other committees. "I suppose you've been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvelous place. I only arrived this morning."

The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious smile slipped into his seat.

The white-haired lady spoke. "We have been here a week," she said.

Mr. Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with emotion--with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from her heart.

He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr. Tomlinson. "The man in spectacles is Mr. Vyse--the producer, you know."

The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr. Vyse with a good deal of dislike.

"What does he produce?" he asked. "Children?"

"Oh! dear me, no," said Mr. Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention of anything so crude in connection with Mr. Vyse. "Plays."

"I think," said Naomi, "I'll go out again. It's too hot in here."

Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr. Satterthwaite jump. She made, almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr. Tomlinson aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr. Quin, and he barred her way.

"Go back and sit down," he said.

His voice was authoritative. To Mr. Satterthwaite's surprise, the girl hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the table as far from the others as possible.

Mr. Satterthwaite bustled forward and buttonholed the producer. "You may not remember me," he began. "My name is Satterthwaite."

"Of course!" A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other's in a painful grip. "My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, of course?"

Mr. Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful, emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England's greatest emotional actress. Mr. Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for interpreting a part--for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.

He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. After a tour in the States, she had returned with the locks of the raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This "French Marquise" effect was her latest whim.

"Oh! by the way, Mr. Judd--Miss Nunn's husband," said Vyse, carelessly introducing the man with the bald head.

Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr. Satterthwaite knew. Mr. Judd was evidently the latest.

Mr. Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He addressed his wife. "Some more _pâté_, dearest. That last wasn't as thick as you like it."

Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply, "Henry thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to him."

"Feed the brute," said Mr. Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the shoulder.

"Treats her just as though she were a dog," murmured the melancholy voice of Mr. Vyse in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear. "Cuts up her food for her. Odd creatures, women."

Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled eggs, cold ham, and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. Fragments came along in the actress's deep contralto.

"The bread must be very lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a _very_ thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one minute--not more. Simply delicious."

"That woman lives for food," murmured Mr. Vyse. "Simply lives for it. She can't think of anything else. I remember in _Riders to the Sea_--you know 'and it's the fine, quiet time I'll be having.' I could _not_ get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of peppermint creams--she's very fond of peppermint creams. I got the effect at once--a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."

Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.

Mr. Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into conversation.

"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. _Jim the Penman_, now; that was a play."

"My God," said Mr. Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.

"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your cook. It's wonderful."

She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said plaintively, "I've never even _seen_ the caviar."

"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr. Judd cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."

Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.

"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know where I've put anything."

"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day."

"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.

Several times, when in the company of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words "my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.

"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"

"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back."

"Do tell us," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Well--I was born in October--so it's lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large--about the size of a two-shilling piece--but oh! the color and the fire."

She sighed. Mr. Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful saga of old.

"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."

"Very good plays," put in Mr. Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept one of his plays six months."

"Did you produce it?" asked Mr. Tomlinson.

"Oh! _no_," said Mr. Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?"

"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "_Rachel's Children_, it was called--though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it--at the theater. I liked him. He was nice-looking--and very shy, poor boy. I remember"--a beautiful far-away look stole over her face--"he brought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There _was_ a to-do. You remember?"

She turned to Mr. Vyse.

"Oh! I remember," said Mr. Vyse with a groan.

"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity--but I'd much rather have had my opal back."

She shook her head sadly.

"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr. Judd.

Miss Nunn brightened up. "Where is it?"

"I gave it to you just now."

Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her gray silk _pochette_, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out slowly on the table, much to Mr. Satterthwaite's interest.

There was a powder puff, a lipstick, a small jewel case, a skein of wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate creams, an enameled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crepe de Chine, a piece of ribbon, and the end of a _croissant_. Last of all came the preserved pineapple.

"_Eureka_," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite hastily. "What a charming paper knife."

"Yes, isn't it? Somebody gave it to me. I can't remember who."

"That's an Indian box," remarked Mr. Tomlinson. "Ingenious little things, aren't they?"

"Somebody gave me that too," said Miss Nunn. "I've had it a long time. It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theater. I don't think it's very pretty, though, do you?"

The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round and round.

"Not pretty perhaps," said Mr. Tomlinson with a chuckle. "But I'll bet you've never seen one like it."

Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling. "Why did you say it was ingenious?" he demanded.

"Well, isn't it?"

The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.

"I suppose I mustn't show them the trick of it--eh?"

Miss Nunn still looked blank.

"What trick?" asked Mr. Judd.

"God bless my soul, don't you know?"

He looked round the inquiring faces.

"Fancy that now. May I have the box a minute? Thank you."

He pushed it open.

"Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it--not too big. Here's a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place it inside, shut the box."

He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.

"Now see--"

He opened the box again. It was empty.

"Well, I never," said Mr. Judd. "How do you do it?"

"It's quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left-hand flap halfway round, then shut the right-hand flap. Now to bring our piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right-hand flap halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside down. And now--Hey, presto!"

The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was there--but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth every color of the rainbow.

"_My opal!_"

It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to her breast.