Chapter XIII

Gerald found Pauline waiting for him at the accustomed spot, after luncheon that afternoon. As he slowed down his car to pick her up, he was conscious of a return of that feeling of irritation which had been growing stronger with him, day by day,--an irritation based upon her obvious desire to escape recognition when with him and to keep their acquaintance as far as possible a secret. She was waiting in the shadow of a great magnolia shrub, dressed in inconspicuous grey, with a veil thicker even than the exigencies of motoring necessitated. In the background was the same black-gowned maid who always attended her as far as the avenue and took her silent leave at his approach.

Pauline stepped lightly into the place by his side, without waiting for him to vacate his seat.

“Turn round, please,” she directed. “We will go the other way. I do not choose to pass through the town.”

Gerald obeyed, although her request only added fuel to the smouldering fire of his resentment. He turned away towards the mountain road and maintained a silence which was not without its significance. His companion, after a few minutes, glanced towards him indifferently. He was leaning back in his place, his eyes, as usual, fixed upon the road, his left hand firmly grasping the steering wheel. The humourous twitch, however, had gone from his mouth. There was a distinct frown upon his forehead.

“You are perhaps weary to-day?” she suggested. “You would like to shorten our drive?”

Gerald turned and looked at her.

“I am not weary,” he replied. “I am puzzled. I hate mysteries.”

“The old complaint,” she yawned.

“With a new reading,” he retorted. “I have shown myself ready, as you must know,” he went on, “to study your rather peculiar whims in every way, but when it comes to meeting you face to face at the Club and receiving nothing but the stoniest of stares, I must admit that the situation grows beyond me. You could surely find a hundred reasonable excuses for the most formal sort of recognition. I am not--well, I am not a disreputable acquaintance, am I?”

She laughed quietly.

“Not in the least. You belong to what they call in England the middle-class aristocracy, do you not,--two or three centuries old, with a damp house in a park and an armful of undistinguished titles? I suppose that sort of thing counted for something before your tradespeople and lawyers and bankers were all admitted into the magic circle.”

“Are you a socialist?” Gerald enquired, a little taken aback.

“Not at all,” she replied curtly. “I am an aristocrat.”

“Are you afraid to present me to Madame de Ponière?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“Terrified,” she admitted frankly.

“Because my quarterings are insufficient? I might remark that my father is the ninth Earl and that I am his only son.”

“It is not that at all,” she assured him indifferently. “There is really no reason why we should not meet in a place like this on equal terms, but my aunt is a woman with only one idea in her head, and for the successful development of that idea it is advisable that we make no acquaintances whatever here. There, my Lord Dombey, have I not been kind to you? I would see more of you if I could, because in a place like this the escort of a man is an advantage. As it is, I can assure you that I risk a good deal in taking these afternoon rides.”

“You have explained nothing,” he insisted, a little doggedly. “I still do not see why I may not be recognised in public, why it would not be in order for my sister to call and invite you to tennis, why you and your aunt should not allow me to entertain you at dinner. I am just as far from understanding you as I ever was.”

She sighed.

“Well, do not be cross with me, please,” she begged. “If you knew how wearisome my life was and how grateful I really am to you for these few hours of escape, you would feel more kindly towards me. See, I give you my hand. Let us be friends.”

It was the first time during all their acquaintance that she had accorded him the slightest mark of favour. The touch of her fingers thrilled and surprised him. He held her hand unresistingly for several moments. Then she drew it quietly but firmly away.

“Well, that is settled,” she said. “Now talk to me about other things. Is there no news at the Rooms? Has no one been breaking the bank?”

“There was something I was going to tell you,” Gerald replied, with a sudden flash of recollection. “I sat next to a man at dinner last night in Ciro’s Grill, who they say broke the bank several times during the afternoon. I believe they said that he was a Russian. I suppose you know all about him, however.”

“I?” she exclaimed. “Why should I?”

“Because, between the courses of his dinner, he wrote a letter and sent it off by messenger. He was at the next table and it was impossible for me to avoid seeing the envelope. It was addressed to Madame de Ponière.”

She looked at him, amazed.

“To my aunt?” she repeated. “But we received no letter from any one last night.”

“I saw it sent off about twenty minutes to ten,” Gerald assured her.

“We left for the Club at half-past nine,” Pauline reflected, “but I am quite sure that there was no note waiting for us when we got back. What was this man like?”

“They said that he was a Russian and that his name was Zubin,” Gerald replied. “They also said that he had won two million francs in the afternoon.”

“Zubin!” she exclaimed, with a little start. “Describe him at once, if you please.”

“That is easy,” Gerald acquiesced. “He must have been at least six foot three or four, and he had tremendous shoulders. He was one of the most powerful looking men I have ever seen in my life. He had a sallow complexion, a lined face, black eyes and a mass of black and grey hair.”

She put her hand upon his.

“Stop the car, please,” she begged. “Turn round as quickly as you can. I must go home.”

Gerald ran on to an adjacent widening of the road, reversed the car, and headed back for Monte Carlo.

“If I had known that my news was going to shorten our drive,” he grumbled, “I shouldn’t have mentioned the fellow at all.”

“My friend,” she said earnestly, “what you have told me may be of immense benefit for me to know.”

“You recognise the man, then?”

“He is probably my aunt’s steward,” she confided, after a moment’s hesitation. “There, you see I am telling you secrets. Do you know whether he played last night?”

“I was only at the Club,” Gerald replied. “He did not come there. Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to go and look for him?”

“Yes, you might do that,” she said thoughtfully. “When you have dropped me, drive down to the Rooms. If you find him there, touch him on the shoulder. Say that Madame de Ponière awaits him. You will not forget this?”

“I’ll drive there at once,” Gerald promised.

He set Pauline down, as usual, at the gates of her villa. She scarcely stayed to say good-by, but her smile was more gracious and her manner a little kinder. It was obvious, however, that she was disturbed by his information. Gerald, incurious though he was at most times, felt a growing interest in his mission.

Arrived at the Rooms, he walked straight through to the Cercle Privé, visited each Roulette and _trente et quarante_ table, and strolled round the baccarat room. There was no sign here of the man of whom he was in search. He was already on his way out to the Sporting Club when it occurred to him that the Russian might be playing at one of the ordinary tables at the Casino. He turned back and visited them one by one. Towards the end of his quest, he was rewarded. Seated next to the croupier, at the most remote table, with a little crowd of people behind his chair, and with a great pile of notes before him, sat Monsieur Zubin.

The Russian was betting in maximums, apparently on some system, and with varying success. To all appearances, he had not changed his clothes, bathed or shaved since the evening before. There was an untidy growth of beard upon his chin, a bloodshot streak in his eyes; his collar and tie were crumpled; his hair, over-luxuriant at the best of times, was unkempt and disordered. He had a card in his hand, upon which he marked the numbers as they came up, and from which his attention never wandered until the final word of the croupier was spoken, when he turned his attention to the board. Gerald leaned towards the attendant seated behind the croupier’s chair, under pretence of handing him a small stake.

“Monsieur gambles?” Gerald remarked, with an inclination of his head towards the man who was the centre of interest.

The attendant turned around with an expressive little nod.

“Yesterday he broke the bank,” he whispered. “To-day he can do nothing right.”

“He is losing, then?”

The man’s grimace was significant. Gerald watched his own stake swept away and crossed to a place behind the Russian’s chair. In one of the intervals, he leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. The man took no notice. Gerald whispered in his ear.

“Madame de Ponière awaits you at the Villa.”

Zubin for a moment remained perfectly still. When at last he turned around, his face was ghastly. With his strong arm, he pushed back some one who intervened.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am merely a messenger,” Gerald replied. “I know no more than that I was asked to give you that word if I saw you at the Casino.”

The Russian rose slowly to his feet, left one of the plaques to guard his place, thrust a great pile of notes into his pocket, and led Gerald into a corner.

“You sat next to me last night at Ciro’s Grill,” he said.

“Quite true,” Gerald assented.

“You have been spying on me.”

“That is, on the other hand, a falsehood,” Gerald replied coldly.

“It is through you that Madame knows I am in Monte Carlo.”

“On the contrary,” Gerald reminded him, “you yourself wrote a note to her and dispatched it by messenger from Ciro’s.”

“The note was brought back--Madame was out,” the man declared. “It was an accursed accident, that.”

“One gathers that you have not been fortunate to-day,” Gerald remarked, after a brief silence.

“That is my own affair,” was the grim reply. “What I desire to know is how you became acquainted with these ladies to such an extent that they should appoint you as their messenger.”

“I do not recognise your right to ask me questions,” Gerald asserted, “but, as a matter of fact, my knowledge of them is of the slightest. Actually, I do not know them at all. I happened to have a few minutes’ conversation with Mademoiselle de Ponière, and I mentioned your winnings. You will remember that I saw a letter from you to Madame last night.”

Monsieur Zubin sat for a moment deep in thought.

“Are you charged to deliver a reply to this message?” he demanded.

“Certainly not,” Gerald answered. “I have not the privilege of visiting at the Villa.”

“I should think not,” the other growled. “I wondered only whether you had been told to take a message to the back door.”

“You are a very impertinent fellow,” Gerald told him calmly. “You appear to have come from a country where manners have ceased to exist.”

The man laughed brutally.

“One puts off manners when one deals with spies and meddlers,” he declared. “Get on about your business.”

He walked back and took his place at the table. Gerald gazed after him in blank astonishment. Then he heard a little murmur of laughter from the couch behind, and, turning around, found seated there the girl who had been the Russian’s other neighbour on the previous night.

“Monsieur grows no more amiable,” she remarked, moving her head towards where Zubin had reseated himself. “To-day, one perhaps excuses. Last night he was like all his countrymen--savage, drunken with the lust of gambling.”

“And to-day?” Gerald observed.

“To-day he loses all the time,” the girl replied. “Sometimes he leaves the table and comes back here and mutters to himself. Then he makes calculations and returns. One wonders sometimes whether he is playing with his own money.”

Gerald left the Rooms a few minutes later and strolled out into the Square. He was in some doubt as to what he ought to do. Pauline had absolutely forbidden him to communicate with her in any shape or form, yet he had a conviction that Zubin’s exploits in the Casino should be made known to her. He strolled across to the establishment of Madame Lénore. Madame greeted him with a peculiarly knowing smile. He drew her on one side.

“Madame,” he said, “you make gowns for Mademoiselle de Ponière.”

The smile disappeared from Madame’s lips. Her face became impassive.

“It is true, milord,” she admitted. “What of it?”

“Just this. You are doubtless in frequent communication with her?”

“Without a doubt,” Madame assented. “I shall telephone her within a quarter of an hour. Some lace she desired has just arrived.”

“Then you can do me and her a great service,” Gerald continued. “I have some slight acquaintance with mademoiselle but I am not permitted to communicate with her. It is important that she should know that the Russian, Zubin, is gambling in the Casino, not in the Cercle Privé, and losing heavily.”

“A big man?” Madame asked quickly,--“almost a giant?”

“That is he,” Gerald assented.

Madame turned towards the telephone.

“Demand the Villa Violette,” she told the operator. “Say that I wish to speak to Mademoiselle de Ponière without delay.”

Gerald turned away. Madame laid her fingers upon his arm.

“My congratulations, milord!”

“I don’t know what on,” Gerald replied, a little ruefully. “I am rather out of luck.”

“The little peasant girl,” she whispered. “She is adorable. Such a figure I have never seen, such an air, such simplicity and yet such grace. With her hair done _à la Madonne_, and those eyes, under milord’s tutelage she would turn the heads of half the men in Europe.”

Gerald sighed. The memory of the little scene earlier in the day was once more before him.

“You must remember that I have a co-guardian of the strictest principles, Madame,” he said, “and besides, that isn’t exactly what we are planning for her.”

Madame, steeped in the philosophy of her environment, shrugged her shoulders in genuine mystification. Gerald took his leave a little hurriedly, to avoid the comment which he felt was imminent.