Chapter XIV

Madame de Ponière dismissed the servants with a little wave of the hand and looked thoughtfully for a few moments into the fire of pine logs which had been kindled in the grate. The dinner table at which she and Pauline were seated was piled with dishes of expensive fruits, and there was wine still in their glasses. Nevertheless, Madame de Ponière had not the air of one who has enjoyed her meal.

“Pauline,” she said, “Zubin is already four days late.”

Pauline made no immediate reply. Her aunt pointed to an escritoire which stood in a corner of the room.

“These people,” she continued, “become abusive. Even Lénore has sent an account. You dispatched the telegram?”

“I dispatched the telegram,” Pauline assented, “but it was needless. Zubin is here.”

“Here in Monte Carlo?” Madame de Ponière demanded quickly.

“I have heard so,” Pauline replied. “My information is very scanty, but I understood that he had sent you a letter last night.”

The pallor of the older woman’s face seemed suddenly deepened. Her eyes glittered ominously.

“Jean spoke of a note that had been brought and taken away,” she muttered. “Tell me at once what you know, Pauline?”

“I have no definite information,” Pauline reiterated, “but I understand that he has been seen at the Casino.”

Madame de Ponière sat like a woman who has received a shock. The shadow of fear was upon her face.

“You do not know Zubin,” she groaned. “If he once smells the atmosphere of that place, it is like a deadly drug to him. And he loses! He always loses!”

She leaned over and struck a bell which stood upon a table.

“The car in a quarter of an hour,” she ordered. “Pauline, get ready. We must seek Zubin. If he has begun to gamble, he will go on to the end.”

They drove first to the Casino, where they explored only the Cercle Privé. From there they went to the Sporting Club, where there was still no sign of him. Madame de Ponière became more hopeful.

“He is perhaps resting in his hotel,” she said, “preparing to visit us.”

“He would never come without sending word beforehand,” Pauline reminded her. “Besides, there are the ordinary tables at the Casino. We ought to have looked there.”

Madame de Ponière gave a little shudder.

“One sees too much of them as one passes through,” she declared. “The people and the atmosphere are intolerable.”

They sat side by side on one of the settees, two rather lonely and disheartened women face to face with tragedy. Pauline saw Gerald in the distance and determined upon a bold step.

“Aunt,” she said, “there is a young man standing by the easy-chair there, whose father lives at the adjoining villa to ours. He has once or twice offered me some small courtesies. He is alone and I am sure he would be glad to be useful. Let me send him to the Casino.”

“Show him to me,” Madame de Ponière demanded.

Pauline pointed him out. Her aunt sighed.

“One breaks a cherished tradition,” she said, “but it must be done. I leave the matter in your hands.”

Gerald and Christopher, strolling round the room, came presently to within a few feet of them. Gerald, bitterly though he resented it, was passing on after one swift glance at Pauline. She leaned over, however, and touched him on the arm.

“Lord Dombey,” she said, “my aunt permits me to present you. Lord Dombey--Madame de Ponière.”

Gerald, taken by surprise, bore the shock well. He bowed low and murmured a few polite words.

“I am afraid you will think that we are very mercenary,” Pauline continued, “but we are going to ask a favour.”

“It is granted,” Gerald assured her swiftly.

“There is a Russian gentleman in Monte Carlo named Zubin.”

“I know him by sight,” Gerald declared. “Besides----”

“Then the rest is easy,” Pauline interrupted, with a warning look. “Our request is that you search the Casino for him, and, if he is there, that you bring him to us.”

Gerald bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he promised, “if he is there, I will bring him to you within a quarter of an hour.”

Gerald, on entering the Casino, made his way at once to the table at the farther end. The seat which had been occupied by Zubin, however, was vacant, though the table itself was crowded. He was on the point of continuing his search in one of the other rooms, when he suddenly saw the man of whom he was in search seated on one of the sofas against the wall. He made his way thither at once.

“Sir,” he said, “I have brought you a message from Madame de Ponière.”

The Russian lifted his head, and for a moment Gerald was afraid that he had had a stroke. His eyes were horribly red, the flesh about his cheek bones seemed to have become drawn tight, and his cheeks to display new hollows. His hands were trembling. All his truculence of manner had departed.

“From Madame de Ponière?” he repeated. “Where is she?”

“She is waiting now in the Sporting Club,” Gerald replied. “I will take you to her if you will accompany me.”

The Russian rose to his feet and the two men left the place. Many of the bystanders gazed after them, and Gerald heard something of their whispers.

“I’m afraid you’ve been having rather a bad time,” he remarked.

His companion took no notice. He walked, indeed, like a man in a nightmare. Not only was he unshaven, but his clothes were creased and tumbled. He was altogether a dishevelled-looking object.

“Might I suggest,” Gerald said, as they descended the steps of the Casino, “that you visit your hotel and freshen up a little before you come to the Club?”

Zubin seemed suddenly to step down from another world. He looked vacantly at Gerald for a moment, at his smoothly brushed hair, his well-cut dinner coat, his faultless linen. Then, with a little start, he glanced at himself and shrugged his shoulders ponderously.

“You are right, monsieur. Come this way.”

He crossed the street with great strides and entered the Hôtel de Paris. He turned once more to Gerald as he entered the lift.

“A quarter of an hour, monsieur,” he said. “I give you my word that I will not keep you longer than twenty minutes.”

“I will be waiting here,” Gerald promised.

After the departure of the lift, Gerald made his way by means of the private passage to the Sporting Club. Madame de Ponière and her niece were seated where he had left them, the elder lady sipping some coffee, Pauline looking around her with a languid air of half-amused interest. Save for the fact that Madame de Ponière’s lips tightened a little as she saw Gerald alone, there was not the slightest indication in their manner or expression that they were confronted in any way with an exceptional situation.

“I have found our friend,” he announced. “He is making some alterations to his toilet. I am meeting him in a few minutes and shall bring him here.”

“Was he playing?” Pauline enquired.

“Not when I arrived,” was the cautious reply.

Madame de Ponière stirred her coffee negligently.

“Had he,” she asked, “the air of a man who has been losing?”

“I fear,” Gerald admitted, “that he rather gave me that impression.”

Pauline smiled up at him.

“It is very good of you to give yourself so much trouble,” she said. “My aunt and I are greatly indebted to you. Please do not lose any time in bringing Monsieur Zubin here.”

The words were almost a dismissal. Gerald made his way back through the passage and took a seat in the lounge of the hotel. Within the time promised, a transformed Monsieur Zubin made his appearance. Gerald found it difficult to restrain his surprise. His dinner suit was faultlessly cut, his black pearl studs were marvellous. He had been carefully shaved and his hair had been trimmed. He carried white kid gloves in his hand, a glossy silk hat, and a malacca cane crowned with malachite. He came over at once to Gerald and signed to a waiter who was hovering about with a bottle upon a tray.

“You will give me three minutes,” he begged. “I was interested in a series of numbers, and I forgot to dine. I have ordered a bottle of wine. You will perhaps join me.”

“Very good of you,” Gerald replied. “It is rather between times for me. I’ll have a _fine champagne_, if I may.”

Monsieur Zubin bowed gravely and the brandy was brought. Without turning a hair, he drank two tumblerfuls of the wine. Then he turned courteously to his companion.

“If you have no objection,” he proposed, “we will walk outside to the Sporting Club. The distance is the same and the air is fresher.”

Gerald assented readily, and they started off side by side. The Russian was walking with his shoulders back, like a man on parade, and Gerald suddenly felt that his own stature had become insignificant. All the way his companion seemed to be reciting to himself in some foreign tongue, reciting something which now and then seemed to have the swing of blank verse. As they reached the steps which led up to the Sporting Club, he came to a full stop and glanced around.

“Young man,” he said, facing Gerald, “you are probably a little curious about me. This is the truth. Let those know it who may be interested. I am the steward of Madame de Ponière and the trustee of as much as is left of her revenues. I came here ashamed of their scantiness, and the wild idea of enlarging them at the tables occurred to me. I have failed. There is a _voiture_ here, you see, by my side, and the commissionaire is there to help you. I apologise for the trouble I am giving. I charge you to deliver the expression of my undying devotion to Madame and Mademoiselle.”

His right hand, which had been fumbling in the pocket of his dinner coat, shot out like lightning. A small revolver, flashing in the electric light, was pressed to his temple. There were two almost simultaneous reports. The last conscious action of the man was to half throw himself through the door of the carriage.

Rumours were already floating about the Club when Gerald hurried in, five minutes later. Both women looked at him in half-fearful enquiry. Gerald was very grave.

“Madame,” he announced, “I bring bad news.”

Madame unfurled her black lace fan and fanned herself slowly.

“One hears that a man has shot himself outside,” she said. “It is, perhaps, the man whom I sent you to seek?”

“It is he,” Gerald acknowledged.

Madame de Ponière rose to her feet. She was an ugly woman whom, up to that moment, Gerald had detested. He found himself now admiring her profoundly. She leaned a little upon the stick which she carried in her left hand. Her right she extended towards Gerald.

“If you will give me the support of your arm downstairs, Lord Dombey, I shall be glad,” she continued. “I am an old woman, and these shocks become more poignant with the years. Zubin was a faithful servant of my house. I am much affected.”

They made their slow progress from the room. Madame held her head high. Mademoiselle was a little paler than usual, but her good night to the commissionaire was as clear and gracious as ever. No signs of any disturbance remained outside,--Monte Carlo knows how to deal with these things. Their automobile was already in attendance, and the two women took their places at once.

“We are much obliged for your assistance, Lord Dombey,” Madame declared. “I regret that we should have given you so tragical an errand.”

“You will permit me to call, perhaps, at the Villa?” Gerald begged.

“I shall not be receiving for several days,” Madame replied. “If you are so gracious as to leave a card, my servants will tell you when I am disposed to see friends.”

The car glided off. Madame leaned back with closed eyes. Gerald caught just a faint glimpse of Pauline’s profile, ivory pale, a gleam of terror in her eyes, as though she knew that they were passing over the spot where Zubin had died.