If Sinners Entice Thee

“Possibly.”

“Come, Richards,” Zertho exclaimed, after a brief pause, “it’s useless to prevaricate any longer. Let us settle the business. I intend marrying Liane, but I am ready to admit that this is possible only with your assistance. For the latter I am prepared to continue to pay as I have already done. Name the amount, and the thing can be settled at once.”

“I will name no amount. I decline to barter away Liane’s happiness.”

“You wish me to name a sum – eh? Well, what do you say to five hundred pounds down? Recollect how much you’ve already had off me.”

The other’s lip curled contemptuously, as he shook his head.

“Well, I’ll double it. A thousand.”

Their gaze met. Max Richards again shook his head.

Zertho, with a sudden movement, pulled his wallet from his pocket, withdrew his cheque-book, and taking up a pen from the table, scribbled out a draft upon the Credit Lyonnais, and filled it in for fifty thousand francs.

Tearing it out roughly he tossed it across to his companion, exclaiming with a bitter smile, —

“There you are. I’ve doubled it a third time. Surely that’s sufficient as lip-salve?”

The other stretched forth his hand unsteadily, hesitated for a single instant, then slowly his thin eager fingers closed upon it.

Chapter Fourteen

A Woman’s Story

When George Stratfield’s coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel on the following morning there lay upon the tray a note which had been brought by hand. The superscription was in educated unfamiliar writing, evidently a woman’s.

Filled with natural curiosity he tore open the envelope and read the following in French: —

“The writer would esteem it a personal favour if Monsieur Stratfield would accord her an interview this evening at any time or place he may appoint. As the matter is urgent she will be obliged if Monsieur would have the goodness to telegraph a reply addressed to Marie Blanc, Poste Restante, Nice, before noon.”

This mysterious communication he re-read several times. Who, he wondered, was Marie Blanc, and what on earth did she want with him? How, indeed, did she know his name? There was a distinct air of suspicion about it.

He tossed the strange letter aside, and thoughtfully drank his coffee and ate his roll.

Then, dressing, he went out, and strolling along the Promenade past the house where Liane lived, he thought it over. His first inclination was not to heed it. He was sufficiently worried by his own affairs, and had no desire to be bothered about other people’s. Marie Blanc was no doubt some woman who had seen his name in the visitor’s list and wanted the loan of a pound or two. He had heard of such things happening at Continental resorts. No, he would take no notice of it; so he tore the note into fragments and cast them to the wind.

He had not called upon Liane, or seen her, since their meeting at Monte Carlo. She had forbidden him; and although he had lounged about up and down the broad walk nearly the whole of the previous day, he had seen no sign of her. Evidently she had not been out, and was purposely avoiding him.

Her attitude towards him had filled him with grief and dismay. From her involuntary utterances it was plain that she still loved him, yet her strange declaration that it was imperative she should marry Prince d’Auzac perplexed him to the verge of madness. He had made inquiry about this man, and on every hand heard with chagrin reports of his vast wealth, of the brilliance of his fêtes, and the charm of his personality. He was, without doubt, a prominent figure in Nice society.

To one cause alone was George able to attribute this change in the manner of his well-beloved, the fascination wealth exercises over women. When he compared his own lowly position with that of the man who had taken his place in Liane’s heart, he sighed, and was plunged into deep despair. Indeed, that very morning as he lay awake prior to his coffee being brought, he reflected whether it would not be wiser to return at once to London.

But he loved Liane. He would not yet leave her side. She loved him, too, and although this marriage might be forced upon her, yet she was nevertheless his own well-beloved.

Throughout that morning, in the hope of catching sight of Liane, he sauntered about the Promenade, sat for half-an-hour in the Posada-sur-Mer drinking vermouth, where from the open window he could watch each person who passed. But his vigilance remained unrewarded. Time after time he recollected the mysterious request of his unknown correspondent, and found himself half inclined to send a telegram and meet her. It would be an amusing adventure, if nothing else, he thought; and at length, while strolling back to the town, he resolved to do so, and, entering the nearest telegraph office, sent her a reply, asking her to call at his hotel at nine o’clock.

The afternoon he spent lonely and dull. There was, it was true, plenty of amusement going on, but in his frame of mind he was in no mood for concerts, or the mild form of gambling offered by the Casino Municipal. He sat in the public garden listening to the band until sundown, then went for a stroll through the town, dined leisurely, and went to one of the small salons in the hotel there to await his visitor.

A few minutes after nine the door was thrown open by one of the servants, behind whom stood a tall, well-dressed lady.

“M’sieur Stra-atfeeld?” she exclaimed interrogatively, with a very pronounced French accent.

“That is my name,” he answered, bowing and inviting her into the room.

The spring nights are chilly in Nice, and she was warmly clad in furs, and wore a neat toque with black veil, but even the spotted net was insufficient to conceal that an eminently handsome face was beneath.

“Your room is warm and cosy,” she exclaimed, when he had placed an armchair for her. “It is quite cold outside. May I be permitted to remove my cape?”

“Certainly, madame,” he answered, still standing near her, a puzzled expression upon his countenance as she unloosened her sealskin and allowed it to fall over the back of her chair, revealing a trim figure with narrow waist, neatly attired in black silk, the bodice trimmed with cream.

“You were smoking,” she said, with a smile. “Pray do not desist on my account. I love tobacco. Indeed, if you offered I would take one of your cigarettes – or would you think me very, very shocking?”

“By all means,” he laughed. “I shall be delighted if you’ll join me,” and he offered her his cigarette-case, and took one himself. Then he struck a vesta while she raised her veil, disclosing a pretty face and an adorable mouth, and lit up with the air of an inveterate smoker. Her fair hair was, he noticed, well-dressed, and her eyes were dark, but there was just the faintest suspicion of artificial colouring in the former, and her cheeks betrayed the use of the hare’s foot and carmine. He reflected however, that in a Frenchwoman these little aids to beauty might be forgiven. Her handsome head was well poised, her throat soft and well-rounded, her white gloves new, and her dress a model of combined neatness and elegance. Her exact age was difficult to determine, nevertheless she was still young-looking, and possessed the chic of the true Parisienne, which to Englishmen seldom fails to prove attractive.

He made a movement to close the window, but with a pretty pout she detained him, declaring that the room was a little warm, and at least for the present she felt no draught.

He sank back into his chair, and regarded her with an expression half of curiosity, half of surprise. Their eyes met. The silence was awkward, and he broke it by apologising for receiving her somewhat abruptly.

“Ah, you bachelors are generally abrupt to unwelcome visitors?” she answered in her pleasant broken English, with a low rippling laugh. “It is only my much abused sex who prevent you from reverting to utter barbarity. You are not married. Ah, you should have a wife to look after you.”

“Perhaps I may have one – some day,” he answered, smiling at her frankness.

Slowly she removed the cigarette from her lips, and her gaze wandered round the brightly-furnished room.

“But you declare yourself to be an unwelcome visitor,” he continued. “Why?”

For a moment she regarded the end of her cigarette contemplatively, then turning her dark eyes upon his, answered in a half-apologetic tone —

“Well, you must think my visit here curious, m’sieur. It is. Nevertheless, I trust I may be forgiven for encroaching upon your time, and coming here without introduction. The object of my call is of some concern to you, inasmuch as it is in the interests of one who loves you.”

“One who loves me!” he echoed in surprise. “Who?”

“Liane Brooker,” answered his fair visitor. “In her interests, and in yours.”

“Are you, then, a friend of Liane’s?” he inquired, suddenly interested.

“Well, not exactly,” she replied, a little evasively he thought.

Then she replaced her cigarette daintily between her lips, and continued smoking with that ease and grace acquired by ladies who are in the habit of soothing their nerves with tobacco.

“Are you acquainted with Captain Brooker?” he asked.

“Yes, we have met,” she answered. “You know him, of course? He is such a kind-hearted man, such a thorough Bohemian, yet such a perfect gentleman.”

“Unfortunately, I have only met him on one or two occasions,” George said. In an instant it had occurred to him that from his mysterious visitor he might learn what Liane and poor Nelly had always refused to tell him. “He has lived here, in France, for some years. What has been his profession?”

“Profession!” she exclaimed, raising her dark well shaped eyebrows. “What! are you unaware?”